I'm so fucking paro-

Welcome to my, really, fucking bad pot-cookie trip in motion.

I am sitting in my basement right now. Convinced. That zombies are about to break into my house, and try to kill and eat me.

I'm afraid of zombies, and have been since a small child. I used to watch every zombie movie I could because they scare the shit out of me. I still watch those movies, but I haven't seen one in months and still I know they're out there.

Holy shit I need to go to bed.

* Well I’m back, and straight.

As embarrassing as this post is it could have been a lot worse, as far as bad trips go anyway.

I have been really weird about zombies lately though, which should have been a good reason to stay away from the cookies for a while. Or least I should have not watched from dusk till dawn, but who can say no to anything Tarrentino affiliated. Alas this dreaded guitar junkie just gets a hankerin for the green sometimes. What is a boy to do?

Zombies though, yup, zombies are my one inexplicably retarded fear. I think I’ve seen just about every zombie movie worth seeing, and far too many that weren't. I'm a bit of an expert, but this isn't because of a morbid attraction, or just a corny love of the undead. No...It’s research. I am so afraid of zombies creeping out of the ground, that I’ve felt the need to watch these movies so I can see the strategies of the characters, and decide the best route to surviving a zombie crisis. Hmm, come to think of it, I don't know anyone that if they saw an army of corpses walking the streets and devouring people, buffet style, who would describe the even as a "crisis". Back to my original train of thought. I'm bad, if I’ve gone somewhere even half a dozen times; I’ve probably worked out in my head a zombie survival plan. I can only assume that my logic behind all of this would be, that in case of an apocalypse-like zombie attack, escape routes are key. What the fuck is wrong with me?

At any rate I suppose that the only responsible thing to do after divulging such a lame obsession, is not to seek counselling, or refrain from mentioning said obsession, or even to not post while tripping on psychedelic drugs. No, the only thing to do is post my zombie survival strategy.

Step one - Identifying Zombies

First of all, avoid living near cemeteries, secret government research facilities... or crazy voodoo witch doctors. This should avoid the unfortunate business of discovering the first zombie. More than likely in any residential area, you should be tipped off to the presence of zombies, by the running screaming masses. Avoid joining the running screaming masses. Most importantly. The ability to acknowledge the fact that zombies are, in fact, running around devouring the living will be your first test in zombie survival. If there are people running and screaming outside, and any of them are covered in blood and not screaming or running, or you happen to see any bite or maul any others, you've got zombies my friend. Don't be in denial. Don't be one of those pathetic jerk offs that have got this universe so figured out that you can't trust your own eyes, and go walking out into the streets to figure out what is "really" going on. The sooner you accept your situation, the more time you have to plan your way out.

Step 2 - up close and personal

If you are to survive a catastrophe such as an outbreak of carnivorous corpses [today’s post was brought to you by the letter C] you will inevitably need to kill a shit load of zombies. Now since I'm not so naive to think that movies have all the answers. I won't actually go out and say that shooting a zombie in the head will kill it. There may be no way to kill a zombie, but everything seems to point to sudden and extreme head trauma. So if you're anything like me and have no guns in your house, or on you at all times, look for anything heavy and blunt, preferably with range, or something sharp, also preferably with range. Do not concern yourself with looking for the "best " weapon, first just grab a weapon.
As your weapon collection expands, remember to always keep a melee weapon with you, guns are great but ammo runs out. Now, in case the head trauma doesn’t work and you've both, stabbed your first undead friend in the brain and beaten him about the head with your large blunt object of choice, only to find him still mobile and hungry, remember that decapitation it always an option. Because, even if it doesn't kill it, a headless zombie doesn't have a whole lot of chance of biting you.

