Fail.

My beer with the lime in it just spilled over the bottle and onto the floor. I should clean the mess up but I know better than that.

Part of me is hoping I don't make it far enough into my lease to start caring. Sure moving out is great, because it feels like a new start. Yet, it isn't. There's no such thing as a new beginning. Not when eventually you're going to deal with all the same problems, and want to run away all over again.

You dream to become a moving target so the world can't ever hit you.

This is the right way to think I think.

But my typewriter is broken and the margins start going all over the place. Sort of like my life because there isn't an order to the chaos but such a beauty within it. Sort of like this writing I'm filtering out of myself. There's no meaning to it, but maybe a meaning to it. I mean even when your life seems in complete control, disorder still stalks and waits.

A knock at the door could be anyone.

But I leave the door closed.

And if they can hear my laughs then they can hear my thoughts.

I go by the name Ray though. Let me get that out there before the paper runs out of room, or I run out of patience. My job is somewhere between the crossroads of freelance writer, prophetic poet, film critic and worthless bug from societal purgatory.

The joke is how I write this stuff. I'm so disorganized with thought. Intellectualism is a wading pool with no diving.

You feel softly with your feet and wait for some kind of response or spark. Some kind of happiness.

Wait. Happiness? The more you learn the more it destroys you.

I watched documentaries on fast food, war, sex, composers, writers, poets, homeless people, and it all comes back to similar problems of rat races, luck, and hopefulness. The art of self-deception is a physiological want and need. We want to be so fine, oh so fine with ourselves, our lives and our purposes.

I saw a movie once where the whole purpose of a man's life was to sacrifice himself for the entire world. His reaction was one of joy. The carefree martyr because he believed there was a better place for him after this life, which is funny because this is the "better place".

This is the main character of every novel/TV show/film that we'd love to be part of. Where's my perfect body, hair, endurance, charm, and wit?

Somewhere in the pages of my own autobiography, where all the other crumpled pieces of paper are. You can't write your own life out. You can literally, I'm not stopping anyone, but have you ever noticed how you frame yourself?

The paradox is that since you're the protagonist you have to give yourself the same kind of treatment any other character gets.

Become Captain Ahab.

Become Rhett Butler.

Live through the eyes of Harry Potter.

The coquette Frog Prince.

This is who you aren't, whom you want to be, whom you lust for, whom you style your hair after, whose product endorsements you seek, whose meals you eat, whose fucking cat food you're going to buy because the damn TV character said to, yet you hate it and love it at the same time, and there's a wrongness here. A rightness too, and it bubbles and floods over like the beer bottle when it spilled over my floor. I didn't do anything to stop it. I just watched it until the stains formed.

This is the right way to think I think.


The telephone rang and I stopped my writing and answered it.

"Hello?"

"Hey its me, your sister. The one you never call."

"Oh yeah. What was your name again? Bitch or Whore?"

"Fuck you!"

"You must be whore because you're asking for incest."

"Look asshole, why the hell don't you call me?! Don't you care about me anymore?!"

"Care about the closed-minded dumbass you are? Or care about the co-dependant cunt you are for criticizing me?"

"Co-dependant?! Fuck you! I don't need you!"

"Yet you call and ask why I never call or want to talk to you. This is why."

"One of these days you're going to have to be different and change."

"Maybe you're the one who needs to change."

She hung up and I went back to the typewriter again.


Do you see what I just wrote? Prose after the fact. All fake except for the all the things I actually wanted to say. The real conversation was pretty much be backing down and saying I'm sorry, and using euphemisms to cover up myself and my dissatisfaction.

My sister just accuses me. I've misused her it seems, but I've never accused her since I became an adult. I could, but I don't see the point.

Passiveness, fear, or misconception of the human condition.

Sometimes you think you can read people, but you're reading the biography.

And she said some other things about how I was selfish. That I didn't try hard enough to help the rest of my family with their lives by calling them and asking them about their lives.

Because we're all so weak.

We want to be famous, oh god, we want to be famous.

Yet the only way is through hard work, or crime.

These margins won't put food on the table today, or ever, but the feel of the words and way they sound seems to be enough.

And I know the gist is that we live in an age where there are too many competitors. That greatness is greatness but only to some, lucky people.

My zodiac is the rabbit, but is that lucky enough?

Or is any form of spiritual tiding just used to tie us down and define us?

So the world can be understood through perceived stereotypes? And from them we shape our so called selves.

Originality died when the first human wrote a story.

When the first human thought "Why?"

When the first critic criticized.

This brings me to the final point of my incessant, out of control, ramblings.

I called this piece "fail" for a reason.

The idea is that if you give up enough. That if you shave the layers, and try to find your core and realize that's all there is,

Is when the world becomes meaningless, yet so full of clarity and meaning.

You want to be dematerialized like the kid in the Willy Wonka flick. As if the puzzle can be disassembled and put together in the right way.

And it can't.

But I've learned how to set myself up for falling down.

Even though it doesn't always work.

We get points for trying.

I may never sell a single page of paper.

Yet the words work harder than I do.

So maybe I'll get lucky.

Or fall apart so much that I distract myself from caring.