I've known Rewired for a while and it's been noticed that I have this penchant for insulting His Touchiness. Take, for example, the time that I referred to him as Eeyore. I was thinking of that droopy, little Winnie-the-Pooh character (trust me, there's a resemblance). He twisted it to mean that I was subtly calling him an ass. Now that is just about the stupidest thing that he could ever surmise, considering that if I wanted to call him an ass, trust me, I would. Bluntness is a specialty of mine.

And while we're on the subject of semblances, I've noticed that references to the fact that he's kinda squishy like the Snuggles fabric softener bear cause him to attempt to strangle me.

I recently stole his sac.(Take it anyway you want to). That was an ordeal to behold. After threatening it with fire and/or returning it in pieces, I had myself an abject slave who referred to me as Goddess and was willing to kneel to beg my forgiveness.

Another favorite pastime of mine is pointing out spelling errors that he leaves in the Gopher. He turns kind of red and attempts to strangle me (that's been happening a lot lately).

Don't get me wrong, Rewired is my friend. I just happen to have a gift for making his life a little more hellish. And deep down, I know that he likes it.

Checking my watch impatiently, I cross the rain soaked streets of New York. It's nine o'clock. Walking like a demented madman, I search for tonight's victim. Tuning out the beep and screams of the cars as I walk down the sidewalk, the faceless people crowd me. The prostitute on the corner calls to me. She does not interest me, I only want one thing.

I come to a seedy joint called the Cabana, the music from inside leaks out the open door. The crowd from inside is plainly heard over it. When walking in, the pressed body heat overwhelms me. I push my way through the crowd, finding a little table in the back. A waitress comes to my table. She is a skinny little thing, no more than sixteen, wearing a skimpy skirt and a shirt not much bigger. She asks me what will I have as she chomps obnoxiously on a wad of bubble gum. I order a scotch and water on the rocks. She sashays away in a most comical manner, trying to look sexy but failing miserably. The pounding music drowns my senses, almost driving me crazy. I watch the gyrating bodies, their limbs looking as if they were not even attached as they stare moodily into their partner's eyes. My drink comes, and I take a sip. More water than scotch, and it tastes like it was made in the back room by the bartender. The fast beat song changes to a slow ballad, talking about suicide, and I sigh in relief. A punk approaches me, I say that because I couldn't quite tell the sexual origin of this person. As it screams over the music to ask if I want to dance, I realize it is a woman. I decline, she shrugs her shoulders and walks away.

Scanning the room once more, sipping my drink, I see a woman sitting in the corner. She looks as out of place as a ballerina in a mosh pit. Watching as she waits, a most interesting creature. Long raven hair, pulled up in a most sophisticate chignon. You could tell the length of the hair by the little ringlets hanging down her nape. Her thin body is encased in a simple diminutive black dress, she appears to be sipping white wine. She pulls the bottom of her dress nervously. Once more, I am intrigued. What is a woman like that doing in a place like this? A most cliche'd phrase flits across my mind. I stand, drink still in hand, and fight my way through the sea of bodies. I arrive at her table and ask if I may sit. She nods imperiously to the chair across from her. When seated, I look at her silently, she returns my stare.

"Why are you here?" I query just loud enough to be heard.

"I am waiting for someone." She answers.

"How long have you been here?" I asked politely.

"Long enough to know I hate it here." She replies disgustedly.

"Then why don't we leave, since I share your opinion? I know of a quiet little coffee shop around the corner. Southern Hospitality, know of it?"

She smiles, "Yes, it is a nice, simple place. But I told -- forget it, let's go." She decides suddenly while standing and grabbing the coat off the chair. I reach for my wallet, leaving the money for our drinks and a small tip. We forced our way through the crowd, seemingly taking a millennium to get there. When we found the portal to silence a rather beefy man about six-foot-five stops us. I look at him hardly, "you will let us pass, won't you my good man?" He looked at me strangely, kind of like a puzzled dog, shook his head and stepped to one side.

Exiting the night club, we turn left, walking quickly to get out of the rain. I turn my head in her direction, "My name is Alec, by the way. Your name is?"

She looks at me for a moment. "Oh, I'm sorry, my name is Storm."

"You don't come from here, do you?" I say, noticing her slightly British accent. It seemed to have a hint of French, also.

