October 8th, 2021 9:52am pdt

If you are visiting for the first time, go to the beginning.


 read ( words)

"White pants at Macy's.

More jabs lead to more motivation. We are on the cusp again, and after many examples of the same situation. The cusp has been in our sights too much lately, yet we are strapped down. Spit. Spite. Writ. Write. Normalcy did not arrive even though we were on the cusp of that one years ago. The books and glasses. The sofa. We were right there... The edge of the beginning. Right fucking there. We took a sharp left, though. The sidewalk that night. Crisp air and clear sky, just like right now. We were making a plea and on the other end was sense. All of it. Still we pushed and then the shutdown. Soon after? We pushed hard enough to change everything. That was just after the first fire and a walk across the roof. Now we are here. And we are seeing that first fire as the last fire. Now we know. We will not reach again. Reaching equals guns. The fire must not be an effect, but instead a catalyst.

This morning feels like last night all over again. Pretty fucking angry, pretty fucking sick of people, and pretty fucking uncomfortable. The kitchen was full of smoke and I think the impact upon my throat continues this morning. Not good. I am already on the edge of becoming silent. I don't need any other pushes to send me off the cliff again. Last time ended bad for everyone involved.

Just... Wow. One more on the pile. No smile. All the while? Denial. Fuck you, too. If you prefer a non-contact situation, fuck yourself. I don't care. This has come further than I had ever thought. I go in the direction which has been directed, push in the correct ways to avoid a correction, yet still I am reduced to little more than an appliance. Guess what? Eh... Don't guess. Just keep fucking yourself. I need to eliminate people from my ever-narrowing field of vision. Fire?


I am having trouble collating what comes at me sometimes. The words and then the reaction and then the fucking mood swing. Not. My. Fault. Yes, I do need a sense of control, but that is due to many situations in my past stabbing me and leaving my body on the sidewalk of life after people have used me up. Completely. And now the current period has to include similar behavior? Questions and comments about my swinging from one side of the universe to the other in a matter of seconds? This will not end well. I have the guns and the ammunition, so back the fuck off and don't ask anything deeper than how I feel about the weather outside. Further? That will be very bad or simply bring silence. Either is fine and dependent upon what took place five minutes prior to the words. That means one person can piss me off and the next person gets a blast of very unkind shit regardless of their own intentions. Again... I no longer have the willingness to care. Too tired from fucking constantly defending myself and dodging whatever pathetic daggers attempt to take me down. Shot away.

Back to the other entry for a while.

And now back to this crap. We are in the middle of... Something. Daphne is both disgusting and enticing at the same time.

The hits just keep on coming. One after another after another. We can do nothing about it except suck it all up and then react inward. We cannot lash right now. Silence is key, and quite powerful. And there is another. For fuck's sake. Well, we did choose this today, so we can either live with it or switch the media. The funny part is that we are on one side and they are on the other, yet nothing is the same. No equality there. We sit here and spin everything yet have not clue one as to what is going on over there. Anger ensues. Silence. Pushing it away and watching it return. No relief, not even the quiet. One day bleeds into the next and nothing changes because we are not in control any longer. The media, climate, lighting... They are controlled. People? Impossible. We will not return to the dream of last year. Such ideas only inflame the situation and force more anger.

Jabs. Motivation. Cusp. Scrapeage.

Over there again, we suppose. This is going nowhere.


The most beautiful girl in the world was in the market. We SAW her again, and after eighteen months or more. Her mask helped send focus to her huge, dark eyes and that was a stab in the brain. The ride home was full of both her and birds of prey. Anger continues unimpeded, however, despite the vast beauty standing there looking like the beginning and end of the universe at the same time. She has always been frightened of us, though. We can barely say hello and wave without a hesitant expression. No anger there because we made that happen. Likely a glance or too much in the eyes one time and that event was the end of everything. We would prefer she was clad in lingerie and wrapped in a seamstress' tape, but unfortunately the ship sailed a couple of years back. Now we feel like shit over the whole fucking thing. Whatever. The most beautiful girl in the world does not eat our candy or drink our brandy, but her title stands without a challenge.

This is a bad time. Everything can stop us.

