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Blood on the Cauliflower

alert   Mature content     No. 291    Published February 2nd, 2022 5:35pm pst       read ( words)     Past entries

"'And here we are five minutes after publishing that last bit of 'whatever'. As always, there was little sense, no cohesion, and a wavering topic. We are not going to understand this process anytime soon, although there has been a growing concern over the caring. That word is shrinking. Falling away. Drawn flat. Slung. Forced. Cambered. Castered? That may not be a word.

Motherfucked.'

This day is already appearing wide open. The inside of my head feels closed off, though. Not happy. There are a couple of problems inside me which have not been outlined here. Both are flaring right now and the frustration over a lack of understanding or someone listening in hopes of help is ruffling my feathers in a very bad way. All the way back to ninety-four. I recall feeling a similar frustration when my work was transferred from the assembly line (where I was uncomfortable a good portion of the time) to the process next to the tank yard. My brain manufactured situations which have been better left out of any written or oral conversations for nearly three decades. Not a soul in this world has a clue as to what went through my head during that work period. Sitting here right at this moment I am feeling the same desire, and believe me it has nothing to do with a woman's appearance or anything similar. Very bad, this pull. I hope it fades, and soon. Otherwise this is the last writing I'll ever be able to perform. The day ahead is going to be all mine, so any negative emotions may be squashed in a little while. I have lots to do.

See that psychopath below this section? He killed the role, literally. Amazing performance. His appearance in that scene and the expression on his face as he spoke is related to the situation all those years ago. Iwan Rheon was merely nine years old when I became pissed off at society. Who knew he would turn into such an amazing performer? The character is reprehensible, yet the actor is fantastic. The image is captured from a work of fiction. I can only wish I could find such power.

Jamie parked her car four times just now. Oh. My. Fucking. God... That woman grows more beautiful each time the series runs its course. The film/video or compressed fucking data stream is static, unchangeable, yet every time that last second rolls around and she is running across the street, her face lifts my heart from the depths of despair to the highs of the universe. So in love with her that I cannot even begin to understand.

Sometimes I wish I could explain a few things and clear the mystery and air. I really do. Part of the problem is that the subject matter is extremely important to me and represents my own little meaning of life, so if I express even the tiniest segment of my big picture and the listener does not take my words seriously, that will be both the end of them and myself. I have been shoved aside and lied to enough to know that there can be no real trust whatsoever (not to mention being insulted more than EVER in my fucking life), yet no one seems to understand that shit. Fucking figure it out already, dumb fucks. The simple truth that I must remain in my own little world means that the value of other human beings in my eyes is being reduced very quickly. Everyone. Yes, even that woman down the hall. EVERYONE. Remember... One is fine. Two is fine. One will eventually become nothing more. Two will grow into war. Guaranteed, assholes. Fucking guaranteed. Hmm... Two wars? Never mind.

Yesterday was a good example of my head calculating ways of protecting myself while near those people. The game was very important to me, meaning the energy involved in the atmosphere was equally dire. I could not have watched alone and the bar turns into a powderkeg during the playoffs. All the while? One woman near the front early in afternoon with a shape I still see, another toward the back of the bar during the actual game with some of the darkest features I've ever seen, the fucking adorable face serving drinks and looking at me as if I am a nice person, and then finally the fourth woman near the entrance who danced in celebration of the victory with her long, slender legs and amazing, silky black hair. She resembled the frightening woman I've mentioned on several occasions. Just the ideal combination of height, weight and colors. Now, I've spoken of whatever crossed my vision for years, yet this visit to the bar held another truth inside my head as I went back and forth between the forms and the television. The truth that the entire crowd was made up of enemies... People about which I wrote many years before ever meeting them. My stance and position in the bar were the result of realizing I had mired myself within a sphere of threats. I backed off and let go of the need to see each play as it ran in real-time, strolled to the downstairs restroom and then out the back to the quiet alley. Minutes later I returned with a renewed sense of disdain for society. And there we go... Right back to ninety-four and the fucking cauliflower room where the ideas began to boil over and cause me to nearly leave work each morning due to being frightened of what I may do. That is all I can say. I do not wish the wrong people to begin drawing conclusions. Over to my left? A pair of thighs displaying that gorgeous, overpowering gap of dreams while surrounded by long, wavy hair. And on the right? Images of my hypersensitivity leading to a complete withdrawal from society. No more discussion of blame, though. I'm done with that.

I'll take responsibility for whatever the fuck I've done, but no more bullshit regarding cause. Sick of it. I fucking hate everyone, anyway. There is no longer a point to that type of thing.

This will be the first Sunday in weeks that I remain at home all day. It feels strange right now because I would normally be leaving in less than ten minutes and then returning eight-plus hours later. Today may round out to be one of the most comfortable in quite a while. I can relax and care for my business at a nicer pace and keep all my friends up there where they belong. I am a crazy person, but at least I still hold one aspect of life very close, and that is using this interface to explore rather than affecting another person. Everyone sees me in a certain light and the more I hide myself away the less they shall know. Ideal. Lots of time to do as I please now. Very good. Maybe I'll do some private writing and try to understand why I felt the way I did back in the mid-nineties. It was bad. The worst, really. Today might be good for jotting down some clear recollections for future reference. I have the time.

The shot below was just after the character was in bed and being physical with a woman. We learn later that same woman was the source of the blood splattered all over his torso. Psychopath. The word used to be sociopath but has changed in the realm of psychology for some reason. Sociopath is a word I understand. I really do.

0931. Almost time for me to do something different. She will be out of here in the next hour or more, leaving me to those devices which allow me to remain as balanced as possible these days. In ninety-four? Oh fuck, I was anything but. Help me.

