A comment by Jude on my mental health made me recall my drug-addled youth when I was often ostracized for my warped and twisted imagination, although I don’t actually have an imagination. I donated it, along with my soul, in a pioneering transplantation experiment at the UNC Biological Sciences Research Lab in which the baboon donated his hemorrhoid free anus in return.
Go ahead and laugh. Don’t believe me. Belief does not alter reality, and that’s all that I write about: what I see, have seen, or am inevitably predestined to see.
Frank Stanford wrote about this conundrum much more elegantly than I ever will in The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You, a nearly 600 page poem that inspired him to become one of my favorite suicides by, according to some accounts, shooting himself three times in the chest with a single-action shotgun, completely obliterating his heart in the process.
The Ignint Girls even sang about Frank. Granted, my favorite Frank was Zappa, and I find Christians laughable and worthy of contempt and derision only, even the best of them.
Suicide is my preferred of end of life care method. Like Kurt Vonnegut, whose suicide took nearly 60 years of three packs of Pall Malls a day, I have been pursuing the end of my life since entering this imaginary world. I spent eleven months in gestation trying to avoid birth and having to put up with all the attendant bullshit that being born to ignorant assholes involves.
According to my father, I was so reluctant to exit my mother’s womb that the first thing the doctor did after dragging me out into the 20th century kicking and screaming was trim my fingernails and fit me with a pair of tap dancing shoes because he knew I was destined to play a munchkin in a TV production of the Wizard of Oz before I entered kindergarten. I'm sure he got this sick idea from some equally sick shit my mother told him.
It was while pondering why the hell anyone would want to fly over the rainbow like the bluebirds who were even then going extinct, Mr. Kraven gave me a Golden Book about the universe in which Pluto was still the ninth planet in our solar system way out beyond Uranus, which made me laugh uncontrollably whenever anyone said it out loud like it was music playing or whispered as if in prayer.
Uranus. I'll never stop saying Uranus.
I just shot a bird at Uranus.
Uranus reminds me of this joke I once heard about Klingons and how hard they are to scrape off.
Oh fuck dude or dudette. Where does all the time go? Where the hell was I? I mean when the hell was I and where am I now? I had to type these things because somebody suspects I produce actionable intelligence.
Actionable intelligence. Now there's an oxymoron. Have as good a life as you can. Nobody else will have it for you and many will try to deprive you of it, including my tax dollars.