Drunk. 6:00AM. Friday night, Saturday morning. I have nothing better to do in my pathetic little world than sit around drinking scotch that comes to about $40 per shot and wonder how in the hell Rachmaninoff did that. The man was a genius I tell you, an absolute genius. As I began my unbelievably exciting evening of staying home alone on a Friday night with my scotch, I played through the first few pages of an old Hanon book that is supposed to improve dexterity. After a couple of drinks, I didn't feel any more dexterous, so I decided to do something fun for a change. I wrote a bit. As many of you know, I absolutely hate writing, and I hate posting the ramblings that come of it on this board even more. So, to fuel my hatred and finally bring myself to the dark side, I now present you with the latest drunken rambling.
There is an ever-increasing chance that you or someone you love will come to the conclusion that things are not always as they seem in this intergalactic pool of mush, coated in designer clothes and starving children and government oppression brought on years ago by some other guy who was not really blamed for his actions, though they were truly the culprit in this all-around mess of a scandal that revolves around a war that's not really cold when you think about it and a couple of insane scientists who want to make copies of themselves for the well-being of all mankind, as if that's a cause that people should fight for when they have mouths to feed and crack to smoke at this very moment, which could quite possibly explain the level of pollution in the gene-pool as we know it, where people such as myself might pour themselves a mixed drink and forget to stir it, then take a nice big gulp from the top of a cup over saturated with alcohol leading them to an early evening of drinking heavily and pondering the what-if's associated with a genetic half-breed between people and wombats, which are rather cool little animals from what I've seen on Discovery on those other nights where I've had nothing better to do than sit around drinking and moving ever forward in my plan of world domination through the use of a '67 Firebird and a couple of empty zig-zag dispensers that have to be around here somewhere, buried under the piles of dirty laundry and manuscript paper that has nothing scribed on it except that one song that I got really excited about back in college even though my professor, who was a blazing pothead in and to himself, felt that it had absolutely no merit, which would explain why it's laying around on my floor unfinished as so many works in this day seem to be, nestled firmly in their state of stasis along with the heads of so many celebrities who think that someday science will come up with a way to thaw them and give them that everlasting life thing, which to me seems like a waste considering life is dismal as it is and having any desire to be around longer than a single human lifespan pretty well marks the heads as having belonged to only the most insane people of the world, and under that assumption I am forced to hope that someday science truly does come up with a way to thaw them and bring them back to us, as the only real fun people around these days are the chronically insane folks. As the period settled the sentence above, which took a great deal of time considering its length and all of the crap that was floating around within the drunken rambling of a man hell-bent on avoiding finality in punctuation, another drink was poured and consumed and the rambling continues with another look into the world of ice, that magical substance that makes everything cold and frosty, adding that much-needed zing to the glass of water that is supposed to be sobering me up right now but is failing miserably, possibly due to the fact that only moments before a lethal amount of scotch was ingested as I listened to the damn Rachmaninoff again, and decided for the billionth time to learn that piece of music rather than just write a smaller work based on it, though the people who have played it in the past were quite possibly much madder than myself for all practical purposes, and they most certainly had no illusions of building a green and purple tube to the moon, though that concept has sparked many a police car and transsexual hooker to look my way in the past, countered only by the passing of time in this continuous monotony of boom-tish-boom-tish we call popular music, and of course the space station loaded with thermonuclear stressballs that came crashing into the sea, which is merely awaiting a command to detonate and take all of the world with it, bringing an end to that war that wasn't so cold that I spoke of earlier, meaning that we're all living on borrowed time, which actually needs another remix in the near future, throwing the idea of continuity of life on this planet into complete yogurt. Yes, another finality in punctuation.
sentence (n.) - A grammatical unit that is syntactically independent and has a subject that is expressed or, as in imperative sentences, understood and a predicate that contains at least one finite verb.
The calm, cool night washed over me like vomit at a keg party. As I surveyed the remains of the four dead parakeets, a question came to mind. Who would do such a thing? Who would rape and murder these helpless birds when the retirement home was only two blocks away?
And suddenly it hit me, like a car careening through the neighborhood streets with a teenager at the wheel who probably believes himself invincible, when the only real invincible person in the world is that guy who built the big green and purple tube that makes all things possible, and the reality of the what-if came to pass in front of my eyes like a giant spot on the bifocals of time, etching ever close, ever closer, until it exploded in front of me like a small thermonuclear explosion much like the one that I recall from that lobotomy exercise we did in biology class, which is, interestingly enough, when everything seemed to shift for me personally. Looking back on it now, I can safely say that the only real challenge I had in that class was bedding the lab partner I was assigned to, claiming it as a biological experiment that had been assigned that one day she was sick and I was actually attending class with only minor substance induction, which truly made for an interesting day at school. For those of you still in school, I offer only one piece of advice, and that is to acquire as much LSD as humanly possible and make sure that a steady flow enters your body, for there is truly no other way to make it through the daily hardship and difficulty associated with screwing that person who sits next to you in calculus.
