A year ago when I got my wisdom teeth pulled, I used the notes application on my iPhone to communicate with the person who took me to and from the surgeon that pulled my teeth, because I had a mouth full of cotton and my words wouldn’t have made sense anyways. I recently discovered my forgotten communiques, and I offer them up to the internets for your enjoyment. Keep in mind that this is only one side of the conversation.

The problem is that I can’t even feel my tongue

Any paperwork issues?

Thanks for this

That was about an hour yeah?

Cool. I’ve already seen the good the bad the ugly, but thanks.

So, I don’t know about this whole x house thing. That was just the first couch I could think of.

That’s enough time to launch an invasion into Russia.

My mouth is so dry. 

Make sure it’s okay with the guys, cause I didn’t really ask.

We

We, the people.

We, the bastard childs of corporate monopoly and astride an invasive greed – which has invaded every level of our political infrastructure.

And yet our minds are still awake.

Our souls remember the struggles of our ancestors, and their fight for a nation without oppression of any form.

We, as a people – if we ever hope to maintain our domestic tranquility (in where it does exist) – need to resist the overpowering temptation of money.

Thought of the week.

yay bday

I have become charbroiled.

Like a steak having been marinating in an oven, I have been sitting for three hours in my own juices. Sweat, piss, and semen.

The birthday of the U.S. Army was today. A Sunday.

Other soldiers in other units might have been taking a ceremonious night out on the town to celebrate.

I was sitting in the back of a Bradley armored personnel carrier, pissing into an empty Gatorade bottle, and jacking off into a baby wipe.

Go Army.

IT.

Thud, honk, beep, gong. IT’s the beat of the drum. It’s the tick of the clock. It’s the cockin’ back of the glock.

Boom, bang, fire, shoot. It’s the whistling’ of the mortar. It’s the kick of the rifle. It’s the PING that signifies contact with the target made of three brass bars, and the scream that comes after.

Tick, Tock, Flash, Ring. It’s the typing on the keyboard. It’s the thunderous boom of the lightning. It’s the tears of terror falling into a pool of alluring mist on an Alfred Hitchcock movie that’s so frightening. The human race is obsessed with it. It is something that we can not control. It is something that we can not smell, feel, or taste. We can only see it or hear it. The changeover from red to green on a stoplight, the proclamation of acceptance of a product on a barcode scanner, this it the phenomenon that we know of as the beating heart of life.

Mother Nature, Jack Frost, and Fther Time. These are all examples of our obsession with it. Why are we so obsessed with something that we have no control over? The truth tis that our obsession exists as simply nothing more than a fear.

Knowing this, it is obvious as to the reason of why. If one was to pick up a health text book in a modern day health class, then they could easily find where the book says that one of the most common fears in life is the fear of the unknown.

This fear, however, differs from the fear of the unkown. We know what we are obsessed with is. It is it. We know it exists. The only thing that we do not know is when it will happen.

Some may notice that “when it will” is the future tense of happens, and that “when is does” is the present tense of happen. This brings a conclusion onto the fact that we are not really afraid of this beating heart when it is beating, but we are afraid of the fact that we can not determine when it will next have beaten.

It is what? The beating hear of life. It is when? Just time for someone to wake up to the sound of their alarm clock. It is whop? The man, constantly lurking in the shadows, that steps in the puddle. It is where? On the banks of the coast of Normandy, where the machine guns constantly howl for freedom.

It is why? For variety, for sameness, for music. If we as a species lived in a world where the beat was the same, where we were in control, would that really be as good of a world as we live now? Would you still hold that opinion if you were to travel to Darfur?

We know so much about it, yet it is still a mystery. We can always wonder about it, but in the end, all we really will conclude to, is the fact that it does happen.

Thud Honk. Beep. Gong. Hault. Boom. Bang. Fire. Shoot. Screech. Tick, Tock. Flash… Ring.

Another Poem? Who is this guy, Pelmini?

By the way, there was never any poet named Pelmini. A pelmini is a type of dumpling that comes from Russia and other parts of Europe and Asia. They have meat inside of them and they are delicious. This is another poem. Enjoy.

ANTHROMORPHISIM IN MY UNDERWEAR

Elephants, aardvarks, and artichokes
Three things that are completely misunderstood
In this world verging on the brink of collapse

find me

Singing unbroken verse
In an unbroken world
into the dark of the night.

Borders breaking down
And the people screaming out

I wanna be free!

I wanna shut down the man, shut down the system
and just blend into the verse.

A Change of Heart

As recently as yesterday, I was wallowing in my depression.

I know, you’re an asshole and you don’t want to hear about my problems. Well, I’m not talking about my problems here, am I you orange-cockdick-palm-oil-loving, hypocritical cunt?

Sorry for that outburst. Seriously, it’s people like you who make me think there is no hope for the world. And now I’m one of you. I hate myself, because I am you, and I hate you.

