Screaming

Last morning I woke up screaming. Naturally, I was concerned if anyone heard me. I doubt I woke the birds. I am 24 and I am having night terrors... still. I hate them because they feel so real. This one was odd. I woke up in my bed but my eyes were closed. My dream was about me being cursed in a mansion and my family was so cold to me, I hated myself in this dream and I was lost in darkness of some kind. Before the scream I felt something get into my bed, an old nightmare come to life. The pressure from this invisible entity increasingly got stronger and stronger till the side of the bed they were on dipped down further than would be possible. I kept trying to say something and I did mutter a few words till my eventual yell. Progression from my past night terror silences, I guess.

Rude Thoughts

I was never hard, really black, or a man. I can walk into a bar and disappear or get beat up. I please my body like an alcoholic father raises a family. I lie like I hate the truth from my bones. I do these things well.
I don't see much of myself anyways. Just the mirror in the morning and twice when I pee during the day. Escape is the key on this planet. So why have mirrors? To look and see my teeth, which should be whiter? To see my skin that screams dirty? Or maybe it is the eyes. Looking into my eyes I always struggled seeing both at the same time. Is that weird? If I look long enough I see a silver lining around the lens.

I am just me. I learned that is not a good thing to be me, but everyone tells you otherwise. So I lie. When I am a somebody I will care about me. Whoever I am. Maybe I am a dog, money, vagina? Maybe. I need value. What is value, money? Could value be measured if we really wanted to generalize the worth of a human? I am sure we have tried. These thoughts are rude and they come from my heart. My stained heart. Covered in oil and barb wire. Awaiting the source of all that inspires anyone, the truth, to set me free. Yes, my thoughts always lean towards p a i n.

Lovely pain. Eureka! Pain is the key and the door is the heart. Well, probably not.

Mad and Confused

Titles are always a problem. First, the word titles reads titties to me, because sex is more important than English class or reading to me. Second, titles change. Look at the children growing up today. They all have ADD-focus-in-the-toilet and they swear too much. How can our kids, my generation, and the next set of kids to rules the planet cope with simple things like titles? Even Facebook has stupid email these days, there is even a website called email.com for emails! There is too much to know, too little time to look up, and our kids are stupid. I usually call myself stupid at the end of the day. Maybe it is because I am mad and confused about myself and the world?

I wanted to talk about smoking, comedy and not getting it. I smoked in the past, courtesy of the gateway drug my family. Funny thing, even with stress high as it was while growing up, I did not do drugs. I was in DARE, struggled with my homework, stared at girls, and hated the mornings. And then... I did smoke to be cool, basically. I was with my father or sister, or God-knows which family member and we peer-pressured me a stoke. Fond memories, I think. My memory is not linear or patchy, I just remember things based on emotion and context. As in, my emotion is chill now and was not then, but the context is right. So I remember some of this past. I do not like smoking much, but I do not hate it, because I do it much. If I could guard a cloud of cocaine as I bathed in a pool of heroin as a nuke headed my way while I was getting buzzed and high with several overly attractive girls to Bjork, I think I would be cool with that. Most people would not. I know, because I have asked too many since I was 13. I even remember telling my mom when I was 9 or so about wanting to be a drug dealer, just a joke and I did not even know what that meant, but we had cable.

Comedy, is great, no? I am at a weird point in my life where I could lose that spark that is comedy, but then again, do I have a knack for this world? It is too soon, only a few months in, and I haven't made it up to a big venue and failed. Right now, it is dozens of small milestones and hurdles till I get onto the next level. I see everything in three levels, especially my comedy. First level is the beginning stage, second is the medium, and the last stage is a form of retirement. It is a vague gauge I have, rule of three's either way.

I guess I can transition into not getting it. Not that I should get anything. I don't even get Halloween. I love it mainly because it involves my favorite threes: sweet, honey, bee. In only one order, to be precise. Sweet is the free goodies offered that day. Honey are the people out and about in outfits and open to unique conversation. Finally, bees are the stings for the night. For example, holding your ex-girlfriends hair back as she vomits for a second time into a toilet crying and screaming "I love you Shan" and then passing out on the bed like a dead cat as I shiver in the corner. Ya, the stings make the sweet delicious and the honey worth it. Although, I have no plans for this Halloween. I was going to dress up as a Terrorist, but with weekend work and some personal affairs. Aka hanging with my cat now moved inside and dealing with a drug-hangover, I had my hands full.

So, I don't get my words, my writing, or people and that is OK. Sometimes, we just live, and leave the thoughts to other people. September was the month to absorb, and October was the month to accept. I have a feeling November will be the month to connect. I hope my mad Sun and Confused moon.