Friday morning and the wind is howling. Ideal for being near the holiday. Fuck, not that word again. From 'we' to 'I' and around the circle of moods. No dreams. We will have some time today. Thinking, planning, whatever, and hours. Yesterday we completed the canopy. The light now glows as intended. Cabinet doors are next. And then another light. We need to secure some materials for the work. Routine. Scrape, as usual. Pissy, cunty, not friendly. The end of the page the end of the page the end of the page. Coffee and vampires. More pissy. Living, breathing representations of the supernatural and imaginative people. We used to have limitless options. Now we are narrowed by our own limitations. Funny not funny.

Back to the singular.

I am not in the mood for anyone's shit today. The morning began in a hole filled with need and must bow to my wishes now or I will shut the fuck down. I've pretty much had it with being in this situation each day and must do my best to find those little alleyways of enjoyment when and where available. They are definitely shrinking these days. Yesterday, for example. I finished the routine but could not get certain ideas out of my fucking head, and that precarious position led me to sit and become a pile of nothing for a little while. After? I jumped off the sofa and worked in the kitchen for a little while. I cooked some chicken and then cleaned everything to be ready for dinner. All the while that raven-haired beauty from the market kept my vision truncated. Once finished in the kitchen, I decided the time was not going to fly away, so out to the new office with the intention of accomplishing something. Well, soon after I ran out there, the canopy was finished (as mentioned in the sister essay) and lit up as it should. Now the table has a nice, mellow background light for those evenings with all of the color on. I moved some shit around and then returned to the house for a break. Overall I feel good about stepping over a line normally bent upon ruining my weekdays, yet behind everything is that girl and the leading thinking from her wondrous eyes to everything else...

I saw her there, black pants as required by the market, mask as required by pretty much everything, and her nice, neat ponytail of black hair shining in the lights. And then the eyes. I felt so much for that face in recent years and then all but forgot due to the world flipping the fuck out, but yesterday it all flooded back into me in a cold second. Seeing her again forced me to think of how many times the obsession flared badly in that store, from a quick visit after work and before relaxing at the bar to those Saturdays spent building a menu while perusing the aisles. There was always something. I wrote about a few, I believe, and I'm talking four years ago. So, the girl brought on the obsession and my lack of control over thoughts. That led to so many occasions of falling flat on my face after seeing something I fucking KNEW would never be right in front of me for study. And then the idea of study brought me to that fateful fucking night in which the obsession stood right there looking back at me with eyes shouting, 'anything, my dear'. And so and so and so.

Then the overwhelming desire and realization that it drove me out of my mind as I attempted to deny everything I felt for years. The river is large enough for everyone.

The desire led to the next step which is whatever I am. Spewing in every direction from the 'whatever' in the previous sentence are all those little nagging pieces of shit. That's right... Those personality aspects I actually KNOW are inside me due to forty-plus years of worry and then parts falling away because of what I wanted to be as opposed to what I turned into. Comparisons, concerns, shitty fucking situations from which I ran away not knowing what to do. And then the intelligence became turned up like the volume on a Van Halen PA wall during an outdoor concert: I was so desperate to avoid some parts of daily life that I used my brainpower to out-think everyone else and put myself in a position of power, so to speak. I used my craftiness to remain safe and away from disharmony. Well, that was good at the time but now -- decades later -- has me rolled up like a fucking hot dog in a croissant. Safe, but oh so limited. Questioning everything. Fearing everything. Fake as fuck. As I recently laid out in one of those entries which all now seem to run together, the only sphere of control that matters most is that no one knows me or ever will. Is it that important? I don't know, but it's something I have my arms around, unlike the rest of life. Just... Fuck everyone.

YOU fucking did this. Gun/fire. Think about it if your measly brain can rise to the occasion.


Set everything ablaze. Remember 'set it on hell'? That, too. Burn it to the ground and then roll around after some rain so you are covered in the decay you fashioned. Do it.

Alone and still angry. Am I tired of being angry? Not at all. This feeling keeps people at arm's length and my head constantly angling for something new, the scrape notwithstanding. Scrapes are situations I simply have to live with for the remainder of time. Nothing I can do other than a rash judgment and harsh change. Not good ideas right now. Part of the anger stems from no options. I do not deal well with problems without solutions. Unchangeable, as I have recently tried to describe. There are three where there were four. One has been partially changed beyond my control, yet the shitty mood which began early this year remains. I don't fucking care, anyway. People can go and get stuffed if they don't like my shit attitude. The keyboard always listens. I need precisely NO ONE. Just angry.

