February 13th, 2022 11:23am pst

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

Gral Valen

 read ( words)

"I have to sit here knowing that woman is right over there. Not even my favorite kitchen dinner prep was able to wrench her eyelashes from my head. Lots of booze. Lots of depression. Lots of loss. The mornings are bad enough. I don't need more shit in the evenings. Usually that is my 'out' from whatever may be hanging over my head. It helps me relax. I even had the third show up there again -- a complex episode and story to follow -- yet still she commanded a good portion of my thinking. This had better fade soon.

Sunday morning. The last entry went awry because I ended up pretty pissed off at everything. I feel like Vin again, the way he viewed himself, but there is so much more. Makes me angry. There is something wrong with my right arm this morning, too. I noticed a little bit last night. A few years ago I had some nerve issue which had my right arm nearly unusable for days. I never went to the doctor about it, though. And years before that, during the 1236 period, I recall a trip to Costco in which part way through the shopping I had to cease using that arm because it was aching deep inside. By the time we arrived home I took a ton of painkillers and ended up sleeping for a couple of hours. When I awakened, the pain was completely gone and I never learned of what caused it. The second occasion everyone told me to see the doctor but I hesitated in hopes that it would pass on its own. This morning the pain is different, however. I don't know what to think.

I dreamed that myself and someone else were in the snow being chased by grizzly bears. I was throwing snowballs at one of them because I had no other recourse. Awakening from that one felt good. I did not dream of her again, although she's right there, constantly.

The similarities in thinking are many. I went around the world in eighty seconds each time She and I had a chance to meet for a little while and spend some time together. There were only two occasions in which we had the space to really communicate behind closed doors, most of the time our conversations were in restaurants and such. Those two occasions really hit me upside the head. Nice and quiet. I felt overly compelled to be near Her all the time, as if there was something tangible pulling me from any situation or location and toward Her. It was a constant longing, bad enough to severely disrupt my consideration of anything else in life. I very nearly quit work just to be available in case there was time for us. Twice I dashed out of work and ran to Her side when She was upset. Honestly? I can still feel that degree of desperation right this minute. During that half of fifteen, my entire existence had shifted toward Her and away from everything else. I was so blinded and out of balance that I am surprised to have come out the other side unscathed (mostly).

That was out of sheer desperation, nothing more. Yes, I loved Her (still do; that will never fade), but the truth is I had not been well for some time and focused upon the obsession nearly all of the time. Upon learning that She was a representation of not only the obsession but also the manner in which I view society, my brain could not process the possibility of running into a person like Her again in life, so I lunged. My insane need to 'see' and 'know' what was going on with the numbers drove me nearly to death. That was half.

I told Her about parts of my life no one else knows. I saw Her often as a pythoness.

There should be no memory of her face two days later. None. But I still see her sitting there all in black and looking ever more beautiful than should be allowed near me. Smiling as she reintroduced herself, too. So dark and foreboding. Not scary, just intimidating. I don't know. This may be a good time to steer the wording in a different direction. Away from the Raven, as well. Recalling our time together causes nothing but anger anymore. Fond memories all turned to terrible situations. I need to leave it alone. Both of them. Oh, believe me when I say I have no illusions about anything like that ever taking place again in my life. The most likely outcome is more depression and anger over knowing there exist more examples of what the Raven carried yet I will never know. Nothing will be solved. Worse and worse over time until there is nothing left to do, and then I'll die. Maybe I SHOULD be blamed for everything. Why not? Do you see that I've already gone on at length regarding a woman I do not know? I latched on to the entire 'Shilo' type of mindset -- all dreamy and ideal -- and wrapped it around this figure from the other day just after being near her for fifteen fucking minutes. I am so Goddamned pathetic that I don't know if I can show my fucking face in public for a while. This is so ridiculous. 'How did I fuckin get ta dis?'

Is everything my fault? I already need a fucking drink before seven in the morning.

I just keep talking and talking... Blah, blah, blah, weakmindedcakes.

