Paincourt Antique

Title: The Night that Indie Rock Forgot

One day around five years ago one of my roommates decided that he wanted to try a hand at promoting concerts. It was a decent and noble move on his part as he had been involved in the indie scene for quite sometime. In college he hosted a radio show out of the local college radio station that seemed to have a large following and had also interned at the Riverfront Times as a music reviewer. All of his work was exceptional as far as I was concerned so I thought when he asked me my opinion that he should go for it. It seemed as if this would be something that would really work out for him as he was suffering from the post-grad syndrome and was getting nervous about job prospects.

A fortune of my friend was that he had a good working friendship with the guys over at Skingraft these guys are actually natives of St. Charles (my hideous hometown) and went to high school with a very good friend of mine and although I really didn't know them personally I had met them once or twice. I was never really in for becoming a part of any scene (mind you, not that I was ever asked to be).

Well, my room mate and pal Jarrett wanted some Skingraft bands to come down and play in St. Louis and had somehow convinced US Maple and MT Shasta to headline. I think they knew Jarrett from his time writing for RFT and some other little known music zine. I believe he wrote a few fawning interviews with the bands, and deservedly so. The bands agreed to play here and Jarrett then set about trying to get a venue. He was stuck on the idea that they should play in Saint Charles - I am not really sure why - but he was obsessed. Most people he talked to about this plan would ask him why he wouldn't find a place for them play down on the south side or downtown somewhere where people that actually like them would be more likely to convene on a show such as this. I mean don't get me wrong, there is a sizable college in this town, however it is otherwise the historically strictest sense of middle-class conservative and suburban idiocy that I have ever seen. I didn't think that any "indie" band would make it around here. I rarely saw anyone (at that time) outside of the group we ran with listening to any indie music.

Still, Jarrett pressed on and finally found his venue - one that surprised pretty much everyone that was involved. The venue: That old VFW hall out in Saint Peters, which has an arguably worse case of suburbia-itis than Saint Charles. I suppose the whole ordeal was looking pretty sad, but you know how shit is when a friend is involved with something that is very important to them, you egg them on, you know - follow your dream pal! I did however suggest to Jarrett that he better advertise like mad otherwise he or the bands for that matter, weren't going to make jack squat. I suggested he put it up on the local public "weirdo" station KDHX's calendar or something, anything. Well, two or three days before they arrive Jarrett did make quite a few flyers and hang them up in strategic places, which might have done some good, who knows?

So, the day came when Jarrett's production came out of the ether of bad organizational skills and into the substance of bad production. First off, if you are going to produce something, never put every friend you have on a guest list that will entitle him or her to free liquor. This is a dumb thing to do and will probably end up costing you a shit load of money, as it did in Jarrett's case. Second, never plan a show out in the middle of suburbia unless there is nothing but suburbia in you city. People like to think that going downtown means going to something cool. People like to believe that going out to the suburbs means hanging out with their aunt or uncle or something like that. Let's just say that one is cooler than the other no matter which way you try to slice it.

It was really a good show. It began with a local band that was sort of like Helmet (although I forget their names now). It was odd that they had the most people watching them but as they had built up quite a fan base here I suppose it wasn't that unusual. The next band was, I think, YOU FANTASTIC! whom I personally loved but I guess were a little strange for some of the people. It seemed the bar was pretty crowded while they played. Now I forget who played next...I think it was US Maple, but by this time I think there was only around 100 or so people left. US Maple totally rocked as far as I was concerned but I felt sad as I watch more people walk away. It wasn't their fault really. I mean I doubt that even 1/4 of the people standing around had even heard of them. I can imagine that many of the people who did like them probably didn't want to drive all the way out to freaking St. Peters or maybe didn't even have the transportation to get out there. It wasn't like you could take the bus or anything. Besides, US Maple and Mt. Shasta never struck me as the type of indie band that a suburban teenager would listen to anyway. I mean they would probably be over this show if it was a rap band or possibly some super trendy indie band that got a lot of radio/MTV play.