I have the house to myself and very few plans. The clouds and wind outside can preclude the garage advancement, too. I don't like working out there with the doors closed. The house may be my destination of choice today. Routine, whatever, some lunch, and then whatever. I may have to go to the little market later for some salad staples. Avoiding the other market up the highway is necessary right now because I really do not need to see that fucking girl today. My head is already wrapped around her pants, damn it. Like the race girl, but without that magic floating along and carrying me to the stars (and through a cloud of confusion). I'll go to the smaller store closer to home and probably see that other fucking vision with the midriff always on display. Either will be a problem, really, because I am a fucking head case. The girl from yesterday with the big eyes moves me differently, whereas the one up the boulevard here is more like a dish of ice cream. Eh... Never mind. I am having so much trouble with beauty lately that I am surprised to be accomplishing anything at all. Shit.

Still angry. Nothing can be done. This is a bad time. I'll have to press the issue.

The sun is shining and the fall feeling returned just now. Specifics in my head, both from the past and those dreams at night which had me at sixes and sevens on too many occasions to list. I remember some of the details but no faces. The specifics do not leave, ever. I dream of them often, just as this morning while considering where I am and all that is missing. I can't have this for much longer or the anger will drive me to destroy any and all relationships. Details, always. Very fucking specific. The years have taken their toll and shown me that what I experienced in the past was ripped away for good reason, yet still I want some of it back now. Specifics, angles, disparity of lines and moods. The feelings become a problem and forced me to reveal very personal thoughts last year. None of it accomplished shit, really, and I kept going and going no matter how far the fall. Hmm... Fall. White pants at the Macy's customer service counter. And then white pants in Tahoe. They matched the snow. And then looking out the window as my head blew wide fucking open like the throttle on an open-road race car. What? Race what? Race girl? The white pants we before her... Long before.

Nothing is going to work anymore. I made too many mistakes -- yes -- but the lion's share of circumstances beyond my control have taken my insides in hand and twisted them until unrecognizable. The resulting mindset is not good by any stretch of the fucking word. No control, no avenues, only depression and disappointment. Zephyrs? Alien to me now.

Burn it all. Guns blazing. I think I hate everyone and everything now. Why not? Is there going to be some fucking miraculous change to help me survive? Nope. The knives were here but they calmed. Maybe they should return. I backed off yet again and the problems increased in both scope and depth. Well, fuck you too.

Today... Again. Routine. Booze? Probably. I like that mid-morning kitchen work cocktail, regardless of it possibly causing me to lose ambition. I don't fucking care anymore. The shit will get done as always. Relegated like a machine. Used up. Tired and it doesn't fucking matter. Tired of everything. I'll rise a bit and then end up right back here with a head full of hellish thoughts. Do you care? You should not. Leave it. There is no helping me. All I have left is the only thing I can embrace anymore which will not either shame me or bullshit me, and that is anger.

Gunfire. Guns, with fire. Flamethrowers? I don't know. Something, though. Something fucking destructive. I have no strength or power any longer, so anything that can bring me some of either one is a good path. I need something, damn it. The dreams keep coming, the memories keep flowing, and I keep falling. Au jus, again.


Look at Pauline, a half-inch shy of six feet. The height fetish, again, yet she is a runway model and there is a minimum height to walk the fucking thing. You know, but I don't. How do I feel? Not sure, but her face is super interesting, as are those long arms. I can't know how I feel because I have the emotional intelligence of a fucking wiffle ball. Look it up. And look at Pauline. The images of her mid-step are amazing, as they should be. People will buy clothes due to the way she and many others walk that most restricting of careers. Beautiful, but again... Doesn't matter.

I actually have to be very careful how I word some of this because these days there are keywords which can be scanned by software machinery and will red-flag people into believing I am nuts and about to do something very bad out there in the real world. Well, don't worry. All I have is a keyboard and my only intention is to type words until I'm in the fucking ground. What the fuck else is there? I mean, the last thing I would do is affect another human being in any way other than either speaking or this type of shit. All I have. Never me. I'll never be that other thing. I lost it, or maybe never had it in the first place. Different roads, different turns, different fucking results. Nearly twenty years ago I built the beginning of this site with the intention of sharing family pictures and planning gatherings in a way the whole family could access from anywhere. Look at it now, fuckers. Look what you did. Think I'm angry?

