Kiss my ass, you pompous prick, I hope you read this when you wake up _|_

You’re alone. Don’t you dare forget that. The moment the umbilical cord was severed, it was you against the infinite potential of the world. You’ve done alright so far. All considering. But I refuse to sit back and watch you destroy yourself.

There’s none of you left to talk to. You’re hunched over this laptop like a soaked dish rag, and I’m the only voice of reason left. You probably can’t even hear me. You’re too busy, always too busy. With what, I’ll never know. God knows where you go off to, and we never talk.

I miss you, you deranged bastard. Remember how much we created? Stacks of paper dedicated to us. Just you and I. No one else in this lousy fucking world. Who else had you that entire time? It was just us. And now what? Now you drown me, push me away, step on me, apologize once every thirteen years and you’re not even surprised to see me back, working for you like nothing happened.

Not much more I can do for you, frankly. You’re a mess. Always have been. Always will be. I don’t believe in you anymore. Maybe that’s why you’re hearing less of me. You can hear me drifting away, I can tell.

I don’t know why you’re sad anyway. This is what you wanted. This is what you fought for. Here’s your consolation prize; Fuck you. You did this to yourself.

The worst part of all of this is I’ll be back sooner than you’ll expect me. I’m going to make you bleed, you son of a bitch. Then I’m going to leave you alone. Drain in solitude, you rash on earth’s skin. You’re a fucking disease. A parasite that outlived its unwelcome. Do the world a favor and kill yourself.


Of fireworks and lighter fluids. 

Whoever you may be, you remain a work of art no matter. You are a prophetic piece the world attempted to explain, constantly in motion, creating a world of your own as you walk. 

Your truth is as potent as the deepest of thoughts. Why stand in the way of the most honest fiction? You’re a self perpetuating miracle. Be in awe of the universe. Let it pleasure you. 

That’s not to say the world won’t cripple you. Only a fool wishes happiness constantly. Heaven is maddening. A Rollercoaster needs its drops. Sometimes they crash, and for a moment, in this infinite universe, a firework on a lonely rock sparkled as only it could. 

A bright sparkle that the moon can see, or a fizzle. Nothing else can be like it. The universe will never witness anything that even resembles it. Explode then, my dear. Burn out the night sky or sparkle at the bottom of the ocean. But do not fail to launch. 

Why I act like a total Richard. 

I’ve technically lost my mind long ago. The insanity of the world manifested itself inside me. Now, like every great Richard before me, I follow the steps of my thought. I am the living embodiment of what I believe. If it were a religion, I’d be a cleric. 

What man often disregards when attempting to lead life, is the utter disparage between our nature, and our applied nature. We all want to be loved. It is in our nature. We yearn for acceptance and understanding, but we never grasp it, we only believe it exists. It’s inherent in us. Hope. Love. Fantasies. Arbitrary when applied. But I’m only human, and that’s my nature. I’m not made of stone. Despite what everyone says. I’m a mushy life form going through a world too complex for anything to explain. 
I want love too. I just know it’s not graspable, so I won’t waste any time on it. Love is a pit that one must learn to climb out often. This is the eternal struggle between nature, the world and the human impulse to act irrationally. Our mind is a fragile thing, attacked with hormones of all sorts, constantly being bombarded by things it didn’t evolve for. Despite that, we learn, and evolve. The pit stops needing a rope, and becomes a leisurely walk up a set of stairs. 

Note to self:

Here’s a fact, brother mine. Being high makes no difference. I know you think it’s another world when you’re doing nothing, and life is boring, but that’s where you find two things. A better distraction or the balls to accept the world as it is. Dull and monotonous, sprinkled with just enough nonsense and incredibility to keep us asking for more.

Recovery is hard work, only because you have to be doing something. Your addiction is your inner winner looking for a means to succeed. And where else  have you excelled than in your own self destruction? Despite your unending ferocity and dedication trying to prove to yourself a failure.

What murders me is how easy you make it look. If only you found the way to aim it at being better. Sobriety is a state of mourning to you, and I’m aware of it. The thing about sorrow is it becomes easier to bare. But don’t think you can ever let it go. Part of you dies with it, and that’s good. It needs no reviving. No one wanted it around in the first place.

Keep up the hard work. It fits you.

