Don’t Look at Me. I’m just a psychotic with an arts degree.
WTF
Don't Look at Me.  I'm just a psychotic with an arts degree.

First, I should alert you to the fact that you're bartering with a fool. A sacred fool, perhaps, but a fool nonetheless.

At the beginning I thought that I understood the game.  From how it was explained it made sense. You go to school, work, and BOOM! Success.  But that my friend is a simpleton’s dream. 

The path to success doesn't have a map that shows a clear route through the nowhere that is common life. So here we all are. Right now.  Rambling through this nowhereville and I have the map.

Maybe I don't.

But that's up to you to decide. Regardless, you asked me about the point and how to get there.  And what I'm trying to tell you is that there is no point.  No purpose.  Everything is random out here.  

You see that mom in yoga pants shopping in Walmart?  She's just as desolate as me and what I'm saying is that she is far closer to the point than you or I will ever be.  But what again is the point?  Nothing.

After I came to and found myself here, I made it my life to study my surroundings.  To the point of agoraphobia. Perhaps this is because i saw no escape. No possibility of a future. Nothing. So I hid my justification for existence in a project larger than the sum of all our lives.

Ask yourself this question: would you find fulfillment in spending most of your life in one room, in one chair, doing one thing?

Or would you find yourself desperately seeking out any and all possible connections with the living?  Even vague impressions of life like what is found through status updates? 

And what if you find yourself alone in this virtual world as well?  Sitting in a room, in a chair, doing desperate update after update so that someone will notice you.  Then what?  You find yourself at 3am in a 24 hr Walmart looking at pop tarts and wondering why they decided on making an orange crush flavor.  And then, walking through the aisles you find another visitor looking at the dried beans with a similar confusion. They, however, are wondering why you would add artificial ham flavoring to beans when you could simply add actual ham to them.

But this is the Walmart of our somnambulistic life.

You take sleeping pills so you can avoid being cognizant but even in your sleep you find yourself confronted with the endless drudgery and confusion.

There’s a sale in aisle 4 on desperation.  If you’re looking for hope sorry but it’s out of stock.

I’ve tried for a long while to be a good person.  Follow the rules, keep my head down.  Just go to the job and forget about dreams but then the dreams became nightmares, and this has become a cliché.  It never made any sense and after a time i was easily washed out of the system.

But I want to reminisce more on Walmart and what it has come to mean to me.

There’s a universe in Walmart that is waiting to be explored.  Amidst the mockery and nonsense of the uneducated there lies something hidden and deeper about this land that only few recognize.

One finds themselves wandering into the frozen foods section and, suddenly fatigued, the floor drops out from under them and they find themselves floating in a glorious nebula of lights to be interrupted only by the sound of the coolers. You find yourself lost within this new planetary system.  Exploring the worlds of Cool Whip and frozen pie crusts you then get lost in a forest of shredded cheese.  Which one is composed of the most dairy--do the house brands have the same quality?  What is a freshness date after all?

Ages past and our explorer staggers out of this wilderness to find themselves in the baked goods.  Surrounded by an army of bread and pastries.  Overstuffed sugar cookies that are suspiciously undercooked and pale gaze back at the widened eyes of the viewer who wonders if they should throw all caution to the wind, give the universal “fuck it all” and buy the entire box of 106 and eat them all while streaming some terrible show on the tv that they’d never even thought of watching while it was airing live 15 years ago.

But I digress.

I’m not here to lecture you about commercialism and streaming media technology.  Or am I?  I said that last sentence in my head with a suspicious tone and an imagined eyebrow raise.  This is where I’m at.  My outlet to the theoretical public is behind a keyboard while I’m wrapped in a blanket and, after having eaten 4 hot dogs not out of hunger but boredom, filled with the arrogance of a tv preacher from some late-night telethon.

Where did the time go?

Pondering my choices tonight I found myself strangely drawn to an overpriced polaroid camera that’s only utilitarian hook was that it produced an actual physical produce--everything past that was pure nostalgic mysticism.  The hassle of having to take a polaroid then scan the polaroid, tone it, etc. so that I can then post the results to Instagram and/or Facebook in yet another attempt to find love and acceptance via likes, comments, and whatever else in the way of completion that I’m looking to get overcame my nostalgia and longing for a connection with the past.  So now, I sit here, again on the couch wrapped in a blanket, without the sense of touch that I long for and without the sense of acceptance and belonging that I so desperately need.

WTF.

