Mentally Unsound


Tom: I think I'm a bit nuts.

God: You are.

Tom: It runs in my family. You don't judge me for it though.

God: I told you, you've got to throw out any notion of God as an omnipotent cop who lives in the clouds. If that's how you conceive of God, that's what God will be to you.

Tom: That's part of my disease, I think. I have ups and downs. The downs can last a long time. My writing suffers. I go nuts. I believe that I should strive to do any serious work with an open mind and heart. But sometimes the mind eats itself and this just doesn't seem possible. Are you saying that it's not my fault when I can't produce anything of which I feel proud? That when I cant' write, I should just wait it out?

God: I can tell you that mentally difficult times are not your fault. But you're a human, and you're going to make cause and effect associations no matter what state your mind is in. It's a way for your human brain to make sense of the world, but it doesn't give you the whole picture. Sometimes, like when your brain is ill and torturing itself, it can even makes things worse.

Tom: What do I do?

God: You might trying reminding yourself that the human brain truly is finite. You don't have to accept that (I know you won't), but try to think of it like getting tired after you run: your body has physical limits, your mind has cognitive limits.

Tom: But... someone always has to pay.

God: What?

Tom: Someone has to be shamed or ridiculed for my shitty day. It's only fair.

God: Oh lordy...

Tom: Lordy? Isn't that you? Did you just take your own name in vain?

God: Look, didn't I just tell you that you've got to... hey wait, are you fucking with me?

Tom: Yes.

My Cat Murdered a Mouse


Tom: So how do you explain that one?

God: Explain what?

Tom: My cat Nacho, whom I love, caught a mouse outside today. When I let him in this morning, he had it in his mouth. We got him out of the house before he released it. He then took it downstairs into the yard and stomped it, bit it, flung it in the air, and finally ate most of it. Its bloody remains are still out there.

God: And?

Tom: And what?

God: What part of that do you want me to explain? Your cat was probably hungry. Or maybe he just saw something moving and went after it. They tend to do that, you know.

Tom: But why the suffering? What did you allow that mouse to feel pain?

God: That is the nature of this world. Pain and death are part of it.

Tom: But I too am of this world. Why can't I accept pain and suffering?

God: I don't know.

Tom: What?

God: I don't know. Not at the moment. I only know as much as you know at any given moment.

Tom: Then what good are you?

God: Listen, I'm not some anthropomorphic oracle that you can dial up any time you need encouragement or an explanation. I am the sum of all things your mind can and cannot comprehend, I am infinity, I... well, you get the point. Words can't explain it.

Tom: But... I don't think you're indifferent.

God: Of course not. I am everything. The gentle, loving force that melts away your fears, the very essence of grace and kindness, hope and redemption...

Tom: But, curiously, I must seek you out. That's why everyone from Christians to AA's suggest that each person must develop their own personal relationship with God. For an individual consciousness, anything else would cause mental stress.

God: Precisely. You have to figure it out for yourself. But don't worry: you aren't gazing into an abyss. When you truly seek God, you are imagining the realization of the highest, most noble dreams of humanity: peace, abundance, harmony. But as you can see in the world around you, one must be okay with sadness, one must know death.

Tom: So even though I don't consider myself a follower of any religion, it's okay for me to imagine an afterlife where peaceful eternity never gets boring, you never run out of things to learn or love, and that little mouse is up there playing around with its mouse friends?

God: I don't see why not.

Tom: Even if I don't always believe in it?

God: Sounds fine to me.

Tom: Sweet!

Moar Conversations With God:


Tom: So I was thinking about my motivation for turning my attention to you.

God: Go on.

Tom: I’m not sure how wise it is to address the being, Satan, who represents evil.

God: Do you mean that literally?

Tom: Partly, yes. Perhaps just by discoursing with the idea of something that represents bad things, I tend to focus on negative things. Maybe if I focused on something different, I’d be happier. See the world in a different light.

God: But you also have a sneaking suspicion.

Tom: That whatever supernatural entity I write to, be it God, Satan, or the spirit of Abraham Lincoln, it’s really just me?