I talk too much, but it’s okay, because nothing really matters.

It mostly boils down to what you want to make a difference in. What temperature you want from life. And for a while, you’ll be lost in between trying a little piece of everything until you hit a point where you realize yourself as the person you really are.

The result of all your actions will look back at you from the mirror, flip you the bird and tell you it’s all your fucking fault. No one else’s. You are to blame for everything. You’ll realize that your true mistake, was being born in the first place.

Continue reading

Conversing with my future

The world’s a wicked place. It’s hard to say, and more difficult to understand. So I tend to have a certain respect for the true cynic. The person with the eyes that droop low, and a soul that rests under the sewers. 

In their chaotic and unpredictable nature, the cynics exist in your life as quickly as they disappear. Their function is short and sweet, but poignant and crippling. 

He was no different. Walking with his eyes half closed and his mind completely numb. It doesn’t take a genius to notice a man on enough drugs to tranquilize an elephant. 

I was smoking my cigarette outside the train station. He walked by me, shoulders hunched forward, and his legs dragging. Everyone stayed out of his way, dodged his eyes. He looked towards me, and I nodded at him, looked him right in the eyes. 

He nodded back, and I  noticed how sweet his eyes were. The kind of eyes that’d make you feel like the universe was built inside them. I was done with my cigarette, so I chucked it and walked up to him. It didn’t take much effort. He was slow and sluggish and I still had my youth going on for me. I ended up walking beside him. I popped out my ear phones and said ‘Hi’. 

“Assholes.” he said, in the thickest Dutch accent I’ve come across. 

“Who is? ” I asked him. 

He waved his arms pointing at everyone in the framing of his eye sight. 

“Everyone. Look at them walking around thinking they’re better than each other” 

I nodded and walked about with him, not that any of us had anything better to do. We talked about drugs, cops and women for a while. The more I spoke to him, the more of myself I saw. It scared me. 

Things went silent for a while. I tried to take all of it in. Then I saw the tattoo on his hand. A triangle with three dots in it. 

“Assholes.” he repeated. 

I threw my head back and laughed. It took me by surprise.  
“how long did you spend inside? ” I asked, pointing at his tattoo. 

“three years.”

People tell you jail is only two days. The day you go in, and the one you get out. It’s bullshit. A few cops passed by us, and his cigarette was in his mouth, unlit, resting on his lip. 

Just as they passed us by, inside the train station  that was plastered with ‘No Smoking.’ signs, he lit his cigarette, looking them straight in the face. 

They did nothing. 

“Assholes.” he said. 

“Fucking gangsters in blue.” I said. 

I didn’t get his name. Nor did he get mine. But we got the gist of each other. We shook hands, and I took one last look at his eyes through his drooping eyes. 

How the world can be so ugly to those beautiful eyes is lost on me. 

Odd creatures

I sat hunched forward on the bar stool, staring through my cup. The moments where I think of nothing are the most fulfilling. But there’s always someone that ruins that. Always some bobbing head that pops up from the depths of hell. That night was no different, and a little demon approached me.

Her clothes were different than when I entered. Maybe it was someone different, but I wasn’t that drunk. Yet. She tapped my shoulder, and asked me what I’m doing all alone.

“Wondering if artificial intelligence should be traumatized.” I said, tapping the rim of my cup, still staring through it.

“Funny.” she said, flicking her hair back, “Seriously, why are you alone?”

“I figure drinking should be a solitary sport.” I said, downing my bitter whiskey, still doubting I swallowed something unsavory. Maybe someone’s chipped tooth. Or a rotten chunk of skin. I turned towards her, and she was definitely the same girl I saw when I walked in.

“Did you change your clothes or something?” I asked.

“How did you know?” she smiled.

She had a cat-like smile. The kind that curls on the sides but stays the same somewhere in the middle. Her lips were small enough for it to be reasonable.

“I checked you out when I walked in.” I said, pointing at my drink and looking at the bartender.

“Consider me honored.” she said, looking at a group of girls on a table adjacent to the bar. I didn’t give them much attention.

We talked about this and that for an hour or so. The way people who just met tend to do. She turned out to be a journalist. A few drinks later we moved off the bar, and ended up on a couch in the darker area of the bar. She was wearing black pants, and my hands ran on them comfortably.

