more of first chapter

Dinner is dinner. My parents ask me about my studies. I say some generic statement that neither satisfies nor disgusts them. A few other family members are present, I acknowledge this and continue to eat my cereal. I think it's law and order on tv right now, one of the classics, not too old but before Jerry Orbach left the cast and then died.

My professor talks about class load and the importance of some guy whose name makes no phonetic sense, and perhaps it's my prescriptive approach to, well who are we fooling anymore, it's quite clearly all in passive voice from this point on, as if prior to this sentence the whole structure improved itself using a hammer and some erroneous pilots.

The last few words made no sense but were only used for a false metaphor that could perhaps have greater meaning, but I was just thinking about Chelsea Sullenburger and the way some people think about him.

So she hands out a packet that we must read, I get mine and shortly I realize that this may be the wrong class. I continue to read and take notes about AIDS strains in my notebook that is clearly marked "PHiLOSS-oh-Fee!"

My shirt has a white stain on it, I say it's paint because trying to explain its true origins takes too long so I just lie. I like lying, I suppose that's why I'm a writer, though I've been told that I could be a lawyer, manipulation has always been a bit of an enjoyment to me, power rules, as if that pun has never been used.

I never have owned a dog that liked to fetch sticks, I have never owned a dog, but Frankie always fetched balls, never sticks. It's like dogs like to run, sort of like the people today who pretend to like exercise to give them an excuse to perpetuate false body image, but I'm no woman's studies major, so why do I care? Society is down the tube anyway.

The lights flicker and I jump, reading about aids makes you a bit jumpy, around every corner could be an aids infested rapist with pus filled boils on his dick and arms strong enough to keep me down. It was the fire alarm, someone was a dick. Not pus filled, just in the sense that he or she pulled a fire alarm. Outside it's cold, but Jelly is at least keeping my neck warm, sweet little thing for only having one eye. The porch is filled with withered plants in pots completely covered in dust. Mom wishes she was a gardener, but her thumb is blue, the other is brown, you don't want to know, I sure wish I didn't.

The other day I got a contact high from a European, she spoke in an accent. I was able to contain myself through the use of a blue balls method of masturbation.

I was walking around the mall, and there was this guy dressed up as a zombie standing up with a tray in his hand. He stood there sort of dumbfounded for a minute, but then I realized that it wasn't a zombie, it was just an extremely slobby down's kid. It's interesting how the mentally challenged are basically just pacifist zombies. I know people have thought of that. It just ain't the way we operate in this enlightened my ass society, seriously we are as enlightened as a blind hairless sewer rat. I just like that image. Not saying I'm any better, I'm a symptom and a victim of the culture. Our obsession with zombies just says something about ourselves. I don't know what though, and I don't care to tell anyone.

I've already made a pretentious ass out of myself, so I had to create some retard anecdote to weed out those who are oblivious, hopefully by the time anyone gets to the end of the book they will have already stopped reading, I know I'm committing suicide directly after putting the last semicolon. Cause I'm an original and innovative plagiarist.

If anyone were to ask me how I come up with ideas, and the likeliest chance I'd get for that opportunity is the cops trying to establish motive, I would say steal them from those you have beaten down with verbal and emotional abuse. That's what I do. Thievery is okay, it's the only honest art anymore, but corporations are ruining that too. Bullshit, they are just the pioneers crowd of that scene.

After dinner we eat some pie. It's blueberry, fresh blueberries cause my mom is a health whore. Whore Foods and Wild Sluts. Whatever those damn stores are. Anyway so I drop a piece of pie on my shirt, oh great I liked this white shirt with the blueberry pie stain and the gorilla that says foo gimme that garlic. Garlic and blueberries? Disgusted you say? You'd be right. Worse than pumpkin rhubarb.

I sleep soundly and wake up for class, I hate my queer studies class, too depressing to make me angry, especially when it comes to aids, but that one guy wants to cure cancer now, so can we at least give him a Bunsen burner and a few flasks, perhaps a crucible?

Jelly beans for breakfast. Better than action candy and carbonation, I did have milk. I'm allergic to oranges for some reason. Luckily orange slices candy is artificial flavoring, I much prefer chemical cocktails to a swollen throat.

