An Inhuman Condition

Stop lamenting all the ways you suck. Stop wishing you were productive. Stop wanting things you don’t need. Stop doing things that don’t matter. Stop putting things off until you “have more time.” You waste plenty of time already.

Don’t take it personally, don’t get depressed. Just do better.

The more you sit around and lament whatever wishing and dreaming of a better world (better you, better circumstances, better anything), you could be doing it. You do it by doing better. Contemplation is great if you’re going forward, but thinking about the past is only backward motion. You can’t change anything there. You are powerless in the past, but you are Superman now and in the future. There are so many things you can change right now that make all of the things you can’t change look meaningless. Learn from your mistakes and do better. Don’t plan, don’t schedule, don’t make a mental note or procrastinate on it. You will lose it if you don’t start now. Just do better. Tattoo that thought on your mind and don’t forget. Do it now.

Do better.

I’ve finished the script to Bear and Bear, P.I. finally. Artist and I have it in a state we’re happy with, and if all is going well he should have some thumbnails for my perusal soon. Whenever I get some pixels from the project, I will finally do something with our website BearPI.com beyond displaying the number pi. I’m sure anyone reading this is aware of the poster on CockTracy.com, but in the event some unknown stranger makes it here, I want that stranger to see Artist’s cock in all it’s colored splendor.

I’m about 3,500 words into a new short story that will require much editing before I put it here. I need more time or less distraction to get writing, webstuffs and maybe even some submitting to publishers finished.

Read the rest of this entry �

So it looks like I’ve finally migrated everything over to my shiny domain. I am now hosted, and all is well in the world. I’m (hopefully) finishing a script in the next few days and will begin generating new content for the site.

Until then friends,
Bears

Have you ever been overtaken with an insane, lustful rage? It’s the whiskey-in-hand, we-can’t-work-things-out, why-can’t-I-tell-her-how-I-feel, what-the-fuck-is-so-difficult-about-this-shit, burning-through-cigarettes kind of madness. It’s the sort of rage that leaves you pacing back and forth in the kitchen, thinking fake conversations in your head while your eyes just burn into nothing in particular. You just mumble things here and there thinking you’re an idiot and occasionally blurt out a coherent “fuck” or “damn it.” You only stop to pour your blessed whiskey into a shot glass, highball or mixing cup – whatever is clean at the moment. For whatever reason you feel trapped in that instant with nothing else in the world – it’s just you, the anger and the whiskey.

Now picture all of that, the ping-ponging, the muttering, the burning eyes, but without the alcohol. Picture instead that instead of a chilled, caramel-colored beverage, you’ve chosen a loaf of bread and a stick of butter as the outlet of your frustration.

You untwist the little tie or pull off that plastic square thing almost breaking it in half (which happens even in normal operating conditions I must add), and you tear into that loaf of bread piece by flaky piece. You have your knife and you viciously slice into that stick of soft butter over and over again, smearing it across the bread. All the while you seethe and pace and think “what the fuck” as you bite off a piece of bread and continue on your way. Picture doing this for twenty minutes.

That was my Sunday night.

I didn’t write it into my calendar. I didn’t need to finish the loaf before it all went moldy. I wasn’t even that hungry. I thought to myself: “I should go find a snack and make some coffee.” It was that innocent. I get the coffee brewing. I start peering into the fridge, and while I’m in there something just snaps. It was this out-of-nowhere, visceral, what-the-fuck-is-so-goddamned-wrong-with-me outburst.

I’ve been single for a few months now, nothing major mind you, but I think it’s starting to take its toll. Couple that with coming out of an on-again, fuck-off-again relationship. Couple that with having contact with the ex again. Couple that with realizing how it will never work between the two of us. Couple that with having no real prospects and being complete shit at meeting women. When you put that all together, you can see why it might be maddening. But bread and butter?

I can’t justify it. There’s nothing about the bread that held any particular sentiment. I’m not some closet bread fetishist. It was just stupid happenstance.

Although I think I had better figure out this relationship bullshit soon before I find myself pouting over some chips and salsa.

It’s late, and by any estimation of the situation, I should be tucked neatly into my heaping disarray of covers drifting somewhere toward the corner of Sleep Ave. and Dream Blvd. I should be singing my sweet chorus of apnea inspired snores and thrashing in my sheets. I should be diligently dangling in the dark ditch between mattresses and floor using my bedding as one giant-sized pillow. I should be doing all of this, yet I am not.

The caffeine stomping in my gullet, sending signals and synapses of stimulated stirring, will not yet subside and turn the tide from wakefulness to rest. I am simply stuck with no luck, no sheets into which I may tuck, feeling like a schmuck run amok, like a young buck struck by a truck until the drug burning deep inside subsides, until I’m free of this muck.

Well, fuck.

Light that midnight oil, baby, and watch it burn bright deep into the night.

Sucking air through the cigarette faster than bullets through a gun barrel, his lungs fill like bellows of desperation. Each breath numbs the restless anxiety burning inside him. Carcinogenic fumes smother the flames as the embers of despair flicker one final flare. He douses the ash with spirits and the corners of his mouth peak to form a nervous smile. His quiet worries cry out in manic jest all the while dancing an awkward social two-step.

What fueled my body to cast a shadow on all things natural, human or sane was not cocaine, nor speed, adderall, ritalin nor any other chemical friend along for the ride. No, the cause of my insomnia was pure, uncut, home-grown madness. The corners of the banal had long ago weathered round, and I drove furiously to the end of existence. What was waiting on the other side seemed sickeningly similar, but in a fun-house mirrored sort of way. The bleak, boring, regular was all around, but underneath something dangerous was always lusting and lurking.

The elections are marching military-style to their climax in three days. Americans spent September spending less than they have in a long while. Gasoline is practically being given away at deep-discount, pre-apocalypse rates. World capitalists are handing out $25 billion to keep Hungary, a member of the elite European Union, afloat between paychecks. Like a bunch of broke, blue-collar buddies, they are buying Hungary’s drinks at the bar to get him through the rough times.

All the news reads like the introduction to a long epitaph for Western civilization. A British monetary consultant firm has predicted that the West has five years until the developing powerhouses start to control world capital. Our little exploited children had to grow up eventually. My only question concerns the hell of a nursing home in which they will ultimately hide us away. It was all a wild ride while it lasted. Maybe lucky Americans will be allowed to work in call centers for India and sweatshops manufacturing small toys for Chinese children.

Read the rest of this entry �

She woke me up. The loud synthetic beeps invading my dreams plucked me quickly from my sleep. I’m fogged, disillusioned and unable to adequately interpret or communicate. The voice is soft, jovial, alive with a playful tone. Mine is harsh, dusty and hibernating still. Slowly the speech changes, transforms from a subtle cipher into the unencrypted input my mind can manage. In line my conscious, cognitive, creative all perk up. I am capable of full duplex conversation and awake, finally.

The pile sits in ash: silent, waiting. The souls have run bone-dry and call out solely in extinguished death rattles. They mourn like a still bay after a pouring of rain. They lay there, through the sepia genocide, without regret. They are cast, one by one, into the dismally dry pit. Each victim resonates its death onto the burdened backs of the executioners. Even still, more are burned down and pitched into the void. Every breath is short, stifled and quiet as they pay their toll and take the last travel to Dante’s over-crowded waiting room. Each has a story to tell, an interesting individual life to sell: trying to make the dimes to buy its way from hell.