Step 3 - escape [short term]

As a general rule, you should be looking for two main criteria in deciding your escape route. First is accessibility, the poorer the accessibility the better. If it's hard for you to get to, it'll be damn near impossibly for anyone to follow. My personal recommendation is rooftops, or rafters. Next is a large traveling area, with many directional options. Wherever you decide to go, you want to make sure that you don't get trapped. Suggestion. Once on your roof, try roof jumping, also make use of telephone wires, preferably if all the power shuts off, which eventually it will. As far as getting in you car and taking off. Remember that everyone else has probably thought of that. Expect highways to be jammed, and accidents to be everywhere. If you are somewhere with few vehicles around, this may be a viable idea.

Step 4 - Friends

Now personally, I have a list of people to contact and attempt to rescue in the even of a zombie attack. It will be a decision you will have to make on your own. If you're smart, than going solo is your best chance of survival, just getting away from people is the best chance of survival. Stay away from the zombies and stay away from their food. At the same time and more humanely joining a small group of people will inevitably increase you chances of fending off the zombies, which isn't the best strategy in it's self. Make sure to choose your group well, smart strong and fast people are who you're after; make sure they are more of an asset than a liability. I feel the need to mention this, cause it happens in every movie. Keep an eye on your groups injuries, cause somebody's gonna get bit and not tell anyone, then turn and take out most of your group. Do not hesitate to throw out any members who seem to be jeopardising the safety of the group. You friends in this world may not be the friends you want in a zombie rich world.

Step 5 - escape [long term]

From the devising of the very first stages of you survival plan, make sure to bring along as much [non perishable] food as possible; without overburdening yourself of course. Water is also a must, but be sparing, water is heavy and fairly abundant. I would be more apt to raiding a camping goods store for a few water purifying systems and filters. Also when looting, Do not take TV's designer shoes etc...[Sighs in reflection of the stupidity of some] also try and always loot backups for your looted goods, who knows where you're gonna have to ditch something, or might have something break. Other important lootables would be weapons, obviously, and armour. Seriously, bust into one of those places that sell swords and crap and snag yourself some chain mail. That whole "know thy enemy" works well in your favour in this situation, zombies are people, if you can do it so can they, and when have you ever known anyone to be able to bite through chain mail? Now as far as long term survival goes, you're gonna need to get yourself to the coast. Do not expect the army to step in at any minute and destroy the problem for good, if it happens great, but don't bet on it. We’re looking for long term, like the rest of your natural life, long-term solutions and there’s only one. A huge fucking boat. Personally I’d be looking for a fucking aircraft carrier. Get a shit load of people to stock it and sail out. The idea behind the military ship is the likely hood that it's already stocked with weapons. Do I hear island get away anyone? Just make sure to keep the boat in case any of those fucker decide to walk the ocean floor for a few years to eventually get to ya, a boat in mid sea is the only truly safe place to be at.

And that’s it, Set up a hammock between the barrels of two anti aircraft guns, and enjoy the rest of your life in bliss knowing you survived.... while the undead wander the earth for all eternity.

So... anyone think I should seek professional help yet?

Honesty, sure as hell, won't get you layed on a thursday night

Ah, the Beef Eater. A not so local bar I come to. The large, red painted, wooden sign out front, looks as if it’s been host to termites for one season too many. The windows are painted black, and the lights inside flicker. The only Bartender I’ve ever seen there’s name is Bobby; he’s a large sweaty Russian man, and I’m certain is the cause of the overwhelming smell of B.O. throughout the place. Even so, I love this place, and always feel welcome here. My home away from home.

I push open the heavy wooden door and walk in. The place is more or less empty. There are a couple of construction worker looking guys playing pool in the corner, and one guy who looks fairly out-of-place, at the bar talking to Bobby. I walk up to the guy just as Bobby walks away. “Mind if I sit down”, I ask. “Not at all”, he replied, without so much as looking at me. In the spirit of friendly conversation, I mention that I’ve never seen him in here before, and ask what brings him into, this Bar, at 1am of a Thursday night. Putting down his drink he casually looks over at me and says “I’m a little of everywhere”. This makes me smile. I look over at Bobby, now watching the T.V. at the far end of the bar, and ask for my usual. Still smiling I look over at this friendly stranger and say, “I know what you mean”. To which, he abruptly, now also looking at the T.V., says “no you don’t”, and takes another sip from his drink.

