I close my eyes so that I can see.

Stan's Bitter End

Having distanced myself considerably from in the intake of nefarious foreign substances, and not having written anything of significant value since those days of poisoning myself, I am going to see if I still in fact “have it”—that is, the ability to write a bizarre tale without the aid of artificial illumination to light my path of creativity. I also haven’t taken any psychotropic medication for my schizophrenic illness in over nine months since the governor of Pennsylvania has decided in a futile effort to balance the state budget to cut mental health funding, which I actually believe has benefited me, although I am nagged now by annoying voices that persecute, ridicule and often times irritatingly comment on my behavior. Anyway, enough of the complaining bullshit, let’s get to the point. Here is my attempt at unleashing my eccentricities of the written word. So fuck it. Here we go. This early morning, I would like to present everyone with a tale that will either prove or disprove my having retained the capacity to write fiction. Wish me luck, mother fuckers.

Stan’s Bitter End

Stan Flannery is awoken by not only his alarm clock at three in the morning, but by the whispers of auditory hallucinations tell him that it is time to him to get his freak ass out of bed and clean the litter box. It is one of his routinized chores that he must complete each morning in his recovery house before going to work. He had been living in a recovery house for the past year now, and although he wishes that he were back in his home town of State College, things in York Pennsylvania were becoming more and more comfortable as he feels himself inch into middle aged tranquility.  He works at a restaurant four miles down the road, and usually opens the store at five thirty in the morning, but luckily, although is now thirty four years of age, he has still retained all his youthful agility and in fact feels much better than he ever has before, and is able to walk about ten miles an hour, so it only takes him half an hour tops to reach his place of vocational occupation.

                He puts on his work clothes, and smokes a cigarette, then makes his bed, and heads to the bathroom, where he relieves his bowels, followed by a rigorous brushing of his teeth, which have begun to erode and chip away a bit. As he looks I the mirror, he notices that his eyes appear different. They seem to be vacant, empty, and he stares at himself a while.  He thinks that he looks like cadaver who has been eviscerated, but he still manages smile, as he knows that he should be grateful that he has a place to live, and has a tenacious hold on his sobriety. He also has three thousand dollars in the bank, and a nice computer, which he utilizes in his daily masturbation sessions and allows him to exercise his creative juices through is writing. He earned a degree in English from Penn State University, but proceeded to not do anything productive after college with his degree, and managed to thoroughly fuck his life up by forming a nasty drug habit, which included heroin, cocaine, and his once favorite, “Bath Salts,” a highly addictive stimulant, which he used to buy in the head shop in State College.

“What the fuck have I done with my life and my so-called endowments? Absolutely nothing, that’s what!” He says to himself, knowing damn well, that he should have earned his doctorate by now, and be a University professor, instead he makes omelets and pancakes, and works with a moronic crew of obtuse individuals, who don’t understand him, or even try to—they simply discount him as being insane, which is “technically is,” although he thinks the more operative term is “eccentric.” He just wishes that some extra-terrestrial race would abduct him some night, and transport him to another planet, some place where he actually felt a sense of belonging. Christ, he often times thinks that he is an alien of some sort, and was certain that at one point in a visit with his schizophrenic mother, she told him that he wasn’t “entirely human” at all, but more of an alien/human hybrid species. Something he has pondered many times, ruminating on some of the strange occurrences and missing periods of time I his life, which seem to permeate with extraterrestrial explanations.

He looks at his cell phone, and notices that he has spent the past ten minutes in the bathroom daydreaming about shit that really has no validity to his current practical situation, which is to go down to the basement and clean the basement, followed by coming back upstairs to the bathroom, and cleaning the shower, sink, and mopping the floor. He leaves the bathroom; so he shakes his head at his irrationality, and goes back into his bedroom to grab a plastic bag, which he gets out of his nightstand drawer which he has conveniently stockpiled to collect the cat shit every morning out of the litter box before taking it out to the trash cans in on the back porch. Every day that cleans the litter box, he is reminded of the incident when he was carpet surfing for weed that he had spilled onto the floor over years of habitual marijuana use, only to find a small piece of organic matter, which he hoped was some hash that he let accidentally fall out of his pipe, only to find upon lighting it, that it was actually cat shit. Not good shit.

As he walks out of the room, he swears that he hears somebody speaking in some foreign language behind him, and although at times his auditory hallucinations at times speak to him in Italian, this foreign tongue seemed to be of some Nordic origin. He turns around, and is paralyzed as he falls into the icy stare of a Reptilian being, that is holding a glowing pink sphere. Before he has time to say anything, he is eaten by the being that gnaws on his intestines, and devours his one remaining testicle with its beastly incisors.

The End

WACKA WACKA!

I feel nothing at all

My world is colored a miserable headache tinted grey,

And inside my brain is corroded and filled with decay,

I don’t feel anything, I never cry, never happy nor sad,

I suppose for this is the reason they call me mad,

But at least I’m not stupid, obtuse or dense,

My perspective of the Universe is grand and immense.

I am cold, calculating and robotic,

Schizophrenia is actually quite cathartic.