I created
this blog, long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away that I call the What The
Fuck was I Thinking Moving In With That Crazy Bitch Galaxy, as a way of
documenting the painfully slow downward spiral of a toxic relationship I was in
with an angry little woman I was living with at the time. A woman with
the unfortunate combination of crippling insecurities and an arrogant and
self-entitled attitude on par with the worst of the reality television stars
that she so loved to watch. The whole relationship was a mistake, to say the
least, but I thought it would be interesting to document the torrid details of
the asinine conflicts within the relationship. We would fight endlessly over
the most trivial of matters and it seemed to me, at the time, that it would be
of great benefit, to all mankind, to make an historical record of these
ridiculous fights and show the world just who this woman really was. People
should know, not only for their own edification, but for their own safety as
well. “Danger, Will Robinson, Danger.
This bitch is fucking insane!”
They need to know she's not the laid back woman she would have you to
believe. That she is one of the most selfish and self-deluded people on
the planet. That she was riddled with double-standards and hypocrisies.
That she lived in a world where her own rules applied to everyone but
herself. That, for her, anger is the default emotion, and if there's
nothing to be happy about then she will be angry. That this anger
consumes her and she's left with nowhere to turn it except on those who are
closest to her, and as I learned from, both, experience and from her stories
about her past, her boyfriend will always take the brunt of the anger. I
thought people needed to know and I should be the one to call her out, but I
never started this documentation of our pathetic decline. I didn’t really have enough free time away
from her to write anything and I didn’t want her to see what I was writing as
that would just result in many more fights.
In all honesty, I also realized I really didn’t want to hurt her and I
knew I’d really just be embarrassing myself in the process. I just needed to get out of the relationship.
I either had too much respect for myself
to put up with it or I wasn't a strong enough man to give her what she wanted,
depending on whose side one chose to believe. If I'm being honest with
myself; it was probably both but obviously I lean toward the former, and I
refuse to believe any man should have to fight for the right to get out of bed
in the morning before his significant other, whoever that might be, has awaken.
Yes, that was a real argument we had; she, literally, wanted me to lay in
bed until she woke up on her own, even if it was for hours ("But don't
move too much or you'll wake me up"). Back to the point I was
making; I never began the documentation of our fights, and several months after
I created this blog I broke up with the woman and have moved on. Although after reading this I wonder if
that's true. The ghosts of a dead relationship
linger longer that we’d like to admit, I think.
Here I
am, months later, and I realize I have a blog that I've never used. So
what is a man to do? Like they say: you gotta use it or lose it. So
I'm gonna use it. For what, exactly, I'm not sure. Mostly to vent
and display any of my work, I imagine, but, as a highly unsuccessful artist, I
know that what you aim for isn't always what you get. And that's a good
thing. My art school instructors (RIP E.C. Cunningham) were all very fond
of telling us to "let the process inform the work," or something to
that nature, meaning that the work will change and evolve, during its
creation, in a way that may diverge from the artist's original vision.
The concept remains the same but the execution changes, even if just a
little. And that's a good thing. Artists are flawed gods that
create life with a false idea of perfection. I doubt any painter has ever
created a work of art that's exactly as they had pictured it in their
mind. That being said, this blog will probably start as a way for me to
vent about any and everything before evolving into something unforeseen. I
see the title “Those Fucking Kids and Their Skinny Jeans” somewhere in the
future. Most of it, I'm sure, will be
trite and narcissistic, as the rants of the deranged often are, but I need not
worry about the lack of focus this blog may exhibit as there will, no doubt, be
few, if any, readers to judge and criticize. To the unfortunate souls who
might happen to stumble upon this, I apologize for the quality but thank you
for your time.
That’s more than
enough of me droning on. For this first
post I will end with a short story that’s rather lighthearted. I just can’t resist the compulsion to display
a bit of creativity since this has been rather dry and lacking in originality
so far. I hope you enjoy; it’s an old
one but I still find it amusing in its simplicity. Much darker work will follow in the future, I
assure you.
Afterwards
Contrary to popular belief one actually has
several options upon entering the afterlife.
Most theologies are correct in their interpretation of the afterlife,
but they only have part of the picture.
