"I can see the city in your sunglasses."

I couldn't feel the cold today though my toes screamed their dissent from below.  I walked our path of destruction completely unaware that, that was my journey of choice.  I've confused you with a dream, I believe;  One in which happy endings prevail and the soul is fed its gruel.  Fairness plays no role when you've vanished into rainy days and waves of green.  I feel as though I've suckled at the breast of enlightened interdependence, glimpsed reality in all its impressionable euphoria and lost it all in a single whisper of a breath of a moment.  Now to reconcile my loss with the current state of mind, it is put upon me to find solace in meat and drink.  These empty and evil desires...merely a distraction from the heart of truth I find wrapped in your arms.  Would lack of distance keep us apart?  Would we have strength enough to stomach the other?  I fear the response to this pondering, yet i disclose that those little natterings of insecurity are submitting to substantiated evidence.  I long for your sweet departure time and time again for I know your return brings forth thoughts I had let fade and fall to their demise.  They've found me though...renewed and prepared for the steep ascent.  I am ever so grateful for their return for I was awash in a stagnant pool too deep for light or love.  So, now I linger, anticipating your touch on the part of me that was somehow always yours.

Just a Girl

I am a putrid pile of lady parts painfully arranged into a pleasing pose for all others to gaze upon.  I should be grateful for at least that;  For at the very least I have a fraction of what it takes to make it in this cesspool of liars and impostors.  Never mind the intentions, golden roads were once paved with their debris and now they are trampled and tarnished to such degrees.  I went a time not looking at reflections of my shell.  I shrugged it off as being liberated from the self that others want but in reality, (where i live now), it was because of how much i hate the sight.  I am trumped by insecurity, fueled by jealousy,  and spurred by hate.  I am adrift in a tempestuous assault daily which i create and perpetuate all by my lonesome.  I get so excruciating lost in this loneliness that I drown in tear drenched pillows and salt stained t-shirts.  I exaggerate to entertain and feast on the good will of others.  I attack without warning, leave without hesitation and shut out the world whenever I can.  I long for a love that seems so unreal and refuse acceptance once granted for only I know the truth.  I am a seeker of sadness and find solace in anguish.  I am a wretched creature who needs and takes it without consent.  I will wither and shuffle off the coil in the fading candle light however, and there you will see it - the one thing that keeps you silent and holds you still.  This moment when you realize....................she's just a girl.

Right Tight

I know, I know...there's a bluebird in my chest Bukowski, I know.  I fear to let him out for when I do, he screams and shouts.  His havoc reaps blisters that heal not quite right and I, ensnared by his charms, left much the same.  When he returns from his travels abroad, he's colder, harder, with a crazed look in the light of his eyes.  He doesn't want to go back for he's lived fully for a time and my insides are no place for something so delicate.  He abides only out of obligation and a strange sense of attachment that could only resemble the love I've fed him.  He's had troubles out there.  Nothing compared to what is expected of him in here and yet he often returns in no passing at all.  My bluebird friend returns...always a little hurt I think that I ever so willingly embrace him and drain his juices once more.  Precarious our relationship, yet the most stable thing I've ever known.  Misery loves company...and bluebirds, incidentally.  I really do my best to listen to his version of the world....it always seems so saturated in whimsy and reverence.  I ask him questions(as if I don't already know), and he responds how I knew he would...transitory trial passed.  I am always validated by my winged friend...he never disappoints and always returns.  He rights my rights and soothes the turbulence I so enjoy to spread and share and suffer in.  One day i will suffocate him in my chest where my heart once beat and he'll know why...oh yes...only he will know why. 

Bill Pullman

It is truly remarkable to me how a few words of nonsense can bear so much weight.  Not the kind of weight that holds you back or carries you beneath the surface of oxygen and sunshine...but the kind that permeates your very being and gives life meaning.  sigh.  I hate this feeling.  The, "I am liberated and elated yet absolutely miserable"...one.  I could take flight and simultaneously sink to the very bottom of existence...lost there amongst the darkness and Sun fish.  I long, like no other...desperate for contact yet terrified of the repercussions.  Terrified.  Terror rules movement of mine at every juncture...what a joke I am.  I preach spontaneity, connectivity and meaning yet I refuse to emancipate myself from the bonds of fear and admittance.  Suffocating surely with the concealed creatures of the deep, I strain and squirm emitting fraudulence and frailty...I want to be one...with you.  I ask a lot and expect it all...anything else is every failure I've ever participated in.  Anxious over outcomes and occurrences, I push and pull then push again...how much can my fellow sea life take until a mass exodus erupts on my behalf and I yearn alone once more?  Perhaps the river is where i belong.  Moving currents of change and inconsistency.  Insecurities dissipate, love endures and longing lost to the flow.  The river brings me home regardless, thusly warped from experience.  I wish i had the words...ALL OF THEM.  I would give them to you upon kisses and unfettered fright.  We'll thrash about, only the other to maintain equilibrium until it makes sense in evolutionary degrees.  One monster of the deep grotesquely entwined, satiated...walls burnt to dust debris.   

LOST...One id

No, wait a tick...IT'S RULING MY LIFE EVERY SECOND OF THE DAY!!!  I am a prepubescent boy with a raging hard-on for aggression and "uncoordinated instinctual trends."  When this hard-on rages...look out every corner of the room,  cuz you bout to be covered in nut juice.  I am a mood disorder given to movement.  I am impressed by others yet lack any ability to impress myself.  It's been nearly a year since my last true immersion into creativity and I rot with doubt and loathing.  Morose is a cloud which hovers, diminishes but never really dies.  Clouds don't die...idiot!  I berate myself, for who else will?  Who out there has enough sense, courage and stamina to welcome my inabilities and dysfunction with gentle good natured ribbing?  A dog may...but only cuz I feed him and whip him indefatigably.  Weariness will never plague me as I am consumed by terror.  All this time and no results?  What fruits have I labored so that they be returned to me?  If not in time, then when?  Then fucking when...Others, so keen on the machine seem to struggle less and joy more.  They receive and suckle at the tit of accomplishment and fulfillment whilst i look on in despair, disgust, jealousy and slavery.  I slave.  I drudge, I disconnect, I reconnect and suffer.  Who inside wants more?  Nay, demands it?  What do i crave in this deep still, but silence and warmth?  I reach for instantaneous pleasure in drink, in smoke, in love...all of which, mere distractions on my road of detriment and dolor.  I can replace and repair but never escape...myself.  So I carry me with me in remote pieces that never quite fit...killing time with emotion and nonsense.  Staring back is always someone better...smarter...kinder....apt in every way I wanna be and judging me with cold indifference.   Judgement with indifference...not an easy task at hand, yet somehow so effectively proficient.  Gratitude is a fickle fiend who befriends me when it deems me worthy.  At other times, always the inopportune ones, I am abandoned by the side of the road, this road of being...left to my malaise and insecurity.  I fend off these troubled thoughts for as long as I am allowed, they always resurface however and I am plunged into turmoil and angst once more.  I am a secluded malcontent hack with time for unsavory thoughts and far too much to achieve in the empty space allotted.  I'll take my peg from the square it will never quite occupy and drown it in sorrow and cheap wine...ugh...only people with talent and drive are able to admonish such claptrap...I am just a drunk.

I Don't Have To Be Clever All The Time...FUCK YOU

Ah, titles.  If I could do one thing for the rest of my life, it would be to create magnificent titles for shit that never quite cut it.  I have to poop...I've eaten a shit tonne of vegetables today...excuse me...

There is nothing quite like a really great shit.  Comforting, expected, final...a great shit is like a full life - it's over before you've read enough.  If I could translate a great bowel movement into a life, I would, and be done with it.  No more pressure, expectations gone unrequited, or regret.  A moment of transparent tranquility and then...nothing.  Left in its wake, a void colon, happy intestinal tract and murky yet forgiving H2O. 

