That is my goal today. I have no other goals. I don’t even have a list of goals of things I need to have goals about.
Let’s see. A single subject that I can prettily explore in about a thousand words because attention spans are not what they were. That’s not a slam. That’s just a hasty observation. About you. If the shoe fits, walk around in it. Shoes are awesome. Being barefoot is awesome. Socks are awesome, too. Did I miss anyone?
After all, my pretend crack addiction is actually affecting my ability to write anything other than ‘testicle fur’ at odd moments. I pretend a lot, as I don’t have Netflix. If I had Netflix, my brain could atrophy and melt. I could become one of those secret control the world bankers and just enjoy all the cash rolling in. I applied for that job but had to admit I didn’t have Netflix. I have not heard back from them yet. See what I mean? If I had a goal listed somewhere–do not go off on tangents about Netflix or secret world banking organizations– I’d not be a the end of a small paragraph of nonsense and self-indulgent fluvering. [I made that word up. It means to meander needlessly and test the patience of patient readers.]
Oh, got a really nice rejection notice. If that makes sense. You were a finalist but we went with other plays but we loved your writing. Ah!! Hope springs eternal in the writer’s droopy soul! Someone likes my writing?? Hallelujah.
Just because it’s a leftover, sitting there in the fridge like a welfare queen, does not mean it goes into scrambled eggs. That’s the number one and only rule for this life that counts. No chicken skin, no weird rubbery green bean-ish bean thingie, no no no no.
Dang it, this has several subjects by now. Bad breakfast cooking, world bankers, absence of Netflix, imaginary crack addiction, rejections that are nice…Ugh a bug.
The toast is good from that breakfast fiasco. [I did not cook breakfast this morn. Stop right there. I would not just randomly throw shit into the eggs and call it a meal. There are things that do not go into eggs. God damn it, there are rules here. I don’t care. Yes, there are people starving and eating nuclear waste dirt right now to stay alive. I know that. I watch those miseryporn commercials same as you, you judgmental horror. You smug smuggle! Go judge yourself and eat vitamins and drink kale sweat. Bye!]
Kale sweat. My thirty-page rhyming couplet ode to my mother’s childhood pets. It starts off with a scream about nostalgia and ends with a longing for the good ole days. Arcs, people, arcs are what makes art work.
“Satanic Mafia” is going to be the title of one of my many books. It’s going to be a Christmas tale, about an animal rescue. The new title, after I get a mysterious email from the UN, will be Fluffy’s Last Stand Against the NWO, which will be a more friendly-seeming and sales-garnering title and attract a wider audience who will…Must stop torturing myself about imaginary books. Time for an imaginary hit off my imaginary crack pipe. Sometimes dreams are the only things you have left and sometimes those dreams are weird, man. Weird.
Okay, let’s end this on a positive note. +
No, just kidding. Oh, the House on Clark Boulevard has officially gone through that first round of editing. I know!! I just peed myself a little, too, in excitement and anticipation and hopeful hopes for a better tomorrow.
PS– the Orange Snowflake held its own pep rally yesterday, Saturday April 29th, because…yeah. Can’t someone send that poor Crusty Cheeto a Cheer the Fuck Up card? Maybe send him a basket of refugee children’s ears or a nice spiral cut ham? I can’t. I’m, like, totally busy, um, writing some goals down. Yeah. Goals. Mm.
Well, don’t I feel special. Two rejections for my submitted something or other on the same day. Those pieces sucked anyway and I submitted them during the wrong phase of the moon and my energies were all wrong and I wasn’t being open to all the universe had to show me yet, of course. Life lessons or something to be learned here. Or that my writing sucks and nobody wants a thing to do with it. I’m a crappy writer who has delusions of grandeur. I should have gone into shoveling dead animals off the highway, at least I’d have enough cash to buy Christmas presents once in a while and some actual self-respect rattling around in whatever’s left of my soul. Which is poisonous thinking and I should pour some sugared sunshine posit-tronic thoughtjuice on that and smile through the pain and fake it until I make it. Wheeeee.
