It is “cool” to be “sick”. The words we use matter! In the workplace, it is common for a negative emotion to be expressed with a kind of humor that’d be pitiable if it weren’t polite to make it seem laughable. In the schoolyard, “kill yourself,” angry mania brought from home in order to dominate the environment. “Here comes Bulldozer!”
“I don’t believe in anything. God is dead. I’m so sick.”
“Yo, Doja, don’t ya know that by defining God and yourself in such simple terms, you’re really limiting your ability to have many a complex thought process that might be conducive especially in an educational setting. If you know it all already, why are you here at all, in general?”
“My mom’s a total bitch.”
“Let’s explore that!” goes the peer-mediator.
“What’d you say about fucking my mom?”
AR-Thwack.
After Doja’s judgment, there already seems to be intrinsically known about his gender-normative parents, neither married nor divorced. The bully is bullied at home and surviving something threatening in a certain way that is reflective of its harsh environment. The scales of justice skew definitively. There is much to be abhorred about life in general, the way we live, the flies, and the trash that should have been on the curb a week ago! Fie! Chores! Angrily eyeing the giant mess in the corner, (dead elephant in a funeral home,) the corpse that won’t remove itself is stinking up the joint! Dead man walking from the couch to the fridge for another soft-serving of Valveeta® cheesecake casserole.
“Outta the way, Billy!” Fat-man trips over his stupid son. It is a total mistake to have tripped in the positive, but Billy is the total mistake (in the negative,) so he projects his own lack of agility on the one productive fuck that’ll make him famous one day for all the wrong reasons. “Why don’t you take out the trash?”
“Why don’t you?!” Billy Doja claps back, big enough now in middle-school to have developed a sort of thickened human carapace that allows protections for smart-talk and the eventual consequences thereof. He could dodge at least the first set of aggressive maneuvers from his fat Dad, becoming more and more predictable as he slowed down and Doj’ Coin™ gained a type of momentum beyond the merely physical. Fiat! "Pay me!"
“Don’t you talk back to me young man! You know you’re not innocent! You see these peels and wrappers on the floor? Pick ‘em up!”
This would have actually been a fairly productive conversation in a contentious yet literate household. What was actually expressed were a series of grunts of the “F-U,” variety that conveyed little to no meaning, thus garbage not only filled the air, but it remained rotting in the corner as well. If only it weren’t such an apt metaphor for the situation itself, expressed as if through unrecognizable other-worldly device! Watching “Ancient Aliens™” on the History® Channel™, Billy receives commercial programming and a modern television dinner, chicken Tendies™ from Uber® Eats™! Since the house was dark (with the only light coming from what used to be called the squawk-box,) the driver couldn’t see the address easily and missed the turn. Excessive time spent in a Styrofoam container causes chicken-bread to became soggy, meat flaccid, and an accelerated process of evaporation and condensation begins a rudimentary form of refrigeration. So it presented like many a chicken TV Dinner of yesteryear with the main difference being that the wax paper is now checkered-red, there are no more vegetable attempts, and it costs as much as a valet-service should to a commoner in a saturated marketplace. If only someone would clean the microwave, it would be possible for the household to be less impoverished! However, now Billy sees anything coming out of that appliance as gross, despite the fact that the restaurant that they order from rarely changes the oil in the deep-fryer, “out of sight, out of mind” is the motto as Billy feeds without looking at the food itself directly. He reaches to the ranch-corner as a cow is levitated within eyeshot of Stonehenge before the Griswold’s toppled it in 1985. Isn’t real-reality dull in comparison to all that action!? But there is a growing numbness, result of nervous system disconnect, result of nervously disconnecting from the home-theatre system right before Mom walks in with a Winston-Salem cigarette.
What was the trope she liked to be choked with? Crazy needs to be explained. Does craziness have nooks and crannies like an English muffin? Eating is rational, but she refused eating a consistent diet at regular intervals, digestive system fucked up probably from all the cigarettes she denied herself smoking in close sequence between bouts of derision. She would make promises to her husband after a bad fight to not drink or smoke (at least as much!) anymore, break them, and then deny the act that was still on her breath. That was all in the past, tacit acceptance established that conditions are bent toward further deterioration. She’d eat the occasional DD® biscuit, but beyond that, she got her energy from the simple sugars typically found in a cocktail mix and adrenaline, a dehydrated-rehydrated powder-based smorgasbord. “The problem with this type of diet is that it requires as much or more artificial energy input to produce the final food-product as the energy the consumer achieves, calorie-wise,” goes an economist trying to prove some sort of neo-Marxist point in an obscure publication that sits dusty on a bookshelf, inadvertently collected by this hoarding-type aspect of her psychological disorder-matrix.
Dear dominatrix, you'd catch more flies with honey!
Why don't you whip me up a fat stack of pancakes
rub it in my face, shove it in my mouth, and my Hey!
Does craziness have a home? A tacky “Bless This Mess” antique-store find adorns an eave. She scratches her recently pegged ass and breathes a thick sigh of relief. “Safety,” she thinks as she locks the door and greets the dog whose kidneys work overtime concentrating urine since the stress of stoically holding his bladder is less than the stress of the consequences of relieving himself on the kitchen floor. He still sheds everywhere, which he can’t help, but it is largely consequence of the stress of holding urine, which she hasn’t seemed to have caught onto yet, seeing the shedding as merely consequential to breed itself, not symptomatic of an underlying condition. Animals are intercessional. They bear witness, but limited by lack of speech, are kept to secrets. Deep down the dog wants to rip her throat out, but deeper down he just wants her to just get better. The bladder thing he’s learned to tolerate by getting hot and panting. It is possible to control certain autonomic nervous-system functioning through intense meditative-visualization.
And this blessed mess still provides some low-level of certainty that the outside world could be worse. But what if it actually isn’t all that bad? Wouldn’t that the worst type of poverty be a lack of realization about the nature of reality itself? Revenge is also a type of pornography, beyond being simply a cold dish. Those enjoying revenge, most believe themselves slighted, but (Capital C) Craziness knows she was, at least once, irreparably, and it wasn’t her fault, being too young to defend herself from certain onslaughts. Subsequently witnesses denied her validity, thus the liar’s paradox of learned behavior. Saying “every man is a liar” exposes a limitation of language itself, a laziness from lack of elaboration, and a paradox. Do you believe me to be true? Am I even (who or) what (I say) I am? Do you trust my existence? What is not an illusion? What I feel feels real, but like numbers, my feelings could also be imaginary, floating, or part of some other integral set? A quantum field receiver sits, gathering dust, in a drawer. When one is forced into a situation outside one’s control, one becomes resentful, and resentfulness is also crazy, but supposedly resentfulness can be managed through stratagem. Craziness may be alleviated through medicaments if Catholic or diet and exercise if Protestant. “Elimination diet should be employed occasionally as well as a routine of sitting quietly while otherwise unoccupied,” says a line in a self-help book (its radical author remains anonymous). “Think about what you’ve done!” goes mother as she thrusts poor Scruff’s nose into micturition.
“This is certainly a fine vintage,” thinks poor, abused Scruff about his piss and shit, “peaches!”
She loves her dog’s perverse complicity.
Anger is dark-siding, sliding into a perverse reverie. It is the way that it feels good or is attractive (beauty sleep?) to stay in bed longer than necessary to feel rested, even though this anti-activity is also symptomatic of a depression. Doom-scrolling, stalking, and otherwise only paying half-attention to her own thoughts, unaddressed, O Mother. Doja, blackout curtains' potential fully realized, is still under covers at 10 A.M.
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