1247 and some of my stuff is finished. I'm not accustomed to being home all day on a Sunday. Very nice. I have the time to really think about what to accomplish rather than spending most of the day out and then throwing everything into place. The sun is shining and I have lunch being delivered shortly thanks to a great coupon. Food delivery is not cheap anymore. Fourth show in the background for now. I'm trying to avoid seeing that woman on the screen today. That series reset to the beginning earlier, so the really lovie dovie scenes are far away, thank the maker. Goo, goo, ga, ga to the fucking nth degree.

0642 on Monday morning. Just a little while and I will be on the schedule from weeks ago. Gangsters and coffee. Yesterday turned out very productive. The most I've done since early last year, in fact. Awakening in the morning after working on things the day before helps to keep the bad thoughts at bay. For a while, at least. Back to ninety-four again and the cauliflower line... Imagery in my head that I needed to see while at work. Right now due to the peace and quiet, everything like that has been suppressed nearly as much as desire. It will return, though, and with force. I'll see the pictures again. Blood everywhere. This is the first morning with the business of getting her out the door since the sixth of the month. Very interesting. I can already feel the draw of being alone in less than an hour. This is one of the situations which can keep the blood dreams shoved down.

Yesterday there was a touch of conversation which resulted in a huge weight on my shoulders. This one cannot be removed by anyone or anything and reduces my mood accordingly. Ah... There is the disruptive technology again. The idea of what happened to home media in the nineties and beyond just makes me angry. More bloody images all over the inside of my head, yet still not enough to overpower the issue from the conversation yesterday. A big problem that I can't discuss. No shit, right? Eh, almost time for the morning routine.

Finally all to myself at 0811 with my friends still up there and coffee. The routine awaits, as do any ideas for whatever else I can work with today. The little push in the garage yesterday helped to empty the blood thoughts and kept me focused upon larger projects I may be able to accomplish in the future. Gallons of blood. I may eventually want to see them. Anyway, the work will keep me balanced. Another diversion today will be my camera. While in the garage yesterday, I noticed a big, beautiful bird in the tree out front and dashed to grab the camera. We do not see many large birds in this area unless they are crows, which I would rather shoot with something other than a photographic device. Anyway, I returned with the camera but spooked the guy. He flew next door and sat so I could snap a few images. Better than nothing. The big upside is I've let the camera sit far too long. Yesterday's sighting prompted me to charge the batteries and have it at the ready for next time. Garbage trucks in the distance. Bless them.

Back to the big problem on my shoulders. Wait... Why is it on MY fucking shoulders when I did not cause the thing in the first place? Because my issues have become the center of attention with regard to such a subject. And no, I will not spell it out here. Fuck off. Not a chance. The point is I feel bad despite having been made a victim and then lacking the power to embrace the most important part of life which is second nature to many people I have known. This actually came up while I worked in the cauliflower room. Prior to that location when I was on the assembly line down the road, the nature of my coworkers' behavior was uncomfortable, and I often mused that they had been raised from a young age with a reckless disregard for certain subjects. Once in the smaller environment at the tank yard I had felt more relaxed, yet still partly preoccupied by the same topic that sits on my shoulders right now. The result is always simple anger and others don't seem to fucking get it. Hence the dire, dangerous thoughts going through my head as I wielded cutlery through masses of cauliflower each day. Boring? Not really. Much better than the assembly line because the other three workers in my crew were quiet nearly all of the time. There was almost nothing aside from the sound of machinery. And then breaks. And then lunch alone in my car (and believe me, you do not want to walk through a brine tank yard, ever). And then back to the small line in a huge building. Cauliflower and daydreaming. The problem weighing me down right now was affecting me in a negative way back in ninety-four. Between then and now? Hit or miss.

Monday morning is nice. Quiet in the house and outside. I have work for Wednesday and Thursday, too. That means a break in the routine and some money in my pocket. That is the job for which we have been waiting since late October. Funny. They ran into problems over there so we were delayed. Anyway, two days out of the house means I will really appreciate having Friday to myself, maybe as much as I appreciate it right now. I still have the daily work ahead but it is minimal. Due to the manner in which I have been thinking these last two days, I'll probably end up streamlining and fortifying a bit, just like in the Midwest during the blood months.



01

Absolutely, menacingly awesome. They took the imagery right out of my head


I had an image of Georgia in a bikini with her own hands cupping her very large breasts, but nixed it due to still feeling anger. None of the dire aspects of my mood lately are being lessened at all.

I cannot reveal what provided motivation for such thinking while working for that company in the Midwest. Suffice to say, my dissatisfaction with society leading up to the move out there came to a head due to certain parts of living along with some people. The main issue now is that the thinking has returned. Images. Motion. Blood. There may be a fictional story in this, as well. I don't know yet. I'll be visiting the topic on and off throughout the next several entries, maybe. This is a bad time. A bleeding time.

Now 1153 and the routine is finished. I've also taken care of a few morsels of work in and around everything else. The camera is now set up just in case something comes along. At the ready. Gangsters. Lunch heating.

Tuesday. 0633. Nothing.

1238. The morning flew by. I had to head out and solve a problem before we took off to gather material for the work tomorrow. I've been home since roughly 1100 and have the routine almost finished. Laundry, too. I've been asked to spend time at the bar this afternoon but I don't really feel like it. Maybe the next hour or so will help. Two weights on my head right now. One is full of blood. Help me.

Cauliflower. Knives. Belts running along without pause. This entry is going nowhere.

I saw the blood again at the big home improvement store this morning. Right there. The incident was nothing like what took place in the Midwest, though. Not even close. My feelings toward people and the world in general are different now. 1539. I do not normally sit with this machine so late in the afternoon. That should project a decent idea of my day. Ok to bad; bad to worse. Blood... An ocean's worth. At this moment I am turning from patient and thoughtful to impatient and angry. Again. This happens all the fucking time, but today has been different because my give-a-shit mechanism is at an all-time low. The other needle is in the red, bending. I've not considered society quite this way since the cauliflower conveyor belt. The actions I pictured must remain hidden from this text, however, lest something bad begins to head in my direction, and such an idea is the very definition of unacceptable. My daily routine and lifestyle simply cannot be altered right now. I would not make it through anything so different. Some know, others do not. And those who know are dead. Last year the catalyst was fear. Now the motivation is something entirely different. I am forming a plan.