There is a god, but it’s more of a position than anything else. Once someone is voted in as God he has a 500
year term at the end of which he may retire or run for God again. Their campaign tactics are surprisingly dirty
to say the least, and listening to those damn election commercials are just as
annoying up here as they are down there. Reincarnation, Hell, purgatory, and
Heaven are just a few of the possibilities.
If you want to spend your next life as a candle in the castle of King Henry
I
tried Heaven for a while, but it was just a little too pious for me. I heard it used to be a pretty nice
place. You know: it was clean, the food
was great, it had a great nightlife, and the women were…well, let’s just say
they were divine. But then the
Christians came and ruined it. They are
the mall police of Heaven. They’re
always passing out pamphlets, lecturing you on how to behave properly, and
telling you about the sins you’re committing.
Let’s get one thing straight, shall we?
There are no sins. The fact is murder’s the only thing that will
keep you out of heaven, and even that’s really just sort of a suspension. One thousand years and then you get another
chance. But they act like they did
something special to get in. They even
tried to change the rules and make the standards for admission a little tougher
because too many sinners were being allowed inside the pearly gates. The Big Guy vetoed that down right away. If you ask me I don’t think he cares much for
Christians either, but what are you going to do, right? It didn’t take me long before I decided to
get out.
Hell
was a little better actually. It’s
really not a punishment at all. I mean
if you choose to go there then how can it be.
The only down side is all the trash.
That’s how Hell got started in the first place: Lucifer was sent down
here as Waste Disposal Manager to incinerate all of Heaven’s trash. That’s where all those images of fire and
molten pits of lava come from, but that’s really just a small section of Hell
that we jokingly refer to as “Heaven”.
The rest is actually quite nice. There’s
always a barbecue to go to, we get all the really good movies, and all the
great musicians are here from Beethoven to Kurt Cobain. It is a little hot but it’s really not all that
bad. It’s like Florida
I
tried reincarnation a few times, but I didn’t really like it. Once you’re reincarnated you’re stuck there
until you’re dead. That can be a pretty
long wait if you get stuck with a lemon of a life. Choosing a fun life isn’t as easy as it
sounds. Let me tell ya: being rich and
famous is fun until you’re broke and sitting in a bar trying to convince some
guy with one hand and a drooling problem that you used to be “somebody”. I got three years of bliss and fifty-four
years of crap on that one. I tried out
British royalty and my brother assassinated me when I nine. I came back as a physics genius, but ended up
spending my socially awkward life alone until the age of seventy-three. There are two major problems with
reincarnation. One: you’re not privy to
the details of your next life so you don’t know what to expect exactly. It’s a crapshoot; you choose a life and just
cross your fingers. And two: you don’t
remember anything you’ve learned in past lives so you just end up repeating the
same mistakes over and over again. Oh
sure, you can choose to go back as Frank Sinatra or Hugh Hefner and run with
the mob or surround yourself with shallow easy women, but the waiting list is
long as hell. I think I have another
fifteen thousand years before I’m up. So
I moved on to something else while I wait my turn for old blue eyes.
I
decided to get a job in the nether world.
One of the more sought after positions is that of Death. There are a countless number of them walking
the earth bumping people off. It’s a
good job, really. It has great benefits,
it’s relatively simple, and everyone respects, if not fears, Death. I even get great rates on insurance just for
being Death. The only down-side is that
you’re always on call, but it’s the price you pay I guess.
It’s
quite a process in just getting the job.
If you’re lucky enough to be picked then you have to go through
training. I just finished it and let me
tell you: it was brutal. I had to go
through a week of just learning what the dress code is. You have to have the right cape, the clothes
have to be skintight, and you have to wear the right makeup. Oy, it’s a whole ordeal. Then you have to learn what the different
degrees of death are. Did you know you
can actually overkill a person? If
you’re not careful you might just fry a person’s soul to a crisp and boy will
you catch hell for that one. We had to
go through physical training where they whipped us into shape and taught us how
to fight. FYI: if a person’s tough
enough they can kick Death’s ass and prevent himself from dying, but let’s just
keep that between you and me, okay? We
had to take courses on metaphysics, astrophysics, and philosophy. I damn near failed the final. Got through by the skin of my teeth on that
one thanks to some cleverly hidden cheat sheets and some duct tape. But I made it and now I’m off on my first
job. Maybe afterwards I’ll stop by Hell and shoot the breeze with my old
cronies. Better pick up a bottle of
Jack.
The End
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