Dear Tim,

Letters from a masochist

[deartimtheblog]

Letter to a Native Tim

Tim,

I am a White Man. According to the currently accepted definitions of “white” and “man”, this is an incontrovertible fact. You are certainly aware of this aspect of my social identity, as surely observed by your own eyes. Your fair orbs, as well as others’, have seen my snow-white skin, ocean-blue irises, and grain-blonde hair. One, upon meeting me, cannot help but make certain assumptions about my background, upbringing, and experience based on my appearance.

There is some truth to these presumptions; I had the fortune to be born into financial security and had an enviable education. However, I have experienced more than my share of hardship – emotional, social, and psychological. In many regards, my life has been no easy undertaking. An outsider looking in may find my misfortunes easily avoidable, almost self-imposed, but I have many unhealthy mental predispositions. Because I am not always able to control my behaviour in a given situation, my biography is fraught with misfortune. Therefore, when I was told that I was somehow privileged by the mere merit of my skin colour and gender, I was confused and frustrated.

I had been frequenting blogs and forums on the Internet and reading the posts of many bloggers spouting the most ridiculous views. They wrote that Black People have a significantly more difficult time in this country; that in every case, White People are more privileged, regardless of their economic background. They rallied behind the slogan, “Black Lives Matter”. Of course black lives mattered, but what about my life, Tim? What about all human life? Furthermore, they stated that, to compensate for this disparity, America must continue the institutions of welfare, affirmative action, and possibly even engage in reparations. I was aghast! How, 150 years after abolition, 50 years after the civil rights act, could there still be need for Black Restitution? I had to offer my opinion to these delusional activists.

On one of the most extreme threads, I posted my remark: “I must say that I find these ideas to be most concerning. The vehemence with which you espouse the most ridiculous claims about the hardship of the Negro is unsettling and offensive. I assure you that in this advanced year the Black Man is regarded quite equally by the White Man. His struggles are no longer that of slavery or segregation, but rather of those that many Americans face, regardless of colour. I thoroughly resent the implication that my position in life has been gifted to me and that my successes are unearned because I am a member of a certain race.”

The backlash was immediate and excessive. Within minutes the thread exploded with acerbic attacks against me. Some commenters were so angered they even forgot to turn off their caps lock. I was called a “PIG”, a “SHITLORD”, and, confusingly, a “CISGENDERED PRIVILEGED WHITE FUCK”. This was hardly unexpected but I became disheartened. What was once a calm debate had turned into a heated argument at the drop of one dissenting hat.

I was about to log off and give up on further understanding the issue when a notification popped up in the upper right corner of the page. I had received a new message. It was an apology from a blogger who called herself “Trigg3rUnhappy”. She was ashamed at the way her peers had responded to my comment. According to “Trigg3r”, I was merely misinformed. If only I understood the facts and the personal stories, I would realize that there is still a form of racial injustice in America. She sent me a list of essentials: required books, articles, and movies to understand the status of Black Americans. I thanked her for her compassion and her level headed reaction. She graciously received my thanks and told me to inform her of my impressions once I had made my way through some of the material.

Impress me it did, indeed, Tim! I was so engrossed that I stayed up for several days consuming the entirety. I learned about 400 years of slavery - the deplorable treatment of the black body in shipment, and in the implementation of forced, unpaid labor, the separation of families for the sake of a sale, and the continuation of that peculiar institution for the sake of the southern economy despite the hypocritical violation of fundamental human rights. I learned about the Jim Crow south - the coercion of freedmen into sharecropping, working the same fields for their former masters for minimal pay, the theft of the right to vote, and the violent lynchings in response to petty crimes or, often, less than criminal behaviour. I learned about the Great Migration. What seemed like promise was actually more of a compromise as northern cities practiced a less obvious, but equally as insidious, form of racism through redlining. I learned about how, even after the Civil Rights Movement, Black People still suffer more poverty and higher rates of incarceration than other racial groups. Then I learned about the recent instances of brutality against Black People by our own police departments and the subsequent mishandling of said cases by our judicial system.

Every story, book, article, movie, and LeVar Burton television series was another depressing chapter in the long tragedy of the Black Man in America. Over the course of my digestion, I vomited several times from the overwhelming sadness. Even after exhausting myself with a marathon of learning, I still could not find slumber. My guilt was keeping me awake. I lied in bed bleary-eyed and fitful, thinking of the relative ease my ancestors had in this country and how I continue to enjoy the benefits from our privileged status. It was not fair, Tim! It was not right. I could not stomach the idea that I was living in comfort at the expense of my fellow man. I pined for absolution. I needed to express these feelings, so I messaged the friendly blogger from before.

I told “Trigg3rUnhappy” that I had devoured everything she sent me, and gave her an account of my reaction and my current emotional state. She was impressed that I was able to read through it all so quickly and recommended that I refrain from the use of the antiquated term “Negro”, but was concerned for my emotional well being. She assured me that, despite the current forms of racism persisting in America, Black People have made large strides and are continuing to make progress. That what is important is for America to recognize that more still needs to be done to establish true equality. This only partly abated my guilt. I wanted to do something to allay the plight and the effects of the history of discrimination.

While conversing with her, I had an idea. I told her I wanted to organize another march on Washington – to take to the nation’s capital to rally for improving the African-American’s situation. She loved the idea. She had clout with an extensive network of contacts throughout the Internet and The Black Lives Matter movement and could help me organize the event. I was ecstatic. We started planning immediately.

To all the major blogs we went, announcing our intention for a grand peaceful protest. Excitement was fomented rapidly. Countless members of the online community agreed that America needed another organized march. Anon, there was a Facebook event with nearly a million followers. The clamour was inspiring. Several civil rights leaders were scheduled to speak and even more entertainers booked to perform but I conferred with “Trigg3rUnhappy” and asked if I could make the opening speech. She allotted me a few minutes to orate. A formerly ignorant White Man, talking of his journey towards reformation could be motivating.

Initially, I was positive about the upcoming occasion and enthusiastic about my chance to speak - my opportunity for exoneration. As the event drew closer, however, my anxiety swelled. The estimated attendance surpassed 2 million. This would be a record-breaking protest. Was I prepared to lecture in front of a crowd of that magnitude, Tim? I did not truly understand the plight of African-Americans. What was I, a White Man, a privileged oppressor, thinking talking to droves of mostly Black People about civil rights? I would be jeered off the podium, in front of millions of people nonetheless! By the time I reconsidered, the now-looming event was in only a day - too soon for me to retract. Therefore, in the final hours of the night prior, I made extensive preparations for my momentous declamation.

There could not have been a more splendid day for our march. The weather was more than accommodating; a partly cloudy sky, a temperate springtime degree, and a balmy breeze gently graced us. I met with “Trigg3rUnhappy” earlier in the day to go over the events. I told her I needed time alone to rehearse my speech.

“Your three minute speech?” she clarified.

“Yes. This must be flawless. I cannot cause any further injury towards the “Black Lives Matter” movement. Not after all my years of naïveté. Please understand,” I pleaded.

“I suppose, if you think it’s absolutely necessary,” she said.

“I absolutely do. Thank you. Now if you will please leave me alone.”

She went away and managed the event with aplomb and competence. I secluded myself in the pillared shadows of the Lincoln memorial, my back to the wall, continuously rehearsing my speech and attempting to calm my nerves.

Before long the moment came. I took a seat on a stage in front of the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, next to the other speakers - Civil Rights leaders and experts, better versed than I. “Trigg3rUnhappy” started with a small introduction, and thanked everyone for coming out in support of this important cause. After a few inspiring words she announced me to the crowd.

I strode across the stage towards the microphone. The throng of people all looking at me was imposing. I nearly succumbed to jitters and almost collapsed on stage. I made it to the center and approached the podium.

“My fellow Americans,” I started, “I come before you today to tell you my story of ignorance. You see, I was born a privileged white child - pampered, well-educated, and unaware of the struggle that many Americans endure. I believed that every American was judged by the content of their character. I thought that Martin Luther King’s credo had taken root in this country. I held these beliefs until only a few short weeks ago, when the organizer of this very event endeavored to teach me the errors of my thinking. I came to realize that our country is not as enlightened as I had previously supposed. I now understand the necessity of the Black Lives Matter movement! Together she and I arranged this event, and together we will all strive to overcome and abolish the systemic racism that persists in our country today!”

This last statement was met with deafening applause. I stood back and smiled tearfully. The ovation of thousands of African-Americans symbolized that absolution I so craved. A better reaction could not have been anticipated. However, I had only just begun.

“But,” I continued, “Steps must be taken. Plans must be put into action. Real change will not occur without real, definitive measures. Last night I thought about this event and how it might drive real change. We have had civil rights marches before, though, and they, clearly, have not done enough as you all will surely attest. I thought about the root of the problem. What do people think when they see a black man, or a white man? How do they act based on those perhaps prejudiced thoughts? Well, my friends, I said, “What if people did not see a black man or a white man? What if they just saw a human being of flesh and bone? Would that not solve the issue?” And I then realized my vision for the future of race in America.”

With this statement I took a quick step aside from the podium and held my arms out wide. I grabbed the center of my suit and pulled it off in its entirety in one swift motion (I had made slight tears in my clothing the night prior for ease of their removal). I was now completely naked, barring my dress shoes and argyle socks. People were surprised, but little were they aware of their impending revelation. In my hand, I brandished a sharp knife, suitable for slicing through flesh. The crowd was halted and silenced by surprise. I took my shiny dagger behind my head and pressed the tip of it to the very bottom of my skull. From there, I dragged it up and over my head slicing down the very middle. I continued in this motion down the center of my face, past my jaw and down my neck. At this point in my performance people became scared and confused. The entire throng started shouting cries of “Oh my God!” and “What is he doing?”. But I did not stop, Tim. How could I? I was about to grant them enlightenment.

I incised down my torso to my belly button where I figured I had made sufficient progress. I leaned over to the microphone to say one last word.

“I am no longer White Man. I am no longer of any race or color. I am no longer shackled by the irons of racial perception. I will be...We will all be… Equal human beings!”

With this, I began at once to tear at the halves of skin made by my knife. It worked almost as planned, however, I am no anatomist, and I did not understand the mechanisms of how skin is attached to the body. My epidermis did not slide off like the peel of a banana as I had hoped, but rather flayed like that of an annoying packaging sticker; in little strips, leaving behind sticky residue and difficult to grasp remains. Therefore, I recaptured my scalpel and hacked away like a butcher preparing a prime cut of freshly killed game. Of course, the crowd was appalled. “Somebody please stop him,” a concerned member shouted. But of all the millions of people there, not one person was willing to endure the ordeal of getting near what was rapidly becoming the very picture of gore.

My upper body was a complete mess of skin, blood, tendon, and bone. Other than a vague “v” down my center, tattered strips of flesh covered my front. My scalp and face were torn away as I continued throwing my knife at the surface of my head and body. I was completely disfigured; unrecognizable from my appearance just moments prior. Blood streamed out of the gaping wounds being rapidly created and dripped down onto the floor.

I was nearly ready to abandon my task - the pain and the effort were becoming increasingly unbearable - when a gust of wind graced the event, and caressed all the exposed nerves of my body. Receptors in my brain ignited like a wildfire. I saw not only stars, but giant celestial bodies and entire galaxies. I directly vomited and fainted. My body collapsed in such a way that my injuries landed in the acidic puddle.

I awoke in a hospital bed, bandaged in gauze from my waist to the top of my head. Coincidentally, the television set hanging in the corner of the room was turned on to the news covering the story of the recent event. Contrary to every possible reaction I had hoped, my antics had completely tarnished whatever good would have come of the march. In fact, my display had sparked the worst race riots in history. When I heard this terrible news, I would have cried, if my tear ducts had not been cleaved out by my flailing hand. It was then that I noticed Trigg3rUhHappy sitting beside me, awaiting my return to consciousness. She looked at me with complete disgust. “How could you?” was all she stated. Then she stood and walked out. Another bout of nausea possessed me and I retched on my bandages again.

I was left alone in my room with nothing but the droning TV and my tortured thoughts. Covering my face with my hands, I wailed. I wailed louder than I thought I was capable. Through my dry sobbing I pondered upon all the mistakes and transgressions I had made the day prior and how thoroughly they caused the opposite of my noble expectations. My misdeeds had set the civil rights movement back an inestimable number of years and it was known to all that I was the culprit. To have set it back at all would have been unbearable to me; this was completely insufferable. I had no choice but to live out my live in reclusive exile and consider whether my guilt-ridden life was worth living.

Story by Daniel

Original Artwork by @basper01

[deartimtheblog]

Tim’s Square

The blood you take is equal to the blood you make CHRISTOPHER SALERNO

To Tim it May Concern:

I had a quiet Christmas, Tim, spent with friends and family who have claimed to love me, whom I have claimed to love as well. Yet amid such an air of congeniality, of such lighthearted laughing and imbibing, followed by a reciprocation of vapid gifts, I felt myself slipping further into a dejected funk. Why could I not be happy? Why was it I who had to suffer in the presence of such holiday bliss? Let me begin.

I was a sensitive boy––a trait, I learned, that was not universally desirable. My mother praised my early artistic pursuits: portraits I would paint with ink extracted from mashed blackberries, collaged photographs of rain, sestinas I would write on frost-fogged windows. Yet my father, a robust man with a chin like a brick and a penchant for sporting, did not approve of my lifestyle––for he had yielded “a son, not a daughter.” Despite this, I could not change my ways. During televised football games, I would find myself sneaking away to the solace of a sock drawer filled with pilfered books––books, I knew, if my father were to ever exhume, would be used as kindling for the next winter’s fires. Once, in fact (which I am chagrined to admit) I found my treasured copy of Lolita torn to tatters, only to discover it a day later, appropriated as lining for the cages of father’s twin snowy owls, spoils earned from having won a duel. After the image of hot scat smeared atop Nabokov’s words had been properly cemented into my brain, I knew, for the rest of my home-life, that I would have to internalize my more delicate tendencies.