There were things I saw which cemented themselves inside and never left. Still there. Images, rolling film, and ideas. I saw them and reacted accordingly. By the close of ninety-four, my head was all the way into a vastly different mindset than ever before. I stood at the assembly line day after day -- mostly staring at a girl on the opposite side named Angela (her last name was Love, believe it or not) -- and doing my work hoping the hours would pass quickly. That place was tough, very noisy, and required employees to wear a lot of protective equipment, much of which was rather uncomfortable. The upside to the tedium was leaving at the end of each day. I felt free and comfortable upon sitting in my truck for the drive home. Mere weeks passed before I was moved to the cauliflower line and that is where I worked when the deviant nature of driven imagery took over. Rather than gazing at a beautiful brunette, I was daydreaming of scenarios and the possible ways they could have played out. None of them were good. There were only four or five of us on that line, unlike the larger facility where at least fifty were in a row along each side. Very different. Other than my mind manufacturing very disturbing imagery, the only downside was walking through the aforementioned tank yard. Oof. I do not recall the length of my employment before things slowed and a number of people were laid off. Maybe several weeks, if not less. By the time I took my last check and traveled home, the daydreaming had hit a peak.

The cauliflower was often covered in streaks of blood. Sitting here at this moment, I do not know how I made it back to the West after being in such a condition. Society and individuals forced a return to the old.

I need to find the 'give-a-fuck-o-meter' image again.

1650 and the light is waning. This evening I plan to do next to nothing other than cooking. The loveseat will be a part of my anatomy, the fourth show up there for comfort. Work tomorrow is not pressing on my shoulders because I've been there and know what must be accomplished. We will likely be working almost two days in total, meaning my Friday will be wonderful. Much like arriving home late this morning, the house and media became my saviors.

0712 on Saturday the twenty-ninth.

Oof, Friday was more work, just like the two days prior. I am worn the hell out now. Sitting this morning with my friends and coffee is the first such occasion in three days. That job took more time than it should have. Bad planning over there. In and around the work? You fucking name it. Pants, hair. You know. One such woman stood out as she strolled into the salon two doors down while I had lunch. Sometimes they cross my vision and I end up staring intently, other times not so much. Two days ago was a bad one. I'm trying to think of her as a lesson rather than a problem. After all this time I should be able to see such beauty and appreciate it as art without experiencing any compulsion or torment. Three days of work went fairly well. The surrounding neighborhood held more than its fair share of issues, though. One of them owns the building within which we have been working. Another oof.

Three days without sitting here exploring has left me rather swirling. So much transpired that I likely cannot get it to the screen accurately. I didn't even take any notes other than to jot down a potential title. One big plus about that much work is the blood receded for a time. I was not thinking about those problems quite as much as earlier in the week, but I will say that they never completely left. I still saw the red cauliflower all over the floor. Knives, too...

Never the pretty.
Never the beautiful.
Never the visions.
Only... Them.
Knives.
Help me.

Said Simple Simon to the pie man, "Give me your pies... Or I'll cave your head in."

I sat there and stared at her trying to figure out why I felt so compelled to do so. Slender, Asian, long hair, faded jeans. Tall for that ethnicity, too. She walked toward my position and then turned to enter the salon. The entire store front is glass, so even after she went inside I could still stare. She sat for a few minutes as I ate my sandwich. Eventually she had to don the smock, meaning her sweater came off and I could see a direct comparison between her waist and hips, a number which has been slamming me in the face for a very large number of years. All the way back to the girl at the car wash, if not earlier. Anyway, the woman in the salon eventually wrapped her lovely self in the black material and relocated to a chair. That was that. I need to fucking know the motivation. I need to know if my internal workings are being slowly altered from a standpoint of seeing and measuring to the very damaging need to slather her skin with my tongue. Both are bad, yet one is still an interest rather than deviant behavior. She was amazing and I wanted her, but I don't know if this is simply a passing thing or if I'm truly fucked for all time. I'm not going to comment on the OTHER ASIAN woman who was all over the building within which we worked. Damn, that one was adorable with the exaggerated facial features combined with Lima's fucking lips. Ugh. Basket case.

The visions lead to desire. Desire leads to frustration. Frustration leaves me feeling very alone. There is no choice, so eventually my brain narrows to focused anger. And then the cauliflower suffers. This morning is yet another example of one situation and feeling leading to the next. Something has to give or I will make a drastic change. It scares me, though. I don't understand why everything has to be this way. I did not ask for any of it. Nothing. Either I am the unwitting victim of a sick fucking joke or something out there is punishing me. Angry. Red. Bloody. The girl I described in the previous paragraph is not at fault. Just another dark goddess in a sea of shit. I am very unhealthy right now, mostly mentally. Still hinged, I suppose. Somewhat.

I can't keep doing this each morning. It will kill me. At least afterward I won't feel anything. I guess there is one positive.

Blood red. Thoughts back then were fucking twisted as hell and I knew from where they originated. Lots of situations played out and combined themselves with media to create some of the worst daydreams imaginable. But again, I cannot say it. Motherfucked, as always. Right in the fucking ear this time. Those months of working on that line had me altering myself to fit the new mindset. No one seemed alarmed at all. I did what I did in order to look the part just in case something happened. And you're not going to fucking understand it at all because I'm holding back just enough key terms to remain blurry. Live with it. Oy, there is that tall, dark and scary woman again. I've written here and there to mention how strong and forthright her character is at times. Also fucking exotic and gorgeous beyond words. But I would run away. Anyhow, upon leaving that company and returning here I felt such urges fading. They eventually left completely and became dormant until the bitchy commute period a few years later. And then the really bad mood in zero nine when I wrote some of the most cutting words ever. Still, and no matter how angry I became due to whatever was out there trying to cut or influence me, the dire and damaging dreams from the cauliflower line did not return. They did just six days ago and now I have a split-thinking stance which is not easy to understand. One moment there are knives and the next shows me legs. I just don't fucking get it. The clear fact is that I am not well by any stretch of the word. I still see the blood and I still see the lines.