"No, I don't. I'm, um, visiting family. I've just finished my masters in France, I didn't find Oxford to my liking." She stutters.

We walk another block in silence. We come to the door of the cafe' and, gentlemen that I am, I open the door for the lady. The place is rather quaint, but fifties style. Plush red bar stools, surrounding an oak bar, horse shoe booth also in plush red. The walls are oak colored paneling, covered with pictures and newspaper clippings from the same era as the decor. At this time of night, though, the small room is sparsely populated. A waiter, short, thin and of nervous disposition, takes our order of coffee. While sitting across from her, I scrutinize her face. Up close, I notice her eyes are green, set deep and fairly spaced. Her skin, porcelain colored, is stretched tautly over high cheek bones and a small, rather pointy chin. Our coffee is served, and a dialogue is finally jump started. Beginning rather stiltedly, she tells me about her school life, nervously tripping over every word. But with a few words, and a little manipulation, the conversation progresses more smoothly. As the night wore on, I know everything about her. We went through about twenty cups of coffee, and she is very wired. I suggest we take a walk, and try to work off some of the caffeine. She laughingly agrees. By that time, she has told me exactly where she lives, so I deliberately set us in that direction.

When we reach her apartment, she notices with surprise that we have arrived at her building. Of course, manners dictate to invite me in, since I so nicely walked her home. We take the elevator up to the second floor of an upscale building. Her domain is tastefully decorated in shades of mauve and taupe. She walks to the kitchen while asking me if i want a drink, but I decline. with gentle prodding, I have the conversating going again. We move from the kitchen to the living room to sit on the couch. While sitting there, the poor thing suddenly gets sleepy. I suggest she stretch out on the couch, using my shoulder for a pillow. Quickly, in spite of the major caffeine intake, she is fast asleep. Lifting her head, I gently lay her down on the couch, carefully extracting what I want. Making sure she stays sleeping throughout the night, I check the marks on her neck. Already they are disappearing. Knowing she would have no marks come morning, I prepare to make my exit. Looking out the window, I realize time is short. Hurrying to the door, I open it and lock it from the inside. Going through the opening I check the door behind me, making sure it is locked. Then i swiftly make my way home before the sun rises.

She rose with the sun as she was accustomed to doing, and noticed where she was. What an extremely strange evening. Brad will be very angry with me. I should call him, ah well, it will wait. Walking to the bathroom, she shucks off her cloths and hops into the shower. I wonder where that man came from. His accent was definitely American, but he was so pale. Must be from somewhere cold. Stepping from the shower and drying off, she walks naked to the kitchen to get breakfast. While sitting at the table lingering over a cup of coffee, the doorbell rings. Hastily she goes to get a robe and answers the door. It was a delivery man with flowers. I wonder who they are from. Brad probably sent them to apologize for standing me up last night. Opening the envelope, she read the message:

Thank you for a delightful
evening. Please meet me
tonight at Serendipity
for dinner at 8:00 pm.
I hunger for your company.
Sincerely,
Alec

Smiling foolishly, she replaces the card and readies for work, anticipating this evening's encounter.

As the sun set, Alec rose quickly. Donning a Brooks Brothers suit, he hasn't much time. Should he hail a cab? No, he'll take the Monte. Pulling out of the garage, he rushes to make it in time to meet her. He hopes she shall be there. His undead sleep was full of dreams of her. Dreams of draining her slowly, of slowly undressing her and making love all night, then dying in her arms as the sun rose. Ah, he has arrived. Banishing those thoughts, he hands the keys and a healthy tip to the valet, hoping they don't leave him on E this time.

Upon his entering the building, he was quickly ushered to his table - a quiet table secluded on the garden terrace. She is there, waiting for him. The moonlight dances on the folds of her ivory dress, the picture of innocence. The two tiny straps of the dress, pale in comparison to the creaminess of her shoulders. Tonight, she has worn her hair down except for the two combs holding back her sides.

"I am sorry for my delay, traffic was deadly," I say apologetically.

"That is quite alright. I didn't think you would come." she says in relief.

"Nor I you." I say warmly.

Taking my seat across from her I signal the waiter and order a bottle of champagne. I studied her again. Her ears held two diamond teardrops, her face unmarked my cosmetics. Her scent wafted over to me, intensifying the hunger.

"So," I say, "How was your day?"

