Boom! Boom! Boom! (You know what that sound is? Dan beating his head on the walls again?)

Poor walls.

Walls in my abode, walls in my mind, walls in my life. Endeavoring to carry out my bidding, to no avail.

All built to keep unwanted things out. Perhaps I mean, put out, as in a fire. Keep the light off the things I don’t care to have detected by my detractors. The darkness remains behind the walls. Only for a compendious moment.

AND DAMN THE DOORS!!! DAMN THE DOORS FOR SURMOUNTING THE WALLS. The doors, you see, will not acquiesce the walls to do their calling. Keeping the consternation at bay.

Do I keep having to tell you what a walls avocation is?! Keep..Things…Away.

DOORS!!! Preposterous things they are..

“Come in, come look at the wretched state this man is found!”, the doors seem to shout.

The voyeurs cast deceit in his face and scoff at his troubles.

The doors let them by, I tell you. The doors, are out, to get me…

Bolt them! Latch them! With 16 penny I shall harden them to their jambs… their hinges will seem frozen.. yet I hear them still,

“Come friend, open your door.. let us enter, that we should lend a hand!”

Mockers! All of them. Offer a hand indeed! Extend a hand as they run me asunder by foot! Trust them! They must think of me as a fool. I’d be better for offering my bare throat to their blades.

What’s that? A sweet voice!? Let me put my ear to the wall to hear her out..

“It must be terribly lonely in there…” she wooed me with her soft melody.

“See, I understand. I have been lonely too. Allow me to trespass, that we should bring each other conviviality..”

I will not stand here for this. The grain of the wood marking my forehead as I pressed against it, “I beseech you! Go from me, now!” I heard myself utter in a newly weakened and trembling voice, tears stained the wood.

“I know the yearning of your heart, beloved, let me tend to your soul.”

“All of my resolve, where has it gone?” I asked myself as I felt my fingers slowly twisting the knob of the door. I began to drift towards the now sullen, cloaked woman nearly effortlessly. Looking back towards that doorway only for a moment, just in time to watch my flesh fall to the ground…..

Pourquoi Nous ne Pouvons Pas Avoir De Belles Choses..

We

………wreck

……………….EVERYTHING!!

Whether by self-sabotaging, outside forces, wrong place at wrong time, or just casual wrecklessness.

Perhaps by design. After all there has to be a creative force, that willed us into existence, that drives this crazy car, called “Our Lives”. I could have wandered off into self will, and got into something that would have led me off my “designed (or intended) path”, so to speak. I supposed I’d rather have it taken from me, than me just being smitted, I guess.

Gross negligence is a recurrent cause. Keep forgetting to water that plant, it will soon wither away. Ignore your significant smother (misspelling intended), POOF!!!! That will go away too.

Buh-bye now!

I am not sure why I am so captivated by that disappearing hand..

Subconsciously, maybe we wanted it to go away, or to be just done with it. We did not feel deserving of it, or maybe, that the work was too damned hard to be worth the reward.

Even better, as my mom had me believing until I was old enough to stop believing in monsters, demons were to blame. They would step in to negatively impact God’s intent for a persons life, fighting for the greater evil. In retrospect, demons did make me do some baaaad things though… My parents believed that, once they found my copy of Mötley Crües Shout at the Devil album in my room. I was indeed possessed.

HIIIISSSSSSSSS!

Some like to believe in karmic fate. Some force in the universe that rights all wrongs. You hurt someone, so in turn, karma kicks your ass as payback. After all, Karma is a bitch. I think belief in karma, this mystical, imagined force that keeps the justice scales balanced, is puerile. Who made that shit up anyways!? So long as it makes you feel better.

Take that! Ya little terrorist shit!

I don’t know, there, perhaps are a few of the reasons that, as the title suggests, Why We Can’t Have Nice Things. But I am just spit-balling here…

How Do You Continue To Live, When All Is To Die.

It must really bother Aaron Lewis that he is back to almost bar like performances. That man’s got more talent in his pinky, than I got in my whole body. And he is back to where he started, almost. Yeah a whole lot richer, but still pandering to the same types of assholes in the crowd that love to get the attention on them and try to make you look like an ass. And he’s falling for it. I see him act like a child in front of an audience it disgusts me.

