Broken Promises

Preposterous. This describes the recent transpirings in my life and this world we live in.  We sit upon the precipice of truth.  We are described as living in post-truth - in fact, the truth is out there now.  These promises our country is built upon were not broken, they were false all along.

The week brings me work.  It should not.  The week was supposed to be a week of nothingness, just me in my hovel, kept warm by candlelight, with nary a snotty nose nearby to harass me.  Instead, the children and I will sit together for the week bombarded by ticking clocks and waiting for a bell so we can leave and go home.

The holiday season is one to be spent with family.  I have none but you, dear readers.  I am utterly alone, the Grimm clan having suspended such silly gatherings upon their death.  I remember none of them - the orphanage had no budget for photographs.

In equity we stand.  We are making America Great Again - we are not.  America has never been great.  I stand here, a white male, the love of Jesus burning in my heart, and I say America has never been great.  A great unfinished symphony, as a Hispanic gentleman once said.  There is no greatness here, only a level of mediocrity above the world around us.  People have been able to eat meat every night and drink clean water (unless you live in Flint), and for this we believe we are great.

No, there was no true promise.  The lens of the past is focused as never before.  We are a country built on the backs of indentured servitude and subjugation.  We foolishly fought a battle to maintain economic strength and forgave those who began it.  And we suffer still from that.  Oh, we were poised to finally reach a point where the promises did not ring false - but it is over now.

Oh, I will be fine.  I am white, straight, you see.  There is nothing that will touch me so long as I stay solvent - of course, my crime of lack of money may catch me, yet.  But no matter.

It is a dark time, yes.  It is dark and cold and the future seems bleak.  We are entering post-apocalyptica.

Today

Today is rainy, it drips from the sky. When I awoke at 4am for my usual scream I thought my upstairs neighbor was showering. But, it was the rain. I returned to slumber.

I never shower. It is a terrible waste of resources. Baths, too, waste - and are disgusting. Despite the use of a bottle brush in such maneuvers, the promise of cleanliness post-defecation is often broken. That is what you sit in, in a bath tub.

I use my bathtub for gin, like a normal person.

I mayhap have a tale to tell you later this week. Or I will shrink back into the electronic wilderness for an untold length of time once more.

Ads

I have taken the precaution of placing ads around the site. The reason is two-fold: First, I want your money. Or someone's money. If there is money, and it is not mine, I would like it to be.

Second, and most important, I hate people. Even the idea of congregating together amidst the electronic ether of the Interweb fills me with shame that I might brush the anbaric skin of another human being. From what I understand, the normies find advertisements abhorrent.

Job. Done.

Fools

Listen, you fools, and heed me well. Your insipid "blog" ramblings are sticking in my craw. I find one egregious ostentatious addition trite and, well, un-needed. This addition of which I speak is, well, easy to find. Chances are that any want-to-be snarker scrambling for clevertude will use the word "well," well, as some sort of comma splice instigator.

There is really no need for it. If you write a sentence and feel compelled to sound clever by, well, using the word "well" you need to read it without it. Chances are it sounds, well, a lot better without it. You may not notice but that is because you are a, well, moron.

Poetry

I have posted a selection from my little book of poetry entitled "You Are an Awful Child and Your Parents Do Not Care For Your Company." It is my way of answering to the accusations of my troubled childhood.

My brother. This reminds me of him.

The wind still carries the gentle scent of Melinda to my door. I stand and swear I smell her perfume mixed with the decaying leaves in the backyard trash heap. I recall she wore it upon her wrists, so perhaps this is "poetic justice."

Detest

You child, you there, you stop your sniveling whine,

If I wanted to give you oranges, twould be only the rinds.

Your tears upset me not because of your pain

but because they produce painful pricks in my brain.

You come into the room with lamentations for me

Assaulting my nostrils with your odor of pee?

I've my globe bar to polish, please do go away

My regret in knowing you grows with each day.

Elucidate

I think its time to say a little something else about some things that have turned up in the electronic ether here on Mental Vomit. They are two short stories hand-crafted by the Gods and transmitted via my fingers.

The first is okay. The second is terrible.

Do not judge them as you haven't the capacity to tangle with my genius.

There is no news from Melinda, just the gentle rustle of decaying leaves.