"Fine, but my date last night was very angry with me," she says regretfully.

"Ah, well, he should not have kept a beautiful women like you waiting in a place like that." I say with slight reproach.

The waiter has returned and we order. An uncomfortable silence fell over us. She has started to fidget with her earing, turning me on savagely. Repressing the urge to jump over the table and gash her open throat, I ask how her dish is. She gives some mundane reply. So I ask what she does for a living. Smiling, she goes into extreme detail about interior decorating and succeeds in boring me to death - no pun intended. While she ate, I did my best to make it look like I was, but I really just rearranged my food artfully.

After dinner, I took her for a carriage ride through central park. The stars twinkled brightly and the night air had turned slightly chilly. Offering her my coat, I proceed with centuries of practice to seduce her.

Returning to the restaurant to pick up my car, the valet winks at me and I find, for once, that I still have gas left. I helped her into my car and turned the hood ornament to lair. Quietly, she fell asleep curled into the Monte's bucket seats.

I like this dry weather of the mind. Thoughts run passed me like the grains of sand in a vast desert wasteland, burying the skeletal remains of nightmares passed and gone. The vultures are their, pecking at the remaining meat from the nightmares I have slowly banished. This weather leaves me thirsty for something more. Thirsty for a new revelation. Thirsty for the insanity again, insanity I can now comprehend because I've survived through the first phase. I want my chances again. I want more blasts of lucid truth to throw me overboard. I want to nearly drown in the ocean of mystery, the piranhas of fear biting at my toes. The mermaids come to aid me, their beauty alone soothes my soul. Their eyes speak to me of prophecy, of a doomsday to come. You're a soldier, they tell me, you're a fighter. My ass, I laugh at them, my bloody ass.

The waters sure were blue back then, but now I just have this desert, these dunes, and the creatures that live underground and the mutants that scurry above, looking for food. I miss sailing the waters.

Maybe I'll fall down that well again soon.

It's strange how I can always release my anger/confusion/whatever in my kitchen. Whether it's with my cousin and/or brother or by myself, I always find oddities to appease my moods.

As I look into the endless depths of my pantry and bridge, I realize the cheese looks good. Two different kinds should suffice. For now. They lay next to the pepperoni; I think, "Why not?"

The pantry entails crackers and tuna fish, which brings me back to the fridge for mayo and Reddi whip. I would have grabbed the tub-o-cheese, but I ran out of the right chips. Damn. No dill pickles. Okay, where's the bear? Fucking stupid brother, always rearranging the fridge. Finally I spot my ortega sauce in the old honey bear container in the door of the fridge.

I learned that a piece of smoked cheese, a dab of Reddi-whip on snack crackers is pretty damned good, and that the ortega with a slice of cheese and pepperoni on the same snack crackers is pretty good, but that you can't mix ortega sauce with the mayo and tuna. I also have learned that marshmallows and anything but peanut butter and chocolate don't go together; especially ham and cheese.

For thee, my liege, Lord of the Twenty-Sixth Dimension - the dimension by which the Quantum String Theory is made possible and therefore also the unification of all space, time and energy into a single accessible constant placed at thy disposal to use, abuse, or let lie fallow as seen fit - thy humble wordsmith servant, Tinman, after having long toiled amid the dross and ore of they royal word mines, hath produced at last a work fit to be viewed through the immortal lenses of thy terrible, powerful eyes. Service in thy court and mines, so close to thy aura of knowledge, is more reward than is required for the employment rendered. May thy mercy be extended and forestall the destruction of thy pitiful serfs!

"Raise up your hand to the level of your eyes."

I was lying on my back, half under an ancient wood table on the floor in Jeb's basement drinking a Cotton Club Ginger Ale, but I did it anyway. Jeb looked around the room suspiciously, his hand also raised up to his eyes. He listened for a couple of seconds, sniffed the air and went back to work.

I let my hand fall to the ground by my ear, too tired to try and move it back to wherever it had come from. Jeb had always been paranoid, but recently he had been getting certifiable schizophrenic. I knew that meant that he was working on something big. That couldn't mean anything good for anybody. The last "big" project he built was a cruise missile he made out of army surplus parts. He accidentally launched the thing one day and no one's ever seen it since. That thing could fly.