Ego is self-defeating. I see it around me all the time. Yet I cannot let go of my own ego. I fuck things up on a regular basis and then I stomp around like a fucking toddler. And all it takes is for me to be humble, understanding, and to see things from other people’s perspectives…

really.. just ..so very easy… DON’T BE A DICK.

Be vulnerable.

Which, of course means being open to being hurt.

Um… again? Excusez-moi? Pardon mademoiselle? Translated in English: Ummm.. pardon me, fuck you?

That shit never goes away. Memory of emotional pain always lies in wait, serving as a ominous warning or devious foreshadowing of some eminent foreboding danger.

“Don’t,” it hisses, “Recoil, run. Before it is too late, before it has its razor sharp claws embedded deep into your entrails, ravaging your insides, tearing your bowels apart. For it’s ultimate pupose, is only to shred through your lungs, stealing your every breath, so it can pulverize your still beating heart, and feel your life blood gushing out to warm it’s own lifeless fingers.”

It always seems to be much more readily available in my memories. The pain, the anguish. The times I have been mortally wounded by rejection, betrayal, deceit, or unkind words.

I have to struggle to remind myself of the few moments that I have truly experienced love. And in those moments, I remember how richly rewarded they had left me feeling. As if nothing in this life had really mattered before those moments. How ultimately contented, and completed I felt. And how, if I were to die in those moments, it would have been quite agreeable.

And yet, isn’t it ironic, how pain can make you feel exactly, the same way?

So how exactly does one….. well you know.. do that?

Hey There, Village Idiot Checking In.

I am Dan.

Slow to learn, long to struggle. I have nary a desire to continue struggling through one idiotic decision after another. Have you ever imagined what it would look like, trying to parent yourself?

Planning, lack of planning, gross misjudgment and intentional, outright defiance is what lights my twisted path through life.

I’m a comedian, a joker, or rather, I AM ….the “Grasshopper”. As in the Fable of the Ant and the Grasshopper, by Aesop. Strolling through life, not even once planning the future.

I am an extremist. Thank goodness I have not been approached by the Taliban. I’d get all jihadist on ya’lls asses! Can you see me in their customary dress and a suicide vest?

Perhaps my calling… nah!! I’m too pretty to splatter-paint a building or bus with my entrails (I’m really trying to convince myself of that). I still believe I will meet my end, slipping in a shower, while alone. Not a magestic end, to an epic life (trying to believe that as well). Not a fear, a hunch.

Jumping before looking, never sticking my toe in to test the water. So lessons never learned. Carrying the pain and hurts of previous failures doesn’t even serve as a lesson. I may as well have my mind erased. Pain is supposed to teach us… even the simple minded learn not to put their hand on a hot burner. I’ve managed to turn carpe diem into crapped and peed them, my drawers, and well life, bank account, mind.. etcetera.

Perfect illustration of my life would be as follows…

“That fucking brick wall is in my way! I know, I will….RAM. IT. DOWN!!”

Assuming the sprinters take-off position…”Think positive, positive thoughts… you got this! Ok mutherfucker, You got this!!” I tell myself.

As I slap my self about the face i chant to myself, “Mind over matter. Full speed…Take that wall down…GOOOOOO!”

Full speed and almost to the wall, I lead with my head..

BAAAMMMM!!!!

Several hours later, I wake up disoriented, dizzy and bloody. Having no idea how I got here, I only know I need to get somewhere. Taking in my environment, surmising my situation (all the while, not even a bit concerned with the fact that I do not even recall my own name), while holding my throbbing head between my palms..

That fucking brick wall is in my way! I know..”

Oh dear God, someone call for a ambulance and a straight jacket.

Over the past four decades, it seems my conscious self, my subconscious self, my moral self, and my physical self have all been involved in some sort of bizarre melee. AGAINST, MYSELF.

And every single one of these pricks are Irish. Stupid, belligerent, stubborn drunks.

And guess who is getting his ass kicked tonight?

And yet, I keep going

20 buck says that Irish prick in the wheelchair hits a wall.

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