CH. 9

9.

-“I want to laugh so dam hard that I can´t even bring it out mate!”- Oliver claimed as I told him what just happened, he voiced the girls, and so we laughed our lungs away. We started messing around with the notion of who in the hell is Johnny, in the first place, and why was he looking for him so intensely.

Then I took a very good look at the tide of dancers, the stage, and it hit me: -“We’re all, in the end, looking for Johnny.”-

When the sun came out, the crocodile expressions and the cloud of dirt were too thick to handle, so we left. After hours of walking in the heat, carrying backpacks, and coming down from heavy ones, we found a room, that had just been unoccupied by a trasvestian couple, in a shit motel, to try and get a few hours’ sleep. I couldn’t, instead watched a crap cop series; an indicator that it was going to be a very long way down from that one.   

-“We’ve oversold your coach; you’ll have to wait until midnight.”-

With the little money I had left I paid a cab to take me to the nearest beach. Pretty fucking ugly it was; sand impure and obscure, almost mud, the sea pale green, almost brown, and there seemed to be plastic all around; the Coca Cola shades and chairs, and the trampoline that I only wondered how burning hot its black surface must’ve been, loud kids jumping despite. Tomatoes Beach then, was the name of the crappy place, where all of this was born, at about fifteen hundred hours on holy Sunday. I had been marked by and was fanatical of Johnny. First thing to do was to describe it then:

An ultimate sensation, after pleasure consumption, finally capable of taking us outside of ourselves; a step further from our eyes, making us able to touch others in a contagious and occupational way, so that we’ll stay after we’re gone; success so fulfilling that will remain, until and after the last our breathings, untouched: Johnny.

That being said, a realization bursts into existence:

-“There is no fucking Johnny.”- The proper understanding of that may change the world.

No number on an account, amount of girls, size of breasts, type of car, flavor of chemical, or brand on a title, will ever, ever, be enough. But here we are still, most, constantly, ultimately, looking for Johnny; an impossible constant; an idiotic behavior.

The only way to be happy is to be happy, no shortcuts on that one; found myself a ride back to the station and rode back to the big city.

I bought myself an Eclipse GT, black paint and windows, manual, naturally, that only had a couple of practical uses really. The first one of them was a time that the phone rang and I answered just to bump into one of those familiar: –“Hey”-

I picked her up, since she now lives here too. We talked for a while; everything that I had predicted was going to happen with her marriage did: he turned out to be gay, not that rich, and treated her like shit, so they got a divorce faster than a fart. I fucked her good that night, even went to class and came back to give it another go, as hard as I could. When I dropped her off, a bunch of construction workers started whistling at her, walking away; and that’s pretty much all I needed; to drive away on a pimpish looking car, spinning wheels, letting go of one I had all to myself and everybody else could only want to. One more lesson learned; no matter how deep in love, how truly affected by a loss, how obsessed with someone else, a good fuck, a very good fuck, like a very good counter, may wrap all things up; I don’t miss her anymore.

The other good use, to that three point eight litered, was a time that I drove it at two hundred kilometers per hour through a couple of walls, and I think, that time, I actually wanted it to happen.

The new campus proved to be just about the same; after that first time that I had to climb the stairs, I would forever had to, and tell the administrators how to do their job so that I can study; the stupidest system really, and it’s considered the best in the country, the MIT of Mexico, yeah, anything that is the something of something else is like cum in the shower; worthless. Intelligence seems to be discarded at the university these days; it’s much more a process of complying to musts, including paying. I could’ve very well googled what books to buy and would’ve learned as much, most probably more, than what I’ve, and still had my million pesos.

I did meet an angel while I was in there, sunned skinned, black eyed one that held to me through the days to come; would’ve been impossible without her.

The party was over.

-“I recommend full spectrum studies.”- Said these other stupid ass doctor after I went there complaining of intense bruxism, insomnia, and atopic dermatitis. He sent me through the bam, bam, of the MRI, the glue of the EEG, and the needle; nothing wrong there but an eight kilogram muscle, very pissed off.

Dad called his office looking for some invoice information; instead the doctor told him something like: -“Your son smokes marijuana all day.”-

-“Look mate, I’ve been in and out of offices just like this one for twenty years now, so I know that the only way to break the contract of confidentiality in the treatment of psychiatry is, one, if I’ve given you a written permission to do so, that I didn’t, two, that I’ve clearly stated intentions to harm myself or others, which I didn’t, three, that a judge issued a legal warrant for you to do so, something that didn’t happen, and lastly, four…”-

-“That you’re crazy.”- Interrupted angry. –“Look Ricardo”-

-“That is not my name.”-

-“You need to go to rehab okay.”-

-“Yeah, you need to go back to medical school, mala praxis cunt.”-

Consequentially the next time I saw my father, we fought, like never before, both aiming for a weak spot; something broke there.