Nowadays, Jeb was afraid somebody was going to lynch him. Somebody who, I don't know: could be the UN, the CIA, aliens, anybody really. Jeb thought everyone was after him.

The whole hand at the level of the eyes had to do with getting hung. As long as he had his hands up by his face, if someone threw a noose over his head, he could get out of it. I think he got the idea after watching twenty minutes of The Phantom of the Opera on PBS. Anytime Jeb sees or hears or reads something, he figures it'll happen to him. Jeb is nuts.

He finished playing with whatever he was doing and told me to stand up. It took awhile, but I did it without hitting my head on the table and stood their yawning, looking around the basement like an idiot. I noticed for the first time that the whole place was covered with Nazi banners and swastikas and pictures of Der Fuehrer. I was almost about to wonder why when Jeb spoke.

"Raise up your hand to the level of your eyes." I belched and raised my right hand. Jeb pushed a little brown button and bright strobe lights flashed all about me. I fell down and rubbed my eyes, cursing. It was too late for bright lights.

A week later, Jeb came to my house at six in the morning. He had driven a U-Haul truck and as soon as I opened the door, he handed me the keys.

"Drive this truck downtown and park it on the square in front of the courthouse. Then leave it with the doors locked and take a taxi home." His voice became urgent. "And raise your hand to the level of your eyes."

"It's six am, Jeb."

He slipped a photograph out of his coat and showed it to me. It was me, standing stupidly with my right hand raise and the left one holding a can of ginger ale. Behind me, the walls were strung with Nazi propaganda. Someone had airbrushed a Hitler mustache on my lips and the iron cross over my heart. "Do it and ask no questions or I will publish this picture of you at a Nazi rally."

"I was in your basement, Jeb." I was tired.

"Then why are you doing a Nazi salute? Seig Heil, Mein Fuehrer, eh?" I sighed. I didn't really care if all the world thought i was a Fascist, but I've learned that it's easiest to just do what Jeb says. I took the keys.

As I opened the truck's door, Jeb grabbed my arm. "Don't forget... "

"Yeah, yeah. Level of my eyes."

I fully woke up halfway into town listening to the current prices of soybeans and longhorned steer on the radio. Town isn't even really a town. It's the square and a post office and Quality Farm and Fleet and that's about it. The only reason it even had a courthouse was because it was a county seat.

As I woke up, I started to wonder what was in the truck and why he wanted it parked where he said. Some of Jeb's ideas are really messed up: he's nuts, after all. I thought it best if I had a look.

I stopped the truck and went around to the back. I opened the big wide sliding door, looked inside and swore. It looked like Jeb had filled the truck with explosives. This was bad stuff, even for Jeb. Some kind of detonator was wired up and beeping now and then, so I figured I'd better get it someplace safe fast.

I sure wasn't going to drive it downtown. No matter what Jeb says, I wasn't about to kill government employees, or anyone else, really. Not without a reason. I tried to think of something that deserved to be blown up. After a couple of seconds, I got an idea. I got back in the driver's seat and turned the truck around.

I parked the truck in a tiny little state park halfway between a picnic table and an eighteen foot statue of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. If Jeb wanted to strike at the government, it might as well happen here.

I was standing a good ways back, behind the little kids' swing set, wondering how to set it off when the headlights started flashing and the horn went off. I stumbled back a few paces more as a voice blared out from somewhere in the truck: "Raise up your hand to the level of your eyes."

I figured it would probably be smart to do so, so I did. Both of them. Not two seconds later, the truck was ripped apart and bounced a couple feet into the air. A big blue fireball burst the truck's roof in two and flayed out, scorching Mr. Roosevelt. I found out then why Jeb had kept telling me to raise up my hands: boiling blue paint was spraying out of the U-Haul in all directions and big gobs were dropping out of the sky. If I hadn't had my hands up, a burning splash of hot paint would've landed right across my face. Instead, it seared all the hair off my knuckles.

The explosion hadn't been as big as I'd expected. Jeb had mostly filled the truck with paint of some reason. Maybe Jeb figured he'd cover all the secret government agents with blue paint and then track them by staking out the dry cleaners. That'd be the sort of thing Jeb would do. Jeb's nuts.

I looked at the statue of FDR: he had his hands up to the level of his eyes, too, addressing Congress or something. Half his body was splattered bright blue and he was leaning at an eighty degree angle. He looked like a giant drunk Smurf.

