Alone. Forgotten. Empty. Blind. Feeble. Worthless. Dust. Aloof. Angry. Disgusted. Disjointed. Disappointed. Distorted.
Without purpose. Worse yet, my only purpose is to not have one it seems. I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know why it happened. I know I did not want it to happen, but alas it happened anyway.
Collective Pandas are weeping over such malcontent.
Nowadays, my dick is out, but not in that good way seeing as I am pissing into a steady gust of wind. My once immaculate hair is of course still immaculate, but it feels like a bird’s nest. My T-Shades are foggy, and fingerprints cover their lens. My temperature is warm– so warm you might even call me Luke Jiles instead of The Main Event Man, aka Cool Jiles.
As long as it’s not Prancer.
I’ve tried to pinpoint the moment I became so plebeian, drab, bland, awful, and vanilla.
So “Doozer” if you will.
Alas, said moment eludes me. I then think to myself that maybe I’ve always been that way, and maybe I tricked everyone into thinking I was someone I was not. However, you and I both know I’m not that smart. So, I wander further inward, wondering how I could have ever allowed myself to fall so far after coming as far as I did. I tell myself things like it’s not easy at the top, and anyone else would have been dead or worse off than I am now. I then ponder if maybe I took things for granted. Maybe, my hubris wasn’t proving I could, but thinking I could? I was knee deep with both my hands in, but now I’ve fallen so far I’m actually underneath the mud.
And the rocks.
Not Malcolm in the Middle, but Cancer under the Bottom.
Gone. Withdrawn. Inside the shadow. Me, The Maestro of COOL, the illegitimate child of Screamin Jay, the Original Bandit, the pig in shit, the one who walked across the sun and fell into his seat atop a 97red throne. The right hand of God– or at least the whisper in his ear.
How? Where did it all go? I blinked, and it was gone. I blinked again…
Opening the next show, and preparing for the inevitable: another loss to Dragon Ball Z.
Z stands for Zion. He is quite animated. I know, where is Zeb Martian when you need him?
Confused. Mindless. Aimless.
Fuck, does that sound pathetic? Maybe I’ll start using colors in an attempt to brighten my day. No, that won’t work. Maybe I am the way I am because of the ship? I wonder, is it possible I miss the open sea so badly it has thrown me into a downward spiral the likes of which not even Brian Hollywood could attest? I did find that map in Lee’s unconscious anus. He was unconscious, not his anus. Well, I suppose by proxy his anus would also be unconscious since he was. Anyway, I could use it to chase down the USS Octane, sail that fucking thing to Alcatraz, drop anchor, and play my theme on repeat until Doozer sticks shivs in both his eardrums.
That sounds like fun, albeit in a Jacewood type of way.
But fun nonetheless.
Is it that simple?
Could it be that simple?
Is that the answer to all my problems?
But more importantly, Doozer’s demise. At my hands/boot. Or instead of his demise, maybe I should break him out. Bobby too. Maybe the three of us put the past behind us and paint the town yellow again. Who knows? Maybe we can drag our dirty asses up and down the isles of Ressemart like the feral dogs we are?
Nah, fuck them. Well, not Bob. Doozer though, fuck him. All up in his feelings; banging his head against the wall because I DO and he DREAMS.
Ha. Deez. Nuts.
Losing to Darin Zion. Again. For the who knows how manieth of times. He has my number. Big Z. He always has the wily veteran that he is. I have suffered too many times to count at his hands, and it seems that I will suffer once more. Oh well. Misery loves company they say, and it doesn’t mean I can’t/won’t kick him in the face. Never know– I could get lucky and he could be shooting an action film with Noah Handsome in Hollywood and he could forget about the whole thing.