Any Given Sunday…

50+ die in a florida nightclub in a possible act of Islamic Terror.  An explosion in an airport in China.  And a car strikes 5 pedestrians in Las Vegas.   The Texas Lt. Gov. quips and retracts ‘reap what you sow’ and Google suggests the news I would prefer is how the presidential candidates react.  The world, the media and the words of discourse will become crippled to the ‘possible act of Islamic terror’ and retreat towards comfort; ignoring that the true obscenity is the “+” that follows the 50 — some lives are not even worth counting.   Continue reading “Any Given Sunday…”

Make America Fascist Again

A few months back I came up with the idea to create a Donald Trump parody website that frames Donald Trump as a matter-of-fact fascist who is trying to usher back-in an era of World War 2 style fascist totalitarianism.  And, here ya go:  www.MakeAmericaFascistAgain.com. Continue reading “Make America Fascist Again”

White People, Don’t Worry

I have noticed that in response to the tragic shooting in Oregon earlier this week there has been a huge upswing in posts arguing in favor for gun regulations— memes, comments and photos of statistics.  I understand that hearing about 8 white people being murdered in Oregon is alarming and it feels close to home, but I am here to let white people know that there is no need for alarm.  I understand that mass murder has been on the rise and they occur all the time…like, every day.  But, white people don’t get upset, don’t worry, you’re ok.  I had a chance to interview Doug McCallister, a white person, to help understand what the big concern is all about, Doug explains, “I just don’t understand, I thought we were supposed to be safe, I thought violent crime was something that happened over there, you know…..this isn’t supposed to happen to normal Americans, this isn’t how the system’s supposed to work — man, this is totally fucked up…”, Doug continues, “we need to find a way to stop this violence…damn, shit like this, it’s just wrong — those kids were white.”

I understand that our sensationalist white-people news does a disservice by embellishing these crimes and making them seem really, really scary;  but I will help put you to ease and let you know everything is still in order.  Yes, there has been a huge surge in mass murder in the United States, but to keep things in perspective, I will give you a break down of the statistics.  Over the last 30 years mass murder has accounted for 0.1% of all homicides — and, if you think using a broad-range figure like that does not account of the recent surge in mass murder, then note that in 2012 mass murder accounted for 0.0083% (and this figure used data that was rounded up to account for disparity in data interpretation) of all homicides.  Let me explain what that figure means:   for every 100,000 citizens, .027 died from a mass murder shooting.  You see, the threat of bodily harm to white people is pretty low— there is no need to be concerned.   That means you have nearly a 300% higher chance of being murdered in Denmark than being killed in a mass murder.  So I understand that it is very scary to hear about white people dying, but the situation is really not as bad as you think— being white in America has not lost any of its charm or privilege.

I spoke to a white friend about this issue and they explained to me that it has nothing to do with the victims being white, but it has to do with our systemically violent culture and the high homicide rate we have in comparison to our industrialized counterparts, and other such things.  I thought about this for a while and realized this makes completely no sense whatsoever, I mean, if this was the case then wouldn’t people be calling for gun regulations every time there was some spike in homicide— regardless of the race, class and gender of the victim?  How about back in May when Baltimore had the most homicides in a single month in over 40 years and this was on the heel of 2014 when Baltimore had a mind-blowing homicide rate of 33.1; and, if you recall back in May, white people where not discussing gun regulations in response to Baltimore’s horrendously violent month — no posts about crime, no memes, no statistics on crime, no call to action and no youtube video from Obama.   So if people were really concerned about violence in general, then you’d think there’d be a constant stream of complaints, right?   I mean, look at the disparity in these figures: you have a 122,500% higher chance of being murdered in Baltimore — and 213,700% in New Orleans in 2011—  than you do of being killed in a mass murder.   So even though the media coverage bombards us with these tragic stories of mass shootings and even though people can post these fantastic figures about how often mass murders occur, please note, in maintaining the social structure — or what Henry Kissinger called “the overall framework of order” — everything is still in order.  There has been no dent made in white privilege — white people, you’re ok.