He looks like a bird. Like he's gonna poke all our eyes out. Wearing no socks, no doubt his feet will sweat. His hoes will get slippery and fall off, exposing the bareness of his feet. All the children will stop in their tracks to take part in this spectacle and then quickly run home to tell mom and dad. Being parents they won't believe, so they must venture out themselves to see the bird man with his naked sweaty feet, The birdman will get much recognition, he'll move to Hollywood and get paid millions of dollars and poop on the windshields of BMWs. Until one tragic day he's flying about and runs face first into a large piece of glass, causing him to get a hemorrhage in his brain. His last words will be, "I'm a banana. Goodbye."

Thoughts of the unspeakable make their way through the cob webby shadows of my brain. Lurking in the darkest places, folding the empty spots or so they thought. Many things run around up there. Fairies covered in flittering dust color my brain while little trollish creatures smudge the colors. So many things to see. It may take an eternity to see them all. Everyday something new, everyday the same thing. The pattern in continuous, changing with the seasons. Time has no place here. It can't change things or tarnish them. If it does come through it gives great wisdom. Oh if it could only be someplace to stay, Perhaps I'd visit it often. Nevermind, I already am.

what did i think when if first met him? question i ask myself time and time again. but it's not answered, even by him.

hmm? maybe it's the fact of just protecting me from the true denial his honestly's been concluding. or maybe i'm just confusing myself over a question that isn't really a question. or it's an answer i don't need, because, of course, maybe i already know. or am i just thoroughly retarded like the man up the road, and i think he is what he is because he's implanted this thought deep within my mind by gestures or actions that he's committed towards me. and one other.

a thought he had, rubbing a late ex-girlfriend's back. the thought caressed his mind but he didn't do it, knowing rumors would be widely spread.

maybe just the taste really relaxes in his mouth and he enjoys it's presence too much.

The '97 generation is full of different types of problems. What we could soon have to deal with is much worse than of any previous generation. War of the Worlds, World Wars, destruction of man, world starvation, new incurable diseases, ect... the list goes on. This all could occur in our time. "They," the older generations, don't understand. We could either save or end the world. It is in our hands. Still they treat us like puppets, trying their hardest to pull our strings. Soon it all will crash, and when "they" beg for our help, it could be the end of Mankind.

Why the fuck not? Because there is nothing better to do. Just sit around and bullshit on how to make life more enjoyable. Is there even a way to do so? I could probably ask half the US and get no answer. That, or I'd get answers that were disillusioned into the make-believe world. Things that can never happen. Eat ice cream on Tuesdays and have good luck for the next week. But do they ever tell you which kind of ice cream? Nope. They make you go on a chaotic search and find out for yourself. The whole point of life. Live and learn. Finding answers for yourself. Making the right choices. You could eat strawberry ice cream, meaning it as to your absolute favorite and being your least favorite, pineapple ice dream be the luck you've missed.

Beside him and the growing pile of dirt lay the dead cold body of his girlfriend, a girl he had both betrayed and loved, and would love onto eternity.

It could've been seconds, minutes, or hours until the hole was dug, and when finished he gazed upon both the body and the pit, wondering yet again if he should bury her there, where she may never be found again, and try somehow to push her out of his mind, or do what he felt he sincerely deserved and join her in the black void.

Making up his mind, or so he thought, he placed his right arm under her shoulder blade and his left under her knees and cradled her for a moment until easing her down into the wet dirt. He grabbed the shovel, which poked out of the pile of dirt he would soon use to hide his girlfriend forever.

In that painful moment, at the sudden realization at what all he had seen and done, of all that had happened in those last few hours, he threw the shovel into the sky, crashed to his knees, placed his face in his hands, and cried.

His fingers ripping into his forehead, he let out a yell. He knew he couldn't live without her, but he was afraid of what lay for him beyond death.

There was no way out.

Digging in his jean jacket, feeling his cold heart through his soaked bones, he grabbed the pistol and cocked it before bringing it all the way out.

Looking once more at the woman he loved and had possibly lost for all time, he placed the barrel to his forehead, feeling as it dug into the skin. He closed his eyes, the picture of the dead body before him still fresh in his mind. His finger tightened on the trigger as he heard nothing but the sound of pouring rain and the storm that was becoming even more disastrous, and softly whispered the last words he would ever say.

