White Knuckles, Black Clouds, Red Head.

I woke up to my sides aching for no reason.
Just stiff, and tight.
A light throb.
I try to stretch it out, but end up passing gas and making it worse with a tightening crunch.

I sit and wait for my schedule to begin. 4 hours of purgatorial time-wasting.
No motivation to work.

I get to my lecture.
All goes well until my pitch.
For some reason, I'm nervous.
Maybe it's the eyes focused upon my, from all angles.
Maybe it's the tongue in my mouth being cracked and torn.
Or, perhaps it's my throat feeling like a black pepper and steak snadwich, tightly packed and itchy.

I leave feeling frustrated.
"A lack of clarity".
I want to hit someone.
I wish someone would try something.
I want to explode.

My legs ache.
Why I stand in a twisted act of charity, I have no idea.
I want to pass out.
I'm not even tired.

We are thrown off of the train.
Leaves on the track?
Either way, there are delays.
Sorry for the delay to your service.
What about YOUR service?

I refuse to explode.
I help the confused.
I have a conversation.
I can never let loose.

It seems like forever, but we're off again.
What seems like an hour is really 10 minutes.
I'm tired of it.

I get back to my car.
I sit, breathe and vent my anger.
I turn up the radio.
War of the worlds inside of a microcosm.
A bosom.

The sky is gray.
The rain is soft.
The mist is comforting.
Why does bad weather bring out the best in me?
The anger all but passes with the generations of reptiles in my automatic lover.
Left in the smoke and mist.

I get to my sanctum.
The childish mementos.
The familiar settings.
I long for one single thing.
I long for a comfort from afar.
I want her to be here, and to hear my roar in the quietest tones.
But she isn't.

Last I heard, she was running for earthy apples, or a singular one.
I can't blame her for not being here.
I'm the one who walks through life doing nothing about the routine and fucking ritual.
I just...

I want to be in a new situation.

An omen?
I had a dream.
I was suspended and afraid of falling.
I was crying on brittle wooden pegs.
I was crying for help.
I like to think the mystery saviour was you.

I know it was you.
It had to have been.

Dreams are special to me.
I don't have them often.
When I do remember them...

They're usually of you.

So I'll be here, for you and me.
The routine isn't bad if I get to spend even a minute with you.
So I'll keep walking and raging inside.
Because I have only a few more steps to go before my road opens up to the field of view.

I have my future ahead of me.
I'm just not sure of the way to go.
Maybe I'll stop and smell the roses.
Just for a while.

My rose.

Bo-ho.

Bo-ho was an ogre.

Bo-ho was a small ogre.

Bo-ho was the SMALLEST ogre in the ogrelands.

He was about the size of a tall human. Most ogres are double that size.

Bo-ho was laughed at all the time by the other ogres, as well as bullied and used as an Ogreball for the Ogreball games.

He hated being an ogre.

So, Bo-ho left the ogrelands and went into the human world.

He came to a town called Humblepie, where the men were proud and the women were pretty. 

Bo-ho took a job as a blacksmith.

All was fine until the Baron of Humblepie came into the town to collect the taxes from his people.

Bo-ho had never paid taxes before.

When the Baron demanded taxes from Bo-ho, Bo-ho slammed a handful of TACKS into the little man's hand.

Bo-ho was banished from Humblepie.

Bo-ho came to another town, called Whirlygig, where the men were smart and the women were smarter.

Bo-ho took a job as an inventions tester.

Bo-ho liked that job, lots of things went BOOM!

But one day, the Lord High Scientificer asked Bo-ho to help him build an airship.

Bo-ho couldn't read the plans.

Bo-ho left the town at midnight, full of shame.

Then Bo-ho came to a small town called Drizzlewood, where the men were meek and the women were shy.

They were scared of Bo-ho.

Bo-ho hid in a cave at the edge of town, sad at their reaction.

One night, he heard bells coming from the town...

A monstrous Hydra was attacking the people of the town!

Bo-ho jumped into the town and attacked the creature.

Their battle lasted for 7 days and 6 nights, until the creature fell by Bo-ho's hands!

Bo-ho was a hero.

Bo-ho was happy.

What do we learn from this story?

Learn to read, do your taxes... Boring.

Fuck up a Hydra? You're a real hero, a man's man.

At least to the meek.

EPILOGUE

Bo-Ho still couldn't read, but no-one laughed at him because he had a huge fucking sword.

A Special Education

Why is the special kid in that ridiculous helmet?

He's not special. He's spastic needs.

Be that as it may, why the helmet?

You know what's under there right?

His brace?

Right, the huge brace that keeps his swollen head from falling to the side and snapping his brittle neck.

So the Dalek helmet hides that?

2 more reasons.

Oh?

One - He's retarded like crazy. He loves Doctor Who.

A given. All retards like Doctor Who.

Two - He's fucking ugly to boot.

Too true.

Oh man... Here he comes.

*HEY YOU GUYS*

Oh... Hi, Richard...

