Some fat fuck entitled his periodic article in The Times-West Virginian as such. No matter. There is so much I cannot say, for it would be printed out and delivered unto “Justice” to keep me from the children who so desperately need my guidance — a firm hand leading them toward some happiness their father could never achieve and their mother cannot deliver. That is enough to be said of Herl. You are familiar with the history, I take it?...
Hay, guyz. That’s kind of an “old-school” Intarwebs thing. My wife sent me to a mental asylum. You know that, right? Yeah, I said that already. Well, the latest trip courtesy of my dearest beloved only one was to the Erie County Holding Centre. ( Yes, it’s spelled like a Canadian would. ) I readily admitted my propensity toward self-harm and was rushed into a man-size oven-glove, snapped the Velcro around my shoulders after a brief but poignant threat in...
Through the fish-eyed lens of tear-stained eyes, I can barely define the shape of this moment in time. And far from flying high in clear blue skies, I’m spiraling down to the hole in the ground where I hide. If you negotiate the mine-fields of my mind … … and if you beat the dogs and cheat the cold electronic eye … … and if you make it past the shotguns in the hall? Dial the combination. Open the priest-hole....
Opposing counsel accused me of being an alcohol and marijuana abuser. How did she come up with any marijuana abuse? Apparently she subpoenaed ECMC. Can they do that? Isn’t there some kind of doctor-client privilege? Oh well. In any case, I was presented in quite an unflattering way. So, I arrive at nine-twentysomething and the hearing finally commences at sometime after noon. All this after (a) having my fucking Droid lose its GPS connection, (b) driving around the labyrinthine streets of...
All of you. All your fear. I lie, inasmuch as I don’t know the truth. Inasmuch as everything I say is some dialogue of script I’ve written moments before, seconds before, split microframes of life before speaking it. And I mean it. At the time. But it all fades. Truth is ephemeral. It’s a whisper misheard and repeated with mutations and twisted with prerogatives and turned into hateful resentment. I’m drinking now, and I’m posting publicly. Now, I know this...
I’m not really “up” this late. Had to have a piss, remembered a bag of chicken-wing side-carrots in the fridge, saw my phone flashing, wrote an email, then had a smoke because my mind was out of sleep too long to just splash back into the pillow and the thoughtless bliss of dreamland. That last post is about my exish/wife inadvertently (ahem) instigating my being committed to a mental institution for a week. Wanted to give that synopsis, and didn’t...
There are times when you feel you have hit bottom. You fell hard, and that surface you hit sure as fuck felt like concrete, but you hear this creaking, then cracking. March 2nd, 2012. 277 days after her separation from me by SMS, backed by the threat of not returning with our daughters until I vacated our rental home. The night before, I’d posted one of my usual absurdist fiction bytes as a Facebook status. Months before, I’d made everything...
Geronimo Horatio Wilder sat on a wooden bench, fingering a holdout pistol in his pocket. Like the ones gamblers used in the wild west, a century before he was born. Like it, but not quite. Rather than gunpowder to propel its deadly charge, its sterile casing contained a real charge: a bundle of caged electrons straining to deliver a single 50-watt laser blast. It was appropriate for his wild-west birth-name bestowed by his whimsical parents. An outlaw. A geriatric outlaw....
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