"You could never know how much I love you."

With that, the lightning arched once more into the sky; nothing compared to the eerie darkness that followed.

Why don't they all just leave me alone? I like it this way. I like having a job I hate. I like my morbidity. I like the way this place smells, the way it feels, the way it penetrates into the pores of my skin. I love the warmth that irradiates off it like a furnace. I like the way it makes me feel. I like the history.

The coffee shop is a nice place to sit and think and drink steaming caffeinated beverages and really good chocolate chip cookies. Good-looking women work here, and they've always got a smile, even when I crawl in here after work with a frown on me that's so far down to my feet I'm tripping over it. That doesn't really happen, it's just one of those nifty tricks us pseudo-writers throw in to stimulate peculiar mental images.

I have tried so hard to write a short story - not the regular short story, but a good, thought-out short story that gives you one of those tickles in your brain and throws you off your feet. To do that, I've tried to get a handle on the negativity I often throw into my writing about hating this and killing that and torturing the other thing. I didn't used to write like that. I used to have a little hope in my writing, hope that promised, if not a good writing career, adequate writing as a hobby. Yet I'm such a downer, talking about how much the world reeks and about killing people. I could never kill people. It's not in my nature. I'm, at heart, one of those flanneled ninnys that always wear baggy jeans and are never seen without his trusty hat, that hangs around coffee shops and mopes to themselves as they draw on napkins with a Bic pen. I drink coffee, and I'm nervous. I'm afraid of even the most mundane things - actually, come to think of it, the mundane things are what scare me the most. Like driving cars - it's a fear I'm trying to get over. Hell, I used to be afraid of eyes - but not anymore, though I still know they are powerful gateways that show into your soul. I've known that since I was a kid. I can see things there that others can't. I see pain, I see love, I see dreams and I feel vibes. Call me psychic or call me undeniably insane. Your choice. There may be a thin line.

My friends got me over the fear of eyes. I'm lucky, with the friends I've got - you won't find a bunch like this anywhere else. The one you know as the CIB Man is an expert on meditation and goes to a Christian school and isn't at all influenced by it. I think his theories have holes as much as he thinks mine is insane, but he's a damn good person to talk metaphysical philosophy with. He also really likes corn.

Dragon-Type Person guy is an interesting individual who wears all black and is infatuated with dragons. He's the brother of Phloyd, a government employee who is, along with me, relatively anti-government. Strange how things work out that way.

Good of friends as they are, I feel outcasted. It's not really a bad feeling, I like my overall lack of connection with this world; it bores me. I like my brain. My visual, creative, chaotic mind that often gets me entangled in weird situations. You could say I'm a little schizo. You could say I need medical help. I would say NO SHIT.

I'm not an arrogant guy. Actually, up until quite recently, when I was being put down I was always one to help - sometimes I did it all on my own. Yet I need a little self esteem to stay sane. Now I'm trying to defend myself. Being a guy of average intelligence, I do the smart act of sticking with people that are my friends and away from those evil rats of society that will do anything to find a sore spot and poke at it until your self esteem is so annihilated you can't bare to pick yourself up and move on - it does, indeed, hurt when even these people I call my friends put me down, but, hey, it's an ugly world now ain't it?

I've got this bad habit - actually, a number of them - but this one in particular hits me at the damnest times: looking back. Like this, sitting here at the coffee shop I look at the group of kids sitting over where we used to sit, acting not unlike we used to act. I remember the looks on our faces, the feeling of excitement we had when all this was fresh and knew - the relationships with friends, the relationships with the opposite sex, going to places like the coffee shop and the library to hang out and talk shit and dabble in deeply-rooted philosophy. Yet days go on, ages grow old, eras pass by and your left with philosophy gone dry, irritated friends, exs that won't go away and the same old hangouts. Another thing: the past is never good until it becomes the past. When it's the present, it's nothing, and it passes you by like a dry leaf in the autumn wind and you think of it as nothing - but looking back, it's something you reach to hold on to. Of course, it's impossible - you can never go back.

Much like high school.

For a place I hated so much I sure miss it a hell of a lot.