Chapterone

Puddles become disturbed by treaded tires rocketing across the newly darkened pavement. Water from these puddles fly out and hit other cars, people and concrete. Though it has not rained for some time, that's kind of how I would like my book to start. It's dark now, and it's not the clouds, it's midnight in December and actually quite clear. The exposition should end here, given the copious amounts of passive voice. Unfortunately I'm lazy so just deal with it, considering this is just a rough draft all the little things will be edited out for more stylistically accepted precepts. The water from one of these puddles splashes onto my pants. "Shit," says I, "now how am I supposed to get to work, would you look at that terrible attempt at dialogue, I mean it is horrendous, of course I'm no Stan Lee when it comes to dialogue, although its possible that he isn't either, I don't really read comics.

The most exotic food I keep in my house: Neanderthal-style puffed rice. I am mildly listening to television, I pay the cable bill and honestly I don't know why. I am eating the cereal I previously mentioned, it's getting soggy in the indie soy milk I drink because I pretend to be mildly lactose intolerant. Buddy Holly would have been better than the Beatles but Iowa fucked that up, at least we have gay marriage, or did, depending upon if and when this gets published, which I doubt because so far I have said little of any literary merit, well I guess I'm using meta fiction. Does mentioning a literary technique in your writing cancel out your use of said literary technique?

That question was rhetorical, because by the time it is read by someone other than myself I will be dead or out of earshot, in that order because I'm a writer so I'm a bit cynical pessimistic and a little on the suicidal end of the psychoanalytic test that I took.

Jesus Christ look how much I have already written. He can't cause he is dead. I'm even using informal language such as "cause" rather than "because". Breaking all the rules before I even know they are rules, though pointing them out implies knowledge.

Would you call this poetry? Or an essay? Or random pseudo intellectual bullshit nonsense. I call it:

CHAPTER ONE

A week later I am at my parents house because it is currently Christmas, not exactly my idea of a holiday.

“Raymond”, my buddy Jeff said to me the other day, “I believe that Christmas should be taken back by the pagans.”

I agreed with this statement, both of us are atheists so there is no way that we can do this on our own, I know a pagan, he is kind of a dick. Well at least there is consensus amongst two atheists in Minnesota.

My parents own ferrets, I prefer their company to that of their owners, so I am currently sitting outside wearing an enormous poofy jacket, Jelly, the female ferret with only one eye (birth defect not an accident, this ferret has had a cushy life), has wrapped herself around my neck and is quite possibly asleep. Snow is falling, of course it is, and welcome to the return of passive voice, I use it because I don't care about run on sentences either.

New paragraph.

And another. My mother has a bucket full of pistachio shells out here on this porch. She really likes them, I like them too, but they are green so that's a bit of a turn off. Although their extreme saltiness is hard to resist, I would reach down into the bucket and lick the shells but I am currently on withdrawal, if you ever meet me and have pistachios with you, do not share them with me for you would have to ask me to share back. Does that make me a bad person or am I just obsessive?
I get up and take the ferret inside, if it was asleep it no longer is because it is over there licking itself. Is that common behavior for ferrets, I've only ever seen them in pictures.

I throw my coat on the sofa and sit by the fire, my mother says something and takes my coat, presumably to hang it up, I imagine she was sweetly chastising me for my general lack of organizational skills or appreciation for Zen and the chi of her household. Whatever, I just throw my coat on the floor in my apartment, I don't mind.

When I was sitting I realized that I may not exist, actually that's a little further down the road but this is when I sort of began to suspect it. No that's not right either, it's one of those looking back you think, hey I should have realized that, only not really, you are only saying that to make yourself feel like you were capable, it was just at that particular moment your synapses weren't firing properly enough to figure it out. Anyway, yeah I experienced something quite different, the décor changed, but didn't, I'm not sure, soon after I dozed off into sleep.

I had a dream about tea. The tea had duck flavoring in it, I'm not sure why but it did, so I bought a tea called pot-head's choice, my friend didn't believe that it was a real tea. I never got to drink that tea. It was a dream.