I'm moving out of my twenties soon.  When that thought enters my cerebrum, I feel like fighting or fainting or fucking.  Like the zombie apocalypse...you only have a few options.  Eat or be eaten kinda junk.  Minus the inconsequential details of the "party" and the sharing of my meager years with someone consistent, I am terrified.  An era is literally over.  It's as though I've slept til now, realized I've wasted ten years and settle into a deep, dank, dismal end.  Have I really accomplished so little?  Did I expect the Rhandi of now to be...here?  Gross.  I'm going to require more wine.  I've tried things.  I attempt intelligence at every turn.  I've gone crazy and come back...mostly.  Are my really splendid tricks complete?  Performed, applauded and remembered only in passing vagueness?  Does everyone freak out such as I?  When people grew older in the twentieth century, did they lose their minds and purchase a new penny farthing?  Wander on over to the local watering hole and bang fifteen "ladies of the night"?  Nope.  They had better things to think on...didn't they? 

Irish Whiskey = Punching

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The Best In Me

I see it sometimes you know.  A promise of a whisper of potential; Fearlessness.  What we long for is the very shit which keeps us embedded in fear.  We fear "it" the most, cuz then what?  What happens when we reach that peak and that's the top?  No more trekking up an unfavorable distance straight into the arms of whatever awaits...just you...and the air...and the view.  Nothing but down.  A brilliantly molded moment of anticipation fulfilled....................................and than nothing.  Death?  I don't think it goes down quite like that.  More anguish and solitude is required, I do believe before the "peak" reaches it's bony ass hands down your throat and takes the breath from your very chest.  So i ask myself, What do I want most?  The answer is glaringly honest, simple and altogether pitiful.  I shame myself answering said quandary.  So why do i spend so much effort and time divulged to rendering a response to the query when I have always known the answer? 

"Go West,  Young Man."

That has been in my head for some time.  As if it matters.  Here, there...it's all the same disappointing madness.  The same, the same....always the same.  Forever the same in fact.  Why must I rage then?  rage, rage against the dying of my spirit?  It's far more impactful(not a word) with a question mark, no?  The best in me, by the way, is alcohol and the right amount of weed smoked at the perfect time.  Timing.   

Do You Validate?

Will you please?  ME?  I am desperate most days for confirmation.  Some form, some sign, some veiled notion that informs me that I am doing the right thing for my life on a daily basis.  I attempt to collect tiny affirmations from others throughout the day, perfect strangers suffice most of the time, little nods of approving content directed in my general vicinity.  WHY???  Why do I crave this sentimental approval?  I want hard, cold evidence disputing where I've been and directing me where I should go.  It doesn't have to be a manual...a brief listing of when and where would do nicely.  Where am i to be?  Does location change anything, really?  I would still wear ill fitting clothes and long underwear when it's five degrees.  I would still long to see the world in all its particulars.  I would still work some shit job I abhor for no reason other than a paycheck and something to occupy my movements.  I would still search for love under every rock and in every crevice...cuz that's where boys reside.  So why this constant and stifling need for acceptance?  Approval from randoms who unbeknownst to me, don't have their shit figured out either.  I know everyone has their own version of what it means to be happy, what the fuck is mine?  Shall I dedicate myself to one endeavor for the rest of my life, forsaking all other desires and pursuing it till I'm alone, wrinkled and covered in cats?  Or shall I be a scourge of the options open to me and dip my toes in the drink of it all...scurrying about continents, learning languages...and dying alone, wrinkled and covered in cats?  I suppose my great search for enlightened fulfillment finds me...daily.  So draped in fear and self loathing that I scoff at its arrival and scream to the stars for answers.  Silly kid...

BEST...EPISODE...EVER

Halloween.  I fucking love the shit out of this made up and inconsequential holiday of ghouls, ghosts and goddamn sluts.  Yeah, even the sluts I find favorable at the moment...even sluts can be redeeming once covered in blood and cuts.  So a few glasses of wine in, I turn on XXII.  It was so well executed it seemed to not even have happened.  So good in fact that I forget the lot of it, 'cept for the amazing satisfactory feeling I received throughout and following.  What a throwback to the ole days...cleverness oozing from every pencil sketch and delivered dialogue.  Witty, humorous, topical...relevant.  Like a man, it was brilliant in its original state, but I'm sure I'll find something to dislike...greatly, soon enough.  Saturday night - wandered on down to my local Calgary Philharmonic Orchestra to catch Psycho and some brilliant musical styling.  I showed early so I could partake in the awesome wine selection and smoke a doobie before partaking in Hitchcock and his humor.  I had forgotten his propensity towards humor...so funny!  I sulked about the room with my glass of red, lonely and lost when I hear my name...a gorgeous and apt friend of mine works the events at Epcor.  Superb!  We chat about and make plans for the following moments after the show.  She teaches me all about the sweet "loge" I will be housed in(and the fine art of drinking gin once settled in our cozy pub) and I proceed to find my seats all baked and wasted and junk.  Argentina is my new befuddled home away from home.  So the show...Psycho...big screen...wicked seats...the fucking orchestra supplying all of the movie making music supported by a super hot french chick who was way too young and far too talented.  Henceforth...all films in the future will provide live music or I shan't be inclined to participate.  It was goddamn wonderful.  Intermission I consumed more appetizing wine at a furious rate and stroll about the room with such an inflated sense of self esteem...it was nearly troubling.  Anyhoo...show ends and Lovely Friend and I hop on over to the local watering hole for a brewsky and some chitty chat.  I, who had not slept for like three days previous was ready for pass-out time following awesome conversing with skilled friendo, headed to the train for a quick trip home.  I get this wicked bad feeling.  I felt exposed, vulnerable.  Not good vulnerable, but I am going to get fucked and left for dead kind of frailty...the kind of fragility exploited in films for prophet and shock value.  So, trying to ignore my guts(not recommended ever), crammed my ear phones in to listen to some calming musac.  The effing Ipod wouldn't work and this was enough of a sign for me.  I skedaddled back to a well lit and open bus-picking-up area.  I shit you people not...the moment I felt safe and illuminated for potential rapists to see...the Ipod turned on and played.  In my state I thought that was pretty fucking cool...now I think it's pretty fucking awesome.  Technology may have saved my life...and yet I abhor it so still.  Ah well...The Simpsons paid obeisance to Psycho tonight and that was the point of this entry...mmmm, relevance.

Foundation of Fraudulence

Is it true?  Is no one happy?  Would I know if I was?  Is it so that when recognition of happiness occurs, it's already passing?  On its way to a more lucrative hustle who will cherish it far more aggressively than I?  I need a challenge.  A testament to my patient and stoic nature.  Ha.  I've always felt like I've been working towards something special.  Anything i do is usually a new challenge...a progression of sorts, in some regard.  'Cept when it comes to matters of the heart.  What an ignorant and empty fucking statement that is.  I am foolish.  Reprehensibly so.  I do stupid things daily.  It usually turns out alright and when it refuses to...well, shit.  Shittiness permeates my decision making abilities.  What the hell is timing?  I'll tell you exactly:  fucked in the butt hole...and not the good kind.  No little pinky with a dollop of lube, but a fist...a drunken Irish mans sweaty and engorged meat mit pounding the ole lookie lou without regard or remorse.  Now I know that was somewhat graphic and disturbing...the Irish are despicably horrific human beings and i know all to well about the anger we carry about, waiting for the most inopportune moment to erupt and unleash a wrath of fury previously thought to be extinct in us learned creatures.  I'm a freak.  Can't I change the Game?  Am I even required to play?  I think I'll just say pass til someone wins and I can go home...inebriated and alone.  Sounds mournful or positively delightful - depending on the day.  Today more so the former.  I need to get smarter, better at everything I care about.  Distractions will be my source of power and ultimate strength.  Now who's the cheese eatin' surrender monkey?  Although, investment is essential to surrender so maybe that's not.. quite.. it.. either. 