Yeah... *Snort*

*WANNA PLAY BASEBALL?*

Uh...

Sure, buddy - Go get us 2 bats and wait for us behind the school.

*OKAY!*

...

I love being an asshole.

But you donate to charity right?

Of course, it evens itself out.

A Nature Lesson.

The greatest ironies in life all originated from nature.

From this fish here, presumably a Salmon, finally reaching the spawning pools after days of tireless swimming... Only to get swallowed whole by this crafty motherfucker of a bear.

Irony, in itself is all about timing.

Timing is how this bear was in the right place at the right time, and the Salmon was in the opposite.

So the next time you think something is ironic, or notice the irony in something.

Think of this Salmon.

HE'S FUCKING DEAD FOR THE SAKE OF NATURAL IRONY.

Straw.

Bernie?

...

Are you asleep?

...Yes.

Oh. Sorry...

No, Jack... Just... What do you want?

I was just thinking...

Harmful process, Jack.

...Why are we here?

Huh... Good question.

Don't you know?

Not really... I know just as much as you do, that being what were are and what we do.

Scarecrows... To...

Scare crows.

To scare crows. But, I mean, how do we know that?

I...

And why don't we stop?

That's simple. Move your arms.

I can't.

Exactly. Neither can I. We are our occupation. Forever.

Well, why don't we just stop scaring crows?

But... That's what we're built to do! We can't stop!

Who says?!

Well...

Exactly. I'm going to be a Cookfly.

Cookfly?

Yep. I'm going to sit outside of the farm kitchen and stop the flies from getting onto the farmer's wife's pies and things...

That's insane. If you can't move, how can you do that?

I'll find a way. I could hop over there in the rain.

Whouldn't that be a bit brash? Surely you'd need to work up to that position... That and you can't wave your arms to get rid of the flies.

Oh... That's true...

Though you have a point. We can't be this all of our lives... I personally don't know anything else.

Well, what do you know?

Theological philosophy and how to scare crows.

Hm... You could be a Scareatheist?

*Rim shot*

Odd Thoughts.

Anyone ever think Slimer was the ghost of a bulimic?

Think about it.

Canvas.

Every brushstroke I make is wrong.

Every twist and turn of my wrists, fingers, and the brush in my hand is imperfect and flawed.

I keep moving, spiralling into a deeper state of agony as I see a nightmare pour onto the blank slate before me.

I wear my expressions on my sleeve, seeming utterly enraptured by the next magnum opus that falls out of me and onto the equally plain canvas.

The truth is, I feel nothing for the work. 

All of the passion in my body, once hot and all-empowering, pumping the vitriol through my fragile form - Gone.

Simplistically and really gone.

I have no idea where it's hiding, or if it still even lives on within the darkest part of my metaphoric corners.

All I can do is work on finding it again.

Or cry to myself, admitting defeat.

Pride is a sin. So is envy.

Envy over those once in my sphere, like some metaphysical pantheon, now lifted from the unsafe chambers of adolescence. The old guard, changed, but never replaced for God knows what reason.

I see them, talking, wining and dining off of their thickly stacked wallets. I see them feel safe and comfortable with their tiny lives, knowing that they know, deep down, they're already dead. Dead to the dreams and wishes from their childhood.

It's entropy. Oroborous. A never ending cycle of despair and anger, without any trace of hope of happiness.

So why don't I sell myself off like a whore, as they have chosen to do?

I'm better than them. All of them.

I feel a different fire inside of me. A dark fire. Reversed, sucking in the joy and sorrow in my veins as fuel, instead of burning all around it indiscriminately. It's focused, never going out of control.

Pure, dark, rage.

A rage that I keep stored away in my soul, twisted and tortured, not just by my own admission.

Mammy and Daddy loved to know what was going on in my head. The docs and throbbers poking through my grey matter with sharp fingers and words. Always the same diagnosis, just in a new disguise.

Suddenly.

My muse comes to me, in flashes of golden greens. The shapely hip, the full bosom, the Venusian face. A beauty beyond all imagination.

She understands me. she knows my needs and fulfils them. The takes me into her and whispers:

"I know you. As you will come to know me."

I wrestle with my negativity for her. I fight the beasts within. All to see her look to me and open herself up, beckoning me in from the madness.

She does look to me, but she is transformed. A child of rage and envy. A beauty, to some far-gone patient of termination. A release. A guiding light.

A dark light. Crimson sickness pushed onto me by my own hands.

Imperfect hands.

I take my brush and make my stand, a defence, a shield to block the possibility.

Apathetic defence.

She peels it back and consumes it, as only sickness and hunger can. Chewing upon my person with grinning fangs, slowly becoming charper, hooking into me.

I'm addicted to her pain.

She makes me tick, tick, tick.

I hear the clock as I awake to a blank canvas once more.

The cycle begins again.

I weep.

I take up my brush.

Everything Brushstroke I make is wrong.

And it's the only comfort I know.