God: Precisely. And there is some truth in the idea the concentrating your thoughts in any negative direction can influence your unconscious worldview and consequently, your waking worldview.

Tom: So what do I do?

God: Do what you have been doing. You’re discoursing with yourself. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Tom: Okay.

Conversations with God


Tom: So, I’ve decided to swap one supernatural muse for another.

God: How do you know I really am God?

Tom: Well, I don’t. How about I just call you "god?"

God: You blasphemous fucker!

Tom: Whoa, God cusses?

God: Wait a minute, you used a capital “G” there. You really do think you're talking to God.

Tom: But... it was a mistake, I... Damn. Whoever you are, you’re good.

God: Yes, I am.

Little Tools and Their Musical Vomit

Tom: This is gonna be an easy one.

Satan: Shoot.

Tom: You know that band that does those freecreditreport.com commercials?

Satan: The Victorious Secrets? Hell yeah, they're some of my favorite minions at the moment. I fucking love those guys. We try on khakis together, give each other testicular papercuts, buy roofie-Jaeger shots for girls in clubs, scorn people who don't dress like us, go to John Mayer concerts... Then, at the end of every night, they all strip down and take turns sucking off my rancid, scaly megacock.

Tom: Well, what should one expect from a band that does jingles for a website owned by the subsidiary of a credit bureau that's been involved in two lawsuits, one of which was brought by the Federal Trade Commission, for deceptive marketing practices? In fact, I think the band itself is just another deceptive marketing practice: it sounds like they're making music to sell you something, but they're really taking a poisonous shit right into your ears. If you, Satan, are the very thing we call evil, and these guys are working for you, then we can rightly call them and their music evil, amirite?

Satan: Sure. Call it whatever you want. But just look at them. See how much respect they get. They make money with their music. So go. Spew your vitriole. Write songs that move you which no one else will hear.

Tom: If it's a choice between that and snorkeling your satancock, you know what I'm going to say.

Satan: Booga booga booga, I'm Tom and I have scruples that keep me poor.

Tom: Blah blah blah, I'm the devil and I suck.

Satan: Shut up.

Tom: No you.

The Deal

Tom: So I think I figured out a way to force myself to write.

Satan: Okay?

Tom: I told myself that if I don't start writing every day I'm going to make myelf go into therapy and figure out why I can't bring myself to write out the great shit I have in my head.

Satan: Maybe you don't really think it's that great?

Tom: Of course it's great but... what's the use?

Satan: Oh hell.

Tom: Dude, I have it under control.

to be continued...

The Transcendentalists and, by extension, Walt Whitman

Satan: I've noticed you have a penchant for being interviewed. Like you were someone famous.

Tom: I'm ready. Go.

Satan: You claim the Transcendentalists have played a part in your writing?

Tom: I was introduced to them in 1995. I was a junior at Poway High. We were required to take a semester of American literature. I've always been friendly with books, and I enjoyed the class.

Satan: Who was your favorite?

Tom: Emerson. I find it interesting that Thoreau seems to have firmly supplanted him in the public consciousness, and yet I was initially attracted to Emerson's writings more so than his. I do love Thoreau, however.

Satan: Since we're on the subject, can you tell me who is your favorite 19th-century American writer?

Tom: I'm sure it changes, but off the top of my head I'd have to say Walt Whitman.

Satan: Any reason in particular for that?

Tom: "On the Beach at Night Alone."

Satan: Why?

Tom: I think the timing had something to do with it. It was 2005 and with a collection of Whitmann's poetry and other writings, I chanced upon "On the Beach at Night Alone" as I was on the beach at night alone, saying goodbye to my hometown and everything I loved in it before I went off to live in France. Plus it's just a beautiful poem.

Satan: Shall we include it?

Tom: I can't think of a better way to end this post, but aren't there legal issues to worry about?

Satan: Ah, fuck it. It anybody says anything, just tell 'em I made you do it.

Tom: Sweet.


ON THE BEACH AT NIGHT ALONE

by: Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

On the beach at night alone,
As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,
As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes and of the future.