C’est la vie I suppose.  This is where we’re at.  I spend my free time making absurdist Lego models about parade floats and other rando subjects.  Three days ago saw the reconstruction of a Lego barter town only to be destroyed by a 4 year old on a mission of destruction the following morning.

Again, why has this segue taken place?  I find myself desiring more and more to simply be invisible.  Having nothing to say other than all is lost and no one to say it to I find myself, again, in the aisles of Walmart straining to hear the music that plays over the speakers and drifting back to my youth spent in K-Marts and Zaires - freshly remembered by listening to bootlegged audio from the 80s K-Mart sound machine and posted to Archive.org.

Nature never intended for this kind of recall.  At best the past should stand in silent judgement via words and images.  Audio, video, etc. serve to destroy our vision of the present and the dead continue their dominance over our lives as they did before our births.  We continually stake our future on the random loggings of the past and whatever a stray psychotic with an internet connection can dig up and post to social.

The Walmart photo department guarantees your photos in one hour, however, if you want to get something more - such as a mug or shirt or puzzle with your photo on it then it will take longer. You can upload your photos to Walmarts website and place your order.  4x6s or 8x10s or even wallet size plus many other sizes are all available on demand.  But who gets these anymore?  All my photos are realized only through computer screens. Their only physical existence is through a magnetic charge on a bit of metal and yet their persistence is unquestionable.  I can show them to anyone with my phone or on a screen that I can cast to.

So why do we need a 4x6? If the lights go out and we really are in the shit then will I be all that concerned about a photo? But, then again, holding the photo in my hands without the lure of constant comments and connection forces my actual connection with the physical world.  As I strain to see the image and understand it's moment I'm also forced to notice my existence in the room while I look at it. I see the image now without having to look at it and I remember the moment and it's ancillary characteristics.  The wind, what it smelled like, the sun getting in my eyes.

All this and more because I wandered into a stray one hour photomat within this universe that is Walmart.

I no longer think about pop tarts.  The ham flavored beans have ceased their existential tug on my heart. I am free to roam about the store and into the clothing sections.  

The nightmare world of fashion torments my brain as I decide what to wear.  What will the shirt that has a bald eagle wearing a trucker cap with the flag on it and words below that say “God bless America” on it say about me and my life choices?

Will I be forced to explain that I'm wearing it ironically or will it be understood.  

What if I wear hip sunglasses?

The man next to me has no such issues and grabs the smoking skull wearing a hat that says 'murica on it and leaves the section.

None of this makes sense.  Nothing works.  My life is based on lies as I seek to just maintain cover as a normal person in this universe.

My most important ritual of the day is the holy consumption of numerous sleeping pills so that I can leave this place for a short period of time. There's no shortage of these products. Valerian, melatonin, ZzzyQuil, the generics, etc. Plus the option of getting creative with allergy meds, alcohol and prescription meds. The key, I suppose, is to vary the dose and combinations enough to prevent your body from adapting or getting hooked.

And, of course, there's the ever present tick of the clocks letting me know that time keeps passing with a speed that approaches zero and never ends.  The thoughts never stop, the feelings never change--sleep is only a short term relief.

The goal of medicine is to cure not treat but there is no cure for the disease of humanity. We adapt to every treatment and continue to spread our vile contempt of each other.

In the Walmart dressing rooms we kill our Innocents and imprison them in their minds.  Punished to forever walk the aisles with a bemused grin. What's on TV tonight? Should I do yoga?  Ooh, what's on sale?

Time passes.
I’m dreaming again only to be awakened by the ding of the microwave.  Soup’s done!
I wake up in the morning and go to work.

On the drive I pass by complete strangers and, even though we are within feet of each other, we maintain our distance.  Each of us contemplating our day ahead with, I assume, is composed of certain amounts of regret, despair and isolation.  Perhaps there are moments throughout the day that are rewarding but in our mad bull rush down the highways we are all alone and vulnerable.

I look to my left and right and decide to change the radio station.

At work I sit there.

I communicate only by machines.  I read news from Europe, follow someone that’s in Japan, like things from people I’ve never seen and in the course of these actions I am also unseen and unheard.,  My existence is only proven by another tick up in their analytics.

Or possibly a stray like.

But for all of its anonymity, the machines still keep me at bay.  I am, and always will be, an observer.  I cannot commit to any one declarative sentence.  I let nuance and complexity reign over a simple yes and no.  Can I do this?  It depends.  All choices are equal and nothing contains meaning.  The work I do will be burned at the end of the day and nothing will come of the time spent.  It is simply just a waste of life.  I may as well be a robot because with the exception of providing some sort of vague service to other people providing services there is nothing that happens that constitutes real personhood.