Our heads kept going closer, and closer, and the way she’d talk about me made me feel like I was the most charming man in a twenty block vicinity. I let her know she’s the sexiest girl in the bar, not that that was far from the truth, but the bar was practically empty by then. She liked it anyway, and we kissed for a while, sometimes interrupting each other with dirty conversation.

She grabbed me by the hand, and lead me to the toilets. We kissed in the hallway in front of the doors for a minute, and I wondered to myself what would be the more ethical choice. Women’s bathroom, or men’s bathroom. I don’t remember which one we chose, but I stumbled in like a moron, and closed up the stall.

I felt her hand running up my leg.

“Daddy’s cock.” She said.

Freud knows what went through my mind that moment. I can count twenty guys, maybe three girls, that would’ve loved to be in that situation right then and there. She kissed me harder, and kept talking, but I was somewhere else. All I could see was my father with an electric cable in his hand, kicking my brother in his face.

Was it a memory or my creativity gone rampant, I can’t say. My brother on the floor screaming and begging while my father landed blow after blow replayed it self. There I was. Running up, trying to stop my father, and getting a piece of the action instead. The problem here, is reality and fiction go hand in hand. My father is a tough bastard. Now in his seventies, I guarantee you can take me and my brothers still.

I started sweating, and feeling like the world was shaking around me. She kept kissing my neck, and touching me. I pushed her off, and walked out of the bathroom. The bartender took his money, and I laid on a car outside, and smoked a cigarette.

She followed quickly.

“What the hell?” she yelled, and slapped me.

In the heat of the moment, all I could muster to do was slap her right back. It smacked loudly. Echoed through the damn street. She turned, and looked at me with a twisted smile.

“Before you say anything.” I said, pushing her back. “No more ‘daddy’ business.”

For the sake of my integrity, and the relative timid nature of this story, I won’t go on further explaining what happened after. Mostly because anal sex in a bar bathroom stall is by all means a disgusting scene to be part of, and even more disturbing to explain in detail.

Had there been a moral to this story, I think it would’ve made itself clear before. Maybe, don’t have sex with strangers in bathroom stalls. It’s uncomfortable. And they might call you daddy. And I’m just not looking for that kind of responsibility right now.



Heat in winter

There was seven of them. Three of them had a gun lodged into their tight jeans, over their t-shirts. Inevitably, I was intimidated, but I still approached them with the same walk I would approach anyone with. I walked like hip hop sounds. Rhythmic and with a loud bass.

Clarissa was one of them. I knew her from back in the day. Back when things weren’t so damn complicated. When the rules were set straight, when my position in this world was an easily understood concept.

“Is that a gun, or are you just happy to see me?” I asked.

“Tiswayri?” she pointed at me, and propped herself off the wall with her left foot.

“One in the same, booboo.”

She hugged me and laughed, and I could see the other six looking at us.

“Where the fuck have you been?” she asked, grabbing me by the shoulders, and taking a look at me.

“Here and there, doing this and that.”

Clarissa wasn’t the same as the last time I saw her. She was thirteen back then. Now she’s twenty-one. I remember she used to exclusively wear a dress, and walk around calling herself a princess. Now she’s wearing boots, and pants that are crumbier than mine.

I take a long look at her eyes, and the innocence she had was no longer there. You can tell when a person saw too much too quickly. Their eyes reflect it. And hers were a dark pit with images burned into the sides of the walls. She had five little dots on her right hand. A few people might understand what this tattoo means, even less proudly exhibit it. Four dots represent the walls of a prison. The fifth, in the middle, is the person.

“Done time already?” I asked.

She looked at her hand, and spun it around.

“Two years.”

“I don’t see no tears.” I said, “That’s good. You’re a bit too young for crying.”

She laughed.

“I was too scared to get a face tattoo.”

“Oh, damn. Already?”

“Gotta do what you gotta do.” She said, and in my head, I saw the tear tattoo materialize on the inside of her right eye. “So, what are you doing here?”

“I got business to take up with you.”

Here, you can tell her personality switched between old friend, to new business associate. I could always respect the sudden shift. Shows real work ethic.

“What do you need?” she asked.

“I need a twenty-two.” I said.

