a prison in 2010

“What are you in for, anyway?” asked a middle aged, middleweight middle-class man in the middle of the table. “Well, I tried to palm it, but the cop could smell it. It was my 3^rd pot violation, so now I’m here”, the youthful-looking thin man replied, then asked, “What about you? You don’t seem like the type. Then again, none of us are.”

“Well,” the middle aged man replied, “I owned a restaurant during the bush years. We had the best french fries. Several customers raised concerns about what type of fat we use in our fryers. They were worried about the adverse health effects of Trans-fat. So we”— “What does this have to do with why you’re here?” said a head-wrapped man with an indian accent. “Well,” continued the middle aged man, “Then they passed the law. They passed a law that said we couldn’t fry in trans-fat anymore. We switched it to peanut oil, but when they did spot-checks of restaurants in the district of the ban, They found enough trans-fat residue in the kitchen to convict us of a violation. It was either a 15,000D fine or jail, and I had about 2,000 in the bank”.

“I’m in here for oil too, man. Vegetable oil though” said a young man on the end of the table with bushy brown hair and small brown eyes. “What?” replied the fallen restauranteur. “I converted my diesel Volkswagen to run on Waste vegetable oil. I kept a reserve tank of it in the trunk for when the engine was warm enough. Well, little did I know that the state wanted me to pay taxes on it.” “Taxes? On wasted oil?” asked the siek-looking man. “Yeah. They said that the oil was subject to the fuel tax. When I told them I’d been doing it for 4 years, the district court decided I should pay back-taxes for the average americans fuel consumption for 4 years. I didn’t have that kind of money, so I’m here”.

“That’s wild” said the indian man. “I got caught with drugs, like this young man” at which time he pointed to the man convicted for pot. “Thing is, it was nicotine”. “What?” everyone exclaimed. “Well, It started with the indoor smoking ban. My state passed a law prohibiting smoking in government buildings. But it was just a slippery slope. Then they prohibited it in private businesses, then near play grounds, then outdoors in public. The only place I could smoke was in my apartment. Then the law was passed that any building with multiple tenants, that share utilities, can not be smoked in. I still got away with it, by turning off my smoke alarm, and hiding cigarettes”. “Then how’d you get caught?” Asked the middle-aged man. “Well, my work passed their own rules that they’re employees couldn’t be smokers. Not only at work, but at all. I laughed at this because I thought they couldn’t possibly enforce it. Imagine my surprise when I was blood-tested. I thought the nicotine would’ve left from my last cigarette, but it hadn’t. I was fired, and my old boss, who was obviously a vehement anti-smoker, tipped off the cops to the fact that I was a smoker. The cops got a search warrant, and kicked my door in, only hours after I was fired. They found my cigarettes; and the tested the wallpaper for traces of tobacco smoke. I was arrested for smoking in a shared residence, so now I’m here”.

remembering Carlin

It’s not hard to imagine that George Carlin is dead. He was old, and he had heart problems. What’s hard to imagine is the world without him. He has fans across every generation, and he obtained them by simply putting out the work. Through all of his darkest and brightest times, he managed to pump out more material, so regularly, that his fans anticipated it like clockwork. Sure, announcements were made about his failing health. In a perverse way, that I’m sure Carlin himself would appreciate, his impending death made it even more exciting to see him every year.

It’s not that I took Carlin’s work for granted, but I certainly imagined it would just keep coming. He reappeared every year, like a big “fuck you” to the entire square world. They could keep his 7 dirty words off the radio and network TV, but not from coming out of his mouth. He took supreme advantage of this fact, by going until he dropped dead, literally. I feel personally sad to be without him, but I have a smirk on my face(really) knowing that he went out exactly like he wanted.