I miss my Office - not the principal's office, but a little indentation with steps leading down to a door that separated the gym stage and the hallway that I used to always hide in half the day. I use to sit there and draw the most gruesome pictures I could - pictures of people melting, or "tree people" as some people called them. I never did my assigned art projects, of course, I always did what I wanted - which is why I don't have a good art portfolio that could have gotten me a scholarship. I could kick myself in the ass, but my legs are too tired from being on my feet all day, playing Mister Bagboy at the grocery store.

I also miss the library, where I'd sit, nervous, in the back by the Occult section, half reading about exorcisms and poltergeist and UFOs and aliens and half keeping an eye on that sexy girl I could never cough up the courage to talk to. I remembered visualizing walking up to her and planting one right on the lips, as we fell to the ground and bathed in the ecstasy - oops, uh, where was I? Oh yeah. Library.

I used to stay there after school, working on two projects I would also work on at home - constructing my complex (some would say, without a doubt irrational) theories of the occult, and my time line of conspiratorial and otherwise extraterrestrial-based events. It got me nowhere but fried out on coffee and surviving on three hours of sleep a day. When I couldn't get coffee I bought Pepsi, usually with money I bummed off friends. I'm still in debt, and I graduated.

Graduation was tough. I never went to my graduation, because I got it about a month late. I had to go to school in the city for two weeks to take Government and Economics, requirements at my school. I'd flunked Economics twice - almost passed them both by the skin of my teeth, but to no avail.

One day, on the way to summer school in the city I turned where I shouldn't've - "fail to yield", the ticket said - and slammed face first into a car. I'll never forget the lady. I was so scared i hurt her. I never liked driving, in fact I hated it, but this threw me for a whirl. I never meant to hurt anybody. I never wanted to interfere with their lives like this. I asked and asked over and over again if she was alright, and they said she was. I remember turning, i remember her aqua-green car, and I remember thbunk - that's the only way I can describe the noise, as "thbunk" - and then I remember my mouth wide open and me, sitting there at the wheel, stunned at what happened, staring at the van I'd landed in front of.

I remembered walking up to the lady in the car, and thankful she was alright. She was a little woosey, and another lady - I don't know where the hell she came from - was helping her. Her car was leaking fluid. I looked back at my car, and the guy from the van just said, "Your car's gone pal - get over it."

I recall the feeling - the oddest sensation I've had in awhile. It was the simultaneous desire to hide inside like a turtle from the world around me and to jump out of my shell and rip the world limb from limb. Of course I remained where I usually do, which is somewhere in the middle, lost and confused.

It was funny calling up my mother - well, not really, but it kinda is now - she didn't even seem surprised. I guess she was having a bad day. I remember, in the span of a week my grandmother was having problems getting up, our two dogs died, my uncle died and I got in a car accident. It took some of the pressure off me, until they picked me up from school and said they thought it was time for me to get on medication for my fears.

Now let me explain something about me and drugs - to some people's surprise, I'm totally against them. Others can do them and I won't condemn them for it, but when it comes to me I'd rather not have any chemical emotions or altered perceptions. I never tried any drugs. Never drank any alcohol. Smoked two cigarettes; they did little for me (counter-acted the coffee, though - it was pretty cool at the time).

I'd been on medication before, but they were antidepressants and I took them when I wasn't sleeping and weird delusions were the result. But for fear? It was an issue I wanted to handle without any help, I wanted it to be only me, but no, they wanted to mess around with my chemistry. While I was working on rewiring my brain to better my soul, trying to figure myself out and heal myself from the inside out, they wanted to mess around with my chemistry from the outside in. I was furious, but I needed a house to stay in until I was conscious enough to get on my feet, so I had to take them.

Life's improved, I guess. I fear less, I drive better, I have a job I've had for about a week. I passed high school. I'm moving onward and upward.

I trot about in this state of consciousness, unaware of the events unfolding around me. Like mad swarms of bees they buzz in my mind, just waiting to insert their venomous stingers into my body so it flows through my bloodstream to my heart where I will die a slow, miserable death as my body freezes up in paralysis before me and all hope of survival is flushed away by great and torturous pangs of immense agony. But it's always something now, ain't it?

I'm glad I caught you on your lunch break that day; if I didn't have you to talk to I haven't the slightest clue what I'd do with myself. You're not the conversational type, at least not with me, but that's alright, I forgive you. Your skin is so smooth, your touch is so soft; your ears, so big. I hate your ears, they make you look like Dumbo the flying brontosaurus. Or was Dumbo the anteater? I can never remember.

