January who-gives-a-fuck, 2022 who-gives-a-fuck pm pst

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The Flim-Flam Film

 read ( words)

"First frame.

I have just about fucking had it with trying to be a person. Unbelievable. Congratulations, fuckheads, you succeeded in destroying me just a bit more. I'm so happy for you...

I'll fucking obliterate this space. One more little jab. Go for it.

I mentioned in the last entry that my eyes must have appeared as wheels on a slot machine. That sort of situation is the result of the effects OTHER FUCKING PEOPLE have had on me for four-plus fucking decades. I feel the way I feel and that is that. You are not going to change it so shut the fuck up for the remainder of your life. Well, I won't be listening anyway. No caring here, no caring there, no caring anywhere. The only things that matter anymore are the processes in my head, and they are not going to come out the same way from here forward. Everything will be further masked, fried, chopped, and more confusing than statistical calculus to a fucking developmentally disabled housefly. Let's get this new, noisy train running, shall we? Next frame.

You did this. Shit flying everywhere. I already know. The bar has been raised so high after all the songs and movies and other fictional characters that it has become unattainable. Words are there, yet so are the secret dreams. I already know. Pissed off. All morning. I'm so fucking sick of this shit. The upside is the local bar is raking in a mint off my dissatisfaction. I wish that was funny. Next frame.

Saturday morning after a series of mistakes. And I've been slighted again. Whatever. The young bartender sat and spoke to me a bit last night to catch up. Very nice. She's bright and hopeful, yet underneath the very cute surface and those bouncing breasts is a pile of shit of a person. I already saw the evidence. Super cute, though. I spoke little and turned my head much. The entire atmosphere was rather strange, so a cute face for a little while helped. I just wished I didn't know more. Next frame.

My weekend has become disheveled. Aleksa's face up there doesn't help, either. Nothing does. I am supposed to go to the show tonight and then football in the morning. Right now I don't know what the hell to do. I've been flip-flopping back and forth between remaining here and blowing off everyone or maintaining the plans and then using the following days to recover and relax. I don't know. I really do not. Maybe some more time here this morning can help clear my head. There is still much anger, too. I don't deal well with unchangeable circumstances. Some things are beyond my control, as I am sure many feel about their lives. So far, I have dealt with them and moved along in my plodding manner. No other way, I guess. I keep thinking of the last title and those seven images of the lovely Georgia. I look at her features and know there is a monster inside, somewhere. The correct coaxing and shit goes all to hell. Thank Christ she is only imagery here. Controlled. Next frame.

This is not supposed to be about control. Maybe it always is. Next frame.

'The bloody train is bloody late
You bloody wait you bloody wait
You're bloody lost and bloody found
Stuck in fuckin' chicken town'

Bad time. This morning is not really as I had hoped. I was supposed to feel better today and move along keeping tonight's show in mind, but right now all I see or feel is loss. Never could I have imagined being like this at my age. Or maybe age is not a factor, but I do need a way to express the many years. All the anger above is not going away, nor will it be present in the same way here. I'll have to try to avoid lashing out sometimes. The fact is this kind of situation has been a very long time in the making and I am completely lost in it. I have to protect myself or the same types of shit situations are going to keep popping up, and that means clamming up as if my lips were sewn shut (I've seen it on television). Fingers all glued together in order to preclude any typing or writing. Or completely restrained in case of attempted Morse Code. I'll think of something here, eventually. The point is...

It's time to begin manufacturing words and combining them in ways against which no one can push. This is the result of all the bullshit, bitching, crying and reaching toward someone else for comfort when the truth was right there in front of my stupid face the entire time. You already know of my love for the film industry. Well, the next film coming from my mind will be so fucked up no one will know if I am truthful or lying. The reality will be buried. Call me the flim-flam man. Flying deceit. Flying superlatives. Very little verisimilitude, if any. Or if you can find it. Just bullshit yourself like I did. Trickery, but not magic. Sleight of hand, but not slight. Bullshit without a bull. Might as well shut the fuck up right now and save me the effort of typing it more than once. Next frame.


