Shitty Friends

I’ve never been great at selecting which friendships to invest in. I commit too much time too quickly, they never seem to last, and the ones that do always cause more trouble than they’re worth. The earliest friendship that I can remember was with my neighbor, Terrance Mccullom, who lived across the street from me. I can remember friendships earlier than this one, but they all occurred before I developed object permanence, and really didn’t have much of an impact of my psyche. 

Terrance and I were the same age, neither of us yet in school. We instantly bonded over our shared love of Power Rangers. We were also both the only children in our families, which was important. It meant that we both knew the loneliness that came with living exclusively with adults. In retrospect, I think my parents paid more attention to me than Terrance’s paid to him. This would cause problems for us, because it determined what sort of attention each of us would be seeking. At the age of four, however, this felt like a blessing. I felt as if I had been given a twin brother. Somebody who would understand what it felt like to be lonely with an active imagination. Little did I know that I had no idea what either of those things meant until I met Terrance. 

Terrance was a really fun kid to play with. He called poop “kaka”, because that’s what his grandma called it. He always smelled a little bit like kaka, but since I hadn’t met many kids I figured this was normal. Terrance was great at coming up with games and playing pretend. We would pretend to be Mario and Luigi from the Mario Bros. games, and he would come up with unique stories for our characters to experience. This was fun until Terrance would inevitably get bored of the story he made up and decide that he was now Bowser instead of Mario, and try to hurt me. This was usually when I went inside. 

Eventually, Terrance got bored of playing pretend altogether and would instead try to get me to do things with him like fight with sticks, or play ding-dong-ditch, or kick car tires until the alarm went off. I would usually just keep watch while he did these things by himself and I tried to convince him to stop. He usually ended up getting in trouble before I could convince him. 

The bulk of my friendship with Terrance took place over two years, but it seems longer than that in my head. We saw each other almost every day, yet every time that I saw him he seemed to  have gotten a little bit older and a little bit less innocent. Our paths were beginning to diverge. While I remained sheltered, Terrance was seeing the world for what it really was. At six. His parents had started buying him video games that were rated “M” and taking him to see movies that were rated “R”, which he would describe to me in graphic detail.

I didn’t go over to Terrance’s house much, but each time that I did he would show me these things against my parent’s will, which made me feel guilty. I wanted to be good, and at that age my perception of “good” was essentially what my parents told me to do. I would usually go home pretty quickly, at which point Terrance would call me a “scaredy cat”. This always made me cry, which I guess proved his point. 

One summer, Terrance got a bunch of miniature fireworks that were technically legal in the city of Chicago since they didn’t require any type of ignition, though they certainly weren’t safe enough for a 5-year-old to be playing with. One of the miniatures were these sealed plastic cylinders with strings attached to them. You would pull the string, which broke the seal causing confetti and smoke burst out. Terrance and I were playing with these one time when out of nowhere, he stuck one in my ear and threatened to pull the string if I didn’t tell him that he was my best friend. I think he was starting to get jealous of a new friend that I had made at camp that summer, Erik. 

“You’ll go deaf, and you’ll never be able to hear your parents tell you that they love you ever again.” He said angrily, shoving the tiny explosive a little deeper into my ear. 

  Even at 5 years old I knew this thing probably wasn’t powerful enough to make me deaf, but I was afraid of how much it would hurt. Besides, just the idea that I wouldn’t hear my parents tell me they love me again, or the fact that somebody would or could threaten me with this was enough to make me relatively upset, and I began to cry again.

“You’re my best friend! You’re my best friend!” I shouted, and part of me actually believed it as the effects of Stockholm syndrome had started kicking in.

Terrance put the contraption down and started to cackle. 

“You smell funny!” he said, and started walking back to his house. 

“Yeah? Well you smell like shit.” I wanted to yell back at him.

 But I didn’t. Instead I wiped away my tears and went inside. My Mom said that Erik’s Mom had called and asked if I wanted to come over. I said yes and ended up sleeping over. It was fun. But I was sure to take a shower before I went over. 

The following September, we started first grade. To each of our liking, Terrance and I had been placed in the same classroom. Terrance may have started becoming more aggressive in recent months, and he may have started being meaner to me and the neighbors, but he was still my oldest and best friend, but I still felt a commitment to him. I don’t know why.