If you really want to honor George Carlin, carry on with his work. Make sure that George Carlin was the birth of an era, and not the end of one. Fight the FCC, fight organized religion, fight stupidity, and have a damn good time while you’re doing it. Own the entire crowd, in whatever manner you perform. Never, ever let up, even for a moment. And most importantly, keep it up until you collapse.

hard penises

Are you a handsome, late middle-aged man, with thick, salt & pepper colored hair and a defined jaw line, who has it all, but just can’t seem to rise to the occasion? Has your rigid, youthful vigor turned to flaccid resignation over the years? Do you find it difficult to be intimate with that special woman of yours while she’s screaming “come on! Get hard and stick it in, you old bastard! I’ve only got a few years before I dry up!”? Well, at long last there is a revolutionary solution to these common male problems:

Do something else! You’ve had sex thousands of times. Are you really going to demand more? Read a book! Write memoirs! Eat a cookie! Does your self-esteem still hinge on sexual activity? Get real! You’d think that a man who had lived so long would have something else to do by now. Have a thought!

appetite

Note that when many people discuss the poor, they blame them. Their poverty is often blamed on their skewed priorities. It is true that money and resources spent on finding a liquor bottle, a gram of pot or various amounts of heroin and cocaine could be used to rise out of poverty. Some people can do this, and more power to them. Yet it would be foolish to blame the ones who can’t.

As a society, we commonly overlook appetite. Appetite, for many of us, trumps hunger tenfold. That is why the underbelly of society is able to forego a job for a vice, and forego food for drugs. This isn’t limited to the homeless and other scavengers. For those with jobs and shelter, they forego healthful foods for junk food. They find their paycheck obliterated by more socially acceptable thrills.

The common reaction to this is that those with such appetites are simply irresponsible. The idea being that those deserving of success and livelihood are those who have no such appetites. The perfect citizen by this standard is someone who simply goes to work, takes the money they earned, and buys the housing and food they need. If there is any left over, it is profit, and they give it to their offspring or charity. In my estimation, this is a very small minority of the population. So why is it the standard?

More often, human beings have seemingly needless appetites. Considering the sheer mind-numbing toil of everyday life, this shouldn’t be frowned upon. Before looking down your nose at the homeless addict asking for money, consider your own appetites. If crack, heroin, meth, pot, and painkiller abuse were the norm; and booze, cigarettes, fast food, TV-watching, and psych medications were illegal, you’d be asking strangers for a buck and sleeping by the side of the road instead of him.

stream of love

Love is forever. But It can’t be. I search for love at all times. I get it. I’ve gotten plenty of love, but it’s never enough. For me, it’s not better to have loved and lost. It’s fucking painful. Love continues to exist for me, like a piece of meat, in front of a greyhound on a dog track. I chase it and chase it. Just like the dog, I will never get it. On the other hand , If I do better than my competitors, won’t I still win the race? But who cares? Unless love is the race, in which case that’s what I want. I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place, but not in the same way that a snake hiding would be. I’m stuck between love and work. Sadly, they can never combine in any meaningful way. Love is happiness, and work is distraction. I don’t want to be distracted from happiness, but I don’t want to have nothing to show for myself after a lifelong of mindless “love”. Love is always mindless. There can be no rhyme or reason to rationalize it. But it’s that time of the season, and you have to try it. It’s spring, get a fling, sit and sing, until it stings. There is honey, but it’s always back at the comb, at the home. The sweetness is not flying around; neither with you or the bee that buzz’s the way you like. It’s where you left, it was there waiting for you. It tastes like fucking bliss but it’s not enough. God it’s tough. Drop the stuff and fly again. Keep flapping those damn wings, and soon you’ll be standing, stiffer than before, cause now it’s a war. Take your weapon, aim, and fire. My brain is tired, grainy and wired. I’m electric, and I want to shock a woman. I call it love, but I have no idea. It’s just what I’ve got to offer. I want to give her what I’ve got and see her eyes get wide, her legs get wide and her mind open up to what I’ve got to say. I want her, I want her, I want her shocked by my sheer power, without moving a muscle, saying a word or thinking a thought. But I don’t have that kind of power yet. I’m low-wattage, low-octane, dim. So I have to work. I work, I work, and it hurts but I work.

things you should never say

I have to ______.

I’ve always ______ this way.

They had me ______.

They made me ______.

My parents raised me to think ______, so now I ______.

______ is what I was always told, so now I ______.

______ happened, so now I still act like ______.

I didn’t want to ______, but I did.

Everyone was ______, so I did too.

I don’t know why, but I ______.

I couldn’t help ______.

For some reason, I ______.