I just realized the model on the splash looks almost exactly like the bartender from yesterday. The young girl. Her face, though. I don't want to know what the rest of her looks like, but the resemblance to the model on my main index is uncanny. Super cute, but oy... Stay the fuck away for your own good. Hmm. That should be what others say about me from across the room. Minus the cute, that is. I am not well and my condition will rub off, jade, affect or destroy anyone or anything crossing my path no matter the circumstances and from here until the end of fucking time. Believe it. If you don't, I'll be happy to provide a very distasteful object lesson thrown into your face. I don't care. Anyway, the model is cute. Big deal. Next frame.

My plan today went sideways and I can't figure out if I care at all. Everything went sideways, in fact, yet only a tiny sliver was my doing. I need to collate this shit. I actually powered down my phone, which almost never happens. Do not approach. In the past that was a way of expressing my bad mood. Today it is an actual, physical warning. Stay the fuck away from me. Next frame.

Bullshit, or not? Roll the dice.

There is a large part of this mood today with a clear origin. I saw it, heard it, and read it. I really did. The origin will not be discussed clearly, however. I'll get a bunch of shit for it either way, but if I keep myself behind a wall of lies or other devices, the clarity will be protected because no one will know what the fuck I am saying. One means fine. Two means fine. Time passes, and then two means death. Oh, there is an anger management class within this episode, fictional, of course. That's funny because I am very angry yet rarely exhibit the mannerisms, tics or detailed gestures they are discussing. Everything remains inside and then I sit here and type words. The words hurt no one because I will not allow such transmission. Anyway, one equals fine. Shove it. I know of the source, the problems, the stupid fucking catalysts. I know. I will not say. Work it out on your own or don't. Either way, I don't give a hoot in hell. Everyone is blind to the effects, and I will admit a part of that is my fault because 'making nice' has been ingrained for decades along with the flip side, which is being weak. That is also not my fault. No finger pointing today. Maybe tomorrow. Many times I have written that I hate everyone. Well, that's not entirely true. There are those I like. Unfortunately, I must apply the 'thousand people in a room' analogy and squash the hope that those I like are actually good people. There is no way of knowing, so now they can wonder about me. This mood is not my doing. Pushed, shoved, disregarded, spoken to as if I don't matter... Yep... Fuck all a'yas. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart. Lumped, generalized, categorized. Next frame.

Ah those lines up there caused me so much turmoil for a very long time. The lines are not to blame, though. I'm tired of working with that word, damn it. Sick of it. Let's leave it out for a while, shall we? The lines, ooh-fa. Art of the highest order right there in stark detail, but also the most mysterious and powerful form in the fucking universe. Don't believe me? I could be lying. You don't fucking know. Next frame.

Six two, barrel four score square bore. Rifled and true. Broached. Pulled. What the fuck is the opposite of 'extruded'? Doesn't matter. Broached is good enough. Firing, unlocking, extracting, ejecting, cocking, feeding, chambering, locking. Thirty-six years ago that was ingrained. I know it by rote. Six. Two. Leaves all over the ground now, here at this beginning of a new confusion. Confounding. Crumpled. Loss. No fucks given. None.
A dress.
A girl.
A knife.
Something has to happen here or I'm going to cause lots of problems. I always have disjointed ideas just in case I need to stir shit, or worse. Always. I have actually sat here and dreamed up ways of disrupting processes others would not understand. I've done it, anyway. Pissed off. This is not only a bad time, but worsening by the fucking second. Next frame.

Red dead. Still nice on the surface.

I keep seeing these wood-paneled steakhouses on the show and am constantly envious. We have few around here, yet more in the city not far up the road. But the city is a pain in the ass sometimes and I prefer to avoid it entirely if I can help it. Possibly my favorite steakhouse is almost all the way through the city to the north and not very damned far from the Golden Gate. The drive is tough and parking is minimal due to all the outdoor seating restaurants had to build in order to survive. I was there last month with the shit show. Great food, nice to sit among the history, yet the entire three-hour affair was not worth five minutes of my time. If not for the food? I never would have left the house. I've gone over that shit already. The point was some of the dining rooms on the show are actual locations rather than sets. And they are really appealing. Unfortunately, the drive is pretty fucking long. Like... A week. Maybe for my birthday we can cross to the other side of the bay to hit my other favorite and see if it has stood the test of time. Next frame.