It was perhaps this recollection that sent me spiraling into a dust devil of depression this Christmas. Snifter of brandy in hand, I sat stolidly, watching my relatives interact with one another. This one was sealing this deal with that client; that one had just acquired this patent, this degree. The successes, the immaculate hairlines, the garrulous laughter. Oh, Tim. I could not take it! I darted into the nearest bathroom and sobbed for hours. Enrobed in a blanket of self-pity, I wept for all I had lost: friendships, romances, the sense of the world as a place I could navigate. I wept and wept and yet nobody seemed to notice my absence, for there were no knocks on the door, shouts for my name, nothing; only echoes of ambition making waves through the halls. Soon, I grew bored of myself and pressed my ear to the door. I heard the tap of high heels, the thud of boots, and then, the inimitable click clack clap of my father’s Oxfords, accompanied by the bludgeoning baritone of his voice:

“How’s he doing, did you ask?”

“Yes,” I heard my grandmother say. “We’re all worried about him. Such a quiet boy.”

“Well,” said my father, ”I’ve been worried my whole life. You know, that boy; never once has he made me proud. Sad to say, but he’s become little more than a paper bag, fluttering through the world without direction, carried only by wind, little else.”

To this, my grandmother sighed, and the footsteps continued while my father’s laughter boomed through the crowd. I felt my face grow hot. I flushed the toilet twice, so as to mask my plaintive moan, then washed my hands and sulked through the night.

For what seemed like days, all traces of slumber eluded me. My father’s words, like the peal of bells, reverberated through my ears at every hour. Carried only by wind, little else. I had so many things I wanted to say––to him, to myself, to the planet. My bed felt like a coffin, and I wished for an untimely death to arrive at my door. Perhaps a car, avoiding a deer, would burst through my windows and sever my head. Or maybe a satellite, knocked out of orbit, would fall through my walls and slug me to bits. Then dad would notice me; then dad would care. It was at that moment, from that precise thought, that a light flicked on in the attic of my skull, for I had devised just how to gain Father’s approval.

I had to work rapidly. My first step involved riding my bicycle to the Home Depot, where I demanded to be shown their collection of mini-woodchippers.

“What for?” asked the saleswoman, glancing skeptically at my tenuous frame.

“It doesn’t matter,” I lied.

After lugging home the most expensive little ‘chipper, I sought to accomplish phase two: making sure my parents would be watching the ball drop at Times Square.

“Yes,” said my mother through the phone, “In fact, your father and I were thinking about going to Manhattan to watch it live!”

“Perfect!” I squealed, then corrected myself. “I mean, how lovely. You’re going to have the time of my life.”

“What?”

“Uh,” I stammered, “the time of your lives. Gotta go. Bye.”

Phase three, Tim, involved securing a hotel room in plain view of Times Square.

“Yes, sir,” answered a man, “we do still have a few rooms available.”

“Great,” I replied. “How much?”

“Seven-thousand for the night.”

I mulled it over, knowing my life savings teetered off somewhere just beyond that amount.

“A real steal,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

Phase four was to throw the most unforgettable New Year’s bash the world had ever seen! I quickly commissioned a graphic artist (a delightfully loquacious gentleman with a Norwegian last name) to send cards to all of my friends and relatives. There were only a few days left until the big night, but I was certain that no person would be able to turn down a party held in one of New York City’s finest penthouse suites.

As fate would have it, the RSVPs rolled in like severed heads in Revolutionary France. On the morning of December 31st, I woke up to wet sheets, quickly deducing that I had urinated myself out of sheer excitement.

9:00 PM, New Year’s Eve

Guests were filtering in by the droves, which made me feel like a very loved man. I was dressed to the nines, wearing an all-black tuxedo with a bright, bright red bowtie––the perfect sartorial accent.

“Smashing party!” called a friend whom I have hated since grade school.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Happiness!” I shouted, “happiness, laughter, and love!”

The man and I clinked glasses, whereupon I instantly felt nauseous, which was comforting.

I was drinking quite a bit and began sweating beneath my suit. A quartet was supplying the jazz, and through the elegant picture windows, I gleaned all the sights of human achievement and prosperity––handsome buildings drenched in every fluorescent color, their occupants waving from the windows, blowing streamers, throwing confetti, shouting excitedly to guests on the streets, which reminded me of Mom and Dad! Had they made it to Times Square? I pulled out my phone and dialed my mother. No one picked up, but a few minutes later, she sent me a text that read, “too loud to talk. But we won contest lol and r standing right under the ball!” I almost squealed with delight––not for their fortuitous fate, but for my own.

The tedium of socializing slinked by in a stupor of half-drunk hours. I tended to my wristwatch as a mother would a newborn, until finally, the hands hit eleven. Covertly, I snuck into my room, snagged the woodchipper, and darted down the stairs. Surprisingly, none of my friends or family questioned me, which made carrying my plan to fruition all the easier.

I took the elevator to the bottom of the complex, nodded to the doorman, and burst into the street. Such din, Tim! Such clamor! There were humans of all creed and color, drunk as debutantes, screaming and cheering, yucking and crooning. It made me absolutely sick, but my smile, which had not left my face for several days, remained plastered to my skin like a garish tattoo. I bobbed and weaved through the crowd, my mini-woodchipper a lead-filled football, tucked under my arm. I was exhausted, but my need to succeed outweighed my dearth of strength. I looked to the clock: only fifteen minutes till the ball would drop!

“Gang way!” I shouted, sprinting faster. “Move it!”

I bonked several people with my chipper, but I knew if I did not hasten my pace, I would never make it to the center of the square in time. The clock was ticking, literally, right in front of my face; giant, austere, digital.

Within mere minutes of the ball’s descent, I made it to the center of the crowd. I set down my woodchipper and was about to turn it on when, suddenly, I heard two voices shouting my name. Mom and Dad! I waved with all the cordiality I could muster and flicked the switch on my ‘chipper. My father looked perplexed; my mother, horrified. Yet the crowd, this heap of strangers, hardly took notice. The fools! They were so enamored with the festivities, bright lights, and transgendered celebrity sightings that they did not notice me.

“Sweet humans!” I shouted, “Bear witness to a feat of true tragedy, of retribution!” Then it was that din again, Tim; my well wishes were all but drowned out by this cacophony of merriment! Frustrated, I mounted the woodchipper and looked toward the sky. The ball, that gaudy bauble of light, had begun to plummet from its perch!

“TEN, NINE, EIGHT…”

I bent my legs and prepared to swan dive into the blades, but alas, I slipped and stumbled feet-first into the machine. There was no escaping the clutches of metallic teeth. Oddly enough, I felt myself getting very aroused.

“SEVEN, SIX, FIVE...”

As the ball neared its destination, I watched in agony as my blood, bones, sinews, and skin doused the crowd in bright red confetti. How I wanted these people to feel my pain, to make notation of my suffering! But alas, no such thing seemed to occur, for despite being drenched in my guts, the crowd remained nonplussed; their celebratory ecstasy had far outweighed the fact that a very many hundred of them were now caked and coated in slivers of me. They were dancing, cheering, parading through the square in a blood-filled frenzy!

“FOUR, THREE…”

While the machine began to engulf my calves, my knees, and finally my thighs, I couldn’t help but ponder the irony of existence, how the human race, despite believing it has graduated from Animalia, has not. We are the most primitive creatures of all, surrounding ourselves with diversions––media and apps: voyeuristic devices to distract ourselves from the crucial fact that finality is inevitable, that suffering is our rite of passage.

“TWO!”

We are flawed individuals, Tim, operating in absolutes, spending our days making black and white decisions in a grayscale world. How I pitied not only my life, but the lives of the people before me. How could they not be yanked from their confetti and self-complacency, even for a second, to save me from this machine, which was swallowing my frame as would a rabbit a carrot?

“ONE!”

I forgave my father, Tim. In my final millisecond of consciousness, I gleaned his beautiful irises with my own, watched his hands, his big authoritative hands, reach for mine, knowing all too well that I was already gone, and had been gone for twenty-four years. As we wept from our separate distances, I grieved for us, for our filial miscommunication; I grieved for the fact that that there is no accounting for the differences in the souls of our parents from the souls of our own. And finally, I grieved for my own hypocrisy, that I was operating under the same absolutes that my fellow humans were––only I had taken the far darker route. Suicide, I surmised, is no answer, Tim. Living spitefully is. Thus, New Year, New Me? Wrong. New Year, No Me.

Artwork by @basper01

[deartimtheblog]

The Fountain

Dear Tim, clever, witty, intellectual Tim,

I loathe admitting my lack of intelligence. I am easily confounded by the simplest of puzzles and rudimentary tasks. This may surprise you, considering my extensive and lofty education, but while I may have thorough knowledge of histories, philosophies, and general facts, it is in deftness of mind and quick thinking that I am woefully deficient. Some may call this wisdom-sans-wit – others, a lack of common sense. In spite of remediation attempts, this lapse has resulted in my physical and emotional injury on numerous occasions. I generally try to avoid situations that require of me the use of logic, however, I find that life abounds with such situations.

It may please you to learn that I had been romantically involved with a woman for some time recently. She was from a prominent family – well-bred – and had run the prestigious private education circuit, starting with expensive preparatory schooling and moving on to Ivy League undergraduate and graduate programs. She was smart, serious, and, above all else, driven. A career-oriented individual, she was not given to those delusional dreams of artistic fame to which I am so prone. One might wonder, as I often did, why she was with a man who was so clearly flawed. She was unquestionably homely. It was this trait, I conjectured, that she was all too conscious of and considered me a suitable suitor for what she could attain given her appearance. Regardless, I was madly in love with her. I only hoped that she took our affair as seriously as I did.

She invited me to her company’s end of the year gala. She worked for a large financial firm and they had had an excellent year. Her invitation included a strongly voiced condition: I was, under no circumstances, to embarrass her in any way. She was, of course, intimately aware of my bizarre idiosyncrasies, predisposition to flights of fancy, and tendency towards confusion by the most benign statements. Therefore, I was instructed to say little and to nod politely during all conversations. I was to be at her side the entire night so that she could be aware of everything I did or said. These instructions were reasonable to me, and understandable given my history, but it increased my anxiety regarding the celebration tenfold.

Outside the banquet hall, my love reiterated, in no uncertain terms, her expectations for my behaviour that night. I demurely reassured her of my acquiescence to her demands and followed her inside. I was incredibly nervous, but upon entering the hall I was awestruck at the grandiosity of the space – its awesomeness consumed my mind and body. From the center of the ceiling hung a giant, brilliant, shimmering chandelier that illuminated the hall with a comfortable amber glow. This decoration was positioned directly above a long, narrow carpet that split the floor in half. It ran from the doorway down to a raised stage with a podium at the extreme end of the hall. On either side of the carpeted passage were dozens of circular dining tables, arranged with ample space for standing and conversing in-between, set with fabulous silverware, candelabra, bouquets, and corresponding name cards denoting the seating. Along the left and right walls were two bars, with many taps for beer and superior selections of liquor and wine. Above these bars were giant banners adorned with the company logo and slogan. Various holiday décor was decked about, including two towering evergreens in opposite corners. The room was generously staffed, bustling with tray-wielding waiters transporting cocktails and hors d'oeuvres. A string quartet supplied the background music.

I breathed all this in and was nearly overwhelmed by such a fantastic sight. My attention was arrested, however, by something to my left that surpassed my recognition. It appeared to be an oddly designed fountain. The base of this structure was a metal pool of substantial diameter, in the center of which was a strange sort of tower.  It stood six feet tall and was composed of several connected upside-down bowls, decreasing in size from the bottom to top, whereupon one upright bowl sat. Confused and curious, I ventured over towards the structure to investigate, briefly forgetting my promise to stay by my beloved’s side. Upon nearing, I realized two perplexing aspects of this font. First, it was clearly not running; the pool was still, and nothing flowed. Second, the pool contained not water, but rather a sweet smelling brown liquid - its surprising warmth convected through the neighboring air. 

Before I could conduct further appraisal, my date was by my side and abruptly pulled me away. After lightly scolding me for my disobedience, she told me that she would like for me to accompany her to a group of her co-workers, and we proceeded in their direction. I passed off the curiosity as a sort of art installation and soon forgot about it altogether. 

I was escorted to the circle of her colleagues and, as per behest, smiled, nodded, and greeted all present. After shaking the hand of the last member of the current cohort, I resumed my station next to my lady. I was now in no way comfortable. The presence of so many people and the intimidating pressure of the imposed rules discomfited me. I was able to continue my ruse, gazing politely at a speaker and laughing when appropriate, but I felt my countenance slipping.

I was nearly about to break when, without warning, I was accosted by a waiter holding a tray of martinis. I was so distressed by my mood and the sudden interruption that I did not register his question at first.

“I said would you like a drink, sir?”

Uncertain, I looked to my sweetheart for approval. She intimated to me her permission. From this, I gathered that she noticed I was struggling, and that I might as well enjoy myself as her guest at the gala. I graciously indicated my thanks, and took one of the drinks. The liquor flowed down my throat like an ice-banked stream in the first thaw of spring. I was inwardly thankful as my nerves eased and my composure resolved. 

After imbibing a small quantity, the night became easier. I even had the honour of meeting her superiors, including the CEO of the company. I was in impeccable obedience of the rules set forth. All I uttered were genteel greetings and introductions. However, unbeknownst to my darling, who was distracted by friendly discussion with her associates, I was replacing my empty drinking glass at every pass of the steward and feeding a growing inebriation. 

An hour or so into the event, a man stepped up to the podium to inform us that dinner would be served shortly. The fare proved to be exquisite, much like the rest of the evening, but exotic. The theme of the full-course meal was a taste of the East, and, as such, we were advised to inform our servers of any food allergies we might harbor. This I should have heeded, but I was slightly too drunk to care. 

Dish after dish of Indian and Southeast Asian varieties was presented as we dined. The taste was exceptional and rare; I had never had such flavors grace my tongue! My gullet was subjected to a continual stream of delicacies until I had enjoyed far more than my fill.

Our tables were cleared and the same man walked up to the podium again and announced that the CEO would make a speech succeeded by a champagne toast. Flutes filled with vintage Veuve Clicquot were passed around as the audience applauded the CEO’s advance to the stage. He had not yet reached the steps when I was struck by a peculiar sensation in my abdominal area; it was discomfort beyond any that I had experienced previously. 