Suburban punks sometimes don't think about their cultural influences, and why should they as bad cultural influences have been served to them on a silver platter since the day they learned how to click a remote control. That was the whole problem, I kept thinking how much suburbia sucked as I was filming this whole situation for posterity, or something like that. I was talking to a little girl with purple or green hair who was really pissed off about something, saying like a she had a friend like who said they'd be like 311 or something and like her friend didn't even show up and like she was pissed. etc, etc. I asked her how old she was, she told me she was 17, I walked away. There is no point of talking to a girl when you're single unless she is at least 18. Later I saw some girl say that some guy was not as cool as he could be because of something he was wearing, it made me happy to hear that because that guy was in the previous band performing as the bassist. I mean all hell should break loose mentally if a musician isn't as cool looking as he should be, right? Anyway, you know how cool everyone is anyway, right? Isn't that so fucking important? Just another symptom of bored middle class kids trying to sound important. I guess so because I would also turn off the happy filters if all I ever heard was a bunch of self-worship and self-loathing over nothing. It is kind of catchy. I also guess my happy filter was getting polluted because I was drunk, drunk as hell actually and trying to film these bands. It was horrible, a
total fiasco.

Finally my cameras ran out of battery power and I was no longer tied to the job of filming. So I began to wander around and socialize. Jarrett was looking pretty angry when I saw him as he realized that there would be little if any money for the bands and of course none at all for him. He asked if he could orrow 50 bucks, I said sure, you can keep it. He asked for more money later on but we won't go over that, it was ugly. Eventually things began to calm down and we all went back to my house, we had cooked up a bunch of brats and taco dip and a keg and other shit like that.

This food was in appreciation for the poor guys who had drove here all the way from Chicago to play in this shit hole. It was probably the only good thing that came out of the ordeal. By this point and time I was drunk beyond repair and at some point dropped a glass of rum and coke on Al (singer for US Maple) and a few other people as well. Soon I had a food fight with a girl, I think I started it by smearing potato salad on her face and chest, she responded by throwing taco dip at my face, the situation seemed to be getting out of control. There was concern as I overheard someone say, "who is that asshole fucking up this house." And another person responded,"the asshole that owns the house is fucking up the house" which was true. I think I believed that I was just trying to lighten things up a bit, I mean the mood was pretty somber as everyone who was in this to make a buck or two was pretty much fucked. I even did a bratwurst play for the guys from Mt. Shasta, they were smiling as I made the bratwurst scream and dance. I thought that they were smiling because it was funny, someone told me later that they were smiling because they thought I was nuts. I am not sure if either was the case. The next day I had to work so that by the time I had got home all of our guests were gone or off visiting other folks they knew in the Saint Louis area so I never got the opportunity to expose them to my sane side. Not that it really mattered to me that much, but for some reason it did matter to some of my pals, I think I may have embarrassed them by my strange behavior.

I still am a fan of US Maple and MT Shasta so, if any of them ever read this I want to make a sincere apology for spilling drinks on you or whatever other crazy things I might have done. Although I am pretty sure that my friends were over-reacting and that you probably didn't even care or remember.

I still have the video of that night, I shot it with 2 cameras and it is the only shoot I have ever seen where the two cameramen spend most of the time actually filming each other and waving and making faces. It is so unprofessional that I can't even begin to tell you. It would make any film student laugh. It still makes me laugh quite a bit.

Now that I look back on it though, I really wish that we had our shit more together, that really could have turned out to be a nice evening for everyone involved. Instead, as I like to say - it was truly, the evening that indie rock forgot.

2010 Addendum: Fairly all true but boring as hell isn't it?

Title: Open Conversation with a Toilet Bowl

Many centuries ago a man ordained Saint Patrick drove all of the snakes from Ireland. In case you didn't know, the snakes were actually pagans, Jews, and gypsies. But this is not my point, I really could care a less today about all the hideous things that happened to potentially hideous people over the aeons of human misery and suffering.

I am not even concerned about whether or not I will make it to work in the morning or whether or not I have a successful relationship with anyone, so why should I give a rats ass about dead gypsies?

First off, lets not talk of any drunken escapades. I do not feel like ruminating on the glories of past blackouts and perversions. Today, I feel like bitching at you!

For many years now you have been a true friend, a friend who has kept me from being anything I ever loathed to be in my youth. I did not grow up and be a managerial type responsible for ridding corporations of lazy louts. Instead, it was I who was many times asked to shed my smock or apron. I did not grow to become a vicious businessman or salesman driven by profit and commodities. To the contrary, I lack certain commodities almost to default. Spending countless hours and dollars in a kaleidoscope of bars and taverns throughout the world has seen to that. In a romantic sense I have held snuggly to my adolescent visions of what a life should be. I have retarded my mental growth by at least 5 years by wandering through a desert of mentholated breath and insane irrefutable behavior.