Another one, right up my fucking ass. That steakhouse is permanently closed. I should have known already and without searching because the fact remains I cannot be fucking happy. I have to be 'the expense'. Great. One more off the list that used to define my dining life. Fuck you, society... Right in the ear until the action rips your brain apart, you piece-of-shit motherfucking cocksucking fucking assholes. No regard left. None. Oh if I could just show it somehow. Show the anger. This will never be enough, and I cannot strengthen the words because the wrong pair of eyes will pay attention and then knock on my door right there across the room. Use your imagination. BELIEVE ME... Those words are inside already. Next frame.

This might be going nowhere but you'll never get it anyway. Loss. It's gone again, perhaps never to return. Everything important to me goes away. Everything. Fucking shit, anyway. Hatred, ever expanding. Hanging. Pissed off. Upset stomach now. Splendid. Am I lying? Can you tell what is true and what is false? Clams... Clams Casino, to be sure. Haphazard carpeting everywhere. Bouncing breasts and pants up the line as if they are not even there. The market pants, too, but not on the carpet. None of it matters. Might as well be looking thousands of light years through a telescope, effectively reversing time itself. I was there. She spoke to me. Frightened and enamored. Her scent was wafting long after she gazelled her way out of the lobby. Thus? Here I sit as a product of that circumstance, a failed attempt at fulfillment. The carpet hid its treasures and paid no mind whatsoever. A product. A failure. Cut and fucking dry, assholes. Cut and motherfucking dry. A situation absolutely crucial to my survival as a person and the largest fucking issue imaginable. All the rest cannot compare. Next frame.

I fucked up last night and remained at the bar too late. A couple of hours, really, but I damaged myself in the process. Should have been home. Nothing was there aside from the cute bartender, although when I look at her I see nothing more than a selfish idiot. A really cute idiot, but still. The prowess is not present there, yet there is still power. Heh. Power about which I couldn't fucking care. She is nothing to me. Someone to fulfill my drink order and then bounce away, unknowing of the damage she can cause in the world... And probably will. Nothing else in the bar. I knew of nearly everyone, too. I should have left a bit earlier and then I would not have disrupted my home routine. That can hurt, and it did. I have to fashion today as a fix. No problem. And then the show tonight. Right now that show feels like an alien planet. Maybe hours from now I'll feel differently. Lying? I don't feel well. Next frame.


Frame. Frame. Frame. Frame. Frame. Frame.

Jennifer is so adorable with the big eyes and longer hair. Her character is the very definition of empathy and comfort. She was dropped after less than seventy episodes, though. I don't know what happened. Next frame.

I have to care for the routine shortly. Nothing will move unless I am the one doing it. Nothing. And I really don't give a shit. As I mentioned before, the house is the only thing in the world over which I hold complete control and I really need it. The site is now another story. Different, or something. I don't fucking know anymore. Whenever I flex the site, a huge blast of shit is the result. This may no longer be up to me. Next frame.

Ah, delightful. I cut out of the show very early -- thanks in part to the cutest bartender and her helpful discretion -- due to being uncomfortable. And not feeling comfortable at a show with some of my favorite music is uncommon. Part of the problem was the other four people who were possible attendees. None of them arrived, so I was left pretty much alone. Nowhere to sit comfortably, either, so I floated around a while. I knew a few, though. Better than zero I suppose. Honestly, I never should have left the house in the first place. What a fucking waste of time. I had planned this all Goddamned day, too. Another lesson. At least I saw the young eyes again. Next frame.

Tomorrow is the football playoff. I'll be out in the morning and return mid-afternoon to care for the house and garbage business. The big day for me is Monday, really. No schedule, appointments, people or bullshit. I'm certain more details about being at the show will emerge with time, meaning I can jot them down between tomorrow and Monday morning. The free time is going to be very nice after the past few days. I am still angry, though. Nothing can ease it now. Next frame.

0719 on wild card Sunday. I am very pleased that I left early last night because otherwise this morning would have been sleepy, possibly worse. The show was not the best idea but I can move along with today as if it never happened. Lots of detail from last night. All in my head. Nothing really dramatic except the band itself. I saw a few that I have known for years, too. Unfortunately, no table and no one else who was to be there with me meant I could not find anything comfortable. I mentioned the helpful bartender. Well, she facilitated my clean exit and kept me hidden for a few minutes until I could disappear. I'll have to thank her for that the next time I see her. That could be quite a while because she only works at night. Whatever. She was very kind. Next frame.