Seven, straight up. I don't know what this fucking day has in store. The morning is the only time everything appears brighter, and usually I sit here and see lots of possibilities. By noon everything is different, often even earlier than that. Maybe if I could get some of this shit out of my tired head the day would appear better for a longer period and feel more rewarding. All this time is precious but I have nearly lost sight of the value. Weak. I have become so fucking weak that I can't understand how I made it this far. At the end of the previous pile of shit I published, there appeared the words 'I've fucking had it with this shit.' Well, there is nothing else I can do right now. The compulsion to do what I need is nearly as strong as that of sitting here writing about it. What I need... Heh. What a fucking joke. I was told long ago that if I work and treat people well throughout life that all my wishes would come true. Right.

Yesterday I ran through three films in their entirety and began a fourth before switching to the third show for working in the kitchen. Each ending I watched all the way through the credits (I appreciate all those names who made it possible) and fell on my face upon seeing the logo again. I feel stupid for doing it to myself, but sometimes I just need to see. The ground glass nearly pushed me hard enough to change my life. I could not help but wonder if I would still be obsessing over beauty and living through torment had I taken that exit of this shit highway. There can be no knowing. You can look up the ground glass logo. I've included it here before. Lots of history.

I suppose I was reaching for something enjoyable as my insides remained unsettled throughout the day. Thoughts came and went, eventually leaving me a pile of desire. Not good. The morning was bad enough. I hope yesterday will teach me that there is no way out of this pit. And I've said too much.

Valencakes. Valen. Dress. Pants. Vulva, shining after the wax. Sheets all rumpled. Clean, but rumpled. And then the clincher... Unexpected. From the peak to the pit, sliced and bleeding. Red sheets and beauty. Red beauty.

Help granny make the bed. Three tons of 'im.
Help granny make the bed. Three tons of 'im.
Help granny make the bed. Three tons of 'im.
Help granny make the bed. Three tons of 'im.

There's that Asian-hybrid whatever the fuck she is... The little upturned corners of her mouth when she purses, my brain has already taken her to a hotel and spent ten nights all slathered inside her lingerie. All done. The blue dress is turning red at the thought that we are definitely doomed. The blood will recede and return. No way out. Three tons of 'im. I looked out the window at the snow, and then I looked at the blonde hair, and then back to the window. And then I looked at the closet door and my mind exploded. I looked at the closet door and saw something unexpected. Back to the window again. Blonde hair. The closet door was wonder as I had never imagined. The closet door. Help granny make the bed.


Green. A green triangle? Maybe, but the color is a certainty. Green. Light green, I believe. Another closet door to my left. Words of sweetness and then the closet door again. Back to the green. Three-quarters. The closet door was not the same but I already knew. I never forgot. Just like the other place. But not the closet. It was different and I knew something inside me was forming. Changing. Developing. Now look at me.

The green was really pretty. The closet door was not. The other closet door was better. I learned something. The drive, too. Walnut Grove. Right there for a little while. Every time. The drive from there to here, through the tree-tunnel. Thirty years ago, perhaps a bit more. That drive was funny. Blonde hair again.

'Devil with the blue dress on.'

Everything leads to the smiling face and then to the other smiling face. The second one? Holy fuck. I still can't believe the smile. Eyelashes, too. I don't understand how such a situation can develop in the first place. I've tried for years... Maybe all the way back to the green and the closet door. That period was definitely different from what I had been accustomed, yet still my mind could not fully grasp everything. Right now there is too much piled on top as I slide downward to the cemetery. Too much. It is all too heavy. The smiling face is the lion's share of the weight right now. The other smiling face is the catalyst. I am more screwed in the head sitting here right now at 0739 on February 13th than ever in my life. I can't even find the right words to describe this state. Nothing is ever enough. Not enough words. Maybe I need to go back to school for a year or two. Nope. I'll see far too much over there. You know. Or... Do you? Shut up.

Help granny make the fucking bed already.

Twenty-five. God fucking damn it all.

Mustard all over the place. On the steaks and stakes. Rakes, pulling my will into a pile and then tossing it into the incinerator. Stakes and rakes. Put on the brakes. Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?


The mustard can kiss my fucking ass. I don't care. The dreams won't stop. The brain won't stop. There is only one way to cease it all. This is all so very difficult but I will not sit here and state that I have it worse than anyone else because I don't know. Eh... I don't want or need to know. This is a bad time. That much is certain. The mustard can kiss my ass. Blue dress all dripping and muddy again. Empty dress. Empty dreams.

