The Obscure

Last night was the genesis of my violent descent upon the dynasty of financial stability and my obscene, derogatory thrust towards the museum of modern art and "the powers that be."
That sentence did not in any way describe anything, nor will anything about it be revealed in the near future.
I've found a new bed among the dandelions of plagiarism, and I call it home. Who, therefore, shall be the first to point the perfunctory accusatory finger and get this show on the road?
Every now and then the universe bends it's cosmik spine into some unintelligible molecular shape and understands the very fabric of my being. It is at these unforeseen and utterly tragic times that I cry out in a dark, hoarse voice, the words that have been pounding against the inside of my skull ever since I was hurled at this world as an infant, the words that I have always known would one day punctuate a long sentence that represents a piece of human logical thinking in a slightly more tangible way (metaphorically speaking)! Those ominous words that cast impenetrable black shadows in the fields of madness! That mercilessly rape and mutilate the human mind with the sheer, dominating will of the inane! That punch the face of Zeus and wander aimlessly around, accomplishing nothing! Those terrible words!

Jamaican Me Crazy!

I bet at least two of you saw that coming.

Anyway, I'm having weird seizures because I am quitting percoset for a while, so I'm going to go wander around and maybe shower. Probably won't shave though, I don't want to seize while shaving and tear my throat out.

Entropy wins all. I will always remember that line, although the book it was from has gotten lost in an endless haze of forgotten novels. "Lines," as I call them, mean a lot to me; I will think of one line that summarizes hours upon hours of thinking, and I will use it as the framework for an essay or a journal entry or a poem or some other such thing that I do to waste time, and I love doing it, I really do. The idea of how much "Lines" mean to me was brought to my attention by a particularly well-executed one on Becca's site. Although I doubt she has the same methods, her writing skills far surpass my own as far as quality is concerned, so I definitely reccommend her site for regular consumption.
Speaking of consumption, I found a bottle of Vistaril on the side of the road today, and it's expiration date was in 1989. I opened it up and it was one of the most terrifying things I have ever come across, the pills looked like decaying bones and smelled like vinegar.
That's how you know a medication is going bad. The vinegar thing. Never swallow a pill that tastes like vinegar, believe me.

I really don't have a lot of creativity in me tonight, so I think I'm for bed now. thank you all for reading, really. I love each and every one of you, to the best of my ability. Goodnight.

Yesterday was the wake, funeral, and burial of my beloved uncle. My thoughts on this? I don't have any that I wish to make public. Let it be known that I am mourning to the best of my abilities--as is the rest of my family.

Apparently the employees at USAA Insurance are the least competent people alive, as they recently mailed away a fat, 1400 dollar check to the woman who HIT me instead of the Me who was hit. We called up the dude and said, "Hey, whatsup?" and he said, "Oh, damn, I made a big-ol mistake."
They are going to Fed-Ex us the check by 3:30 this afternoon, so I should have it sometime tomorrow. Of course, "Should"s haven't really been reliable thus far in this particular altercation.
I'm going to go to Ryan's house now and eat some waffles. G'day ladies and gents.

With one quick swallow of the drug I lose myself in a haze of semi-consciousness. Am I now a sane man? Do I think I ever was one?
Around and around this wicked wheel whirls, the pinwheel of my majesty spins prettily, shining dazzling colours onto the wall of the child. I, on the other hand, can see through both time and space. I understand all that there is to be understood, and some that is not--and it is on a rare occasion, such as this, that I divulge this mis-understood and non-understandable tidbits of information to you, the general public, for the small fee of one completely pure drop of human blood.
Is your blood entirely your own? How can you be so sure?

I am an ugly man, I am a sad man, I am a sick man, and I am an addicted man. Yet, I am a man, that we can agree on. When all is said and done, castration and copulation are mutually exclusive, and as completely obvious (and neigh on retarded) as this fact is, many people still seem to find it hard to comprehend. I speak not only of physical castration, my friends, but also of a castration of the mind. For without confidence, a man is impotent. Without potence, there can be no gratification, and without gratification my love, there can be no true tangible joy.
For joy is but a feeling, and like any other feeling it is only a sensation created by the stimulation of tiny nerves somewhere inside your wretched skin, sending signals back to your brain telling you that this is what you SHOULD be feeling. Imagine if some poor child was born with his signals crossed, his pain nerves sent back pleasurable feelings and his pleasure nerves sent back painful feelings. He breaks his arm at the age of nine and has his first ejaculation, he loses his virginity at the age of 23, goes into shock from instantaneous anguish and drops dead on the spot. He went into rigor mortis, and his lover couldn't tell the difference until three days later when the man she had been riding like beast in heat all this time was not an incredibly virile living being, but a corpse. It was just a hop, skip, and a jump off the windowsill from there and it was ruled a double suicide.