Yeah. Something like that.
I know we’re not supposed to admit a feeling of utter GODDAMN IT GODDAMN IT FUCK. That’s so…defeatist. No sense, none, not a single dropsicle of sense, needs to be wasted on getting upset, angry or in any way emotional over yet another rejection and another right after that and another, and yet another, oh look, another rejection form letter urging me to keep submitting; even though they enjoyed reading my work it was not suitable at this time for our needs. Maybe next time. Maybe next time. The two following little blurts are from actual rejections sent to moi. I have made them generic and every day to protect the guilty and the sadsacks alike.
Thanks again for sharing this. As always, there was a wide range of excellent responses to this image, but we received 262 poems in total, and the artist and I could each only pick one. Unfortunately we chose other work—check the [I’ll leave the name to your imaginations] this Tuesday and Thursday to read the two winners. [Subtext– come and read what a good poet wrote. Why don’t you try being a good poet so maybe your life will have meaning at last? That’s so not the subtext, brainworm.I should support other writers, so they’ll support me when I’m in the winner’s circle. And when will you get near that winner’s circle, o Ms. Crappola O’Crappy? ]
Thank you again for submitting your play, [ what does it matter? It lost. It doesn’t deserve a title.] We are finally gearing up for this year’s production of [when did I submit a play for this place? Oh yeah, back in September 2016], and while we enjoyed reading your play, we are unable to include it in the lineup.
UPDATE, as of May 5, 2017– just got one of my fave kinds of rejections. Where they tell you you did not win and then wax rhapsodic over the play that did win. Like, a giant bitchslap of just how much you sucked and that other play ROCKED THEIR UNIVERSE AND IS THE BEST THING SINCE SLICED BREAD, THE WHEEL AND THE INVENTION OF CATS. “We just thought you’d like to know you didn’t get selected.” End it there. I don’t need a revival-tent-ish testimonial to whatever did win. Fragile ego here, god damn it!!
Now, I do have a sense of humor about rejections, I do. I laugh– ha ha-– and then try to remember that rejection is a part of life and it’s all about learning something and that when you get lemons, drink vodka and that when a door closes, you still have cheesecake. Except when the cheesecake is at the store so you spread peanut butter on stale crackers instead, which makes you feel like a total loser because a real winner, even when they didn’t get picked from a random herd of sweaty, earnest other writers, would have fucking cheesecake in their fucking house. Amen.
There’s not even those fake Dollar Store cheesy puffy things in the house that try to be Cheetos but fail so miserably it’s laughable. Ha ha. Maybe the universe can send me one of those “You’ve won five dollars” scratch-off lottery tickets [One I don’t actually have to buy. One I find out in the yard beneath the oak tree. I’m totally down for some miracles right now. Magically appearing, modest-winning scratch-off lottery ticket, I’m in!] before deluging me with rejection letters. I think that’s fair. Totally, like, fair and stuff. There’s no balance here, universe. None! It’s a lopsided smackfest! At least send some fake ass cardboard-esque Cheeto wannabe products my way if you’re gonna keep sending me multiple rejection notices every other day. Hello!!! HELLO!! Is this thing on??
Oh, P-freaking-S– I was gonna, like, take a break from this here bloggie for a bit due to needing some mental health days [like, um, you couldn’t tell or something that my mental health, like Elvis, has left the building], having life flu, and generally, planning a dance like nobody’s watching dance party marathon for one, but…yeah. I decided to vent like a pouty little volcano and spew feeble almost-ash into the indifferent air. whee
Oh– Goddamn it, France. Remember when Germany occupied you, ahem, during that thing we labeled WWII? Why are you trying to put an actual far-right fucknut on your French throne there? [I know it’s not a throne, I was being cutesy.] So the actual right-now Germany can make movies about the noveau [neu– I hope that’s a somewhat correct German word for new. Again, I was trying to be cutesy.] French Resistance? Yeah, immigrants, Satan sent them. So maybe build a wall around France and then Satan can’t get in…oh wait, that’s America’s Bigly Planz. Um…let me get back to ya, France. BRB.
