works archive 9 10 2001

(no title as of yet)     I was seventeen when the train crashed with my parents and brother on board. While I was in the backseat of an ‘89 Ford Mustang, my tongue lodged in the throat of a girl from high school, my entire family was being identified by their dental records. On my brother‘s account, who hadn‘t been to the dentist in 10 years, they had to scrape the remains of his library card off of his femur. Or what was left of his femur. Of course, this was 900 miles away, this accident. This disaster.     I had no part of it.     My parents had no part in me either, from that point on. They were both dead.     My brother was 12 years old. He was a straight "A" student in middle school. He’s dead too.     The girl in the mustang, I don’t even remember her name. Her face is blank, her memory what a clone would look like if somehow it wasn’t programmed to know it’s genetics. Basically just unscarred flesh in the odd, upright shape of a human. That’s pretty much how my life has been since then. Everyone around me dying and crippled and hungry, the middle-class workers still slaving at their pointless jobs, their bosses still being jerks. The world going to shit. And me with my hand on a girl’s thigh that I can’t for the life of me physically remember.     I don’t feel sorry for my parents or brother, either. They got out easy. Sure, anyone can pick up a gun and create some avant-garde painting with their gray matter, or use a razor blade to drop a few quarts of blood in the bathtub, but there’s always that sense of dread. Of guilt. Of what people would say. "He didn’t have the balls to live with his problems," they’d all say. "He couldn’t handle the real world," they’d sneer. The world peering down their thick fucking spectacles at your puny, no longer existent life and making snobby remarks. They are still alive, so they must be better than you. What a bunch of pricks.     My family definitely had it easy.     That all happened 20 years ago, the crash. When my life completely changed by staying exactly the same. Everyone around me changed, technology "got better", lives were created and ultimately destroyed. No no, no pity for me, thank you. You can’t live in the past, and you definitely can’t live for it either. So what’s the use of even remembering it?     Anyway, I’ve moved on. That’s all good and gone and there’s nothing I could’ve done about it. In all honesty, I doubt I would have even if I could. Many people don’t realize how important selfishness is. If you live for someone else, you end up cheating yourself. What does it really matter what that person thinks of you or does to you anyway? That train of reasoning molded me into the boring, pathetic, insecure, pessimistic asshole that I am today, who can and does fuck every female that catches my eye. The sad thing is that there used to be a sense of pride in that accomplishment. I mean, look at the history of America - Frank Sinatra, James Dean - even President Kennedy had the hottest woman in the world back then. But now, every plain-Jane-housewife sees some overrated, overpaid bitch on television with a seductive dress on and they decide to go fuck the next dick that walks in just to be part of the culture. To make them feel like their life is worth something. Like they "fit in". I do it to make me feel important. For 30 mind-blowing minutes of this girl’s life, I’m her God.     So, on to present day. I would spill a bunch of boring facts about where I’m living, what I’m doing to make money, how I cook my eggs - but that’s all insignificant. Every morning (with the exception of Monday - Sunday night being the night of rest), a new face is laying unconscious on the other half of my well-used bed. Sometimes, they try to get out early as to avoid a confrontation with the stranger who ripped open their womanhood and made them bleed from the neck, but when they can’t find their clothes (that I’ve hidden), they decide to go back to bed. Most of the time. Half the fun of what I do is making them feel like shit the next morning for what they’ve done the night before.     Are you proud of me, mom? I know you’re looking out for me up there.     I just spent an hour raping some slut I found at the coffee shop yesterday.     Dad, remember the time you told me about the love between a man and woman? Was that more of your pal-ol-buddy-chip-off-the-old-block clowning around?     So when this no-name, not-worth-remembering face wakes up all cheery-eyed and "refreshed" from the night of incredible "love-making", I conveniently forget their name. I pretend I’m hung over. "I’m sorry, What did you say your name was?" " Where did you say I met you last night? I didn’t think I went to that bar." What a mystery. What a fucking tragedy. Better keep your legs together next time, you insignificant whore.     People have told me that my "womanizing" was a direct result of the loss of my mother. Riiiiiiiiiiight. You know, when I’m shoving my pulsating meat into this howling bitch’s dripping , stinking, filthy cunt, I’m picturing my mom. She’s in the kitchen with that stupid hairdo, watering the plants and acting busy as to not upset my fucked-up father. I’m picturing her goofy grin and annoying laugh, and how she always used to make me try on everything before she bought it. That’s what receipts are for, mom. This "trying-on" deal is why god created washing machines. If I wanted to be that close to another guy’s body, I would just get naked and rub up against him.     I’m sorry, I’m losing track of what I want to say. You see, I’m in this predicament. It’s hard to explain, but here goes.     