Something’s stirring

The only reason I won’t kill myself is that doing so would draw pity on me. Which is exactly the reason I feel death. I guess Irish goodbyes aren’t so easy after all.

Whew, that was heavy. Now how the hell do I do these deferred taxes?


On the qualities of good muffins

A good muffin is a muffin that is not made by Andy and is also not found at hotels. Hotel muffins are bad.

The muffin can be of any flavor. It might be moist or dry. It can also crumble and make a mess. It may not even be a muffin. But as long as the muffin is not made by Andy it is a good muffin. How can he bake good muffins when he doesn’t have a soul?

Also good muffins are never found inside hotels. You can get a good muffin and bring it to a hotel and it immediately becomes a bad muffin. Just make sure not to get one from Andy, because if you bring that back to the hotel you will become a hotel manager.

Anyways, how many beds did you need? We only have two, single-bed rooms available. Otherwise, you may want to try the Marriott across the street.


I don’t believe in God. Have I damned myself already? It’s too tiresome to think about.

Getting started is always the hardest part. The conscious mind prefers inaction to an anticipated mistake, not realizing their equivalent destinations and thereby lack of real choice in the matter.

That’s why I finished the ending first.

I remember not really looking at her until we were seated together. And even with the first few moments I thought she would be quite regular. I’m glad I never take first impressions seriously, that would make all of it rather boring. Her voice soon commanded my ears as she demonstrated the insanity behind my aching desire to throw myself out of a plane. That was the initial hook.

It’s mesmerizing, seemingly having the power to stop my convoluted thought process and focus it on one thing: most of the time, her.

Fuckin’ neurons.

The worst kind of manipulation is a virus, initially implanting itself with the intention of spreading quickly. Once domination over the inner reality has been established, the virus releases, understanding your newfound dependence on it. It doesn’t matter that you know it’s bad for you, because you want to be fooled. You want to feel bad. You become the virus.After all, life is more interesting that way, isn’t it?

I had felt it all before, though certainly not with this kind of intensity. Maybe she was just better at it. Or I’m weak right now. Or this time it’s different.

Or perhaps I’m simply predisposed to the phenomenon.

It’s almost too late now, with every word another added week of agony. Every newly discovered facial expression heightening the probability of my 19th nervous breakdown. I can feel my resolve shrink; I would hate to have to take a risk.

The (up)ending

I hadn’t even known her name when it happened. And now it’s apparent that I was doomed from the very start; countless days later and I still carry the fever. Our bodies normally rid themselves of viruses by raising their temperature, a rather bold move considering the danger of self-harm. But I think that’s the key: there can be no salvation without risk.

There’s a lot she doesn’t know and would likely be curious about. But what concerns me most, is what she does know. Will it surprise her to find out that,

I am not special, because I want to be. I’m a good one because I need to be. I wonder, because I don’t know. I write this because I hope to.

Only one way to find out.

What do you think of me? Have I damned myself already? It’s too tiresome to think about.