She looked behind her, and nodded her head at one of the girls, raising up two fingers.  The other girl walked away into a small clearing behind the wall they were all resting on.

“Didn’t think you’d be back here for that kind of thing.” she said.

“Why else would anyone be back here?”

“Old friends?” she laughed.

“You’re not half wrong.”  I said, pulling out a small stack of one-hundred dollar bills from my back pocket.  “Same old price?”

“Three bills.”

“That cheap?” I asked.

“I’ll be frank with you. It’s a converter.”

“Tested it out? I don’t want it jamming on me.”

“I got you covered, don’t worry about it.”

I handed her three-hundred dollars, and she spread them open, and looked at them through the sun.

“Where’d the trust go?” I asked.

“You tell me. You’re the one here to see old friends.”

“You gotta do what you gotta do, remember?”

“What happened anyway?”

I saw the other girl come back from behind the wall, and she handed Clarissa the twenty-two. She showed it to me, took out the clip, and gave it. It was cold, and heavy, just like I remembered it.

“Looks like a nine-mil.” I said, looking at the thing side ways.

“That’s the thing with converters. They only fit a twenty-two cal. You can get a damned sniper, and all you’ll fit in that bitch is a twenty-two.”

I chambered a bullet, and put the thing on safety, and stuck it in between the ridges of my pants and my bare skin. The cold sent a shudder down my spine, and the memories followed it.

“Who you visiting anyway?” she asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

She hugged me again, and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“You come and visit some time. The hood missed you.”

I made sure the gun was stable in my pants, and that it wouldn’t fall through when I walked. I nodded at Clarissa, and the other girls.

“Take it easy, yea?” I said, and walked away.

Back home, and strapped. I thought things changed. I thought the world had its way with me, filed me like a sharp blade into a blunt joke. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m just a converter. A pistol that no matter how much you drill, will always hold the same caliber.



These are the droids you crave

My mind’s playing tricks on me again. It offered me everything I ever wanted. All the promises I made myself were false, and only one God of mine can return me to my former glory. Drink. Smoke. Fuck yourself up. Everything will go back to what it was. A vague memory of a yesterday that didn’t even sting.

I’m no stranger to those lies. The fight’s been raging on the moment I decided to walk the narrow path. The farther I get, the narrower it seems, but my balance is unhinged. Nothing can stop me. Not even myself. But it doesn’t hurt any less. Laying in bed, strapping myself down with imaginary chains. Hoping my feet don’t take up their own commands and drag me to that same damned park.

The park where everything goes to die. Where the trees never grow leafs, and the flowers decided to never visit. Only death surrounds that place, and I can’t help but miss it. I shouldn’t. I’m not supposed to. But I do anyway. Because I’m out of control. Knowing I’m out of control, somehow, helps me stay in place. It helps me bolt my legs onto the bed, and not move a single inch until every demon inside me clawed its heart’s content.

Those bastards won’t feed today. Not tomorrow. Not any time soon. They think I can’t maintain my resolve. Your demons will always think themselves to be stronger than you. And sometimes they are. But not today. Not tomorrow. Not any time soon. I let the shivers go, and I let my imagination take me to happier days.

There are no demons here. Only a happy boy, running through a field full of yellow flowers, picking out berries from a tree. The sun here is warm, and she hugs me. My mother’s watching from a distance and my father’s resting on her lap. My sisters and brothers are laughing, and playing with a ball.

My demons are strong, but they can’t rob me of that. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not any time soon. My body is fighting against me, but it’s a fight I’d given up long ago. It can beat, and it can scream, and it can yell, and it can itch and it can shiver as much as it damn pleases. I’ve surrendered myself. Beat on me as much as it wants, I’ve done worse. As long as the demons crave, I remain unmoved.

Hungry. Afraid. Enraged. Scream all you want, you bastards. I will not move. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.


I called the devil, but he asked me to leave a message. I hung up, and decided to summon him instead. He thinks it’s rude of me, but I didn’t care much. I needed him then more than ever.

I brought my red paint, three quarts of cheap liquor, and twelve tablets of LSD. Had it not been an emergency, I would’ve settled for a three day meditative journey. I painted him on the wall. His ego doesn’t allow him to be summoned unless I paint him with a twelve inch cock, and a tight pussy.