Then the drive home--same as before only in reverse and with a bit more fatigue.  Mental, physical, spiritual, vegetable.  I get lost in thought and confusion.

The drive then is to maintain a presence.  Online and off.  And it is simply too much.  Create, share, create, share, create, share.

Never be boring.  Never go a week without posting.  Always be positive.  People are attracted to the positive soundbites.  They shy away from the negative nellies.

I wake up in the morning and go to work.
On the drive I pass by complete strangers and, even though we are within feet of each other, we maintain our distance.  Each of us contemplating our day ahead with, I assume, is composed of certain amounts of regret, despair and isolation.  Perhaps there are moments throughout the day that are rewarding but in our mad bull rush down the highways we are all alone and vulnerable.

I look to my left and right and decide to change the radio station.

At work I sit there.

I communicate only by machines.  I read news from Europe, follow someone that’s in Japan, like things from people I’ve never seen and in the course of these actions I am also unseen and unheard. My existence is only proven by another tick up in their analytics.

Or possibly a stray like.

But for all of its so called socialness, the machines still keep me at bay.  I am, and always will be, an observer.  I cannot commit to any one declarative sentence.  I let nuance and complexity reign over a simple yes and no.  Can I do this?  It depends.  All choices are equal and nothing contains meaning.  The work I do will be burned at the end of the day and nothing will come of the time spent.  It is simply just a waste of life.  I may as well be dead because with the exception of providing some sort of vague service to other people providing services there is nothing of real meaning accomplished.

Then the drive home--same as before only in reverse and with a bit more fatigue.  Mental, physical, spiritual, vegetable.  I get lost in thought and confusion.  So much to do but never enough time.  And, fundamentally, what would be the point in doing any of it other than the most essential?  I recognize that the world has shifted away from my ideals.  So not only is the separation one of distance but also time.

And yet there is a spirit that rebels within me.  It refuses to give up hope in spite of the glaring reality.  Nothing is or can be meaningless.  Schopenhauer, in all of his wisdom, miscalculated.  In knowing our misery and boredom, rather than succumb and mourn the children who must be sentenced to live, can we not try to build a better prison for them?
And so the cognitive dissonance continues.
None of this helps the present situation, however.
I find myself alone in a room now.  It’s 1am or 2am or 3am and all is not well.  The rest of the family is asleep and I’m left wondering what to do to occupy my time until the sleeping pills kick in.
In the past I would work in the studio—painting and drawing away the time—but now the thought of producing yet another object that has to be stored is too burdensome to bear.  I’ve seen too many paintings lined up against the thrift store walls to continue on.  I realize where I am in this world and it’s far from being recognized.  This landlocked island that I’m stranded on has left me isolated and desperate.  And in this desperation I manically pursued the only option that seemed viable: constant production and its subsequent broadcasting on all channels.  “Look at me!”  I shout “I’m part of the dialogue too!”
Like a desperate and lonely child that is left out of his classmates’ games.
Only this time there isn’t even the satisfaction of knowing that people heard you to begin with.  It’s just another message that runs past the crowd’s updates.  Easily ignored or, worse, given a moments attention with a heart or like or something of that sort but then never followed up on.  
No actual conversation, no bonds, no brotherhood--nothing but the most meager of lip-serviced support and after the brief rush of joy that this token gesture gives comes nothing.
I am again left with the glow of a screen and the blinking of a cursor while my work sits against a wall taunting me.  A souvenir of my desperation.  One that cost me not only time and money but also peace as it now stands in judgement of my futile hopes.  In my darker moments I can hear it laughing at me, telling me that my efforts are in vain, that my romantic ideals only serve to hasten my drive to suicide—to non-existence.  But, then again, my spirit rebels!
There isn’t such a state as non-existence.  That, regardless of eternity, we all persist in the collective memory of mankind.  Influencing the course of life through our actions in even the most minute of ways.
My broadcasts on the wire will persist--archived in the lost sands of the servers that run this machine.
And therein lies the hope in all of its mystical, technological esotericism.
Of course, while writing this I have since taken a, um, several months hiatus from this.  I’m not sure of the exact time because the cloud services backing this document up have altered the times to a degree that I’ve found impossible to determine the last actual modified date.  I assume it was 3 months ago but if I’m being honest it was 3 years.