Of course, this is just another one of Johnny's oh-so-endearing rants and raves. Don't pay any attention to me, my loves. I am only grieving.
What is grief, though? When I was thirteen I saw the mutilated body of a woman who had thrown herself in front of a speeding train with a smile and a wave; the engineer finally got the train to stop about 100 yards beyond her corpse. I am not sure, but I think he may have quit the business after that trip.
The point is that the corpse evoked in me no feeling save that of sympathy for what her family must be going through, I was not frightened, nor shocked, nor upset by the sight of this dead woman. It was just another thing I saw for the first time while delivering my newspapers; along with breasts and booze and a variety of drugs, none of which I indulged in at the time (except the breasts). And so it has been throughout the years, many tragedies have struck my family and my friends, and none of them bring out any emotion in me. All it does is increase my feelings of self-loathing and my urges towards suicide. What has stayed my hand from suicide thus far is really just the idea that if I killed myself, everyone would think badly of me when I was gone, and I wouldn't be able to convince them that I had some sort of just reason for doing it. I suppose if I put together one hell of a suicide note I could do it with a clear conscience, but I don't think my writing skills are up to it, and I am sure all of you would agree with me.
So I do not grieve, in the usual sense. A few days ago my uncle died. Since then I have done some things that I will not repeat, I have said some things to some of my loved ones that I am not proud of, I have thought, written, drawn, or otherwise recorded some things that, if evaluated, would land me up in an insane asylum within minutes. But, do I miss my uncle? I can't really answer that question. My uncle hasn't really been my uncle for the past five years, and even if he was, I am not sure I would be mourning him right now.
The thing that I grieve over in this, is not that he died, but that he died this way. He was as smart, or smarter, than my father. He was in prime physical condition for the majority of his life, he was an incredibly handsome hispanic man. He could have been any number of things, had life gone his way. But the drink, and the batterings that the world threw at him, did him in in the end. It's that someone so great as he, could have fallen like a commoner. It's like watching a great roman emporer become a peasant.
Even as a peasant, though, he was beautiful. It broke my heart when he smiled at me.
"You look cool." He said.

Jesus, I'm fucking crying. Goodnight everyone.

Uncle John died this morning, around five a.m.

I often get this nervous rash on my fingers and hands during times of stress. Tiny bubbles filled with lymph, constantly popping and drying out, giving my hands a scaly reptilian feel, the likes of which I have never seen before.
I feel like playing video games today, but I know I won't get a chance to. Ah, how I miss the days when I could just say, "To hell with everything, I'm just gonna sit at home and play zelda!"
But those days are long gone, no use dwelling on them, it won't bring them back.

Anyway, things aren't going so great in the Colón family lately. My uncle John has taken a turn for the worst this weekend. I went to see him with my Father and Elena yesterday, he smiled at me and Lena and said, "You grew up in a hurry. You guys look cool."
Then he focused his attention on the TV. I heard him go, "Hey, doggies." and my dad said, "No, cats. They are kitties."
"Oh, they're kitties?"
"Yeah."
It was the most heartbreaking thing in the world, to realize how tired and worn-out he is, his mind can't even decide for itself whether something is a dog or a cat.
He smiled at me, he only had one tooth left. His flesh was emaciated and worn, he looked about twenty years older then he is.
That's the cost of being overwhelmed by a painful life, I guess. I pray that none of us come to a similiar end.

That's all I really have to talk about right now. They are trying Maria on a new medication that might preclude the need for a splenectomy. Prayers for all these things are greatly appreciated.
I guess I'll go have some coffee now. Thank you all for reading.