I wanted to see that little thing drop her sweater and pose on all fours. Completely fucked in the head. Help me.

This day is going to be mellow and quiet. I can care for my usual stuff and plan ahead a bit toward the next few days in order to simplify everything and make room for more work in the coming weekdays. I can already see what will happen tomorrow. Probably one or two over there just to turn my head into a blender again. I'll dream and picture all manner of weird shit, clothes sliding off, whatever the fuck comes to mind. Breasts and lips, probably. Everything will go bad and I'll stand there completely drained of strength because I can't exchange glances or say a fucking word to another person for fear of my life. I already know. May as well just sit here and plan on being ruined again.

Help me, please.



02

Green and red


That woman is ferocious and scares the hell out of me from the fucking television. Nice, huh? Suffering.

Help me.

Say it. Go right the fuck ahead and say it. You know you want to, and you know the words. I am unbalanced, severely depressed, performing one huge mistake after another, and all that shit is fodder for criticism, so go for it... Say the fucking words. I hate everyone, anyway, so saying it will not change a fucking thing. But you want to. I know it. You might even like it. No knife in my hand right now. None. Oh, that would not be pointing where you think, either. Watch yourself and what you say, but fucking say it.

Whatever. I don't care. Nothing will change. Do what you want, flim-flam motherfuckers. I already know, anyway. I know too much.

0843 and my head is not on straight. I am flipping through Satan's Rolodex again, just like last week. The images fly by and hurt me on the inside, eventually affecting me on the outside. No getting around that one, fuckheads. No way. The fact is I see it and nothing more. Completely fucked. I hate this more than can be said right now. Hate. It. Help me. I don't want the blood all over the cauliflower. Maybe just the floor.

Sideways. I keep seeing that woman walk into the salon. Fucking sideways, my head. Her pants. Inside them. I hate this shit. Hair...

Help me, please. Doomed. Pissed off.

I will try to focus upon productive things now. My head being sideways has never completely shot me down before, so perhaps I can stay up and do something soon without becoming an entirely new type of asshole. There is much awaiting my attention after the last three days, both inside and within the garage. I'll have everything in order by close of business to free up tomorrow. If I skip the morning cocktail (thus far impossible to avoid), the energy can remain up and I can stay busy. Option 'B' is descending into the pants-dreaming and then falling down. Just a little while now and I will begin to care for the routine and some laundry. Dry cleaning, too. I feel good about the work since Wednesday and I believe the power to remain productive has come from the experience. There is John again. Never me. Just... Never fucking me. Anyway, today I have to streamline all the crap which began last weekend. Afterward I'll tackle something else, likely little things here and there rather than biting off too much. I can still see a pair of yoga pants facing directly away from me and outlined by contrasting lines of thread, thus creating an image of those fucking lines. Right there... Standing at the light. I am doing my best to plan the day, but her little rear end continues to pop up in my thinking and has been pushed (very hard) to the rear yet keeps returning. I see those lines and the manner in which she moved after the light changed to green. Amazing. I swear to Christ on the cross as I sit here on the sofa, the visions and dreaming are going to be the physical end of me. I will die because of desire and need. Weakness. Desperation. I will certainly die because I never learned to deal with such things combined with the fallout from shit I don't even want to talk about. How did those two circumstances combine themselves? Was this ordained? Something else? I see those cheeks gyrating and I am fucking pathetic. My fault... Not my fault... I don't fucking know anymore. Just look at this fucking paragraph. What a piece of shit.

"The Skyy has been flowing like a river. A few acquaintances, a few drinks. Some pleasant conversation and some odd glances. Couple twenty-two years of memories and regrets with [sic] a few choice hours of being alone. Mix well and throw in a dash of depression and the resulting cocktail becomes a weekend in hell."

I wrote those words during one of the most difficult times in memory. Perhaps that is when the real downhill began, just before I ran from the state for the second time. I don't know. One fact is the idea that no matter how horrible I felt back then, right now takes the fucking yoga-wrapped cake. It really does. Ooh-fa, this scene and shots make me very angry but there is nothing I can do about them or anything similar in the world. Anyway, I can't see any worse time in my life. Not even that shit at the end of ten or during eleven. The present has actually taken over. Right fucking now. Angry, sad, whatever. I don't know. But I do know one thing for sure. One tidbit which helps to fuel the cauliflower turning red and flying all over the room. One fact that helps to keep me grounded when I descend into deep desire and begin to cry. The one certainty...

They say it but they lie. And then I lie right straight fucking back. Understand? I don't care. I already know.

Saw it. Heard it. Fuck everyone. Let slip the blades, please. I don't have the strength anymore. Maybe never did.

'The fields of blood.' Coffee almost gone.

0922. Nothing. 1547. Routine finished, laundry and dry cleaning in process, lunch out of the way, head severely in need of help. I don't know what to do anymore. Going through the motions is exhausting. I am beginning to see my future as more of the same. Defeated. I wish a few past occasions had never taken place. The future may be disappearing due to the early life shit and those decisions I made in haste. At least when the bad happens I'll know why. 'Too' everything. I don't even want to fucking say it.