I have spurned many a motherly maiden hoping to change my evil ways and bring me over to the positive side of a straight life. All this I have done for you, the clever and silly Bacchus. This I have done and asked nothing in return except for the will and ability to continue doing so. Much pleasure I receive from this rotten way! I have destroyed myself nearly beyond repair at times and have long forgotten how to beg forgiveness from any judgmental deity. I delivered myself back into your arms again and again. I was to die in your arms. I was to be buried in a wine cask! The worms should be drunk on my hints of oak and the sweet bouquet that pervades my alcohol soaked corpse.

And on this eve of the greatest day of drinking on any given year, it is to you that I say; you have forgotten me for I can not drink. You have pushed me aside in the most cruel and casual way. I am a child lost on a dark wooded path without you. Do I hear the wolves of conviction and sobriety howling in the distance? You filled me with courage and kind stupidity and now I will be left with a mean and thinking insight that you would strip away from me so that I could be sociable and malleable. Who knows what great adventures you and I could have? We might find a dirty lass to comfort our sorrow, or another fellow worshiper to spar each other and validate our anger. Hell, we might wake up in Memphis Tennessee having not one clue as to how we arrived!

But on this holiday we will not, we will wake up in our bed, next to our wife, without a scar or a bruise to prove my devotion to you. Is it so much my fault that I do not drink on this day of all days as it is yours to not sway my will? If you do not sway my will, your most forgiving follower, then do you even exist?

Rise from the liquor store the corner bar and prove your devotion to me Bacchus! For once I would appreciate being chased. For ten years or more I have chased you and your cousins into many dark alleys and heard a voice that would sometimes say, "Do not go there." Yet I, agree with you time after time that we must see what is over the next hill, what lies beyond the next trash heap! And on this week I hear no voice, no call to arms. I must say that I am disappointed and will from now on view our relationship as a friendly fuck as opposed to the marriage of convenience we once had. Now, I wonder what the odds are that I will still drink come Saint Pat's?

Shit, pretty high. Oh well that was a nice try anyway.

2010 Addendum: Look at me, I am an alcoholic!

Title: Happy Birthday Bonzo

Q: What do you give a ninety-year-old ex-leader of the free world for his birthday?

A: An interview with YTC

Now that we are well into the 21st century, we are compelled to interview a man who many American citizens consider to be the greatest man of the 20th century. That's right, you guessed it; our man of honor for this week is none other than Ronald Reagan. First off, let it be known to the vast amount of YTC readers out there all of the horrendous red tape that had to be waded through and all of the insane lying that had to be done to procure this once in a lifetime interview. At this very moment there are some very unhappy executives at NBC pulling together a legal team to have those at YTC who orchestrated this event castrated and then fed to grizzly bears. Also, we are currently in need of around 500 dollars to post bail for a strange event that occurred in a hotel somewhere in Santa Monica, but that is another story.

The interview began around 11:00 AM last Friday and concluded around 11:20 AM when the credentials held by our brave interviewer who shall remain anonymous became suspect and he found himself kissing some concrete poolside at the Reagan ranch. Luckily for him no charges were pressed for the false identification as of yet so he was able to deliver the interview in its entirety to you, the faithful YTC readers. So, without further adieu YTC brings you a morning with Ronald Reagan.

YTC: First off President Reagan, I want to thank you for allowing this interview.

RR: It is my pleasure young man.

YTC: I might also add that you look very healthy for a man of your age.

RR: It is my pleasure young man.

YTC: Excuse me?

RR: Do you believe in mermaids?

YTC: No Mister President I do not.May I ask you a few questions?

RR: Well, (laughter) I suppose a few of those won't hurt.

YTC: Thank you kindly sir. First I would like to ask how you feel about George Bush Jr. becoming president and if there was any advice you could offer him, what would that be?

RR: Well I always knew that the "W" stood for win. I suppose it reminds me of those times when I used to take Ron Jr. out to the stream to do a little trout fishing..Well he was afraid of worms so it never did much good to take him but we did anyway. One time George hid in the bushes, as he liked to do, he was a secret agent, like James Bond with beady eyes and no women.

Then he jumped out of the bushes with one of those frogman suits on and scared little Ronny so bad he wet himself. Hehehehe.HOT DAMN! Those were some dog garnit good times. So George Jr. was laughing and calling little Ron a faggot and we all just laughed and laughed. Whew doggie! Then there was that one time we put little George on that SR-71 and had the pilot fly him to Iran. He thought he was flying to Houston! Ha! He will never live that one down. (At this point during the conversation he also waived off Nancy who had come from the ranch to give him his medication. Nancy rolled her eyes and walked away briskly)

YTC: OK, so what would your advice be?