Discerning Taste

I have it...and I know when I'm being shit on and lied to.  I despise actors.  I abhor other actors.  I believe that to be the reason i haven't flown the coup to be a part of the mass hysteria that is America.  They talk so very much about themselves.  No, scratch that...they converse only about others-those they know or who are related to in some fabulous and related fashion to their passionate endeavors on stage or film.  Fuck, it makes me want to wretch.  I was subjected to such scrutiny and masturbation this evening.  Though it is 2am I, low and behold, quite sober...and obviously angry.  I am not interested in verbal diarrhea-ing myself to complete strangers about what I've accomplished in the "theatre world"(it's small  and incestuous), nor am I concerned with who I've met/fucked/worked with or been born from.  Why cannot a real conversation occur between these people...I ask myself whilst consuming Tuborg at a furious rate?  There must be more to our feeble and empty lives than rehearsing regurgitated diatribes and tossing them to one another like a pile of steaming fecal matter.  I would have much rather carried on a convo with the waitress about Vegas and the drunken time she would have with her mommy than listen to another masturbatory statement about who has offered you what role and which director you "love more than life".  We people circulate round a drain of insecurity and ego...striving for recognition and appreciation in a false world of make believe.  I do my best to remain apart form this absolute cesspool of a wank fest but when immersed so fully without my permission, I get a little pissy.  I want more to offer the world than a good story and a fleeting remembrance of shit accomplished...it's only what we do, though ever passionate about, not....NOT who we are.  Now get me another fucking Tuborg.

Where the Brink Meets the Beaten

I will never understand the life I've lived and what has brought me here.  I will never understand why I haven't more time.  One hundred seconds or one hundred years...they go by just the same...in a blink and a whisper.  Death comes knowingly and yet I still waste the minutes in less wonder and more worry.  I have missed so much in these years of mine.  Moments mean nothing til they've passed and now nothing still.  I value that which forever eludes me.  Shall I be grateful?  Is that the proper way to soldier on?  Shall I scream of things forbidden to the blackened sky with only my lovers headlights to further my ferocity?  Perhaps I shall remain awake for my future days so as to not squander the ticks of clock i have left.  Why contemplate such things if our paths are so written...the truth will never find me for tomorrow I shall wake and mistake it all again.

Morbid Me and My Mortality

I am going to die someday.  It's cool.  Worse however, is the fact that I shall age...and then perish.  There will come a time when my ears are larger than my face, wrinkles will be the only calling card of who I once was, repeating myself will be expected and ignored(even laughed at), and I will be alone in all of this misery.  Why are we given youth if only to have it stripped from our flesh and replaced with folds of a forgotten past and a sucky future.  At some point I will not be able to stand on one leg, remove my shoe and shimmy a rock embedded in the sole.  I won't be able to walk great distances without my family fearing a tumble or for death to find me there amongst the fall leaves.  Society will ignore me, and individuals will pity me.  Or worse, they'll say to themselves, "Look at that cute old lady trying to traverse that step up the sidewalk."  Ugh, worse than pity and death.  Our world holds youth and vitality in such esteem, I admit, I tend to get caught up in it all as well.  However, I don't think it's the way society perceives aging that bothers me as much as being useless does.  You begin your life in diapers and finish it making toilet paper pumpkins, of which, you are so very proud.  When will my time come that toilet paper pumpkins will be the highlight of my day?  How soon will the degradation of my body limit everything I hold dear?  Now that I am aware of time and its passing, my life will be over and the slow painstaking march to death that tragically takes place is all that will await me.  Waiting to be worm food and nothing more.  Doesn't seem fair to give us just a taste of beauty, lust, use, and energy, only to gradually siphon it all off the top so incrementally that one day you wake up and you're in a home with other death door candidates...waiting an endless wait of puzzles, 5pm suppers and sleep.  I hope I get hit by a bus on my eightieth birthday.  

I Love(the idea of)You

All of the time.  All the time this happens...I perpetuate because it feels so good to feel so bad.  I make a person into something they should be, I am rudely awakened to the disappointment of who they really are and what they offer, and our separate ways present themselves-in the form of tears and regret...mostly.  We all know what the feminist movement did to women.  Where did the men get left?  Somewhere between confusion and arousal methinks.  They love our exclusive ways...our take no prisoners attitude.  However they(and I suspect us) cannot reconcile our independence with our vulnerability.  We are meek creatures with big hearts and infinite tear ducts.  Sure we want our space and resulting freedom to do as we please in skirts and heels if so inclined.  We also want to be taken care of.  To be the one nurtured for a change...to be so immersed in passion that we forget all the bullshit we're suppose to be remaining strong about and fall into orgasmic bliss.  The problem lies in the truth of it all for the truth is so very shallow.  The realness behind our tactics are so vacant that to speak them out loud would ruin the whole party of nothing we set up for ourselves.  A gathering of emptys' on a doorstep had the promise of enjoyment and that's how we all live our lives.  Falsely piling empties till it's time to recycle and face the inevitable stained and moldy staircase.  Men want women and women want men.  It's only ever been this simple.  We complicate with our "ideas" of what is or should be.  We live in a perpetual dichotomy of wanting what we want and struggling against those wants out of fear someone will recognize us as frauds, judge such fraudulent behavior and demolish the shells we've contained our petty games in.  I think that I have encased my essence inside so many layers that i am incapable of love.  I do not say this to evoke some knee-jerk pity response, but to attempt to understand how to remove the whole lot.  Sure bad things happen...sometimes really bad things...but what have you be shown about yourself now that you can use?  Hiding behind my enclosure is no way.  I want to live so real it scares other people.  Literally people will run from me.  The things I hold back on a daily basis out of social responsibility, courtesy(not to say I'm going to be a dick), and trepidation are outrageous.  Frailty is not highly regarded in our society...we can wear slacks and vote but perish the thought we be real.  What if my "realness" is not the reality I see for myself?  It's true to who I am but not who I'd like to be.  Then what?  Then I have no choice but to live in this vortex of blighted hope and candor...  waiting ever so patiently for the rest of the world to join me.  Maybe if I could stop judging others, see their truth and love them...regardless of ambitions and grammar...I would have that freedom from my layers I so detest to find peace, passion and a nice hard cock.

My Compass is Crooked

I feel so unnecessary some days...an invalid in a valid world.  Imagine if you will an entire day spent as a fraud, a fake, a phony.  It's as though there is not an original thought in my head.  I exist as a fleshy regurgitation machine, spouting nonsense in sensical text so those valids around me can understand and tolerate.  Although, I haven't been spending too much time around originality lately so they probably wouldn't notice if I just began to spew absurd lyrics of a troubled soul in replace of my well-thought and preplanned organized bullshit.  I am a tape recorder sending out my message born of others' messages;  things I've heard, seen, done and had done to me.  I no longer create, but recapitulate.  I listen to those around me, attempting to discern the liars from reality...it gets more and more difficult everyday as I become one of them. I am a dissident forced into a poser frame, lying to myself and others.  They don't matter so much cuz they don't realize it anyway.  I do.  I see that I suck.  I can't quite figure it though...the changing part.  How to erupt from this shell, this casing of safety and be the person I was meant to be.  Quizzes abound and still no path to follow.  There is something in me that needs to get out...not like Alien, not evil anyway...that would be awesome though.  Maybe that's the only way growth happens.  It's not slow or progressive at all, but explosive and disgusting and sequels filled with Sigourney Weaver.  I love her, she's so weird.  What would be in charge then?  Who would run the show I call a life?  The way I live now...just isn't enough.  I am missing passion, excitement, fulfilment.  You should be able to have a taste of those every day.  I despise pretending like I'm happy.  Like what I do matters.  Why is the first question we ask anyone upon first meet, "What do you do?"  That is who we are.  That is depressing.  I may have hobbies, things that spur about my creative poser, but I spend more time working than all else.  I've chosen stability and money over value.  I don't value either of those things, and yet I choose them over spontaneity, freedom, intensity and stimulation EVERY time.  That makes no sense.  Nonsense.