Want leads to need, and need can become dangerous. Right there. Right over there. The cavern. The winds flowing through. Water vapor. Yearning for warmth. None of that. I still don't understand any of it. Up there in the trees the closet door and the snow watching from the window and there was no green but there was the door by the other door and I stood waiting and seeing and wondering and wonder for the second time and then the drive and then the other closet and the green and my brain during the whole thing as the wind moved the trees in the front yard and my car shined under the sun even though the back of it slid several times just outside the first window when my head tried to process what was going on and the appreciation was sketchy just like the event near the freeway and the other one on the road from there to here while I held the steering wheel and saw people working on the power lines and the wonder was there in the car with me just like that day after the long trip and the castle when I turned my head to see something never before my eyes and I only understood a little of it but the wonder held me fast like God's own hand squeezing me until I could not move... I still see the green and the transparency and the other wonder I could not believe after the bad ceased and everything improved while the television spoke in the background and pictures formed from back in time and the pillow I held for years and dreamed and wondered and questioned and now the time is later and I still don't get it but tried anyway for too long and the damage is done.

Help granny make the bed.

Cut it. Punch it. Gun the throttle in the snow. The mountain did not care. There was no cavern. There was no dress. Only green and that image to my right of something wonderful. My hands went into the pillowcase. Gun the throttle. Cut it. Punch it. Faster. Funny. Not all funny. Some funny.


I looked to the side. And then I looked to the side again. And then I looked at the closet door. The window. The snow. And then the sun. To the side. The other closet door. Down. Green. The smiling face. Haunted. Not grimacing, but smiling. No words. Three words? Four words. Stephanie standing at the register just inside the door wearing shorts so small that the manager told her to go home and put something more professional around her rear end because it was a place of business. I laughed but then became angry at something else, unrelated. Stephanie asked, 'Why are you in such a pasty mood?' And then the anger shrunk and I laughed at her wording. And then we went to the party. And then the karaoke which almost had me running away but I wanted to stay because everything else was enjoyable and nice. Stephanie eventually went to work elsewhere but I think she spawned a situation in my life which became permanent. Not the karaoke. Not her little ass in the shorts. Unrelated, yet seeing her pushed quite a bit. She was goofy but very nice to everyone. Funny and positive every day regardless of working. Years after I looked to the side, I looked nowhere.

Little Kim was there. A sweetheart all the time. I really wanted to travel with her but at this moment I'm glad we never did. I'm glad she stayed put because she was concerned. I am so glad. I don't know her anymore but I still see her smiling face. Kim did not like Stephanie at all. I don't know why. Many worked at that market. Half male, half female, yet the female portion was like a universe in and of itself. I understood very little of it. Everyone was nice to me. Paper or plastic?

Holy fuck I want to hold Jamie. Sad eyes. Concern.

The time is nigh to do something else. But it doesn't matter. I will be exactly the same. The dress will remain empty. Burned. Wet. Ugly. Forsaken.


'Games' magazine. Nineteen eighty five. The camper. The overhang. Yosemite valley. Gorgeous.

The games. I used to love that magazine. I picked up an issue before the trip just in case of downtime while at the park. Some of the puzzles and word problems were too difficult, but one was a bigger problem. I can almost see it. A logic puzzle but my logic was fuzzy at best. I laid there and tried to work on it for a while but soon ended up in so much pain that I became sick and threw the magazine away. It was bad for me. Not the words or the problem, but the image. I see it, somewhat. Painful. Disappointed and confused. I knew nothing and understood even less. That was one of the most damaging events in my life and it took more of a toll than I can convey here. I have the entire fucking alphabet on the keyboard but it is not enough. There are certain objects in life that I see from time to time which remind me of that image and being sick to my stomach. Pain is the result. Dull ache. Deep inside. But I used to love that magazine. Some wonderful and challenging puzzles. Unfortunately the puzzle of my life took over and I could no longer look at that publication. The trip was not the same from that point forward, nor was I. The nerve endings go all over the fucking place. I was a teenager and already completely fucked for all time. I am still that little boy. Very sad.

Emily has unbelievably gorgeous breasts. Fuck off. Leave it alone, please. Let me be 'me'.