People were always calling my family’s death by these gentle words.     Their "misfortune".     Their "unlikely calling".     After their "tragedy", my Aunt insisted that I stay with her until I could get a job and hold myself financially. Or take out a loan and go to school. Or get some girl pregnant and marry her. Basically just whatever came around to leave her with a clean conscience worked for her, just as long as she didn’t feel responsible for the way I turned out. Like I was some kind of plague set on the Earth as a punishment or something. Boy she really cared. Oh well, I think she’s dead now anyway.     So after I got a job and found a place to stay, I was out on my own. It felt like my parents had died all over again. No one really knew I existed. I guess that’s why I decided to live my life of sex and uselessness, just to spite all the people that acted like they cared and then proved themselves wrong. Mom always said she had such high hopes for me. She used to tell me that I could be anything I wanted. That I should always reach for my dreams. She reminded me of some after school television bullshit.     Are you proud of me yet, mom?     I finally reached my goals. What now?     Suppose that I have realistic aspirations for life, that I decide what I want to be and then live it. Too many people think that goals are only realistic if they are unreachable. Some nobody on the street wakes up saying he wants to be a millionaire. He works hard, invests wisely, and boom - he’s got his own chain of stores selling whoknowswhat. Does he die a happy man, knowing that he finally found what was in his mind as the unreachable destination? One day a filthy, drunk, annoying beggar - the next, a suit and tie gentleman who makes money exploiting and killing young Chinese and Mexican children as they try desperately to keep up with the product demand. This man will still die and his body will still be consumed by parasites, decomposing larvae, and fungus. So he pulled himself out of poverty. His self-created poverty. Now he’s dead and being eaten by insects. He was a pointless breath on the planet’s scarred surface, and now he has ceased to exist.     Now I’m living in a two bedroom apartment with matching curtains and drapes. I’m living with two different bathrooms, one with a shower/tub combination, the other with a strict stand-up shower. At the end of the kitchen counter is an oven and range set, conveniently playing well with the olive green trim of the chairs and tile. I’m living with a futon in the "living area" that folds out into a bed. I’m living with everything I have hated for as long as I can remember. I’m living with the illusion of perfection.     Ever since my third birthday (that’s the earliest thing that comes up in the old memory banks), things have always tried to appear to me as flawless; as a complete and untouched piece of art. My mother especially comes to mind, with all her quick and seemingly accurate bits of information, her oh-so-savvy cooking tips, and style that was way ahead of her time. This cologne stinking piece of rotting meat with a smile fed, bathed, clothed, and cared for me longer than I care to imagine. That didn’t matter to me at the time though, because I thought she was the world. I thought my mother could wrap the moon in her magic lasso. She’d tell me the wildest story you could ever imagine and I’d gobble it up like pigs fatting on scraps. That didn’t work out.     Now she’s dead.     No more stories, mom. No more fake smiles.     Sunday morning. I used to go to church on Sunday morning, back when everything was "normal". My parents would wake my brother and I for sandwiches before service. We’d dress up like little choir boys and parade around in front of the old sagging bags of human flesh covered in makeup just so they’d compliment us. "You’re just growing more and more every day, precious!", or my personal favorite "Your parents must be so proud of you!". Sure they are. But I’m sure all those women are dead now, their corpses infested with insects and mold.     Church doesn’t make sense anymore. What kind of people put their trust in other humans, especially when it comes to something sacred like their faith? Oh, you won’t be saved unless you tithe ten percent. You won’t go to heaven unless you reject everything and accept the bastard God we have created who doesn’t love you and doesn’t care and most importantly doesn’t exist. At least their motives are pure. Sure.     So now I just decide to sleep in Sunday mornings, staring at the flesh and hair beside me. Sometimes blonde, sometimes brunette - seldom red haired, although they tend to be more fun in the sack. The used rubbers next to the bed, causing the entire room to smell of that semen/vaginal fluid musk that causes many grown men to gag. The sheets strewn about the bed in an almost adolescent fashion. The feel of sweat and oil on my skin. So this is what life is all about. You know, I often wondered where I’d be in the future, the only problem is there is no future, it’s all imagined. More like a dream, where sometimes, after you wake up, you feel as if you’d give anything to be back in that dream world.     Nothing you do will ever be for anyone other than yourself.     Truly, is that such a bad thing? Why not be selfish, why not decide "to hell with the world, I’m in it for me". Is it because you’re taught from day one that selfishness is an awful trait? Fuck that. Why live your life for someone else, for someone who in all likelihood doesn’t give a shit about you and never will?