Regular freaking updates

Here I am again, kiddos. Obviously there is something wrong (not that this is a cry for help). It is remarkable that a thirty-something atheist, existentialist, nihilist, and sociopath can have so much difficulty in the world.

Do you remember when you yourself were Christian, and everything here was an embarrassment? Now do you understand that it is merely a drunk (aided or un-) spection?

Little whirring insects outside an elevated recital. Singing frogs. We are an amusing sideshow. Only the science-fictionists understand.

* * *

There is somewhere in the universe a firework made of creaking pedals and fingernails upon the treble strings.

* * *

Which is to say that last night offered a sex dream. Some kind of trio, and most notably a ginger: almost contained within one of my slutty hands, a freckled pastry, tasty, though I was afraid of barriers. "Would you allow me to . . . ?" Incredibly like a cookie, a strokable dessert. But I had to give him up to the other characters of my fantasy, who were so much less Catholic than I.

* * *

Do you remember those nights of hallways and latrines? How I tried to understand human coupling! The omega male is a broken thing of pathetic self-medication.

* * *

That character of yore asked me if I did a gesture with my mates . . . and was embarrassed at my nine-year-old sexuality. No, my older friend, I had not yet discovered these things. Though many have delighted at the fantasy of you and yours.

* * *

And -- oh incredible chance of bang! -- there was a high-placed chess set, marble, figurines more modern than we could have possibly understood -- and a warm moonlit room where pajamas caused sparks under the sheets.

Could my Catholicism censor any real memories? Why wasn't there a strange hominid experiment? My hand hovered over molestation -- kicked at that intruder drunk with childhood and nothing else.

I prayed to God about all three. No: only two. Let him love You, and let him love me. The other was always beyond: my son, my Superman, and now a grown-up untrammeled by this greater question. Or lucky?

Why were we ever best friends? Because of the nature of young pups? I was strong then -- hypnotic. My brain grew quickly and then slowed tragically. Regular growths were drawn to me like insects to that bug zapper just above the gazebo at Huddleston Pond.

* * *

Because we never wandered in the dark. We had that one argument, yes, but we never came close to love. You were fundamentally different, and could never walk all night along the asphalt, hiding from headlights, falling asleep exhausted beside a bed covered in boogers and strange experiments of pubescence.

* * *

They have all returned. All return because of the bright lights of our COMPUTERS which compute.

* * *

Truly, I could go all night. What the fuck is this? Place a few asterisks and continue.

* * *

(Yes, I still mean what I said. But I always have one foot on Mars and the other in my own unconsciousness, AKA death.)

Let me bore you with details: I started with coffee and a long walk along the ocean listening to a new album by a human called Rufus Wainwright -- an annoying whining bastard like me but much more talented and amusing. Also a human. Perhaps you've heard of them. Bags of mostly water on a subatomic particle they call Earth.

* * *

You, my dear, need to abandon your cherished religion. You must see that the universe is a larger accident than you could ever imagine. My typographical errors are more than enough proof of that. My tiny honey-bee dance is evidence of your ridiculousness.

* * *

What is real? A fluffy-sheep blanket? A gold-leaf icon? A lamb sandwich? Some entrant in the Austrian House Show called Wolfgang?

* * *

Mozart likes when I put the dog collar on him and make him do tricks.