guts

I saw today that a former friend of mine got a new job. He got out.

It would be nice to follow in those footsteps. I got out the first time by being laid off. The second time by being fired.

Here’s hoping the third time, is a fucking shitastic awesomefest.

And that I get to make the choice.

Of course, I’m the one who keeps diving back in.

Gluttony and all. It’s my deadly sin.

I stopped writing months ago. Even though I get paid to write now. I feel like, rather, I know that I don’t write anymore. I got inspired for about 15 minutes today. At the desk. I threw out some e-mails and got some responses and then flat-lined.

It had more to do with a feeling than a fact, but I still have to face it. Head on. You know, for the penis.

I wonder too much about the past. I don’t wonder about the future. I don’t care about the future. At least that’s what I tell myself. I lie a lot. Not to other people.

Scorching forcing eating bumbling stifling working forking fasting fucking.

One time the girl looked at me and I didn’t look away. She laughed seconds later. I’ll never know if she was laughing at me or not. Because I didn’t have the guts to ask. I did have the guts to not look away, like usual, but I didn’t ask. She wanted to tell me. I didn’t have the guts to ask.

My mind still wanders over to her side of the bed. Every day. I can’t stop it from happening. No matter what. I’m happy now. Happier than I was before. Before what? I don’t know. Can I say I’m happier now, more content, more whatever than I was then? No. But I can’t say I’m not either.

It’s weird. I don’t know what’s right or wrong. What happened and what I want to have happened. It’s all a blur. I guess it helps one cope, the memory’s ability to play tricks on you. If we all remembered things exactly as they happened, every fucking second, we’d go crazy. We’d go mad. And I want that. I want to be mad, because of it. Not be mad because you think you are.

My head explodes with pain now. The teeth are rotten. The sinuses are infected. My heart probably is waiting to explode or just stop or whatever happens when they don’t have the strength to go on. Like a person, I guess. Sometimes they just quit. No warning. No reason given. It just happens.

Bye bye.

I stopped drinking soda for over 5 years once.

I dated the same girl for over 5 years once.

I drink soda now.

I’ve dated six girls since.

Why does that matter? Why do I type it? Fuck you. Fuck you in the ear. Or maybe a bloody eye socket after the eye was ripped out by feral cats. Sure, yeah, that sounds like fun. To watch. Maybe to make happen.

Probably not though.

You see? You see?

No. You never do.

Romanticizing the past like it’s some great place. Like a 78-year old who wants the 1950s back. Why? Because he's a racist shitbag. That’s why.

I don’t hate anyone. There are plenty of people, individuals I can’t stand. But I don’t hate. It’s a waste of time. It really is. Try not hating for a moment.

Of course, that’s a lie. Many times I’ve hated myself. Most would say I still do. I’m not sure anymore. I guess my behavior kind of says I hate myself.

Fucked up.

Do it. Smell it. Eat it. Fuck it. Lick it. Write it down. Drive the extra mile. Take the wrong turn on purpose so you can talk for another five minutes.

Why? Because you’ll be dead one day.

Either of old age at 91 or run over by a semi while getting a box of diapers for your newborn baby.

Which is more likely? Depends on the level of hatred. The size of the dick. The blue of the eyes.

I bought a new car two and half years ago. It’s going to pass 80,000 miles in a day or so.

Even the mechanics at the dealer go “Damn, dude. You drive a lot.”

No shit.

And I’m tired of doing it.

Not because of the deed itself, but the destination.

Then change it, asshole.

I’m working on it, I’ll say.

You’re always working on it.

It’s part of my charm.

And your destiny.

mulch pit, chaper 3

It took me a little while to realize just what had happened.

There I was staring at myself. My lifeless self. It didn’t dawn on me that I was dead. Until someone came into the room and placed my body in a bag.

The sound of the zipper whirring its way up startled me. Much like a clap of thunder does when you aren’t expecting it.

It was a bit surreal, of course, seeing this. They started wheeling my corpse away. And as I watched it, the body didn’t get further away. Instead, it stayed right below me. Another thing I had to get used to – my spirit, I guess that’s what you’d call it, traveled with the body.

I looked over my shoulder and saw him. I’d made a very conscious effort over the years to make sure that the person who would escort me into the “afterlife” was one of two people. One was Sir Richard Attenborough. The other was Michael Caine.