I have lost my fucking life at the hands of very few. I'll show you anger. Right before me is that forest of dreams and loss. Very soon, people. Very fucking soon.

And today for the umpteenth time.

Finishing the canopy yesterday was a big step. I wasn't certain how to proceed at first, but time helped and I began to see the results before grabbing one power tool. Now it looks nice. I am not a fucking trained woodworker, so it's rough but functional. Now I can focus upon the doors over the laundry. Maybe. This is fucking stupid. You should be gazing at Pauline and not these words. No value here. Not in the future, either. This is a bad time. Guns. Figurative guns, damn it. I'm not that type of person. The guns are on my fingers and the words are the bullets. Live with it.

Carpentry? I guess. I have other things to do but the woodwork provides a sense of accomplishment all its own. A positive. Hmm. Not a big one, but whatevah. I still feel disdain for those I know and all those I do not. Figure that one out, shitheels. I am angry with YOU. The woodwork will keep me from typing for a while. Maybe some laundry, too. The show will follow. As I am flipping back and forth between vampires and gangsters lately, God knows what my brain will resemble by close of business. Cocktail hour. What? Yes, I know... Cocktail hour is as soon as this measly cup of coffee is gone. Go ahead and laugh. Never me. All I have. This is a bad time and the alcohol does not speak like a person. It listens.

This is about as pleasant as I am going to be. I held much back, and for quite a long time, afterward (lately) deciding that what I say here is not going to change anything and doesn't fucking matter in the least. Readers will read and think whatever they think. Once published -- and knowing I will not pull the site out of sheer spite -- I have no control over what people see and subsequently believe. I don't fucking care. They matter about as much as the flies out there in the yard. Don't care. Fuck off, please.

I think perhaps some of the questions helped to drive the gunfire. I hate questions, although my favorite word in existence is 'no', proper context included. I just fucking hate questions these days and would prefer they be avoided no matter what kind of shit soup I may be stirring. Again, there is no control present so I need to be prepared for questions coming at me. Anyone wishing to know what goes on in my head can either read this crap or sit there and wonder because I don't give half a blue fuck either way. Sick of it, and them. You. Write that down and have it printed to hang before your eyes so you don't forget and then ask a fucking question. No more fucking questions.

This is a bad time.


Alcohol is a depressant and I am depressed. Go ahead and tell me the behavior is counterproductive. Go for it. The bottom line is I'd rather be depressed and relaxed than depressed and uptight. I'm angry enough already. Can't have those remaining parts of life I still enjoy taken away. Too smart for that textbook shit. Just read if you wish and then shut the fuck up. Or, just shut the fuck up. Well, shut the fuck up anyway. I don't want or need to hear it.

This is a bad time and the trees are right there. I said 'losing it'. Well, I am also gaining. What am I gaining? Positional prominence, or a place where I can free myself of some of people's bullshit. I cannot be too specific, however, or this will all go to hell and I'll be questioned for the rest of my days. Can't have that crap. Not now. I have to gain something at some point or there will no longer be reason to do anything in life. There is very little now, but still enjoyment. Sometimes. Look at Pauline again. My words may not be worth the effort.

Routine in a few minutes. Kitchen drink. After? I don't know yet. Maybe the garage. Some cleaning. Laundry. I can chop more of the hedge out front. Half gone now, like my mind. The dark strikes have taken their toll, some being nothing more than visions and others being those fucking questions and comments. Leave me the fuck alone. That is the only way I can operate at present. Down we go, darker and quieter, into that place of which I have dreamed since the girl at the car wash. Back then I told my nephew that the home phone had gone away in favor of the mobile phones due to the ability to attach the gate control to any local number rather than relying upon a land line. He was not surprised. We shared an interest in the forest. I then informed him that if he ever learned that I cut off the cable television, my next step was into the darkness. He agreed because he was a 'chip off the old uncle'. Similar thinking, that stuff. Well, the cable television is gone. Do you know what that means? Nothing good, nothing friendly, and the beginning of the harshest, most hateful stance in existence. Yep...

Congratulations, motherfuckers. You have succeeded.

At long last, we are in the forest."