I boned your plastic Santa (Front lawn)

Holy shit. I'm still drunk as I write. What a night. Lets see, from what I can piece together... 
I wrecked, stumbled a few blocks, stripped down and had sex with your lawn ornament Santa around 3am. I know you saw me because you were yelling at me to get off your lawn. 
I was really laying the high hard one to him under the mistletoe.

But since you did this in your night gown I am now your stalker. Forever. Really. I'm not kidding. 
I can't remember the address but I know the street so I just need to find the blown out ass of what was once a life size Saint Nick. Did I mention I love you?

I also would like my jeans back. They were 45 bucks at PacSun. 

I'm not sure how the reindeer caught on fire. Nor why the sleigh was in the middle of the street. Seems like there would be a reason. Not that it matters now since the fire trucks hit it. 
How did they miss an 8 foot sleigh in the middle of the street? 
Jiminy fucking Christmas!

Oh, right. It's slowly coming back to me now. I used it to pry the fire hydrant open to put out the burning Reindeer. Makes perfect sense now. 
So not a total black out. Just a brown out. Maybe I will remember where I wrecked my car and which bar has my debit card. Gonna be a good day.

Still it doesn't clarify why I catapulted a flaming reindeer through your bay window. Maybe blitzen. Or Donner. Yea, Donner I think. Well... hopefully no hard feelings. I blame the Tequila. Kids will be kids right?

Not me of course, I mean your kids. Screaming and crying and carrying on like that! I mean, come on. Geesh, if I had a dime for every time a jolly fat man got ass pounded in MY front lawn as a kid I'd be owner of a small string of adult bookstores by now. And besides, I turned out ok. Sure, I don't recall fiery Reindeer crashing directly into my living room at zero dark thirty after seeing Santa's bung hole being raped but... I didn't have a bay window. 

So lets call it even and start afresh.
Happy Holidays,

N.

We travel as equals or not at all (redemption city)

 "The only way we can survive...

is to travel as equals or not at all.”

I.

Though narcissism demands the right to self-identify, narcissists are often unable to do so because they don't know what it is they want to be.  Who am I?  What are the rules of my identity? So people look for shortcuts, like modeling oneself after another existing character or someone from TV which ISN’T real of course but just try and tell them that. 

“I don’t cry at funerals because I’m the kind of guy who has seen some hairy shit in my day.” Which translates that our speaker was raised on 80’s action movies.

But the considerably more regressive maneuver is to define yourself in opposition to things.  "I can't tell you what I want for dinner," says the toddler, "but I am certain I don't want that. Or that. Or that.” You the narcissist can always tell another what you are not. 

Now you can go through life floating, letting hate, the darkside of the force, or the easy path, guide your reactions. It seems certain that you have a fully formed identity because of the magnitude of your passions, emotions, and responses, but you can only operate in response, never first, never with commitment or vision. I know the young lady with the “Obama is a muslim” poster thinks she is driven by love, but that doesn't really come through her, does it? Her hate defines her. "I'm anti-leftist"  We get it.

What does she want? Can she articulate it meaningfully, not in platitudes or "Keep Christ in Christmas" or "Amurrica means freedom" soundbites? They can't tell you because they don't know. They can, however, yell at you what they don't like, and the louder they yell it the more they hear it themselves.

II.

Nothing is expected to be accomplished, it is all for branding. The enemy of the day is "terrorists" but that's not an actual thing now is it? Kind of like “Wall Street” and the cops that #OWS were so earnestly hoping would assault them weren't their enemies either, they are proxies for Wall Street which is a proxy for something else that I am going to politely refrain from suggesting is the big other.

The right wing sign holder and the left wing protestors didn't realize they were themselves bit players in someone else's movie, the media's movie, which offers this clip and others like it so that you, the viewer, can easily define yourself by who you hate.  "That's what the ratings said you wanted," studio execs say, perplexed.  "Were we wrong?"  No, no, you were right. Carry on.  

If I hate the protestors, I'm on Wall Street's side, and vise versa, no further branding, let alone thought, is necessary.  If I hate the “god hates fags” sign holders then mission accomplished. But none of this is thinking. We have lost the ability to do that because we are so busy hating what we are told to hate. But it defines us so we at least have that.

III.

So you are saying N. that it’s the media’s fault?

Look at you. So cute with your contrived attempt to not see yourself as involved. 

I'm fairly confident that a study of comparing 22 idiots to 21 other idiots done by, apparently, idiots, most likely explicitly done for the mass consumption of more idiots is not a study worth repeating, but you can be sure it will be repeated many, many more times and eventually form the foundation for future research not to mention conventional wisdom for the next 25 years. Yet, you read the study and if it suits you, you will quote it.

No, strike that. You *might* read an article that was written by someone who cites the study but who, like you, hasn’t actually read it. 