RR: Well I would tell him what I told his father, that never forget that you CAN push that button if things start getting out of hand.

YTC: That's frightening sir.

RR: SNAKE!!!

YTC: Where? WHERE?!

RR: Lot of snakes out here on the ranch. Where's my Viagra, woman?!

YTC: Sir it is just you and I here.

RR: The poofle woofle's probably stole the Viagra.just like they steal the silverware. ...shiny, pretty, sparkly silverware... Everywhere is the silverware! I have some for sale in the closet in the bathroom.

Shhhhh! No one knows! It can be our secret! You stand watch and I will run down the center, fake to the left!

YTC: ? UM?

RR: They never wanted me to touch the vase! And I did it anyway! I am Randy! Randy Ronny! GRRRRRR!

YTC: OK, well you brought up an interesting subject in Viagra. Are you and Nancy using Viagra to stimulate your sex life?

RR: SNAKES!!!!! SNAKES! AHHHHHH!

At this point President Reagan apparently jumped up and lunged at our patriotic interviewer. Alerted to this, the secret service agents thought that our interviewer may have been attempting to attack President Reagan and were upon our man like the wrath of God Almighty himself.

Which meant that our unfortunate interviewer was hauled off to some place in the desert and interrogated by secret service agents for the rest of the day. After reviewing the video and audiotape of the interview they had decided that Mr. Reagan was having another one of his spells and decided to let our journalist go. Fortunately, they somehow forgot to confiscate the audio. Which gave us the opportunity to bring this scathing and informative interview to you. We wonder if America will learn anything from this interview? Well, hopefully that it is a bad thing to let a man with chronic Alzheimer's go even a few minutes without his medication.

YTC: We lie through our teeth, you decide!

2010 Addendum: This was also published in Capital of Nasty, which is still a working website. This was an attempt at Gonzo type shit.

Title: Gazelle Cunt

I sit alone and thinking, I try to remember everything about that place. It was a good time wrapped up snuggly in a blanket smeared in feces. I remember seeing it through a thick fog as the ship inched mile by mile, closer and closer. Each second one more small vision breaking through obscurity. It would be welcoming bosom, a gorgeous moist nipple where I could satisfy my infantile thirst.

I was a little nervous when all was said and done, the ship tied to the pier, orders of the day being handed out. The sun was bright and quickly burning off the remaining fog. It seemed as if God was lifting the dismal veil that had been over me for the past two months. I would soon be free, even if only for two days. By the time I was completely released from my duty and obligation of that day the sun was in full bloom and had revealed palm trees and an unforgettable Mediterranean city that was thriving with life and action. And I could only think of two subjects: Wine and cunts.

As I stared at the city presenting itself to me, Baker came up behind me and told me about many of his previous debaucheries and sailor stories related to this city. He was a monkey man, possibly closer to an orangutan with blond hair. He was slow and lazy, similar to an orangutan. He always talked in nonsense. The life of booze had irreconcilably cleared his mind of any intelligent thinking. Fortunately his boozing and whoring stories were usually entertaining and even though his manners were that of an ape his eyes sparkled with excitement and genus. It was if there really was something he knew that no one else knew.

His stories were provided with a sound track of waves sloshing and lapping the hull of the ship. The sea gulls calling out over head pleading for another piece of trash for them to take back to their chicks. The sound of ship horns blowing in the distant. As he told his stories I saw in my mind the traditional vision of what a French whore should look like, complete with an accordion player in the background. He broke my daydream. He stated that we needed to go that the women of Toulon awaited us.

I walked off of the ship together with my comrade Baker. The first mission was to eat. Eating actually took precedent over all things as the choice of food on a military vessel is not what anyone would actually desire to eat. There were vendors on the streets selling sandwiches… Beautiful smashed sandwiches choked with meat and vegetables and various sauces. I gorged myself on two of them. This was turning out to be a great day.

Soon we were on our way to find a place to drink, which didn't take long. We found a bar named The San Francisco, which housed a number of gorgeous "waitresses."

The day slowly blended in with the night and I remember a brilliant purple/blue sky slowly fading into the blackness. I had been doing shots
with some French sailors and they were trying to teach me their drinking
songs. They were good men, the whole lot of them. They were fascinated with America, I thought the French were supposed to be snobbish. I was the snob. I knew nothing of France. My barmaid for the day ended her shift with me and gave me a nice long kiss. I tipped very well. Her replacement was Tania.