The CEO began his speech boasting of four profitable quarters, congratulating the employees for their work and efforts. I could barely mark his elocution as the disturbance in my digestive system was aggravated to a dire requirement to defecate. My muscles clenched as I tried to maintain through the speech so that my escort could walk me to the restroom afterwards. I decided, however, that the risk of my unsupervised trip was worth saving her the embarrassment of me soiling myself during the CEO’s address. I whispered to my sweet my predicament, and, seeing that I was unwell, she permitted me my temporary leave. 

I whipped about and assumed a brisk pace towards the doors of the hall, overturning chairs left and right, and shoving my way through, causing several to spill their drinks. I had made it past the throng of the audience when I understood the unsettling – I had no idea the whereabouts of the restroom, but required one urgently. Otherwise, I would have a terrible accident and be the cause of my lover’s untold humiliation – the main stipulation of the night. I could not allow that to happen. 

In a desperate panic, I searched the walls left and right. Distressingly, there were no signs for the direction of the restroom. The situation seemed hopeless when I again noticed that puzzling fountain from before. I immediately grasped its utility as a receptacle for my ensuing bowel movement. It was away from the crowd and the brown water it held would disguise my floating feces. The time for further contemplation was fleeting, so I began unbuckling my trousers as I made a course for this lucky structure. I sat my naked rump upon the edge of the pool, and, fortuitously, the toast commenced, and the party cheered, masking the cheer of my own making. It was a happy coincidence because the sound of liquid interspersed with gas escaping my rectum was not at all soft. As I released this horrid torrent, I gasped towards the heavens. The crowd, concerned with their drinks and focused on the stage, was entirely unaware. 

I remained seated, breathing heavily in spite of the appalling odour filling my mouth and nostrils, until my remaining droppings spilled out of my anus. Then, surreptitiously, I snuck away to find the actual location of the restroom proper so that I could cleanse myself. I inwardly commended myself for my original and unorthodox thinking. 

As I re-entered the hall, I saw that the same man who introduced the CEO had resumed his position at the podium and announced that it was time for dessert. An assortment of fruits and a tray of wooden skewers were laid out on a table near me. One banquet hall worker then went over and somehow turned on that baffling fountain I had just relieved myself in. I was in shock as my stool was suctioned under the surface of the pool to be cascaded down the center-tower and diluted in the admixture. The whole party gathered around the table and started puncturing fruits with the skewers. They then scrambled over to the fountain and dipped their fruits into the flowing russet solution. Wide-eyed and mouth ajar, I watched in horror as they proceeded to eat that which they had just unknowingly covered in an excrement concoction. 

I heard some comment on its unique taste.

“My, quite a poignant flavor! I think it adds depth and dimension. Very delicious I must say”

“Yes, and with a nutty texture as well. How exquisite!”

Some even did away with fruit altogether and started filling up teacups with the liquid. It streamed down their cheeks as they furiously gulped it down.

I thought, My God, what have I done, as my moderator walked up and put her arm around mine.

“Did you find the bathroom alright?” she asked.

“Um what?... Uh yea, yea sure,” I replied as I stared at the tragedy playing before me.

“Is there something wrong?” 

“NO!” I said a little too loudly as people returned for another taste, “I mean no, no, nothing’s wrong.”

“Good.” She smiled sweetly. “You’ve been really great tonight and I just wanted to make sure you’re having a good time. Come let’s go grab some chocolate fondue.”

My heart was galloping at full speed. The drunker members in attendance were now kneeling down and lapping up the dessert from their hands. She pulled me by the arm but I resisted her lead.

“Um… I’m not feeling fondue right now.” I sheepishly disclosed, my eyes shifting back and forth.

“Are you sure? Everyone seems to be really enjoying it,” she responded, releasing my arm, “I think I might get some”

She started walking away when I gripped her arm. She looked down at my hand and back at me, concerned at the amount of force I had used.

“I’m not feeling well,” I lied, “I think we should leave.”

“What’s going on?” She was not buying my story, she knew me too well.

“Nothing, I just want to go, alright?”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh my God, what did you do?!” she exclaimed as people started to notice our escalating conversation.

“Nothing.”

“You need to tell me what you did RIGHT NOW!”

“I went in the…” I mumbled, trailing off.

“What?!”

“I said I went in the fondue,” I admitted, just audibly.

“YOU DID WHAT?!”

“I SAID I TOOK A SHIT IN THE FONDUE, ALRIGHT!?”

My eruption was followed by the utter silence of the entire banquet hall. Pandemonium ensued as gasps and shrieks crowded the room. Diners spat what they were eating onto the floor, onto suits and dresses, into one another’s faces! Many, upon realizing their consumption of another human being’s feces, started gagging. People pushed their way to garbage receptacles to vomit. When the openings of the bins became overcrowded those who could not suppress their nausea were forced to spew their contents on the heads of those in the way. Some had not any time to react and retched directly in the bottom of the caquelon. This was siphoned up to the top of the tower, much as before, and trickled down, becoming part of the new disgusting solution. One poor woman, out of shock and grief, fainted right into the pool of chocolate, feces, and vomit. 

The cab ride home was tense and hushed. I could not summon the correct words for such a singular situation. Apparently, my love had nothing to say either. She had been embarrassed beyond conception. What could I have done to avoid such a horrific mishap? It was a typical, although ill-timed, bodily function, and I did my best to avoid, through power of thought, the immediate embarrassment of soiling myself, but, alas, I am not a wily man. My understanding and foresight are indelibly limited, and I grossly overestimated my capacity for them this night. Call it fate, call it destiny – heck, even call it God – but it is as though any relationship involving me is toxic and wont to fail. I am wholly incapable of normalcy, and, therefore, acceptance and intimacy. My impaired intelligence has ensured that. As the headlights beamed down the empty road, I gazed up at the stars and felt her love expire.

Artwork by @basper01. Quite possibly his best, don’t you think?

[deartimtheblog]

All Hallows Eve

“Don’t stare too long at your shadow in case you see it move without you. Don’t look at the trap door to the attic in case you see it beginning to open. Don’t let your hand hang over the bed in case something takes it while you sleep.”

STEPHEN DOBYNS, Fear

Dear Tim,

Good Evening, my friend, good evening indeed. With quivering hand I write you; with gall I regale you; with spleen I malign you.

My favorite holiday is Halloween. I love tricks, treats, costumes––wearing a mask so as not to pollute the world with my wretched visage. This is the one day of the year when I can be what truly I want to be: anything but myself.

I was a beautiful child, Tim: blonde, featherlight, with ivory skin and eyes like an oceanscape. My parents lauded me, extolling my outward beauty; yet never once did they bother to ask me of the desires that lay beneath my skin. At parties I was dressed in bowties, gifted cakes, banquets, feasts with fish and fresh bread––all for my looks, never for my mind. Oh, fickle factotum of fate, please forgive my sweet and callow birthgivers! Their minds were simply too juvenile to recognize that, since the day of my delivery, there had been a wickedness bathing behind the pools of my irises; a dark grotto, gurgling and churning, echoing an insidious overture into my every night.

After learning to suppress my more sordid urges through high school, into college, and even through graduate school, I knew that soon I would slip. Alone at my dining room table one recent evening, eating a filet of roast duck, I stared into my sullen face through the mirror. Adulthood had done my frame and figure well; yet it had done little to assuage the tremors of tumult that were swimming lanes inside my veins. On this particular eve, mouth full of meat and lentils, I almost choked upon the realization I had stumbled across: Tomorrow! Tomorrow was Halloween!

I lay in bed all night, cloaking myself in my sheets as would a sick caterpillar. Would tomorrow beget my metamorphosis? My skin was warm, but I was not ill. I was perspiring, but to the touch I was not wet. What was happening to me, Tim? Would Halloween precipitate my final capitulation into the dark? Every bit of slumber eluded me; my eyes remained open till dawn.

The day slinked by in a tedium of marginalia, tedium of chores, tedium of repressed urges. I watched television, watered the fichus, stroked my moustache deep into the setting autumn sun. Puffing on my pipe and staring out the window, I felt a burgeoning in my nether parts. In my self-imposed somnambulistic state, I had almost forgotten that night was upon me––no, Halloween was upon me. Drat! Double drat! I had not yet prepared a proper costume. Out my picture window, I spotted several trick-or-treaters, youngsters in store-bought costumes, approaching my walk. Enshrouding myself in my curtains, I held my breath and prayed that they bypass my house.

DINGGGGGG DONGGGGGGG!

The doorbell bulleted a terrible reverb through my head.

DINGGGGGG DONGGGGGGG!

Again! The blasphemous youth! With flurried steps, I sprinted to my cellar and slammed the door behind me. I could not be seen dispensing sweet treats without a proper costume. But what to wear? I simply had no ideas. In my cellar lay jar upon jar of jam, peas, beans: all provisions deemed vital for sustenance upon the imminent collapse of society. I scoured the shelves of my bunker, holding peaches, condensed milk, pickled meats up to the light. Nothing would do. I lay rest the jars, stifled a whimper, and padded back to the cellar steps. But at that moment, something caught my eye. Just when I thought I had exhausted all possible avenues for crafting a costume, I spotted, in the darkest corner of the cellar, a plump orange comestible; its sickly stalk, reminiscent of my own, was craned in intrigue.

“How did you sneak in here?” I asked the seasonal gourd.

My new friend did not answer.

Out of nowhere, a metallic glisten flickered into my eye. Perched fortuitously on my work desk was a beaming, gleaming meat cleaver. Well, I sneered, looks like I’ll be having the last laugh! I rushed toward the blade, clasped it in my hand, and charged at the pumpkin. My weapon brandished high above the fool’s autumnal head, I cheered as would a savage beast, and brought the trenchant edge down upon my very own neck.

What a turn of events! I recoiled as blood spewed in comical spurts to every which corner of my cellar-cum-boucherie. The gruesome muse of my twisted youth had taken me in his palm and was clenching his fingers. Raising the blade adjacent to my shoulders, I began to saw fervently at my neck. I simply could not stop, Tim! The pain, though unbearable, was nothing compared to the thrum of pleasure pulsing through my bones. My pumpkin friend, now streaked with blood, began to cackle deliriously.

“That’s right!” he yelped, “keep going!”

Going I kept! I sawed and I sawed and I sawed a bit more. After myriad moribund minutes, my head, which had become little more than a hangnail to a finger, fell to the floor with a thunk. I, somehow still conscious, knelt down and seized my head by its scalp. Stumbling forward, intoxicated with both glee and despair, I reached down and clasped the pumpkin. Then, as one would observe in a graphic yet unrealistic horror film, I affixed the pumpkin to my own twitching brainstem.

Tim, I had done it! I had created a unique and compelling costume! Rushing up my cellar steps, I bolted out of the house. The cool October air felt crisp against my exposed flesh, and the street was filled with all the sights I had expected to see. Children, bags full of sweets; young mothers and fathers, hands in their pockets, basking in their offsprings’ sugar-fueled joy. I too was quite joyous! In fact, I began to dance, jigging my way down the avenue, my severed head raised high above my head like a trophy.

“TRICK OR TREAT!” my skull beckoned. “GIVE ME SOMETHING GOOD TO EAT!”

I was in ecstasy, Tim. Finally, after twenty-four years of living a cautious, prudent life, I had done the inconceivable: I had morphed myself into a seasonal centaur, a beast both human and gourd. I thought of my parents, how mortified they would be. It brought a sickly smile to my pumpkin face.

Unfortunately, my delight did not last long. One of the neighborhood’s young fathers happened to be an off-duty police officer, and after asking me to present my ID (which I carelessly left at home), my autonomous skull vomited a medley of blood and spinal fluid upon his child, who, coincidentally, was dressed as the headless horseman. I was arrested on the spot, brought in for questioning, and spent the final minutes of my life in the back of a police cruiser, suffocating in pumpkin innards, blood, vomit, sinews, and tears.

Tears of joy.

Happy Halloween, Tim. I hope this letter finds you well.

Posthumously yours,

Friend

Artwork by @basper01

[deartimtheblog]

The Singularity

Oh Tim! Wellspring of humanity, my fellow man of flesh and blood!

I weep at the memory of your sweet breath upon my ear and the honeyed voice of life-affirming timbre. I long to hold you near again, Tim, so that I might feel your warmth against my bosom, but time and miles separate us. All I have are these words by which to embrace you. With them, I endeavor to get as near you as I am able.

Allow me to divulge some background that informs my story. In case you do not know, the Singularity is the theoretical future event when the human mind will be melded with technology. Ever since our arrival on this planet, man has become increasingly reliant on and integrated with his own tools. It has reached the point where people store supercomputers perpetually on their person. One can conjecture that, in only a matter of time, technology will make its way from our pockets to our very brains.

I learned of this idea and my fears of a hostile technological takeover and domination of the human race were greatly allayed. Reasonably, it can be assumed that progress will drive technology to the point of self-awareness and self-iteration – a daunting picture. However, it is conceivable that technology of the same processing power could be integrated into the human body. This would place the abilities of any potential artificial intelligence at the same level as that of augmented humans. Artificial intelligence would not outsmart us, they would be commensurate with us. My cause to worry had vanished! 

Inspired, I purchased as much current technology as I could afford in an effort to catch up with the modern age. I downloaded to my e-reader all I could about the theory of the Singularity, consuming digital volumes on the subject. It is predicted that the singularity will occur by the year 2045. Upon reading this, I was ecstatic. 2045 is easily within our lifetime, Tim! Oh the possibilities! What potential this event could portend!

Shortly after this discovery, I luncheoned with a good friend of mine. I told him of the Singularity, and its imminence. 

“Quite an interesting prospect,” my friend said after some consideration, “But, if you will allow me to extrapolate on this, it seems to me that, not only would we have thinking power exponentially greater than that of any man living or dead, but, having embedded computers within our minds, we would theoretically have the ability to upload our consciousnesses and live virtually indefinitely! I know this sounds too good to be true, but,” he added, ”if a looming Singularity is upon us, and this does not seem completely unlikely, we would only have to not die until the year of our lord 2045 to reap the reward of immortality.”

I was awed by the simplicity and obvious verity of his remark. Upon this statement, I hurled my burger and french fries to the floor with flourish and ordered a kale salad and a water to replace the scattered food that now graced the floor.

“How right you are friend!” I replied, indicating a toast with my glass of water, “The ability to live forever has always been a dubious dream of mine, but, now knowing what possibilities the future might hold, my fantasy seems an attainable idea. Therefore, from this point onwards, it is my health and longevity that will be my primary focus.”

