I wake up. Tonight is the night.

It's been happening now, for decades (even though I've only been alive for less than two halves of one). I remember waking up on this night seventeen-hundred nights ago, when I was still an embryo of an embryo. I remember the feel of my eyes opening and me seeing everything—I remember being in awe of how small the world really was. When had it become so much less? Had I stuck it unknowingly into the dryer of my supposed sanity, let it shrink under the pressure and heat of reason, of logic and science and 'of course Santa Clause isn't real! look at the proof!' ?

Maybe I've become a cynic. Either that or I'm very nearly there. It takes only one step to cross a line, but the difference is a universe, an entirely strange voice in the new voice-box, entirely different strings pulling the chords. An entirely new song.

I'm not sure if I like this melody better. Perhaps my child knew more than my adult. I think I'm losing as I grow…but shouldn't it be the other way around? Or has everything I've ever been taught about maturity and wisdom been a lie, too? Are we growing upside-down, into the ground? The ground's the limit?

Maybe I'm questioning myself, society, too much. I can't be sure which are my questions and which ones are someone else's snuck into my brain. They're trying to trick me, I know it. But how can I tell it?

I'm not a good story-teller. If you told me to tell you my life-story, the best I'd come up with would be: "I lived. I ate. I slept. I breathed. I excreted waste. Once in a while I cried and screamed."

I forget all the important stuff and insert the useless stuff. That's the whole of society. We try to drown out all the truths with stuff that sounds like truths but are really only parts of truths and mostly lies dressed up in Halloween costumes. Usually it works; it's not that hard to fool. You shouldn't feel so clever, yourself.

But here it is, tonight. I can feel the night—it's telling me the time. Nine 'o clock past, ten, eleven, three, (skip four to five), seven. And back to three again. Time jumps around as it pleases – we have to do our best to follow it. A lot of us are left behind in the dust trails, trying to sort out the footsteps, the fingerprints and the clues, being fool detectives who know absolutely nothing. We say we concur, but to what? We put on airs, to make us feel good.

That's what it's all about. The feel-good. The instantaneous bliss (the steam of instant ramen blowing in your face! it takes only a minute to boil the water, a man-made miracle); the euphoria of a moment that lasts as long as we pretend, as long as we're high or drunk or stoned. How to obtain more, more, more feel-good! Happiness! Success! Money! Fame! Me, myself, and I.

The beautiful list of things to fulfill in life.




It's for those three. Family? Who? Friends. Oh, hi. I remember you from that one time.

…Come again?

You're a stranger; get out of my face. I'll call the cops! Slam the door. A nice sound, with a certain crispness to it. You get addicted to it, to the exhilarating slamming of the door in that ugly face, in the look, in the feeling. In the smile that crawls on your lips, the scrumptious smile that tastes like the sweet lingering syrup of peach pie captured in the corners of your summer-kissed lips. You can't let go of it.

It gets to me more often than I'd like to admit; I've smiled the smile more times than you'd think from the wrinkles on my smooth face. Botox erases the blemishes, buries the secrets beneath fish scales and whale blubber. A treatment costs a hundred a pore, but damn if it's worth it!

Soon the morning will come and we'll be zoom-zooming in our cars to work where the affair with the secretary is ready to be resumed, and the backstabbing waits patiently for the handler to seek the double-bladed knife, dipped in exquisite clear poison. The strong black coffee that purges us of the guilt from yester-night with its bitter-sweet steam—blessed coffee! What would we do without it? It does more than rejuvenate, so much more.

I can smell the vapors.

Tonight's the night, I tell myself. But will I listen?


This is what I call genuine spam. Things of the mind that make no sense. But it sure was great fun to write.