Monday, December 23, 2013


Melissa, fellow toiler at the Paragraph Factory, likes to insert songs into my head. Today's earworm was George Michael's "Faith," that relentless little ditty that contains a tuneful nugget of what I'm trying to do: pick my heart up off the floor.

It is hard to do.

This is Christmas week and I've affixed the permasmirk on my face. Some of the traditions of the past remain intact. I have purchased items that sparked inner whimsy and will hand them out accordingly to people who do likewise. C'mon, it's better than bubble wrap.

I have socialized, been seen in public, even dispensed and received Christmas hugs and kisses. rondavis is back, yo, all smartass and badass and shit. He and I agree that he's an improvement over the last version; that guy was so buggy he was incompatible with most of the popular apps and it eventually took a hard restart to download the new operating system and get it working on the old hardware.

I have become adept at the new me. Despite (or perhaps because of) my lack of a heart I am still popular with the cool kids. They want to hang with the homes, and so long as I remain cool and above it all I will be tolerated. I'm not looking for acceptance; I have learned from my mistake of believing the bullshit people tell me. Besides, buying into that hype only takes time from the work being done under the dome.

I'm trying to get closer to the core experience of whatever the hell this hell is all about. I'm here and I really can't figure out the why to that truth, but I have faith I will suss out the answer before long. The ninja within is quickly carving me closer to the truth. His knife twists and gouges like a motherfucking katana wielded by a speed freak more interested in pandemonium than precision. The wickersnick of the blade dazzles with its ability to leave me damaged and still standing. I admire the inner ninja. That fucker has mad mayhem skeels.

If I drank a lot I would live through these holidays in a piss-blind drunk, and I'd probably spend a lot of money on stitches and busted windows. Instead I draw closer to the ninja, watch him as he slices open another muscle, cuts through another tendon, gets closer to the core. The ones I love, the ones who love me, they see the distance in my eyes and figure I've checked into the Introspective Introvert Hotel, but I'm simply concentrating on the small man and his shiny knife. Damn, but he's tireless. After a couple years of gutting I thought he'd be done, but I was wrong. That bastard is just now getting down to serious bedlam. And me without proper anesthetic. But that's cool. I want to be wide awake for this one.

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