Saturday, March 11, 2017


It's hard to see what you really look like. Sometimes, the mirror is forgiving; sometimes it's a magnifying glass for everything you hate about yourself. Sometimes, it makes you wish you could live forever. Sometimes it makes you wish that you were alone so you could drift off into an endless blackness, guilt free.

Those are the hard times. Because you know - you can smash the mirror and scatter the feeling. The shards will be so sharp your blood will reach the ceiling. And that's something. That reach. At least you leave a mark - until the landlord sends in the poor cleaning women with their buckets of bleach.

They won't get all the stains, but enough for another whitewash refrain. The new tenant will never hear the echoes of pain.

Then there're funhouse mirrors. They don't mean shit to anybody. They twist us up inside and out. Make us wonder what we're all about.

I'm gonna start carrying a hammer. Smash every fucking mirror I come across. Keep bitching, build myself a cross. Don't be cross. I'm in charge of me. And calling it your job don't make it right. Boss.


Writing is a weird addiction. So much lost in the brittle friction. You open too many veins, and you never see the mirror straight again. That's the deal you make. Most times you lose. Occasionally, you win.

Is there a color blacker than black? I want the kind of black where I can't see my fist coming. I want to punch the walls until my fingers splinter. Sew my mouth shut so I can't talk anymore. You don't even know me, and you think I'm a bore?

Imagine how I feel.

Who's to know what's fake and what's real? Who's cares anyway?

Maybe this would all be easier if I could start over. Get super interested in college football or barbecuing.

You can watch football with crushed hands.

If you're reading this, you should hate it. I do. A grown man should have something better to do. Some kind of legacy. Something true. Something true that matters. Some garnish for the plate. I'd go back in time and get into real estate, but it's too damn late.

And the worst part? I'll tell my girls to do things that are meaningful to them. And they might end up in the exact same place I'm in, bitter and running out of time. But at least they could take their kids to Disneyland.

All the other kids go. And the adults I know? It's only a few thousand dollars...

Motherfucker, please. I feel guilty when I buy a burrito. Something tells me I wouldn't enjoy the Mickey they slip you at the princess show.

No mirrors for me. That's the lesson here. I want to be a hermit crab. I want to smell like seaweed and move from shell to shell so no one can recognize me.  Maybe go back in time and convince some corrupt "doctor" to lobotomize me.

I tried doing it myself, but it didn't take.

Let's take a moment, count the mistakes. Unable to provide for family? Check. Unable to grin when others do? Got that going on, too. And I never have been able to smile through the bile. Lord knows what that's cost me.

I've never understood why Van Gogh would cut off an ear. Seems insincere. I'd gouge my eyes out so I'd never see another mirror.

Don't sweat it. It's all a joke, and you don't get it. Neither do I. And that's fine.

Never trust a punch line.

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