The Dead Soulmates Society

choose to be alone, hearing the chilly melancholy of fallen leaves scraping across the backyard of your cottage mind. I can go on to lead some sort of flattened Tom Ollen Home Improvement holiday special, with expected social footprints and mundane chatter, carried off by a quiet breeze, sneaking through the nighttime winter.

Enough with all this postcard shit [redacted].

By some miracle and not eaten by any mid August night summer coyotes, I returned home from the 3 mile walk through the upstate NY countryside. Landed on bed, and started having this dialogue between the left and right hemispheres of my seasons, as if I were half my mother, half-my-father, reasoned. Just the layered, fractal elements of absurd experience. Which turned me into a shamby flamberson widdling me toofermonk.

A pain to month to years a ramble a rubbed their thighs together like lesbian flungershum; they’re not going to the marsh for Catholic supplies! There’s a ripple effect of cruel necromancers chuggin past green ribbons, by the reflection of a neon retro video rental sign, pulling a late '90s late fee from under the chattering cashier. A shadow smile, shoulders relaxed. Who would have guessed the melting disappearance of mumbling sheet ghosts had the wind yank off their clothes line garments to white cum translucent form, and result in a sharp ruffling sound of hopped-up bones? Forget me not (pluck the flower of its innocence). Beyond the hay and the needlestack, a little wink from yeehaw junction is a picnic for someone’s gas station hot dog.

"The pain from taking a beg deck is something I’ll be glad never to worry about," says some generic, stock, southern goth lady with gapped teeth. "All the sad women out there trying to deepthroat their first dig bick, and the bick dig men who don’t mind the ramen vomit." Certainly he will finish and humiliate her more. She will go on to date a man with a boring-sized chimburt and downplay what happened the night she had her first vomit cumshot. A homeless, starving Crass Isaak is seen in the distance holding the sustain to Blue Ho-taaaaaaaaaaail, howling for no other reason than to be seen by a neckbeard god that’s blowing vape clouds onto a silent, hill museum.

A daddy longneck bitchass chain-smacker is bragging about his silver squirm mousepad to some deformed midget Voorhees wiggling its toes. A Juckie Chun hallucinatory chase scene with borderline personality affect will scare one of them out the driveway; the only time when fingernails hover. His sister is away with an amatuer kickflip skateboarder who commits unholy sotto voce persuasion to her in the backseat of a graveyard documentary. Suddenly.

Perhaps she should give him another chance...

"C'mon I want to show you the fire, pal," says the inexperienced Wiccan sister. A true swamp settled deep in the receding hairline. A slow grassroots mush of liquid panties hissed a thousand times.

Although it seemed supernatural to go ice-fishing naked in another person’s nightmare, the blue hotel turned red as a funeral mirage along a downside up route 66 advertisement for fisherman handjobs. "Do you have something you want to tell me," says the tickled pink moonshine enthusiast. Just enough to go over his head, goes flying a can of stewed eggs. Who’s him? "She’s not a girl anymore," says Potty Lovesmith, pointing to some junky who’s recovering from a failed incel suicide, who croaks, "I don’t know her name…"

Patty Lovebarn belches: "We’d get in so much trouble [blart] and respond back to the junky like I’m sorry my turtle was late [blart] bringing the casserole to the dry cleaners—so my Ant Carol [blart] said as long as you show your two front teef [blart] some real 'country lovin’, then you’ll always be invited to the annual [blart] gravy cook off."

Evidently or apparently there’s another person around to reply. "Don’t ever introduce your bicycle to the karaoke machine… Because every Thursday you’ll wake up to the sounds of the ginger boy stomping on grapes back in mohawkville with an expired bottle of glue giving you the wrong car keys to the ball pit," announces Batty Smernpot, who was formerly Potty Lovebalm, who was formerly whatever at this point.

On another day another chinese finger tap trap of looping thoughts. Say, what is the nature of reality, hmmmm? To survive. And what? To be human is to endure it? Money money money. Social constructs. Social contracts. Language games, ayy? Aye.

I prolly die a few hundred times each day. Wittle woments of deep despair, followed by the haunt for novelty and distraction—away from the pre-programmed repressions of needing to set aside things—now what? Gotta do something I don’t want to do. But what if that implies everything? Smile out loud.