It is indeed a strange and unusual turn of events that has brought me to where I am today. Strangest of all is the span of time in which all these esoteric happenings occured. Somehow I managed to make it through six months of boring, over-medicated living without a single thing out of my ordinary happening, without anything knocking me off of the track that circumstance and laziness had so callously thrust me on--and at the end of this six months, I experience two weeks of unprecedented turbulence.
Tonight is one of those nights where bad things hang over your head, and you forget to take one of your pills, so you only get three or four hours of sleep and wake up at midnight and then go to Wal-Mart and buy 25 dollars worth of useless stuff with a check that you are not sure will clear because you are a jackass. You know those nights? I'm pretty sure everyone has them. "Three-Dog Nights", they call 'em, if I recall correctly.
I don't know why it is that my angst always winds up being smeared on this blog, like some depressing jelly between two slices of warm potato bread. Also: Peanut butter.
In any case, work is going to be hell tomorrow. I tried sleeping just now and I couldn't. I hate it when that happens, you feel as tired as hell but you just can't get your body to fall asleep, you know?
Holy crap, I just remembered that we have burritos. I'm eating way too much lately. Here is an example...
Yesterday I bought a pepperoni pizza. I ate the entire thing in my truck, then I came home, and put on a pot to make some macaroni and cheese. While the water was boiling I got impatient and had two bowls of cereal to make the waiting easier. I then ate about a bowl and a half of mac and cheese, and then I sat there, unable to move, until my stomach settled down enough for me to shovel more bites of it into my mouth without vomiting. Eventually I gave-up and my mom put the macaroni in the fridge because I couldn't really walk. I'm getting so fat, I love it!

I guess Hillary decided that I am a reliable enough worker to get my own desk and stuff at work now, she's even buying a computer for me to use. I'm going to have 40 hours a week of office work now, guys! That's way better than 25 hours a week of baking, I'll tell you that much. Don't let the 15 hour difference fool you, baking is the much more difficult of the two.
Anyway, I must go eat burritos now.
My older sister has taken ill again, so please keep her in your prayers. She might need to have her spleen taken out tomorrow, so again, if you pray, please pray for her and the rest of our family. It is a very stressful situation.

Now, to devour something.

Hullo ladies and gents! I haven't updated this blog in far too long a time, so I figured I would write a brief post about everything that has happened lately, for all of you people who don't already know.
First and foremost, my older sister is out of the hospital now. The doctors figured out that what she had was a form of lupus that was brought on by one of her rheumatoid arthritis drugs, Enbrel. Now she is at home, with visiting nurses coming by to inject her with things all the time. It's better than being in a hospital, though, that much is for sure.
Also, I found out that I am getting 1400 dollars from USAA for the damages to my truck. Now, I am not planning on fixing my truck, so that is really 1400 dollars for the damages to my fun, which is in dire need of repair.
Naturally, at about the same time as this wonderful occurence, the over-extended elastic misfortune of the cosmos snapped back at me, when I went to the doctor's office on Friday to find out that my headaches are almost definitely Cluster migraines and definitely NOT the fault of my sinuses.
I guess the people reading the cat-scan at first didn't know lickety-split about sinuses.
So, as usual I get a whole big load of bad along with my good. But I won't let it bring me down, it's only castles burning.
Finally, I am getting a new position at Veronica's Treats!
I guess Hillary found some professional executive-chef-baker-dude who was willing to stoop to the level of work that was previously handled by an inexperienced 17 year old. What luck, huh?
It's cool though, because now I guess I get a job working in the office handling the computer stuff, which will be a lot easier for me to do, because it won't involve high heat, standing up, or baking; all of which are difficult for me.

That's really all that is going on right now. Oh, and I got new happy pills that are really working for me. Unfortunately, they make you gain weight, so I weigh ten pounds more right now. Usually that'd be a good thing, but my puerto rican body just used it to expand my stomach. I look more like an orangutan than ever. Consequently I have started doing sit-ups and stuff again.
Welp, I'm off to "train" the new baker guy. Bye bye fellas and fellettes.