To the reocamobile!
Burning down the streets of Zimbabwe, in hot pursuit of an evil overlord, our hero nonchalantly takes a hit from the pipe and passes it to his sidekick, who is in the middle of a paranoid episode which has been seething deep inside him for many a day now, ever since he found that little tab in his pocket with the number on it and cross referenced it to a number that coincided with a number that was within a couple of hundred thousand of a number that he was thinking about at that very moment, which inadvertently sparked a nervous episode within our crime-fighting sidekick that ended the lives of a squirrel family who lived peacefully at the park, eating their raisins, saving their nuts until Sunday, which is in many religions the Sabbath, the seventh day, while the rest of us snicker quietly and remind them that the seventh day is actually Saturday or maybe Tuesday depending on where you live in the world, which of course is no matter these days with the pony express delivering all over the place atop their mighty steeds, regardless of the fact that that Costner guy did a horrible job of interpreting the daily struggles associated with the day to day delivery of the bills and summons that regularly appear in my mailbox. Come to think of it, I haven't checked my mail in about a month, and I could use some air. Great excuse, pour another drink.
It's confusing at times, the way things tend to ramble on together like so many voices in the head of a pin, all vowing for supremacy in this meager excuse for a consciousness in which nothing gets said that needs to be yet everything tends to get expressed exactly as intended regardless of the casualties involved, by which I mean those we hurt in our daily struggle to take over the world with the aforementioned objects and the inclusion of an occasional whoopee cushion or hangman's noose that was once used to string up a band of thieves known as the chazers in their past lives, though they have been reportedly quiet over the past months, having suffered from the delusion that so many aspiring madmen cling to, the famed record contract that so many people claim to have accomplished, yet so few have proven, especially considering the crash in the economical foundation that holds the world together, stemming from the lack of a single goal in the eyes of those who are seemingly in power, which brings me to exhibit twenty-three, a nylon and rayon thong that will be worn on the day that I control all that is seen and unseen in the universe, regardless of the fact that a string up my ass could quite possibly annoy me far more than even the worst of the cattle prods that my beloved seems to find so fun, along with her varied assortment of feathers and dusts and crèmes and toys and what have you, including the white thing she wears when she's trying to turn me on, though she has a tendency to step into a random thought that doesn't involve her, much like the one you're reading here, and it always seems to spark something deep within her that makes her want to kill me where I sit when it was actually her that instigated the interruption of the voices that are so prone to go chatting away when I'm not in the least bit ready for them, regardless of whether she wants to fuck me in a chair or not, even though I am already involved in a conversation that quite possibly has no beginning and no end and can only be tapped ever so often when the little sister I never had snaps into awareness and begins to howl at the moon like a rat terrier bound for some space exploration mission somewhere in the far reaches of outer space along with her varied assortment of purple purses and llamas and mint balls, and voices calling "Pebbles, bring me your lemur," and you know of course that the whole experiment with atoms and subatoms and subsubatoms and things like that are nothing more than a genetically-altered scientist trying to reenact the glory of the good old days of cloak and dagger espionage by which the rat terrier is actually an altered human who is integrating itself into the very thread of common life in order to steal the secrets of the inner workings of a toaster, seeing as some places still have yet to evolve to the technological level to construct them as of yet, and the voices in their head keep telling them to work harder, steal the knowledge, brush daily, floss often, and remember the Sabbath, because the voices never stop dear god, make them stop.
I don't know exactly when the realization came to me, but I know it was sometime between drink number six and eight, about the time my feet went numb and I had to bring the bottle in here with me because walking became a hassle, even though everything is a hassle if you really look at it, including the realization that I mentioned before, that great and stupendous realization that is invading my head right now as I sit here staring at the green and purple spots appearing in front of my face as I slowly sway to and fro, repeatedly pressing the backspace key over spelling errors and mistyped anacronimicalomilitically incorrect grammatical functions stemming from the realization that is still refusing to leave my head, as it seems to me that the world is getting a bit dimmer even now and the music is becoming more and more distant even as these words magically appear on my screen through the magic of personal computing, and the thought keeps getting brighter and brighter, screaming at me over my refusal to acknowledge the voice of reason, for it is that single voice that sunk me into this mess with the schoolteacher and her daughter and the associated laws that nobody ever tells you about regarding the dating game when combined with a friendly game of twister and couple of pounds of hashish that was purchased without the guidance of that voice that is now pestering me so much, even as the room goes dim and my legs feel as they're being poked by a million needles, and I finally give in to the voice and listen to the realization now coming over the emergency wavelength in my head, which has finally come up with a good idea, as it seems that the piece of ice I was sucking on has taken away my desire to breathe. Another minute and I'd have killed that annoying voice off. Damn.
To see more of Jesse's ramblings, visit http://www.tripsandfairytales.com/jesse/thoughts.htm.