Sunday, December 25, 2005

so to speak

Silent Bob: Chasing Amy.
(Shocked silence, more for the audience than anyone else)

What? What did you say?

You're chasing Amy.

Why do you so shocked for, man? Fat bastard does this all the time. Think just because never says anything, it'll have some huge impact when he does open his fucking mouth...

Jesus Christ, why don't you just shut the fuck up. You're yap, yap, yapping all the time. Give me a fucking headache. (to Holden) I went through something like what you're talking about, a couple years ago, this chick named Amy.


A couple years ago?

What, you live in Canada or something? Why don't I know about this?
Bob: Bitch, what you don't know about me I could just about squeeze in the Grand fucking Canyon. Did you know I always wanted to be a dancer in Vegas? (does a gesture with his hands, a reference to a move by the exotic dancers in "Showgirls") Betcha ya didn't even know that shit, did ya?

So tell your fucking story so we can get outta here and smoke this.

Bob (to Holden)
So, there's me and Amy. And we're all inseparable, right? Big time in love. Then four months down the road, the idiot gear kicks in, and I ask about the ex-boyfriend. Which, as we all know, is a really dumb move. But you know how you don't wanna know, but just have to know--stupid guy bullshit. So, anyway, she starts telling me about him. How they fell in love, how they went out for a couple of yeas, how they lived together, her mother likes me better, blah blah blah blah blah. And I'm okay. Then she drops the bomb. And the bomb is this: it seems that a couple of times while they were going out, he brought some people to bed with him, "menage a troi," I believe it's called. And this just blows my mind, right? I mean, I am not used to this sorta thing; I was raised Catholic, for Gods sake.

Saint shithead.

Bob (to Jay):
Do something. (to Holden) So I'm totally weirded out by this, right? So I start blasting her. I mean, I don't know how to deal with what I'm feeling, so I figure the best way is to call her 'slut,' tell her she was used. I'm out for blood, I really want to hurt this girl. I'm like, "What the fuck is your problem," right? And she's just trying to calmly tell me it was that time, it was that place, and she doesn't feel like she should apologize because she doesn't feel that she's done anything wrong. And I say, "Oh, really?" That's when I look her straight in the eye, tell her it's over. I walk.


Bob: No, idiot, it was a mistake. I wasn't disgusted with her, I was afraid. In that moment, I felt small, like I lacked experience, like I'd never be enough for her or something like that, you know what I'm saying? But what I did not get: she didn't care. She wasn't looking for that guy any more. She was looking for me, for the Bob. But by the time I figured this all out, it was too late. She had moved on. And all I had to show for it was some foolish pride which gave way to regret. She was the girl. I know that now. But (lights a cigarette) I pushed her away. (pause) So I spend every day since then chasing Amy. (pause) So to speak.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005


I have a love/hate relationship with humanity.

I love people for all that they can be and I hate them for all that they are.

In this I’m not the first and certainly not the last, but I am the most current.

Here endeth the session.


Thursday, November 10, 2005

a thought

"The problem with the world today is stupidity. I'm not saying there should be a capital punishment for stupidity, but why don't we just take the safety labels off of everything and let the problem solve itself?"

Monday, October 24, 2005

a small price to pay

Thirst - that was all I can remember feeling. It's been two days. I think. The closest village is a day away. I think.

The scorching desert sun shines mercilessly - and my crazed wanderings through this sandy, arid wasteland bring me to a dark-skinned bedouin and his camel. The hot blowing sand prickling at my face like a thousand tiny bullets, I point towards the camel.

My new bedoiun friend (for you make friends quickly in the middle of the desert) smiles a toothless smile, and raises up two fingers.

The deal thus sealed without contracts, or even words - I turn away from his gaping grin, and look to the camel again. Stretching out my hand towards it's owner, I clench it into a fist and hold out two fingers to him.

It'll be over soon", I promise myself. I hear the scrape of metal, as he unsheates the blade...

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

whoever said anybody has a right to give up?

Indifference is the strongest force in the universe. It makes everything it touches meaningless. Love and hate don't stand a chance against it.

The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference.
The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference.
The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference.
And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference.

Telling themselves this they stumbled onwards, blind to one another yet each depending on the other - for their hate, for their ugliness, for their deaths...

...for their indifference.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

why i can't sleep

I can’t sleep at night. They come to me, with their problems and their opinions, right into my room. I have no idea how they’ve all gotten keys to my house, or know instinctively which of the rooms is mine - but they do know and so they come.

