My Love My Life

I started visiting Madame Maureen about two weeks ago; I liked the company and I think she did too. In that sense we were a lot alike, both lonely and in desperate need of some comfort. She was alone with her sooth sayings as I am alone with my thoughts; both detrimental to ones health. When we talked, occasionally, we talked about this: Thinking and Divining. I really enjoyed our encounters, but I never got the chance to tell her that. I guess I'm too bitter and introverted to express my feelings. She never knew this about me, because she made me feel contrary to my true colors. Madame Maureen died, I guess she read her last palm--mine. She had been complaining about her breathing for three days and I had noticed the problem for longer. My initial diagnosis was Lower Respiratory Tract Infection, but she said other wise. I laughed at the humor, a soothsayer arguing with an ex-doctor, two people you generally don't argue with. We agreed to disagree. But to strengthen my argument, I proposed an idea for her to read my palm and we see if my fate is true. She initially refused, telling me that it would hurt her, and that fate is a dangerous thing, but I soon convinced her. The next day she was dead. I came by to visit but the police were there instead. They told me she was in the hospital. My heart raced, and my capillaries in my eye increased blood flow. I ran to Beatrice's Suit Store and grabbed the most handsome suit, flowers, shoes, and cologne I could find. I was left empty, not myself, just an unoccupied body with too much cologne, useless flowers, and a dark suit. Maureen just lied there motionless, dead, gone. She told me it would hurt her, I didn't listen, I persisted. That night I lied in my cardboard bed and thought. Her voice echoed in my ears, "Ah your life line is short, I guess your thoughts and sadness are going to get the best of you Ronald." She won the argument, for my fate was fulfilled. I finally thought the last thought and blew out the last candle. See you soon Madame. See you soon. 

Fanny Mae

It was the first time I had been attracted since before the war. She reminded me of Helen. The way she flung her beautiful and springy curls over her shoulder. The way she smiled, exposing her bright and flawlessly aligned teeth. I became a victim of infatuation very quickly. She looked wounded, both internally and externally. The skin on her wrist was a dark purple and her cheeks were blood red. Scars ran up the front of her legs, varying in size, form, and color. Eyes and head focused down on her feet. Tears began to form in the corner of her eye, flowing and eventually dropping on to the floor beneath. She looked up at me in desperation, she looked up at me in agony, she looked up and smiled. I can't remember the last time someone smiled at me. Her plush lips cracked, uncovering her rejuvenating smile. I smiled back, hoping that I would get a chance to taste those wet lips. A chance to tussle tongues with this immaculate being. As I thought this, she approached me, hand extended and said, "Hi, ma name is Fanny Mae, who are you?" All I could muster was an ugly broken and suppressed smile and the word, "Ronald," in a severely cracked voice. 

She comforted me by saying, don't worry about your voice being cracked, it beats the hell out of a cracked life." She vocalized my thought. Did she know what I was thinking? With her eyes alone she could move the stone in front of the tomb. Those eyes remained in my mind until I finally went to sleep feeling satisfied, with a huge grin on my face.

Walk, Talk, and One Smoking Barrel

A sweat bead trickled down my forehead and into my eye. I still couldn't blink. My eyes were wide open staring at the chrome Browning Hi Power which was aimed directly at my face. Each breath felt like it lasted for hours. His last words rang and my ear: "You goddamn dirty sewer mongrel. How dare you harm Impala." I abhorred the way he referred to his car by its model, such southern ignorance irked me. His index finger straightened then curled to fit the trigger snugly. My sweat beads multiplied exponentially. I shut my eyes as tight as I could, but the silver snout of the pistol had a lasting impression in my brain. Another sweat bead crawled down my cheek; or another tear rather. I shut my eyes so tight I thought my ocular bones would break. I let loose another tear and just wished someone would take the gun from him. My thoughts were then interrupted by the gun shot. "The asshole actually pulled the trigger," I thought. Opening my eyes I saw Walt Komanski lying on his back clutching his bloody hand. Well I say hand, but their was more blood to clutch than there was hand. Even his pistol's freshly polished chrome was tainted a burgundy red. Keeping my dumbfounded expression, I fled the scene, trying to rid myself of flashbacks from Vietnam. The blood stayed in my thoughts from morning, noon, night, to insomnia. Ahhh, when will my sleepless cycle end? But more importantly how do these coincidences keep on happening?

Bullet

My anger brewed like a boiling pot of Ecuadorian coffee roast. Each word he uttered pushed me into a deeper state of abhoration. I just wished I had a gun to finish him off once and for all to rid me of his conceited aura. His lonely and pompous persona just irked me. We are similar in that respect; both chastised by, and isolated because of, our arrogance. He did it for self-dignity, not because "the economy is in shambles" as he said and as a result my free ointment was no longer free. We engaged in a debate of wit, in which I attempted to alter his course of entrepanuery. My negotiations and attempts to gain free fish scrap were in vain. That is until a bullet protruded through his vein. Instantly he dropped to the floor clutching his calf muscle. I could tell he busted his perforators, but I withheld that information. As he rolled around in agony, I bathed in elation, as I slyly and easily grabbed my free fish scrap and ventured back to my sewer. The day was exhausting, and I was parched. Each time I readjusted my mandible (jaw bone) my tongue would scrape across the dry roof of my mouth, creating a noise similar to when you sand away at wood. I squeezed my mouth desperately attempting to wring out the last remnants of saliva left in my oral cavity. None came out. I stared at the water pipes lining my sewer thinking of how I could penetrate the steel piping in order to delve into the luscious and revitalizing liquid encased in the pipe. Simultaneous to my thoughts, the pipe burst open spraying water everywhere. I stood in utter silence, allowing the semi-powerful stream of water beat upon my chest, realizing the eerie coincident of thought that occurred today. I got Donald shot and busted a pipe; my thoughts were interrupted by the road work crew who came down to fix the leak.