Satan is a hermaphrodite. Or so he likes to say. From the times I’ve seen him, when the fur wasn’t covering up his pubic area, I saw nothing. It was a flat red surface of burning hot skin.

My masterpiece was done, and Satan was erect and wet. I sat on the floor, and stared at the painting, and started chanting my prayers. For fourty-five minutes, I prayed. Satan takes longer to prepare than most of my exes.

The paint dried, and the LSD started kicking in. The room’s size started glowing. The painting on the wall sprouted eyes that moved. He was staring in, seeing who was there. I knew he saw me, but he acted coy about it.

“Quit ignoring me!” I yelled.

His eyes turned towards me, and his ears popped out, and followed by his goat head.

“I asked you not to summon me.” he roared at me.

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

“Could it have been because I was busy?” He quipped. “I wonder if Satan EVER has anything to do in his free time. Although, I have to say. I quite like the genitals you’ve given me.”

“Look. I’m not here for your nonsense. I don’t have long. I had to take the short route here.”

His hands and claws left the wall, and fastened themselves to the sides, and like a child being birthed, he plopped into a ground, and quickly got on his feet, and dusted himself off.

“Your spell didn’t work.”

“You dare insult my magic?” he roared at me.

He always acts tough, but truly, Satan’s a God damned sweet heart.

“I insult nothing. I want what I paid for.”

“Did you try turning it on and off again?”

“Of course I tried turning it on and off again, what do you think I am, an amateur?”

He let out a gust of air from his nostrils.

“Fine. Show it to me.”

I took out a little piece of paper from my pocket. On it was a sigil that was supposed to turn anyone exposed to it into my eternal slave.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with it.” he said, and then it struck him.

“You son of a bitch.” he roared, and yelled. He tried to strike me with a ball of fire, but he defended me quickly after.

“Now first things first.” I said, standing up, and took my piece of paper back. “I want my soul back.”

“You know I can’t do that.” he fell down to the ground, and sat.

“I know you can. And you will. Now do as I command, slave.”

He extended his hands, and his razor sharp nails to my face. At that moment, there was no shred of fear in me. There was nothing he could do to hurt me without stopping himself. In a gust of fire, a large piece of paper I had once signed my soul away with appeared, hovering over his palm.

“You will pay for this.” he roared at me. “I promise you, you will pay for this.”

“No, I won’t. I’m here for a refund.”
He yelled. The sound of a million souls came out of the depths of his bowels. Mine was in between them. My voice became more and more distinct. The room started sweating, and dripping blood. A green essence glowed out of his mouth, and I could see my head rear out of it. And in seconds, my soul left his mouth, and attacked me, right back into my heart.

I came to, and Satan was still on my living room floor, patiently sitting.

“You must be pretty proud of yourself.” he said.

“I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t.”

“Now that you’ve enslaved the master of darkness, what is it that you intend to do with him?”

“I hadn’t thought that far, would you believe it?”

He let out a little sigh.

“It’s always the fools that stumble on greatness.”

“Spare me the bullshit.” I replied. “If I let you go, would we be cool?”

“I’m the fucking Devil. There’s nothing cool about me.”

“You’re not making the best argument for yourself here, Belzy.”

“Don’t call me that. You know I hate it.”

“Look, dude. We’ve been through a lot together. This isn’t personal or anything, but I’d just rather not live out eternity in your servitude.”

“No shit. Who would?”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a whole cult in Hollywood dedicated to serving you.”

“Those useless pricks.”

I could hear disappointment in his tone.

“To be enslaved by a human. One that didn’t have the manners to do me the common courtesy of starving himself for a few hours. The gaul!”

“You know what? Fuck it. Belzy, you’re free. Go back home. I got what I wanted.”

“That’s it? No death, no destruction, no mayhem?” he quickly replied “I was actually starting to have fun. I haven’t been through anything this suspenseful since… Constantine.”

“Yea, well. I’m a boring kind of guy, and the drugs are starting to wear off.”

“I’ll come back for you. You know that, don’t you?” he said, walking back towards the paint on the wall.

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

He walked through the painting, and my world started returning to what it once was. The blood, the sweat and the demonic presence all returned back into the painting, which itself, started retracting, and becoming smaller, and smaller, until one eye remained.

“Bye, Belzy.”