Last night there was a zombie bus driver dancing on my bed at five in the morning, demanding a hearing. Groggy and disheveled I tried to get him to leave, to find some other drugged-up insomniac to record his part of the human condition, but he wouldn’t let me be. I’m still looking for the right words, but in the meanwhile my sincere promise to write about him has sent him back from wherever the fuck he came.

Sometimes I am able to dissuade them, but more often I must take a notebook in my hands, hunt down a pen and write their stories. And more often than not, my writing is unintelligible at best - prompting more visits from agitated corpses.

Kimo came a few days ago, looking as he did when last I last saw him. Maybe a little greyer. He demanded that I tell his story, a tragedy that ended when he killed his wife, a bus driver and then himself. When I resisted him by pointing out the time, and my semi-unconcious state he transformed into his final physicality... the top half of his head missing from a shotgun blast. He sat non-chalantly on my sofa in this condition, the bottom half of his jaw chewing (absentmindedly) at random bits of i-don't-know-what, until I wrote him. Wrote him into this missive.

It is because they will not leave me alone that I write. I cannot not do this because if I didn’t I would never sleep again.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005


~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
«I slaps . s u p e r u g l y . with a large smelly tuna fish»

~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
ahahahaha..sorry....was trying to figue out what that was

. s u p e r u g l y . says:
well done.

~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
thats funny...hahaa

~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
«I offers a ¬5¬milk chocolate bar¬¬ to ¬4. s u p e r u g l y .»

~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
«I grabs ¬39. s u p e r u g l y .¬ gets real close and plants a ¬38DEEP, WET, passionate kiss (K)(K)(K). ¬39¬WOW!!!!!¬ that was great! (L)»

~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:

~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
thats funny..

~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
thats all they have..

~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:

~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
this is soooo cool..

. s u p e r u g l y . says:
its even cooler for me

. s u p e r u g l y . says:
because i have disabled smileys, and all I see is barely decipherable bullshit.

~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:

~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
its jus words....

~~*SuMpIn...SuMpIn*~~ says:
that sucks..

. s u p e r u g l y . says:
yes. anticlimatic, isn't it?

Friday, June 24, 2005

monster in the closet

He always knew there was a monster in the closet.

At nights with the room lights out mommy would kiss him on the cheek and tuck him in, he would wrap the blanket around himself tighter. He would watch her walk out the door, an onimous silhouette in the light of the hallway. As she shut the door behind her, with each second of diminishing light his dread grew. Because he knew the terrible truth.

And his eyes would shift to the other bare wooden door. Peering at it with fearful eyes, he would wait for the monster to break free. Nobody believed him. He tried telling daddy, but daddy laughed. He hated being laughed at. He tried telling mommy, but mommy consoled and hugged and kissed him. But noone believed him.

Yet he knew.

And every night, he watched that bare wooden door, dreading what coiled within. Terrified, he kept his constant vigil till the call sounded for the morning prayer. The mouazzin calling out to the faithful. There, pressing his little hands together tight he would pray feverishly to God that monster never get him. And then, trembling, he would drift off into an uneasy sleep.

In morning mommy would wake him for school. And his eyes would dart nervously to the closet door that remaind shut. His faith reaffirmed in God, he would rise.. keeping his distance from that door. Because he knew.

He grew up, he went to college, he moved out. Years later he came back. Daddy had left them. Cancer they said. But he knew. Walking to his room, he approached the door that tormented his nights. With trembling hands he pulled that door open...

And there it was. The monster he dreaded. The monster he had prayed so vehemently to be protected against. The monster he tried to purge from his life. The monster that had already consumed his life.

The closet.. was full of Emptyness.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

the sound of silence

It's windy today. Very windy. On the first floor of this oddly spherical office building, all I can hear is the howling of the wind - like a wailing child, or a mourning bird.

I wonder why I found this place again. It's not like I have anything to say even a year down the road.

The wind screams its way up the elevator shaft, and for a moment you can stop and wonder if its ghosts whispering out dark secrets to you. Bah, who believes in ghosts. Yet even over the melodious voice of Sarah Maclaughlan crooning to me about faiths that died before Jesus came, I can hear that bird's woeful cry.

I apologize, I'm ranting again. There is no point to this, and I have effectively wasted 3 minutes of your lives - and in the background, our feathered friend solemnly mourns the unknown.