It became evident to me early on that my friendship with Terrance was not going to survive the new social realm known as elementary school. There were so many kids, so many fresh faces that even though he was sitting only a few feet away from me I often forgot that Terrance even existed. That is until he did something ridiculous like lick somebody’s face or start tearing the pages out of his textbook and eating them. The further we got into the school year, the more difficult it became to maintain our friendship. I was meeting new kids, kids who didn’t show signs of sociopathy and who smiled and liked to pretend things that weren’t inherently violent. Meanwhile, Terrance and I were moving in opposite directions in terms of social hierarchy. I was the teacher’s pet, a position of respect in the early days of schooling, and he was the black sheep, a revered and feared position by the rest of the class. He was the wild card, and while this intrigued people, it also scared them away.

The more that our paths diverged, the more I wanted Terrance to follow me. This was partially because I didn’t want him to fall into the dark depths of bad behavior. I wanted him to see the light of good behavior and listening to the teacher. But it was also because I wanted my behavior to be justified. I wanted to know that I was doing things the right way. It was the constant struggle that we had always had, our differing methodologies for getting attention. 

In school, we got along fine. I think that I was Terrance’s only link to the concept of good behavior, so he would sometimes pretend that we were still close just to get on the teacher’s good side. I don’t think she bought it, necessarily, but I think she definitely saw the possibility that a sheltered kid like me could rub off on an angry kid like Terrance. Little did she know that it had been the other way around for years at that point. Regardless, Terrance didn’t cause me any trouble in class. Back in our neighborhood, it was a different story. Terrance was getting meaner by the day. He had started cursing more and always wanted to play “fighting”, which would just be when he would try to fight me and some of the smaller kids on the block. For the most part I had started staying away from him as soon as we got off the school bus.

On the last day of class before winter break, we had one of those tiny classroom parties that were such a joy for the kids. That is, everyone except me. Teachers usually passed out candy or sugary treats on these days, and if Kindergarten had taught me anything it was that there are some kids who just couldn’t handle their sugar. Classroom parties were bound to end in tears for somebody, and the anxiety of the impending post-noon temper tantrums was enough to keep me on edge for the entire day. It was how I imagine a prisoner would feel on the last day in his cell before a mass release, some people just aren’t ready to return to the outside world.

Our classroom had two types of collective bathroom breaks. Usually in the morning we would all go together as a class. The boys room and girls room were right next to each other, and kids would wait in line next to the teacher until it was their turn to go. Then in the afternoon, the teacher would send us in groups of four or five at a time to go together. I was usually the leader of my group, and today was no exception. 

As you would expect from a Chicago elementary school, the “no snitching” policy had been deeply engrained into the bathroom leader roll. We weren’t supposed to talk about anything that occurred in the bathroom to the teacher or anyone else, and in exchange most kids did what we said.

Unfortunately, Terrance was also in my group, and he never did what I said. He had been wearing a big smile on his face all day, which was not a good sign. He also was wearing his bright red Dragon Ball Z t-shirt, which meant that he had the courage to do anything. I was tense. None of the other kids seemed to notice. We got into the bathroom and as soon as the door closed, everyone started yelling and running around. This was common behavior, even I participated in a few jokes. After about two minutes, most kids had relieved themselves and were ready to go. Everyone except Terrance, who was still singing at the top of his lungs while cupping water from the bathroom sink and dropping it into the garbage can.

“Terrance, hurry up!” I half yelled, half whispered to him. I was scared, and he could tell. 

Terrance looked up at me slightly perplexed, as if to indicate that he had just remembered that I was in there.

“Okay.” He said defiantly. Terrance walked from the sink into the bathroom stall while me and the rest of the group watched his pants fall to his ankles. 

“I have to go kaka!” Terrance yelled from inside the stall. We all laughed, even I did a little bit. But to our confusion, we didn’t see him turn around or sit down even. He just sort of stood there. 

