Saturday, September 12, 2015


(From Karnes, chapter 1.)

WARNINGS: Mentions of graphic violence and some strong language.  Readers under 17 cautioned.

Rock 'n' Read

I have a tendency to kill people.  I don’t know who you are, reading this (you’re probably rude, because it’s rude to read a man’s journal).  But your rudeness aside, I believe I should make a real effort for us to get off on the right foot.  Honesty is a good way to do that.  Such a novel idea, honesty.  I like it.  I’m actually very honest with everyone, to be honest.  It’s just that I have all these other glaring faults, apparently, such as a tendency to kill people.

There’s this scratching noise over there in my laundry room and it’s driving me nuts.  Hard to focus and type.

I’m writing in the first place to find out what I’m doing here.  I know what I’m doing, obviously, but what am I doing here?  Do I have a role to play in all this?  Like a chess piece on a big board, a life-board?  Probably so.  I might be very important.  Crucial, even.  But what piece am I, and who else is which pieces, and who the hell is moving us all to our next little square?

Scratch scratch scratch.

A chess game of life is actually such a nice metaphor.  Probably someone else has made it before me.  I’m unlucky that way, you know, with things.

If I hear much more scratching from over there I’m going to go postal.  Do you know where that saying comes from, going postal?  I remember it, it started in the 80s, when I was in middle school I think.  Fuck middle school.  I think that’s when I started to go all nutsy, and everything has been so much better since.  It’s probably because

Apologies about that break.  I had to get up and go address the scratching, because it was driving me up the wall.  I went over to the laundry room (which is very small, my home is awfully cramped these days) and tugged the thing open, that door always sticks, and sure enough that gaudy little waitress flopped out on the linoleum.  It’s a good thing I did go check on her.  She’d had a nail file in her back pocket, the pocket of that lovely little jean skirt, and she was sawing her way right through the zip tie.  She’d made admirable progress, too.  She must have been at it for hours.  Maybe ever since I put her in there last night.  God, I do love a dedicated woman.

Anyway, seeing as I chopped off her fingers, she won’t be needing that nail file anymore.  She should be much more cooperative now, but there’s blood everywhere.  Makes it hard to focus and type.

She’s wailing now, like I told her not to.  Unbecoming screeches through that towel in her mouth.  Like a minimum wage banshee.  It makes me hate her more, her acting unattractive.  At least in the diner she’d been pretty, if more than a little rude to me.  If this wailing keeps up she’s going to piss me off again.  She might wise up if I rip out her bellybutton ring with the little turquoise charm on it.  Rip her a brand new bellybutton.  That’s what happens when you piss me off.

I wonder what my sentence was going to be before I broke off to de-finger the banshee?  Something about middle school and psychoanalysis of self, so really, who cares.  I’m constantly torn between believing that psychology is my archangel and answer to everything, or that it’s actually a crock of shit.  But before I could make an informed decision either way, I’d probably have to get a psychology degree, and I don’t have time for that.  Not with mutilated waitresses in my laundry room.  I’m a little steamed that I forgot my sentence, though.  I’m so forgetful (sometimes on purpose) I’d probably forget my own kid everywhere, if I had one.  Actually I don’t know if I have one, because if I did I’d probably forget.  Haha!  No, that’s awful, I won’t laugh about that.  Neglectful parents are not a joke.  They make me angry.

My kind of anger isn’t like everyone’s.  Mine is a spark to which everything is a breath, everything is fire-fodder.  It’s burned so long that everything feeds it.  It can feed just by being near, without consuming, although consumption is generally what it prefers.  I tend to let it do as it pleases.  Why?  Because it hurts to hold back.  It’s hard work.  It burns my insides and makes them ache all day, all week, forever.  Whereas when I let my baby out, my spark, let it leap to its full height and burn up someone else, it feels fuckin’ good.

Now I’m hungry and angry at the wailing waitress.  If she’d done her job rather than getting me kicked out of that washed-up hole of a diner, I’d be neither of those things.  It’s only 11pm, so I could’ve still been at that diner eating waffles.  I’m making myself angrier.  I meant to write to calm down.  Or maybe I didn’t?  No, I remember, I meant to write to find out what I’m doing here.  I think I’m making progress, but slowly.  Maybe this will be like sawing through a zip tie with a nail file.  Slow, very slow, a very lot much slow.  I guess I could write a whole real journal before I figure it out.  I never thought I’d do something like that… Thirty-four wretched years of life and I haven’t done it yet.  But now I have to, because I’m confused.  Confused, and God, am I angry.  At least I’ve got you, new friend, whoever you are.  This way I won’t be lonely.  We can saw at me together until we’ve figured it all out, and we’re free.

More than enough introspection for one day.  I’m going to sign off now, so I can go paint my tub with the waitress.


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