If only I had money, more. I can’t afford more time to procrastinate. Or is me mindset poor? Is that a good morning? Maybe. When do I finally do something meaningful and productive? Is not living by itself, in itself enough? Naw. Gotta go through the motions of blurred spirit, the thing unpaused, forever in motion.

What if today I believe in a worldly spirit of sorts? Something phenomenologically vague but with hints of transient purpose and anonymity? No, not cryptocurrency ponzis. What comes to focus is the eternal peasant. The only thing I can hold instantly that infinitely negates itself with each passing instance of now.

I am certain of this.

Not of the untouchable past, not of the uncertain future. Naht me, naht Whorminey. A black goth boy joins compusively and types; "Just what presses me to conform to now and not now and now and not now and now and not now and now." And not now, Jocab! Get the fork out the flucking terster!

I now see the best metaphor. Life is but an improvisational jazz piece. The beet generation denced te thee beet ef e defferent dremmer. Ginsworth, Burrows, Kerosene, those guys. My least favorite was Ginsworth. Burrows and Kerosene were gay with spontenaeity, vulgar and kind. Ginsworth was a pos3r child foreshadowing the corporate art influence to Nards & Bobble vapidness.

Why am me not in grad school along with an aspiring Cuban cigar aficiondo who’s not nearly burnt out yet? I’ll take the role of Thumper S. Honkson and free associate in a convertible with an actual washed up culo trying to sniff cocaine that’s blown off his wrist by the wind. Now that’s what life is about. Trying to enjoy things before they vanish!

Before you know it, everyone hates you. And you hate everyone. And you have to pretend to like everyone. And everyone has to pretend to like you. No more getting high to die when you can't get high and can't die!

Reality gains its focus again. Must learn how to forget the illusions and pretend that there is a point to it all. My only goal in life is to annoy others. My purpose is simply that. But in the end... I only annoy myself the most, seeing as I am the person I have to spend the most time with. Consider yourself lucky naht to be around me. My goth, my gosh. You’d soon learn to be my worst enemy. Unless you have a thing for contradictions. My best enemy.

Like I was a curse in the new moon and you were the ceremonial sage; you needed to clear the midnight. A light to my dark night of the soul. My light is night and darkness is day! To pierce through all the broken nonsense I projected your lane, eventually a flashlight hovers over a flashback to me as a child in the attic of my parents' house, playing hangry hangry hippos on an old wooden floor, unvarnished and falling apart all around. Through jigsaws of collapsed floor is a recollection of me on early summer vacation when I was 7, sitting alone at a resort bench with fire ants biting me ankles, and retrograde me sobbing over not being old enough to attract this girl almost twice my age who was just forming C-cup bobs. In all my waiting from a young age with this conviction hardwired into me that I had to treat every girl or woman I pursued as my soulmate, I only learned how to be my own soulmate in disguise. I’ve always been this janky derivative of things that I try to constitute as my own, my own antique obscurity. In the Lover’s Discourse by Roland Barthes, writes: the lover waits (by definition).

Except back when I had more young man aggression I’d zip thru the traffic swarms just to make it 5 minutes late to everything: before you know it, it becomes this self-aware thing that I’m not liking to put my life on the lane to rush to be only five minutes late to each day. There it is. The negation. Always becoming what we are not or some shit.

Because it was nothing but a drab, monotone series of romantic failures that brought me to extinction. Not worth trying to make that coherent. Something about defective mutations, mutatis mutandis. My dear old childhood best friend, Plier Trickerson, had a love for tornados and storms, and his favorite movie was the 1996 Twister. I said more about this somewhere, but then it got deleted.

My gosh, my goth. Dedicated to my truest goth ghost whose equal in lost potential but glowing brighter than a wedding dress trapped inside a sealed coffin. Glad you fancy Schrödinger’s riddle. Do not read any of this out loud, for it is a hex to even be seen. Even to be seen, unless you are part of the dyslexic treehouse banger. Once a year you have to flash out your pale ass to a haunted house on fire — to renew ur membership, u sad bish.

Wut?

Said what I said. The wedding dress is both alive and dead! Why! I don’t know!!

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