All of these phrasings are ways to evade personal responsibility. Any action you do, short of under the threat of violence, is your choice. Just because other people, your upbringing, or your past influenced your decisions does not make them any less yours. You didn’t “have to” do it, you chose to do it. Eat the aftermath.

speed poems

5 minutes each

I have no

identity anymore

I never really did

I only feel my id

and memory is poor

...when I die

leave me to the rocks and dirt

then I’ll be a king compared to

what a worm or maggots worth

but still squirming

you talk a lot

you talk and talk and talk

when I listen

it makes no sense no sense

I tell you that

and you

get so mad so mad

is it because

I have it have it wrong?

Then please explain

so I can understand

what you mean

and hold it in my hand

cause right now

my palm my palm is empty

cause all your pain

is nothing but a frenzy

yesterday might as well have been

an hour ago

a year ago

centuries ago

centuries from now

a year from now

an hour from now

for all I care

It’s tomorrow

take off your clothes

like a spy takes off his mask

because I know your every move

reveal yourself

like revealing a masterpiece

because you are one

move around

like you’re playing as a child

because I want to play

Autobiography, part 03

Running concurrently with my experiences in the 3^rd grade classroom, I had a rich life within the trailer park and on the playground. I was a fighter. I was one of a handful of children in my elementary school and in the park who was known as such. I started fights, I would fight particular people every time I got a chance. I made enemies. Oftentimes, only because I had a bad feeling about someone; with no concrete reasoning. Other times, friends of mine would relay stories to me of a particular person’s uncouth personality or bad action. In the latter case, I was like some type of vigilante. At least, I would have been, If I had a strict set of values I was enforcing. I’m not sure what I was enforcing.

Because of the circumstances at school, fights would be pretty quickly broken up. However, within the park, oftentimes we were only surrounded by other children. So a fight’s existence or length was only determined by the bigger(and usually older) children’s discretion. This obviously depended on a lot of factors. Younger brothers were bad news, because as soon as you started winning, the older brother would step in. Blood, or a person failing to fight back, would typically stop it. It was an unusually good system, now that I consider it; not much different from the queensberry rules.

These fights had some unusual results. First and foremost, it furthered my growing anti-authoritarianism. Being in a comfy office chair in an air conditioned room, talking to a smug principle about “who started it” as a punishment; it was plain to see that adults have no idea what they’re doing. Surprisingly, these fights made me friends. For those who were already friends with me, I would take it upon myself to fight “for them”. It was some sort of perverse way to show affection to one another, in the form of beating on what they hate.

In one particular case I made friends with someone I fought. He was an African immigrant of some type, and talked with a thick accent. He talked really highly of himself, which irritated me to no end, and to my surprise he immediately jumped at the opportunity to fight. We managed to do so, for a while, until we were broken up. While walking to the office he said “good fight” and smiled. It was so endearing that we became friends immediately.

One day in the ensuing months he mentioned that his dad beats him with a belt almost every night. He said it so plainly, as if everyone’s dad does that. I remember where I was, outside of the front of his home, with his dad yelling at him from the inside. My brain wrestled with the idea of violence on the spot, and still does to this day. 2 kids throwing blows on a playground is basically goofing off, but an adult man beating his 8 year old son is a different matter. Although I was aware that such one-sided violence occurs, I had never been close to it before that. To think that I wanted to beat the snot out of a kid, who gets beat when he goes home, is sickening now. Of course I didn’t know, but I didn’t know the lives of any other child I hit either(for the most part).

I can’t really explain my compulsion to fight, but at the time it was my identity; my vocation. Everyone knew that’s just what I do.

Then came the move, and 4^th grade...

long live excess

I consider abstinence a form of excess. It’s excessive non-indulgence, rather than excessive indulgence. Moderation is separate from each, and the worst of both worlds. Moderation leaves you in a meaningless limbo. To use a particular example; you aren’t sober enough to have complete clarity, but you aren’t drunk enough to have complete bliss. This can be applied to any other indulgence; whether chemical, mechanical or behavioral.

Many highly successful characters in history were excessive in some indulgences, and abstinent in others. One thing they weren’t, though, is moderate. If they had been moderate, they would have had no unique insights. Their work would have been marred in mediocrity. Excess is the ultimate form of coming correct.