Then it happened. The most deafening plop I have ever heard. The sound of shit hitting ceramic tile. Terrance had just pooped on the floor. The other realized there was no way to flush shit on the floor, and that it wasn’t going away. Terrance walked out of the stall laughing, but when he saw our stunned faces he suddenly stopped. The rest of the kids ran out of the bathroom. It was now just me and Terrance, and we were both terrified of this. 

His eyes began to fill with tears. I had never seen him like this before. To this day, it’s one of the most human looks I have ever been given.

“Please don’t tell anyone.” Terrance said.

 My heart instantly broke for him, because there was no way I could let this go. There was simply too much shit to pretend that this hadn’t happened. It wasn’t like he had just turd’d on the floor. This was a full-on shit, it took up significant surface area inside the stall.

 I walked out of the bathroom to see that my teacher was already halfway down the hall.

“Is it true?” She asked me.

All she needed to do was look at me to know the answer, and all I needed to do was look at her to know she needed a cigarette. I nodded at her, and we passed each other. I went back into a classroom that was sitting in stunned silence. The nice part about this class was that Terrance was so profoundly poorly behaved, that most kids didn’t even try to act out, but even this level of silence was perplexing.

A few kids asked me if it was true, I didn’t say anything. A few seconds later we heard Terrance screaming and we peaked out the window to see our teacher dragging him down the hall. That was all the answer they needed. 

After winter break, Terrance wasn’t there. I had figured he had been expelled for pooping on the floor, and I felt horrible. If I had just helped him clean it up, he would still be in school. It was going to be my fault that his life was ruined. I would soon come to find out that his parents had gotten a divorce, and his Mom had moved to another part of town. Terrance had gone with her and switched schools in the process. 

I never saw him again.

Since these days have past, I’ve begun to wonder if attention was why Terrance acted the way he did. This might seem like the natural cause of such behavior for most kids, but the more I think about Terrance the less sure I am that this is true in his case. He was not a happy kid, clearly. But beyond being unhappy, he seemed genuinely hateful and angry. I had never seen anything like it. A kid so twisted and infuriated with his world that the level of chaos he was willing to create surpassed that of children twice his age. Or maybe he just needed to be told he was loved more often. Either way, it still makes me sad.

Youth (short)

In my youth, I used to bound down stairs like an olympian. But now my knees hurt. I reach the last of my basement steps with a sigh of relief, and reach for the light switch. That’s when I realize that the light switch is at the top of the stairs, as it has been for the past 40 years that I’ve lived in this house. My mind is staring to fade as well, but I never bounded anything with it, like I did the stairs with my knees. 

  By the time I force myself back up to the top of the stairs, I decide that whatever I needed wasn’t worth going back down for. I go to the living room and plop on the couch. My back now hurts as well. I grab the remote and turn on the TV, but nothing happens. The screen stays blank. I groan and press it a few more times before realizing that I had gone downstairs to get batteries for the remote. 

  I sit there for a moment, wondering what has happened to me. I used to be so spry, never wanting a wife or children. Now I sit here alone, full of fear and confusion and anger that can’t be saturated by my basic cable package. I try to sleep and I try to die, but nothing seems to work.

Nothing special

Every day I go out and do something. I work, I do standup, I get something to eat. I leave my apartment and I do something. What they don’t tell you about the real world is that this is a struggle. It’s easy when your parents are constantly pushing you to do stuff and signing you up for shit that you don’t want to do.

You don’t even think about it, you’re constantly just being pushed along down a path until eventually you feel the pushing stop and you have to decide for yourself what to do and where to go. And it’s very, very easy to do nothing at all. For to do nothing is the preferred state of all human beings. And nothing has become so easy to accept. We can eat whatever we like, standing won’t be required for more than 4 hours a day, if at all. 

Some people get paid to do nothing. They live in their suburban homes where nothing is promised to happen, they commute through organized roads at a time when car and traffic safety are at all-time highs, and they go and sit down to click on random computer files until 5 PM. They sit there, clicking weaving through the same parts of the internet and their precious emails, fearing that somehow their lives will be affected by the 250,000 dead Syrians.

These days, you can even do something while you’re doing nothing. It used to be that if you were doing nothing, you had to really be doing nothing. Then somebody invented the cigarette, and the world changed. Suddenly it wasn’t enough to just do nothing. Something had to be included with nothing. Now we have smartphones, which are nothing disguised as everything. I have never seen a person on their smartphone who didn’t look like an idiot. They could be looking at galaxies or complex scientific equations and they still look like fools. 

