More about Mom.

So my Mom left me a couple of those christian comic book strips. One concludes:

Dear Reader:

Please don’t let hypocrites cause you to go to hell…

It made me laugh. 

Conversation with Mom.

"Do you believe in god son?"

"Do you believe in black holes?"

"Oh yeah, that’s where Jesus is gonna come back from."

I <3 my Mom. 

This isn’t me

I’m not afraid of commitment really. It’s not so much the whole idea of staying with one life form for the rest of my days that scares me. It’s more of what makes you as a person after the fact. Your character is forever changed. Sculpted by this tag-along manipulator of self. 

I decided if this was to be so, I’d choose the right one. 

I now forever am by the side of a bipedal breathing believing achieving being.

It’s got two arms and a heart that loves, hates, destroys, and creates. It’s a sorta wacky relationship. Some times I mow the lawn, some times it pleasures me sexually. Other times, in the whimsical hours of lonely dawns (or any other time for that matter), I sift through it’s tripe to derive the meaning as to why I decided to stay with this being in the first place. 

It’s the matter of incongruent dispositions. 

Always that I suppose. You find that this isn’t just that and that isn’t nearly in simple terms of this and, the significant other gesticulates wildly. Pontificating intrepidly. A snarling beast of the yin to your yang. 

These concentrated occasions of cranial carving keep clever comments closeted. 

And with that you can easily see why, and how, and just what motivates, promotes, obscures, and strangles the core of our character. 


(

Do we live forever?

Joy Two

Partially, Bjorn Pierre cares. He’s walking down that cold alley way just now. Just now as poor Henry moans rather loudly in the decrepit corridor. Henry slumps over on his side, breathing in broken rhythm; blood pours out his grotesquely bearded mouth. His dirty eye lids rise half way. 

Bjorn emerges unto a busy intersection whistling old man river, as he produces a lighter and cigarette out of his trench coat. 

On the opposite end of the alleyway, at a corner door, a cat scurries away. Henry screams fuck. Tears mix in with the blood trailing along the dirt filled floor. Henry’s hand finds itself within his jacket’s pocket. A gun emerges, and he grievously carries it above his temple. His eyes clench and he pulls the trigger. 

The blaring vibrations rattle through the alley way and faintly reach the noisy cross section where Bjorn stand. But he heard it. Bjorn’s hands become lame, and the cigarette and lighter fall out of his hands. He staggers back slowly; eyes widening about a determined countenance. 

He sprints down the alley way, pausing upon reaching the door’s handle. Taking a deep breath the door knob turns.