Of course, excess cannot be propagated recklessly. As the squares will tell you(with their only insight), excess can kill. That is why an economical approach ought to be applied to excess. 2 examples of unchained excess immediately spring to mind; Elvis, and Babe Ruth. Both had unquenchable thirsts that ultimately led to their untimely end. Honestly, it’s not a bad way to live; but if it’s not the life you’d like to lead, then pick your poisons carefully. How many excesses you can take on at once depends on your natural capacity. When you know your capacity; indulge, with no restraint, short of the avoidance of death.

take out the white trash

People who aren’t (necessarily) white trash:

the poor

those who live in trailers

truck drivers

drinkers of cheap beer

users of smokeless tobacco

hunters and fishers

people who watch nascar

those with black friends

those without black friends

listeners of country

listeners of rap

southerners

Appalachia residents

those in rural communities

those in urban communities

those who wear cowboy boots or hat

those who wear baggy clothing

drug addicts

the unemployed

people who are, necessarily, white trash:

thieves

idiots

bigots

pastors/preachers

meth cookers

rapists

abusers

murderers

violent individuals

the willfully ignorant

TV-watchers

those who like Larry the cable the guy

deadbeat dads

controlling moms

capitalists

the religious

the mayor of Maryland

adults

Adult >noun 1 a person who is fully grown and developed.

One idea is that this is at the completion of puberty. The idea being that after basic hormonal composition is achieved; body and mind, a person’s personality and habits are more-or-less set in stone. Oftentimes there is flex-time on this; exemplified in the idea of a “confused” time in high school in which a person truly “finds themself”. This idea is too simple; It entirely leaves out the possibility of impressive life experience, sufficient to alter emotionality, after this time.

Another idea for the completion of a person is the age of 17, 18, or 19. This gives the law and tradition far too much credit. There are so many reasons for the granting of “adulthood” at a certain age which are political, rather than scientific, in nature. The best reason that can be given for this concept is that this is when a person is “grown”. Even if you accept physicality as the marker, a person is not done growing, in body or mind, until their early 20's in most cases.

A related idea is that a person knows who they are after the completion of college. This leaves out the huge fraction of people who don’t attend, or don’t finish, college. Are they forever in an adulthood limbo? I’m sure your tight-assed college professor would say so, but I wouldn’t. It again gives too much credit to schooling. Can’t a person develop without the guidance of school? Or fail to develop, despite the guidance of school? It’s easy to observe either case in your day-to-day dealings.

The final and most irritating concept for the finish line of adulthood is parenthood. This assumes that reproduction is a duty, and completely dismisses those who choose not to, or can’t, raise children; regardless of their other efforts. More importantly, it doesn’t take into account the actual quality of parenthood. By these standards, a person who proliferates an extremely successful business in lieu of birthing children, then donates most of their profits to organizations which help thousands of families raise their children to adulthood, is less of an “adult” then a person who simply has a child, then sits around watching TV, while the child makes their way in the world.

There is no such thing as adulthood. A person is only“ fully grown and developed” when they are dead. None of us ever stop developing, throughout our entire lives, in some manner. So, when someone states “[some bullshit] happened in my childhood, so now I act like this”, or “[my first {some bullshit}] happened like this, so now I think this way”, you are justified to say “grow a set”. No one is ever in the clear; they are ultimately responsible for their personality and disposition, at any age.

children

I am skeptical of the drive to birth and raise children. Unlike many who share that skepticism, I don’t think child-creating is a bad idea. If someone decides to go through with it, I don’t resent them. Many who decide to become parents, however, have terrible reasoning. Certainly not all of them, but many.

The whole act is flooded in magical thinking. For many in committed relationships, the birth of a child is thought of as righteous because of how much they love each other. The love—no matter how deep— between partners does not transfer to the child in any way. Whether begat through planned birth or adoption, children are typically pretty ambivalent towards their parents love for one another. Children need a support system, hot meals and shelter; not ooey gooeyness.

Then there is the over-assumed notion that a child will love their parents. Though parents and their children can’t help having some affinity for one another due to chemical wiring; it’s not a rule that children will actually like their parents. Many don’t. A continuation of this idea is that a child will be like it’s parents, in personality and goals. A child only shares[half of {some of}] their parents possible genetics; the rest is up to the playground, what they saw in their cartoons, and who-the-fuck-knows. Your really smart, attractive child may decide to be the creator of a youtube news show rather than a doctor or a lawyer, and then you’ll have to let him live in your house until I’m 21.