Lots of thinking. The funny thing is I was not really thinking in worrisome terms at the show. I watched the players and milled around a bit before disappearing, but none of that shit from home followed along. I did find myself paying less attention to other people, though. Much less than I normally would have. That may have been due to the pressing anger over my entire living situation. There were foxes all over upstairs and downstairs, yet none were in my gaze due to the brain in my head being on the other side of the fucking galaxy from everyone. Not even one of those oft-tightened pairs of pants could have pulled me from concentrating upon just being there at all. As I said up the page, another mistake. Next frame.

Pull the lies from the page and string them together in the proper order to find a prize. Find them, if they exist. Next frame.

The reels are bent, I think. The takeup will not rotate properly, unlike those huge platters I first saw in Dublin with my dad. At least, I think it was Dublin at the cinema (gone now). Hmm... Maybe we were at the Galaxy in Pleasanton (also gone because everything I enjoy goes away). Whichever, I asked the manager if we could see the projection room and he allowed us to tour it. Quiet, very dim, wondrous. Those platters were unbelievable because I had not seen the like before. Always multiple reels, generally twenty minutes per. The platters hold an entire film end-to-end. They do not easily bend like those I am dealing with right now. This is moving along at twenty-four per second, as it should be, and we need lots of frames in order to see the entire story. Sixteen per foot, if I recall correctly. How many would comprise a life? Next frame.

Bent reels. Bent sense of reality. Bent over? Yeah, probably that, too. I should have been picturing the bartender in such a position but she is beginning to feel like a relative and I can't be disrespectful. Others? Yep, you fucking name it because I don't give a shit. The reels are bent and likely will cause my film to cant one way or another and then possibly derail just like that stupid fucking train of life. What a joke that turned out to be. Anyway, tracking straight and true in order to fully engage the perforations and realize full expression of the audio is paramount right now. Wait a minute... Did I lie up there about frame speed? Look it up. And onward to the next fucking frame. Figure out my sincerity or leave it. I don't fucking care.


One hour until the morning Sunday stuff that feels very nice for a while. When we first arrive and the place is really quiet, I can relax and think without all the daily shit or forms or whatever taking up space on my reels. Male bartender, mostly male crowd (and I will address that in a while), and very few in the first hours of the day. Our game is early afternoon so the morning is very peaceful. Little coffee, too. Next frame.

Realization on the reels. Screams coming from the optical. No training though, so watch yourself. That film is pretty fucking resilient and can work as a garrote if need be. You can tell me how many frames would be required to reach all the way around twice. Screams coming from the optical again. Screams. How many channels? What? What did you say? You don't fucking know. Garrote. All lies? What do you think? Next frame.

0724 on Monday morning. The bar was a little strange last night after the game due to a group coming in just after the game. At first glance, there was much to see. Upon pulling focus? Very bad. Even my focus puller and grips did not see any attraction there. Bare midriff with very defined breasts above and jeans, boots above the knees in RED leather, tons of lipstick. Once glance told me to leave the bar because two of them would have been too distracting, yet a bit later I realized they were two bad things rolled into one: Trying way too hard for whatever reason, and behaving in a rather disgusting manner. One woman was quite tall and made it a point to exaggerate her bending while taking a shot on the pool table. Once I saw her positioning, I decided to turn away and not feed a person obviously needing all the attention. Afterward I simply carried on with some conversation and eventually they went back to the bar with zero attention from me. Next frame. Clapper board.


The bar was mentioned up the page. Raised. Way the fuck up there now, much higher than ever before because there is no way around it. My camera position does not help, either, because even though it is huge, I cannot hide behind it. Frame. Frame. Frame. Not the bar I visited, dipshits. The other bar, the one held against everything a person is or can be. Well, it's too fucking high so I have given up any attempts at understanding. I just don't fucking care anymore. The film will run along -- maybe just spilling out all over the world -- and no matter how I try to coil or reel it, one failure after another will take place and leave me sans options. That bar fucked me over. Filming the flimming and the flamming, lying, coercing, deceiving, whatever-ing. The tools I need to protect myself from being so hurt. Maybe the garrote again, or possibly a can right upside the stupid, careless and selfish head. Upside whatever. I don't fucking know. I may have to switch over to 'we' just to illustrate some shit. No one will understand anyway. No depth anymore. No feeling. Just longing, pain and loss. Next fucking frame.