The closet door was right there. I turned and saw more than I had ever imagined. Maybe I saw too much? I don't know, however I have not forgotten for a second. Not the green. That was the other closet. And the window. I see it right there. I remember almost everything from Walnut Grove to the snow. I remember too fucking much. Help granny make the bed. Gun the throttle. Turn up the music. My uncle loved it. Holy shit, I just remembered the guy at the arcade. That was scary but fascinating. I was in the arcade (long gone now) all the time while we stayed across the street. That was where I met Jill the super-duper cutie from Albany. God damn that girl was so cute, I swear. Anyway, he was there every night, if I recall correctly. Every single night. I did not understand why because he didn't really play any of the video games. Perhaps the third night was when I was asked a question I could not answer because I didn't know how. Use your imagination. An adult, perhaps late thirties, asking something of a teenager in an arcade filled with young people. Think about it, and then think of the word 'predator'. There you go. Anyway, nothing ever came of it. Nothing. I didn't understand at that age so I remained at a distance. Ah... But Jill was there. So cute. Nothing came of that, either. The upside is that eventually he went away from that place. The situation made me rather nervous, but then I felt completely at home in those casinos due to growing up in such an atmosphere, and I knew there was a ton of security just in case something bad happened. It never did. I played my favorite games and then left when I was supposed to meet my grandfather across the street. Nothing of the type ever happened to me again, nor did I ever see Jill again. Years later I saw the closet door and everything began to change.

Maybe I would have turned out differently had I not seen the closet door or the green. Or the snow. Or the window. I don't fucking know anymore. My head is like a blender right now. The validation may never happen. Such a sad state. So very sad. Life could have been different.

0859 and my head hurts, figuratively. The smiling face will kill me, sure as hell. It will fucking kill me.

Still so many things I don't understand. Few that I do. I never wanted this.

I remember the car dealer... The salesperson in red. All red. Like blood. My dad had been 'vacillating' over a new car. We were in the showroom. The paint color was called Mystic. Really cool. It changed shades as the lighting changed. From black to blue to purple and to green. Very metallic looking, I suppose. Holy fuck God damn shit anyway... Her eyes are so huge. I want to gush everything into those eyes but she is fictional, just like my dreams. Nothing real, nothing certain... 'When I hear the words I just start hurtin'. Thanks, Mr. Waybill. Phil is dead, finally. The salesperson stood with another customer and I tried to covertly stare at her body. All red. Big, round breasts inside sheer silk. Long, dark hair all wavy and dreamy. Heels accentuating her legs and rear. Dark eyes. Within seconds I wanted to be inside that clothing and all over her. Guilt washed over me and I ceased looking. I stopped because I felt terrible for seeing nothing more than a target, afterward realizing I learned a huge lesson that afternoon. Nothing goes away. I still feel guilty. She knew nothing of me, thank the maker. Nothing. Just guilt all inside. Bad. She was a person, not an object. Unfair. Period. Maybe I deserve all this heartache. I don't know.

Neil is trying to speak with Tony but his eyes are preoccupied with watching exotic dancers walking to and fro on a security monitor. He can't even get ketchup out of the damned bottle. So funny. Males are driven by instinct much of the time. Not a good thing. Boobyvalencakes.

'Richie Aprile, Ralphie MIA, Vito... And who knows what-the-fuck with Carlo and Gigi.' God damn was Paulie hilarious sometimes. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing here anymore. Memories and pain, learning and loss. Everything is loss. Lost. Does any of this shit matter anymore? What is being served here? Shut up.

The closet door keeps coming back. And the hotel room in Sparks... That was something unforgettable. The closet door was first, a few years earlier. The glow. The door was glowing. I turned my head and saw much. I saw it all. The snow was there outside the window, the trees outside the other window. The green. Blonde hair all over the place all silky and long. Mentioning Emily's chest was unfair. Whatever. I have problems. I just saw her again. Problems. Blonde hair is not my thing anymore. Back then? It was hair. I didn't really think about it much. I though about the closet doors, mostly the first. This is probably very difficult to understand. The blue dress may have been present twice. Thrice. I don't remember. Someone wore that dress on a few occasions, though. I know that much, at least. Now it is empty. I keep seeing the girl from Friday and her black pants. Maybe that will fade away. I kind of need it to fade, really. There are already enough reasons for me to cease everything. One more will not do any good. Quite the reverse... It gave the horse a headache. Heh. The smiling face trumps the red outfit and my strong desire. It trumps the closet doors. It has flattened all other thoughts. Still smiling. Ever smiling, that one. Two. Whatever. The second one is difficult to consider.