Ideally, this wouldn’t be what I choose to write. I would be writing about some incredible, imaginative world filled with wonder and amazement. But I just can’t do that. For one thing, my imagination feels like it’s been abducted. When I try to think creatively these days, my brain just gets flooded with images of the modern world such as Donald Trump, DJ Khaled, Kobe Bryant, Syria, abortion, gun violence and Facebook. So in this moment, I have no imagination. I’m not sure if it was stolen from me or if I had never had it to begin with. 

Secondly, and perhaps this is the causation of the my initial problem, but I feel like the world doesn’t deserve any fiction right now. Fiction is a distraction, apropos of nothing. It seems as meaningless to me now as it ever has, but what could ever take its place in literary art? Autobiographical tales seem worthless now that our lives are being downloaded onto the internet. 

I dreamt of my Grandmother last night. We sat and talked at her kitchen table while she smoked cigarettes. At some point in the dream I realized that I was talking to her, and I broke down and cried. She got up and left the table, and then I woke up. No tears in the real world. Clearly the dream was fake, but it wasn’t really fiction.Not the fiction I’m thinking of, at least. While perhaps a bit mystic, the dream was too realistic to turn into a story. In my mind, realistic fiction is as good as lies.

But to describe spaceships or rainbow worlds or alternate realities seems like a disservice to anyone reading this. Maybe that’s what I tell myself because I can’t come up with anything interesting that lasts more than 200 words.

So to combat this, I go out and I do stuff. But no matter what I do, no matter how interesting my experience is and no matter what new thoughts enter my brain, I still come back to my filthy apartment and plop down in front of my computer to browse reddit and Facebook. I smoke too many cigarettes and joints until I can’t feel a thing, then I stare out into the Brooklyn night sky waiting to think of something that will change the world.

A Tragedy Divided Over Time.

Voodoo lady, state your name. Why don’t you talk to me? Come on baby, I’m not so bad. I know my breath stinks and my knees buckle when most people’s would stay firm. But I’ve got a nice laugh and some stories to tell you. I’m not looking for much in return. Just a little eye-contact. 

It’s 1 AM. I want to go home and smoke what’s left of my consciousness away. This is my last chance of the night, and you already have your back to me. I scream your name over and over again until my throat hurts. I do two back flips and don’t even whisper “ta-dah.” I even try some of the lines I scribbled before I sat down next to you.

Still nothing. Why do I even want to talk to you in the first place? You’re mean, and I know what you offer me. Shame and a feeling a self-satisfaction that lasts for no more than 30 minutes. You promise me a life of variety, but I cannot recall ever enjoying that. At the same time, the ever-present lie of the consistent lifestyle was always in my face. The only thing I ever enjoyed that was consistent was alone-time. But even that was a lie, since I was never really alone for as I long  wanted to be.

Maybe that’s why I’m so enamored by you, voodoo lady. You leave me alone for long enough, but I still know you’re there. I can talk at you for as long as I want and I’m never promised a response. You’re a consistent disappointment which compliments my loneliness. If you ever talked back, it might ruin things. Or maybe it would make things better, I guess it all depends on what I said to get your attention. 

I follow you through bars and coffee shops all over town. You talk to the other guys, even some women. But not me. Am I too awkward? Is that it? Are you interested in older guys? Not too old, obviously. You’re as cold to the geezers as you are to me. It’s true, I’ve  bonded with them over it.

I resent you, but looking at your form is addicting. Every curve is a reminder of my incompetence, and every turn of your head brings me hope. But I see your tastes and I want to change them. I want to improve you and evolve you in ways that you never thought possible. And I want you to change me. You have already. You make me wonder what comes next. 

Old world values tell me to stay away from you, but new world values tell me there’s no point in doing anything. So I might as well sit here and wait for your response. I know you see me. Every time I even thinking about getting up to leave you turn and face me. You might not even smile, but your reaction is enough to encourage me to try again.

