Mental X-Rays

The fragility of life, the catastrophe of existence, the sense of nihilism evoked by the specter of death — my mind’s awash in thoughts like these whenever the dot-matrix display flashes GAME OVER and my game of pinball has reached its end.

It’s a toss up: Unmitigated Shit Storm from Start to Finish or Godawful Mess? For the life of me I can’t decide on a title for my memoirs.

Ask me about my Dark Night of the Soul sometime. “A fondness for drugs” is putting it mildly.

Despairing, miserable, sickly & forlorn, thanks for asking.

Etiquette Tip: Decorum dictates that one must refrain from French-kissing the corpse at an open-casket funeral, no matter how goddamn sexy she is.

Mired in morbid depression, sinking ever deeper into darkness, utterly despairing, utterly forlorn, but otherwise quite well.

It was not long before ugly rumors were in circulation concerning the Corpse Dildo Incident. For the record, that cadaver had been viciously sodomized before I’d even arrived at that pancake breakfast fundraiser.

Friendship is: Whispering the lyrics to the Golden Girls theme song while forcing your bestie to hotwire the Wienermobile at gunpoint.

Like limp and bloodied squirrel carcasses through a meat grinder, these are the days of our lives.

Even in the darkest corners of despair there are glimmers of light we call drugs.

Happiness is: scribbling obscene poetry involving time-traveling android assassins on the walls of gas station bathrooms.

Ruins Of The Golden Age
Badly depressed and convinced life is pointless and the whole world rotten, I while away the time paging through my collection of tattered Golden Age science-fiction paperbacks, losing myself in thoughts of a bright shining future that never was and never will be, devoid of all the sorrows and pains and miseries in which everyday life is so utterly steeped. Confined to those musty dog-eared yellowing pages, death rays cannot kill, mad scientists lack all means of doing damage, the flames of cosmic apocalypse won’t so much as singe your face and evil is rendered impotent. Would that reality were so incapable of causing harm, so well-guarded from true psychotic monsters, absent all the daily slights and indignities and humiliations, so powerless to break your heart.

It’s been my experience that approaching people on the street and shouting “Hold still and let’s see if I can rip your arms off!” rarely results in the formation of lasting friendships. Catch more flies with honey, I guess.

Threatened with savage violence by sinister demonic whispers emanating from my stereo speakers, I resolved to be more circumspect the next time someone offers to sell me a pot brownie.

Basically I’m an optimist — my hopes remain high that a world-destroying meteor is due to arrive any day now.

War, terrorism, country music — the early stages of evolution are never pretty.

Satellite photos of this planet are misleading. Seen from a far enough distance, Earth doesn’t look half bad. Closer inspection reveals the terrible truth.

Gluing Spock ears to your bong — if you’re both a Star Trek fan and a stoner, it would be highly illogical not to.

Raving about giant lobsters from outer space at the top of your lungs — if you’re going to hijack a Walmart intercom, you may as well make it interesting. Alerting shoppers to greatly discounted prices on fashion accessories for moldering corpses is also well worth the effort.

On the whole, I am ill-equipped for adult life. Scribbling nihilistic aphorisms in black marker on the walls of gas station bathrooms has been my primary contribution to society. My hobbies include spouting nonsense about extraterrestrials and going haywire. “Zero Earning Potential” is the working title of my autobiography.

If all the world’s a stage, I was poorly coached and am totally unrehearsed. It’s been nothing but shoddy improv since Act One.

Whispering ominous details of UFO-related conspiracy theories into the ears of total strangers on public transit — sometimes it’s the simple pleasures that get me through the day.