Bobby, a little slower than I’m accustomed, brings me my drink, and I notice his face is a little redder, a little less cold than usual. I ask playfully “Hey Bobb-o what’s eating you tonight”. He just puts down my drink and walks back to the other end of the bar. Still watching him, he starts flipping through the channels and stops on news, featuring some political spotlight. “So what do you think about the election coming up” I said to my funny neighbor to my left. “I don’t concern myself much with politicians” he muttered while spinning the ashtray between us. I told him I thought that politics affect us all, and that it was our duty as citizens to keep aware of what’s going on around us. He didn’t answer, but instead continued to play with the square glass ashtray to his right. Looking back towards the T.V. I notice that Bobby was now crying. I didn’t say a word to him.

Half finished my drink, I felt like paying up and leaving, chalking this up to another uneventful night. Then while taking a large drink my neighbor says, “so what’s your name anyway”? A little surprised I say “Charlie, what’s yours”. “No it’s not” he quickly retorted. Taken aback, I order another drink with a whistle and a hand gesture of two fingers pointing down at the empty glass in front of me. I didn’t want another drink. I wanted to leave. But I ordered, I think only to appear as if this man’s discourteous remark hadn’t bothered me. It did. “So what’s your name”? I say, still trying to act casual. He turned his stool around to face me, gave me a quick up and down glance and put his hand out. Shaking it he tells me “I’m Honesty”. I laugh so hard even the two guys playing pool in the corner take notice. “And what do you do, Mr. Honesty” I said, still chuckling to myself. Facing forward again and looking over to the far end of the bar he answered, “I’m a muse of sorts”. “Oh yeah, you come her to inspire me, or something”? Reaching for his drink he said, “ I’ve never even met you before”.

No longer crying, but still a little upset looking, Bobby brought me my second drink of the night. About to pay attention again to the man beside me, I hear the front door creek open. Just then a very fit young lady, wearing blue jeans and a white t-shirt, joined our threesome to my right at the bar. Immediately upon taking a seat next to me, she calls out to Bobby, who was already walking over, “I’ll have a sloe comfortable screw against the wall with satin pillows the hard way”. “Wow”, I said looking at her long black hair, while she was still facing forward. “I’m Charlie by the way”. She turned in her stool to face me, gives me an up and down look, and puts out her hand saying, “I’m Raye”. Unable to keep my cool, I bust out laughing. She kept staring at me, obviously waiting for me to explain my unexpected outburst. ”Sorry”, I said. “My friend and I”, pointing now the confusing gentleman to my left, “were just talking about, how attractive women never come in here”. “Well, isn’t that sweet”, she replied sincerely; I think. “So what are you doing here”? After taking a drink, she smiled and said, very matter-of-factly, “there’s no cover and the drinks are cheap”. “My kind of girl”. “Oh yeah” she said, putting her hand on my leg and sucking on the, probably stale, cherry on the end of a tiny plastic sword. Then asks me quietly, “So who’s the quiet guy”? Looking over my shoulder and smiling. Big. I tell her, “get this”, putting my arm around his shoulder, “this guy is Honesty. And Honesty is a muse…of sorts”. She laughs. Naturally. Then looking back towards me asks, “So what do you do”. I start to tell her, when Honesty pipes up and says, “ He’s cheating on his wife, who supports him”. Mouth agape and angry, I want to hit him. But I don’t. Instead I shake off the initial shock, and recover by saying to both to them, “I’m not married”, holding up my empty left hand, “and I’m an investment consultant over at AGT”. I look over at him first for a reaction, but he just keeps looking towards the far end of the bar. I then look towards Raye who seems much more timid than before, hovering over her drink, looking towards me only from the corner of her eye. Just then, giving me no chance for recovery, one of the construction workers sits down beside Raye as his friend shouts, “hey lady you play pool”? She then stands up, grabbing her drink and saying, “sure, I play a little”.