Does any of this make sense? Frame. Frame. Frame. Click. Click. Clack. The reels? They leave lines on my face. They bleed.

0746 and no garbage trucks yet. Maybe soon.

Remember the dioramas? Hmm... If not, you may have been reading out of order. I have gone to great lengths and effort in order to make the archive easy to navigate and follow. If you're not reading in date order, you are making a fucking mistake. Don't be impatient and read the last page of the book before the beginning and middle, dumbass, or I will truncate such that you don't have a choice. Don't be a fucking idiot. Recall the fucking dioramas and think of them as frames.

Jamie again? You're damned right because she will be dancing in lingerie in a second, with the reference midsection of the fucking universe. Garbage trucks. She was twenty five when this first aired. Now she is not far from forty-two, otherwise known as the universal number. Still no physical desire. I just want to see her in front of me. Eyes. They are key. Ah... Shit. She will be forty-one this year, not forty-two. Oops. I recall turning forty-two. Lots going on in my life and career. Now I have no life or career. Next frame? Eh... Let's just stop the motion and let that last one melt before the arc lamp. Look it up. Very old, that stuff. I saw them right before my eyes in Saginaw and within one of the oldest movie houses in the state. Seventy millimeter film, people. Seventy. Not thirty-five. The arc lamp lit the image so dramatically that even across the two-hundred feet to one of the largest screens I've ever seen, the entire room was like daylight. Anyway, the arc will melt the film more quickly than you can slap a tick.

Next frame, and don't forget your knives. This needs to be dissected in order to separate the flim from the flam on the film. Be careful not to cut the perforations or the audio could end up completely fucked. Next frame.

I am missing even more now and nothing can be done about it. The film rolls along -- sometimes tracking off the platter and heading around my fucking neck -- with nary a care for whatever a person may be feeling. It keeps rolling, threaded through everything and heated like a bad attitude on an Arizona summer sidewalk. No attention in the other direction... None. All those channels, too. All the way around from the front and center to the rear and the sides. Six? Seven? Nine? Thirteen? It all depends. Missing. This is the worst time ever. The worst time in memory, right past that shit in eleven, too. The film rolled up and then unthreaded all over the fucking place. I can't even find the right scenes anymore. The frames. Missing. Loss. Just more loss. I have less reason to go on right now than I did in eleven. That year now looks like a fucking party in comparison. Next. Fucking. Frame. Assholes.

This is a bad time. Very bad. The worst. Every morning I think of the past, wonder what I can to alleviate feeling so broken, yet every morning I come up with nothing. No options. No ideas. No help. There is quite literally not a fucking thing I can do about any of this shit. I do not like being backed into a corner. The last occasion ended very badly. Anguish. I don't want that again, but if I have to create a lesson I'll be left completely alone soon after, and without a way of living. I have never been so damaged as I am right at this very moment. No one can make me understand how everything turned out this way. Not a soul. Save your breath, and don't give me that positive bunny and rainbow horseshit, either. I will not accept anything aside from a solution. No solution? Shut up. Framing and framing and framing some more. Framing hammer? Frame gun? Neither. Frame THIS, motherfuckers. You are a part of the fucking problem anyway.

Frame. Shot. Scene? Nah.

Bad. Loss. Next frame. I don't understand anymore.

The dress, cavern, mud... All of it. Broken everything. Broken. Maybe I should have done what Robert just did in his basement. I've thought of it many times, the most recent being just a few days ago, in fact. But I just don't fucking know. It is a frame to be avoided. This type of situation generates dangerous, reckless thinking which can harm people, most notably those who may not deserve to be as such. Where is the line drawn, though? Who decides? Is it the decision on my part to incite damage? Or is that actually a decision and not a result? No answers. Desperate and pissed off all the time. The full meaning of the dress was never realized, nor the color or water. None of it, really. I still wonder who could have worn that dress -- or did, at some point -- and how many frames of my life have been bullshit wastes of time because of the dreaming. There is a strong possibility that I have been the one flim-flammed. Not good. The more I think about everything, the more angry I become, and this will be a huge problem sooner rather than later. Is this making any sense? Nah... I don't allow sense here. The blue dress, remember? Fallen, muddy, empty. Next frame.