Voodoo lady, I have too much time to be impatient with you. I grow aggravated, get restless in my seat, maybe even go silent. But I will always be sitting next to you, smelling your cheap perfume and watching you sip your drink and clap your hands for others.

Tulsa

 We drove out to Arizona, via St.Louis, for some much needed relaxation. My wife and I had been at each others throats for the past 4 years. In that time we had been on several vacations, about two a year,but this was our first one to Arizona. Our neighbor, Jerry, had told me that Arizona had saved his marriage. 

“It’s all the old folks.” Jerry had said. 

“Arizona is full of them. It’ll remind you and wifey that you only have so many years left together, and that you shouldn’t spend them all fighting. At the very least, you’ll want to fuck like animals because of all the heat and boredom.”

Jerry let out a disgusting cackle.

 I would have preferred he didn’t say that last part in front of two of my kids, who were standing there with me.

 I live with six kids. Jeff, Will and Sally are my wife’s kids from a previous fucked-up marriage. Tim, Sammy and Terry are my kids. 

“Sorry kids.” Jerry said, after I didn’t laugh.

“Where’s your wife?” My youngest boy, Tim, asked.

“She died.” He said.

Jerry had told me this when we first met. I hadn’t even asked. 

“Car accident. Nobody’s fault.” 

 There was an awkward, painful silence and lack of eye-contact after he said “Nobody’s fault.” I didn’t trust Jerry. Even my kids could tell that he probably killed his wife. But I would try anything to fix my marriage, even a flimsy plan from a neighbor who leaves his house twice a year. 

 We left the kids in St.Louis for the weekend. Jeff, who was the oldest at 27, was in-charge. Lucy, my wife, had to be convinced that Jeff was old enough for that responsibility. This was part of the problem with our marriage, she had very deep-rooted trust issues.

“Jesus, Lucy. The boy is 27 years old, he shouldn’t even be living with us anymore.”

“He has cerebral palsy, Stewart.” She replied with the shocked look that was always on her face when this argument came up.

“Well how’s he going to get better without a little responsibility?” I said.

Lucy rolled her eyes and went out to the porch for a cigarette. Typical.

But things were better now. We hadn’t seen the kids in a few hours, and we got to talk like we did back when we were dating.

 “I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon, ever since I was a little girl.” Lucy said, with her feet on the dashboard.

 I smiled at her. She looked so young and free, like she did in those pictures she showed me from middle school, before she had kids. 

“Do you know how close our hotel is to it?” Lucy asked.

“To what?” I replied.

“The Grand Canyon, silly.” 

I rolled my eyes. 

“Lucy, how many times do I have to tell you? We’re spending 11 days in Arizona. 6 in Phoenix, 5 in Tucson.”

“What do you mean? We’re not going to the Grand Canyon at all? That’s all I’ve been talking about for weeks!” She said angrily.

And all I had been talking about was The Marriott in Phoenix! This woman really just could not listen. 

“Baby, all I’ve wanted to do since I was 8 years old was see the Grand Canyon.” My wife said softly.

“Can we please take one night and go see it? Please? For me?” 

I sighed. God I love her.

“You really want to see this ‘Grand’ Canyon, don’t you?” I said, using one hand to make air-quakes, my other hand staying on the wheel. 

“Yes. Please.” She replied with a smile on her face.

“Alright, the rooms are booked already and there’s a $15 cancellation fee, but if you want I can take a different route and we can see it for 20 minutes on the way to Phoenix. But we’ll have to drive all night in order to make the reservation.” I said with a smile.

My wife looked out the window.

“Okay.” She said softly.

 Lucy didn’t speak until we got to the Grand Canyon. I think she had fallen asleep.

“We’re here.” I said. 

“I know.” She replied quietly. 

I got out of the car. Lucy stayed inside. I tapped on her window. 

Lucy got out of the car and walked with me to the edge. 

 I had to admit, it was pretty majestic. Yelp had said the Marriott had a gigantic jigsaw of the Grand Canyon displayed in its lobby. 1152 pieces. This view was sort of spoiling the jigsaw for me, but it was worth it to see my wife happy.

 I looked over at my wife. She was starring blankly out at the horizon. I nudged her arm gently, she didn’t move. 

“You okay?” I asked. 