Benefits of Being Gross

I long for the day that I will meet another human being(man wise) who loves my revolting ways;  Someone who not only tolerates, but appreciates the idiosyncratic behavior that makes me...me.  I would like to come home at two-twenty-five in the morning, stand precariously over a boiling pot of ichi-ban while stuffing my salivating yapper with Reese's pieces(stopping only momentarily to scarf down the little bastards that awkwardly fall to the floor), and have my lover say, "Fuck You're Beautiful..."  without a trace of sarcasm, my stupidly grinning face covered in salt, sugar and a little sadness, smiling foolishly.  Then I see men in their natural habitat: Screaming drunkenly from patios with beer in hand and intelligence lost at my friend and I as we simply pass by.  That's all it takes.  We are duck hunt targets acquired through a narrow scope(tits=female) and the onslaught of berating and degenerative remarks ensues.  What happened to conversation?  Buying a gal a drink and romancing her with your wit and humor?  Communication is a foreign entity in this techno saturated age.  I wish a dude would just fucking talk to me.  No pretense, no hollering, no offensive remarks intended to seduce my insecurity and send me streaming back to your illiterate arms...I want to be stimulated goddammit.  I want to be gross and have you aroused by the simple fact that I've responded to you in the way that I have.  I want you to look into my gaping and vulnerable face, see that I have substance and seduce me like you really give a fuck...no games, no falseness...just candor and rooted affection.  I despise tactics and long for effort.  I try every moment to be better...where is my equal?  My earnest partner in crime and vulgarity...I'll just get a dog and we can shit on doorsteps together.

WILD RAVAGED BEAST

There was a time when I had reasonable exchanges with others.  I can't think of one just now, but I know they occurred.  I miss those days of thinking the best of people, acting with grace and joy, and having those components of fulfillment returned to me.  Where did the days go where manners, courtesy, patience and compassion, however fleeting, ran rampant in the streets instead of screaming, swearing cunts who spew misery like infectious disease; incurable and sour.  I love to bike.  I go everywhere.  If you have read previous posts, you'll know my disdain however, for underpasses.  The roads are rarely safe for us lone two wheelers and underpasses are murder death kill.  I avoid them and on this particular balmy September afternoon was to be no different.  I should have risked death over my next experience.  I come upon this woman on the sidewalk, overweight, smelling of whatever dull job she suffers through, sauntering right dab in the center.  Me, being the courteous and self aware individual I have become, slowed down, climbed the grassy knoll parallel to the walking whale(I take that back, whales are far more peaceful.), and calmly announced that she was in the middle of the sidewalk...perhaps she had forgotten she lived in a city with a cool million.  Her response was of course sheepish apology, a smile, slight wave and grateful acknowledgement of her oversight.  That, in a reasonable world is what should have happened.  Like a wild, ravaged beast, this woman pawed the ground with her massive cracked and feces laden hoof, snarled and snorted all the air from her heaving, sweaty chest and spit the words "FUCK YOU" into my unsuspecting face.  Slowly rolling past, hardly phased for I expect awful behavior from all adults at all times, I proceeded to flip her off as the beast reared her giant greasy head in a continued rant soaked in cuss words and stinking saliva.  I forget sometimes that other people are around when deep in thought.  Therefore I keep to the right to allow others(even dreaded cyclists) to pass unimpeded.  Courtesy, thoughtfulness, nonexistent.  I wasn't rude, but man did she go there.  For some time too, screaming nonsense at me as I sped away.  Then I spent the next twenty minutes seething about what I should have said/done and my glorious fresh air bike ride was hindered briefly.  Briefly is too much time wasted on such an individual.  I seemingly ruined her day and her mine.  Why did I let it?  Well, it saddens me the state of things, especially in a city.  I miss the days of others always giving one the right of way.  Days of smiles and hellos when one passes by.  I do not miss honking out of impatience, angry retorts when clearly not provoked, degrees of emotion consisting only of anger, angrier and blame.  We blame one another for everything all of the time.  Won't someone take responsibility for being a fucking prick, apologize and get over it?  Nope.  We honk back, screaming at our passengers how idiotic the other guy is and hold on to hatred and fault for a lifetime.  I'm going to be a puppy when I grow up.  They only know hunger, smell, poop, and love.  Dogs love everything, everyone.  Bounding and frolicking about in a grassy place with their dutiful owners keeping an eye  Diligently unaware, blissful with the sensory world and...SQUIRREL!!!   

Pinot Grigio

I have found a true love...he's rich, deep, creatively endowed and motherfuckin' tasty.  If only my men could be so endearing...so adaptable.  I "Get You', you son of a bitch.  You must be none other, for only a bitch would raise someone so inefficient and spineless.  You knew I loved you...for years.  For only our friendship, in its entirety did I worship the fucking ground you tread upon.  Though, I never confessed these fateful words, you knew, and I knew that you knew and still...STILL, nothing came to fruition.  I longed for, nay continue to long for the day that you sweep me up into your arms and caress me with your all.  I scan your facebook page consecutively, for this I despise technology.  I long for a time where actual contact replaced these empty searches...these false creepings.  I am creepy.  I accept it.  I also accept that you have long moved on, and here I am...lost, longing and empty.  No man will ever compare...nor could they, for you are perfection.  I never knew you in a physical sense, perhaps not in an emotional sense either, but somehow you will always be the one.  I understand that in life, you don't always get who you want.  Whomever has hung around the longest, seen you through the worst...etc...that's who you'll end up with.  It has little to do with fate, or passion, or time.  More so with "timing" than anything else.  Breaks my heart really.  Every day.  People always say to me and by people I mean Mom...they say, "You're still young...you have time."  What does that fucking mean?  Time is irrelevant.  Love does not always keep, unless you're lucky...or lesbian.  Times like these, I wish I had a giant joint with a baggy in the freezer.  Ugh, my honesty is disgusting me at this point.  I am grateful.  Don't get me wrong.  However, life equates nothing without love.  God or no God, loneliness...so much space...bigger and bigger.  I lie to myself to keep sane...but these lies...bigger and bigger.  Someday I will be consumed and exist not as Rhandi, but as a black hole formerly known as Rhandi.  Sucking in light, life and time...but a demon in the sack.  Ah, my friend Pinot...gets me every time...