The final bit of nonsense is that, through correct parenting, perfect people can be created. A child is not a thing. They’re not a robot, or even a dog(though that’s a little bit closer). A child should be allowed to come to their own conclusions, form their own personality, and make their own goals. If parents don’t let them, they will anyhow, the only difference being that they will hate their parents. If you decide to have children, please remember that you are making an organic creature with a powerful brain. Give your child variety, resources, and support. The rest is up to them.

sex and drugs

I’m going to go out on a limb here, because I don’t have grant money, test subjects, or drugs to play with(Excuse me, do research with). Depression is directly connected with sexuality. Depressives seek sexual experience for the ego boost and affection that it brings. Sexuality becomes a way to relieve depression.

That is why those who take anti-depressives often experience a loss of sexual desire, or the pleasure therein. The psychological-industrial complex commonly addresses this loss of libido and/or sexual function in a list of side effects, with the same priority as a hacking cough, or itchiness. They assume that it is a simple chemical result, failing to recognize any behavioral component.

“Well, you ought to seek out a healthy relationship” is almost never the advice given to a depressive seeking help. When it is, it’s only after magic pills. Somehow the white-coats have no hesitations prescribing in a way that might stifle someone’s sexuality. When did mechanically altering one’s brain chemistry become a less radical approach than seeking out human affection? 2 depressives finding one another to relieve their loneliness and boredom, in my estimation, is better than lone depressives getting prescriptions for happiness and being let loose on the world as frigid, SSRI robots.

9 cobeisms

Don’t jump the gun:

Let things play out, or your action will be a mistake.

The tarnished gold rule:

Treat others the way they treated you.

Keep secrets:

You know it, and you’re the only one who matters.

Democracy sucks:

Something is correct, best, or righteous despite how many people agree.

Great minds think differently:

Sponges think alike.

Cobe’s trident:

There are 3 ways to be: depressed, busy, or dead.

Statute of limitations:

What happened in your past more than 2 weeks ago is not an excuse for your current actions.

No higher level:

No god, no love, no fate, no soul. Only vastness, affection, circumstance and body.

Cobe’s razor:

The simplest answer, and the most complicated one, have an equal chance of being correct.

justice

There is a universal longing for justice.

I feel it every day. Though, unlike most, I remain skeptical of the institutions and ideas which promise it. Many religions promise justice. There’s the heaven and hell dichotomy; in which one is forever punished or rewarded for their earthly actions. There’s also reincarnation; wherein the being that you take on in the next life is commensurate with your actions in your life now. Failing faith in a life after this one; there’s the idea of karma. Even outside of hindu circles, It’s exemplified with popular wisdom that “what goes around comes around”(cypress hill even wrote a song about it).

Not everyone can have enough faith in these things to find comfort. That’s why people established justice systems. In case you’ve been lucky enough to not have to wrestle with them, justice systems are a combination of investigations, trials, and judgements; all controlled by humans, that carry on work in an attempt to punish the guilty. I hope you agree that humans are more effective at doling out justice than religion; which doesn’t do anything. However, religion’s ineffectiveness is what it has over human systems. There is no mistaken guilt, and no innocent people are published by nothing.

Which begs the question. Is justice possible? As much as I’d like to say “yes”(I actually typed “sometimes” first), the answer is no. Religious attempts to bring justice are baseless wishful thinking. Any religious idea of justice can be safely augmented with “wouldn’t it be nice if...” beforehand. Human attempts at justice fail. Eye-for-any-eye, or eye-for-a-damn-head approaches only perpetuate a cycle of revenge and bloodlust that innocent people get tangled in. Restitution is limited to material, and can never correct traumatic memories and ensuing psychological pain. Imprisonment only puts wrong-doers together so they do wrong to each other, and typically radicalizes them if they are ever to be released. All of these attempts fail on a more basic level: They can’t undo what was done.

Just as justice is impossible for a victim, redemption is impossible for a perpetrator. The perpetrator has always violated the rights of another, no matter how sorry they are, how much the pay, how much time they serve, or even if they burn in a lake of fire. As long as people are doing wrong to each other, which will happen indefinitely, there can never be justice.

