Filthy Trollop

The very thought of writing right now is abhorrent. The sore wrists I know will follow the backspace challenged typing I do, the level of pain to be measured by the number of words typed. How can the physical labor involved in the pushing of little buttons be a deterrent to...what the fuck am I writing here? That doesn't make a bit of sense. I was going to say that I don't like the idea of writing when high on some premium bud. Seems like it would be a buzz-buster, now don't it? Hard enough to type when the noggin is straight, gotta be a killer when stoned.

Many is the time I've had to consider the fact that the world does not revolve around me and that I am the center of nothing. Those spaces between centers, those are the ones in which I would choose to dwell. Usually the times I think of these things are the times when my head has finally exploded into the desire to know the things I think of, finally, exploded into the valley of the shadow of the space between the centers and hell yes, that's where I want to lay down me burden and tell my readership that I have decided to do something I have many times been encouraged to do by my Higher Spirit, of whom we bow and offer obeisances. Yet the demon in me made a lazy man from mine, of whom we bow. Finally, exploded, the secret you've been guessing the mind of which belongs he that is encouraged to do these things in the name of SCIENCE, bow thy humble forms to it's majesticism. Hanging from a cross of suspicion, the need to be crucified into atomic forms still he who sees what he only wants to see, only a cross. A cross of suspicion, a paranoia that almost shields you from the scornful eyes of your bitter mother.

You bitter mother, she left, left you behind, now did she? Yeah, I can see it in your eyes. The one on the left sort of twinkles when I mention her. That's a sure fire indication that you harbor much resentment for that foul bitch.

"That foul bitch is my mother!" you say.

To which I respond, "Yay, brother, that foul bitch is my mother, as well. We share more in common than the emperor we serve."

"'Emperor we serve'! Ha! Ha! I would laugh my stinky ass off to hear of his passing into the other side, where the prize is finding out if there really is a heaven or a hell. Lifetimes spent never once doubting the reality of both. Still, even the most faithful, have a bug of doubt running through their convictions. A little worm of suspicion. I hope he finds out that he's wrong. Another man would wish him right, as a lifetime subconsciously protected from psychotic breakdowns..."

I found his words offensive, so I turned my horses around and we headed north. My mind was plagued with considering the eternal questions, debunking prayer and then praying that my answers to those questions were the right ones. It was distracting, and I was suprised to see him, as his horse caught back up to my party.

"Yo, feller-dude! Do ya think ya could maybe accept my apologies, cause Mister, I got some explaining to do to my wife".

"And what's the deal with your wife? She been lookin' at stuff on the Internet she ain't suppose to be lookin' at? Did you ever cure her of that?"

"I don't think it's any of your damned business, but I thought you might be here to tell me news of our godforsaken mother," I must admit, I was curious about this news even though I'd convinced myself that I wanted nothing more to do with that bitch I call Mother.

"Well, Jeb, you knew that guy that was caught hiding in her closet...our dad got pretty wrecked, you must remember his nervous breakdown. Anyway, there was a rumor that used to make its rounds in this neck of the woods. That daddy of yours had killed that there man in the closet. Yes sir, he did. Now what do I, personally, think of all that? Well, I don't think he would do it. I don't think it was in his nature to kill. I would hope that this would be the case in all men, so it is a desireable trait."

"You don't think he would do something like that, even in his most heated moment, the anger swelling like a water balloon?"

"No I don't, if you want me to tell the gospel truth. Stone truth, that's all you'll get out of me. Here is the message, in full:

'My dear son, Jeb

'I know you think I'm a roto-rooter, little motor scooter, but I don't do this all the time. I had to tell you. It's not as if I "didn't want to", or that I "didn't want you". I just had a difficult time adjusting. I don't think I've even adjusted close enough to success to call it that. But I'm a whore. That's all. What can I do about it? I'm a filthy prostitute, a hooker on the street, a trollop unlocking her bodice and giving the most precious gift in the world to bankers, barbers, butchers, bakers, givers, takers, lovers, haters, killers, men with unclean genitals, men with unclean hands, staining my body. I'm a scag, willing and waiting for cash, it's not gonna hurt anymore. It's not gonna hurt anymore. Precious Jeb, it's gonna be alright. That's what I'm hear to tell you, son of mine. I know you disowned me a long time ago. You've tried every night to exorcise my memory from your mind. You have failed. Failed miserably. But that's alright. I'm only going to be around long enough to write this letter to you.

'That's right. I am going to kill myself tonight. If you haven't heard of it by the time you get this letter, you must alert the authorities and inform them of the location of my body, which they will find hanging from a rope tied around a beam that supports the ceiling in the sanctuary of St. Ignatious.

'Though the fact is that I have been a whore...and at this point it would be ridiculous and futile not to call it what it is...a filthy whore, at that...and yay I was once called to the profession of prostitution. I did this for many reasons, but the real motivation for becoming a prostitute was because I wanted a lot of indiscriminate fucking. I wanted to lay down and know many, many men. Men of all races, religions, customs. Handsome men. Ugly men. Men the same, both with the same dignity and integrity, deserving of equal respect. To see the real man is to look past the imperfections, which are, of course, only imperfections from your own, unique point of view. The reality exists that he is an attractive man in the eyes of many women. So that reality exists. Tap into it, and you will find the most desirable man you have ever known in your life.

'So that's exactly what I did. I tapped into it. Got my money's worth. Them fuglys were starting to look real good and the liquid aphrodisiac I'd been given was really doing the trick.

'Yes, Jeb, I'm your piece-of-shit mother. I'm the one that gave you life, and tonight I'm gonna take my own, and it really messes with my head, am I gonna go down screaming? Am I gonna give it up willingly? Don't mean a thing, y'all, cuz it's gonna happen nonetheless. I just thought you might want to know why I chose to hang myself over any of the other available methods..."



And this is where I get off. Nope. Can't go on with it. My mind's not in a great place right now, with all that "how many ways are there to kill yourself" nonsense. That stuff belongs on the same shelf as the other things I don't mind not knowing and never even want to know.

It's time to say goodbye. I'm gonna have to pull it down a notch or two, expel some of this pot anxiety, don't let it get to the paranoia stage. You can do that. You've done it before, haven't you? Why, sure you have. You're high right now, aren't you? Do you think you would be doing it again if it had ever overcome you? Dude, this is what you LIKE about smoking pot. When every sound is magnified. When music becomes solid. Or liquid. Or even a gas pervading the atmosphere around me in this room. Don't let it scare you. Work with it. You'll find a way to get around this, and when it's done you'll notice how easy it was.

Feeling pretty blasted. Nice throbbing in my brain. Music doing it's job. Losing perception. eoauo jgja dka g irjgoooak kdj oaidoaim. igjo lang kjkk ganga dkkl eiuav. No longer able to type woka jg aliuj jfiaaadi aoi galmost like an emotional shutdown, or what else would I call it? I'm going down down down down I'm going down down down down. I'm going down down down down...actually, I'm not. I'm headed up North to Alaska. I'm following my ugly nose to the wasted roadsl This is thje ea=z a q equivalent of "automati c writingl odij gf faoiej fjf oijajsourijf foisijf slijdji8jeijisomsmfj aoijd fjoe8ji d fojid can someone say something about my crack whore mother, Mary Jerusalem, the Whore of Babylon.