I know what you must be thinking, it’s unfair to use Baltimore, or New Orleans, or St. Louis, or Newark or any of these cities, because in those places violence is kind of a given, it is to be expected that the violence will be high — I mean, if you choose to live in one of those cities, you obviously made a calculated risk and it is what it is.  If you don’t wanna be murdered, then don’t live in a town with high murder rates— right?  Things should be perceived in relation— like, for example, if you choose to live in East St. Louis you should understand that you have a higher than average chance of being murdered, and conversely, in Roseburg, Oregon, which is 91% white people, you have an extremely low chance of being murdered; incidents of murder in Roseburg are an outlier, but in East St. Louis murder is so commonplace that any particular incident of murder has no statistical significance, or, in other words, it’s not news worthy—  it does not matter to anybody, especially white people.   Because, as we all know, what really matters is that white people remain safe.  So, white people, don’t worry, you will be fine —  the hegemony has been maintained.

Chronicles of a Food Snob (Episode 2)

Korean food for Lunch

I ordered vegetarian pot-stickers and a bowl of spicy egg-soup— hold the rice, noodles and tofu.

The ordering process went smooth and although there was a slight eye-brow raise over my ‘hold this and hold that’ request, everything seemed to be normal.

Several minutes after my soup was delivered I experienced a visit from the owner of the restaurant.

The owner was an amalgam of a hipster, a James Bond villain and a Sunset Boulevard pimp who is pleasantly nearing retirement.  I can tell you with the utmost sincerity that I was warmed by this surprise encounter and became quite jazzed when he —  for reasons I was completely oblivious to — sat across from me at my table for two.

He asked, “is your soup ok?”

I, while in admiration of his amazing hair, replied, “The soup is great, thank you!”

“You know the rice is part of the dish, it goes together as a meal— that is how we designed it,” he persisted, “it is a very soup, you know.”

I sat and wondered if it would be rude if I snapped a photo of his amazing glasses to see if I can find a pair on ebay and then I digressed into a deep thought and I realized I had no idea what the hell he was talking about.   Every dish on the menu contains a side order of rice, does that mean at some point in time all the meals were tested in some culinary lab and it was tested and confirmed that rice happens to go with EVERY single thing on the menu and is hence a necessary condition for the completion of the meal?

Is the integrity of enchilada destroyed if I hold the beans and rice?

Is the design of pasta ruined if I decline bread?

Have I been mocking the culinary efforts put into these magical side dish?

I responded, “the rice in the rice paper of my pot-stickers was an adequate amount of ‘rice’ for me today.  But, nonetheless, I appreciate your concern.”

“The soup is not too spicy. . .without the rice?”

“Oh no! In fact, its a bit mild — any way I can add more spice to it?”

“It is not possible to add anymore spice, because the dish has been created with the perfect amount of spice to maintain a balance of all the flavors.  And you have already altered that balance by removing the rice.”

I respond with awkward silence.

He continues, “However, if you tell me in advance that you want it spicier I can do that”

I pondered:

Removing rice from the dish ruins the integrity— but if I ask, he will do it.

Adding more spice ruins the integrity of the dish— but if I ask, he will do it.

In other words, he does not trust my capacity to add hot sauce to a meal or manage my rice consumption?

He left me with these thoughts and checked up on me 5 more times.

And he was right, the soup was too spicy.

I left a 30% tip and a smiley face.

 

 

 

 

Read past episodes:

Episode 1

 

Within the House of Mirrors (and Facebook)

1.