Lee has beautiful hair in this shot. I remember her in that other movie, too. Always typecast for good reason. She has the eyes for it. Big, emotional windows always coming across as understanding combined with a bit of sadness. Her eyes draw me like a gun. She is exempt from the framing. I wish I was. Eh... Maybe this is where I should be... Miserable, lost, lonely, yearning, desperate, and full of anger leading further into the black. Fuck the frames, but I need the frames. Focus, whatever. Heh, focus indeed. If it only could be pulled. Next frame.

Today I will have to work in the old office and garage before I lose my shit completely. So much has been left alone due to the weather and my endlessly fucked up mood that I simply have to move some shit around. The clock on the patio, too. That piece of shit has been rebuilt three times now, the movement and hands replaced, yet still it's fucked up. I believe the dial is paper with the numerals printed on the top surface, and over time it has developed bubbles beneath which are now interfering with the hand motion. Well, the whole fucking thing is coming apart today so I can pull the dial print and mount it again completely flat. That should solve the problem. The movement is oversized for the hands, too, meaning no matter what they may weigh in any position, the motion will not stop with a good battery installed. The point of the clock is I have had it so long that I have no wish to simply replace the thing. I can make it work, always. The only caveat has been motivation. Next frame.

I also need to organize the garage better to make improved use of space. There are some nagging items floating around which must be stored properly. Last month the temperature was too low out there to do any meaningful work. Now it has become a priority. I can't do fuck-all about my physiological condition, meaning other points of focus must be addressed both for distraction and peace of mind. The processes going on inside me these days are equivalent to stabs over which I hold zero power. I gave all that shit away, as you may have read (if you're not being a fucking moron, that is). I may be angry and feeling hatred toward everything, but I am still capable of moving along a predetermined path. Like the way the film is threaded through looms, back and forth between the platter to the projector, eventually being neatly coiled for another run. Next frame.

Remember 'never me'? Flaring. Flaming. Cunty. Pissy. Unpleasant. Loss. Bad time. Fuck you and everyone else.

Katie just mentioned the word 'buns'. I'd like to lick hers...


Everything I write will heretofore close with my favorite pronoun. The word makes my heart leap.

I may not be able to watch live sports anymore. One up, one down? Nope. All down. Right down the fucking drain and flowing along with the rest of the shit. Bigger line, and then an even bigger line. Eventually? Treated? Not me. I'll just spin around like a toilet that will not completely flush. Maybe I'll just flush my life.

I need something completely ill-advised for lunch today. Fuck it. Booze, too. Yep. Everything bad has become my only good. Frame. And then another frame. The film will never end. Right upside the head again. Figures. I should have handcuffed myself to Ashley's fucking wrists. Next frame.

I am guilty of flimming, much like others. Selfish, controlling, cold. At least I know it. Those I have known are clueless because they've become preoccupied with whatever is shining or available to press others down in an effort to rise. Nice, huh? I've seen it... Just yesterday, in fact. People are worthy of flimming, flamming, or whatever they need to make themselves feel better. I do not use those devices in the same fashion, however. I use them to fucking breathe. Next frame.

Look at Georgia's expression. Infinitely more beautiful and interesting than anything you'll read here. It is a fact of life. Round and round we go. No more switches, heeled over for dear life, lights off. Circles. Right back in the exact same position as eleven, yet with more alcohol. The dress. White. Eyes. Love? HATE. Blue again. Breasts in there, somewhere. Obscured like everything else. Blue again. Lost in them. Huge, sans makeup, gorgeous beyond any conceivable description. Dark. The dress again. Like the carousel at the dry cleaners, around and around and covered in plastic, yet filthy underneath. Blue and brown. Brown eyes. Down into the earth with the worms and their food. Soil. Decay. Smells of death. Burning hair. Egg salad with too many gherkins. Falling chairs. Black, purple, gold right there. Wood paneling. Rolling along with the threading of the film. Round and fucking round we go. Looms, lights, code. Power? Only locomotion. Rotation. Pushing and pulling like the hanger which holds the empty dress. Empty. For all time. Next frame.