A vast similitude interlocks all,
All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets,
All distances of place however wide,
All distances of time, all inanimate forms,
All souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different, or in different worlds,
All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, the brutes,
All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,
All identities that have existed or may exist on this globe, or any globe,
All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future,
This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann'd,
And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them.

The Worst Fear in My Life At the Moment

I unconsciously think and act like my individual existence is more important than any other. I've done nothing significant in my life (cured cancer, wrote the Great American Novel, etc.), nor have I ever had a thought that was original or at least helpful to someone. And yet, I live my life as if I were on the verge of some big break, as if I were on the threshold of fulfilling some great potential that will be both impressive to the layman and beneficial to the world for generations to come.

Beneficial is an entirely subjective term. Am I going to do something that benefits the world in its current manifestation (as my own finite mind understands it)? Or will I leave something that is more beneficial to future generations? Do great people think like this, or do they just get to work doing something they feel called to do, something they consider higher than themselves, and let the cards fall where they may?

Perhaps I've set my sights too high. No matter. I intend to die trying. Trying to do what? Apparently I'm not supposed to worry about it.

Remember who you wanted to be

Tom: So my plan was to write feverishly for the next two weeks. One week is already gone, and I feel I've done nothing.

Satan: Oh?

Tom: Yeah. It feels like I'm working on a thesis again, only this time it's worse because I don't have to finish anything: I don't have deadlines, I don't have to answer to a supervisor or a jury, etc.

Satan: Yeah but from another perspective, you absolutely must write. The stakes here are infinitely greater than for a mere master's thesis. Your self-worth is at stake. After all, what really differentiates you from the vast majority of people you encounter, individuals who seem to be leading lives of quiet desperation? Isn't failure a far better option than passivity? Don't you remember what Bukowski said about his father? That his father had told him that a man buys a house, then passes it on to his son, and then the son does the same, then his son does the same and so on, and that is how wealth (and prestige, self-worth, etc.) is eventually acquired.

Tom: Bukowski said something to the effect of, "Fuck that, I want a hundred houses RIGHT NOW."

Satan: Yes, something like that. You're not writing for riches or literary glory, not primarily at least. You're writing so you can live with yourself. Eating, shitting, sleeping, fucking, etc. are, unfortunately, not enough for you.

(Pause)

Tom: Yesterday I saw a bumper sticker that read, "Remember who you wanted to be."

Satan: Hmm, that must have brought it home a bit.

Tom: It did. I feel that one of the great themes of my life (it sounds so epic when I put it like that) has been to become a man of which my childhood self would have been proud.

Satan: And how's that workin' out for ya, champ?

Tom: Well, I'm writing now, aren't I?

Satan: An SOS file? Whats that?

Tom: Ah. Been sleazing around my yahoo mail again lately, have we?

Satan: Ahem.

Tom: Oh, sorry. I'm supposed to be flattered that you've been skulking about one of my inboxes. How vaginal.

Satan: (Silence)

Tom: Okay. The SOS file is a folder I made into which I plan to place video clips, bits of literature, inspiring JPEGs, etc. I think that might make me happy when I'm feeling particularly depressed.

Satan: Hahahahahaha! And you really think that's going to work! Ahahahahahaha!!!

Tom: Hey fool. I didn't choose this.

Satan: Ooooh, how profound.

Tom: Wow. You are a nasty one.

Satan: Thank you.

Tom: You're welcome. Dick.

Satan: Ass.

Satan: So you were out on a walk, which you undertook in an effort to stave off weight gain, and instead of walking to 30th as you'd intended, which in itself was less than you'd originally planned to do, you stopped short because your boxer shorts were in a twitch, one ear bud didn't work, you had a Katy Perry song stuck in your head, and you suddenly found that you were so hungry you were jittery.

Tom: Yeah, so?

Satan: Then you went to the liquor store and bought beer and booze. Instead of getting food. Or at the very least food and a bit of drink.

Tom: Well? I did what I did. And I tell you this, you horned fuck: After drinking two 7% beers on an empty stomach, I feel... better.

Satan: Yeah but is this how you really planned to start this blog up again? After such a hiatus?

Tom: Dude.

