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?
Behind me now is a flag purchased for ten, perhaps owned by a believed patriot. Rather than burn the symbol in solitude, I’ve pasted a series of letters in a quasi-revolutionary font upont, forming a phrase in a “dead” language:
Sic. (Thus)
Semper. (Forever)
Tyrannis. (Tyrants)
This conglomeration of individuals pasted likewise such through the force of Law under the guise of Justice, we sit and we type and we hammer and we money-change through our days and we go to bed tired rather than angry as the Will of the Land intends.
Sprinkled throughout will be such aphorisms of dubious import and unlikely provocative of any sort of meaningful introspection by the likes of the public at large.
APHORISM, n. Predigested wisdom.
The flabby wine-skin of his brain
Yields to some pathologic strain,
And voids from its unstored abysm
The driblet of an aphorism.
“The Mad Philosopher,” 1697
How am I? I’m drinking less. I de-activated my Facebook account, then re-activated it ostensibly to spark the contacts I have connected through its medium. Without the drunken ranting on Facebook, I am but a pathetic old fool in his man-cave drinking alone.
Perhaps I am that, regardless.
To rewind a moment: “She” did indeed bring a stack of papers (easily forged, you indeed know) which kept Justice from re-uniting me with my daughters without the state-sanctioned supervision for which I pay $50 per two hours per week. Thus, I refrain.
“Asylum” in its truest etymological sense means a place of refuge. Sanctuary. However, as you descend through the synonyms, you encounter more sinister (left-handed) connotations. Cover. Covert. Den. Dugout. “Funk hole.” (I like that one.) “Safehold.” “Snug harbor.” (How cute.) Psychopathic hospital. Sanatorium. Padded cell. Nuthouse.
Bedlam.
She sent me there first. Not directly, of course, but it was her volition that instigated my commission.
Then the flowers. Fifteen thousand dollars bond from the cunt of Amherst. Mark Farrell or Geoffrey Klein. I don’t recall. He didn’t look at me. I’ll never call a judge “your honor” again. There is no honor in a position. Honor is earned, not bought or elected.
Am I in contempt of court? Indeed. I hold it in contempt. I hold every judge in contempt. I grab the flag on its staff and drive it through the black heart of …
Sorry. Getting purple there.
I’m fine.
Visited a strip club for the first time in forty years. For a dollar, a beautiful woman will rub her breasts against your face, and hover with athletic thighs her most sacred temple of wrinkled folds centimeters from your lips. When she is done, when the music is finished, she will kneel to the lit floor tiles and scoop up those single dollar bills and walk off stage.
It is sad, for certain, but then, so are the men with dollars clenched in their teeth.
We are all sad.
Some are more brazenly mercenary than others, but they are all whores.
We are all whores.
I’m running out of steam at 10 o’ the clock. Pink Floyd’s “Animals.” “Rage” in the 360. Blast the fuck out of mutants.
Me? I’m fine.
Near broke. $150 in the bank account on the Monday after paycheck. I couldn’t afford to pay the pimp-mother to see my daughters a few weeks ago. I think this stretch will forego the double overdraft of the previous fortnight and boost my reserves summat. Credit is night depleted. FSA health debit card is suspended until I pay for the involuntary committal to Erie County Medical Center. I don’t have the $333 for that. Buying co-pays with what little credit remains, redeeming that the old-fashioned way with mailed receipts, and then get the card activated again. If mommy has to co-pay, she should keep the receipts, and feel the sting of consequence of putting the father of her children into Bedlam.
But, again, I do not wish to speak of She.
This is just an update.
I’m not a rocket scientist.
I rock the house.
And sign the tits.
And that’s it.
My apartment resembles a dorm room now. The inverted flag with that Wilkes-Booth screed. A rotating disco light. Lava lamp. Posters and self-made beaded door-curtain. Hanged guitars. Ironic blonde Jesus affixed with a blasphemous Post-It.
I’m leaving now. That’s the state of the disunion.
Just thought you’d like to know.