“HA-HA! Of course!” my friend said, raising his glass of soda in response and emptying its contents upon the table, “I will no longer allow any toxic or unhealthful food enter this body. From now on my body is a shrine! Only the most wholesome of fare will be allowed entry into this temple of mine so as to effect a most favorable constitution and the unencumbered carriage of this mortal vessel to 2045!”

My friend and I continued back and forth our declarations of promise to our health for a full half of an hour. Having thoroughly exhausted all possible tautologies, we paid our check and departed the café. Outside the sky was a pure blue; placed upon the canvas were a few benign clouds and a shimmering sun high overhead.  We skipped down the sidewalk of the active avenue, arm in arm, alive with giddiness and glee, stopping at the corner where our routes home diverged. 

“Well, it was a true pleasure dining with you this afternoon!” I exclaimed, jumping up and down.

“Agreed! I must thank you for sharing with me that happy knowledge of yours today,” he replied, “I feel invigorated! I have a new zest! A new zeal!”

“How glad I am! It gives me great pride to have made you feel so!”

“Thank you! Thank you! A million thanks!” He howled as he blew kisses my way,

“However I must part ways! A small disconsolation on a day of such favorable news! Good day my friend!”

“And a good day, a good evening, and a good night to you sir!” I responded as I watched him turn and resume his merry skipping across the street. I smiled, but quickly the corners of my mouth turned downwards with concern as I noticed on the other side of the street the crossing light displayed a stern orange hand, palm facing out. I realized my friend, intoxicated with joy, was distracted from the deadly traffic he was walking right into, Tim! I helplessly stepped towards him, arm outstretched, and tried to alert him of the impending danger, but I made no noise. It was too late.

Apparently, my friend soon made the same realization as I had well into the lane. He suddenly stopped skipping and turned to, I assume, make sure there was no traffic coming his way, but he rounded about to a formidable sight - a bus barreling towards him! With little time for either party to react, the bus made forceful impact with the front of his body, causing what injury, I could not imagine. In the next instant he was on his back on the ground, having slammed his head against the pavement. The bus, braking, but unable to stop completely, had swerved in a grossly insufficient effort to avoid the man in its way and continued rolling towards him. The path of the bus wheel was on a direct course with my unconscious friends very head. The front left tire of the vehicle slowly rolled up upon his skull. Watching powerlessly, I tore my hair out. The bus was angled upwards but for a moment before my friend’s skull was crushed completely by the immense weight. With a loud, chilling crunch, the bus settled as its tire came back in contact with the road. Blood and brains were projected in all directions as a life, so happy immediately before, had suddenly come to an abrupt end. Hands pressed to my face, I let out a blood-curdling shriek at the horrific misfortune to befall one of my best friends right before me.

A few days later, I attended my friend’s wake. After a few hours of vociferous bereavement, I was ushered out of the funeral home by his family. They told me I could come back for the burial if I would be able to grieve less vocally. I indicated my understanding, thanked them, and, after assuring them I was capable of driving myself home, took leave.

After arriving home, I reclined in my leather armchair upon the heated hearth, a fire having been lit, and swiped through photo after photo of my dear friend stored on my smartphone. Tears welled up and started streaming again as I recalled the memories. I expressed my feelings aloud.

“My good friend! What a shame it is to not have you in our lives anymore! This is how you exist now - in our minds and your digital footprint! Why were you taken so suddenly and tragically in a freak-accident? They are such rare occurrences, yet we are none of us exempt from the possibility. Life is so delicate and fragile; what befell you could easily befall any of us… At any instant… We are safe only for the moment… It could have been me crossing that street… no matter how healthy I am, no matter what precautions I take I am still at risk. God help me!”

I scrambled off the couch and began frantically pacing across the room. My hands excessively tugged the skin of my face and pulled the hair on my head as I continued my fevered soliloquy. 

“But what about the singularity?! I cannot live forever if I perish before I am able to preserve my mind! It has become apparent that it will not be enough to sit around and wait for someone else to bring about the new paradigm. I must act now if I am to escape the possibility of the lamentable fate of my departed companion.”

With this, I gazed upon the screen of my smartphone, which was zoomed in on the face of my friend, and gently laid the tips of my fingers upon the image. As a tear dripped on to the surface, my gloom was overcome by my eureka moment. “Yes! YES! This is it! I know how to bring about the Singularity! I must become one with the device in my very hand! As unconscionable as was the loss of you, it was not entirely in vain. You have given me my great inspiration,” I exclaimed as I kissed the digital image of my friend’s face.

I bolted to innovative activity and sprinted to my dim, musty basement. The walls were of grey concrete and completely unadorned. The ceiling was low and of similar appearance. I unrolled upon the earthen floor a large white canvas tarp and, in a circle upon it, placed four spotlights aimed at the center, in which I had set a stool. This source of light in the basement was of such an intensity, that it seemed to shroud the rest of the basement in contrasting darkness. It was impossible to discern any of the four walls of the chamber, and thus gave the effect that, other than the circle of light, the room went on in infinite shadow. I then removed all the mirrors I could find around my dwelling and set the various looking glasses upon easels around the cloth, or, if they were too small, hung them from the ceiling with twine, slowly swaying. I angled the dozens of mirrors so that, while seated, all such surfaces within my sight displayed a portion of my head with little aberration. In between these surfaces was a sea of black.

Having assembled the area for my tremendous experiment, I took off my suit, leaving on my undergarments: a sweat-stained athletic undershirt, boxers, dress socks, and garters. I searched for and retrieved my happy instruments: a box cutter, hacksaw, and staple gun (the closest tools I had to medical implements). Along with these, I gathered the smartphone and its corresponding cable, a permanent marker, a handkerchief, a hair trimmer, and a razor. I went over to my neglected tub sink and rinsed off the blades of the cutter and saw with the brown, grimy water that sputtered out of the rusty faucet to sterilize my instruments. I returned to my stool, ready to begin the operation. I sat and sheared the hair off my head, leaving a smooth white dome. About this, I drew a dotted line with the marker. It started straight across my forehead and continued in a parallel fashion around, connecting the start and end points.  

I firmly grasped my box cutter, took a deep breath, and braced myself for the pain that I was about to inflict upon myself. Tim, you know of my great tolerance for physical suffering, but even so, I found what was about to ensue daunting. Then I thought of the great pioneers of science and technology, who strode headlong towards innovation and knowledge. I thought of Marie Curie, who suffered in no small way for her work. I decided that to further the human race and improve its condition was a cause worth the agony.

I drew the blade across my forehead, utilizing my reflection in the mirrors to make sure that it followed exactly the line I had so carefully drawn. A thin gash opened, oozing blood, which began trickling down my brow. While much pain this caused me, I was desensitized by enthusiasm, and found it endurable as I pressed on. Digging my fingers in to the surgical wound, I investigated my cut, and, while it was evident I had sliced through the entire layer of skin, I felt small tendons and sinew beneath my fingertips. I quickly slid the blade back across to whence it started, cutting to the bone of my skull. Upon completion, I found the upper portions of my face no longer moveable as they drooped considerably. After checking this second incision, and being satisfied, I continued my operation, pledging to incise with force as I proceeded.

I advanced the box-cutter around my head, making sure to press down firmly, until it made a full circumnavigation. As I finished the first step of the procedure, the skin at the level of my temples, now separated from that of and around my scalp, bent directly away from my skull. The ensuing gap was brimming with blood. The surface of my skin, from the line of incision down to the level of my eyes and ears, was of a radial concave form. Imagine, if you will, Tim, a goblet, filled with the reddest of wines and a large snowball occupying its center, causing the liquid to overflow its container. I applied my handkerchief to mop away that liquor which spilled into my eyes, and embarked on the next step of the operation.

Next, I took hold of the hacksaw with both hands and placed it upon the exposed skull of my forehead. In a similar action to that of which was made with the box-cutter, I dragged its many jagged teeth over the surface. Now, the pain experienced during the previous phase of the procedure was considerable, but the agony of the cutting of one’s bone is immense! Even in the midst of so much discomfort, I carried on, sawing back and forth, stopping momentarily to gag and heave. My countenance held, however, and I produced no vomit. Eventually, persisting through teary fortitude, I noticed in one of the many mirrors, that the saw had reached my brain. This was of no great discomfort to me, as the brain, while the processing center of all the feelings of the body, contains no nerves for sensation itself, and, furthermore, any minor damage to it was of little matter to me as, once I connected to the wealth of all known information, I would easily be able to restore whatever mental or bodily processes I had damaged.

Much as before, albeit of a longer duration and greater effort, I continued the progress of the saw around my cranium, sawing in each spot until I had penetrated through to my cerebral cortex. Having sawed through the layer of bone completely, I placed my saw down on the tarp, now stained with much blood, and placed my fingertips on my scalp. I inserted my thumbnails into the recently created crevice in my skull. Holding firmly yet gently, I lifted upwards, and, with the audible release of suction, my skull, still adorned with flesh, came free to reveal my large pink, mass of brain, pulsating with large, densely packed arteries. 

The task was now nearly completed, the most difficult and painful stages behind me. After shortly pausing to admire the reflection of my exposed brain, I put down the uppermost shell of my cranium and, ensuring it was of a full charge and set to silent, picked up the smartphone along with its cable. I inserted the corresponding end of the cord into the bottom of the gadget, and gingerly wedged the holy device between the two hemispheres of my brain to rest atop the corpus callosum. Taking the USB end of the cable, I embedded it fully within in my left frontal lobe. I picked up the amputated piece of my skull once again, and delicately lowered it back upon my head. I then wielded my staple gun and carefully holding the pieces of skin together with my fingers, pressed down and stapled around, securing my skin and skull back in place. 

Having implanted ample staples in my head, they made for quite a sight to behold: a metallic, bloody diadem that resided upon a shiny, hairless dome. My grin stretched from ear to ear. I had done it, Tim! I had beaten death! I was no longer merely human, I had become trans-human! I stood up and, twirling around, arms outstretched, basked in my multiple reflections. As this induced nausea, surely associated with so recent a surgery, I slowly ceased my revolutions and pondered my next course of action. Having settled on it, I closed my eyes and attempted to access the store of information on the World Wide Web. Once I shut my eyes, I began sensing images, not unlike closed-eye visualizations. As I tried to parse through the vast multitude of what I was perceiving, I was disturbed by what appeared to me as overwhelming flashes of red light accompanying terrific tremors from within my head. 

I grabbed the sides of my head in response to my distress as I tried to deduce the source of this unsettling feeling. Shortly, I realized that I must be receiving an incoming phone call and had not, in a gross oversight, turned off the vibrate function of my smartphone. Frantically, I started digging the staples out of my head, but I was prevented by another succession of vibrations. I was momently at a loss of balance and I fell to my hands and knees. Overcome by sickness, I retched blood on the floor. Next, I suffered a horrible seizure, after which I found my limbs completely immovable, as the shaking phone impaired the motor centers of my brain. As I lied on my back, my limbs sprawled about me, I was unable to mitigate the impending pulsations of my phone. The next vibration caused another great flash, followed by utter darkness. I had gone blind! I tried to call out for help to a distant neighbor, but it seemed no use, as the walls of my basement echoed my pleas back to me.

Artwork by @basper01

[deartimtheblog]

A Summer Spectacle

"I love sweets,—           heaven would be dying on a bed of vanilla ice cream . . ." --Frank Bidart

Oh Tim, does my manifold misery know no bounds? In what new ways has my dreary fate been shoved down my gullet?

I woke up in a confused and drunken state in my parents’ house. Turbulent times have evicted me from my former place of residence, and I now assume a new role as the family man-child, taking both solace and residence in my childhood bedroom. Picture pastel blue walls, little league trophies, spelling bee awards, a race-car bed. Tim, my life has receded into a dark and sullen place. In fact, just after waking up this morning, I wept for a full minute.

Things were not looking good. And to make matters worse, a tropical rain had begun to pound the roof of my small house. It was a dry summer, for the most part, until this past week. Inconveniently, my mother and father had planned to spend the day at the beach. Oh, fickle fate, with what grievances have my lifegivers burthened you? My brother was also home, as was my mongrel dog. It was a full house––and there was nowhere to go.

"Let's play scrabble!" shouted dad.

"Twister!" squealed mom.

"Russian Roulette!" I offered––internally, of course.

All of a sudden, a great streak of lightning set the sky into blazes; a baritone of thunder followed, which left the china quivering in its cabinet. The dog barked and mother screamed; I felt a churning in my nether parts.

"What a doozy," sighed brother, who was casting a languid gaze out the window. Across the street, a splay of lightning had transformed the neighborhood into an amphitheater of glow and woe. Cars had pulled over; trees were swaying like pendulums; my elderly neighbor, garbed in a gaudy yellow slicker, was making her way back to her front door. I couldn't hear her screams, but her contorted mouth told me that she was enmeshed in the clutches of misery. Before I could make any further assessments, all went black inside my house.

"Christ!" mother shouted, "the ice cream in the freezer--it's going to melt!"

Mother is a decorated ice cream chef who had just finished whipping up a batch of her famous pecan swirl, which she hoped to enter in the county bakeoff this Tuesday. She quickly did the math: without power, the freezer was a ticking time bomb––the consistency of this woman’s sweet cream would soon hang in the balance. We huddled around the dining room table.

"Let's think fast," said dad, "how do we fix this?"

"Call the power company?" I asked.

"Do that."

I whipped out my cell phone, but alas, no reception. The others’ phones yielded the same result.

"What about the fusebox?" brother piped up.

"Well," hummed dad, "I don't know where it is, and honestly, I don't know what I'd do with it if I found it."

After minutes of heavy rumination, an idea jolted through my body. I jumped as if I had just received an enema of coffee.

"Wait! What if we somehow attract the lightning so that it sets the power back...like with some sort of metal?"

"Brilliant!" mother applauded. "We must have some aluminum bats downstairs from when you guys played little league."

"Actually," frowned Dad, "I sold those to the Salvation Army last summer..."

"Isn't the Salvation Army a nonprofit?" I asked.

Suddenly, the dog began to bark.

"What's that?" mother queried the dog. "there's a hefty amount of aluminum in some of the baking utensils?"