PART 2
So, here I am.  Sitting in a room, typing on a detached keyboard (Bluetooth enabled) and wondering about a store I used to visit as a child.  Things make sense in the grocery stores.  There sole purpose was to provide one with the necessities of life.  Food, drink, single rolls of toilet paper.
Something happened along the way and now we’re stuck with no true grocery store anymore, I suppose, you could argue that Jewel or whatever is one and they mostly are but also mostly not.  Also, yes, I’m ignoring the small boutique grocery store that can be found in the more hip and affluent neighborhoods.  My area of focus is mostly on the great hinterlands of the world.  Those places where civilization collides with soccer moms wondering around with PINK emblazoned on their sweatpants covered asses.
I recognize that all of this is prefaced with the fact that loneliness has driven me mad and so I see loneliness as the cause of all problems out here, however, I also happen to believe it. 
What place doesn’t take from you the endless commute will.
Even so, here’s the broader picture:  a woman waiting at the deli counter in one of those hybrid grocery store/big box store things.  Already the dissonance is palpable.  She doesn’t want to be there because the weather’s now turned cold and the employees are taking their sweet ass time getting 2 pounds of muenster cheese for some schlub in a trench coat.
Seriously, is he going to be eating all of that cheese within the week? She thinks.  I mean, no wonder he’s clearly single – so carelessly put together, unshaven… she shudders internally…where was she even going with this?  All she wants is her low sodium turkey and to go home.  She wants to watch something on Netflix and fall asleep. 
What she doesn’t know is that the muenster cheese man wants exactly the same things.
His monologue went along the same lines as hers.
Oh no, not another one of them.  Yoga pants, North Face coat, too old to be going out with her ass like that, young enough to be confused by it all still.  He grimaces.  She’s probably gonna get something stupid like turkey and go home and fall asleep to Netflix.
Regardless, as the impartial observer I tend to fall into the romance of this evening deli scene.
The speakers are piping in Roxy Music’s More Than This because it’s just enough nostalgia to make people happy and sad.  Not so happy that they flee the store in search of life and not so much sad to make them feel the need to hide and not buy things.
That perfect blend that signals your mind to think Yes, 3 boxes of single serving muffin in a cup would be perfect.  Pumpkin Spice you say? Make that 4!
The light by the deli is a bit darker than the rest of the store.  They want you to focus on the shrink wrapped meats and cheeses and mood lighting helps with that romance.  Black Forest Ham?  Why yes.  Take me now – it murmurs in your ear.  But yes, I’m blatantly ignoring the prepared foods.  The macaroni salads and bizarre concoctions with beets and greens.  Clearly they have a ‘type’ as well that wants them and is seduced by them but I’ve never witnessed a transaction in real life.
I assume these to be the brisk back alley and/or porn shop transactions of the deli counter.  The less said about them the better but, at the same time, there’s that seductive mystique about it.  To be the man that slips into the scene, looks around, orders a pound and a half of German potato salad and then eats the entire thing in his car parked out back.  The guilt and shame of it all is what makes this desirable.
And, of course, I’m saving the best for last!
The hot section.
That section that sells chicken tenders and potato wedges under hot lamps that people, mostly working men on a quick break, stand around warming themselves and talking like hoboes around a fire in a barrel.
The conversation never gets further than the quantity of chicken one would consume if they could but that’s all code.  Encrypted messages that when decoded and expanded turn into volumes upon volumes of lost hope, vanished dreams and the warmth and solace of crusty, slightly warm, chicken chunks.
Failing all of this, the outlier stand further away always wondering if they should dare?  Do I really wnt that pound of ham?
All of this and more an be found under the romantic lights near the deli.
I pass the time on my twitter feed marveling at the contrasts between one tweet that lampoons cereal and fast food entities and the next that reports on several dead in a mass shooting incident.  Then reading the comments where it turns into a bot-fest filled with one thought ending cliché after another until I stop caring about the events and the dead and just wish we all were simply gone.  That this planet was as dead as mars.  All the people, factions, ideas, etc. amount to nothing and now my number is called.
1 pound of muenster cheese, thin slices and 1 pound of, getting fancy, black forest ham instead of my usual Krakus.
Being bored, I move on and buy a loaf of pumpernickel bread and run off to home and make myself a sandwich and some coffee – regardless of the hour (it now being 10pm) – and imagine myself in an all night café from some 40s noir. Starring off between sips of coffee and leaving he sandwich mostly untouched I find myself finally getting exhausted enough to move onto the couch and put on the tv.
What to fall asleep to?