“Do you think that God is real?” Lucy said, not looking away.

I thought about it for a moment.

“I suppose so, I’ve never really considered it before.” I replied.

Lucy looked at me, her eyes were welling up.

“Do you think he loves us?”

“Maybe.” I said, beginning to wonder if this whole “Grand Canyon” thing was such a good idea.

“Well he sure has a funny way of showing it.” 

With that, Lucy walked back and got in the car. 

We still had 13 more minutes before we needed to get back on the road, but I wasn’t going to point that out. I was excited to get to Phoenix. They shut down the water fountain at 11 and if we made good time I could see it before we checked in. 

The Man Dressed As Jesus

 There is a town somewhere between Georgia and Ohio that was built unlike any other town in America. Every year, a man constructed a house on a 150 plot of land that included several wells which the man had dug. He furnished the homes and filled each with nonperishable food. He also left a note on all the tables which read:

DEAR FRIEND:

 For whatever reason that you need a home at this moment, I am sorry for your struggles. Please take this bed, food and drinkable water as a token of promise that I will return. 

 I love you,

             Jesus Christ.

 The man wasn’t Jesus. Far from it. He had taken out a loan from his Father-In-Law, promising to build an ice cream shop in Milwaukee. Instead, he left his family to build shitty houses for drug addicts, which he filled with stolen groceries. 

 Even this might seem slightly noble, but the man also built a road through the town. Once a year, he would dress up as Jesus and walk down the road, awaiting the praises of his community’s members.

 The first year when the man got to town, there was only one person living there. Another man, his name was Toby. 

 Toby suffered from schizophrenia and, up until finding the town, had thought he himself was Jesus Christ. Toby was a weird dude, but you would be too if you had schizophrenia and thought you lived in a town built by Jesus. 

 When the man dressed as Jesus started walking down the road, Toby ran up to him and began kissing his feet. 

 The man had not expected this. 

 “Aw, what the fuck dude?” The man said, he then turned back the way he came and left Toby staring into the distance. 

 The next year was a little more enjoyable. Toby had left to God-knows-where, and had been replaced by two gorgeous women. 

 The man dressed as Jesus made love to them both and then left again, promising to come back with more food and cigarettes. 

 A year passed, and the man returned. Both of the women had babies. One of them was a boy, and the other a girl. Seeing an easy way out of town and not wanting to commit to any families, the man promised to come back once a year with food as long as the children were left in charge. The women agreed and the man dressed as Jesus left. 

 The next year when he returned, the town had grown larger. Every house was occupied, and there were also huts set up in-between the houses, which were each also filled with people. 

 The man instructed everyone in town to continue to worship him, the two women and their infant children, and promised that he would return with more food. 

 The man had sex with all of the women and ate all of their Oreos. In the evenings, he would give drunken lectures to the men about why it was important to not let anyone leave the town. 

 One day a precocious young boy came up to the man dressed as Jesus in front of everybody.

 “Jesus, do you do anything other than drink alcohol and eat Oreos all day?”

 The crowd around Jesus fell silent he stared at the child.

 “Um, I built the house you live in for one thing you little assho- I mean, my child.” The man said.

 “Yeah, but that was a long time ago. What have you done for us recently?” The child asked. 

 “I bring you food! Are you not full?” The man asked, really basking in the fact that these people thought he was Jesus.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t bring food anymore. Would you like that, little boy?” The man continued.

 “NO! No!” Everyone shouted. The boys mother walked out and slapped the boy across the face. They left, and the crowd settled down.

 “I want both of them banished from here.” The man dressed as Jesus said to one of the people in charge of security. 

 The man left and promised to return with food, which was becoming more difficult with the increased amount of people. 

 Over the years, the man had come into contact with several black market grocery dealers who supplied him plenty of food in exchange for one person from the town.  Every year before he left, Jesus would take one “chosen” person with him under the guise of bringing them to heaven. Instead, the person was sold into the black market for human trafficking purposes. 

 The difficult part for the man was making eye contact with some of the smarter townspeople while he handed them brand-name foods while dressed as Jesus Christ. Eventually he realized a solution to this problem would be to sell the smartest villagers.