This is where I make my exit. I don’t say a word, just pay my bill and walk out.

Next Thursday, on the way home from my girlfriends place, I stop off at my favorite little dive. I walk up to heavy wooden door, only to notice it’s locked. I look down at the door to see a newspaper article taped to the door, with a picture of Bobby on the cover. The article read, “Bruce Le’mein confesses to over 300 counts of child abuse…”.
Hmm, Bruce.

In the long run we've found, silent films are full of sound

You’ve heard it all before: death comes for us all, every moment could be your last, nothing is certain but death and taxes, or, my personal favorite, a la Kevin Spacey, “ each day is the first day of the rest of your life, all less for one…the day you die”. Blah, blah, blah, It’s true though. You never really know when you’re going to die. Sometimes it seems as if death were looking right at you, And other times you have to wonder if maybe you just didn’t notice. But, perhaps it’s too easy for me to talk about from this place. At any rate, I’ll save you my verbal dissection, and get on with my story.

The alarms ringing. I couldn’t say for how long, though. My forty-nine ninety-nine, LCD lit piece of shit, with the ceiling projector, so you can see the time without having to get up, is on the floor, probably, under a pile of today’s wardrobe. I throw my arm over the edge of the mattress, limp, and unplug the goddam cord. I lay there half awake and wonder. Why the hell am I getting up anyway?
I pull the toothbrush out of my mouth. I pause for a moment, to get a good look at myself in the ever-smeared vanity. Then, I start thinking. What the hell is it that always gets vanities all smeared up in the first place? Seriously, It’s not dirt, it’s not fingerprints, it’s that fucked up smear that’s always there. I’ll bet it’s my good-for-nothing roommate. Him and his salon quality, volumizing, greasy-assed hair “treatment” of his, all over my goddam mirror. I’ll bet that’s what it is. A hundred bucks. God I need a shave… later. Instead I opt just to pop some ripened zits, three this morning, bleeders too. I wipe the puss off the mirror with the palm of my hand and spit out my toothpaste.

On the way back from the bathroom, I run into my roommate in the hall to my room. It looks like he’s on his way to class, or someplace. Walking past, he shouts something at me; he’s always shouting something at me, asshole. As I walk by his room, I notice his girlfriend, still in bed, check me out. She turns her head away, but I saw her; she’s probably even embarrassed. If I had a girlfriend, she sure as hell wouldn’t be the kind of girl that checks out my roommate. That’s for dam sure. She’s pretty cute though; I bet she’d sleep with me. In my room I throw on some clean clothes, relatively. I pick up my favorite hoodie, and underneath, I find my over-priced, monotone, shit box of an alarm clock. I give it a kick and notice a post-it not on top. “Test Monday”. Crap. I throw on my hoodie and take off.