Something has to do – I guess I pick a Bela Lugosi movie so that I can let my eyes wander onto the long cast shadows and stop thinking and fall asleep so that I can dream into another life.  Maybe something that has me working in van Gogh and maybe saving him or, at the very least, both of us dying in a double suicide pack.  Lautrec mourning us, other folks being like “well shit.”  And then the inevitable take off of our reputations because our story trumps all other ideas.  Sure, the paintings are nice but did you know how those guys lived?
I’m roused from sleep by a violent case of the hiccups and, now being awake, irritated and bored I eat four more slices of pumpernickel bread only to immediately regret and wonder why I do such things.
I ponder jotting down my dreams but decide that they are too droll to record.  What if I die suddenly and whoever comes in to investigate my belongings, etc. see a hastily scribbled dream about dying with Van Gogh?  The desperation of wanting to connect with another person (alive or dead) is too palpable.  I want nothing more to do with it.  So after having my bread I wander back to bed and try to fall back asleep only to be tormented by the hiccups which have still not subsided.
The popularity of before and after diet shots distracts me from the hiccups.  What about all those people who never get to that after photo?  Millions of people stuck with sad before pictures waiting eternally for an after that will never come or – even worse – an after that makes the before look good.
So much to hide in case we fail.  So many times I wish we could just speak openly about our problems and yet I decide to post another picture of an omelet instead.
And so I lie here.  Tormented by the idea of photographing omelets and laughing at cute pandas instead of giving it all for peace and justice, etc.
I stop caring and finally fall asleep.
Two days after writing the above I’m still at a loss for connection amongst strangers.  Desperate phone calls at 3 am to people who never answer.  I cry and sulk and wander about when I should be presenting a nice clean face with a smile and a positive message.  It’s understandable, this loneliness, because if I had a choice I wouldn’t be around me either.
I want the good life or whatever we call it nowadays.  I want to be on the right side of history and to drink the right craft beer to wear the appropriate jeans and be the man about town.  But anymore I can barely keep my head upright.
Dreaming into other lives and living in dreams has exhausted me. 
I want to be able to talk with another person but I sit in silence instead.  What’s there to say?  Campbell’s soup is currently 50 cents off at Jewel?
But now I’m simply letting the depression talk.  Let’s move on!
At night, as a kid, I used to lay awake and long for human contact.  A voice over the phone, getting up and seeing my parents, etc. And even when lying there at 3am in the dark I consoled myself with the notion that people still existed and would hear you. If you were just able to talk to them but, it being the middle of the night, you couldn't--but it was theoretically possible.
Now, decades on, it is no longer theoretically possible. We can all pretty much talk to someone at any time, however, more often than not I can't help but feel even more alone and more depressed. No longer can we expect a response and if, in the wild chance, that we do get one it's a scream of hate or worse. It's just voices over voices.
I'd say its consolation, in a way, that we don't really die alone anymore but the fact is, when we do, we die ignored in the crowd and that, I think, is even worse.
Somewhere else now.
My thesis on the Universe is Walmart is coming along nicely.  That’s about all I can think about nowadays – it consumes me.  So much there in that big box store represents all facets of life now. I pause as I think about it because I wonder where to begin each time I left off.  Each beginning is like walking back into the store and being met by the invalid greeter who, perhaps, has found purpose in their job but I’m not sure.  I remember back to the old commercials where they would have an old man tell you that seeing people each day makes them happy and fulfilled and being able to say hello and wish them well as they left the store was just great for them.  And perhaps it was.  In the Walmart universe these greeters are the welcoming angels guiding us through the miracle that is the afterlife.
But if it’s the afterlife are we already dead?  Again, perhaps.  Who am I to say?  One reality is met with another as we shift through the phases of conscious and unconscious.  Most days my dreams feel more real than the waking hours so who can say?
And often I find myself in the frozen food section contemplating my life and what it would become if I chose the ham and cheese Hot Pockets over the Philly Cheesesteak version.
But nature isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.  My decision leaves me with a 10 pack of Lean Pockets and no will to live.  My microwave, being an older, cheap model that would suffice for a drunken college drop out no longer heats them through regardless of the time spent inside.  Spin the dial all the way around, wait 30 minutes and the center of the damn things are still as frozen as they were when they left the freezer.  The surroundings, however, are just right which is the punishment.  Your mind and body are prepared for deliciousness when you first bite into the thing but then, halfway through, bam!  ICE and shame and guilt. The whole eating process is now reduced to the emotional backlash of a sinister transaction off of craigslist.