Lucky for me, it was the Richard Bartlett version of him, too, which made me happy. I’d worried many times that he may show up as Kris Kringle. I was curious, however, if the devil was actually Michael Caine.

So, I asked Sir Richard : “So, is Michael Caine …”

“The devil?” he laughed. “Of course he his.”

We both continued laughing for quite a bit. I didn’t even notice that we were now in a hearse.

I sat down next to the coffin and wondered where exactly they were taking me.

“To the funeral home,” Sir Richard explained without me having to ask.

“Yes, I know what you are thinking. And, if you play your cards right, you’ll be able to do the same.”

“Play my cards right?”

“Yes, you don’t think God just hands out great abilities and great jobs do you?”

“Well, I kind of thought I’d sit around, drink beer and listen to Lucero records. It is heaven, right?”

“That’s what you did before you got here.”

“Well, damn. I was already in heaven?”

We both laughed again. I liked that there was lots to laugh about in death. If I’d been in my shitty house, I probably would have scribbled that one down.

“Are there…”

“Pencils here? Of course there are.” Sir Richard finishing my thoughts again.

“You know what, Richard?” I said, flinching a bit at not calling him sir.

“What?” he replied.

“You mean you don’t know what I’m going to ask?”

“Of course I do, but I figured you’d rather ask it.”

“Yes. Well. How did I die?”

“You don’t remember it?”

“Does anyone?”

“Why, yes. Most people only talk about how it happened for days. Weeks. And sometimes years. But up here, that seems like a millisecond.”

“So?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“What? Why?”

“Because if you don’t know, you’re not supposed to be dead.”

All of the sudden I felt like I was in that damn Warren Beatty movie “Heaven Can Wait”. However, I didn’t have Charles Grodin fucking my wife. And I certainly didn’t want to be Vince Ferragamo.

“I rather liked that movie,” Sir Richard said, breaking my train of thought.

“So, Richard,” I hesitated to ask. “Does this mean I’m going back.”

“Most likely, yes.”

“But time has moved on. My corpse is on the way to the funeral home.”

“Oh, we can fix that.”

I started to think hard now. About the last thoughts I could remember before I was watching my dead body from above.

I was in a bar, no, I was in the bar. The Mulch Pit. Drinking with Lucy? Listening to Lucero? Yes and yes.

There was that old man who didn’t know how to tip. And the Braves were being beat by my Pirates on the television. I think that A.J. Burnett was even pitching a shutout.

“You really can’t remember. That’s astonishing.”

“Why so astonishing?” I asked, my curiosity seriously piqued now.

“Oh, boy.”

“Oh, boy?”

“Oh my.”

“Oh my?”

I was beginning to think I was being given the runaround. So, I kept trying to remember. I looked down at my hands, they were turning blue.

“Why is this happening?”

“Because you are remembering how you died, but you’re not dead. That’s the complication from that.”

“Turning blue?”

“Yes. We call it Smurfing. It usually only happens to little kids, so they like it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m 44 years old. Not exactly excited by that.”

That’s when it started flooding back.

The redhead. The reason for my depression. My outlook on things. My mania. My inspiration. She was there.

“Did she?”

“What? Try to kill you? Of course not.”

I remember sitting down. Forcing conversation. Then the door opened. And there he was. Gun in hand.

“My old boss?”

“No. No. No. Keep looking.”

I saw McPhillop. He was pushed aside by another man I knew. Someone who knew the red head too.

“Randy, that’s why I’m here,” the redhead spoke just before the shots rang out.

Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam.

Some kind of semi-automatic hand gun it was. All the bullets missed. Except the last one. It hit my chest. I fell to the ground.

“You deserve this,” he said.

“Wha…wha…what? Why?” I sputtered out, along with blood.

“Stop, Randy. Don’t think about him,” the redhead said.

I looked into her eyes. There was that sparkle that was missing the last time I saw her over a decade ago. I hadn’t even thought to look for it before now.

“I love you,” I said.

“I know,” she replied.

And I blacked out right at that moment. Right as she said the exact same words she said to me the very last time we talked. In fact, those were the last two words she had said to me.

Now, sitting with Sir Richard I wonder if dead wouldn’t be better.

“You aren’t ready,” he said to me. “Now go back. Finish what needs to be finished.”