So I was shooting the shit with you when I gazed down at your breasts and noticed I'd been making mountains out of molehills. They were so tiny I couldn't even tell if they were even there or if it was just your shirt laying funny. I think now that it was a trick of light and shadow. You know, like the Mars Face.

I never thought it was normal to scratch my balls in public, which is why I usually duck into a corner to fix myself. Glad I got that said and out of the way.

Looks were never one of my strong points. I admit, I'm a damn ugly boy and my complexion looks like the moon's surface - not an ass, mind you, but the earth's only natural satellite. Can't get confused there, okay? It's important, but not really, I'm just babbling.

I'm off in my own world when I'm at work, bagging. It's like some robot takes over sometimes, as my mind drifts afar and I eventually come to settle on the beautiful image of you. Of course, that's why I'm here on your lunch break. I tracked you down, because I just had to see you and talk with you. It was so imperative to my survival. I needed the high you give me when you look at me; it's like someone jabs an ice pick in my brain - but it feels GOOD. You give my mind an orgasm. I love the feeling; it's my own, personal heaven.

Truth is, I'm not sure what to say, or if there's really anything TO say. I just know one thing, and that's that I've got to be here, by your side, breathing your air, feeling your radiance.

There's nothing left to say - bring something up, would you? You know I hate those uncomfortable stretches of silence. When I can hear my own heart beat, it's too damn silent. Say something, would you? DAMMIT, WOULD YOU - OH. Oh. Ooooh, it's the GAG, isn't it? Sorry, my dear, these are just precautions. You never can be too safe. Or insane.

I look in the mirror, and you know what I see? Smudges. Damn smudges. Sheesh. You'd think they clear these damned things, but no. Lazy asses.

It just rushes out of me like a waterfall and I'm faced with mental images and violent, harsh emotions I'm unable to describe. It makes no sense to me, yet it makes perfect sense. The logic of senselessness. I'm so full of it. But what? Ah, these deep, philosophical questions.

I feel good having you here, listening. I mean, not as if you had a choice, being tied to a chair and placed in a beer cooler of the supermarket you work at as I wave a gun around. Funny how things work out.

You're so much more with it than she was. She hurt me, hurt me bad. Her lies are what really killed me. Everything else I could've lived with, but not her lies. The bitch. The indecent, drooling bitch. She must died. Painfully. Oh, I forgot, she's already dead. I killed her yesterday. Lovely. Now I'm not only forgetting the details, I'm forgetting everything else. A boy tries to stay clean off drugs and alcohol, and what happens? He ends up in a state people take years of hard drugs to reach. I lost myself, she gave me a substitute more desirable than the original - that I lost that self to - me, that is.

Mister Robinson next door used to rape my little sister right in front of me. The way he used to touch her up and down - it just wasn't right. I wish I knew where he lived now, I'd go kill him. I remember the way he used to laugh as he pinned her to the ground and pulled up her dress. It was red and white. Her hair was golden brown. His hands were blackened with oil from the trucks he worked on in his garage. His ripped blue flannel stunk of cheap cigars. He had a little circle of hair left on his head and some on the sides. His eyes were like a lizards'.

You could say I'm no better than him. You could also blame all of what I've done since on those few traumatizing events I witnessed as a kid, but that's no excuse. I'm not about to blame him. Actually, I'm glad he did it. I need someone to hate with a heated passion.

Don't cry, dear, it's only raining. I'll blame it on the rain. The red rain that spurts from your throat. Silence dear, night is falling.

It's darker now. Just black and red.

A void splattered with the color of love.

ATTENTION!!! WE ARE DOING A SPECIAL ISSUE ON THE ABSURDITY OF RELIGION (still). IF THERE ARE ANY THINGS YOU'D LIKE TO BITCH AND WHINE ABOUT THE ABSENCE OF GOD OR THE IRRATIONALITY OF RELIGION OR ANY REBUTTALS TO MY VIEW (which is the view I just explained), PLEASE SEND TO US AT THE REGULAR E-MAIL ADDRESS WITH THE ADDITIONAL WORDING "RELIGION" FOR SUBJECT. MARK IT UNDER WHERE YOU WRITE "THE GOPHER SOCIETY" WHEN MAILING THE P.O. BOX. EASY PROCESS.