0637 on football Sunday. Wow... Yesterday turned into an exercise in patient sadness. Lots of laundry finished in preparation for the upcoming work week. I was not feeling very good for a portion of the day, too. Something about Friday, perhaps. I don't know, but the fact is getting around and caring for business was difficult considering such a down early morning yesterday. Change making changes; put yourself to the ground. Put me to the ground. Put my problems in the ground. Splatter the cauliflower until no white can be seen any longer. Put the knives to the test. Put the cauliflower to the ground. Put Angela to the ground and then let me... God damn I wanted to fuck that woman's brains right out of her pretty head. Shoot me. I don't fucking care anymore.

Sunday business has more time if I can raise myself. This morning could also be easier if my brain can avoid that damaging direction, although after yesterday I may not be pushed in a similar way. This is not a very nice realization after so many years. Not fucking nice at all. I knew something was changing a while ago but didn't put much thought into it. Now? I'm fairly certain I'll have to study on the subject and try to learn how to cope. As for this morning and the idea that my head can abuse some of the free time, well... Hopefully I can think about everything in life and maintain comfort. The business period today has been extended over last week. All I have to do is work here for a while and then care for the house. Once the sun is at that angle, I'll be through to the other side and concentrating elsewhere. Honestly? Had I known there would be this much trouble and heartache years ago, I'd be dead already. Most of my waking hours are not fucking worth it. Four hours, give or take, and I'm safe until tomorrow. I hate this. Well, I hate most everything these days.

'Without problems to test the limits of your abilities, you cannot expand them.' Hmm... I don't know if I can wholly agree with that one, sweetheart. And I do mean sweetheart, as in dollface, sugar, holy shit or something else. I don't know. The words she spoke conjure images of the shows, yet I still resist feeling the true weight of such a statement. I've been tested and the result of the first time I was really pushed by society was blood all over the place. The belts, cauliflower, whatever. That's where my brain went. Like in the morning when I can either sit here in physical comfort or tackle something which will later feel rewarding, most of the time I will procrastinate until the work becomes irritating and I am disappointed in myself. Then it's done. That is a problem within me. And the more time which rolls by, the worse I feel about EVERYTHING in existence. There are the little things which bring a smile or something else positive, yet they are so minimal now that they may as well not be real. I don't care anyway. All I'm doing is biding the time. The problems tested my limits -- and continue to do so on a daily basis -- and here I sit worse off than ever in my life. I heard her speak that line just the other day. Unfortunately, the meaning was lost on me because rather than absorbing and considering such wisdom I was dreaming of planting my lips to her vulva. Again, shoot me. I have nothing left.

The main show is up there right now, as usual. This alone time typically involves them. And as we are amidst the second season, Jamie is not yet appearing as the goddess of the world yet. I can relax. This season also means more John, though, and his mighty image shall bring my head to the vampires and all the problems inherent in watching that one, and then I'll roll around to all those jabs which both hurt and pissed me off, and then we make that last turn back to where I began. Another notch down, more disappointment and rancor, and then off from the station to do it all over again. I am a giant snowball of negative emotions soon to be covered in blood and cauliflower. Round and round we go; where we stop, everyone knows... A pool of blood and tears. I'm leaving this fucking series on, though. Nothing removes any of the issues, so a little entertainment can't be all bad.

The one side I know about does compare to the other side of which I have little knowledge, yet I cannot sit here and equate them. Labeled. Fuck you, anyway. I fucking hate you along with everyone else because I would not feel this way had it not been for THOSE FUCKING PEOPLE DRIVING NAILS INTO MY FUCKING HEAD. Clear? I don't care. I just don't fucking care anymore. The word 'vulva' up there is only the beginning.

0711.

On the return from the water heater job the other day, I saw a transfer trailer (look it up, dipshits) whose exposed frame beam underneath displayed the spray-painted words 'robot sex'. Heh. Did I do that? Reminds me of going on and on about Jaime the magical machine last year. Or the year before, I guess. Jesus, time is flying. Robot sex. A quick search resulted in many sites discussing 'sex robots', and you can probably guess where that term leads. I've never really read about the subject, honestly. I was only commenting upon the words someone placed there on the trailer for all to see. Big letters, perhaps a foot high. Well, I went nowhere with the subject because it doesn't matter anymore. Not to me, anyway. I wrote and dreamed for quite a while about too many impossible ideas. Now I'm all broken because of the failing fantasy (yes, that one with Alexis) and what has taken place since realizing my life will end on a bad note after a shit ton of other bad notes. That's right... Blood all over the fucking place. Splattered. Right there on the cauliflower you were going to steam for dinner. Not pickles, just cauliflower. You probably think I'm losing it. Well, I believe 'lost' is better. Past tense, motherfucks.

Davey's wife (Christine?) has a GORGEOUS nose. I've always thought so.

Maybe I should go back to drawing floorplans.



03

That is how people appear to me. Believe it


I really wish I could spell things out and then unlock the site contact address just in case someone out there knows of a solution. Or at least some ideas. But I cannot. I'll be quickly thrown to the wolves. My blood all over the place rather than that of others.

Part of the reason I am so pissed off is because some of the imagery to which I've been exposed -- both due to others as well as myself -- will not go away. I honestly don't know how in the holy fuck people who are even slightly sensitive can deal with such difficulty. Or maybe I'm the only one? No fucking way. There are too many drawing breath for such a thought. I just don't understand. Likely the main reason is that set of missing pieces inside. Do other people find ways to rebuild themselves? I can't even BEGIN to imagine being a balanced individual because this has been the norm for so damned long. And getting worse each day. The fact that I can't even spell anything out here is slowly dragging me down. There are only so many ways I can say the same fucking thing before I have to stop. The only term here is 'imagery', and there is an endless number of attached meanings therein. Believe me, it represents much more than you might expect.

