A little intro to something I'm nearly finished...

Malbranque420

Just throwin' it out there...



LETHAL INJECTION:

(i)

I am, therefore I be.
I be, therefore I’ll try.
The great self-acceptance, and ultimately, self defeat of mankind.
I was once. I just was.
Me, myself, and I.
(Depressed?)
Ever hear the term “Don’t be a human being. Be a human doing”?
No? Well, go to any ‘self-help’ seminar, presented and fronted by some scumbag, amoralistic, glorified salesman posing as your friend, in a pair of nicely ironed slacks and a sports jacket, and chances are, that line, or some cliché just like it, will rear its ‘uplifting’ little head.
(Inquisitive?)
Chances also are, somewhere along the lines of being force fed a rehearsed, recycled and rehashed self improvement spiel, you will feel all warm and fuzzy inside, just because said salesman addressed you, by name, at some point during the seminar and made you feel like you had an impact on proceedings. Did you also notice he addressed other people in the same manner? With that same smug smile on his face? Did you feel jealous, or were you still riding the crest of that same wave you were on when he made you the centre of attention? Or did you even care?
(Detached?)
“You’re a star. This is your time, and you make the absolute most of your time, being the best you can ever be. You don’t adhere to life’s ticking clock. Let life adhere to yours.”
I just saved you a fortune in self-help classes, right there.
(Deprehension!)
What I’m getting at is that, for all my bitching and bitterness towards these self-help gurus and their seminars, is that by sitting through one and by consciously, knowingly realising you’re there for all the wrong reasons, you can be ‘saved’.
Ask yourself “Why am I here?”
(Auscultation!)
Question yourself. Question your motives for living. Question your boss. Question your partner. Question your friend. Question your parents. Question your religion. Question your governing bodies. Ask yourself “What am I going to do with my life?”
Write a book. Build a bridge. Help the poor. Spit on the aged. Get divorced. **** an AIDS ridden prostitute. Shoot a president. Blow up a building. Crash a car into a wall at 140mph just to see if you can get up and walk away.
Ask yourself “Can I face my fears?”
(Audacity!)
Ignore the logical side of your brain, grab your fears by the neck and run with it. Let your pupils dilate. Let your face contort. Let your brain turn inside out. Let your balls shrivel up. Let your body respond to the natural stimulus of your fear and reject it.
This is your remaining time on Earth. How are you going to see it out?
(Amelioration!)
I asked myself that very question. Looks like I’m gonna see this gig out with a big ****ing smile on my face…

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Anima.


(1)
Waking up next to her was something that you just couldn’t put a price on.
Every morning, for a long time, I woke up, glanced to my right and there she’d be. My Karen. Either still asleep, or looking back at me with those big blue-green eyes of hers, letting me know, without having to say anything, that there was nowhere on this green Earth she’d rather be. I couldn’t help but think I felt the exact same way.
Her head would automatically, almost instinctively, go to my chest and lay there while I stroked her hair. We’d hit the snooze button on the alarm clock for the guts of an hour, and then laugh, and piss and moan about having to get up out of our bed, then laugh again.
We were romances old cliché. We’d shower together, make and eat breakfast together, get dressed together and in between we’d hug and kiss and let each other know, without having to say anything, that there was no-one else on this green Earth, either of us would rather be with.
Each day, I lived for the moment when I walked through the door of our apartment, after a day’s work at my ****ty job, and saw her face. That beautiful face. Even if you just caught a one second glimpse of her walking past you on the street, her face would stay in your mind for days. She had that effect on men, and for a long time, I was no different.
It wasn’t Casablanca, but it was love nonetheless.
One thing’s for sure though, nothing lasts forever. Not love, not lust, not even fondness. Maybe you could get by in a relationship on one of those three emotions, but when all three get flushed down the ****ter without warning, the relationship just becomes a bad habit, and like any bad habit, you just have to cut it out of your life for the good of your health and/or sanity.
Somewhere on the fragile, emotional glass tightrope of love, it all changed. I changed. I began to view our relationship as a stinking, bad habit.
I began to wake up and look at Karen with nothing but distain and contempt, for reasons even unknown to myself.
I slowly began to blame her for all my failings in life. It got to the stage where with each passing second, some new and culpable thought against her would creep into my brain, and give birth to a plethora of spiteful, hateful and often vengeful thoughts.
I began to believe that I was destined for something better than just being part of a couple.
My mind blamed her for the fact that I never became a rock star, or a movie star, or a fireman, a barman, a hero, your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman, a bin man, a ****ing truck driver, anything but an institutionalised desk level office clerk with a constant sinus problem due to a murky, aged Vent Eeezy Air Conditioning System™.
Of course, being male, I couldn’t talk to her about my simmering, almost boiling qualms, so I just did what any man would do, and began to treat her like the lowest form of gutter dwelling insect that ever lived.
I began to despise her so much, that I started to suffer a series of incapacitating headaches that made me black out. A stress induced neurological disorder, my doctor called it. ****ing uncomfortable, I called it. He prescribed me Sumatriptan for the migraines, and a high dose of Citalopram to balance my serotonin. That should do the trick, he told me. Non-addictive, he told me. Come back in three to four months, he told me.
I hated her so much that I felt sick to my stomach and frequently threw up. An irritated pharynx, the pharmacist called it. ****ing inappropriate while peregrinating in public, I called it. Probably a reaction to the Citalopram, he told me. Take some over the counter Loperamide, he told me. That should do the job, he told me. Non-addictive, he told me. I read the label. If symptoms persist, consult your doctor.
I had such little respect for her that I used to download porn onto our computer, and leave it saved to the desktop, in full view for her to see. Your credit card will be charged €7.99, it told me. The credit card transaction will read “Only2BLonely”, it told me.
Thank you for your custom, it told me.
When we had sex, I fantasised about every female I encountered on that day.
The hot Goth chick on the train. The mature, flirty lady with the tacky bleached blonde hair that served me my coffee at lunchtime, the new girl in the office who looks very like Carla Gugino, only with smaller tits. Even the 60-year-old receptionist took a spanking in my fantasies while I humped my girlfriend with raw, animal hatred.
I wanted her out of my life, and I didn’t know why.
Erich Pinchas Fromm once spoke of relatedness, transcendence, rootedness & sense of identity. Maybe I was lacking in one, or all, of those ‘basic needs’.
Karen went from the most confident girl I ever met, to a quivering, nervous wreck in a matter of weeks and she told me that she didn’t know who I was anymore. It’s a typical copout statement from the female point of view, when a once hopeful and meaningful relationship, becomes null and void. Men throughout the ages have learned to deal with being the protagonists in relationships since the dawn of time, so why should I be any different.
It’s not rocket science, but it’s science nonetheless.
There’s no way of communicating with me anymore, she told me. I needed help, she told me. She needed a break, she told me. I’ll ram a blunt kitchen knife through your trachea, I told her.
I mean, why deny the girl the confirmation of her fears?
So, to cut a long story short, after watching her sob and weep and cry, and my not caring to say a single thing to redeem myself, I packed my bags with most of my clothes, and my toiletries, as well as some other random everyday living apparatus, and left.
It was, upon reflection, a throwaway remark that ultimately killed our relationship, but maybe it was for the best. Let’s face it, if I was capable of even thinking something like that, let alone saying something like that, to the woman I supposedly loved, maybe she was right. Maybe I am disunited from myself. Maybe I did need help. I don’t even think I knew who I’d become anymore.
It’s not Shakespeare, but it’s tragic nonetheless.


