Red Pills

Halloween: I Was That Guy That Didn’t Wear a Costume

I get invited to a Halloween party by a fella I used to work with about 4 years back. We were call center slaves once and sorta young. We survived the brutal, terrifying drudgery of that white collar McDonald’s. I can’t speak for him. I emerged as the man writing this. I got wiser, weaker and my eye got keener. Reader, this is me bearing witness. This is the mundane drama that gets us where we need to go, I suppose. 

It had been a brutal week of pretending I knew what the fuck I was doing at my day job. I had my suspicions I was probably gonna get found out that week. I made it through. 

Let me make one thing perfectly and abundantly clear to you sir or madam or whoever it is that’s reading this. I don’t get out much. I sorta know how real life works from TV but I don’t spend a lot of time out there. I spend a lot of time alone with my stupid thoughts that melt the steel beams of my life every once in awhile. I’ve been in this period of trying to get “right” again recently. I know I’m gonna be too anxious and inept to drive out there so I don’t. I summon a poor soul with the Uber app on my Samsung personal surveillance device to get me out there into the land of pick-up trucks and country music and maybe god damn Trump supporters. 

Yeah. This shindig or whatever the fuck was way the hell out there. The Uber drivers I get when I use this terrible, dystopian service are usually these motor-mouthed go-getters who probably do a lot of Adderall or they tend to be these earnest, polite immigrants just trying to make it in this fucked up, racist, brutal country. I get this gentleman from Eritrea who barely says a word the entire ride. I should note that before I got in the car about 15 minutes before, I had ingested some cannabis infused chocolate. If I’m not mistaken, that put about 10 milligrams of THC into my system. I then pick up on something. 

The driver of this Toyota Prius criss-crossing it’s way through this autumn night is getting worried, he’s getting flustered. He is getting lost. Oh shit. See, I haven’t been in the exact same spot this guy was in but I know what it’s like to feel utterly alone in the night. I know what it’s like to feel sweat collecting on the back of your neck. I know what it is to feel like your body is itching with fear and dread. He starts apologizing to me. Something happens to me. I know what I gotta do. 

“Brother, don’t worry about it,” I say. “Do not worry. Aight. Just go straight and follow the road for a few miles. You don’t gotta turn for a bit.” 

THIS IS FUCKING CRAZY TO ME BECAUSE I’M NOT USED TO BEING THIS CALM CAT THE UNIVERSE PUTS IN PEOPLE’S PATH BUT THAT’S WHAT I’M GONNA DO FOR THIS GUY. 

He thanks me and thanks me and thanks me. 

“Alright. You gotta turn right in a few hundred feet. There we go. See that road sign? Just turn there when it’s safe. Don’t even worry about it, man. Why do you think I ain’t drivin’ myself? I’d get lost out here even worse. This ain’t my hood, man.”

He calmed down. I’m not sure when I started to feel the cannabis. I’m not sure if me being so fucking kind is the cannabis or if that’s just me. It’s just me. Being alive has hurt me in the weirdest ways and as a result, I’m basically a wannabe Mr. Rogers who is angrier and curses a lot. 

I get to the party. I guess it had a circus theme. There was this circus tent. My friend is in a cover band. 

I walk in. I have a brief conversation about the health impact of vaping and I deftly steer the conversation away from whether Trump is really all that bad. The weed was starting to kick in. I was high but I sure as fuck ain’t stupid. I ingested the second piece of cannabis infused chocolate that I had in my coat pocket. I’m starting to feel it. I know I am. 

I’m in uncharted territory. When I’m high, I’m usually alone. Yep. I am the weirdo that gets high and will just let the chips fall where they may. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I just waste time. So, there I was getting higher and higher around a bunch of strangers. 

Some of the things I say that night, 

“Holy shit. Is this what an episode of Miami Vice is like?” 

“See. I feel like I should tell you. What you’re seeing right now is a cat who don’t get out much.” 

“We don’t need secret police. We build the dossiers on ourselves. It’s crazy, man.” 

“I’m too old for this shit.” 

“FREEBIRD!” 

“THATCHER WAS A CUNT AND I’M GLAD SHE’S DEAD!” in a dubious working class English accent. 

At some point I get offered beer. I don’t ever drink. In fact, I will admit that I had never been drunk before. I start drinking and drinking and drinking. I end up stoned as fuck and somewhat drunk on um light beer. I can feel my inhibitions lower. I’m definitely keenly aware of it. I shout things at the top of my lungs. I even dance and don’t really give much of a fuck how it looks. 