Valen. Believe it because everything remains like wet leaves on my head and the sidewalk and the lawn and my eyes because of the green and the doors and the trees and the snow and the hair and that other thing I can't mention but it was there and really nice as I had never seen it before nor had I seen what was over to the left or the right or straight down but I did see and now I recall and everything is blurry and difficult and fucked up like that day I don't like to discuss but it's there and I can't kill it or kill the thoughts or kill the memories or kill the people or kill the issues or kill the pain with a fucking pill or anything else it just keeps going day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day and I see too much and I think too much and then sometimes there exists too much like the empty, bloody dress and all the water flowing and the dreams flowing and the booze flowing and her hair flowing and my desire flowing and something else flowing but it is bad so very bad and I can't understand the problem and I can't stop this and I can't stop that and I sit here and remember everything and reject it all and then embrace it all and then burn it all but it comes back and I have no control over a few things in life and no control over what will happen at some point each day because what's done is done and that's it and that's all and the endless pain and the endless shift and the endless visions and dreams and imagery and faces and smiles and then I climbed into the van and she blew me a kiss but it shouldn't matter in the least because I know all this and all that and everything else and the blown kiss happen because I am fucked up and weak.

Valen. Not valun. Fucking figure it out already.


The image in the magazine was a slender woman in lingerie and it struck me for some reason and I filled with desire and you know where that leads if you've read a fucking word in five years. Teenager. I didn't know. Fucking shoot me while you go fuck yourself. I don't care. Long sentences.

They always try to make it funny but it's not.

0937. I already know what will happen today. In about two minutes I'm going to pour a glass of whiskey and sweep the floor. And then I'll empty the cat litter boxes so they are clean. And then I'll straighten the kitchen and get ready to wash the dishes. And then I'll head outside for a cigarette and open the garage doors. And then I'll think about every fucking subject in the world. And then I'll come back inside and sip my whiskey because after that time it will be nice and cold. And then I'll clean the dishes and counters and cooktop. And then I'll toss in some dry cleaning. And then I'll wonder what the fuck to do next. Hours later I will go to the bar for the game. Sometime during the game there will be a very attractive woman within view and I'll glance. And then I'll watch the game and return home. Tomorrow morning I'll sit here and write about how difficult it was to see the attractive woman because I've LOST MY FUCKING MIND.


Nothing ever changes. I feel worse and more confused from one day to the next, so maybe that is an actual change. I don't know, though. Is it? 0944. Issue one is a fucking race car in the red. Issue two is death. Issue three is death. Issue four is death. Well then, I suppose there has been some progress. The wrong direction, but progress.


The sun is shining again. We've been very lucky with the weather lately. At least that's something positive. I will positively fail, and Barney Rubble coined that phrase after being told to be positive. I failed yesterday and can still feel the effects. I fucking hate this shit so much and there is nothing I can do. I guess I'm late pouring the drink. Oopsie. I'll get there in a little bit. Some morning gasoline to fuel the depression. I do almost everything the exact opposite of what has been recommended. Yep. Emil's head just came apart. The work awaits. Bar maybe in four-plus hours. I guess. I don't know. Maybe I won't go at all. I can sit here instead and be underwhelmed by everything without risking seeing something troubling and full of torment. Like Friday, remember? I remember everything she was. If I stay here I don't know how I can pass that much time without losing my shit. That is one reason to go. The likelihood of a fucking stunning goddess in the bar is quite slim, honestly. It is fairly rare. That is perhaps another supporting reason to go. The passage of time can be wrenching to my insides while home. Another reason. Eh... Fuck it. I guess I'll care for all the Sunday shit and then clean up and go. The car has a full tank of gas. I wonder what that person in Coffeyville was thinking after visiting such a mess of a site.

Housework. Fucking thrillsville. Blah, blah, blah shutupcakes.

I hate everything. Even the smiling faces and closet doors. Oh, there is the woman giving the tour at the retirement home. I'd like to fly up her dress like a fucking deranged pelican. Believe it. Damn. Shut up.

