Category: random

After all the stupid shit I’ve done in my life, if die because I touched my face, I’m going to be pissed!

I’m old enough to remember when you could tell the difference between the National Enquirer tabloid and mainstream media reporting.

Peter lived in the small town of Virginia City, Nevada all of his life. Therefore he knew the rules about Six-mile Canyon’s short-cut.

The first was the easiest to follow: don’t use the short-cut. The second and third were to be followed if it were to be used – not at night and never under a full moon.

As for the short-cut, it ran throughout the entirety of the town. And it was known to be cursed.

Peter however couldn’t recall anyone ever having fallen victim to the curse. Further, he’d used the short-cut several times, becoming convinced that the so-called malediction wasn’t real.

One night, the 16-year-old had attended a going-away party at a friends house when he decided to use the short-cut to get home before his midnight curfew. Dark though it was, and with a full moon hidden behind a band of clouds, Peter turned down the cut.

Almost immediately he tripped over a vine or branch and fell to the ground. As he got to his feet, he found himself being tethered by tendrils that wrapped themselves tight about his head, waist, arms and legs.

Even as he struggled to escape, he felt himself lifted from the ground and splayed in every direction. The pain was eminence, but death came quick as Peter’s head was ripped violently from his neck followed by other parts of his body.

Within minutes, nothing remained of Peter, but the town’s quick fading memory of his existence and the Six-mile Canyon curse.

Yes, I’m jus’ being stupid. If you expected better from me, sorry. I’m bored shitless. It’s my new motto. Bored shitless.

I’m tired of drinking water only — and all day long, jus’ to have my pee remain yellow. Also tired of my wife yelling at me, telling me to quit eating the finger paints. I already ran out of the body paints. When all the paints are gone, I’m gonna start on the Elmer’s Glue.

My wife thinks I’m acting worse than a pre-teen me. And I have to agree with her on this one.

Hell, I don’t even care how this missive is received, jus’ as long as I’m doing something besides staring at the ceiling fan. Fan — short for fanatic and not fantastic!

I’m old enough to remember being on restriction for the entire summer, locked down in my bedroom with a radio and a set of encyclopedias. I read the entire effing set and was still bored shitless out of my mind. Not only did I read, but I also wrote as well as tried to teach myself to type on an old and broken typewriter my dad salvaged from the dump one day.

So yeah, with YouTube, Netflix and Amazon Prime viewing, either exhausted or found to be wanting, I’m out of options. Because of this, I’ve returned to my childhood ways: playing outside, running in and out of the house, leaving one or more doors open and complaining that I’m bored.

Now my wife his threatening to use her only wooden spoon on my ass if I don’t straighten up. And if she does end up using it, at least it’ll be something different from our generally TV/Internet laden day and evening.

Oh, and god-damn that refrigerator of ours and it’s continuous siren-song of fat-filled humming and buzzing. When the wife isn’t looking, I intend to drive a few metal screws into the doors and permanently seal its gaping maw shut.

The little bastard in me is on the loose, so get your son-of-a-bitchin’ spoon ready, hon!

Soon everybody will be hiring again and people will be returning to work, except Colin Kaepernick.

It was the
Sword he was
To fall upon.

After all, he
Had done it
Many times before.

We expected nothing
More from him.

So when he
Lifted it up,
Leaning the sword
Against his neck,
Hanging his arms,
Resting on it,
We were not
At all surprised.

He was though,
Having no idea
How sharp that
Blade really was.

His heads rests
Far afield and
Out of sight
While his sword
In memory, hangs.

Decided to wear a mask in the house from now on. Not because of the virus, but to prevent eating.

Life had been a series of cheap, rundown hotel and motel rooms. Befitting a predator; pedophile, sex trafficker, pornographer, abuser, who never saw his own ending coming, face down, midway between the toilet and bed.

Etiolated claws reach for him, ripped labrum stretching in a rictus of evil. The thing has his aspects, twisted into the visage that truly lies beneath his own dying skin.

“Come,” the cadaveric creature whispers hoarsely.

His blackened soul yells, screams, begs, but Death ignores his pleadings as it scoops him up, carrying him towards the hideous tear in the black-and-blue bruise of sky. As it rises, obliteration enlightens him, bringing its hideous aperture close to his decaying ormer.

There’s a putrid stench caressing his front-piece, stinking of gin, bologna and cheese and cigarillos. The breath of his own death.