I found myself comparing all people and their features to animals. As Baker was an orangutan, Tania was a giraffe or maybe even better, a gazelle. She did not have the ugly out of context portions that the better portion of us has. She seemed graceful and had the kind, knowing brown eyes. Initially I really didn't speak with her that much as she did have other patrons. However, the rum and cokes were beginning to have their way with me and I had to sit down. I was commanded to sit down. When you sit down you then become the property of the bargirls that descend upon you like vultures. A cock rub for 50 bucks, a private session for 80, and so on.

I felt blessed that Tania had sat with me. She wasn't the most beautiful girl in the place but seemed interesting for she seemed out of place. I had always felt out of place, I felt that we would have something in common. Being drunk it was easy to be immediately friendly. I had been with a few whores before but this day I wanted conversation more. Of course that was soon to change as my drunken body and lack of sex for months on end had reduced me to a man nearly capable of rape. A disgusting thought but a thought is nothing but a thought until it is realized.

My friend Baker must have realized this as the shore patrol had hours before taken him back to the ship. He was flailing and screaming about murder and whores. It was embarrassing and I was happy to see the idiot go. It seemed he wanted a girl a little more than she wanted him, you had to negotiate these things…it wasn't a street corner. These girls weren't "really" whores.

I looked out the window at the street corner, which was cobblestone and covered with dew. The neon signs of this little bar district shimmering and sparkling as the staggering men staggered by looking for another place to find something…anything. They all seemed ugly and barbaric to me. We Americans have a rule it seems. The rule is to get as drunk and stupid as possible and to be as ugly and obnoxious as possible at the same time. At the time, I still hadn't learned that rule.

Tania had asked me in her accent what I was looking at out there. Now she seemed like a parrot that smoked too much, however she quickly transformed back into the gazelle. Our conversation started with music, I had thought that all western Europeans liked bands like the Cure, so I listed my favorite black clad British and German bands. She was disappointed by that statement and told me her love was Reggae. She told me how she imagined herself out of her own personal hellhole and taking it easy in the Caribbean. I found it pleasant that here was a person that was as uncomfortable with her home as I was with mine. We all want to escape; it doesn't matter where we are. I told her this loudly as if it was something important. She giggled at me and told me I was silly and pulled me up from the booth to dance with her. She had the bartender play Peter Tosh and it was wonderful. I am no dancer, but I found on that night that I was. It was easy to sway with a graceful girl to the sound of the islands. As we danced there was a madness that appeared in her eyes and she grabbed between my legs and led me back to the private area. She then demanded 80 bucks to suck me off. I said fine and gave her the money. First we kissed but not a whore kiss, a real kiss. I hadn't had one of those in 6 or 7 months and I didn't want it to end. When we finished I thought well that was it and sat back down in the booth. Tania had disappeared as well. I was thinking that she had reached her quota and went home. But she soon came back out and sat down again. Began talking as if nothing had happened, she began to go on about her life, she was studying nursing and had to do this to get through as her father had died when she was young and that since she was half Algerian and the French were bigots that it was difficult to survive. She told me everything and I sat and listened. I wanted to talk but was mesmerized by her eyes. Staring into them was an ample conversation. I can still see them to this day, and I can still them sparkle.

I believed every word she said. I began to want her, more than I wanted a fuck; I wanted to know everything about her. French girls have a way of seeming sophisticated even if they are dumb as an ox. I was petting her; her skirt was a velvet like material. I was thinking to myself that every damn thing about this girl was beautiful. She was no longer a gazelle cunt, she was beginning to transform into a goddess before my eyes. I looked outside again, more Americans screaming for blood in the streets and I had found what they were looking for. I had found a meal to placate the beast inside me. All of the frustration and anger of months at sea with a crew of semi-retarded heathens would be relinquished. I was receiving a fresh breeze of love in a sea of hate. I really didn't feel lucky, only relieved.

She proposed to me that I stay until the club closed and wait for her outside and then join her for some wine and hash at her apartment. Of course, my answer was immediately in favor of the idea.

We walked down ancient cobblestone streets that were glazed with moisture.

I found a striking similarity with the night and the situation. I was no longer thinking of animalistic observations, things were growing ever nearer to the elements around me. No longer were we monkey boy and horny gazelle cunt but she was the sea and I was the sky forever exerting pressure, forever longing to be one.

Her apartment was pretty barren with few knick-knacks to secure small conversation. I made a comment to this effect and she replied that ones surroundings usually mimic their lives. We drank and fucked and smoked the hashish. We listened to weird some really African music, she danced for me. Eventually I fell asleep.

