Monthly Archives: July 2012

Unwriter (cont.)

“They’re Trollologs, they eat people” popped into his head.  An “in the know” quote shared by he and his friends from one of the worst movies of all time.  He searched this and found thousands of sites devoted to this apparent cult classic.  Nothing was sacred, nothing that he had experienced in his brief existence was unique or different.  He had been fed the same information diet as everyone else and his mind was resultingly the same.  Most people tended to accept this and put little emphasis on creating or experiencing anything because as far as they were concerned, everything that was and ever will be already existed and was available at the touch of a button.

He collapsed at this rather Randian observation and continued to idly scroll through tweet after blog after search result looking for something to motivate him to do something more than what he would continue to do until he found something to motivate him to do more than has was doing.  He tried to Stumbleupon an interesting topic and soon found himself reading a fan-fiction site with 250 million active followers that encouraged members to submit their Prekiragon media entries for the chance to be entered to win a new iPad.  The entries had to take place in a reality that blended Akira, Pokemon, Minority Report and Alien vs Predator.

After an hour of reading about Predators hunting the results of face huggers implanting different Pokemon who were being tracked by a psychic on a high-tech motorcycle, he imagined picking up his screen and throwing it out the window, but then could not imagine what he would be doing right now without it.


Degenerate Distilled

Screams and the sound of repeated impact echoed down the hall.  Two men drag a third who is being savagely kicked in the stomach by an accompanying transvestite.  It is 2 in the morning and I am tired.  I walk by the scene without looking up and find that the parties involved have either chosen to ignore me or are too involved in their own affairs to notice my passing.

I believe that my rent may be significantly more than that of the higher floors in the building because the hall to my apartment is red.  A shrill voice screams something profane, there is the sound of a door closing and all is silent again.  The girl walking beside me is Kate and we are returning from a party which was burned down by a shovel carrying arsonist.

We watch the news and see reports of a suicider victim in the Mt Vernon district. This is not an isolated incident; people of delicate emotional fabric have been cautioned against entering new relationships because the person committing these suicides seems more merciless than most.  I change the channel in favor of lighter fair and we watch horrible sci-fi movies late into the evening, eventually falling asleep only to be awoken by a dull thumping sound.

We exit the apartment in search of the sound source and find ourselves at the floor’s garbage chute.  For those not residing on the east coast or that have no idea what this device is; it is a metal shaft that descends from the top floor of a building to the bottom with receptacle points on each floor through which people drop their trash, which is then compacted into a dumpster for transport to the local landfill, garbage dump, etc…  Smoke rises from the chute door and upon opening it we hear more clearly that the compactor at the bottom seems to be jammed and is malfunctioning.

We alert the front desk to this and it is eventually discovered that a man fell or was pushed into the trash chute.  The event is ultimately deemed to a suicide, as I failed to inform the police of the man being dragged down the hall out of the fear that I would meet a similar fate.  Kate stated that it was not her business and to provide this information would be very presumptuous.

It is now 6:30am and I am quite hungry.  I exit my apartment building into the raw sewage smelling morning and cross the street to have a continental breakfast in the Holiday Inn.  A building fire rages a few blocks down.  The smell of burning tar seems to cancel some of the methane odor that was triggering my gag reflex.

Kate has taken the morning and previous night to be an inspiration to leave the city and start life over again.  She wants to move to the country and start an organic farm, find nature again, feel dirt, taste sweat, toil, breed, reproduce, grow old, and die in the womb of nature that she though could only exist in the words of Emerson.  However, she does none of this and dies in a puddle of drool at age 72 at 11:30am in a bar in Fell’s Point.  My coffee tastes surprisingly good.


She moved to the city to pay her way through college.  A job in a decent office was easily secured as she was in her own opinion quite attractive.  Boys in the office lingered by her desk and she noticed the eyes of older men following her movements.  Some friends of hers had an apartment in one of the nicer neighborhoods and let her sleep on their couch until she saved enough money for a deposit on a place of her own.  The social circle that she moved in embraced her immediately and as far as she could tell viewed her as a contemporary.

After several months of pursuit one of the boys from the office impressed her with his knowledge of Turkish architecture so she agreed to meet him for drinks after work.  She returned home and confidently anticipated the night ahead as she had not been on a “date” for quite some time. He was sitting at the bar when she arrived.  Her first comment was an apology for any wrinkles she might have in her clothes for she was still living out of suitcases.  This deliberate display of vulnerability put her date at ease and increased the likelihood that he would be picking up the check.