The dog yipped, and we rushed to the kitchen. In the glow coming through the hall, my mother lifted her precious pots, pans, and instruments to her face. But then, she began to sob.

"We can't use these!" she announced through tears. "I love them more than my own children!"

My brother and I understood. I rubbed his hand, and he, mine. Then that's when I saw it: the glimmer and glisten from inside the drawer below the sink. Aluminum foil. Tim, it was then that I knew what I had to do––and do I certainly did.

Grabbing the roll, I sprinted to the back window of the living room, which I then propped open.

"Hurry!" shouted mother, "the freezer's temperature has gone down two degrees already!"

But I was out the window by now. Cold water poured like a waterfall upon my head. The siding of the house was slick and slippery, but I am an adept climber: many a fortuitous high school night had allowed me to sneak in and out of my house with ease. Today, despite the rain, would prove no different. However, once I made it onto the roof, a shiver crept its way through my bones.

From my vantage point, I could see the sparks of lightning filling the valleys of my tiny, dreary town. The streaks looked as though they were sent down from the heavens itself, as if whoever's curmudgeon of a god up there decided that today would be the day of retribution. But who could blame him? After all, it was we who were using up the world's resources; we who were starting wars; we who had replaced sociability with Instagram, Snapchat, and Grindr. Good lord, Tim, we had even invented a stick to take pictures of ourselves. I felt anger in my hands, anger in my belly--anger from my grundle to my gut. And, well damnit! it was making me quite hard!

With a cry of half-passion, half-terror, I climbed the parapets of my chimney until I was at the northernmost tip of my house. I thought to raise the foil above my head so as to turn myself into a conductor of energy and light, sacrificing my soul and frame for the sake of mother's cream. But then, a better, far more tantalizing idea snuck its way into my sordid head.

With cunning and artifice, I managed to balance myself supine atop the chimney. With fervor, ardor, and whatever else was running through my veins, I tore off my pants and began to stroke at my beleaguered penis. Oh, Tim, never had I felt so alive! Up there on my roof, I quickly realized that I was risking the most precious gift of all, human life––my own, in fact––for the derisory joy that mother would gain after winning her title. The preposterousness of the whole situation sent me into a fit of palpable rage, which unconscionably led me to achieve the starkest erection I had ever yet mustered. Oh, but this vile planet and its god would make certain that it ended there, for I watched, in terror and ecstasy, as my bloated member seemed to distend beyond its venereal capacity. My eyes were not lying! When I felt as though I could stroke no further, my member, like a cartoon carrot, kept on growing. It grew and grew until, nestled in the clouds, I could see that it had begun to resemble the shape of a human. It had hefty pectorals, a bearded chin, and the ugliest mouth I had ever yet seen.

"For mother's cream!" the mouth shouted.

Was I hallucinating?

"Give me my jacket!" he cried. My jacket? What on earth was he talking about? And then I remembered: In my left hand was the tin foil, which I then began to unravel. Meanwhile, Tim, I was losing vast amounts of blood from my head, for my penis, had taken command of all my body's circulation. With a varicose hand, my newly transformed member snatched the foil away from me and, in seconds, fashioned himself a coat of armor. Throwing it on his fleshy, pink back, my gruesome friend extended his body toward the heavens and shook a mangled fist.

"IS THAT ALL YOU CAN MUSTER?!"

I couldn't take it anymore, Tim! The harrowing situation, my grotesque, anthropomorphic penis. It was all too much.

"Oh god," I yelled. "I'M GONNA FUCKING NUT!"

And before I could finish my sentence, a crack was heard and an impossibly harsh shard of lightning illuminated the sky before me. My alloy-coated penis, the sly bastard––he had attracted a bolt! Mother's cream would be saved! I heard cheers in the house below me, saw cherubs and centaurs half a world away, gleaming at me, calling me by name.  Tim, I had achieved Nirvana.

My pleasure, however, was short-lived, for my body, within a dram of seconds, was reduced to the size and substance of burnt toast. Despite this, in my last milliseconds of consciousness, I envisioned my mother standing on the winner's block at the fair, her pecan swirl ice cream held high above over her head.

I died with a smile on my charred and waning face.

Art by basper01

[deartimtheblog]

Ladies’ Night

Dear Tim, my charismatic, gregarious, outgoing friend,

I have generally avoided the bar as a place to seek romance. The immediate, shallow, self-gratifying lust cultivated within is not what I desire. The bar also requires a bit of social finesse and I am not a proficient conversationalist; I am prone to stuttering, shaking, and sweating when speaking to new people. I have exhausted all other modes of finding true love however and I am at my wits end. Thoroughly dissatisfied with my current prospects, I am willing to try anything that might show a hint of promise. So I set out on my own to chart unfamiliar territory.

The night was cool and comfortable as I strolled down the block to a nearby bar that I heard was popular among college seniors and recent graduates. In the otherwise dark, cloudless sky, the moon and stars shone brightly. I hoped it was a fortuitous sign for me. Nervous excitement built as I approached the entrance of the establishment.

After showing the stocky bouncer my ID, I entered and was immersed in a sea of air, muggy with sweat and body heat. Blaring dance music pounded my ear drums. I looked around at the patrons of the packed bar, mostly populated by provocatively dressed women with smatterings of tall, handsome men. What fortune Tim, tonight was ladies night. It appeared I had good odds as the ratio was in my favor, however upon seeing all these people I succumbed to my typical symptoms accompanying my social anxiety. Despite my feelings I strode on. I would not let this night result in failure.

I slowly and unsteadily made my way towards a group of girls near me. As I approached my heart raced, and my shaking increased accordingly. Only a foot away I was a sweaty, convulsing epileptic. 

“H-H-H-Helllllo,” I stammered barely above a whisper.

Nobody in the group heard me. Disheartened, I sulked away from them. Glancing around I noticed the bar counter in the center. Individuals were sauntering up to it laying down their cash for cold libation. Of course, Tim! The key ingredient I had been missing: the great social lubricant! Hopeful, I slipped through to the counter. After 30 minutes of trying to get the bartenders attention I was noticed and ordered a shot. I downed it quickly, suppressing my gagging at the unexpected noxious taste, so that I might get back to the task at hand. I had no time to waste.

My next few attempts went as before, pathetically. So I decided I required more drink. I reordered from the bartender and this time purchased a beer to wash down the bitter, unfamiliar taste. I opted to open a tab since I did not know how much of this elixir I would need but I could feel my confidence rising.

I turned around and spied a gorgeous golden haired vixen in a tight black top just several feet away from me with her girlfriends. She withdrew from the communal conversation to text on her phone. My window of opportunity had opened. So I walked over to her and tried not to overthink my opening line.

“Hey how’s it going?” Perfect! Nice and simple, the alcohol must be working.

“Oh... Hi. It’s going alright. What’s up with you?” she responded politely enough.

Oh shit. Throwing the ball right back, OK. It is in your court, you’ve got this. “Oh I don’t know, just decided to head here tonight, see what people get up to in here. Just one of those nights.”

“That’s cool. Did you come with friends?”

“Nope just by myself.” Shit, I look like a creep.

“Riding solo. Very brave.”

Oh...She digs it. Hell yea I’m fucking brave. “Oh you know, just one of those nights.” I already said that. Say something else quick. “Are you single?” FUCK

“Sorry no, I have a boyfriend actually...”

A boyfriend? She is clearly lying, why would she be here if she was indeed in a relationship? Are we not all here to find someone to go back home with?

I felt my heart sink into my stomach. This was a terrible loss. I could not bear the shame, I needed to exit the conversation but not before speaking my heavily air-quoted peace.

“Ohhhhh, that’s nice. Since you’re sooo attractive I’m sure your “boyfriend” is very fond of you. I’m soooo jealous. So jealous that I would very much enjoy hanging your “boyfriend” upside down, slitting your “boyfriend’s” throat, and watching your “boyfriend” bleed out. Have a great night.”

I stormed away and ordered three more drinks. It did help numb the awful feeling left from my rejection. This was a serious blow to my confidence, but, for better or worse, I was not ready to give up yet. 

After several more failed attempts and many more drinks I was undeniably drunk. I was growing weary of this endeavor and feeling put down. By now the feelings of humiliation had increased so that I was becoming sexually aroused. It gave me the motivation for one last try. 

Leaning on the the counter I slid over to the nearest young lady. In my state at the time, I considered her beautiful, but I am uncertain as to whether this was actually the case. My was arm stretched out before me along the countertop, I was slouched forward, my face almost touching its surface, staring at the back of my targets head, breathing heavily and laboriously only inches away. I grinned at her, waiting for her to notice me as I bided my time to muster up courage, and the balance required to stand.

"Um... Can I help you?”

Can I help you? “Can I help you?” she asks!? I’m just here trying to start a nice conversation, maybe meet a nice girl. You don’t need to condescend to me bitch!

“F-f-f-f-f-f-f-f FUCK YOU!” I screamed as I grabbed my beer bottle and stumbled off towards the bathroom.

At the urinal I was losing it. This had been the last straw. As I slammed my head against the tile wall, I asked myself, was it me or them? Am I no good, destined to live and die alone? Or are woman a terrible gender of people, who enjoy ignoring nice guys like me? I continued slamming my head as blood blotched the tile and I heard my skull crack as I realized the latter must be case.

As my abject dejection transformed into enthusiastic rage I was inspired. I quit brutally mutilating my forehead and slipped my dick into my pants, ignoring the realization that I was not quite finished urinating. I exited the bathroom and walked back into the bar.

In the middle of the room I noticed a billiards table that would make for an excellent podium. I climbed up on it and proceeded to make my address.

“I-I have something I’d like to s-s-s-say,” I said.

Some people nearby heard me or at least noticed that a drunk, sweaty, bleeding man standing on the pool table in the middle of a crowded bar, but for most my voice was drowned in the general clamor of the bar and they kept going about their night.

I reversed my grip on the bottle I was holding and flung it at the wall. It shattered piercingly.

“H-Hey, listen up f-f-f-f-f-f-fuckers, I said I have something to say!” This certainly got their attention. The bartender picked up the phone to call the police. Although unable to stand or look quite straight I began my teary-eyed speech.

“T-tonight I came out to this bar to meet a nice womun. She didn’t haf to come home with me. I didn’t wan sex. But you allusumed I did! I just wanted to meet someone new ‘cause I’m s’lonely. And you treated me like shit... you.... you b-b-b-b-bitches! An I couldn take anymore without...”

“Hey, who is this drunk stuttering asshole?!” a fraternity brother interrupted, his arm slung around a buxom blonde. 

“Is that pee on your pants faggot?” someone else shouted

The crowd erupted into booing, laughing, and jeering, throwing half-finished bottles and glasses at me. I had never been so humiliated. The shame was so great that even through my inebriation I found it uncomfortably arousing. I basked in it. I closed my eyes, raised my arms at my sides and let the booze rain down upon me.

“Ew what the FUCK?!”

“Oh my God, what a fucking perv!”

People stopped pelting me with their unfinished beverages. I was curious as to why their ridicule had turned to disgust. I looked down and saw the culprit. After leaving the bathroom I had forgotten to zip up my fly! A critical error. Due to the humiliation and shame amounting throughout the night I now had a massive, throbbing erection.

At first, I experienced more embarrassment but this only turned me on further. A crooked smile graced my face and a burning desire glowed in my crossed eyes. Never had I been more humiliated, but never had I been more turned on either, Tim! At least I could try to get some gratification out of the night! I gripped my red, veiny penis and started energetically stroking it right then and there, standing atop the table.

The bar resonated with frightened shouts and screams. Some ran out of the bar while others looked on in horror as I furiously continued.

Soon the door burst open and in stormed several policemen. Upon realizing what I was doing they aimed their firearms at me.

“Freeze! Stop what you are doing and put your hands in the air!”

Continuing to masturbate, I raised my free hand.

“Both hands where we can see them!” one commanded.

“One... second!” I replied, not changing my course of action.

“I said put your hands up!”

But I was so close, Tim! I was struggling desperately to reach orgasm. If not for all my imbibing I would have had released my ejaculate long ago. I would not end this night unsatisfied.

“I said hands up!”

I could not stop now. I just needed a little more time.

“Open fire!”

The boys in blue each fired multiple shots at me; bullets ripping holes open in my torso, intestines, and throat and tearing gruesome exit wounds. The force of the blasts took me airborne and knocked me off my podium. I landed hard on the floor gasping and gurgling as I strained for breath. I could feel the intense pain as my collapsed lungs tried to suck in air through the holes in my chest. My mouth rapidly filled up with blood which streamed down my cheeks. I was choking on it. A red pool spread about me.

The physical pain was nearly unbearable but more so was the mental anguish as I thought of my original intention this night and how it drastically became dour. Perhaps this was a better fate than living a life devoid of romantic love. I soon succumbed to the loss of blood, but I never relinquished my grip on my dry penis.

Artwork by basper01

[deartimtheblog]

A Metropolitan Malady

Oh how I envy thee, Tim, spitting picture of human health, my vigorous Vitruvian man!

If you follow the news at all you may recall the horrifying stories of the terrible threat to human health from just a few short months ago. Of course, I refer to the recent onslaught of the Ebola virus on the American public. I, like many, feared for my health after hearing talking head after talking head claim that this incredibly contagious disease would spread all over the United States – a biblical plague of sorts that would claim countless lives. As a genuine germaphobe, I panicked Tim! I did not want to succumb to the fate of this deadly sickness.

When the stories of Ebola making passage from Africa to the United States began circulating I started having bouts of anxiety. At night I would lie awake crying and worrying about the inevitability of contracting this deleterious disease. By day my wonderful city had become a living nightmare. My commute by subway was a veritable hell. Every stray cough, every innocent sniffle sent my heart into palpitations. Any one of the myriad passerby could have been a carrier. Eventually, it came out that someone in this over-crowded metropolis had started showing symptoms. I developed panic attacks. My constant state of fear continued for several days until my sleep-deprived mind came up with the perfect plan.