Have I ever sat here and stated that I have it more difficult than anyone else? Nope. Never, and I will not. I don't know them. Speaking of myself is it. That is all. Cut and dry. Others could be in worse shape than myself. I'll never know. I have to give people the benefit of the doubt, yet still I know there are fuckheads and assholes all over the place. But I don't know what they may be dealing with, so I say nothing.

So far this year I've written more lines of code than in the first thirteen years of the site's existence. Interesting and pathetic at the same time. I still see her dark eyes. I see her whole face framed by jet-black hair, all shiny and smooth. I could eat that fucking hair. Anyway, this has grown out of control since the beginning of the pandemic, and likely due to so much time at home. More time to think means more time to type. All that driving, too. I saw too much. Bikinis and bouncing breasts all over the fucking trails by the beach. Heels and pants in the parking lots. Naturally, because I'm such a fucking whack job, I sat here and spouted about each and every occurrence of my head running aslant. Yep. Hence the line count. Whatever. Fuck this site, anyway. Just a receptacle.

I need a psychic receptacle like that nutcase on the second show. I really do. Someone to absorb all the shit and leave me with the ability to think straight without stepping on my own fingers. That guy was a piece of work, believe me. I believe the wording from my nerd book regarding what he did to Deanna was, 'In the days that followed, Deanna regressed into a domineering, jealous, lewd, aging wench.' God damn that was funny. But I really could use a bit of help here. Maybe I'll look around and find another gorgeous therapist, speak to her for a while, and then hit on her like I did the last one. Laugh it up.

Gral fucking valen, shitbrains. In vino veritas; porro en verum.


1023 and the booze is flowing like a two-bit whore. Routine awaits. I'll bring this to production first, though.

The closet doors are haunting me like everything else. They glowed. Visions. Memories. Ghosts and ghouls. The blue dress is covered in blood and mud, water and wine. Red wine. Muddy water. The more I sit here and recall all that stuff, the more I want to screw that woman's brains right out of her pretty head. Go ahead and judge me. Go right the hell ahead. I probably deserve it for such candor. I don't care, either. There is little a person can say to me that will make a lick of difference. Damned-near nothing, honestly. The blue dress will rise and fill, and then move to them and cut off the oxygen to their minuscule brains. The blue dress is inside me. I am inside the cavern. Cold, wet, miserable. Trees blowing. Snow blowing. Blow snowing. Whatever the fuck... I don't know.

Damn is the whiskey cold. Ideal. Maybe the only thing ideal right now. Memories. 'Filmed in Panavision' is slicing my throat today. Dessert for breakfast. The desert, too. After breakfast. The barren landscape of my mind. Dead. Dry. Dirt. Damned. Mustard. Help granny make the bed. Blah. Something. The closet door... The first one while I gazed out at the snowfall. Wondrous. Beautiful. 'Ideal'. Maybe. There was another. Later. I can see it but I can't feel it anymore. Too much time has passed. Cute, like Jill or that young bartender. Really fucking cute. I saw it. And then my mind turned to mud. The mud is on the dress. In the wind. The trees. The closet door again. Right there. I stared. And the other place, I stared there, too. Stared. Disbelief. What was happening? There had been a moment in time -- now frozen like a still image, an action shot -- not long after. I remember the view and the feeling. Disbelief. Overwhelmed. I remember it very well even all these years later. I saw it happen. I saw EVERYTHING. Maybe I saw too much and have a scar right there on that little part of my brain. But I saw it anyway. I watched. Never before. I. Could. Not. Believe. My. Eyes. I thought about it for years, literally. Not the closet door. The other one. It was different. And I wondered... Where have I been? Where has that been? What is it? I still cannot answer any of them.