How bad does it have to get before people…Fuck. Really bad. It has to get kill a bunch of people, mass graves, atrocities and breaking news reports read by serious-faced perfect-haired automatons bad and even then, it has to get more and more foul until we all magically remember we’re all better than that and this cannot stand and how can people do that to each other…I forget that we all forget and have to repeat everything a bazillion times to get anything through our goddamn thick heads. And then repeat it all again after that because nothing sticks in our goddamn collective thick heads. Never forget? We never remembered in the first goddamn fucking motherfucking goddamn place. Amen. I ended with this French stuff to remind myself that rejections suck but fascism sucks more. It’s all about perspective, fellow babies. Now I want cheesecake and Cheetos. Hello, power of suggestion.
“You ever read any Nietzsche? Nietzsche says there’s two kinds of people in the world: people who are destined for greatness like Walt Disney… and Hitler. Then there’s the rest of us, he called us “the bungled and the botched.” We get teased. We sometimes get close to greatness, but we never get there. We’re the expendable masses. We get pushed in front of trains, take poison aspirin … get gunned down in Dairy Queens.” from the Fisher King, as spoken by Jeff Bridges as Jack Lucas.
I have written several drafts, by now, under the title of the Bungled and the Botched. I started off with a summary/review of one of my favorite films, the Fisher King. It was light and delightsome. And novel length. It was up there, patient darlings. Don’t worry!! The following is merely flash fiction length!
Oh, it’s not. It’s just short story length now. Fartknockers!
Chemical attack. Sarin or chlorine gas used. Savage raw footage of actual children and adults dying, struggling to breath, white foam around their noses and mouths. Yet, America has denied entry of Syrian refugees because they might be terrorists, even the children. “We can’t let them in, those kids get indoctrinated. They might be terrorists! Fuck Syria, LOL.” [I remember reading words all over to that effect.] Oh look, if you Google ‘refugee children as terrorists’ or some such amalgamation…fuck me running, I’m wigging out here, I’m buggin’. There’s many a tale of evil refugee children disguised as those fleeing from violence and the utter destruction of all they know to win our sympathy. EVIL TERRORIST CHILDREN COMING TO AMERICA. Who will win our hearts and then blow us up.
I should get a job writing that sort of fiction for various sites. I have some training as a writer, of plays, fiction and poetry, and just general writing in general. If it pays enough, who cares who it hurts? Right? I feel so modern or ancient, as this seems a tactic of olden days, too. Mm…I could be totally sarcastic and caustically bitter and it would come off as ‘true’. God damn! New career path! And I can write a book about all that when I’m exposed as a charlatan or a fake. Go on talk shows and sob about Free Speech. Talk about how my freedom has been curtailed because I am no longer allowed to make up stories about refugee children. You have to play the cards you’re dealt, right? And since I’m a bitter, cynical little kitty most days, I really think I would be wonderful at the whole ‘fake news’ writing. All you have to do is try. And keep trying until the day you die. You’re only a failure when death gets you or something like that.
Holy shit, my inner voices. Evil bints!
Hey!! Get back to your diatribe, you silly daisy. Better?? And that was all you. We just sat back and rolled our eyeballs a lot.
You have eyeballs? Sorry!! You’re right. Back into the splooge of my diatribe indeed, inner voices.