Satan: What?

Tom: You like, missed me, didn't you?

Satan: Shut the fuck up.

Tom: Ha-ha, you little bitch.

Satan: I'm going to align dark forces tomorrow such that you suffer an excruciating paper cut. To the balls.

Tom: God I'm almost interested to see how it happens.

Satan: Keep giggling, assface.

Tom: I was thinking, they should make a GTA-style game for PS2 where instead of taking over rival gangs you destroy credit card companies.

Satan: Whoa, whoa there Poindexter, too many acronyms.

Tom: GTA stands for Grand Theft Auto. PS2 is a Sony Playstation 2.

Satan: ?

Tom: Grand Theft Auto (GTA) is an award-winning video game series published by Rockstar Games. The gameplay consists of a mixture of action, adventure, and driving, as well as occasional role-playing, stealth, and racing elements. The games have been the subject of controversy due to their adult nature and violent themes. The games' stories focus on various protagonists who attempt to rise through the ranks of the criminal underworld.

Satan: Yeah yeah, I already knew that. What's your point?

Tom: The game basically boils down to a Super Mario Bros.-like series of obstacles the main character must overcome. Big whoop. The novelty of the series is that you get to rampage. Not only can you interact with the ambient elements of the game, but most of them can be destroyed or murdered in a variety of amusing ways.

Satan: And?

Tom: I want to rampage on credit card companies. I want a video game were I have limitless firepower and machinery at my disposal in my quest to wipe every physical trace of Visa off the fucking map.

Satan: Did you miss a payment again?

Tom: Yeah. And I got to find out what a Universal Default Rate is.

Satan: Ouch.

Tom: I wanna smoke and drink and not do work. But I don't think I should do any of those things.

Satan: Well, what do you think I'm gonna say?

Tom: Fuck.

Satan: Alright, let's take 'em one at a time. You shouldn't smoke because it hurts your lungs. You shouldn't drink because then you'll start having fun and won't work. Plus you're going to have drinks tonight too. Too much drinking is rough on your body. And not doing work will fuck you later on.

Tom: Well, don't I get to have ANY fun at all? Every time I look at the stuff I have to do I want to vomit. I feel like a kid throwing a hissy fit.

Satan: Sure. And it's understandable. You've had your nose to the grindstone for 6 months now. But once you finish this session you're done with classes. Just keep plodding forward.

Tom: I feel fat. I hate this lifestyle.

Satan: It's only temporary.

Tom: So should I just pig it up?

Satan: No. You already feel bloated. Just pick and choose your vices.

Tom: But that's extra thinking I don't really want to do.

Satan: Yeah.

Tom: This sucks, doesn't it?

Satan: Not more than most things.

Tom: Is there a failproof system of rewards I can bribe myself with?

Satan: Fuck, just do your work.

Tom: This is the first time you've failed me.

(Pause)

Satan: (Belch)

Tom: Wait, is that SCOTCH I smell?

Satan: YEP! (cough)

Tom: Don't blow cigarette smoke in my face!

Satan: FAK YOU!

Tom: You hypocritical ASSHOLE!

Satan: Haha! Now crack open them books and STUDY, bitch!

Tom: So if Bill Hicks says life is a ride, then all I have to do is enjoy it, right?

Satan: Sure, why not.

Tom: Hahahahahahahahahaha! I got it all figured out fucker! Hahahahaha! People will look back on this little blog-o retrospective and think, "Damn, that motherfucker was ON!"

Satan: What do you mean by that? Do you mean you think that other people will think that you were just writing for the fuck of it, that it didn't really make sense to do it but you said fuck it and did it anyways? Wow. You're a real hero.

Tom: Oh fuck you bitch. That's why you've always envied me. Because I can just lay back and roll.

Satan: The nex time you get high I'm going to make you think something is squeezing your heart like that scene in Exorcist II.

Tom: Awwwwwww sheeeit!

I get it. I understand why sports are so interesting to some people. Like guys who work together in an office. It's the ultimate neutral ground. The only time mostpeople can express a subjective opinion in the workplace is when discussing sports. As such, they filter a large portion of their personalities through "sports". Sports talk is passionate. Irrational. Witty and bitchy.