The magazine hurt me, but it didn't mean to. An inanimate object sat there propped up and became one of the defining moments of my fucking entire life. The shape of things to come. And they came, believe me. They still do. There is no solution. The vanishing cream is life, but also death. And then the doors. And then the trip. And then Stephanie's fucking UNBELIEVABLY STUNNING ASS in those shorts, God bless that airheaded beauty. And then the fall within the fall. And then Kim demurred. And I drove alone. Probably best. I would have hit on Kim and made her very uncomfortable in the middle of nowhere, halfway between the Midwest and here. I could not fucking have that. She was so nice to me, always. Maybe I wouldn't have said anything. As much as I wanted to lick her little tenderness, I refrained from ever saying anything along such lines. Hmm. Lines. Never mind. The point is she remained there and I left. I hope she is well, that tiny person with the huge heart. Jesus fucking Christ in a condom, did I ever want her. The situation played out correctly. No more of me in her life. I probably would have ended up in a fetal position anyway. The magazine was the infantile beginning to something I still cannot handle. Contact equals pain.

I need to stop talking about Kim. Whiskey.

Jamie is a teenager in this episode, meaning I can't go on about how beautiful she is. Or maybe I just did. Get your mind out of the gutter. I don't think of her that way, assholes. Heh. Nothing is funny anymore.

I've been sitting here writing this for more than four hours. Basket case. Much of this does not make sense. Maybe I should sum it up... Nope.

She was so little that I probably could have stuffed half her body into my drooling mouth. Nice, huh? Product of time and circumstance. Go read someone else's fucking site.

Caverns and wind to the fifth power right now all over the place and covered in blood and shit until the buzzards come and eat everything, decaying or otherwise. Alive or dead. Blackened, inside and out. Dark. Evil. Bloody and in pieces. Knives out? They don't fucking matter anymore because no one listens to me. Disregarded like that homeless guy you just passed. Disregarded like yesterday's news. Dead and/or dying. The dress knows what that magazine did to me. It made a mess. It caused pain. It sat there and changed me as quickly as a loaded diaper. A baby burrito. The beginning of what sits here now and writes about closet doors, whiskey and tiny labia from the Midwest. The red woman in the dealership. The legs all over the city. Women from Nevada all over my face. Think. Just think. Mud and blood and shit and it. Them. Them thar. Over there. The causes. The evil ones. Enemies, all. Blood everywhere. I made the man's neck explode as if he swallowed a grenade, yet three years later I am worse. You'd think that story would have accomplished something more than pain. The cavern does not fucking care because I am still here dreaming of those things and yearning for those things and watching the world go by and people doing good for each other and the sun rising and setting endlessly and the women coming out of the gym by the job looking amazing because they worked their FUCKING ASSES OFF COMPLETELY in an attempt to appear and feel good and it's working and I am the opposite of all of it because I can't let go and get past and release anything from then or now or whenever like a real grown-up type of person so I can move along and 'be well' and all that other shit that keeps irritating me like a fucking flea bite right in the middle of the back that itches but cannot be reached unless you rub all over some door jamb like an animal out in the forest needing to use the same forest for grooming and comfort and food and survival and sleeping and everything but it just keeps itching like the memory of surgery and pain and crying and worry over the future and the telling that nothing will go away and they are right there causing heartache and loneliness and a state of mind equated to wanting death every fucking day because there is no improvement and I can't do anything about anything because the memories and situations keep coming back and back and back and then there is sadness and crying and pressure and PAIN AND PAIN AND PAIN and I still don't understand why this had to happen and what they were thinking and why I went that way when I was always so small and scared of everything and everyone and couldn't do anything about it and then I see her face all covered in tears and remember moving back here and wanting something but I didn't know what because I didn't know shit about anything and that fucking call girl in the lobby and her beautiful face and hair and breasts and lips and legs and I was scared like always but she was sweet and kind and soft and wondrous but I couldn't move as I stood there like a statue and then dreamed over and over and over and awakened with problems and a spot and bloody memories of lying there as they worked and then later I wished to lie there while something else happened but it didn't because I was afraid and then I saw pictures and video and remembered everything each morning and afternoon and night and then the line that cut me in half still hurts and then the magazine and the woman in the nice clothing and my head went just where they intended and then pain again and again and again and I wept and rolled and writhed but nothing came of it because I was afraid and we went home and I never spoke out of fear and kept everything inside and then years passed and the magazine returned again and again and I see it right now and am still scared because I was born and developed and grew and matured and worked and went to school and then got married and divorced and then did it again because no matter what comes along in life I am exactly the same stuck person at the beginning of life because I never went beyond that little boy.

I am afraid to continue living but scared of dying.