Cold Sore

I have licked my lips so many times that they are slowly abrading. My once blood-luscious lips have been transformed into a coarse pair of kissers, accompanied by a conspicuous cold sore that lingers on the lop left corner of my mouth. Cold sores or Herpes simplex are most commonly considered remediable, this is true. However, if this common viral infection is not remedied or treated with standard hygiene, it becomes highly invasive and converts its symptoms to those identical to herpetic whitlow, a sickening disease where the virus spreads inter-histogically until it takes up an immense portion of ones epithelial tissue; creating distasteful bumps to sprout up allover. If I want to befriend, kill, and eat Felix, I can't have these despicable sores all over my body. This is why I must go into the city today, to get an antidote for this horrid infection.

Most people are manipulated by advertisements to buy defunct consumer products that claim to alleviate cold sore symptoms quickly. These advertisement claims are only partly true. They do alleviate cold sore symptoms, but not quickly. The most efficient cure for herpes is eicosapentaenoic acid, a common acid found in pretty much any non-tetrapod chordate. This acid is found in fish oils and significantly reduces superficial tissue inflammation. Fish scrap is free at pretty much any fish market whereas typical cold sore remedies are priced anywhere from $6-$30. For parsimonious and intelligent individuals like myself the free choice is far superior. So I have decided to abandon my home temporarily to visit the local market. The one problem with getting fish scrap in this city is that you have to interact with Donald James, the most miserable and bitchy fish sales man ever to touch foot on this God-forsaken earth. But even he is not as annoying as these bloody sirens which have been going off all day, creating a deafening cacophony even I can't ignore. Well off to the market I go.

Insomnia

You would be amazed at how alert you can be without sleep. The first day is hell, your brain is processing at full speed, but the remainder of your organs seem to lag behind a few seconds. You stare at something but fail to comprehend what it is you are staring at. Because of this I had not eaten the first few days of my sleepless cycle. When I tried to stalk my scat covered, furry, rodent prey, he scurried away before I processed the thought of catching him.
This is my fifth straight day without sleep. Or maybe my sixth, I can't remember. When you live in a sewer long enough you begin to adapt a slight brain hiccup due to the dark cloud of methane that you inhale with each breath. People often wonder why I choose to live in such harsh conditions and why I let methane gradually decimate my neurological connections. I usually respond by conveying the fact that methane is the least of my worries; my thoughts are most cruel to my body. Johnathan Swift once stated, "Of all life's dangers, I find my thoughts to be the most hazardous." My thoughts are responsible for my insomnia, my antisocial personality disorder, and they are the sole reason that I am living in this sewer. But I can't rid myself from them. I am like a parent of an infant who is constantly irked by the child's untactful commands and unnecessary din but is attached to the kid and can't repel the non diminishing agitation. My thoughts are like an addiction--or an invasive disease or rather like wisteria that never ceases to subjugate until it has devoured my whole life. And it has started by taking away what I covet most in my shit-filled life (no pun intended)---SLEEP!
I need food and sleep. I haven't seen my furry friends in almost a week. I haven't heard the dreadful cacophony they create with their tiny mouths, nor have I smelt the horrid stench they let out from bathing in feces. For this reason, I decided to travel down the west tunnel, to find some food. Bringing only my stool boots, and striking rock I set out on my adventure to find the despicable sewer creatures. It only took me 350 yards to find my prey. Under the first man hole on Rouse Blv. I found my creature. He wasn't as hairy as my normal prey, nor did he possess the same stature. He was taller and stood erect rather than on all fours. He walked with more of a smooth stroll rather than the usual repulsive scurry of my former prey. I licked my lips anticipating the soft tender skin and incredible taste of my new entree. With each stroke of my tongue, I thought of the satisfaction and nourishment he would bring me. The very thought of the pabulum elated me. But I would have to devise a strategy in order to catch this cunning beast. Sun Tzu once said, "If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles." Therefore I must befriend Felix, my fellow sewer dweller, in order to kill him.

The Wind

I hate the wind. Well I hate a lot of things, most of all I hate my life. The way the wind blows down the narrow passages of the sewer wafting a diaphanous cloud of stale fecal matter that beats down on my face cooling me and disgusting me at the same time. I hate the wind because it's cold, such as life. Well that's why I live in the sewer. I shelter myself from the other feeble minded residents of -- that are blinded by the false assumption that their lives are actually of value. My problem with them is that their heads are stuck so far down their asses that they don't see all the shit they are living in. I say this not being condescending considering I live in a sewer, but rather to explain that I see "the shit" (literally and figuratively). And I smell it because of the damn wind. How I hate the wind.