Great! So splooge away. That’s a really gross word. Maybe strike that from your ten word vocab list? We’re ignoring the eyeballs snark. We’re imaginary, after all. We’re just voices. We’re just voices in the wilderness, ha ha. What’s for High Tea? I believe you were splooging
And then, on the one hundredth anniversary of WWI,
Tangerine Vader drops about a hundred million worth of Tomahawk missiles on a Syrian base. But first, he calls Russia to warn them of this. [Did he also warn Ass-Hat? Did they have a cozy three-way chat about this whole thing? Ugh a bug] And 45 doesn’t call or warn American citizens what’s about to go down or ask Congress to approve or not an actual act of war. Because the Constitution, fuck it! Suddenly…this uncaring asshole of the mating between a hair piece and a snake oil salesman cares about children dying in a war zone? Overnight, seemingly, it suddenly develops some empathy for others?
I just see a huge theatrical gesture here. I see someone trying to get his ratings up. I see someone looking for a ratings boost. I see someone who only cares that his approval ratings go up. That he comes off as tough and manly. That he come off as not a big ole pussy. After all, Obama was ‘weak’ on Syria. Obama was the ‘pussy’ about Syria. That it’s a distraction from domestic troubles. That it deflects attention away from domestic woes. Ooooh, baby.[I’m also starting to have real sympathy for those with Conspiracy Theory Derangement Syndrome, those who splutter about the real 9/11, that we never landed on the moon and that dinosaurs live in the center of our flat earth. Ahem, Russia, ahem.]
And it’s not just me, I checked. I looked around. I read stuff. And not just on one side. I briefly glance at the ‘other side’ and then retreat to the dry slopes of an all-organic oat bran muffin mountain washed down in an artesian water binge while listening to NPR’s three hour tribute to the music of tree frogs as performed on kazoos by slightly gifted students. It’s about balance, man. Balance.
I see a lot of sound and fury, signifying a PR ploy. And done with real goddamn missiles and with a cynical disregard of the situation there in Syria and those living with this war for close to seven years now. And…ugh.
Suddenly, my truly sadheap of a life lately doesn’t seem so…botched and truly bungled.
Self-realization, ah, how smug and shallow I can be, oh yes! I tied it also back to the Fisher King!! And Nietzsche!! Elitist and snowflake-lite am I! Ah, the world’s about to get a taste of WWIII, as played now with nuclear weapons for all, so my stuff doesn’t seem so awful. Ah!! SILVER FUCKING LINING. Diplomacy is for pussies, WWIII for those manly men whose dicks are FULLY ERECT AND READY TO SHOW THE WORLD JUST HOW ERECT THEY ACTUALLY ARE. Let the manly seed flow like water! Like water!! RAWRRRRRR.
That is seriously my take of all this three-way posturing among Tangerine Vader, Putie and Ass-Hat AKA Assad. It’s just a global My Dick Is Yuge, No, My Dick Is Huger contest. Sort of like the war right now between Christianity and Islam– it’s a Dick-Off. The Super-Colossal World Death Match on Whose God Has the Biggest Set of Male Funsies Contest.The losers get to die, a lot. In bigly ways. In horrible ghastly thoroughly televised ways! You can also throw in other major or minor religions that sport Super-Alpha male deities. Go ahead, it’s okay with me.
Can’t we hire three people to walk around with these three world ‘leaders’ and tell them, constantly, how manly they are? [Possibly do with this with all insecure dictator wannabes and actual dictators? What about a GofundMe campaign to help defray costs?] Can we get that into some UN meeting or into Congress or…? It’s job creation, look at it that way. It’s capitalism. It’s a blow to socialism! It’s people pulling their own weight at last! You’d have to hire, actually, about fifteen to twenty people per dictator wannabe or actual dictator. Nine to cover all the shifts– seven to three, three to eleven, eleven to seven. As even in sleep, manly leaders need to feel reassured. Even when asleep, the constant praise must not cease to be! And then hire some additional on-call folks when people get sick or need a mental health day. These Dick Whisperers can ring bells or make some sort of noise while their Fragile Boys are in public. “Your Penis is Magnificent! Your Penis Outshines the Sun! Women Find Your Penis Very Nice!”