The only thing you can use to fight the wicked is to not be one of them, not support them, and defend yourself and those around you from them.

strip club puzzle

Jack goes into a strip club with 63 dollars. He immediately buys 2 drinks, with tip, which costs 20. He watches 2 dancers, tips one 2, and the other 1 dollar. He decides to get change from the bartender: 20 1's for a 20. He tips one more dancer, and then goes home. When Jack gets home, He counts his money and only finds 20 dollars. What happened?

yuck

One thing that continues to make me angry, without fail, each time I’m confronted with it, is the bumper sticker or T-Shirt “Stop bitching, start a revolution”. Firstly, because it’s clear that the person sporting this slogan has not taken it’s advice. The slogan is, by it’s very nature, “bitching”. Moreover, if they have the interest, and energy, to purchase cute “political” statements immortalized in consumer goods, it’s a pretty safe bet that they haven’t begun any revolution.

I also take a more general issue with it, as it implicates you, the reader, to do what it says. From what authority am I receiving this order? The author of the quote? The bumper? The idiot who paid for it to be displayed proudly on themself? What if my “revolution” is the eradication of bumper stickers? In that case, the following of their advice would be counter-revolutionary to their revolution; which is apparently to put forth vague statements of political discomfort in a world full of voting, TV-watching and prescription personality disorder medication taking.

11 Cobeisms

Triangulation:

Bliss is achieved through the harmony of 3 seemingly contradictory elements. Elements could be your location, your activity, you intake of food and/or drugs, or your company.

De-powered struggle:

When a power struggle is recognized, the best action is to point out the existence of the power struggle and stop participating.

Phobia of homophobephobia:

When person A uses homosexuality as an insult, it is not necessarily because they are homosexual. Person B, who points out that person A is probably homosexual because of their statements, is a homophobe, because they are using homosexuality as an insult.

The racist race:

When person A uses race as an insult, it is not necessarily because they are a particular race. Person B, who points out that person A is probably a particular race because of their statements, is a racist, because they are using race as an insult.

Melting:

Activities towards the goal of becoming “chill”, or “chilling”, do not actually cause a state devoid of human suffering. Instead, there is no effect on it’s existence.

Promised land fallacy:

There is no perfect place on earth. There are only slightly better places than where you are.

Rationalization to default state:

You pick religions, tastes and friends to affirm who you already are as “good”, rather than “good” as who you aren’t yet.

Constructive criticism A:

People who need constructive criticism the most are the least likely to accept it.

Constructive criticism B:

Good constructive criticism begins with a deconstruction, or demolition if need be.

Suicide sucks:

Ending emotional suffering through nothingness is like publishing a book by lighting it on fire.

Fill up the tank:

Fill your life with as much variety, consumption and curiosity as possible, and you will reach a state of feeling “ok”.

Autobiography, part 02

When I was 5, I attended kindergarten. When I was 6, I attended 1^st grade. When I was 7, I attended 2^nd Grade. That is all that I know from that period. I don’t remember my teacher’s names, who my friends were, or how I felt at the time. It’s a big empty space in my memories. My mother tells me that I enjoyed school and looked forward to going. This is unimaginable to me now. I suppose this was simply the cocoon out of which the true insect emerged.

3^rd grade was that emergence. I had a teacher, named Ms. Jeffers, who I hated on every single level. I don’t know if it was my newfound awareness, or if she was actually particularly bad. Whatever the case may be; I hated seeing her, hearing her, and taking any kind of instruction from her. As such, I usually didn’t. It’s 11 years later now, so I can only withdrawal 2 memories easily.

One day in class, the lesson was to learn how to “argue correctly” or something similar. The idea was for a child in the class to make a statement, until someone disagreed, at which point the teacher would moderate the argument. Soon enough, someone said “South America is hot!” To which I disagreed. Everyone looked at me like I had 3 heads. The teacher asked me to explain why not. I said that there are 2 poles, north and south, and that south america is a huge continent, the southern tip of which reached close to the south pole. Therefore, just like how Canada is colder than the U.S., southern South America is quite colder than the other part of it. I added that there are very mountainous regions as well, and mountains are always colder at their higher altitudes. The other student defended herself by saying that a relative of hers had spent a long time in South America, and it was always hot.

To my shock, the teacher took the side of the other student because it was “eye-witness evidence”. I started freaking out— if I remember correctly, standing up—and reiterating my arguments. I talked about the poles, mountains, and something the other student had apparently forgotten about; seasons. The crux of my argument became the sheer size of the continent, all of which the teacher and student agreed were “hot”, with absolutely no variation. The teacher told me to stop, I didn’t, and then she went in her desk to get something. I knew at once that I would be sent to the office, so I stormed out of the classroom to go there myself. I kicked a rack of plastic tubs(a device for storing the students valuables) as hard as I could on the way out. There was nothing but silence during these few minutes, and it felt great.