But I can’t go on much longer about Walmart.  At least for right now the oppressive sadness about unrequited love and my hometown weigh me down.  I long for just some escape as I insanely repeat the same actions trying and hoping that this one time I’ll finally have daddy’s love like a city can even fucking do such a thing.
But It can and I know it.  I see it all the time and if I weren’t witnessing these things with my own eyes I’d tend to believe myself when I say that I’m being stupid and yet, here we are.
I starred at this computer screen until the cursor stopped blinking.  It hadn’t gone to sleep or some such thing it just stopped and I noticed it and kept starring at it in disbelief like in a horror film where the clock stops and people suddenly realise the something is about to happen but then, after a few more seconds, the cursor continued its blinking like everything was fine and so we move on.
I forgot what I was talking about.  Maybe another coffee?
In simpler times you’d be happy with the items that you found at your local grocery store.  If for no other reason, they were the only game in town and by damn you dance with who brought you.  Now, however the world is open to us and that leaves an odd vacuum in my soul.  Each purchase is no longer as simple as “that’s all they have”.  Each purchase now must run the gauntlet from social responsibility to social acceptability to easing the vacancies that are in our souls and filling them with odd chunks of “authenticity” sold at a mass scale.
As I search online for mints, I’m wondering what would be the best one to get?  My preference is for cinnamon Altoids, however, Altoids are much too commonplace and being a ridiculous man, I demand something more esoteric.  The quest then takes me internationally.  England, Australia, Asia, etc.  but each new variety of mint just manifests the notion that the quest for authenticity itself is the surest way to destroy it.  Each mint is a mass-produced mint in its own sphere.  At best you’re replacing the banality of your own sphere with the banality of someone else’s. 
Being born a mutt I can claim no great heritage in which to secure my place and so I wander the international aisles of Walmart for something that can catch my eye.
And what does that even mean?  Heritage.  It has the marketing appeal of ancient grains but with less filling.  I wander the aisles looking for my heritage and find myself, once again, standing in front of the pop-tarts and wondering why they persist in making variations based from pops and candy.  Stick with the fruit, guys, you won with the fruit.
Briefly I’m tempted to look at my phone and do a quick search for clips of old pop-tarts commercials.  Something from my youth that’ll trigger the right amount of nostalgia, so I can find comfort in my pop-tart heritage and go home with them, toast them, and remember the old days.  But suddenly I remember that I was never allowed to have pop-tarts as a kid and that this entire trip down memory lane has been one giant lie and so I ask myself what other brand name lies have I been believing?  Waking up to this terrible new reality I wonder if I was ever even a fan of He-Man or did I just want to be?
When I was younger, I was set on taking root somewhere and owning it-becoming a fixture, someplace that would be me and a part of me and for me.  Now I am happy with the idea of being tied to nothing and leaving nothing.  As I vanish so does my memory.  Just another ghost walking down aisle 8.
For approximately 8 seconds (or, rather, when I started to notice) the clocks around me were in sync.  This has ceased to be true.
In the frozen food section, you can find several different brands of waffle.  Eggos were always my go to but now with their incorporation into the machine that is cultural recycling via Stranger Things I can no longer find myself with the same feeling of peace while eating them.  There is too much burden now.  It’s not just going to the store and buying some waffles and then enjoying them while trying not to think about the shitstorm that is life when you wake up and regret that you didn't die in your sleep.  It’s now just another element of consumption based on the pop milieu.  Does the checkout person know that I’m buying these because that’s been my waffle of choice for the past 30 years or are, they now thinking “ha!  The stranger things waffle! Yeah, man!”
I don’t want to be that man so now I make my own damn waffles.
It’d stand to reason that I’d lose myself in all of this.  I wanted to talk about life and instead got distracted with an useless analogy to Walmart.  But at the risk of sounding defensive (and I’m not) who cares?  I don’t.  These things seemed sensible at the time – during those late-night sessions over coffee and candlelight – even though I don’t own a single candle but, rather, just imagine my lamps to be.
And as I write this to you now I’m still consolidating everything I’ve tried, uselessly, to accomplish in my life.  Words, poems, pictures, etc.  all speaking of my soul and feelings.  To prove that I existed or, at the very least, tried to exist on this planet in a mass of all others that were trying to do the same.  Each one of us a forgotten tin type in a cardboard box at the flea market waiting for someone to find us and use us as quaint décor.  Abandon all purpose, Good Night.
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