The lowered inhibitions start to concern me. I lean in close to my friend. I say in his ear, “When you get a minute, I need to talk to you.” He nods. See, I ain’t used to alcohol. It’s the weirdest thing. I’m very accustomed to being very high on marijuana and I’ve lived to tell about a few intense trips on psilocybin mushrooms. Alcohol just isn’t something I have a lot of practice with. In fact, being out ain’t something I have a ton of practice with. 

I become intensely concerned about what I might do while under the influence. I worry I might become Brett Kavanaugh. I’m terrified I might flip out and kill someone. I nod to my friend’s friend. He’s dressed like The Driver from Drive and has this weird kinda charisma. I see something in him. I see a kindness. I see a light in that man. I ask him if he’ll step outside with me. In fact, I’m pretty sure I say something like, “Forgive me if this is weird but will you step outside with me for a second?” He doesn’t even question it. We step outside and I lay it all out. 

“Like I said. I don’t get out much. I don’t get fucked up with other people around so this is a new experience. Do you ever worry about what you might do under the influence and does that scare you?” 

I actually start crying. I don’t even recall what he says now. I just recall that he listened to me. He told me it was okay. I remember telling him that something told me I could come to him with that. I told him that even as a complete stranger, I could sense the goodness in him. I told him he was a good man. 

Yeah. So, I got to be the shepherd and the shepherded that night. 

I spend some time just chilling outside in the dark. I get to talking more to the dude who was dressed as The Driver. As I write this, I am sober but everything is slow. I feel sluggish. In retrospect, I say too much. I guess that it might be kind of a bad idea to get all cross-faded like that. That’s a young man’s game and I ain’t so young any more. I say too much. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t get out much and you’re drunk and high, you start sharing the thoughts that terrorize when you’re alone in a dark room. 

I spill about my upbringing. My overprotective mother that wouldn’t let me out of her sight and wouldn’t let me grow up. I talk about how I BS my way through like half my day job. Driver tells me how badass that is. I feel the need to keep mentioning I don’t get out much. He tells me, “You’re an astronaut, dude. Exploring new worlds.” I say, “I know what you’re saying but that’s a little too dramatic.” 

I spill about the heroic mushroom trip. I talk about how dreamlike everything was. I talk about how I had only messed with shrooms a time or two before but the last time, I suddenly found myself drowning in a psychedelic ocean. I tell him about coming to grips with how weird and terrifying that could get. I look over at him with a straight face, I say, 

“This is the part where you tell me about Jesus.” 

I was kidding. He says, 

“Do you wanna pray with me?” 

“What? Are you fucking with me?” 

“No man.” 

I size him up. “You’re being sincere.” 

“Yeah man.”

“I did not see that coming. I don’t know how to respond.” 

“You think mushrooms are amazing. Wait til you commune with the creator of the universe.” 

God damn it. This is a hell of a plot twist. 

“Do you want to pray with me?” 

“No offense but I don’t feel led to do that.” 

“That’s cool, man. I’ll pray for you though.” 

“Aight. I just wanna say though, if you are only talking to me to get a convert, you can fuck all the way off. That’s not comic exaggeration. That is not me playing a character. Fuck all the way off if that’s what you’re doing.” 

“I’m not doing that, man. Don’t worry.” 

“Okay. I’m just gonna be chill. It’s outta my system.” 

I had more intense, way too intimate conversations that night. I don’t feel the need to recount any more of them. 

I get home somehow. I don’t sleep much. I only sleep about four hours or so. I have a lazy Saturday. I don’t feel quite normal all day. I feel tired and need to take a nap at some point. 

My soul changed. A little. Maybe. 

It’s starting to become not enough to just write. I’ve written semi-diligently almost every single day. I want to say something. I want to get close to the inexpressible and get kinda close to expressing it. I want to get so close that god damn it, I actually fucking expressed it. 

Dog-whistling Dixie. That phrase kept occurring to me on my drive home today. Dog whistling Dixie. Dog whistling Dixie. I dunno. 

I’m actually close to having read an entire book in I don’t know how long. I got to spend a lot of time just reading at my desk today. That was nice. Seriously. I took care of some minor shit here and there but most of the time, I just got to read. We’re not talking anything that literary. It’s The Great Divide by Matt Taibbi. It talks a lot about the machinations of the financial collapse of 2008. I barely remember that. Seriously, I think maybe I was barely conscious. That event touched everything though. It was a complicated shell game that ended up torching the lives of so many people and no one was ever really held accountable for it. That’s crime on a massive scale. There’s crime and then there’s crime. 