There are the people wearing 'film crew' badges again. This always comes around when I haven't been thinking of the industry for a while. Last night the closing credits to a film were crawling along when I looked up to see the Panavision Ground Glass logo rolling by. Hmm... Rolling over me like a truck? Anyway, the logo is there to either identify Panavision cameras and lenses or a process. When you see 'Filmed in Panavision', it is basically stating they used the anamorphic process of cramming a wider image onto a 35mm frame of film only to have the image reversed for projection. Most people have no idea (sometimes myself, too) because the picture looks beautiful and their disbelief has probably been suspended for two hours and they are not thinking about the reality of the film being spooled, only the fiction playing out. I'm going on too much about this. The point is I used to bow to that logo and the company who first used the process because I am nuts that way. I wanted shirts and other advertising materials because I was such a fan. Now? Just another logo and reference to my biggest dream going right down the fucking shitter of life because I was afraid.

I am afraid of too much in this life.

0743 and mid-second season still. Good stuff. This show does not carry as much troubling imagery as two others. The story is key, I suppose. I don't know how I became so derailed about the Panavision logo, either. Right smack dab in the middle of bitching about a different subject, too. Unbelievable. I have never fully expressed my feelings about the idea to another person. I've covered a little, yet the truth is I only became more sensitive after the fact rather than relieved. The problems in my head actually worsened because I chose to share rather than keeping it to myself. That is not surprising and now appears as one of the hardest aspects of speaking with people. There is no way of knowing what my brain will do or how it will react until afterward. And then? Too late. The knowledge is out there beyond my control and God knows what will happen to it in the future. It is out there because I believed there was a chance. Nope. Never again. I see and worry, period. If my mouth opens to another person, the words coming out will be so superficial that I will likely be accused of hiding reality and manufacturing whatever is necessary for remaining hidden. The sheer level of fear and intimidation can no longer allow me to move in such a direction. Quite the opposite, in fact.

What did I say? Eh... Doesn't matter. None of this shit matters. I just like typing. And here we have the scene I've been questioning for years: Dinner table in a restaurant. Two couples. Chris gets irritated and pours his glass of wine into his bowl of soup before storming out. I have never been able to learn if that is purely an Italian thing, an insult to his host, or what. The wine poured into the soup. Growing up, nothing like that ever occurred. Hmm. One day maybe I'll find the answer. And Alicia is taller than Michael in her heels. That woman is roughly five-eight, I think, and Michael is definitely just over five-seven. She was towering him a moment ago with what looked like three inches of lift. But oof... The red hair throws everything off. Scary. And let me say... Michael is a thousand feet tall on the screen. Amazing talent. All the respect. I would never disparage him due to his height, nor would I disparage ANYONE for the same. I go on about the height of some women because I find it interesting. Like I said up the page... Shoot me. I will not apologize for being attracted to tall women. Fuck you. Another paragraph derailed because I am scatterbrained for too many reasons.

Three hours before moving along. Ugh. Part of my stuff will be done prior to leaving, the rest will be simple and can wait until evening. That almost rhymes. Heh. I wish I could giggle, damn it. The pressure on my head right now reminds me of reading about the mighty Mariana trench. Halfway to its maximum depth is enough to crush almost anything on earth. That is my head, but not water. Failures don't matter anymore even if the post-fail depression comes along. None of it matters. This is my life now. Well... 'Depression comes along' is a load of horseshit. Already here. Already red. The cauliflower...



05

Get him


The imagery would not affect me as much -- or perhaps not at all, like some people I know -- if there were not so many fucking holes inside. The holes would not exist if it wasn't for... Ah fuck this, anyway. There are no Goddamned answers. To hell with that line of thinking. I was pretty well sick of this shit when I wrote 'The Failing...' more than four years ago. Imagine how I feel now.

One little statement of fact after seeing that tall, disgusting woman in the bar a while back. On the one hand she was a tad sexy with the jeans and boots, all slender yet curvy. On the other hand, her mannerisms and behavior combined with alcohol are what can drive males to approach such a woman. For a split second I saw the lines. Immediately after? I turned my head because I understood her method of operation. Seen it before. I have run after physical love in the past and then watched my entire life unravel as if a rocket took hold of the thread. I learned, too. That is a good thing and a positive aspect to my personality. Better than nothing, I suppose. Understand that I have nothing against such a woman. She lives her own way and that is that. There is absolutely nothing wrong with it. I have done all sorts of stupid, reckless shit in the past and those who knew did not condemn me. I will not condemn her. The point of this is that I actually learned something after the unrelenting pull of those fucking lines. I fully intend to hold on to that lesson for the rest of my life, too.

'Aim it right here, guys.' Ooh-fa... Fucking scary. No condemnation, no judgment. Just frightening.

From Wednesday to Friday I was out of the house early enough to avoid feeling the bloody cauliflower during the morning. I was deep into the work mode and barely considered the subject until seeing all those fucking forms across the bay. The mornings went by and once I made it out of there everything was easier. I'll be working again tomorrow morning and look forward to not being right here with a head full of way too much. I recall the past mornings heading into the city or wherever and being literally forced to avoid some of the weak, desperate thinking which takes place every other day of a given year. Moreover, I've been making some money. Never a bad thing. I still don't want to work full-time, though. I need the solace and thinking space of being home, good or bad as it may be. The actor who plays Peter's wife shares my last name. And there is another episode later in the series which shows a different male actor with my first name combined with the last name I thought was the original. That turned to shit like everything else in life. Whatever. I lamented the fucking subject last year, learned what I thought were clues into reality (which is important seeing that those involved are all gone from this world), and then was hit in the face with the actual information. Result? Pissed off again. 'Legacy'. Fuck it. Alone. Blood. One of these days I'll have to cease commenting upon the heritage because I am becoming less and less capable of maintaining control over my reactions as time passes. I swear to Christ wherever the fuck he may be, I'll do something horrible. The cauliflower line all showered in blood would have paled in comparison. I was talking about work distracting me from drowning in the morning pain and loss, and look where it went when I saw Donna on the screen.

'Stuck in this hole with the shit and the piss, and it's hard to believe it could come down to this...'