(2)
The first thing I did when I left Karen in a quivering ball of tears on the kitchen floor, was go straight to my friend Ethan’s house. The guilt set in about all the passive aggressive, emotional bullying I put her through and I felt a migraine coming on again. He was the only friend I had without a conscience, so it was an easy choice to go to him for comfort. I mean, ****, he’d actually tell me, with his infectious charm and with brute force conviction that I was totally in the right.
**** her and anyone who looks just like her, he’d tell me. She’s a pretentious little **** anyway, he’d tell me.
He wouldn’t have been one of my best friends, but he was somebody you could always count on to make you feel good about yourself, no matter what.
In essence, I used him for selfish reasons.
Ethan Owen was a criminally handsome guy. He had a great job and a top-drawer apartment. He was always preened to perfection, his dirty blonde hair always styled immaculately and he always, without fail, wore the best of designer clothes. Even his perfectly ironed, silk pyjamas with the collar turned up bore a ****ing D&G label. If an item of his clothing went ‘out of date’, meaning, if it became ‘last seasons’ trend, he would give me first choice on said item of clothing, and if I, or any of his friends, didn’t want it, rather than give it to a charitable cause, he’d sell them on E-Bay.
Auction sites are a haven for selling worthless crap to gullible dreamers, he’d tell me. People will believe anything if they really want to, he’d tell me.
Ethan once sold an glass bottle filled with dirt from his back garden on E-Bay for €347.40, because the description read:
‘Genuine Irish dirt/soil from the end of a genuine Irish rainbow. Rainbow air/aura also captured in bottle. A very, very lucky charm and a must for any collector”
Oh say, can you see what country the buyer was from?
He’s pulled many a stunt like that on E-Bay and various other auction sites, and created a rather delusory enterprise while he was at it.
“Matchbox with two matches missing. Used by Keith Richards” - €172.00
(A box of matches he bought for 20 cent in the local shopping centre)
“Vials of blood from both Tupac Shakur and Christopher Wallace: A.K.A.– Notorious B.I.G. A.K.A – Biggie Smalls. Taken from both autopsies.” - €907.00
(Blood from when he sliced his hand cutting lettuce)
And my personal favourite:
“Vibrator used by Madonna. Hasn’t been cleaned since last use” - €790.00
(Dipped his ex girlfriends vibrator in a bowl of smoked salmon)
The crazy thing is, that no matter how farcical and preposterous the ‘history’ of the item is, there is always some dopey, soppy mug out there that will trust the items historical (or ahistorical as it were) value.
It wasn’t Wall Street, but it was capitalism nonetheless.
He answered the door, in his usual utopian way, as expected. His hair was perfectly styled to the ‘out of bed’ look, with random strands of hair neatly teased out, making him look like some upper class, pseudo-punk. A Fibre Putty and soft wax combo, he told me. His face was covered in some sort of emollient. Wrinkle filler and an Aloe Vera, lanolin and fructis extract, he told me.
He was wearing his lollygagging clothes: A pair of beige coloured linen pants, sandals and a muscle top. Each to their own, I thought.
He was quite a skinny guy, so the glaring contradiction of his wearing muscle tops wasn’t lost on me.
When I first met him, I was convinced he was queer, but after an hour in his metro-sexual presence you’re under no illusions as to what his sexual preference is. He loved women and treated them like pieces of meat. Like they were nuggets of **** run over thrice, but they just loved it and kept coming back for more.