They chatted idly about work as the boy drank faster and she sipped her pink cocktail.  At one point during the conversation the boy became animated to the point that he raised his hands in disbelief and as he lowered them unintentionally rested one on her knee.  She did not stop this, leaned forward and laughed appropriately. Realizing his good fortune, he withdrew his hand and resumed playful banter regarding their bosses and coworkers. She noticed a man looking at her from behind the boy, met his eyes and blinked slowly as she re-engaged in appropriate idle chatter.  The boy may have noticed this instant of disinterest had he not been inebriated.

She informed the boy that she was gong to the restroom and would return shortly.  As she made her way to the back of the bar she brushed by the man and took the opportunity to smell the air around him; an act that he took note of but did not indicate. Once in the restroom she noted the terrible sounds from the stalls and was moved to wash her hands with very hot water then wipe the smudges from the metallic surfaces of her sink. She returned to the bar where she saw the boy eagerly awaiting her return; the man was gone, but she found that she was unconcerned at this.  The boy had slowed his drinking which she suspected may have been motivated by a concern on his part in achieving an erection sometime this evening; the prospect of which made her smile slightly at him as she considered the futility of his intent.

As soon as she entered the apartment her friends commented on her stylish appearance, and inquired about her date to which she had little to say other than, “he paid.”  That night she thought about the man and purposed to return to the bar next week at the same time in hopes of seeing him again. The boy did not speak to her at work the next day and she wondered if she had annoyed or offended him the previous evening, however she was not so concerned that she would engage him on the topic.  On her way out of the building she noticed the boy from last night and some others huddled near the lobby doors speaking in hushed tones, she assumed about her.  She took off her jacket as she passed them and let her feet fall heavily enough be heard as a way to impart to the huddle that she knew what their conversation was about, but was unconcerned.

Later that evening she got very drunk and attempted to undress one of her roommates against his will.  Her other roommates entered the apartment and expressed great dismay at their unclothed friend being curled into a ball and rocking in the corner of the living room.  She entered the room shortly after their arrival prompting them to comment on how handsome her new clothes looked on her despite the torn shirt.  They were given an approving smile to this and asked that they forgive her alcohol induced indiscretion.  Following a well crafted apology to her formerly frightened, currently injured roommate, she assisted in applying bandages and neosporin to his cuts and scratches.  To solidify her standing in the apartment she had sex with him later that night.  This done, he would now inform the other residents of her cordial gesture, which would instill anticipation of such acts befalling them on a future night of drunken revelry that would never happen.

The man was not at the bar the next week and the boy accompanying her was not drinking enough to be entertaining.  He did make it a point to comment on the amount of red in her outfit this evening.  She was amused at this overt sexual advance and kissed the boy’s cheek, lingering near his ear long enough for him to hear her breath.  The man eventually appeared about an hour after their arrival.  She was disappointed to find his scent unpleasing and his face not quite as attractive as she had originally thought.  It was entirely probable that this passingly attractive, poorly cologned man was desirable only in contrast to the boy from last week.


He could not write.  The inability to write even a line of text without descending into a spiraling depressive rage had crippled him for some time now.  There would be no change.  This would continue to the end of his life.  A mind full of ideas that were completely derivative of everything else that ever existed.  The thought of this did not help in that there were infinite volumes of books that document the fact that everything is derivative of everything else, the death of originality and the end result of being saturated with information.  It is not a good day for banana fish because they are extinct.  Their swollen carcasses littered the beaches of the West and no one could explain why.  Some had postulated that there was just too much and lacking the ability to discern between what was good and what was bad, they had gorged themselves to death on Wikepedia.

He knew that this too had been addressed and dropped his head in despair at the notion of his rote concept and trite allusion.  Everyone was convinced that the world was going to end this year anyway; another symptom of information run amok.  People had grown fat on useless information and took solace in the fact that they would soon be released from the torrential onslaught of data that they had to go through each day to make the world seem small and trivial.  Something greater than them was going to come to kill them and this made them feel like human beings again.

He sat staring at the screen, writing sentences, deleting sentences, checking statuses (stati) for anything more than an overly clever meme, something of substance, maybe vacation pictures that could be analyzed to reveal weaknesses in relationships or the characters of those involved.  He wished for a car fire or riot outside of his building to stimulate his survival instinct.  After shifting in his chair for a while he looked up some videos of this material and watched rage with insulated satisfaction.