Fuck that. I see right through it. I don't "get" sports. Grown men swatting little balls does not constitute drama for me. I like playing sports. But they're just games.

Tom: I would rather have to write papers in French on the recent evolutionary developments of sexual morality as they're reflected in literature and have them graded at the mastter's level than work at West Coast Life Insurance. But it's not easy. Despite what my girlfriend thinks. And fuck you, Ray. It's not easy for anyone to put on a goddamn happy face and speak a foreign language to total strangers, just hoping that none of them see fit to rob you of your self-esteem as well as your wallet.

Satan: Good lord. Why don't you lighten up a bit? Puff a blunt, smoke a J... I know they have that shit in Montreal.

Tom: I'm starting to feel like I've been shut up inside a terrified litttle bubble for the last three weeks. Everything is so different. I mean shit, I speak French bu there's a totally different accent here! It's like fucking Amercian English vs. British English and I can hardly even understand what THOSE fucks are saying! I can see people notice notice my temporary social retardation, but they don't really seem to care for the most part.

Satan: So why should you?

Tom: I'm FINE motherfucker!

Satan: Not as fine as a lot of the chicks here. Hoo boy. They speak French too you know.

Tom: Oh fuck off.

Satan: Do you think you've been in school for too long? Have you been fully indoctrinated now?

Tom: Whatever, man. Like I said, it beats the life insurance industry.

Satan: But you're still a company man to the bitter end.

Tom: Why don't you go suck your own dick or something? I'll bet you can do that.

Tom: I climbed a hill today and sat in the clouds.

Satan: That's nice.

Tom: I have that scary/exhilarating feeling of freedom, total freedom, like I know my place as a tiny little speck in the universe but I have my will and as such I set plans into motion and now those plans are coming to fruition and once again I'm going off on an adventure to somewhere I've never been before and I'm not really just a piece of shit office grunt...

Satan: Wow. Go easy there tiger, you're foaming at the mouth.

Tom: It feels... healthy.

Tom: You drunk?

Satan: Yeah.

Tom: Good.

Satan: If you could have anything what would you want?

Tom: Well... everything I have right now.

Satan: Bullshit.

Tom: Really.

Satan: Okay.

Tom: I'm hiding out next weekend.

Satan: Why?

Tom: Because of the pride parade.

Satan: What's wrong with having a gay pride parade?

Tom: I'm not gay. I'm suspicious of any kind of "pride". And I fuckin hate parades.

Satan: So what are you going to do instead?

Tom: Close the shutters, drink beer, smoke, contemplate, play video games, write, clean, play with the cats, and talk on the phone.

Satan: That's so boring I'm speechless.

Tom: No it's not and you know it.

Tom: I have to get out of his country.

Satan: Why?

Tom: My tax money is being used to wage war in Iraq.

Satan: I see.

Tom: Yeah. If I leave the country, then none of the money I earn will buy bombs or bullets that kill Iraqi civilians.

Satan: Congratulations.

Tom: Complacent fuck.

Satan: Oh am I?

Tom: Well, um, I don't know. That's kind of why I brought the whole thing up. Am I being melodramatic? Is there something I'm missing?

Satan: What do you want from me? I'm the Lord of the Underworld. I thrive on this shit. I love death and destruction and charred corpses. I love seeing dead children. Chaos becomes me.

Tom: Well, I don't like it. I want people to be as happy as possible. I can't kid myself any longer. I'm sure every country has something shameful to hide, but my god, it's got to be less than what the American government perpetuates.

Satan: Well, what's the solution?

Tom: Ask countries to establish "aggression free zones"- designate areas that will donate no tax money to funding any military endeavors- recruitment, munitions, any kind of war contracting. How much would you bet that these areas are the safest in any country from terrorism? And maybe countries can use this in a big game of weapons non-proliferation.

Satan: No I mean what's your short-term solution?

Tom: I'm going to go to a country that doesn't contribute to the Iraq war.

Satan: As far as you know.

Tom: That's right fuckface.