 But then one day the man was caught, dressed as Jesus, trying to rob a gas station on the way back from his sanctuary. The police pegged the man for several grocery robberies over the years, and threw him into prison. 

 Through hours of interrogation about where all of the food was going, the man dressed as Jesus refused to give answers. His town would stay safe, even if he could not reap the glory of being their savior. 

 Meanwhile, the people in the town were growing hungry. It had been 19 months since Jesus had last been there, and supplies were running low. The two children Jesus had put in charge were growing older, but they did not see the town the same way. 

 The girl, now a young woman named Zenith, believed that it was time to start growing food in order to prepare for the winter. The boy, now a young man named Rock, firmly disagreed. He believed his Father would be infuriated over the planting of seeds on sacred ground. In reality, the man probably wouldn’t have given a shit. 

 Eventually, war broke out. It was particularly violent, since no weapons really existed in the town. Around 17 people now lived in the town, and all but 4 of them died. Rock, Zenith and the two women. The houses and huts had been destroyed and the winter was soon approaching. It was at this point that the women told their children of the time before the town. 

 “Wait, so you’re telling me that there are other places outside of this town to get food?” Zenith asked.

“Possibly.” Zenith’s mother said sheepishly. 

 At this point, the four of them looked out at the bodies and rubble that had been created in the town’s war. They all looked back at each other and laughed. They each hugged goodbye and went their separate ways. 

 Both of the women died pretty quickly. They were both relatively old and stupid, and didn’t know how to find a local road. They both collapsed somewhere in the woods and drifted into death. 

Rock got a job as a janitor at a church 25 miles down the road. He didn’t talk much to anybody. 

 Zenith, after realizing the size of the United States and the world she lived in, began to travel. She met lots of interesting people, including an old man named Toby who sold her mescaline. 

 The man who dressed as Jesus got hit very hard in the back of his head during a prison fight, which caused him to forget about the town and his schemes. He returned home to his old wife and family, and eventually built the ice cream shop with money left-over from human trafficking. 

Ramblings of a Burnout

I got a new room in Brooklyn. It’s on the other side of my building, and it’s two floors higher so I have a beautiful view out of my window, which is next to my desk. 

 If I look closely, I can see Laguardia Airport. Sometimes I’ll just stay up until sunrise watching the planes roll in and out. 

 I loved airplanes as a kid. I would watch them and think about all the people up in the air who were either coming home or going somewhere better. I would imagine getting on a plane and flying to Los Angeles or Tokyo or Kansas City. You know, all of the tourist destinations. 

 My Grandparents lived in Kansas City, and they had a pool. My Godparents lived in Los Angeles, and they had an ocean. Tokyo just seemed liked a neat place to go to, and it also had an ocean. Maybe that’s why I always associate flying with swimming. Nothing made me happier than swimming outdoors watching airplanes fly by. 

 I want to live my life guilt-free again. I want to have strange hopes and ideals because they fill my soul with joy and not because they’re a good financial decision. 

 I don’t want to be a comedian, I don’t want to be a philosopher. I hardly want to be a writer as much as I want to be someone who writes. 

 I just want to be. I want to drive around the country and fly around the world for no reason other than to see it. I want something other than my conscious mind to be a mystery. 

 I hate knowing that nobody knows what’s going on in the world. I feel as if we’re all so distracted by the drugs and the entertainment. 

 The old world seems so much better. I suppose they’ve been saying that for centuries now, haven’t they? And it’s not true. This world is one of the best we’ve had as a society. 

 So why am I not enjoying it? The nature is dying. By the time I’m 50, there will be no more flowers or trees or mountaintops. By the time I’m 50, the world that I know now will be a cruel joke that I’ll remember as a better, simpler time. 

 I want to learn, but everything I’ve been taught has been a lie. A man who is told nothing but lies all day will learn nothing but how to be a liar. I do not care what white men think. I am a white man, I know nothing, just like every other white man does. 

 But I keep trying. I keep striving for a better tomorrow and a hope that someday our kids will be able to understand the true value of existence better than I did. 

 Maybe I should stop going to school. Maybe I should start taking different classes. Maybe I should sell some stuff down by the airport, and make money that way. Who knows, man. Who knows.