Something that can send me into a rage is local news broadcasts because of all the “crime” stories. Maybe they’ll have some story about some thieves that are stealing packages on people’s doorsteps. I remember once seeing a video on some local news station’s Facebook page of some package thief nicking a package and then slipping and falling and the comments were all, “KARMA! IT’S A BIIIIITCH AND SO AM I,” and “THEY WAS LUCKY I WASN’T THERE WITH MY GUN CUZ I WOULDA GONE PUNISHER ON HER FAT ASS.” All this ire for some desperate petty criminal but where is the rage for the banker who ripped off their pension fund on Wall Street with a nose full of cocaine while getting head from a barely legal prostie? C’mon man. I know it’s not the 80s any more but I’m pretty sure Wall Street still runs on cocaine. You ever see that episode of Cops where they were stopping and frisking people outside of a luxury apartment complex and hitting Wall Streeters with coke possession charges? No you don’t because it never happened and it doesn’t happen. Nah, if you are one of the brain dead idiots who enjoys a show like Cops, you are treated to shirtless folk in trailer parks getting busted for meth and domestic violence and monologues from boring motherfuckers with crew cuts talking about how they are like a 4th generation pig or some shit as they drive along on patrol with their eyes peeled for people of color. 

I will be going in and seeing a therapist on Monday. Fuck! A god damn Monday. So, I am going to be groggy and ready to just go to bed after a long day but I can’t just go home. I gotta go talk to some guy I’ve talked to exactly twice. I better think about what it is I’m going to say. Damn. I wonder how honest I really am going to be in there. I’ve got to make at least some attempt to be honest or there really is no point, right?  So, what is it really? 

Hmm. So. Here’s what it is. I’m really fucking bored, lonely and I can get really anxious. Look, I’m doing better than I have in a long time but god damn it, what else should I be doing? 

Random embarrassing fact #1

When I was in high school, I used to play this game on the Internet called Harsh Lands. It was a MUD. Basically, it was this text based medieval game world with a heavy emphasis on in-character roleplaying. You stayed in-character. You talked like your character at all times no matter what. You did what your character did. My character was this deeply religious warrior who rose to the rank of Master Sergeant in The Tashal Watch. The Watch was the organization in charge of keeping the peace in the city of Tashal which was the largest city in the Kingdom of Kaldor as I recall. I was the highest ranking player character lawman so I was basically the law in that city. After I retired that character, I played a thug/enforcer type who was a member of the Lia Kavair. The Lia Kavair were basically a medieval Mafia. They were a den of thieves, assassins, racketeers. My character roughed people up who needed roughing up, extorted people, menaced people and on one occasion even killed someone. I remember spending a lot of time ruminating on this character's guilt for having taken a life to the point where I made myself pretty much a wreck in real life. I should mention something about death in this game. Death was permanent. If you died, there was no coming back and starting over after losing some gear or whatever. You were dead. As you can imagine, that made shit pretty intense at times. This sounds nerdy and dumb and it was but it was incredibly fun to collaborate with other people and create stories.

Brain feels kinda smooth today. It always feels like it’s not quite firing on all cylinders on a Monday. 

Fuck Mondays. 

Yeah. I said “Fuck Mondays” but I don’t really feel it that viscerally at the moment. Nothing much happened really. Just dealt with minor problems here and there that I was able to fix fairly quickly. I got to spend my idle time at my desk listening to podcasts and reading. I’m about halfway through the book The Great Divide by Matt Taibbi. Maybe I can finish it by the end of the week. Been awhile since I actually finished a book. 

I’m flirting with the idea of cutting back on my gaming, specifically Rocket League. I’ve played Rocket League pretty much every single day since I got it some time last year. It’s a fun game but I think it distracts me too much. Yeah. You are reading about a 35 year old man talking about his need not to game so much. I find myself firing up Rocket League even when I don’t really have a desire to play that much. I guess it fills up time when I have absolutely nothing else that I could be doing. It stimulates my brain when I ain’t got shit else to stimulate it. I guess I want to see what happens if I try stimulating it with something else. 

I put in a call to a therapist I saw some time last year. He hasn’t called me back yet.

This navel gazing is getting old to me. I want to be writing about something else but I have no idea what. 

I’m fucking bored. 

I suppose I’m bound to catch a feeling about something this week. 

I am half-assing right now and not even lying about it. I am phoning this in. I don’t give a shit. 