I’m probably late. I only live a block off campus, so I don’t let it bother me. I haven’t studied, but I’m not worried. I’m smart. I don’t mean I’m smart in a, I’m better than everybody, kind of way. But I’m definitely smart enough to not have to worry about this test. College is a breeze. I walk into class. I’m late. It looks as if the T.A. has just finished handing out the tests. I look over to see my best friend, sitting in the back row, where we always sit. I take my seat. Professor Glass is heading back towards me; he must have seen me come in. The prof’s a nice guy, almost too nice, you know. People take advantage, they’ll lie right to his face; I’ve seen it happen. I look over at Hanna’s test. Christ, she’s almost done. I take a look around me; everyone looks done. But I’m not that late…the T.A. just finished handing back the tests. Fuck! “It’s been a while; I’d thought the worst”. Glass is now staring across from me. That’s cool; I can do this shit. I was born to do this. Back-story: I was sick for, oh, let’s say a week? No need for costumes or fake voices, I’m exhausted and look like shit, I’ll be fine. I reply “ Nope, still here. I just spent the last week surfing, in Prague [smile]. Just kidding. I’ve been sick as a dog”. He’s still staring at me; this goes on for thirty seconds at least. Did I brush my teeth this morning? “You look like it,” he finally says, smiling. Thanks. I’d like to thank the academy. “You didn’t let anyone know, did you?” he says, quicker than before. I start mumbling a reply of some sort, just as Hanna jumps in. “He couldn’t do much of anything for himself. I called your office, though. I talked to one of your T.A.’s”. He gives out a sort of half chuckle-smile that all men, but especially unhappily divorced, middle-aged, balding, professors of industrial psychology make, when attractive women acknowledge their existence. “ Come see me after class, and we’ll schedule a make-up,” He says walking back to the front of the class. ”Great!” Great. Well class isn’t quite over yet, and I don’t have a test to mark. What to do? Do the same thing you’d do even if you had shit to do…draw. I attempt to draw a picture of Hanna, with the good professor, literally, wrapped around her finger. Instead I start to notice just how gorgeous Hanna is. She really is. Now, most girls I’d consider pretty, or cute, and in a crowd, you’re more than likely to find a couple “hotties” as well. But gorgeous, that’s rare. I guess at this point I’m staring, and my pencil hasn’t touched my paper for at least five minutes, but she hasn’t seemed to notice. I overhear Glass give his standard wrap-up speech, and I bolt for the door.

I’ve been waiting outside now for a solid ten minutes. I’m not bored. I notice Hanna opening the door. I’m ripe with verbal assault. “My god, I knew women were naturally slow, but, I thought that only meant mentally”. She stops in her place and stares at me a moment, mouth agape, and then, that wry smile that I know so well, starts creeping up the left side of her face. She answers, “Oh I’m not slow, I saw you run out and hoped that if I waited long enough, you’d follow somebody else home today”. “Well, I guess you can’t win ‘em all”. We start walking towards the doors and enter into a, flawless, style of witty banter, all our own. As we step out through the doors Hanna stops to ask, “ so you coming up with me”? “Chure”. We continue, in our own way, towards the residence. “Hey, I caught Ibbie’s girlfriend checking me out today. She turned away but I caught her”. “That hussy” she replied. “Wait; were you walking around naked again”? “What’s your point…”? She never sees the big picture. At one of the many locked chambers in this super jail for students, Hanna looks up at me and asks, “weren’t you supposed to schedule a re-test after class today”? ”Shmeh” I reply, hiding all signs of anxiety. She laughs for a second, then pulls out a piece of paper folded once, lengthwise, and says “ so I guess you won’t be needing this then”. She hands me the sheet, which I open to read only. “Friday room 318, 9:00”. To which I reply in my most grateful voice “ Nine O’clock”! “You’re welcome, ass”. We’re now in front of her room, and I probably would have actually thanked her, if it weren’t for Steph butting in. “ Hey, Hanna, don’t you just love my new sent”? Clearly referring to some new, expensive, perfume or some shit she must have just bought. “ Yeah, Steph, that new douche is a real improvement; I can barely smell dirty crotch at all”. I couldn’t help myself. Just then Hanna, giggling uncontrollably, pulls me hard into her room, and closes the door behind us. Saved again. Steph’s your classic stuck up rich girl. Which is fine, it’s relatively disconcerting, but who am I to criticize. What gets me about Steph, though, is how she try’s to impress people all the time. Maybe, I’m in the wrong. Maybe, Steph is a perfectly wonderful young lady, with nothing but good qualities and intentions; that will serve only to make this world a better place. Maybe, I’m just a prick… yeah I can live with that.

