10.
I’m five foot ten, dirty blondish hair, like a good mestizo, have all kinds of European in my blood mixed with the Indian, my grandmother wrote a readable book about it, and I weight somewhere between sixty nine and eighty three kilograms.
I have weird nipples, deformed pinkies, small brown eyes, and multicolored beard.
I’ve always said that I’m writing a book, now I have.
I have a good right.
I constantly talk to myself; we constantly talk to ourselves.
I wrote this with an Olivetti Lettera 35; I dig punch striking my digits like the cue button of a one thousand.
I would have raw fish and oysters, crab legs, or rib eye, and sake, red, or beer.
I have a cat, her name is London.
I take rolling seriously.
I praise pot so much that not only do I consider her a life savior, but I’ve also made her the protagonist in this story; truly the only girl that I’ve coped to stay with.
I wrote most of this while under the influence of my home grown.
I grow, if you smoke too, please do so, and will actively help reduce some violence.
Society is a compulsive consumer morbidly obese pharmacodependant alcoholic and I’m supposed to feel bad because they’re offended by my grass smoking? That’s a big fuck it really.
This is my empire of dirt.
Everything has been written, let’s start living and enjoying the consequences.
It’s all the same really; it’s only you. Marks and Locke and the bitches that farted them out just like me. So here’s your new organization of words that can more than you, invisible hoards of unattainable ones: It’s just not true, everything; we’ve been scammed utterly, but never forever.
I had a recurrent nightmare when I was very little: Some sucked in plexus bloke, skin covered in cuts, dirt, and blood, approached me menacingly, suffering horrible, a crown of thorns stuck to his dripping forehead, with a couple of fingers penetrating a body wound, he would’ve always start going off: -“You see?! You see?! Fingers inside motherfucker!”- Fucking petrifying, I wonder where I got all that shit from.
I was Jesus Christ in the Way of the Cross reenacting held during the missions at the impoverished little town deep in the Mexican northern mother sierra, right after I smoked her for the first time. I did pretty well.
I’m proud, the good kind of one, that I’ve been called a conspiracy theorist, my mate Socrates died as one, also proud, the good kind of one; talk about a self-help guru.
I realize that I’m not talented enough to ever be properly printed, so I’m the writer, my poster the editors, and the internet my publisher.
I cook.
I understand that ninety nine percent of geniuses must die so that the remaining ones can be considered such.
I’m a pirate too; I’m in for piracy. Let’s make all information, arts, and all of their possible derivatives, instantaneously accessible to everyone, everywhere, always. Fuck the cunts that advocate against it because they want to buy themselves another airplane. I owe must of what I’ve deducted, and it’s not like I think I know something; all I know is I know nothing, to piracy. Bring it the fuck on.
I think the whole of existence has been a history of addiction.
I lost my cherry to a two hundred pesos, snake pants, prostitute, in a very green room at Mazatlan when I was fourteen.
I can’t tell how many girls I’ve shagged, or shagged me for that matter.
I’ve totaled five cars, never more than a scratch on my body.
I have a demoniacal sexual drive, just like Crumb.
Everything I’ve ever written is some sort of plagiarism; I’m a foreign beggar in a place where there’s no law or limits: all of our minds.
Do whatever pleases you with this stuff, but someone, please, do give me some sort of money, so that I don’t have to wake up for the morning commute, rather move to Paris, shoot some heroin and fuck with the stars.
I’ve done fat girls.
I’ve learned that reconciliation takes courage and wit, and that those that are closer to us, are prompter to hurt us. That may scares off, and then turn out to be good, or not, but we must not miss the loving bits because of fear, instead bravely look for and embrace the best of us that can be seen in them, therefore reuniting what’s important; reconcile. Family brought and kept us in this traumatic event, but it’s not their fault; they’re also living.
My father’s honesty is the ocean I chose, my mother’s creativity the vessel I built to travel.
I believe no war should leave the ring.
My favorite color is black and white.
I’m certain that the definition of corruption is a consequence of power.
I don’t have a god complex no more; I don’t believe in god no more; I know there is no Johnny.
I have a job interview tomorrow, we’ll see how long a man like me can handle the knot of a tie; please do place your bets in my Vegas.
I know that anything that it’s not true it’s true evil.
There is a moral of a fable to this short story, and I do apologize if a more dramatic finale was expected, but my life is all a recollection of unfinished business.
-“Mind that words are only a consequence of what we feel and what we think, and always remember that what we think and what we feel is more important than words.”-
I can’t see god but I can see love, in the same way that I can’t see cupid shooting the arrow, but I can see the kiss. Those are the important things: things; I can touch, feel, smell, or fuck them, not words, a human invention, only a conceptualization, not even natural, yet we let them affect us until the point of destruction. Fuck logos; he’s the one that should be getting raped from the blindside. The only purpose to this arrangement of letters is to convince ourselves that words don’t mind, that they’re only a blunt object of our minds, like a hammer that can only be picked up by me, so it will serve and not harm me, unless I hit myself in the mother fucking face with it, and we do, so let’s don’t.
I’ve been diagnosed with border line personality disorder, endogenous chronic depression, attention deficit disorder, addiction, panic and anxiety attacked, and many more, so I thought I give it a go myself:
Hello, my name is Frankie, I’m a writer, and I’m addicted to truth.
To all of them, out there, dancing.
lookingforjohnny.blogspot.com
@looking4johnny
No comments:
Post a Comment