Love Lives of the Camponotus

I have shackled myself to the concept that my life had meaning.  Every action, reaction and especially coincidence had some greater purpose/effect on my reality.  It was as though this incalculable river of mystery ran beneath every thought, driving me towards some pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  Like in Ghostbusters 2...the oozing pink sludge running beneath the city of New York...aware and longing to be fed.  Well, we find out that that toxic sludge can be killed with song and that the pot of gold can never be reached, no matter how diligent the chase.  Also, Slimer wouldn't have been around to be a laugh riot and Bob Mckenzies' counterpart, for death comes to us all, Mary Agnes and it does not entail disturbed apparitions who get off on a gorge.  Through some realizations, I am uncovering so many puzzles pertaining to my life thus far.  Such as, if I get hit by a car on my bicyclette and become paralyzed by way of body or brain, it is not written in the stars by some great design.  It was an accident, and now I'm fucked.  I don't like wearing helmets, and my ability to reason out of protecting the old noggin was that God wouldn't let anything atrocious happen to me...and if he did, it would be written as such and suppose to be.  If I see someone I knew in the past in the present in a city of a cool million(other ants bumping around till we all find the dirt), it's simply a happening.  It has no relevance or great bearing to where I am or where I need to be.  My decisions about these ideas have propelled me through life with a sense of being larger and more powerful than the other bugs.  Like I was part of something bigger, secret, and impressively opulent.  I feel smaller now...a sub-atomic particle blinking in and out of existence with no attachments, no giant question to be unearthed.  Finding comfort now in things I use to, sicken me.  I love, love and watching others serendipitously sus out a soul mate warmed my heart.  Now I want to scream, "Hey, you there...you met in a bar, smelled a pheromone you found favorable and fucked.  Your children will be the downfall of society and your hatred for one another will grow exponentially until you both welcome death as a release from his apathetic screwing around, and your nagging unappealing wrinkle puss."  I once believed that there was one person for every one.  As though you were born two halves split apart and destined to rejoin and make each other whole.  Nonsense.  We scramble about, pretending our lives and choices sustain a life of substance...stumble upon someone who doesn't make our skin crawl...the end.  No wonder 51% of marriage ends in divorce.  We lie to ourselves and each other and expect love to blossom, when instead it turns brown and chokes like my peace lily...what the hell is wrong with that thing.  Nothing I do makes it happy.  I guess we need to break up so I can find a new, greener, happier to be with me one.  There, now that's love.

CULT LOGIC

Stephen Hawking has proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is no God.  Through mathematics, quantum physics and understanding the laws of nature, he has reached a conclusion we've been striving for since the dawn of man.  We are all alone.  There is no higher power, no deeper meaning...just us, the things we do or do not, and the people we love.  I'm not sure how this sits with me presently.  Immediately I was overwhelmed with sadness;  As though this great loss befell me...a death perhaps.  I thought about my past and how so many times I chose a path unbecoming of my motivations because I assumed a benevolent creator would have my back and remedy it all throughout my existence.  Such is not the case.  If their be not a creator of life, than an afterlife is also unrealistic.  So this is it.  We have 80 years or so on a planet thrust out into space and time to grow up, suffer and perish.  This may sound bleak to you but I feel largely liberated.  There is no destiny, no ordained path of choice that leads to an end which leads to a beginning.  I always felt as though I would have an infinite amount of time to accomplish what I needed to be fulfilled on all levels.  Now, once I'm gone, I'll be worm food and nothing more.  No romance, no cumulus nimbi to perch upon, no playing wiffle ball with Grandma while I meet my dad again.  This last revelation hurt my feelings a bit.  Not necessarily because I wouldn't see them again, but that I squandered the time available to me when they were an arms length away.  My grandmas' energy will never be in the form it was when I knew her...she's probably feeding the fish somewhere, and nor will mine.  So I ask, is eighty years enough to do what needs to be done?  If we don't waste it, certainly.  I always thought people who went to church and practiced some form of religion were weak(spiritually and mentally) and now I know for sure.  How ridiculous it seems now to put all hope, dreams, and power into the hands of an omnipotent farce.  I understand that people go through wretched times and perhaps believing in a higher power got them through...but if that fallacy was never put into play thirty thousand years ago(yeah, is anyone else disturbed by the fact that we haven't evolved past neolithic scribblings on cave walls?), what would these empty simpletons cling to?  Each other perhaps?  Or would we all find solace in science?  Knowing that I am the decider, the purveyor of my means to an end...comforts be beyond reproach.  Though my past may be filled with regrets, I can now choose differently.  I can choose.  It's not in the giant hands of some floating fart on a fluffy cloud, but in mine.  If my life goes unfulfilled, baron and cold, well that was my doing and no one elses'.  This is what disturbs me about rehabilitation .  If you want to do drugs, and drink liquor for your time on this planet, super.  You want to alienate those who love you most and destroy your humanity through drink or dope, have at 'er.  If you choose to get clean by means of surrendering yourself to a "higher power", you are severely fucked.  I can't believe you people(addicts and their co-conspirators/counselors) call your selfish excess a "disease" and then with fear driving your gluttony, throw yourself on the mercy of something that never has nor ever will exist to change your patterns of behavior.  All you've done is glamorize being a dick-hole by feeding excuses to those who've generated plenty through delusions and provided them with an easy out when they inevitably fail.  "God, let me down.  God has forsaken me.  God isn't listening."  Well, now you know how your loved ones feel about you.  We all make choices and without God as an excuse for our loathsome behavior, we're forced to look within at how terrible we really are.  Once you sift through that nonsense, maybe the shit underneath will be worth taking a look at.  I "pray" mine is. 

I Will Stab You In Yo Face

Yup, this is gonna be a rough one.  I must expel this negative festering of my soul to you, the multitudes(by that I mean you three people who follow my ravings and incessant rantings), before I am wholly  consumed and turned to an effervescent pile of pungent puke.  It has come to my attention that the majority of the world does not understand what it means to exist in public.  Public means: "Of, concerning, or affecting the community or the people."  It does not pertain to how loud and obnoxious a person can become because the space they are currently inhabiting is substantially larger.  I had a conversation this evening which illustrates the latter:

Bitch in native tongue: "Blahblah blah blahblahblah blah blah blah, at the top of her lungs for five minutes and then proceeded to hand the phone off to her equally annoying husband for five minutes more."  (Note: So I gave them the fucking opportunity to smarten up and move along.)
Me: "Excuse me, could you please take your conversation to another aisle, I can't concentrate with you talking directly behind me."
Bitch:  "It's a PUBLIC PLACE."
Me: "You are exactly correct.  That's why it is so important for you to show the utmost respect for the other people taking part in this PUBLIC PLACE."
Bitch:  "Another language, laughter, than final departure, on her own goddamn time of course."

Yes, a public place is designed for the public.  Living in a city however deems it extremely relevant to be courteous to those that we share this space with.  Cell phones drive me nuts on a regular basis anyhow, but these morons crossed a line.  Arguing the futile point that essentially they can act in the most obscene and manner-less fashion is not a rebuttal to my simple and ethical treatment of their flood of rude.  Being in a public place is exactly the reason to shut the fuck up and treat others with dignity.  I go out of my goddamned way every moment of the day to treat others exceptionally well.  Has the world gone mad?  We claim a universal space as our own, piss all over it, and then expect others to accept our urine as unwavering ownership.  I did not own that area of the store anymore than this couple did.  Nor did I have delusions of where I was or how I was conducting myself.  Why were they confused?  Why did Bitch not immediately apologize and waddle on to another space to piss in?  Instead I received petulance, argument, and aggression all neatly filled in a pee filled balloon and promptly tossed in my face.  Well, I see your pee filled balloon and I raise you a fist with keys lodged between my digits.  More than anything it makes me sad.  Perhaps I should have said nothing and allowed this rudeness to go unanswered.  Perhaps I should have just begun to punch...physical violence always rights the wrong, right?  I feel like the worlds mother in that, so many adults who should know better, simply, do not.  Therefore, I must right the ignorant attitudes of those whose parents kept such knowledge from them.  This is how terribleness begins and I will forever make it my goal in life to end the urination before it starts...