There is something dreadfully wrong with me. I am more tired now than I have ever been before in my life, yet I need medications to even make sleep an option. Every part of my body feels like it is broken and worn-out, like an old jalopy held together with coat hangers and duct-tape.
What am I doing here? Why do I let myself hope for a content life, when I know in my heart of hearts that all I will ever find is loneliness and ashes. How is it that I miss the people who I once swore I hated? How can I be angry with myself for never committing suicide when I had the opportunity?
That opportunity has passed me by, now. I have too many obligations to kill myself. Think of all the chaos it would cause, who would bake the cookies? Who would feed the cats when my dad forgets to?
That's really what I have to live for now; it's sad to say it, but it's true. "What are your plans?" people ask me.
How can I tell them my plans?
"Well, uh, now that I have dropped out of high school I am planning on spinning into a slow cycle of self-destruction until I finally die of heart failure at the age of 23."
"Oh." they reply, "So you aren't going to college then? You should go to college, you know you have the brains for it."
There is no phrase on the face of god's green earth that I have come to abhor more than "you have the brains for it." Who are you bastards to tell me how smart I am? Who are you bastards to tell me the ideal way to carry out my own life?

This is my impression of me when I was 14 years old. Pretty good, isn't it?
It is obvious that I am the least eloquent person alive, so I am going to end this section of the blog post with a small question that no one will be able to answer, and (of course) no answer is required.
Why am I so lonely?

This is just a bad time of year. From now on, with the exception of one or two days, spring is my least favorite season of all.
I will give you all an update on my current goings-on: My older sister Maria is terribly ill, her platelet count is inexplicably low, the doctors keep getting it up, only for it to drop back down again. They have ruled out all the horribly serious diseases, such as leukemia, but there is still a whole host of less serious things that could be wrong, and even so, she cannot live at home with her platelet count that low, a slight stumble could cause internal bleeding and kill her.
My uncle is back in the hospital. My parents haven't debriefed me as to why he is there, yet. All I know is he needed blood the other day, and tomorrow he is having something called "parasentisis," or something, done. They said that it is bad, but not as bad as it could be. Of course, his liver is shot, so the worst it could be is death; slightly less bad than death still isn't anywhere near good.
I was depressed about these things, but I guess the universe decided that I wasn't being selfish enough in my depression, so it needed to smack me around a little. I went to the optometrist today and he said I might have fucking glaucoma.
Don't get me wrong, now. I guess the chance of me having it is pretty low. Still, the word has a horrible connotation for me. Glaucoma is one of the diseases that keeps prescription marijuana around as a pain-reliever. Glaucoma is the disease that, in it's final stages, causes complete blindness.
Again, it's nothing to worry about. Chances are I don't have it, and I just have weird eyes, that's what the ol' Doc said.
Still, though, it's a grim, grey icing to a depressing and bland cake served at the end of a four-course meal of horror.

Anyway, just giving you all a heads-up. I'm not incredibly depressed right now, but I expect to be in a few days. It usually takes a little while for these kinds of things to hit me. So, you can all expect either really depressing, "wanna-be-poetry," posts in a while--or, depending on how depressed I am: no posts at all.
For your sake I hope it's the former, for my sake I hope it's not.
This also serves as an explanation for the previous post, may god rest it's soul.
Goodnight ladies and gents.

Another terrible day gone, another uneventful night begun!
So I am sitting here in my on the flawless geniune leather seating in my brand new, preowned, luxery sedan, I'm keeping a careful eye on my tiny slumbering nephew, and I am thinking to myself, "What strange turn of events has brought me here?"
The catch-phrase of my hackneyed cartoonist world has never quite caught the tone of my life as well as it does now. It seems as if the whole of my existence were some weird accident (suchas the one I was in earlier today, that I am not going to get into right now). I was born here, and it made a very loud noise, then everything spun around a lot, and suddenly I was sitting here blinking with a cramp in my neck, 500 dollars worth of damages, and some random woman's insurance information.
I kind of abandoned that analogy partially through and just turned it into an actual description of an accident; but I think my main point is still a good one. The frenzy of action seems to deaden my awareness, and time, being a constanst string of actions and reactions, has all past me in a strange haze. Every now and then my mind gets too weighed down with odd thoughts to move, time stands still for a moment and I become fully aware of my surroundings--and I say quietly (for fear of waking the baby), "What strange turn of events has brought me here?"
I then write an incongruent blog post about it. I hope you enjoyed this thundering roar of literary crap.

Anyway, what I was getting at before I got bogged down in the analogy that I eventually abandoned in favor of raving nonsense is this: life is entirely unenjoyable. The only time I have ever felt content in life is when I've been so miserable that I've accepted that I will never be happy and stop my futile efforts to make life worth living.
My nephew is crying now, I must go baby him. It's ok though, he's a baby.