I'll have to rise and take care of a few things very soon. At least being busy and then out of the house for hours will again shove the loss to the rear like the work days. I guess it's good. 1.61 million words of pathetic, depressive shit. 153K lines. This site has become a nice fucking clambake.

'Some sorta Goddamn trouble here, Jerome?'

0606 on Monday. I don't know what is happening with finishing the job this morning. No word, nothing at the bar, nada. I poured my coffee and headed over there at 0535 to find the place empty. Whatever. I'd rather remain here all day anyway. The last several days have disrupted my usual thinking time. I kind of need this right now. The game went bad yesterday (as did the mood of one individual), meaning being alone today could help me right myself for the rest of the week. Problems continue regardless of whatever else may be taking place in my life. They roll right into me like an errant hopper on a grade. Not comfortable. I've been counting days, and in doing so rather testing myself to see how much loss I can live with before losing my head completely. The upside to yesterday is there were no bullshit forms or anything of the like at the bar. One of my friends brought his new partner and she was all dolled up, but I wasn't paying attention. I focused upon the game and the food. Nothing happened out of the ordinary and I was home at a decent hour to care for the garbage.

I can already feel the shit on my head this morning. Imagery, words, eyes, whatever. My brain usually takes everything, processes the consequences of what I am feeling, and then forms the red cauliflower scene all over again. The result is always anger. I can't stand this sometimes. Ahh... There is the comare again. Yes, her. She was one of the first to have me thinking about this morning bullshit in different terms. There is still no possible solution, however. Nothing there. No help or understanding. Did I mention damned little caring? Yeah, that too. Hence the bloody thoughts and sharpened knives. Hatred is more powerful and compelling than love could ever prove.

0633 and still no word at all. I don't know what to think. Maybe we are going to head over there later rather than the usual time. Perhaps some better planning and organization might help to avoid confusion in the future. That type of shit is part of the reason I left work in the first place nearly two years ago. I tired of the haphazard nature of everything and constant disorganization which always caused problems moving from one place to the next. The nice part is right now I really don't give half a fuck. The project is finished for all intents and purposes. Only tiny details remain. Maybe this will help me decide whether or not to involve myself in more projects in the future.

I've not been in mind of the cauliflower line for some years. There is media serving to remind me of the summer and fall of ninety-four, mostly due to the films being produced and released at that time. I recall heading to the mall for an issue of my favorite industry magazine and then scouring to see what was coming soon or in progress. Both August and October proved to be pivotal in my life and continue to influence my judgment and consideration of other people to this very moment. I used to love that store so much... All gone, just like everything else I loved. I will admit that one particular visit to the theatre there in town jaded me badly and forced me to think differently following the experience. Standing there in the cauliflower room became an exercise in design. That is all I can say. Blood all over the place. Gallons.



04

Slice and dice, baby


My friend's date yesterday had shoes aligned with the team colors. Nice.

I might be here all day and that thought is very enticing. I've not had a day to myself since last Tuesday, and that is also when some of the trouble began. I'd like to embrace the peace and quiet today and leave some of the shitty stuff behind, if that's even possible now. I guess trying is not out of line. Something I dreamed during the night reinforced my current position and nearly had me pissed off prior to getting ready for work. I really don't need those fucking dreams pointing out or exacerbating problems. That is not good, nor do I feel it is fair (although that is not up to anyone). The light is coming up.
Red cauliflower. Use your imagination. A few months on that line and I was an expert. I had also become an expert at picturing resolutions. Use your imagination again.

0657 and my coffee is in the thermal mug so I don't have to refill, nor will it cool quickly. Not bad. The show is up there again but my mind is not on the dialog. My mind is inside a pair of pants.

Reign in blood. Rein in blood... Raining blood.

0807 and I have a little time before heading back to the job so we can finish. A couple of hours later and I will be back here left to the devices. No, not the devices at the plant's cauliflower room, but I can dream. That would have been very bad. Upon returning here later I will get into the usual stuff and take time to relax and think about everything. Another miserable morning. Big fucking surprise.

I don't know what to do most of the time. Everything good seems to be fading away and leaving me nothing more than a questioning mess. The fucking blood does not even help. No more than a dream moving backward in time like some science fiction anomaly no one can understand or even identify. This morning has shown me that my weak nature continues unimpeded no matter the effort in some other direction. I don't like this at all. In a few minutes I have to head out to finish the details of the job from Friday, after which I can come back and bury myself in the comfort of home. The work has really made me appreciate down time here and having the house all to myself.

0607 on Wednesday now. Tuesday was completely skipped due to work. I was out the door just after five in the morning and then back in the door after five in the afternoon. No time for this and very little time for anything around the house. Not a big deal. Today will be two small jobs and then nothing for days. I will have my old routine back and plenty of time to catch up on whatever seems best.

Once... Twice... Thrice. Out of the store in a different pair of running shoes each time, a short jog up the block and back, and my eyes fixated on her shape the entire time. Rather high-waisted sort of workout pants, black and shiny, and a yellow top that appeared to be loose for comfort. The girl was shopping inside a running store directly next to our parking space. I don't know how many pairs of shoes she tried, but the visions took much of my lunch break. Seeing her over and over during a time when I was already in the mood to cause havoc was not a good thing for the remainder of my afternoon. I strolled back into the house a little while later with a head full of blood. Not her fault. She was a symptom. Like I said before, there will always be something. I couldn't understand her shape, though. Unique in some ways, typical in others. And my reaction while near other people is completely hidden, making the process of weak-staring that much more difficult. The compulsion quickly leads to torment over not knowing, and then inside I have trouble concentrating without seeing her hips and waist over and over. The torment lately? It leads to dreams of red cauliflower and how different my life would be right now had that situation expanded all those years ago. My head was right there and rarely anywhere else. Lately, my head is rarely in the proper space because I must work to remove it from inside a pair of fucking PANTS. I hate this. There will always be something and I understand that, yet each time I see a woman up close the feeling is horrible. I said horrible. Crippling. The instincts in my head are now split in half.