That night I snuck into the city medical research center. Surprisingly, security was virtually non-existent. I ran around the back of the building, lifted up a window, and broke in with ease. It was quite dark so I rolled up the front of my ski mask and turned on my flash light. The light projected on a large stainless steel freezer directly in front of me. I approached and opened the door. As the sublimated vapor cascaded down I saw row after row of labeled vial. As luck would have it Tim, I had found exactly what I was looking for! The glass containers were individually labelled. My gloved finger underlined the printed names: HPV, hepatitis B, smallpox, rubella… AHA! Ebola! I seized the vial and several others and shoved them in my leather jacket. I closed the door and quietly made my way out leaving no trace.

I let myself into my small, disheveled apartment and undressed. I opened and placed the lifted vials on my windowsill. The intention was to expose these contained disease samples to the elements, thereby weakening them. I originally meant to immunize myself to Ebola but I figured, why not be immune to every virus I could get my hands on? I was ecstatic! Ebullient about my impending immunity to Ebola and the other deadly viruses. It was only one more fitful, sleepless night until I would be safe. This time, however, my sleeplessness was due to my ardent anticipation rather than my previous anxious apprehension.

My alarm rang at 6 am. I shut it off and sprang up in my bed. I was ready. The vials sat behind me on my windowsill waiting to be prepared. I combined the now-powerless diseases in a small glass and stirred. My vaccine was complete. I grabbed my diabetic roommate’s syringe and a belt. I pulled the plunger to draw the concoction into the syringe. To make sure there were no air pockets, I squirted a short stream of the fluid back into the glass. I wrapped the belt around my arm just above the elbow and passed the end through the buckle. Holding the end with my teeth I tugged my head back to tighten the belt’s grip. My forearm quickly turned red as the veins rose to the surface. I eyed the syringe. Here it was before me, my life-saving vaccination. A mere moment stood between me and my immunity from terrible sickness. I thought of the awful medical companies, dragging their feet on developing a vaccination so that they might profit from an expensive price and high demand. I thought of the poor peons, pitiful plebeians of society, still weak and vulnerable to the rampaging disease terrorizing the country. I would no longer be one of them!

I forcefully drove the needle deep into my largest vein and jammed the plunger down. I mainlined it, Tim! I removed the syringe and checked the time: 6:15. Only 15 minutes had passed. There was still over an hour before I needed to get ready for work. At this point a wave of relaxation washed over me. All the worry was swept away and for the first time in many days, I felt at ease. I laid back down as sleep quickly caught hold of me.

I slowly opened my eyes and picked my watch off the dresser. 9:30 AM. I cussed loudly. Nearly a week of restless nights had caused me to oversleep and I was now late for work. Having little time, I performed a minimal morning routine and bolted out the door. I scrambled down the stairs and sprinted along the sidewalk.

In my haste I did not notice a uncomfortable and sickly feeling until I reached the subway platform. Passing it off as typical minor symptoms from this morning’s inoculation, I confidently entered the subway car.

The subway was densely packed. I shuffled my way around passengers, bags, and strollers to the end of the car. The door closed and I felt my temperature rise. The crowd swayed as the train jostled forward. As we approached the next stop, I was saddled by nausea. Disturbingly, more passengers shoved their way onto the already burdened train. At this point I felt a warm wetness spread over my arm. Looking at my shirtsleeve, I saw blood seeping through nearly my entire arm’s worth of material. I rolled back my cuff to a gruesome sight.

The injection point on my arm still had not healed and was continuously bleeding down my forearm. The raised skin surrounding the mouth of the stream was pale green and yellow and was smeared with the grease of pus. This was not good. I rolled the sleeve back down. Removing my handkerchief, I stifled a cough. Then another. Then another. I was racked by coughs for a minute straight. Each successive cough was deeper and hoarser than the last. My handkerchief was filled with saliva and mucus. I wiped my nose which had started to run. There was now a red streak in the fabric where the handkerchief had touched my nose.

I hoped this was the extent of my display of symptoms. This was an express line and we were only one quarter of the way between the previous stop and the next. To my dismay, I began sneezing thunderous, strident, vulgar sneezes. These drew the train’s attention to me. My handkerchief could not contain the blows. People around me had snot and blood sprayed in their unexpecting faces. Many expressed their discontent. I prayed they would not also notice the vile scent I silently let enter the cabin from within me. I tried to apologize but every time I opened my mouth my nausea leapt up into my throat.

“I’m sor… I’m sorr… I’m sorry…”

I barely managed my apology before spewing a torrent of vomit into a stroller that happened to be facing me. Covered in putrid brown slop, the sleeping baby inside started awake and began crying for its mother but was silenced by a second puke tsunami. Clamor in the car exploded with shouts and cries directed at me. My throat was swollen and I could not speak in my defense and explain how my attempt to become the healthiest man had horribly backfired. 

Soon, I could not register the other passengers’ screams as an overwhelming sensation in my bowels had seized my attention. My knees buckled and I hunched over. I urgently needed to get off the train. Looking up I noticed the emergency brake cord hanging on the wall right in front of me. Wanting to stop the train so that I might exit it, I reached up and pulled. The train halted to a stop causing the riders to tumble in domino fashion. My vomit and blood covered frame was thrown atop a mess of people. Try as I might, I could not help but continue to cough, sneeze, and vomit on all of them.

I crawled over body and limb to the door but it was still shut, illuminated only from with in the subway car. Confused, I slowly realized my folly. Pulling the emergency brake had caused the train to stop, as intended, albeit halfway between stations! There was no viable exit for anyone! The unlucky passengers in this car were now trapped in here with me, the infected, destined to contract any of the several random viruses ailing me.

“What have you done?!” one man howled.

More and more chimed in as I sat slumped against the exit of the car, wheezing, enduring the barrage of accusations. Their words became white noise to me as the pain in my bowels reached its zenith. I vociferously released a voluminous amount of stinky, sloppy stool. Directly, I vomited in my lap and passed out.

Two days later, I came to in this very hospital room I write you from today, sectioned off in its very own quarantined ward. For the past month my only visitors have been doctors and nurses in hazmat suits. I eventually learned that everyone riding with me that morning had contracted at least one disease. Some, like me, were in critical condition. Apparently, I reintroduced some viruses long eradicated from the western world. 

As for me, my diagnosis was bleak. The doctors said they are surprised I have made it this long but they are certain I will die soon. My symptoms have not abated at all since my eventful subway ride; I have been suffering ever since. Unfortunately, my body still clings to life.  However, during brief respites from my bodily spasms, I do find time to laugh. Laugh at the joke that has become my life. I only wanted to be healthy, Tim, and free of fear. Was that too much to ask for?

Artwork by basper01

[deartimtheblog]

A Very Fecal Matter

**Oh, sweet coils of the rectum's repose, how they slander and speak ills of you, guffawing at your fetid being, as if they could not know what I know: that you are one of the body's most sacred of secretions**

Tim, have I not yet divulged to you, my love, my love for excrement? No? Allow me begin my digestion digression.

It was an unseasonably warm Spring day at the office, whose presiding energy provider had not yet let loose the air of artificial cooling. Even before entering the building’s second floor expanse, I scoped out the secretaries who were fanning at themselves with back issues of the company's magazine. I looked down at my sleeves and winced. Why today had I chosen the route of cool autumn sweater?  What lay ahead of me on that day was much worse than my sartorial blunder. In fact, a complete disaster was in store.. But alas, I am jumping the gun. Let me recount the events of the previous night.

Midnight. Sweet Jonathan is asleep between his sheets; I am on the prowl for a late night meal. I tiptoe past the man’s bed and high-step it to the kitchen. The light above the refrigerator is emanating like a homing beacon; I am a bird. Smooth touch of silk, my hand to the fridge, but much to my displeasure, something was out of sync. All of the food––the eggs, milk, cheese, the seasonal fruit tray––they had all gone bad. I was dumbfounded. Who had snuck in and unplugged my fridge? Then it hit me. The electric bill! I had forgotten to pay it! Drat! I thought. This time, the threats from the company had come through. No running water, no light, no power, and worst of all, no fuss.

I was sitting on my bed, staring into my hands as if between the cracks and veins of my flesh, answers would appear. None such surfaced, and I was growing hungry. The supermarkets were closed, the bars had shut down; even the convenience stores had called it a night. Where's a guy supposed to grab a bite? That is when I heard a gurgle in my gastro, felt the hot pain of shifting bowels. Tim, I needed to defecate, but this time, I needed it more than I thought.

Rushing to the toilet, I let slither every messy goopy inch of waste from my anus. The smell, which I had grown to ignore and even appreciate, suddenly seemed different. Was that the succulent stench of barbecue in the air? Had mom just prepared her house-famous meatloaf? No, I thought, get it together. And right when I thought I would have a shift in perspectives, my stomach screeched its greatest gurgle, proclaiming its hunger, which sent me diving into the toilet in search of every piece of feces I could find.

Tim, have you ever seen a man dive into a dumpster and thought to yourself, Poor guy. He's got bad luck, but luckily that luck isn't mine. I had become that man. My mouth agape like a hunting piranha, I entered the dank water with a splash, quickly gobbling down the grittiest chunks of gastric meat I could find. 

"Bingo!" I squealed, and lashed my teeth into what looked like two beans kicking back on a fat ugly log. At that point, I was met with an ultimatum: Do I treat this meal how I treat every meal: with respect, admiration, and enjoyment? Or do I just get it over with, like my nightly romp in the sack with my bony and miserable girlfriend? Nay. I sought to savor, and savor I did. With every clench of my jaw, I imagined that the self-sewage I was sucking down was a beef stew, Jamaican style, from that place in the East Village with the dementia-stricken owner, and his granddaughter, the bartender with a rack like a watermelon patch. 

With every slurp of my tongue, I pretended I was gliding across an ice cream cone, like from that old-fashioned soda shop in Queens. If you tip the soda jerks the right way, they'll shoot chocolate syrup into your mouth free of charge. Oh Tim, I was doing that here!

Good lord, I tasted every pleasurable bliss imaginable. So much so that I found that I had far past sated my hunger. Licking my chops, I felt the oncoming of a belch, to where I subsequently vomited every bit of what I just had eaten back into the toilet. A true miracle, I thought. The remnants in the toilet, my hunger still not quenched. Tim, my food had just gone completely full circle! I threw a great party to celebrate my glee, which entailed me dousing myself with enough champagne to lubricate a nunnery. Jon took a picture and put it on Snapchat.

*****

I thought this would be a topic with which more of you could empathize. Upon reading this, I realized that not many of you have never eaten your own feces, nor would you think to write about the event.

 Let me be the first. But let me not be the last.

Oh yeah, the reason why I brought up the hot day in the office. That next morning, I managed to find a floater in the can. I quickly toasted bread, spread on some mayo, hunked a slab o’ bacon on top, and slid my little ol’ poo between the buns. Lunch was swell.

basper01 made the cool artwork to accompany the story. Follow his blog

[deartimtheblog]

Fruit of the Loom

O Tim, my dearest friend and confidant,

Does my depravity know no bounds? Catching wind of an upcoming renaissance fair, and wishing to pursue my fascination with the medieval and morose, I purchased a ticket, thereafter booking a hotel and purchasing my garb. Tim, I was going to be a court jester, parading my nature in front of a greater audience!  Oh, what a day it would be!  Full of merriment and jest, I was certain. Alas, my dear friend, the greatest of pleasures was not yet to come during the day’s festivities, rather at night––in the darkness of my lodgings.

I woke up alarmed. I did not know what was happening at first, as the room was lit only by the dimness of light emanating from several ornate candelabras. Curiously enough, I found that I could not move, and as my eyes began to adjust to the dingy chamber, I realized that my hands and legs were bound to the bed's headboard. To my left, a morbidly obese man––five or six hundred pounds––was placed at a weaving loom, wearing a bonnet and maid’s outfit. Upon seeing me stir, he held a finger to his lips, then began to spin the loom, humming idly to himself all the while. Concurrently, I began to feel a strange tugging between my legs. As I craned my neck to watch the debacle, I noticed, much to my shock, that the loom's weave was tied around my testicles!

Oh Tim, how I felt! A mixture of pain and fear––the excitement of the unknown!  Alas, my clear state of mind was not to linger, for as the man continued to weave, the tension in my nether parts began to increase, forcing my testicles into a full rotation until they fell back into place, albeit complete with a twisted spermatic cord.  A searing pain again tore through my body, for as the loom continued to rotate, the fat man still humming, the spins flushed blood into my penis, which began to swell to its full erect length. That was when I felt it: The irreversible twist of my gonads!

Tim, what pain, what pleasure I felt!  My penis grew more erect than I had previously thought possible. This, however, came at a price, for my jewels began to turn a sickly shade of purple.  I could only imagine how the varicose veins and inguinal cords, honed by millions of years of evolution, were being destroyed, thus becoming contorted into new shapes, much like balloon animals at a child’s birthday party. I could feel them being pulled around and then slipping back into place. No doubt as a consequence of irreversible genital damage, my penis began to weep blood, both from its tip and from the hair follicles, creating pinpricks of metallic red along my genital shaft. Oh Tim, such agony! Yet despite this, I could feel a warmth burgeoning in my abdomen; climax was near.

Like sprinklers on a hot summer day, the veins on my testicles and penis shaft began to spray blood all over my bed and body. I cheered in both ecstasy and terror, for I could see my weaving compatriot had sprouted an erection as well––and despite his limitations as a member of the male sex–– began erupting in what seemed to be an endless sequence of orgasms. Watching his semen seep through his maid's outfit sent me into a violent fit of passion, for my artificially engorged penis, engulfed in the blaze of sensual conflagration, began to spew blood and semen in unutterable volumes all over my broken and writhing body. I bit my lip like it were a prime cut of sirloin; alas Tim, the face of orgasm had reared its vicious head!

But all was not as well as it seemed, for the combination of pus, blood, and semen seemed to have morphed into an acidic solution; the fluid that spurted into the air came down upon my eyes, searing them into a pitiful nothing. The world went black, and as I felt my eyes dissolve in their sockets, I couldn't help but imagine that the juice running down the sides of my face made me resemble a mockery of the Michelangelo's Veiled Virgin. Tim, I had done it! I had become the court jester that I sought out to be!