Grass Does Not Need You, To Be Green

We have a great many folly, we the people.  None more so than our tendencies towards gluttony and selfishness.  I believe these two detrimental qualities make excellent bedfellows.  As a result, the butt sex the two have feverishly been partaking in, has created a new breed of awful with an insatiable hunger which permeates our society and makes us look like real dicks...not unlike the butt baby's which possess several oozing beef bayonets...on it's skull.  We waste a lot of resources in the west:  Food, materials, life, time, each other and now it's come to my attention, though under my nose for years, that what we abuse the most may soon be gone forever.  There are people in the world, this world, who do not have water to drink.  They do not have direct access to clean drinking water.  I repeat:  They do NOT have water to drink...let alone water to shower with, wash clothes in, dump down the drain when the temperature does not suit us and most aggravating of all, water to throw on the ground.  We have such an attitude of entitlement that our grass is graced with hours of preening while our resources run thin and most go without.  Is status so essential in our world that our grass must represent fertility and extravagance at the cost of lives and eventual survival?  Do those people who water every day not think about what they throw away on foliage that does not require us to thrive?  Water will run out.  This is not a theory or some happening in the distant future, but an axiom of anxiety.  There are far too many of us to support our need for H2-is-O and the water we do still occupy, we pollute with our other "necessities".  The earth would provide all we would ever need if we only cease to fuck with it.  I think about how much I waste on a daily basis...in the shower, washing the dishes...welcome to my brain of dysfunctional and perhaps irrational worry.  What boggles my mind is how no one else seems to think this way.  Maybe we all have that white picked fence version of how we want the world to be...kids frolicking in the sprinkler while mom sips ice filled pina colladas on the porch while running the washer, the dishwasher and dad sponges off the Cadillac.  Well, we lived that and look where we are now.  Those who go without must think us most ridiculous for we throw our precious life source on weeds to impress our friends and maintain the futility that is our societal (and imaginary) hierarchy of horror.  If the rest of you questioned your actions as often as I do mine, perhaps we wouldn't be up shit creek without water to rinse off the stank.

Honk On Bobo

Please people, try to understand...I am balancing precariously on two slender tires, moving at variable and often intense speeds...racing through confined spaces, competing for room with the immovable force that is a tonne of metal in various shapes, sizes and velocity's...sometimes zooming under poor lit and deafening overpasses.  I am trying not to lose my cool let alone my life when vying for a fraction of the space these gas guzzlers insist on utilizing, so I plead and ask ever so nicely...DO NOT FUCKING HONK YOUR IMMENSELY DISTRACTING AND OVERBEARING HORNS AT ME WHILE ATTEMPTING TO CUT ME OFF AT SPEEDS THAT WOULD ELEVATE MY PANCAKE-ED-NESS(?) TO FULL.  I do not believe I ask for much.  I am not a selfish person (most days).  All I long for is a tiny piece of the road to get from A to B without having the living shit scared from my bowels because you can't bear the thought of waiting 30 seconds for me to move past or fall behind.  Why is the western world in such a hurry?  We eat without savoring, we love without patience, we wish our days away-demanding something ever better, and we drive like the destination is chasing us with fire and brimstone.  I crossed a MARKED crosswalk yesterday.  I was even courteous enough to remove myself from my mode of transport, making my intentions unmistakably clear.  As I crossed the pavement, my ipod came undone from its holster and clamored to the ground.  Instead of waiting the 3.3 seconds it would have taken me to bend down and retrieve it, an SUV demanded it's right to speed on, refused to slow down, narrowly missing me. I jumped to the sidewalk for safety and the cocksucker, self important, environment destroying, oblivious manipulator of metal and fiberglass that outweighed me and my rockin cycle by, oh I don't know, several thousand pounds...proceeded to drive over my device without blinking an eye all the while exclaiming to it's passenger how I shouldn't be on the road.  Where should I be?  Riding the sidewalks gets you a ticket and pedestrians screaming at you to get on the provided bike trails, though exceptional in Calgary, do not get you to the shopping mart or liquor store.  Riding the bustling mean streets could get you killed because cars do not give you the respect nor the space required to safely maneuver the jungle of our "git er done" obsessed existence.  So where does that leave those who refuse to rely on gas operated death machines?  I choose cycling cuz it's great exercise, it's cheap, and I think living in a metropolis with everything in such close proximity negates the apparent necessity of a vehicle...and it's environmental implications, blahblahblah.  Why such little tolerance for those who choose better, smarter?  Does a vehicle give those a sense of value that using your own physical means cannot?  Are we so lazy and swaddled in our demand for efficiency and immediacy that we've forgotten that taking a little longer to get somewhere may serve us in the long run?  Serve us in a capacity that sustains a heart and soul with pride and patience?  We will never be happy if the speed in which we accomplish a task is the only goal set.  Our contentment levels will continue to plunge if beating our last time is the only place where our priorities reside.  Oh, and my ipod did indeed survive the haste of the SUV...this time.

One IS the Loneliest Number

My stupor aside, I have come to one conclusion regarding the human psyche...we are not solitary beings. We, like so many other species, enjoy grouping together. We group, we gripe and we go our separate ways, only to cluster another day. I have spent the last three days completely alone. Not altogether awful, as I have learned to enjoy my own company and the thoughts that most others try to escape from, I have gathered that gatherings are solely based on fear and insecurity. Though I long for the day of instigating my own "get togethers", you people are all full of shit. I anticipated quiet evenings out, making sweet sweet love to my chicken wings and pints of golden glory, but came upon something else indeed: Non-stop chatter of nothing that goes nowhere. Where do the smart people hang? Why is it so difficult to find stimulating and meaningful convo amidst the drunken masses? Therein lies the rub...smart people don't get wasted and speak of little for they have intelligent and stimulating conversations in secluded areas where the dullards aren't likely to tread. Perhaps I am too hard on humanity...or perhaps everyone is not hard enough on themselves. Seriously people, do you have any idea how absurd you sound? I may be all alone at my table scarfing down fried goodness and inhaling hoeegarden like no ever has, but my thoughts about the greatness of my meal are far more interesting to the world than the shit you've come up with. And I'm the single one? Ugh. I am going to get a dog. At least when I speak to him about deeper things his eyes will meet mine and although his understanding may not be all encompassing, he'll get that something more exists than gossip and bitching. Oh, how I long for those puppy eyes of seemingly vacancy yet depth beyond my wildest ramblings. Boys are easy to train in these methods, but they talk back with the nonsense I attempt to abstain from. Perhaps I shall attempt a coup of my brain and just drink it to retardation...then I'll fit in. Do I truly desire acceptance? Or just a partner in crime to ignore the nonsense and exchange knowing looks across a patio table set in the sunshine consumed by beer and chicken wings? Mmmmmm, beer and chicken wings...

Past Perfect

I am, like most individuals thinking and breathing for themselves, a creature of habit. It pains me to think this and even more to put it down in words the world can see and pass judgement on. It is however, a truth. Truths about yourself are tough. Admitting them is the toughest. I live in the past everyday. Out of habit I do believe. I have habitually trained my brain to think only of times and experience gone by...why, you say? Fear of the future, I suppose. Or perhaps, the past was just that shitting sensational that to remain there in a happier time keeps me afloat. Or, more likely, my regrets about this "joyous" time(for every time is joyous once it's passed), have simply bound me to it. This consistent need to relive what should be forgotten and forgivable times must come to an end. I want spectacular things for my life, now and in the near now. Focused on such former things, I feel no longer susceptible to a frighteningly superb future. How can I receive positive future experiences when I am stuck in a memory and reliving mistakes that the universe has already forgotten? I have spent so much precious time mourning, grieving, longing, and distressing over unfulfilled desires that the future seems bleak and distorted. I do not wake up daily excited to begin an adventure I know that's surely to come. How easily I could stop this. Like anything else in life, you fake it til you make it. Changing your thought patterns is as simple as one morsel, one tidbit of positive assertion to create a new path of thinking. Being present is something I've always found rather taxing. I think of the worst but hope for the best. Well hoping should not be a verb, it requires no action 'cept the crossing of ones fingers and toes. Perhaps that is why acting is something that chose me. I can lie with style and exist fully and completely in a single whisper, or look, or sequence of action. What was so great about my past anyhow? Sure good times were had, but as I recall, I often did not receive what I thought I wanted at the time, so who chooses to remain in a time of unfulfillment when I can finely tune new dreams and potentially achieve them with my newly trained behavior? I feel as though I am required to pay for past misjudgements with my future. It's as though I cannot let go the wrongdoings till I have given up enough of my present or future. Why can I not move past the past into the light of a new day, everyday? I wasn't perfect then and I sure as hell ain't perfect now and maybe coming to terms with that statement is what will project a new pattern for me on this green screen of a life.