For the tenth day in a row I woke up in a pool of my own sweat, semen and drool— and now I must,  yet again, drag and slosh through my day in a daze.  I slithered out of my bed into the pile of unfashionable fashion that has accumulated on my floor— their cleanliness was indiscernible.   I flat foot stumbled to the bathroom and fell intently into my own reflection, although it took several moments for my reflection to become aware of the immediacy of my meditation.  Once my reflected self became aware and focused back at me— we locked eyes.   His eyes were squinted and bloodshot, like he had had been crying.  His complexion was splotchy and distant and it became apparent that he was in a deep state of despair.  I wanted to comfort this man in the mirror, I wanted to reach out and tell him it is ok and that things will get better.  But, even though my rational voice wanted to resolve this mans conflict, the only thing I could do was become weary and cry.  Why is this man so upset?  I have known him my entire life and he has always been in sync with me, but now, out of the blue, he falls away and retracts.  I want to be strong and keep a stiff upper lip and all, but I am barely strong for myself— I cannot be strong for him as well.  He looked back at me and, as it seems, the sight of me brought him to tears.  I watched him cry harder and harder— as if the tears became the element that created more tears— a feedback loop of sorrow.  I told him, “please stop— PLEASE!”  He ignored me.   I repeated again, “ please! I cant do this!”  Again and again, and yet he no yield.  My tears and despair quickly and capriciously acquiesced into fear and rage.  This stupid fucker does this to me every single day— he stands there alone in a flat world and cries at my tears.  Mocking me with every emotion.  I can feel my pulse rise, my lungs and fists tighten and I get a strange, and yet satisfying, feeling that begins in my toes and rises through my existence with the effervescence and persistence of rising smoke.  The sense burns through my chest and through my spine and stops at my mouth.  There is a twitching deep within my neck that wants me to take my fists and smash the face of this stupid crying fucker, and even as satisfying as that sounds, I am still scared.  I am afraid if I hit him he will hit me back.  I am afraid to be seen with bloody cut-up hands— the Others will see my hands and know what happened.  Secretly mocking me in the shadows.  I look down at my toes and watch them squiggle about and then draw my gaze back to the man in the mirror.  “Fuck you” I tell him,— yeah, fuck him!   And, in that instant.  He was gone.

2.

Once he departed the only thing I was left with was my pathetic reflection — standing before me with idle apprehension like a bunny rabbit that is moments away from being consumed alive and whole.  The only life lesson I have learned is that life is less depressing in motion than in pause, so for that, I break my gaze and strip away my two-size too small boxer briefs and hop in the shower.  As a child hot water was a scarce luxury and, for that, I have become accustomed to taking cold to lukewarm showers.  I washed myself three times over with a bar of soap and washed my hair, or at least what is left of it.  I, annoyingly so, failed at the final act of my shower ritual, otherwise known as masturbation, because I was unable to maintain an erotic thought for longer than ten seconds.  At that moment I wondered if real memories hold more staying power than virtual memories— in other words, if my erotic arsenal was created from actual experience, as opposed to internet porn, would I be able to maintain the thought and, subsequently, an erection long enough to climax?  Nonetheless, the mood has been spoiled.  I blindly reached for my towel and quickly patted myself down and then scurried out of the bathroom with the urgency and trepidation of a scared little bunny.

As a programmer for Facebook I get to work from home 80% of the time and that means 80% of my life, if not more, is decorated with sweat pants and t-shirts from Walmart.  I could, if I wanted to, live more luxuriously but the austerity of my thriftiness as become the fuel behind my thriftiness.  In other words, I completely and utterly despise my job but it seems to be one of the only high paying job that allows me to avoid all contact with the outside world and I figure if I do this long enough I could retire early and actualize my inner hermit, but in the process of doing this I have found solace in my thrifty dogma and, money aside, I do it just to bask in the semblance of functionality.  After scavenging though my pile of clothes for an outfit that is, odorously speaking, adequately un-repulsive, I traversed down the hall and flipped on my coffee maker— also from Walmart.

