The Christmas Gift Box
I am unequivocally convinced; everything in life comes full circle.
I looked at an old picture of myself at age two, on Christmas Day, and I see a small child enthralled by an empty toy box, moments before, wrapped with brilliant, shiny red color paper and topped with a big green bow. Paper and box contents, disregarded by me, a toddler, who is now mesmerized with his gift box.
Thereafter, for subsequent decades, I’d anticipate with wonder and excitement, impressed with the treasured objects forthcoming Christmas gift boxes would contain.
I’m back to enjoying empty Christmas gift boxes, the contents –too much stuff. A simple box, inspired by love, delivered with joy, is my gift: this is the stuff I can’t get enough of.
Huh. Niggers, fags, dykes and Jews matter?
I didn’t think any of us did.
Hearing “I wish you were never born,” screamed at me by my mother from age three to seventeen, led me to believe we were ALL pieces of shit, and none of our lives mattered.
Maybe we really do, maybe mother was incorrect.
Maybe my gay, black ass is worthwhile after all.
Does it really matter?
If I’m not my biggest fan, who will be?
If I need a pat on the back for a job we’ll done, who’s gonna always be there to give me one, other than me?
Telling myself I fucked up again comes easy, soothing myself with the words, “I’m alright, I’ll be ok,” now that’s a tough one.
I looked in my mirror and said, “give it a go.” I literally used my left hand to grab my right elbow, and I pushed it skyward. I had enough leverage to use my right hand to pat myself on the back. It felt nice; I smiled at the image in front of me. I look better without the tears in my eyes that innevitably appear, upon delivering myself reminders of having had, “fucked up again.”
I want a pat on the back daily; I’m alright, I’ll be ok.
I’ll give it a go. If I don’t, nobody will.
More often than not, when I hear another individual say, “I’m living the dream,” the words are typically delivered with abject disdain and a seemingly apathetic outlook on life. This verbal delivery is often followed up with a roll of the eyes, often greatly exaggerated by the speaker, emphasizing their displeasure.
When I sing the words, “I’m living the dream,” I’m rockin’ out with my noggin out, and that leaves no room, for nightmares. I only have room for dreams.
Dream on and join the band.
I’ve noticed several similarities between; being a serial killer, and being a writer. Hell, right off the top, in each profession, you; make your own hours, work alone, make little to no money, the reward is in the joy of the process. The writer and killer can find orgasmic highs and penitentiary gallows lows, in each endeavor. Interesting that both writers and serial killers typically work under pseudonyms, just an observation: Mr. Jack (D.L) “The Ripper” Edison. To be continued and thoroughly vetted. Or, crap, the whole situation may require absolute avoidance, were I to find a dead body under my bed. Be that the case, least I’d know, I’m not a fuckin’ writer. So, until I get a whiff of decaying flesh where I sleep, I’ll keep my pen to paper and tell myself, I’m a killer writer.
A love story. I really love this story, I can’t wait to write it. I have to iron out the simple dynamics of inter-species love, the small stuff like; how the hell is a God damn, tree swinging monkey, gonna fuck a sea dwelling Manta Ray, that he happens to fall in love with, and who’s gonna raise the little monkey-manta prodigy? TBD. But, I do love it. I read a similar story, not long ago, the theme was somewhat reminiscent, but it was done in black and white: no colored allowed.
Apparently humanity has evolved
A “mass killing,” requires four or more victims, as to be properly qualified
I’m dragging my heels regarding this aspect of evolution, I have not evolved
One single; senseless, random killing, remains to strike me as massive
I will not evolve
I think, therefore I am –agreed.
What I think, defines me; is, who I am.
If I write what I think, and I make that writing available to others; so long as my writing remains available, I will be living.
I am not this physical form.
I am, my thoughts; the contents of my mind.
I write, therefore, forever I am.
Create art, live –forever.
If you can see, from a 1.61803398875 vantage point –all is beautiful.
It’s the fractional zones that make the difference.
Pay attention to the fine detail, the small stuff;
And the big picture will be easy to see.
That’s the ratio.
I’m interested, in individuals
Whom give great –interest
If I am to spend time and interest; I, will not blow into the wind
I will contend, to blow your mind
I’m not interested in living long –just large.
Where are you harbinger, lil’ Miss Adventure?
Dying, via old age, is for pussies; I’d rather live forever.
Happy thirty-second death day, Merrick Spencer Thorson.
I hope you’re comfortably numb and I do wish you were here, if nothing else, simply to see how fucking wrong we were about the future. It hasn’t been so bad, I think you’d have found some good times –along with the shit. All the same; if you were here, I’d still recognize your, “I know something you don’t know” smirk, thirty two years later; you beautiful, eighteen-year old, “the world is my oyster”, mother fucker. You’re still here, as much so as I.
Who’s minding the Republican Party’s general store; there’s a defiant, fat, blonde kid from New York City pilfering in the candy aisle, and he’s stuffing his pockets with all your good judgement.
It was a Tuesday -the first of June.
I was in Chicago.
I was looking around for the cocktail waitress that was wearing all white: dress,
I saw her a second ago, she dropped off what looked like a tall White Russian to the
dark haired hottie dressed in pink, across the room from me.
I started crying out for the bar wench; I wanted a double Canadian whiskey.
After a minute I was really yelling for my drink, trying to get a little
attention, when I noticed I was laying down -completely horizontal.
I was wearing blue; a tight, light blue suit.
The music was playing so softly, I could hardly hear Aretha sing, “I Say a Little Prayer.”
I didn’t know which club I was in because I didn’t recognize the wristband I was
wearing; I took a close look and saw that it read, Little St Mary’s Hospital/Maternity Ward.
I never did get my cocktail. I was fifty-three minutes old -recycled again.
When she came back into the room, the chick in white gave me some milk and as she
walked out of the nursery I cried, “sweet ass!”