I’m lying on Hanna’s bed with her just staring at the ceiling, talking. Nothing serious, just being us. Until Hanna asks this. Oh, and I did thank her for setting up the test, after all. “So how are you? Like, really how are you doing”? I don’t know how to answer this question. I know she’s concerned, I love her for that, but it still doesn’t help with this question. “Would you believe me if I told you I was fine”? She holds off for a second, still staring at the ceiling. “If you meant it”. “I’m fine”. “You didn’t mean that”. She’s good. I really am fine. At least, if you didn’t know me you’d think I was. I’m not bad, or, not as bad. I don’t know what I am. Here it comes, “are you sure it has nothing to do with me”? She always asks. “I’m sure”. “I had to ask”. I know she does. She’s not crazy, just feeling a little helpless right now. But, aren’t we all? Hanna has some paintings on her ceiling I like to stare at. They’re nice, but I just think they help me think. We quietly stare at the paintings, and time passes.

I’m walking down town. It’s absolutely gorgeous out. I’m listening to music. I dropped my beloved Ipod one too many times, and so I’m without actual music. But the music in my head will suffice. I walk past some shops while looking into the storefront windows. I couldn’t tell you what stores these were, because I’m not so much looking into the window’s as I am looking at myself in them. There’s a small memorial square downtown. And in the true spirit of remembrance, there are people, smoking up, and street-meat venders, everywhere. A deadly combination. Above all this, however, I can’t stop watching the trees. It’s early in fall now, and a cool breeze has become the new standard. Trees have started to change, still, only a few leaves line the sidewalk. It’s a season with so many expectations. It’s times like this, that you can feel truly and wholly blinded, by the beauty of things. I cross the road, and just out of the corner of my eye, I catch the petrified look on a municipal transportation drivers face. The next few seconds seem to disappear, and are replaced with an overwhelming and unfamiliar rushing feeling. I collect myself and realize that I’m now lying on my back, looking upward, the feeling of wet pavement on my skin. I take a deep breath, and laugh. Uncontrollably and wholeheartedly, I laugh…

“Are you ok”?
“huh”.
“Are you ok; you’re being quiet”.
“No, I’m just thinking”.
“Oh. So what do you want to do”?
“Sing me a song”.
“What song”?
“Doesn’t matter”.

You know, Hanna really is something special; and that voice of hers, gorgeous.

So like I said, you never really know what’s in store for you. You could wake up in the morning, completely oblivious, that it’s your time; or it could just an ordinary day. But either way; don’t forget to laugh.

“Did you brush your teeth this morning”?
“Don’t know”.
“Gross”.

I think i'd like to be mauled to death by a mountain lion

I'm pissed off all the time. All the time, and I’m, mostly, just pissed off cause I’m bored. More importantly though. I'm bored of being pissed off. Fuck it.

There’s only so much I can take. But I’m not sure what of, or where it's coming from, even. I have enough goddam outlets to express any slew of coupled emotions this world, brain, heart, or whatever ugly corner of existence that emotions are coming from these days, can throw at me. So what the hell is keeping me from living a respectively happy life? I know what it is.

It's fucking babies with blogs. It's every pre-teen bitching about how they never get the girls they want. It's timeshare-salesmen interrupting when I’m about four pages from the end of my book. It's the ugliest fucking living room set, in the world, in my living room. It's every goddam Bush-hating "political expert" throwing out their down-to-earth idiosyncratic translations, of an already perfectly coherent news article about how fucked up your country is. Yeah I get it. Bush is a moron, prick, racist, sexist, puppet, warmonger, republican, or whatever slanderous sub-text you're, as a nation, giving him today. Because, the truth is, somebody elected him. Hey, and maybe it's not his fault. Maybe he's not an idiot. Maybe the world's just a fucked up place and he, like so many of us, aren't up to the task... and also, he's an idiot.

I need to stop thinking so much about everything; or start thinking more about something else.

I expect that I’ll end up killing myself. Not now of course, this is not a cry for help, but, preferably, in the distant future. Don't get me wrong. I love life. I love ever breath I take, note I play and step I take; but it's hard. The world seems to be moving in on me on all sides, and sometimes the pressures too much to bear. I don't expect I’ll plan it out. Or put very much thought into it at all. Most likely, I’ll just absent-mindedly, and with full intention, walk in front of a bus. Or off a bridge or something.

This can't be living.

Yours truly
Shithead

[I need a fucking cookie]