With a pop and pip, I heard and felt my penis and testicles rupture, exploding and dissolving into the bed, once my safe haven, now my personal hell.  In the lapses of space between my own screams, I could hear the belabored breaths of my obese weaver moving closer, then closer. Closer until I could feel the fetid heat from his body just inches from my own. Out of nowhere, a spray of viscous fluid coated my face. Oh, the bitter pits of depravity, this man had just used me as his carnal canvas! The river of his spurting semen met my own stream of tears and formed a delta of dolor that rushed down my cheeks and neck. Inexplicably, I felt my lips curl into a smile, for even though I was dismembered and had lost my vision, my goal was met. I had roused the court. I had made someone's day. The thought lulled me into a deep and placid slumber. I was a latter day sleeping beauty.

Thanks basper01 for the artwork

[fjordsreview]

Shoutout to our friends at deartimtheblog who we met at AWP last month! Everyone follow them! 

[deartimtheblog]

Genital Traffic or the Proper Use of a Morning Commute

Oh Tim, wretched wonder, inspiration for all that is sacrosanct: 

Today has been pleasant. Today I have come to understand the gift of life. 

It was a Thursday morning like any other. I got out of bed, poured coffee down my gullet, and headed to work. Traffic was hell and the sun was blistering, but oh, after having remembered what I had witnessed yesterday––a beautiful being crawl out of the cavernous vehicle that drives my spermatozoa to terrible places––I couldn't help but think naughty things. Thus, at a standstill on 46-West near Lodi, I whipped my prick out and gave it a beating. Christ, a real Irish flogging it was. Within seconds however, I regretted this action, for a hot day paired with a black car and leather seats does little for even the most Arctic of imaginations. So I rolled down my window, and much to my displeasure, made eye contact with the beast of a woman next to me. Imagine if fifty years ago, The Evil Grimace copulated with an oversized Humpty Dumpty and had a daughter. Tim, this was that woman. I tried to turn away, really, I did, but my eyes were glued to her flesh like flies to a screen door in summer.

"Fuck you!" I shouted, mostly at myself. 

The woman flipped me the bird, to which I screamed, "YEAH? Shove it up my ass!" 

And this is where things got a bit fuzzy. You see, I express myself in figures of speech, and metaphors often elude the body, but this body, this mess of a woman, she simply did not speak my language. And so, in the summer heat out on that freeway, that woman got out of her car and stormed my own, kicking frantically at the door.

 "Let me in ya fucking scag!" she squealed.

 "Lady, it's eight-thousand blasphemous degrees in here!" 

My dick was still in my hand, mind you, almost melting into my palm. Yet because I was severely dehydrated, enough to turn my brain into mush, I thought it best to flick open the lock and invite this creature inside.

Tim, have you ever let hamburger meat sit out for two weeks? Neither have I, but if you’d like to use your imagination, be my guest. Any luck? Well, whatever your olfactory has conjured would not smell nearly as bad as the woman beside me. To make matters worse, she belted out a terrific fart before plopping down. 

 "Sorry. That was the seat." 

 "Like hell it was!" I shouted. "Get out, you fat fucking sow!" 

And then, in a paroxysm of passion, as if my horrible words had awoken in this woman feelings anew to her heart and genitals, she grabbed my penis and gripped like no preceding woman had before. Suddenly, I found myself on the planet that exists between ecstasy and agony, and only in that moment was I able to fathom what it would be like to give birth: the disparity, the juxtaposition––the pleasures of providing life and the pain that comes with doing so. How the Earth shook for me that morning! How vividly I pictured my sweet beautiful roommate yanking his newborn child from his girlfriend's vagina! You're an uncle now, he told me, placing the spawn in my shaking arms. A human life will look up to you. 

Me? I thought. It felt as though a building had been thrown atop my shoulders. The mistakes I've made, the irrevocable decisions that have led me to this place in my life. Tim, there was no way I could assume the responsibilities necessary in being an uncle, and no friend nor child nor tale of woe would ever be able to instruct me how to do so.

Meanwhile, I began to notice that the temperature in the car, if possible, had risen––and my erection had followed suit. How could I have yearned for anything in this moment? And how could I have been attracted to this heap-pile of a woman? Good lord, her teeth were mangled like a barbed wire fence; her hair looked as though someone had defecated atop a bowl of spaghetti and stomped on it. And that awful stench? Think a diaper filled with every vegetable you've ever hated––left out in the sun for a week.

It was here, Tim, in the purgatory of pain and passion, where it hit me. Would the only thing to ever bring me true, unfettered bliss be the pleasure I derived from my own misery? For twenty-three years, I had coveted only beautiful things: prizes, accolades, desserts, women. And my roommate, my best friend, the man whose planet seemed to orbit around my my body, had just created life! I began to weep for all I could not understand. How was it possible that these things could not bring me happiness, and yet his woman, this aged brute of a lawn gnome––the most hellish creature I have yet to encounter––could propel my penis skyward and beyond? In fact, I thought the damned organ was going to explode, for it was stark, vascular, and (unlike my future) pulsing with promise.

"Swallow my load!" I shouted, though I wanted to say, you're an abomination to cows everywhere. 

"Harder!" I squealed, when I meant to utter, Stop. Please, God. Stop.

"I’M GONNA FUCKING NUT!" I screeched, when I--actually, yeah; I meant that one.

And nut I did, Tim. I nutted for all the people in the world who are living the lie they tell themselves: the lie that one day, happiness will show up on their doorstep wearing a white blouse and a short blue skirt; that happiness has two cars, 2.5 kids, a house in the suburbs and a life he hates coming home to. I thought about all my friends, the young and the old, the educated and the more educated. What for? If we craft our lives around an idea of absolution may never surface, what else is there to do in life but nut? And so, in that melt of a Hell I call my car, I gripped the steering wheel and spewed my miserable medley into the woman’s vacuous mouth. Before she could digest my goop, however, she pulled me in for a big sloppy kiss, where I ended up swallowing 100,000, if not more, of my unborn children. 

Tim, I am an uncle, but let me never be a father.

Artwork by basper01

[deartimtheblog]

Assessing One of Life’s Crossroads in the Snowy Woods on a Winter's Evening

Dearest Tim,

My fellow solitudinous traveller of harmonious soul. I write you from next to that crackling fireplace which resides within my rustic wooden cabin having just returned from a long walk in the surrounding woods. Confident of a well-stocked woodpile, the fire is fueled more than adequately and I feel nary a shiver upon me. A lone melted stump of dribbling wax emanates flickering light upon the wooden boards of these walls and allows me to distinguish the markings made on the paper by my pen.

I have felt my life coming to a crossroads, Tim. Seeking pleasure without heed or empathy has been a true, unimaginable joy for me but my calling has hurt myself and countless others. I am but completely alienated from any other being. More than that, I can feel the enterprise wearing thin. It is simply not the same fun it used to be. Is it possible, Tim, that my exploits of depravity could be behind me?  So I journeyed up to this isolated abode to think and reflect on this portentous time in my life.

During the aforementioned walk from the shack the crunch of snow escaped from my snowshoes with each depression. Looking back, the brown cabin and the plumes of smoke billowing from its chimney stood against a background of countless gray trees. The 30 feet between the cabin and me was a stark white expanse marred only by my shoe prints. To the right of the cabin lied a lake extending 100 yards covered in a smooth sheet of dark ice. The evening sun was descending behind trees at the far end of the pool scattering dazzling pinks and blues among the trees and reflecting on the ice. The scene was quite placid. The corners of my eyes wrinkled as I succumbed to the beauty. The exhale that accompanied my pleasurable sigh condensed before me in a smokey white cloud. I do not venture here often, Tim, but sometimes this feels as though my true home. I never regret keeping this little slice of nature. The clarity of mind experienced during these long walks has been invaluable.

Turning, I made my way into the woods and was enveloped by trees. They cast long shadows all about the otherwise blank blanketed ground. The light blocked by the many arms and branches outlined upon the floor of the woods an interconnected highway of numerous crisscrossing paths. I trod upon the snow making my way further into the wooded area. Looking out through the leafless trees I spied a grey mass congregating in the sky before me and quickly making its way west. I knew not what these clouds foreboded, I would have to cut this wintry trek short. 

I wandered about in the forest contemplating life, and my current dilemma. It was hard to believe that all of it could be behind me, Tim. What once felt like my true calling had grown stale. It felt trite and derivative now but what would I do with myself? Would I pick up some pointless hobby or dedicate myself to an insignificant job? I did not think I could ever find purpose in another pursuit.

Movement several paces ahead of me distracted me from these thoughts. A jack rabbit had scampered before me. I stopped so as not to scare it off. Sensing a presence, the lone creature paused to look around on its hind legs. Thankfully, I was downwind, the rabbit would not catch my scent. Truly a beauty, she had shaken her dull brown fur off months ago to reveal a coat of resplendent alabaster to mimic the snowy landscape. I remained in place to admire her but, suddenly, a white blur descended upon the bunny and made off with her. The rabbit was gone, a few specks of blood were all that was left behind.

As I approached the spot where the adorable little critter once stood I noticed more red specks contrast with the pale ground. They made a trail of sorts and I endeavored to follow it in order to discover the fate of this unlucky animal. All the while, the sky was getting darker. The trail lead to a large circle of blood next to a large tree. The blood was trickling down from a branch 20 ft overhead. Upon the branch a snowy owl looked up from his meal and spun his head round to look at me. With a beak covered in blood, his cold, empty, uncaring eyes met mine and a chill ran through my body. We stood staring at each other thus for five minutes.

This brief moment seemed to last ages. I sensed there must be some greater meaning in this scene and then it hit me. This bird was not acting out of some insignificant feeling like pleasure, desire, or anger. This was what the owl did and would continue to do until it died. This was who the owl was. He did not spend hours awake at night pondering his true calling, he did what was in his nature. I felt that clarity which I had long sought and desired to break the silence.

“We are the very same!” I ejaculated

Startled by my eruption, the owl flew off, leaving his meal to fall from the branch. By now the sky had become completely covered by cloud and the first flurries had begun to fall. I approached the corpse of the rabbit and knelt down near it. The owl’s talon had sliced her belly open, the blues and purples of her entrails were sprawled about in the red before her. Steam rose from the gaping mortal wound. Her foot twitched and light, irregular breaths escaped from her. The rabbit’s eyes gazed vacantly into space. I reached out and cradled her small head in the palm of my hand. With the other, I gripped her just below the neck and with a sharp twist of both hands in opposite directions, a glorious snap punctuated the end of her life. I rose.

By now the snow was falling heavily and I started to hike back to the cabin. I routinely blinked to allay my lashes from the building weight of falling flakes. The snow fell upon and dampened my grey flecked hair. I pulled up the fur lined hood of my hide skin coat. 

This trip has done me good. I came asking questions and I leave with them all answered. It did not matter that my activities do not bring me the same joy that they had previously. This is who I am. To deny it would be to deny my true nature and my own life. Rest easy, Tim. I assure you, you will be hearing from me again very soon.

Artwork by basper01

[deartimtheblog]

The Great White North

Dear Tim,

Oh, what fresh hell is this? What new plagues have been brought forth upon me? It has been at least thrice a fortnight since last you have received my correspondence, and woe, Tim, woe is me, for I fear I have reached my lowest.

My various indiscretions at home were beginning to weigh on me, so I decided to pack up and move somewhere remote––somewhere no one would find me: a place where I could be another anonymous cog in the hellish machinery that is the crucible of all mankind. Thus, it was with great apprehension that I boarded a plane to Alaska. I knew nothing about the wilderness nor the unsullied country that I would soon call home, but I also realized that no one would know me. Upon disembarking from the plane, I strode along the permafrost until I caught a bus that ferried me to the center of town, which was small, brown and frozen––much like a dog’s feces left in a backyard on a cold winter night. I spied a bar, stepped inside, and went straight to the bartender, whom I asked if any jobs were available. My life is over so I will do anything, I explained. He mentioned a logging corporation that was looking for scabs. There has been a strike, he said, and the company is eager for raw balls of clay to form into mountain men. I couldn’t believe my luck! Sans hesitation, and with a hearty flourish of my pen, I became a mountaineer. Oh Tim, I had a purpose once again!

The first day was a doozy. I met so many wonderful people and quickly became the talk of the town: the veritable toast of my newfound arctic paradise. Jonah, a bear of a man, wrists as thick as a faggot of sticks, was who I would call boss. He was rough toward me at first, but as the day wore on, I had cemented myself as his right-hand man. Around evening time, Jonah and I got called away on a special assignment, where we were told it would be our job to cut down a massive redwood tree, the crown jewel of the Alaskan forest. So big this specimen was, Tim! So big that perhaps not even a football team could link hands and cover its circumference.

Jonah wasted no time. He went to the truck and brought me a chainsaw, and, after issuing a wink, began to go to town on the tree with his own sawed chain, taking frenzied glee in every ounce of wood pulp produced by its roaring machinery. I looked down at my herbicidal instrument, hit the primer, and pulled the starter cord. Soon I possessed a pulsing, throbbing agent of destruction. I revved it up, and the saw soon began tearing into the redwood like an orphan tearing into presents at Christmas. After mere minutes, the tree was quivering; it was ready to fall. Stand clear! Jonah shouted, afterward instructing me that he would direct the redwood’s descent, in an effort to preserve the delicate balance of birth and destruction that this company had worked hard to cultivate. Tim, I will be blunt with you: I was having none of this.

As Jonah turned his back to adjust his belt, I saw the redwood swaying; its snaps and pops could be heard from all forty-nine distant states. I sidled behind the tree, pressed with all of my might, and watched as the mammoth began to topple. So tall, so top-heavy, it teetered and fell with cacophonous crash, eventually finding its resting place on the earth. Jonah, of course, was crushed, killed instantaneously. He had only been good to me, but alas Tim, I must sow destruction wherever I go, for it is in my blood; my psyche feeds off it. So, I hoisted myself up onto the trunk of the tree. The forest seemed thin to the south. I noticed that the mountain was steeper in that direction as well. Oh, Tim, it was then that a nefarious bird laid a truly evil egg in my mind. It took but a look down the mountain and a glance at the wisps of the industrious town’s smoke below to incubate that egg, where it soon hatched into a moist, murderous fowl.