Her hair bounced everywhere as she ran. Fucking gorgeous. I spied her on the sidewalk as we returned from the supplier close to lunch time, and then again after we parked. The street parking in that area is really tough and we had to circle the block twice before scoring the space directly before the pants. Ugh... I cannot reduce her to 'pants'. She is a person. Just happened to be the type of form which pushes me into sixes and sevens. I honestly can't resist anymore despite knowing I'll fall off a cliff like always. Some occasions are worse than others, too. Yesterday was one of the bad. The attached realization now is that I became very angry inside after seeing her run around the sidewalk looking like a dream. Very angry. This has been happening more and more lately, likely hitting a high point during that recent visit across the bay and that slender Asian in the salon near our parking space. The not knowing and lack of understanding combined with all those years of yearning has shaped me into a person displaying niceties to the masses while painting landscapes of bloody cauliflower on the inside. This is getting worse. I will see more examples of the obsession which has grown out of control and steered me into very sexual territory, and then I'll become overly angry and be forced to keep it all inside. Over and over. Asses in pants leading to blood in my brain because of the manner in which I developed throughout years of being leveraged beyond belief. Controlled behavior is exhausting. I truly wish to see the mess all over the place... The machinery, the floor, the cauliflower. I've never been so angry in my fucking life. Up the page I felt the need to reach. 'Help me.' No more of that. I am miserable and do not wish to speak with another person about it because they are a part of the problem and all I will see is red. Blood red. Everywhere. 'Splattered red you'll find my den; blood dripping from the walls.' Jeff and Kerry said it best. This is the worst time. Thank God I'll have the next four-plus days to myself. I need to consider different paths.

I needed to shove my tongue into her ass. Elsewhere, too. EVERYWHERE. Very bad. I feel guilty for the thoughts.

Blood. More than twenty-seven years have passed since I felt this way. Unbelievable and unexpected. I suppose when one is in such a position long enough without solutions to the causes, something like this is bound to happen. I am beginning to identify with different mindsets from the past. Ninety-four was a banner year. The cauliflower room is in my eyes once again even though the eyes of that year closed long ago. Blood on the cauliflower. I can sit here and fucking feel it. I'm so angry, yet there is nothing I can do about it. Her thighs are not at fault. They rule me, yet no blame. Just a person. So many things I can't say.

Two hours and we will be replacing three toilets, after which a bit of speaker work at the bar is on tap. I'll have to have my tools and such ready to go. Beyond that second project I will be right back here to catch up on everything I've been letting slide since yesterday. It's not a big deal, though. Righting the house will feel very satisfying. Hopefully I can move along today without that girl's rear end forcing me to imagine her in several different positions. I can still see her smile and long, dark hair. Black and yellow have led me to red and white. Bloody vegetables. Bloody floor. Floor. Four. All fours. Damn it. I really need to get that shit finished and arrive back here so I can hide away my issues again. Arched back. Fuck. I could have fucked her shoes and she hadn't even purchased them yet. Horrible. All fours. Knees together. Let me stare... Please. God damn fuck me anyway. Something bad is going to happen. Red everywhere.

Half an hour until I need to get my shit together. There is Nicole and her sad eyes. She comes around the bend every once in a while.

Red. Dead, instead.

Fish and parsley, wine and bread. Someone help me get her out of my head. Legs and rear; all inside 'here'. A moment too near and I see death much too clear.

0707. I still see her bright eyes and ideal running posture. The opposite of me, all negative and doomed. Well, I don't give a shit about half of it. I'll just keep dreaming of peeling her clothing off with my teeth and becoming more and more angry about everything until shit comes to a head. And it will. No doubt. This is the worst condition I could have imagined years ago. Some of it is me. Much of it is them. They are the enemy and I need to consider how I go about living in this little house without flipping the fuck out. Although, usually when I flip out the result is loud music and a few beer cans on the lawn. I am no one anyway. The last thing I will do no matter how long I draw breath is affect another person. Remaining right here all hidden away is the only way. I can write and wallow all alone. She will float in from time to time and leave me worse off than before, but I can't do anything about that. Not her fault. A person. Tongue. Vulva. Angry basket case. Almost time to get some things finished. I don't even want to publish this fucking shit anymore.

I handled the power to shift yesterday for a moment. I really did. There was something nearby, a person I suspected may be amazing to look at but refrained out of good form and self-preservation. I turned and went back into the house until her voice faded away. That was that. After dying inside over the girl in the running shoes, I could take no more and became one with the work and knew anything else would have been damaging beyond belief, so I turned on my heel and walked the hell away. There may have been more black hair but I can't be certain. And the upside is I may never set foot in that job again. Ideal. The one on the street is going to bounce back and forth through my weak brain until I am completely insane. Another would not be helpful.

Blood on the cauliflower... A condition I believed to be gone from my life, yet here we are, dreaming again. Back and forth between sexual obsession and splatters of red. Back and fucking forth. Nothing I can do aside from sitting here stewing. I can try to avoid seeing but they are all inside my head already and causing me to really feel disdain. Not their fault. Partly the others, partly mine, whatever. I don't give a fuck anymore. I am probably already labeled from the previous two entries. Does it matter? Nope. Blood. Red vegetables. Red on the walls, ceiling, floor, belts. Knives like razors. Sharper than my eyes glued to a woman's ass. Sharper than needed. Truthfully sharp. Nothing will change. This is it. More typing and no hope. No nothing, really.

Bad things. All bad things on the other side of that door and inside my skull. They are out there and I am now afraid to see. One more trip today will involve none of it, thank Christ. And then the deadbolt. And then the sadness. And then the anger. And then the train will arrive loaded ever more with my feelings. Boarding and departure. The circle never ends.

Don't help me. Nothing but bad now. Nothing but bad.

Her."



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