"I'm Back, Baby!"

I feel more like myself than ever before...all it took was a new "do" and a fifth of some odd liquor,clear in substance, mixed with a delightful substance they call, seven. I miss Seinfeld. I hated and loved George, I believe that was the goal...efficient writing you magnificent bastard. I feel alive again. Drunk, but very much alive. I improved on my physical self, spent time appreciating that new version, kicking some serious ass, and than drowning it in beautiful forgotten bliss of the new age...vodka. I spent four hours today beating on a man who was wrapped in tons o' padding but relentlessly coming at me with vigor. It was the most empowering thing I have ever experienced. All I want to do is take that knowledge, priceless though somehow costing an arm and a leg, and reap it on some purely suspecting victim. I met two tonight. One brown guy asked me if I required a ride. I politely turned him down, as is our ever so cordial Canadian and womanly nature, only to have the fuckface follow my progress and inquire again later down the road. I lost it, "embiggened", (those of you who know me will get this one), with the ability to level a dude twice my size, I threw down like I use to during the old E-Town days, I screamed, swore, and wrote down his fucking licence plate. As the night progressed, another gentlemen(term I reserve for those lacking everything resembling this word), inquired as to my transportation as I was hoofing it. I stated rather clearly of my intent to pepper spray him and shouted his own plate back to him to alert him to my serious distaste of his awful and not so coded methods. I will not ever be a victim. In fact, upon my entry into my abode, I screamed, "I WILL NEVER BE A VICTIM AGAIN!" ....mouth full of two dollar pizza and all. I feel instilled with energy once more. I am no longer afraid, cautious, you bet...but the fear has been replaced by something so much more tasteful, assuredness. I don't get even, I get stabby. My power has returned, look out you late night creepy fucks, there is indeed something worse prowling around other than the law, and now I know my way around it...Side note: Not reacting but willing to act if the need ever arises...for mummers sake...

Bean Sprouts???

I have never been a fan. They have a supremely odd texture, their taste leaves something quite to be desired, they do not become nicer when cooked and they carry serious consequences for the well being of unborn children. They are potential baby killers people...I'd steer clear. Any type of sprout possessing such undesirable qualities should best be left alone, forgotten by society, and left to the asians...so many asians. Anyhow, this entry is not designed to hate on an entire race, religion or faction of humanity...just three girls who are brain damaged. That must be the reason, right? Three pushy, entitled, obscenely rude bitches who need to thus give their head a shake or two...til either the brain damage is righted or they destroy their ability to speak and rub off on society their unbelievable ways. What is missing from their lives that not garnishing their meals with baby killers sends them into a rage so nasty that I am left shocked and confused, hovering over a wok system wondering when courtesy has abandoned our society. What is missing from mine that I lose sleep over these super cunts? Perhaps their lives are just that full of greatness and harmony that the lack of bean sprouts became too much to bear. If you cannot endure the fact that there shan't be garnish on your meal and this sends you into a tirade of epic and confusing proportions, how must the rest of your day unfold? Do you treat all others in this manner, or just those you deem lower on the social totem pole than you? I have never treated anyone serving me so rudely, especially when the preparation of food is involved. Did your parents teach you this? Or, do you feel empowered to be horrible to others just in that circle of friends? I despise the fact that I am still required to be kind and generous to those who spit in or on my face because that's what I get paid to do. Well, it isn't, but our society seems to think that wanting what you want when you want it, and then receiving it promptly with perfection is the road to happiness and content. I regret to inform you once and for all, we are so far off the right path, we're starving and stumbling through brambles so high and prickly, our blood trail will be the only way in which to find us. I miss that about where I grew up. Everyone may know your business, but to your face manners run rampant. Of course there is an expectation for you to perform a fine task in your occupation, but none so high as the one you've placed on yourself. I am extremely hard on myself and my work ethic shows that...how dare you attempt to mess with that and embarrass me with your cowardice. These children were not spanked, it's time the wooden spoon was brought back into the home and utilized on wayward youths who refuse to adopt the simple human principles of respect and civility. It's truly astonishing how a very centralized group of people can eliminate any sense of positivity I had stirring in a single moment of caustic verbalization...maybe I need to use the spoon on myself...no vacancy and what not.

Farts: 1 Logic: 0

I failed math...well, nearly. More so, I effing hated it. However, I always seemed to be blessed with super supportive and patient teachers who cared enough to nurse me through to a passing grade...thanks Mr. Sparrow. Math was always so cold, boring. There was always the perfect answer and I get apprehensive around perfection. I just learned that our existence, our world and every individual on it may be an expression of a mathematical equation. First off, how can a math equation be expressive? Two plus two and so forth, are not emotional. Why give us the ability to feel if we are merely a hologram transposed onto an orb(earth at the moment)? Who created this equation...this equation which seems to cause such pain, suffering and often disappointment? Are we merely existing elsewhere and now at this moment in space and time, we are mirror images of our true and infallible selves? Three-d dolls with free will? I like the smell of my own farts. What does that equation look like? And why? Why am I given the opportunity to love my flatulence if we are one giant walking and talking numeric result? Would our thoughts and actions than not exist as a simple yet perfect answer? Why would we have questions if we are created by answers? On another plain, perhaps we could have all the solutions and be thriving in faultless harmony? Impeccable speech would rain down from the quadratic equation heavens and woe would be an unconscionable word. What form of energy spawned these inconceivable ripostes? Perhaps an enormous and omniscient wood chipper sucks in the necessary knowledge from across the infinite darkness and spews forth the very stuff dreams are made of...turns out it's simple calculus. Funny, the one subject I purely detest may contain within it, all the answers I strive for on a second to minute basis. I guess it's back to the wood chipper for me til the kinks be worked out and the problem is solved. On a lighter note...I am "silent disease" free, Fucko. So, perhaps next time you should wrap it up before jamming it into someone you've only known three seconds. This is the last time I will think of you, you selfish fuck of a flawed friend equation.

F...F...F...FRIEND YOU!

It's been said that you can't choose your family and that's what makes a "friend" so goddamn special. You, through the magic of right time right space, connect with those who are interested in like things or find yourselves in positions that may not stimulate, but the bonds built are enough to sustain remaining in a specific place for perhaps, far too fucking long. There were times I thought I made splendid choices when it came to the people I surround myself with. Once again, I am learning otherwise. I have this friend...this friend named...Fucko. We've known each other for eight years. Long time in Rhandi Land as consistency is not one of my strong suits. He was supportive, funny, brilliant in a great many thing, and we got along so well it was sometimes scary. I've since moved from the town we once shared, a few times, but the effort was always there. We saw each other threw the worst of it all and always came out laughing and believing in life and love once more. For two years I was in a pretty nasty relationship(another incident of remaining far too fucking long) with a soul-sucking-life-leeching-mooching-monster. Fucko stuck around at the edge of the playground to make sure I was cool while I ripped around on the monkey bars, praying for the ensuing fall not to break me wide open. It did, like a rotten pumpkin hurled off the edge of a building, but it turns out the dismount was outstanding and the landing was stuck even with all the goo and chunks. Anyhow, Fucko was way supportive throughout and when the landing was complete, he swooped in with a sympathetic shoulder and beer. Well, my judgement not being razor sharp at the moment what with the catastrophic past looming over my pity party, we were intimate. Not to say that I didn't struggle with those feelings for him for years or that I just jumped in the sack immediately. He really put in some effort in a big way...saying all the right things at the exact right times and physically being there when I was my most drastically desperate. I never thought in a million years that my best friend would ever take advantage of me. He did. Once he had received what he wanted, weeks turned to months and I heard hide nor hair. Was he just biding his time, like eight bloody years, just to bang his best friend, check her off his "to do" list and move on? Fucko, you're a fucking fuck. So, slowly...always too fucking slowly, I start to realize that I have been used. When I needed a friend the most, he saw that and manipulated what we had to achieve his penis goals. Last night at one in the morning, I receive a text from him..."My current girlfriend has Chlamydia and I am getting tested tmrw. Just thought you should know as you were the last before her and boys can carry it for a while symptom free."