I hopped off the trunk of the tree and took in the spectacle: a truly massive trunk, but cylindrical––perfect for rolling. I found the appropriate spot and pushed, pushed, and pushed some more. Tim, have you ever had an eyeball bulge from straining so hard? I have. In fact, at that moment, my left eye became completely disjointed from its socket. However, l still continued to push. Meanwhile, a huge and expectant boner arose in my corduroys; and appropriately, the tree trunk began to shift, the shifting was begat by rolling. to which I trotted underneath. There was a sharp drop-off––a cliff, if you will–– about sixty or seventy feet ahead. I lunged with perseverance and hopped atop the rolling death machine. And glorious Tim, how resplendent I did look! Keeping my pace on top of that log, I could see the town in the distance. Its petty, framed buildings were begging for some kind of splintery payoff. The wheel of wooden doom began to speed up. I fought valiantly to keep pace, sprinting as fast as I could to maintain my body the crest of the crushing wood-valanche. 

As my phallus personified made its way down the mountain, numerous mud slides––the product of years of logging and insufficient replacement planting––began to form. These huge earthly tears also started speeding down the mountain towards the town. Closer and closer, my death dealing sycophants rumbled toward the hamlet, and with a mighty and erogenous crash, they plundered and blundered into building after building! The mayor of the town (I later learned) was out strolling the promenade when a boulder thought itself to be a guillotine and sliced the man’s head clear off; the town apothecary was flattened like a panini by the rolling bulk of the felled redwood tree. The school, the pharmacy, the entire downtown strip was flattened, buried, decimated by the onslaught of boulders and gravel. I, still using the redwood as a treadmill, witnessed this devastation, this unheeded natural disaster, saw these people, their belongings, their whole livelihood destroyed in one fell swoop. The torture, the agony, the sheer suffering––Oh Tm! I’m not afraid to say it, I promptly came in my pants.

Artwork AND Story by basper01, a man of many talents. Check out his blog.

[deartimtheblog]

A New Friend

Dear Tim, my youthful friend and loyal companion,

You know of my many issues regarding depression and loneliness; not many are willing to associate with a deviant such as myself. My small talk soon turns inappropriate and the few chances I have had to open up to someone have resulted in yet another acquaintance distancing himself from me. So I decided to befriend a member of the canine persuasion. Something that could relieve me of my current sorrow. Something that would love me unconditionally without judgement of my bizarre preferences and pursuits.

I decided to rescue a dog rather than purchase one from a breeder. Perhaps I could offer it a better life than it may have suffered previously. I went to my local shelter to choose a suitable mate. I walked down the aisle of caged dogs and saw many abandoned and forgotten souls. I surely could sympathize. There were a variety of breeds, with varying dispositions. Only one could return home with me however so I searched for one I thought would yield a lasting friendship.

I passed by the crate of a small golden retriever puppy with a wagging tail and playful demeanor. He jumped at the sight of me and pressed against the bars of his cage so that I might pet him. I was taken by this adorable little hound. Originally adopted by a wealthy young family, he was given away after chewing up an expensive pair of the homemaker mother’s heels. I did not begrudge him this though, he knew not what he did. Young dogs are wont to destroy whatever they get their little mouths on. I knew I could train him. All that was required was a little patience. 

On the ride home my new friend was a bundle of energy. He so loved riding in the car he could hardly keep still. I nearly caused several accidents. Smiling with moist eyes I rolled down the window. Climbing up with his front paws he put his little head out into the breeze. Oh how he so endeared himself self to me. 

After arriving home I showed him the bed and toys I had bought for him. It was not long before the little menace shredded the toys into strips of fabric skin and clumps of cotton innards. Figuring he must be hungry, I made him bowls of kibble and water. He eagerly gobbled and lapped it all up. I gazed on my beautiful new pet. “What shall I name you my new wondrous joy?” I asked myself. I delighted in the presence of my new playmate for hours. The time flew by and I noticed how late it was. It was long past my usual bedtime and I had work the next day. I took the puppy to his new bed and soon after went bed myself. Before drifting off I whispered, “Perhaps I will think of the perfect name tomorrow.”

Upon returning from work the next day I was incredibly famished and somnolent, but I was surprised to find my home completely intact. Not a spot was soiled. My dog had the good sense and conscience to not desecrate his new abode. I was proud of my precocious pet. I let him outside to do his business. He finished quickly and was soon scratching at the sliding door to be let in. I received him and then fed him. For my own dinner I had brought home a massive burrito as I was incredibly hungry. Work was quite busy and I had not eaten all day. So I shoved my meal into my gaping maw rapidly. I finished the dense fare in well under five minutes and crumpled up the foil wrapper. I immediately regretted not pacing myself. Fullness set in and drowsiness quickly took over. The battle against my drooping eyelids was a losing one. I succumbed to my torpor as my ball of foil rolled out of my hand onto the floor.

A terrible retching sound woke me from my slumber. Looking round I noticed the time. I had napped for nearly two hours! I went to dispose of the garbage that remained from my dinner but it was nowhere to be found. I was distracted from my search by that same retching sound. I decided to investigate its origin. 

Stepping into my kitchen I noticed several pools of blood placed all over the floor. The sight caused a familiar feeling in my groin but it was soon outweighed by my concern for my little puppy for it was he who had caused the awful noise. He had vomited blood and was now covered in it. I went to soothe him but as I stooped nearer to the ground I noticed shiny bits and pieces among his chewed up chow on the floor. He had eaten the waste from my sumptuous meal! This was without a doubt the cause of my poor friend’s malady. Without further delay I called my vet and informed him of the situation.

“How long since he ate the aluminum foil?” he asked.

“I don’t know! It could be anywhere up to two hours!” I replied now in full tears.

“This is an emergency condition. How far are you from the office?”

“Over an hour away”

“If you wait that long I doubt your dog will make it. You have to induce vomiting. Try to get all the foil out at all costs. Then you can try and bring him in for treatment”

“At all costs…” I muttered, “I will do whatever it takes”

“Here’s what you need to…”

*Click*

I hung up the phone and turned back to my friend in need. There was no time to waste. He looked up at me clearly scared and confused. I was also but I had to be strong for both of us. I had to extricate the aluminum wrapper from my dog’s stomach. I kneeled down in a pool of bloody vomit and set to work. With one arm I cradled my dog’s head. With my free hand I opened the dog’s mouth. He easily submitted and allowed me to insert a finger to try and initiate his gag reflex. It was as though he understood my intentions and was putting his full trust in me. One finger was not triggering any gag reflex. I tried two. Nothing. Three. He vomited another small batch of brownish red bile. Clearly most of the foil was still in his system.

I searched my kitchen for an implement that would be suitable for vomit induction. Nothing had the correct dimensions to fit into his little mouth and still cause him to gag. I needed the proper length and girth. Then I got an idea. “No,” I said to myself, “I can’t do that to him. There has to be another way.” But I could think of no other way! I had already unzipped my pants and started rubbing the bloody vomit on my half-hard penis. I kneaded and the stroked my penis until it was a fully grown, beautiful erection. This was it. The perfect vomit-inducing instrument. I turned to my dog and looked into his frightened eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered into his furry little ear, “forgive me”

Again my puppy trustingly opened his mouth. I inserted my rock hard penis deep into his throat. Still no luck. Holding his ears for support, I rammed my rod as deep as I could over and over. I was determined. I was frantically thrusting, my whole body was shaking from exertion. The little guy let out muffled barks and grunts. At first my efforts seemed fruitless but I decided to plow on.  Inevitably, an oft encountered sensation was rising in me. I tried to push the sensation out of my mind. “Please God don’t let me ejaculate into the mouth of this dying animal,” I pleaded to the heavens. I closed my eyes and thought of all things chaste. Upon opening my eyes I saw the blood on the floor and completely lost all control. I orgasmed and released a torrent of semen into my hapless puppy. I cursed my lack of self control.

My ejaculation was not for naught it seemed. The pup finally started making gagging sounds. I ceased my assault on his esophagus. After much heaving he finally vomited up his hazardous meal. Out of his mouth spewed my ejaculate followed by the rest of the foil ball and more blood. I had done it. We were in the clear. My little guy had narrowly escaped death. I cried and embraced him. We could go to the hospital to assess the damage.

I got up to get my keys and when I came back my puppy was on his side. I scrambled over to him. His breathing was slow and labored. I checked his pulse. It was fading. It was too late, Tim, my new friend was dying!

I cradled him in my arms as I wept for his short life. Oh my sweet pup! Mon petit chien! What a good boy! He had not yet even a name. He had been my responsibility and my negligence had caused him untold suffering and pain. If only I had been more aware, more careful. His last memory would be me, his trusted owner, getting myself off by pummeling his little doggie esophagus with my engorged penis. Better to have let him die than to have defiled him so!

Thus it has occurred to me, Tim, that I am not destined for friendship. This is my condition and my curse.

Artwork by basper01

[deartimtheblog]

Vacation

Timothy, my long lost Timothy. Fret not, for I have returned for another tale.

I recount an argument from just a couple weeks ago during the bitter finale of January which led to my ultimate demise. My roommate, Scott, and I had been walking downtown to grab a burrito. Scott, red-nosed, visibly shivering, remarks, "Wish we went somewhere closer" I'd had enough. "Oh quit bitching for once." I continue, "It's not even that cold out." It was frigid. Scott guffaws and points to a nearby time and temperature sign. It was 11 degrees Fahrenheit. "So? I'm comfortable. The cold doesn't bother me." Scott, now thinking me as a showman, brushed this off and followed with "yeah right..." I was livid. We finished the walk in silence.

I didn't get a minute of sleep that night. I tossed and turned, kept awake in an ironically cold sweat. "That stupid little shit. He thinks the cold bothers me?" I had to prove him wrong. At 4:23am, brilliance had fallen unto me. I knew just how to show him. The excitement kept me eagerly awaiting sunrise.

Finally, morning. "Hey Scott..." Scott turns, "yeah?". "Remember our fight last night?" I inquire. Scott looks confused. "Uhh what?" He had thrown me for a loop. Scott seemingly forgot our quarrel which had quietly set me off. "Yeah," I responded, "When you didn't think I could handle the cold". It was starting to come back to him. "Oh kinda." I shouted, "Well I'm gonna make you look like a real dumbass!" Scott tried to interrupt. I didn't let him. "I'M GONNA LIVE OUTSIDE FOR A WHOLE WEEK" Scott was appalled, he knew he was about to be made a fool. "Jon I really didn't care that much... You don't have to do that. I'm sure you can handle the col--" I had to interject. "FUCK OFF." I wasn't going let him feign aloofness. I had to prove to him that I could do it.

In the heat of the moment I stormed out of the apartment wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. And so my week began. I brought with me my cell phone with 6% battery life. No wallet. I called my boss to let him know I would be out for the week. "Hey Bob, I'm gonna take vacation this week." "That's great Jon! Where are you going?" he asks. "I'm living outside for the week." He lets out a hearty laugh. I told him I'm not fucking joking then hung up the phone. My phone was now dead, so I had to make due with what I had, which was nothing.

I set up shop on Washington Street next to a Seven Eleven. After just a day I stunk of piss and shit, but I didn't mind. The real battle was dealing with unrelenting winter chill. I had faced an existential crisis. Perhaps the cold really did bother me. But I wasn't going to let Scott know that. I was in too deep.

By Thursday my very life was in question. The temperature had not eclipsed 30 degrees in 96 hours. I was starving, stumbling, frostbitten, and even hallucinating. What I once remembered as home had turned into my own personal frozen hell. I had accidentally bumped into strangers, trying to stay on my own two bare, blackened feet while shaking uncontrollably. Passerbys found this an opportune time to ridicule me. "Get a job! You're scaring my children." Others coughed and gagged as they caught wind of my stench. The joke was on them, as I was gainfully employed.

Then, I see Scott walking down the street and I caught his eye. "JON? What the hell are you doing. I thought you went to Rockaway for the week." I tried to take a moment to gloat, showing him that I could handle the cold. It was at that moment that I had discovered my lips had been frostbitten as badly as the rest of my body. I opened my mouth, "I t...tol--" That was as far as I had gotten. My lips had fallen clean off. Blood trickled over my cracked, ashy, pale white skin. I stumbled towards Scott and slipped on a piece of ice. I tried to break my fall with my completely lifeless, functionless arms to no avail. I smacked face first into concrete and shattered all of my teeth. I was bleeding profusely. The fragile remains of my left arm had also broken clean off. Oddly, I had felt something I hadn't felt in days: bliss. Now, instead of shrieking at the pain, I was cheering it on. Adrenaline had given me new life. Locals looked on in horror. "MORE!" I exclaimed, after summoning up the energy to say a full word, blood gushing down my face and neck. I then threw my disjointed left arm like a frisbee into oncoming traffic, causing a six car pile up. I laughed hysterically. I grabbed a construction worker's jackhammer from his hands and went to town on my right leg. After severing my already dead leg, I held it above my head and cheered. The scene was reminiscent of a horror movie. Children were crying and adults were vomiting. Pints of blood spilled onto the streets. I was eventually subdued via tranquilizer from the local authorities.

I woke up days later at the hospital, surrounded by my friends and family, but more importantly, Scott. He started, "Jon, oh my god you're alive. Why the hell did you d--" I pressed one of my two remaining fingers on his lips to silence him. "I thought you said I couldn't handle the cold," I said, immediately falling back into a coma for 2 weeks afterwards.

I eventually awoke, and lived a bedridden life while claiming disability insurance provided by my employer.

[deartimtheblog]

Good Friday

Oh most favorable of God's children, Tim,

      Do I ever have a tale for thee! On a chance Good Friday, I accompanied my family to church. On such a car-ride, one simply cannot help but imagine the erotic imagery of the passion of the Christ--that which I myself often violently masturbate to. As the sermon kicked off, and the pastor began to describe the lashings, I could not sit still. With every sacred word, my groin pulsed and swelled; it was as if the Holy Spirit Itself had possessed my penis. Like the eyes of Lot's wife, my gaze went back and forth from the crown of thorns to the prop stakes at the foot of the cross. I could no longer contain my lust! I lept out of my pew and tore off all my clothes, then ran up to the altar and crowned myself. The thorns dug deep into my scalp and blood trickled into my eyes. I then went over the cross and drove a stake deep into my urethra. Blood anointed my torso. Never have I felt more Christlike! God, impressed with my display, transported my soul to heaven.

When it came time to receive the sacrament, the congregation drank my blood and consumed my actual flesh.

Artwork contributed by basper01