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!