For women dictators, we can hire guys and dress them in kilts. They can tell her she’s beautiful and smart and that of course dominating a country doesn’t make her less feminine. Her oatmeal cookies just hit the spot! Her math skills rival Einstein on his best day. Her excellent and keen fashion sense rivals her policy of brutally suppressing artists who paint her as the fat lady in a sideshow for being great. Then those guys in kilts can accidentally get caught in a high wind. She gets a glimpse of naughty bits, gets praised for her least little thing and they get paid a comfortable salary. Win-win, baby. Win-win.
[All of the above would also depend on the woman in question. She might not be able to make cookies, after all. Not all women can bake, sadly. #NotAllWomen]
Can we get someone ON THIS, PLEASE? Can we get someone to actually plan out and execute this Dick Whisperercampaign? Not me. Someone else who’s not me. I came up with the idea. Now the rest of you can pick up the damn slack. We’re all in this together.
Wow, that went to a weird, dark, penis-laced place, didn’t it?
Because…trying to make sense of the events this week has made me a cynical, numb just want to shoot some horse and float off to Narnia kinda burned out empty shell.Where’s Aslan
to save the day and rip the face off the Orange Queen? [Yeah, I know it’s the White Queen. I know. Thanks.] It’s the absurdly awful use of an actual fucking tragedy, the cynical taking of a chemical attack and using it like toilet paper to wipe away shit from your own political asscrack and holding that toilet paper up with a shark’s empty grin that just made me grind to an actual halt.
“See? I’s a caring big boy who carez. See?? I’s so manly! I’s a president! How are my numbers? Did my numbers go up?? Check my score!! I need to go golfing. This is hard! Why is Brian on Twitter so mean to me?? Can we nuke Des Moines? I’m nuking Des Moines. Take that, Brian! Yuse got sleepy eyes!”
Yes, time for some organic oat bran muffins and a dirty used syringe full of smack. Do the kiddies still call it smack? Must go look that up now on Urban Dictionary.
PS or Afterword or Background Noise— I really will come back to the Fisher King for a non-political hysterical penis-flavored rant on world events some day soon. Probably tomorrow or even later today.
I totally botched this interview this week; oh honey, did I come off as stupid, stupid and idiotically stupid, oh yes. I bungled and botched a grammar question. I about burst into tears I was so mortified. And then, because I’d driven a bit of ways to reveal what a true numbskull I am, the interviewer ‘nicely’ threw some questions at me. Guess who botched and bungled that as well?? ME!! Moi sucks at job interviews.
And yesterday I crowned myself as Queen of the Bad Interviewers. I might have to make myself a crown out of my joke of a resume, my hopes and dreams and some glitter. Yay!! I might even add some stuff I find in the bottom of the fridge, that grurdge that has dried to a permanent fixture on the very back. Grurdge, a mixture of syrup, ketchup, splattered leftover juices and assorted substances that surely came from other planets to come try life on the inner walls of the fridge. No amount of elbow grease will actually remove all traces of grurdge. I know, once a year or so, I do try to get the grurdge to migrate to another family for a home. It just grunts at me, tells me to think positive thoughts, that it’s up to me to make the day a good day or a bad day. I splash Dollar Store bleach on it and let it be. We call it a draw and declare we both have Yuge Genitals of War-Like Ferocity and both of us are happy. Amen.
PSS– this is a last shout out to me for predicting the universe would drop a hammer on my head. Interview. Hammer. [I take no responsibility that I turn into a deer in headlights, that I’m maxed out on the stress meter, that my reaction to interviewing is on par with getting root canal surgery without the nice numbing agents, that…yep.]
And yet another Post Script thingie– the GOP used the nuclear option to push through Neil Sucks Whores, or whatever his name is. [Gorsuch. Confirmed as Supreme Court Justice April 7, 2017. Leadership means fuck the rules and Constitution and everything else and just do what you want. Got it. Heroin and Positive Life Slogan Exchange later, everyone? I’ll text the details whenever I get around to putting minutes on my Trac phone. Later, gators!]