I used to love to write symbols and logos. I was somewhat obsessive about it. Designer clothes, historical symbols, things I made up. In a little sketchbook at home I kept a few pages dedicated to “collecting” them. Among them were the swastika. My parents and brother noticed this, but could easily tell, next to other symbols like peace, that it was just doodling. They still told me to never, ever write a swastika in school or anywhere else besides my book at home. So, that was the only symbol that was restricted in my mind.

One day after finishing a spelling test early, I turned over the half slip of paper and started drawing symbols. Among them were the circle-A of anarchism, a pentagram and a “nothing” symbol I made up that was just a capital N in a circle(creative, I know). There were also words on the page, but they all related to the symbols and I can honestly say I don’t remember them. The next day, my teacher asked to see me in the hall. She immediately showed me the back of my test from the day before. She asked me, “do you know what this means?”. I snapped. I couldn’t quote myself word for word(though I wish I could) but I looked her straight in the eyes and said something like:

“Who cares? They don’t mean anything. There’s no god and there’s no point, so why do you care? I’m just going to die in the end, so what’s the point of getting good grades or staying out of trouble or not drawing on tests. We’re all just going to die”.

I remember that the normal anxiety and nervousness that joined talking to authority figures felt like it left my head, my chest, the rest of my body and spilled out of my feet while I said all of this. It started simply, but then when I felt some relief after saying how I really felt, I just kept talking(probably repeating myself) until it all went away. The catharsis was unbelievable, and ultimately I felt powerful because it looked as though for a moment she was the nervous, anxious and controlled one. She sent me to the office, and in a move that I repeated often afterwards, I started walking there(refusing to take a hall pass) before she finished the sentence.

The office sent me to the nurse, clearly not really knowing what to do, and many of them looked at the test as if to say “so what?”. The nurse simply asked me if I’ve thought about suicide. I said yes, and she asked me if I had a plan. I said yes, and she asked me if I wanted to do it. I said no. She talked to me a little more about wether I was happy or not. I told her that I am unhappy in school, and happy at home. She asked me why I’m unhappy in school, and I said because of Ms. Jeffers. She said there was nothing anyone could do about that, sent me back to class, and told me that the school would sent this “test” to my parents. When my parents got it, they didn’t see anything dark about it, and took my side that I can draw whatever I like, short of a swastika. I don’t think they addressed me about my “suicidal” comments(which simply recognized the existence of death).

knocked out

He’s going left, he’s going left. Bad move. Take this! Missed him. Hit on the right side of the jaw. Duck down. Oh no! There’s the right. I see his face, he looks like the devil. Now I’m spinning as slow as I’ve ever spun before, but the color of the ropes and mega-tron are swirling around me like a tornado.

It feels like I have a headache on my shoulder blades. I hear someone screaming at me. That’s the ref. I open my eyes and see nothing but white dots of light. I’m down. This is the first time I’ve been down. What happened? Fuck, he’s counting me out! He’s gotta be counting a million miles an hour. What was that? “Six”?, “Seven”?, I’ve gotta get up! Quick! My calves feel like they’re pushing up a Buick. The colors are spinning again, like they’re trying to help me balance.

Someone’s arms are wrapped around me. They’re talking to me like I’m a child, directly in my ear; and now I know it’s over. My weight is being lifted up onto someone’s shoulders. I realize how small I really am. I can’t lift my head up enough to separate my cheek from the shoulder It’s on, thought I desperately want to. The struggle to do so feels like months. I’m plopped onto a stool against the corner and my tail-bone feels like someone is tapping it with pain incarnate. Dull pulses of pure suffering continue, as my eyes again open.

The faces of my trainer and cornermen are swaying to and fro at an even pace like a metronome set at 60 beats-per-minute. I can hear their voices as clear as day, but they’re talking to the rhythm of a metronome set at 200 beats-per-minute. I try to talk to tell them that everything’s okay, and to slow down, but my speech comes out slurred and barely beginning, as if it were set to a broken metronome set at 1 beat-per-minute. I hear the ring announcer: “The referee calls an end to the action, after seeing the first minute”.