And I have decided that this is enough of that. Enough of that miserable depressed bullshit. I was of the mindset that I was going to leave politics forever, because it was politics that made me so depressed.

Then I was listening to the song “SMILE,” by K’naan yesterday while I was driving home on the freeway and I had a good long listen to the lyrics. Whereas before I had been hearing the lyrics about how life is all just violence and terror, I had never really been hearing the main idea of that song. The crux of it.

The idea of that song is basically JUST SMILE. No matter what is happening. I don’t think I ever knew really what that meant when I first heard the song when it came out. But now, I think I do.

I think I’m going to go back to university and back into political science because I want to help change the world. That’s the reason why I declared as a Political Science student in my Freshman year, and as a member of the program in my Sophomore year. I wanted to help change the world. Only now, after having sunk down the hole, I know that I will never give up until I get that degree. I will never give up until I am digging toilets with my own two hands for villages that need them, until I am getting a traffic light built in an area that needs it, until I am taking big money out of politics, until I am myself standing in the capitol building talking for twelve hours about drones.

That still doesn’t stop me from being a lazy fuck. I just hope that I never have to go back on my principles.

My Neck

ANOTHER POEM? WTF!

Yes, this is another poem. My head is chalk-full of these fucking poems. They’re all up in there like gray matter and fatty acids. So, here you go. See if you can figure out what kind of animal I am!

(You fucking hipsters. You’re hopeless…)

MY NECK

My neck, my neck!
Can you even believe
what’s happened to my neck?

MY NECK!

All for the sake fuck’s sake,
of reaching beyond the break,
curling my ambition to reach great
throws of fortunes locked and crate.

Before the apples fall
before the dew rises
before the coons chew
through orange and plum –

I spread my mind
across vast distances.

Come to me, Come to me!
Oh sweet nectars!
Come to me, Come to me!
So that I might once more bask
in the glory of your sucrose.

After the apples fell
After the dew rises
After the coons doth chewn
through orange and plum –

Get away, get away!
You miserable beasts of the night!
Get away, get away!
Before I [expletive]

If my name weren’t Spot,
and I wasn’t Spotty,
I’d swear my name was Harold,
Because I think I’m onto something.

Let’s get back to my neck
because I’m really quite the
narcisist.

My neck, my neck!
Can you even believe
what’s happened to my neck?

It’s grown oh so much
my God it’s grown
I don’t know what to do
about my motherfucking neck
It’s grown.

As if overnight.
Shit.
It WAS overnight.

Am I any worse for the wear?

Am I the song of all time,
for an infinity exists within the distance,
between my face and my spine?

My one hope,
beyond the inklings of desperation,
is that the light at the end of my neck
isn’t a train.

Hermititude

The dog’s licking his balls again. Well, he’s been fixed for quite some time so I have no idea what he’s doing down there – but it annoys the hell out of me. Lot’s of things annoy me these days.

My family annoys me. My friends annoy me. My country annoys me. This entire fucking planet annoys me. I have lost my faith in humanity.

Being a DC insider has made me understand time and again that there is no place in the world for wishful thinking. Idealists get shot. Or drawn and quartered in front of the entire world on live 24-hour news coverage.

The cycle repeats itself over and over and over again. Good people sometimes come, they give us hope, but then you see them for who they really are. Behind the 6 centimeter thick blue curtains of the press room, oozes a culture of corruption and greed and general devilishness.

I hate it.

So I have retreated to a place far into the woods where no one can find me. I have severed all of my ties to the outside world but a precious few and, of course, those that cannot be severed by distance.

I have removed all of the distractions of what is “important” for others and have decided to focus on myself and my own well being. But my ghosts still haunt me. I think, above all of the disdain that I have for this world, the worst of my dissatisfaction is in my own self. I think I hate myself. I’m not sure though.

I know the dog doesn’t like me. Every time I walk up to it, it gets that look of fear in its eyes. Or maybe it’s pity. I don’t know.

To justify their immoral actions, smart people find reasons that were never there to begin with. Nobody is the wiser, and in fact those around them will extole them for their genius. Only you, and it eats away at your soul like acid rain.

I think I’m rancid. On the inside, of course. Not the out.

On the outside, I’m still a dashing handsome narsicistic political analyst and creative humorist.

Have you ever…?

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Plead the Fifth.”

WordPress.com has asked me to add my thoughts to an ever-growing, ever-expanding cauldron of oozing discontent and hatred. The witch’s brew has boiled over. I am inclined to share my thoughts, in my most cynical manner. The question set before me is this: What question do you hate being asked?

It is a simple question. And an honest one. It carries with it all the years of hard-hitting truths that have been heaved upon the human collective consciousness over the past three centuries like bricks upon the sandbags of our identities. Insecurities abound.

Yet the manner in which I approach my sectors of thought is not easy. The road to understanding is fraught with peril and woe. Distant memories… of a life long past, haunt my aching bones. Or, at least, I hope it’s long behind me. For I have yet to live through half the memories that I dare dream.