I preciously carried my mug of watered down french roast to the living room, threw my feet on my ottoman, opened up my laptop and proceeded to fabricate motivation to sit on my couch and etch code into the chasm of the inter-web.  My motivation to work does not come from actual drive to work, but more from a deeper drive to refrain from the pain of doing nothing-at-all.   I suppose, when I try to look at myself objectively it is reasonable to think that my future may only have two possible outcomes, either:  I get laid-off at some point and drain my savings in pursuance of enabling my will to avoid people until the recession subsides and I get another programming gig and then it repeats and I retire poor and lonely;  or, option two: I remain at Facebook until I have saved enough to retire and on my first day of retirement I die of a heart-attack caused by all of my thrifty food exploits.  I know that there are many other possible outcomes to my life and some of them may even yield a happy endings, but I have this dark feeling that grows and speaks to me from within and it exudes and preaches the aforementioned pessimism like a stink that I cant seem to shake.  And even though my foresight seems dismal and heart wrenching, it is better to work towards that, than to work towards nothing at all.  If my life came down to merely me frantically running blindfolded along side a cliff with the faint possibility that I survive long enough to see what awaits me on the other side of the horizon— that is what I will do, forever.  If not that then what?  Sit in the dirt and heckle as everybody keeps running by and, now and then, watch somebody fall to their death— what kind of life is that?

I sip my coffee.

3.

Maybe it was the man in the mirror or maybe it is because my shower ritual was incomplete but, for whatever reason, I was feeling less motivated to sit and write code.  I do not recall stopping work on purpose, but, nonetheless, I suddenly became aware of my idleness: my elbow was perched on the couch armrest, resting my chin in the palm of my hand, while the rest of my hand gently cups my gristly cheekbone.  My eyes slowly scanned all the objects in the room— inadvertently vacillating between things in the foreground and things in the background, as if I was an injured cyborg that was clinging to life in search of the tool that can be used to save me and the rest of my cyborg race.  My autonomously functioning cyborg eyes ended on the image of Adder, my cat, who was curled up in a ball next to the glass door that leads to the patio.  The gentle and sine-wave like motion of Adder’s tale snapped me out of my cyborg fantasy and while under seduction of my cats peaceful disposition I got up and crawled across the floor — slowly becoming lower and closer to the ground as I approached my Adder, my cat, my distraction, my objet petit a.  

I, mimicking Adder, curled up into a little ball and laid next to him and stared into the rain.  The rain, for some reason is not something I can see when I look up, or even straight, but I can only witness its effect— the droplets as they splash upon my wooden deck.  Almost, as if they weren’t actually falling but merely jumping in place on the ground, over and over.  My double-pane glass filters out all the sounds of the rain and, for that matter, society.  So, I sat curled in silence and watched the jumping rain.  I started to wonder what Adder thinks of me and what he must be thinking as I laid there— he probably thought I was a mother fucker for taking his idea and creating the awkward and unnecessary pretense that we need to acknowledge each others company.  Adder, would never get into a fight with the mirror, or fall into a fit of depression for that matter.  At least, that is what I like to think.  Some people think that we, as in humans, try to anthropomorphize animals, but I do not believe this to be true; conversely, I think it is rather the case that we fantasize about becoming them.  We want to live a life of a minimal existence, a life without language and the petulance of objectification that follows the burden of humanity.  We want to eat, sleep, shit and be frisky now and then, and most importantly, stare at the rain.  I quickly fell asleep with images of being a cat dancing in my head….and a big smile on my face.

4.

At some point I awoke, however, it was only the sensation of being awake, without the appearance of being awake:  I could not see, or hear, or feel anything with my sense.  But, I felt agency and alertness to the moment.  I wondered if Adder was still next to me and in that moment an image came to the forefront of my thoughts, without me asking or prompting it.  It was an image of Adder, but rather it was an image I posted of Adder from my Facebook page.  A candid image of him playing in the trash.  This image warmed my spirits a bit and I thought about how cute and carefree he was, and in that instant I saw the words I was thinking flash in images in front of me.

I started to wonder if I was sleeping or dreaming or what was going on.  I felt completely lucid, but this was a rather odd experience to not have any sense data.  Usually people, at least in the movies, pinch themselves to ensure they are not dreaming, although I do not know how that works— couldn’t you dream being pinched?  Anyway, I thought about pinching myself and suddenly I saw the words flash before me, I wanna pinch myself.  Then within mere seconds after that I saw the words, David says: LOL, pinch yourself then dude.  I responded:

Me: wait, does pinching yourself work

David: work for what?