Sup with you? You good? Did you daydream about sex or murder today? Did you fantasize about being some sorta hero? Did you cry today? Did you do anything to advance a criminal conspiracy today? 

This is a man throwing stuff at the wall to see what sticks. This is a man sitting cross-legged in a chair and trying to think. 

This feels like a fuckin’ homework assignment.

I don’t feel much of anything right now. 

I just am. I guess that’s okay. I mean, what’s the alternative? 

Been working almost 6 months. I have not held down a job for more than 6 months since 2012. If I make it beyond 6 months and I’m still employed, do I fucking win something? I’ve been thinking about that. What does that mean for me, if anything? 

Fuck. I tried. 

Maybe I should have more swagger, more attitude. 

Boy, you just high. 

There is this .gif of Margot Robbie looping over and over mashed up with Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. I keep stealing glances at it. It’s cool. Kinda hot too. In that Hollywood Kinda Way. In that bullshit kinda way. That way that don’t actually exist. Sugar for the soul. Too much sugar puts holes in your soul. 

I should fake confidence more. Sell that shit. Just for fun. Only reason. 

Boy, you are so high. 

Maybe I am. 

I ain’t so bad at this. Fuck. I sound cool, right? 

I’m not cool. I got no fucking clue what I’m doing. I might be going to hell. I don’t think I ever grew the fuck up. I don’t got people. I ain’t ever had that moment where I thought,”These are my people.” I say I love the world and the people I’m on this trip with but god damn it, who do I really love? Who do I choose to love? Like really? Sincerely? 

I’m sorry about all the bullshit I’ve written in this space. I’m sorry for every time that I did not honestly bear witness. 

Yeah. I’m a bit on the high side. That isn’t an excuse though. I stand by every word. 

Was a good day. It was a day I could half-way breathe. I handled what needed to be handled and then I went home. 

The air is hot. I’m just in here with me. 

For some reason, I talk a lot at work today. I talk way more than usual. I make people laugh. I get told I’m funny. I get told that I should do stand-up. I confess that in my 20s, I sorta tried that. I told him it didn’t go so well because I half-assed it and I didn’t have a god damn thing to say. He asked me if I think I do now. I said, yeah but I didn’t have anything unique to say. 

I didn’t try so hard at stand-up. Maybe it wasn’t for me. I don’t know. 

Thing is though, I took some risks in the way that I perform me and someone liked it. 

I like that. 

That was cool. 

reblog to share a fat blunt with ur mutuals

Before

C’mon, brother. I see you there. I see you every day. This is gonna sound weird. What the fuck is up with you? Look, I know these times broke your brain when they started. They did that cold thing to me. Deep chill. That feeling you get deep inside you when every heart you got in every dimension breaks at the same god damn time. I think we’re in a crucial time, man. I felt it when the madness started. I always asked myself if I’d be able to hack it when the time came. Torches. Flags. You taught me to fight my own way. You told me I had my own way. Yo, I think maybe I can hack it. 

Look, man. I’m not compromised. You can still trust me. I just see things a little differently.

Whatever, man. Fine. Let’s fight. No. I fucking mean it, asshole. Don’t even think of going easy on me like you used to. Try to kill me. I’ll try to stop you.

I’m talking crazy? You’re the one that thinks I’m working for them. I saw something in you, man. No. Look at me. Look at me. Fucking look at me or I am gonna kick your ass. 

See, you don’t believe it. If you really thought you couldn’t trust me, you’d have me tied in knots and begging for it to stop. 

You think I’m on another level. Thing is, I’m on an even higher level than you think. Brother, I saw something in you. I saw it and I knew that’s what I wanted to be. That’s all I’m doing. 

Got nothing? Fine. You know you can always come find me. Love you. 

What Happens

What happens is the machine 

goes through us 

too damn quick

til we got nothin’ but fun size Milky Way wrappers 

in a Halloween treat bag. 

-

What happens is sometimes you find yourself ponderin’ what hell is. 

It’s geographic region. 

The shit that goes down there. 

Always in the same ZIP code you’re in. 

It’s Monday eternally. 

That deep, polar bear cold you feel all over your body

never quits 

and everything you got to do to eat that day 

is gonna kill you. 

-

What happens is sometimes you live 

and you’re happy enough to (almost) thank god. 

Your walk has swagger to it.

Maybe the air that slowly kills you tastes sweeter. 

You think maybe it’ll all be okay 

till it all wears off like a crack hit. 

- 

What happens is life.