A decent enough segue.

I am horrified by the thought of having to prove myself to a world that does not understand me. For once in my life, I’d like to do the things I do for the desire that I have in my heart. Not for the cameras that constantly monitor me from the atmos. Not for the approvals of my father or mother or siblings. Not for the pissing contest of life, or to prove that my dick is indeed the longest in existence.

My penis is just fine the way that it is.

I am content with myself being a strange, manically obsessive indecisive and straight-forward person with absolutely nothing to prove to anyone. Perhaps it is due to my insanity that I do not need the praise, the spotlight, the popularity.

Human beings are like giant balls of ego. Their pride is a sickness that will drive them all into the ground. Not me. I was proud once. Until I met this girl. She pointed some things out to me. She broke my shell. I changed.

When I walk into a cafe to order a drink and I’m still dressed in my ACU’s, please don’t thank me for my fucking service. Please don’t ask me where I’ve been. Please don’t ask me what I’ve done. My answer to you is the same as when I answer everyone else: I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not you, I promise. It’s me.

It’s me, because I have become jaded and cynical. I have begun to think that everyone I meet is a threat to me or my way of life. Everyone dies eventually.

I eat popcorn and watch movies. I eat pizza and attempt to get a few more chapters of my novel done. I call up my contacts in Whitehall and ask them to fill me in. They tell me to fuck off. This is my life.

I can’t imagine where it was that I flipped the rails. Where it was that my train came to a screeching halt and why I’m no longer working from a computer at my university, but from a computer… that I’ve never seen before.

So… Don’t ask me anything when you see me.

I’ve got nothing to show for it, anyways. I’m a failure. A miserable failure who masquerades himself as a death-dealer. In fact, I’m not even sure what I’m good at right now. So, the three words that you should always avoid when it comes to polite conversation with me.

“Have you ever…?”

Because my answer will always be the same.

“No. Fuck off.”

So I applied to this gig…

I recently applied to be a guest writer for the website Men Style Fashion. Guess what? They said yes. The following is the letter that I used to apply to the website. Perhaps this can be a source of inspiration to those of you out there feeling like you’re in the dumps.

Subject: Guest Writer

Message Body:
Salutations,

WHY I’M CONTACTING YOU: I’ve been following MEN STYLE FASHION for over a year. I love the amazing material that you’re able to come up with. I want to contribute to your website as a writer.

MY WRITING: I am an amazing writer. The only reason that I know that is that other people tell me that I have a way with words. I used to think that my writing was shit. But the masses seem to have amassed their eyeballs wriggling in their sockets like drug addicts upon my words. In my own way, I have also fallen victim to the narcotic that is my work. Not that I have fallen in love with my own work, neigh, I have fallen in love with the genuine joy that I am able to give others. I love seeing people’s faces light up with glee as I recite to them my short stories, my poems, my articles, my book chapters. I want to write for the rest of my life. I love writing. I’m in love with the processes of coming up with new material. I’m in love with the late nights, the cheap coffee, and the solid desk that – on the advise of Douglas Adams – doesn’t collapse when I beat my head against it looking for ideas.

My style: When I was in the eighth grade, I stole a copy of Playboy Magazine from my sister. It was one of the most important events of my development as a man. Not only did I experience the beauty and wonderment of seeing beautiful naked women for the first time in my life – but I was extremely surprised to discover that the majority of the magazine was a golden platter of extremely well written, timely and sophisticated relevant articles. One article in particular was about the decline of men’s sartorial excellence in the United States of America when compared to the rest of the world. Playboy offered 10 simple steps to step up any man’s wardrobe. Needless to say, Playboy Magazine was my entrance at an early age into the wide world of fashion. More than fashion, I gained a sense of style which I still maintain to this day. I gained a sense of purpose which absolutely is essential to any outfit.

I was raised in a household, however, that by all standards was far beneath the poverty level as defined by the stocky suits on Wall Street. I was – and still am – a poor. A single suit will set me back roughly an entire year’s salary. I make due by finding articles of clothing hanging on the racks at thrift stores and exchanges that relatively match those same items I have seen in GQ, Esquire, Twitter, and Pinterest. My income has given me a unique perspective on the fashion industry that many have failed to grasp. I know the difference between functionality and fashion. I know what it is like not to be able to wear dress shirts because of creases and wrinkles. I know what it’s like not to own a closet.

Being in the military has given me a sense of human mortality. Thus, I have gained an absolute affinity for all things beautiful. Before I realized how fragile existence itself was, I appreciated beautiful things but not as deeply as I do now. I did not understand the essential nature of beauty. Today, I understand that without beauty life is null. This is what propels me forward in my style. This is what defines my cut, as it were. This is why on some days I choose an inch wide lapel over a 2 inch.

The old adage is that fashion is senseless, but style is eternal. I have come up with my own pithy aphorism: lifestyle is half part style, half part life itself.

Thank you very much for your consideration.

-Guylaen O’Connor