Me: confirming you’re awake when you think you might be asleep?

David: uh, are you sleeping now?

Me:  I don’t know, thats the point.

David: uhm, dude, its wayyyyyyyy too earlier to be drinking— lay off it.

I stopped a minute, wait— am I drunk?  I tried to recall if I had been drinking this morning and for some reason the only things I could see were images of me drinking at a holiday party last year, images of me drinking at a friends wedding and images from my college graduation party…all of which, are images on Facebook.  I tried to think of drinking experiences outside of that and the only thing I saw was the same images repeat over and over— every image on Facebook that includes me drinking is playing in my head over and over.  To stop the madness, I begin thinking of Adder again and that silly little trash photo.  Suddenly I saw the smiley face appear 🙂 and I thought how much I wanted to just be able to wake up and cuddle with Adder.  Then I suddenly I see David’s name blinking in blue and curious to what that means….then suddenly the image of a chat dialogue appears in my head:

David:  Did you seriously get drunk at 10am on a Tuesday only to go on Facebook and comment on photos of your cat?  

Me:  Wait, what?  I did what?

David:   You posted this. “ 🙂 I wish I was cuddling with Adder right now”

Me:   Posted?  What are you talking about…I didn’t post that, I just thought that.

David:  Uhm. well i cant confirm nor deny your thoughts, but I am here at my laptop at work and I can see what you posted on Facebook.  And its about your fucking cat. 

Me:  uhm, maybe I am drunk.  gtg ttyl 

As a test I decided to begin thinking of things to see what happens.  I thought of my job and I instantly saw the Facebook posts posted by Facebook on their Facebook fan page.  And, then I decided to think of specific co-workers and I then saw their personal pages and a rotating slide show of the pictures they’re tagged in.  I decided to think of something that is not  on Facebook to see what would appear and I thought of my father, who does not have a Facebook page, in fact, I don’t think he’s heard of it.  And, a blank.  No thoughts or images.  I know I have a dad, but for the life of me I can’t recall the image of what he looks like— my memory is ONLY Facebook.  I begin to think of my father in the more general sense of the word and I begin seeing Facebook fan pages dedicated to paternal parenting and even the fan page for The Shit My Father Says, but nothing about my specific father.  I continued to test my memory and tried to recall other things and the more I did this, the more I learned first and foremost, that I was unable to recall anything that was NOT on Facebook— like my father, but more odd was that I was able to recall things that I did not know— insofar as it is something on Facebook.  Like I can think of baseball and see the latest news and updates for MLB that are dated today and within the last hour.  So either, my conscious mind is situated in Facebook, or I am dreaming and I am purely making all of this up.   I really wished I could just wake up play with my cat….and voila and entire Facebook page dedicated to silly photos and videos of people playing with their cats— I decided to stay with this thought for a while.

5.

I had no absolute clue if I was awake or not, but I did know that time has at least passed in my virtual Facebook world.  I can recall, by merely thinking of, my original thought about wanting to be pinched and I can see the time stamp, and although I do not know what time it is, I can think a smiley face, or wonder what my friends are up to and see the news feed, and from that I can see a new timestamp and that is my only way of telling time.  So, as it appeared to me— I had been stuck in Facebook for four hours.  And, I was not sure how to get out.  I decided to take advantage of this and I began looking at the news feed and commenting on many posts, while chatting with many friends at once.  Since I could just think my comments/posts— I was able to operate significantly faster, as I could think faster than I could type.  Although, my friends thought my Facebook page had been hijacked by a spam-bot because the speed at which I was typing seemed impossible.  I began to find amusement in reinforcing the notion that I was not real and just a bot.