Sigh

So after months of no communication, I have written you off as a decent human being...the last one by the way on my checklist with lines scribbled over the rest, and you tell me not so coded, that you may have given me an STD cuz you refused to wrap it up, that you have a gf, hence the lack of, oh I don't know, FRIENDSHIP!...and I am only considered "the last" fuck you had on a very short list. I hope your fucking dick falls off you selfish mother fucker. I thought I was done being surprised and disappointed by people. Now I find new and degrading ways in which the people I've known for years can really screw you up. It's sad really. I know that the hurt and anger I feel now are at a certain level...and this level can only escalate to a far worse degree in order for me to feel again. I wish I could warn the world of you.

Back to the Future

I have been thinking on memory quite a lot lately. Some memories seem so real, vivid and understandable. Others I just can't believe were ever occurrences...like dreams that shoot off into another dimension when you try to remember them. The harder you try, the further and less plausible they seem. We were given memory as a gift from the ego to keep us alive. I remember not to stick my head in the oven when it's on and cooking me deliciousness. It would hurt and I remember. I think life experiences react within the mind much the same way. I've learned that dating a "recovering" addict means trouble, nay a slow and revolving death of trust and sanity. Recovery is a word people who need to feel empowered place meaning upon. It means nothing when shit falls apart and the drugs or alcohol, for some ungodly reason, become the foundation for forgetting once more. There are plenty of things I have learned and remember which I wish I haven't. I don't want to remember how awful we treat one another when it comes down to "you or I' in this mental survival cycle. I don't want to remember how opening your life and heart to someone can nearly level you to states of non functioning. I know this is essential for me to never stick my head in the oven again...but I believe now, I am afraid to cook anything period. I am afraid to prepare a lovely meal, watch it simmer and come alive and then devour it with devotion and determination. I won't even walk by the oven now...I head straight for the microwave or the nearest bag of pre-bought cupboard garbage. The thought of "cooking" fills me with such tension, fear and loathing...I may never eat again. I have so many memories from childhood and beyond that don't seem real to me. How was that my reaction in that situation? Was that really me responding to that? Creating that? It's almost as if some other person were making those key life decisions for me and I was just a witness to it all, unable to participate and now paying the price. There are other memories I have however, where it was all me. I remember them as though I am there now, dealing with whatever was going down at the time. Is it states of awareness that makes those happenings feel like they are a part of you? My awareness now sometimes feels separate. There are times when I have to convince myself that I am Rhandi Neal and that I exist. These odd out of body and brain moments come unexpectedly and randomly. I question why this now, why this moment? I know many are so wrapped in their own daily routine that this seems confusing. It's confusing to me as well as I cannot seem to grasp why these moments of seemingly pure lucidity and yet unbounded perplexity about my relation to the entire world occur. I do not know where these feelings come from or why they occur when they do...I do know that I enjoy them immensely. I feel apart of everything and separate from all. It's lonely and liberating, confusing yet more conscious than any other state of reality I have conjured for myself. I remember these from years ago. I didn't think much of them then, but now they seem so much more relevant and pressing. Is that the only way one can retrieve understanding-through memory? Why must it take so damn long for me to get it? Why must I be haunted by memories that no longer resemble who I am now? Being once a part of me is not conducive to who I am now...is it? It happened, it's over...what's next?

Puppy Love

I am often riddled with so many thoughts. Most of which, inconsequential, destructive, obsolete and downright ridiculous. In the thirty-seven seconds it took for me to walk home with my beer and delightful salt and pepper wings, a great many thought passes through my pea brain. One of which being, I am such a dude. I am nearly positive that at one time or maybe several, I was a penis wielding something something. My energy at the moment is not altogether precisely feminine. I met a dog in the liquor store whilst purchasing my libations who immediately smelt my bag of chicken and then proceeded to my crotch for a quick judgement. I believe dogs are brilliant in so many ways. Why as human beings have we made the process of getting to know one another and falling in love so tangled...so convoluted? Dogs can decipher every bit of information from our crotches and pass judgement from there. No confusion, no mistrust, nothing. A simple crotch sniff tells a person all the business about another that one needs to know. The problem being, I start sniffing around a dudes crotch and unfavorable results would immediately follow for me. I have no trust. I long for honesty but I don't believe I'd know it if it, well...sniffed my crotch. I once trusted a man. He was the one for me, I know it. He was beautiful and intelligent, hilarious and filled my heart with near unmentionable joy. I loved him with every inch of my being and dreamed of our life together constantly. As I dreamed and obsessed, he moved away from me and my dreams became only that, never to be requited. I broke my own heart on that one I believe. I think about him often and rather still fondly and with great regret that words cannot truly ever express. Where was I going with this? Ah, yes...trust. I think I no longer trust my own judgement because of this man-child and therefore, trust no one else. I broke myself for one person who never realized how necessary he was for my sanity. I pose this question to the world...Are those feelings lost forever? When growing up commences, is it possible to retain that early hope, openness, and innocent longing? Can one ever go back to a time when holding hands through an entire night was enough to sustain ones heart? I suppose that's more than one question posed...well I'm insatiable dammit!

I'm in a New York State of Mind

It's kind of gassy and forlorn...that may be in part due to the bottle of Dr. ZenZen I have recently consumed (thank you Kari). I think bout boys all the time...I mean ALL of the time. Is that sad? Shouldn't I be pondering dramatic type things or creatively inspired things...alas...I pontificate on boys. They are predictable, similar, small-minded, and disappointing. However...I find myself often quite distracted by their meager existence. WHY! That is not a question in need of an answer. I am exhausted....and slightly drunk. I want to light up a room. I want to be the only person some "dude" worth speaking to will find himself gawking at for stretches of time. I want to be endured. I want to be loved, caressed, desired. Will someone at some point not regret missing out on "life" for me? I say that in quotations because what is this really? No one has any sort of answer worth listening to and if they claim they do, shoot them in the skull repeatedly cuz they don't deserve to live. I want to be someones everything. As much as I bitch about the opposite sex...I want love, nay...need love. We all do, I'm just so pissed and bitter bout it all that it clouds my judgement and ultimate desire. Yes, I may have chosen poorly in the past...that doesn't give any of these assholes the excuse to treat me as they have. I am not your typical beauty. I do believe however that I have something of value to offer. The world...men...others...ether...yes I did mean that word...sans the "I". So, my "New York" state of mind consists of drunken ramblings on New Years Eve coupled with sappy movie rentals(which cost far too much I might add) and hair pulling, tear welling bullshit sad sap nonsense expressed on my computer-tron. I want to laugh and cry...but I want it to be my choice...not because some asshole I've chosen has dictated thus. Time for bed...happy fuckin new year...as if I buy into that bullshit. One more thing...you people should be making a resolution every goddamn day to be a better person...once a year is not e fucking nough.