I was deluded and put off, but still gazed here and there when possible. Disgusted, but still slightly attracted like a moth to... You know. Bad things. She had bad things inside, good things outside. Not the boots, but the shoes. Midriff of dreams, attitude of horror. A good thing, for sure. Remain at a distance and do not approach. Dangerous. Gorgeous and dangerous. Maybe I did learn something in eleven. Like the one weeks ago on the street down south as we stood on the sidewalk and spoke for a time. From a distance? Fucking unreal and amazing. Closer? Frightening. She could have been employed within the world's oldest profession, but I cannot be sure. Legs going on forever, boots, pants thin and tighter than a drum. Long nails, dark wavy hair all over the place. You'd think I could write a gushing, dripping description of that woman, but that is not the case because she was from that other planet. Absolutely stunning and dressed to the nines, yet with zero power. I saw. I looked away. Ran away. Very bad, that woman. Last night was the same. They were desperately seeking attention and showed off the mannerisms of people with zero morals. Very fucking bad. Still, rather funny at the same time. There is not enough alcohol in the world, let alone the bar. Equal chance they found what they sought, or maybe never even made it home. No power. Very funny. Aren't you laughing? Have I been lying? Shystering? Bullshitting? Do you feel flim-flammed? GO FUCK YOURSELF. Next frame.

Ah... Yes. Back to the bar. No, not last night, the other bar. The one in the sky. Reminds me of John, although he was different. Maybe some similarities, I don't know. The words to the face rarely match those inside. Lots of gushing bullshit and one can never truly know. The bar is way the fuck up there now, through no individual fault, but that of the mass. Society. WAY too fucking high now, only to continue to rise with nary a concern for the individual. I already know. I know too much. Way too fucking much these days. I've seen it, lived it, heard it. Everything. I already fucking know so leave it. Next frame.

Nearly four hours in front of this stupid crap. I have to do something else soon. Nothing helps. I suppose the morning cocktail and some housework will have to suffice until whatever else comes along.

1159 and part of my shit is finished. And the word 'shit' is very appropriate today. Every day, really, but right now everything up the page is resonating and forcing me to realize that this is all there will ever be. I've mentioned giving up several times, and honestly the idea seems better now than ever before. Am I lying? Am I the type to offer outright lies? Just like that old commercial showing a pro football play, YOU MAKE THE CALL. It is not up to me. All I can do is live the only way I know how, be it a product of all the damage inflicted by others or that which I have done to myself. The fact is I do not fucking know how to do anything different. Too many issues have grown out of seeds I cannot forget. If you want to hold me responsible for everything bad, go for it. I only wish there was some kind of massive proving ground to perform the entirety of how little I fucking care about another person's opinion. Hold me accountable. Do it. You'll end up just like everyone else... Disregarded, invisible, and an enemy. The more I shove into the trash, the less there will be with which to deal. I don't give half a blue fuck in a bucket who doesn't like me anymore. Flim-flam, indeed. The blinders have been removed. Now I can sit idly by and watch the world fall apart. Next frame.

Blue dress, burned again. Ash. Dust made up of a once-beautiful creation. Just like me. Once beautiful, but now dead inside. This is as fucking pleasant as anything will be on this site henceforth. Count on it. Just like mid-fifteen, we have a new type of anger. Next frame.

The film is worthless anyway. No one will understand or give a fuck what type of vessel I use to get the point across. I don't even know why I try to make this content interesting or different. Can you tell me? Or is your head still crammed up there so far that you get a mouthful of shit with every smile? Maybe I should go visit the fish again. It's been four years, nearly to the day. They miss me, I miss them, no one else gives a shit. Nice. Last frame...

So after all this exposition, exploration, and tearful, resounding sadness, have I been trying to put one over on the readers? Has this been a crock of shit? Lies? Modifications? Partial lying? Exaggeration? Once again... YOU MAKE THE CALL. I have no power here. You motherfuckers took it. I am so angry right now that I don't even know how I lived this long and avoided prison or suicide. Read everything. Don't read everything. Accuse me of whatever you wish... Anything to either justify you or berate me. Again, I cannot adequately express how little regard I have for other people at this point. Who knows... Maybe after condemning society and planning an escape twenty-nine years ago I am right where I should be. And a little 'fuck off and die in a cold muddy ditch beyond help and in pain' is appropriate, perhaps. Eh... No one gives a fuck about my words. Just words. Meaningless? Are they? Hmm... Maybe I should have been lying all this time.

Not one fucking stupid human being will EVER know the truth. Film? Concluded.