I suddenly got a message from my co-worker Brian and he starts asking what I am doing all day and how come I haven’t turned in my revised code?  From that timestamp I know that it is around 5pm and I guess it would make sense that if I had been not dreaming and this was real then it would be reasonable that they would start asking for my revised files.  Brian, said he had been calling, texting me and emailing me all morning with absolutely no response and he just noticed how active on Facebook I was and decided to reach out to me that way.  I responded and he asked if I was ok or if I had really been drinking, as David asked earlier  I told him that I did not feel drunk, although, I did not really feel anything at all.  I told him not to worry about it and that everything was going to be fine.  I had to assume that this craziness was all just a dream and that there is no possible way that i have been asleep while curled up in the fetal position next to my cat for 9 hours.  Any moment now I am bound to wake up and realize this was all a dream and then get back to work.  But, how can I wake myself up?  If my existence is within Facebook then perhaps I need to remove that existence altogether.  Perhaps I need to kill my Facebook self.  

I rollover to my account and profile information and find the delete account link and I proceed to delete my account.  It asks me several times to confirm that I want to do this and although I was absolutely sure that I needed to do this, as if I was dreaming then its just a dream, and if it is real, well, then I will know when i wake up and my account is deactivated.  But, even though I know this is the smart move to make, I am rather hesitant and I am starting to feel remorseful and a sense of loss washes over me.  Like I am in the process of committing suicide— as if that is something I would or feel or even be able to describe.   Knowing that this is the right move, I push forward and click yes and yes and yes…holy crap they want you to confirm and reconfirm over and over.  And finally, done.  Then this appears:

We are sorry that you deactivated your account, we hope you come back soon. 

As soon as I finished reading that prompt, it vanished.  And, so did I.

6.

Time from that moment forward seemed completely non-existent and I no longer had any sense of self…I could not tell if I was alive or dead, or anything.  After an indiscernible amount of time— which for all I know could have been a millisecond or a millennium— I became washed over with a bright omnipotent light that flooded my consciousness.   All I could see, hear, think and feel was pure bright light.   I tried to resist the light and pull away, but I had nowhere to go— pushed into a corner, or so I felt.  The light quickly began to dim and as it dimmed I began to see shapes appear and the light source radiated in on itself into a small blotch in the middle of my field of vision.   And, then I realized I was awake, and truly awake this time.  I was in my bathroom and the bright light was merely the sun piercing through my bathroom window and focused directly on me.  I started to move my head a bit and realized that I was sprawled out on the floor and when I looked around the bathroom I realized I was laying in a pile of glass; which was scattered all over the bathroom — the floor, counter, shower, sink and even on me.  I noticed some of the glass shards were dripping blood and then I realized my arms and hands were drenched in blood— with various puncture wounds scattered across my arms, some still contained broken pieces of mirror wedged into my skin.

In an attempt to recall how this happened, I conjured images in a third-person perspective of me pounding the mirror with my fists and forearms over and over while I screamed and yelled at the man in the mirror.  Although I do not remember falling to the floor or anything else.  After I fully came to the reality that I attacked my mirror and passed out and spent hours dreaming of living in Facebook I began to relax and realize all of that was a dream and I am not going to lose my job or be trapped in Facebook.  I suddenly felt rather relaxed and indifferent to the present predicament I was in and this allowed me to situate myself within the absolute pain of my wounds.  The wounds felt deep and all encompassing, like a giant glass wedge was pounded into my soul— my ego, engorged and exposed to the open air of reality, began to bubble and shrivel like a snail doused with salt.

I reached down and padded around my pants in search of my pocket and I took out my cell phone and while holding it over my head and while struggling to keep the image of my phone in focus, I navigated my way to Facebook and deleted my account.  I held the phone high and basked in the pleasure of seeing those words: your account has been deleted.  I lowered the phone back down to my side and even though I destroyed my mirror while trying to kill an imaginary antagonist in a rage of pure psychosis, I felt better now.  I felt that somehow I have won over the man in the mirror and whatever power he had over me before, is now mine.  I felt, for the first time, happy and, more importantly, whole.