I awoke and it was high noon, she was gone. I had to go back to my ship. She left me a little note that said, ' Thank you for the great time, I took the liberty of borrowing the hundred bucks you said I could have last night. I cannot thank you enough for helping me out. Please lock the door on your way out and write me.

I thought, how sweet? Now she has turned back in to a little gazelle cunt and run away. I really didn't remember saying she could have 100 bucks but I had to be on my ship in an hour and didn't know where the fuck I was. I went outside and hailed a taxi. I jumped in and the driver looked at me in the rear view mirror with a big smile and laughingly said in a thick Arabian accent, "Aahhh! American! Getting the pussy! Back to ship and get the cock!"

I smiled, because it was somehow funny. I was fucked even after getting fucked.

Addendum 2010: Delusional account of something somewhat true.

Title: Summum Bonum I am Joking

In my life, I have often wondered about the actual amount of phlegm I have spat up or ruminated. If am under the jurisdiction of the fabled cave allegory as told by Plato then I have a minor problem. I have only seen shadows and they are all alive, more than alive, possibly overwhelming.

All of these shadows spit up phlegm…they chew on it like a second meal and then spit the snotgoo in my face. Fuck them.

'Plato remarks that if someone after ascending to the sunshine, went back into the cave he would be unable to see properly because of the darkness, and so would make himself "ridiculous"; while if he tried to free another and lead him up to the light, the prisoners (of the cave, those not enlightened,) who love the darkness and consider the shadows the true reality, would put the offender to death, if they could but catch him.' Well I feel obligated to tell you that sometimes the shadows are reality. So much for Plato. What kind of allegory would he have written if he had met these shadows? I bet he never met one that could cough up phlegm.

Symbolically speaking of course.

What kind of person is it that believes in these illusory shadows that hide the truth and the light from them? This person is a browser; "I'm only looking sir, no thank you I do not require any assistance shopping. However, I am a bit interested in this falls issue of your monkey fucking midget catalogue." I personally never bought into the scheme of things. I loosely observed. I am not saying that I have ever really payed attention…I browsed.

Few salesmen ever entered my humble abode without realizing shortly thereafter that they wished they hadn't. I entered their salespitch with an insane conversation. "Don't you listen a second to what you hear coming out of the bedroom back there, they had it coming." Sometimes I would be silent through the entire salespitch- not even a peep coming from me. Then I would mumble something nervously like, "I also have something for sale; the sun, which is currently shining brightly from my asshole." Or some other inane bullshit, Although this time I feel I might have taken my little indulgences too far.

Whatever comes must go. Words come and go, I come and go, salesmen and women must also come and go. Shadows are salesmen and both are browsers, window shoppers, mimicking, following. Looking for the next big deal, looking for the next fart handle to present to their families on birthdays and holidays.

Waiting for the next shadow of guilt to cast on all of humanity in the form of a plastic bass that hangs on the wall and sings, "don't worry, be happy." Shadows are; television, dreams, beautiful women, ugly women, children, old men, violence, peace, drugs, music, and the moon. All shadows, all things, all of the time. We get to the point my shadow and me. We know what to do. We remember playing together as children in fields of sunshine. We remember the first fuck in the sunshine when youth and beauty and the sun made a good combination. We remember everything except, the darkness.

I believe that is where the confusion arose. Why did I ask the shadows about the darkness? A shadow is darkness in the light, it knows more about darkness than the blackest midnight. Those bastards can fuck off; it is their fault that I did all of those bad things. Now I suffer, do the shadows ever suffer? I do not know, they won't even talk to me anymore. They are the ones that told me to do it. I had no choice. I picked up the hammer and I cracked open the salesman's shiny bald cranium. I just fucking had to.
After that, everything became too bright. I was bathed in light that let me see the shadows and their secrets. It was then that they spat upon me,
mocking me, laughing at me. We do not console each other anymore; we don't cajole each other. We are now both afraid to die. Just like the salesman did.

So I have decided that in order to stop the shadows, I will stop myself and they look uninterested in the whole plan. But it is a plan none the less and it must be carried out in an expeditious manner. They may decide to befriend me again. I am witless against their charms. I am the follower, the ultimate follower.

In my life, I have often wondered about the actual amount of phlegm I have spat up or ruminated. If am under the jurisdiction of the fabled cave allegory as told by Plato then I have a minor problem.

2010 Addendum: I am not sure why I wrote this.