I’ve always, since I was thirteen or younger, had some sort of extra activity with the purpose of owning my freedom a little better with some spare coins, it wasn’t until I drowned in the unending process of obtaining a college degree, that I’ve been totally dependent. Entrepreneurship is their school motto, and then they oblige me to be a full time student, in a third world country on war, assholes.

Depression has been a chronic visitor to my door, it was very bad when I was in puberty, more like panic then, but never have I felt such certainty of something being profoundly injured. Maybe it’s time to tell a story.

Since I was very young I’ve seen pink crosses stuck all around the land, hundreds, now thousands of them, each one standing for a girl that was systematically raped, tortured, murdered, and dropped in the middle of the desert. Some Arab prick, teenage gangs, traumatized gringo soldiers from Fort Bliss coming back from unsaid wars, and many other were blamed, but the bodies still stack up. Some governor said it was normal for a Mexican border town, yeah, nipples bitten off normal to you turd, fucking political feces. Now it’s all like a, I was going to say battlefield, but fuck that, like an open assassination zone, so fuck them pink crosses, at least to the news. I do still care; it is a ghastly prelude to the deadliest place in the world today: home. The stupidest war ever; the war so that Americans can´t get a discount on their high. That’s all it is.

That’s where I live with now, a country at war that pretends that it isn’t; pretending, lies, monsters, unspeakable ones, and all of it for profit, like pretty much everything else that is unfair, for profit of the powerful through the suffering of the economically enslaved. The gringos put the guns and the dollars, and we do with the dead bodies, on a number increasingly higher than that of their oil promoted wars. All of them are an attack to our minds mostly, but nothing as directly related to the actual functioning of our brains as the war of drugs. And is a virtuous cycle to them earnings since the poorer and sadder we are the more susceptible to auto medication; drugs, that they control, and sell expensive. The only shooting going around is against their competitors; hence a war of drugs, and let me make it very clear, that I’m a direct witness of the fact that trafficking and politics its exactly the same, and trust me, not only in Mexico, that’s the reason why there aren’t gunfights between army Hummers and civilians carrying AK47s and bazookas in the freeways of Houston like there are in the streets of Juarez, while the drugs end up on that side, despite.

Everything unjust, fart in the face stupid, and ugly; all that is depressing the fuck out of us back into the middle ages, it’s about population control, pretty much what was all about those days too.

I met with Nat only days ago in Coyoacan. We walked for hours, we were both broke, I’m without child support, job, school, and penniless at the moment. She told me that Pépé had died. I told her that energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed. She also said that having him expire in her arms woke something up in her; an instinct to be a mother. I told her that I truly admired her and for that reason what she’d just said meant we are truly doomed.

I explained to her that there’s only one graph that men should be paying attention to, and there’s no use for a trolley going up on that one, and that is the line that represents the number of humans on the planet. Some say industrial revolution, others say petrol, or the combination, I say we learned to satisfy our needs easily and decided the best idea would be to go and fuck like bunnies and explode the graph until all those needs became unreachable again.

That didn’t seem to carve even a little dust out of her column of assurance in the purpose of giving birth. Adoption wasn’t an option either as she tried to explain a feeling of having it come out of her. She’s back in London now, lucky girl, and I know she’ll probably will, get pregnant; she’s very industrious.  

Then we truly are fucked; if things were to get a little better we would go and fuck again until there is no space for that last one to squirt out on. That’s why there’s no fucking wind energy or universal health care, affordable food to all, decontamination, or proper education, fuck all of that, it would make things better therefore more hominids, hell no.

It’s all math really, very simple math, exponential math; better have us so depressed and scared that we become silent, waiting for them to figure out how to blast that nuke deep so that it will Tsunami the fuck out of most of us fucking disgusting poor ones, then blame it on the bible, or whatever other way of covertly, like history, cut the excess off; contemporary world problematic in a nutshell: we have to die so the powered ones can live comfortably. A universal panic attack is going on.

If I’m one of thousands is pretty cool, if I’m one of millions, still sounds acceptable, but when I’m one of almost seven billion on a sphere-like home with a radius of only three thousand nine hundred and sixty three miles at its best, I feel prompt to ask myself a question: Are we cancer?

Are we enhanced abnormality cells forming a malign neoplasm, dividing and reproducing out of control, fronting an invasion that intrudes upon and destroys adjacent organisms until it’s too late?

That’s exactly it, their last line of fire before headquarters; depression, seeing it that way raises the probabilities of happiness; everything is deliberately fucked up, we can’t be this evil, at least not the majority of us, so let’s fight the cunts, up on my feet again now that I have a purpose.

Said to be based on some religion, but truly on paganism, today is the thirteenth day on the sixth month of the two thousand and eleven year after something, like if anything changed, hilarious really, at one thousand nine hundred and fifty five hours, and I’m ten thousand one hundred and nineteen days old, that’s twenty seven.

So there you go; we’ve caught up with time; I’ve done a miracle. Thanks for visiting, please do make sure to exit through the gift shop.