Chronicles of a Food Snob (episode 1)

Patrick: I would like a super burrito with no meat and no tortilla.

Taqueria lady: we can’t do that because we have nothing to put it in.

P: you don’t have a box or bowl?

TL: no

P: what do you put nachos in?

TL: a nacho box

P: can a burrito go in the nacho box?

TL: yes. I can burrito in a box.

P: a burrito without the tortilla?

TL: no, we can’t do that. But you can order all the burrito stuff as side orders.

P: will you put it all in one box?

TL: no we don’t have a box for that

P: can you put all the side orders together in a nacho box?

TL: oh I don’t know. Hold on. (asks for manager approval) yes we can do that. But you can never do it again!!!

P: great. Next I would like carnitas nachos without chips.

TL: no chips? We can’t do that.

P: really? I’m only asking that you skip a step.

TL: (asks manager) sorry, we can’t do that.

P: oh come on, I’m super hungry. 😦

TL: (she has a shockingly long conversation with manager in Spanish). ok, just this once, but you can never (waves finger) order this again.

P: great. Thank you. (I pay, cash only, leave tip).

(Tortilla’less burrito is served in 5 individual tiny cups and nachos were perfect and delicious).

Drug Free(dom)

Hey there, yes you— the kid in the back.

With your constant clatter and chatter.

Do not talk back

Hey there, yes you— the kid in the room.

With your deliberate defiance.

Do not assume.

Hey there, yes you— the kid in the hall.

With your nagging and non-compliance

Do not befall.

Hey Kid, do you ever listen?

Hey Kid, do you ever shutup?

How dare you question my authority— my title is bold and loquacious.

How dare you question my reasoning— my stare is cold and capricious.

My book of spells that I carry upon my back— it explains you so well.

In clear and confusing language that your desire to be free is, in fact, your disease.

oh well.

Take this potion and drink up.   White noise and robot bliss is such a breeze.

Is this ok?  Do you need help swallowing the pill?

What was that?  Free agency?  There is no such thrill.

Swallow the pill and consume your pride.

There is nobody to help or confide.

How can we protect the walls from the crazies?

— You are bound to go crazy and stomp on all the daises.

What labels to use, they’re all ripe for the taking?

— You are bound up in shackles of your own making.

Hey Kid, is that you, with that number on your face?

— # 10101001, such a disgrace.

I once signed a contract that said Above all, I shall do no harm.

Adderall, Xanax and Prozac — never any pain, works like a charm. 

I build all these walls to keep your freedom within.

And one day you will realize your freedom is, without.

You will build a hammer to free thyself from within.

And one day you will roam free and I will be, without.

Or maybe you’ll just keep on keepin’ on with that stupid fucking grin. 

Am I Easy?

The rainbow of the internet has only two colors.

And this is the way people like it to be. 

So abhorrently opposed to seeing the other colors.

And this is the way people want it to be. 

If only one color ever existed in the world.

They’d ironically persist on inventing more.

 

Hidden behind words of virtuous sentiment:

Love, Justice, Equality and Faith.

As a blanket to quiet the demons that live within:

Fear, Pride, Ego and God.

I witness the things that crawl beyond the fence:

Chaos & Order, Freedom & Slave.

 

Shall I grab a gun and stand at a wall– quiet and obedient?

Will my conformity be carbon copied.

Shall I paint my face the same color as you and you and you?

Will my collectivism be neutral copied. 

Shall I decorate my spirit with things I collect from Walmart?

Will my coupons make me rich?

 

How can I worship a God who’s dead?

Can he be replaced so easy?

How can I be part of a class that’s dead?

Can I be displaced so easy?

How can I be part of a race that’s dying?

Am I that easy?

 

Just hold your wooden crucifix high in the sky

and drop it down and crush me in the eye.

Just hold your moral certitude high over my head.

and drop it down and fill me with dread.

What the fuck does it matter to me

as I know, you’ll never let it be.