Sometimes the Clock Ticks: An insomniac’s Tale

(Yes, it’s a completely rough and likely terrible first draft of probably nothing at all, BUT, this site is about the process. And I wrote this before falling asleep.)

Sometimes the Clock Ticks: An insomniac’s Tale (PDF)

Sometimes the clock ticks — it’s midnight and I blink, tock, once again, with the ticking and the tocking, and it’s the wee hours of the Ay-Em and, lookiehere, I’m still awake. Running from sleep that won’t have me anyway. A penance of sorts. Things seem irreconcilable during the lighted hours, but when the sun has retreated for what seems like possibly forever, does the mind’s machinations begin to make sense. They say it’s the witching hour but which witch would have me this hour?

Brain’s gone numb from too many pharmaceuticals so I can be just how they want me to be, just how they like me, complacent. Compliant. I’m more agreeable on the pills so I take more and I love them because they make me feel warm and fuzzy like I’m the Teddy bear. Who’s going to snuggle me?

Rebuff, rebuke the skeptics who claim conspiracy theories are strictly for conspirers, especially conspirers of the purely theoretical — the worst kind. Fall in line, everyone, fall in line. Just fall.  We’re selling a slow and painful death for the low price of everything you’ve got, including your Soul. Buy and sell; this is a free market, son! This is America. Wake up and smell the fucking free trade coffee, man! Your liberties are taxed here, but you don’t know it.  Plus it’s easier to believe they aren’t.

Big Brother isn’t even Big Brother because then, whose fucking watching him? You think they’d let some guy in a top hat pointing his finger all willy-nilly at people to fight a war they—whoever the fuck they are—don’t even believe in?  They, who don’t believe in a human purpose other than unchecked economic growth? Sounds almost like “they” are “we.” Unchecked growth, like it’s a good fucking idea but going out of style, falling into disfavor, and the clock is still ticking. Tick. Tock.

The thing about stuff is that it runs out. Some things you can make more of. Fantastic. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle, a point that is only slightly left of the real point. The real point is actual real points, plural, because there are a lot of them and another word I’d use here is problem, preceded by a duo of colorful words, big and fucking. Like greenhouse gasses and the rapage — yes, rape-age, let me break it down — the rapage of fossil fuel supplies because it’s just so fucking cheap to do it. Cheap is good, but Free is better.  Though it’s important to remember that cheap is at its best when it’s almost free.

Don’t scribble your name out on the paper, you drew your Capital U, or S, or A, or your G, your O, or your D crooked, but you say, who really fucking cares? The giant fucking tree that was cut down to make paper for dipshits to doodle on probably fucking cares, a lot. And I know I’m typing fuck a lot by this this point, but this point is fucking serious — people listen to cuss words. Science has proven this.

And all of this doesn’t even TOUCH on the “War on Drugs,” aka the “War on People.” Where should I begin?

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