The Obscure

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.