The media has chosen the easy path because that's what you want, we want to be told that liberals are psychopaths and cops are Wall Street heavies and white men are entitled jerks and this guy's a hoax/for real, all so that the rest of us can decide which side of that invented controversy we are on so that we remember who we think we are. 

 "I hate something!" says the person who is out of ideas. 

IV.

The societal question is what has happened to many people that they are unable to define themselves, or affirm their value, except through another person? The rise in murder-suicide may be best explained as it relates to the rise in narcissism. We are defined by others, and when those others see thru our bullshit and act, the jig is up. And we get nasty. Walking away won’t do because a narcissist’s identity (thru you) is all they have. Bullets will fly.

Look, I’m in this shit just as deep as you. You want me to give you the answer. Quit the long winded connections missed and just tell you the new and proper identity so you can assume it. Become it without the hard work. 

But that is the problem. There is no short cut. You won’t learn the new way with a 45 second montage clip. The way out isn’t a path we have all just happened to miss up till now. I know, it FEELS like just one more Facebook status update will REALLY change things, one more lover, one more election, one more law, one more beer, one more X this time will create Y but alas, it won’t. It never will. Your ipod theme tracks won’t save you today.

The key to beginning to think correctly is not to ask, what should I believe, or what beliefs would a person like me have now that I am X? 

They key is to be defined by your actions. Especially when no one is looking and... no one is. 

How do I act if I’m unsure of what to believe first?

Finally, some progress is made. If this next bit sounds counter intuitive thats because it was meant for you. 

Your action fills in the belief. That's it.

If I’m correct, just the thought of no one seeing your actions has depressed and perplexed you. How can the movie that is you be seen without an audience? 

“In your way, you find a way free.

... Give it up, give it up, give it up to your destiny.”

V.

There is no act 5. Not here anyway. It is what you do next. Not what you think, feel or believe but what you do next that will be act 5. Go get em Tiger.

N.

The stupid tax (lottery as class war)

The transfer of wealth never looked so diabolical.

I.

They once asked JP Rockefeller just how much fucking money did he need anyway? His answer: Just a little bit more.

II.

When I ran around with OWS I learned that I myself was a part of the top wealthy 4%. I make under $40,000 a year and I still fell in the top 4%! That is of course compared to the entire world. Which, apparently, is one ramen noodle soup away from dropping over dead.

 You can throw your annual salary into this website to see where you land. globalrichlistDOTcom. Like Rockefeller, I always think I need just a little bit more.

III.

People who have never been rich assume that rich means infinite money, when it really just means more money and a higher level of consumption. But if you are buying things to fill that empty pit in your heart, no amount will suffice. Not even a  lottery pile.

More money, spent with the same attitude, the one that’s seeking an identity and a holy inner stressless peace by buying things, isn’t going to kill that poverty feeling. When you live so precisely at your means that $50 a month makes a difference, no amount of money is going to help you; you’re just going to buy more and bigger houses to starve in.

IV.

I blame King James I personally. Apparently he started a lottery to help the fledgling Jamestown Colonists. The idea took root in the new country and by the time the colonists told the king to go fuck himself there were 164 “known” colonial lotteries funding just about every government task you could think of. Put that in your tea and drink it. Sure, it helped the more puritanical sleep soundly knowing they were not actually gambling but rather participating in a voluntary tax. My ancestor tried a variation of this defense. He was the guy chained in the stocks who said he wasn’t butt fucking sheep per say but merely participating in some harmless “voluntary” cross breeding. Sadly, they weren’t persuaded- but- enough about my family tree.

V.

Now wait just a minute N., a tax is a mandatory or compulsory payment, and playing the lottery is voluntary, so lottery revenue cannot be a tax you jack-hole.

You’re confusing the purchase of a product with the payment of the tax on the product. True, the purchase of a lottery ticket is voluntary, but the tax portion of the ticket price is not, just as a sales or excise tax is compulsory on a voluntary purchase of alcohol, clothing or books. The voluntary nature of the purchase does not make the tax any less of a tax. Using your rationale, we’d have to say that because the purchase of a dildo is voluntary, the sales tax on the dildo is not really a tax. Just try to buy a $20 dildo and hand the cashier a $20 bill, but refuse to pay the $1.40 (.07%) sales tax and leave the store waving dildo in hand. “I’m not funding anymore government abortions with my $1.40! Its going to chic-fil-a instead!!”

The only difference between the lottery tax and sales or excise taxes is that the lottery tax is built into the price of the ticket, rather than reported separately.

Fuck off N. Here is YOUR missed connection. It’s a recreational activity. If you can’t afford it, don’t play. Otherwise quit the bitching.

This argument seems to suggest that the lottery is akin to a sort of user fee, or a charge paid to the government for a specific service, by the people who use that service. Lotteries are a government enterprise and a source of tax revenue, and must be evaluated as such.

If the governing body’s intent was simply to meet the needs of a person who paid for a service or product, the payment is probably a fee rather than a tax (a toll on a bridge for example). However, if the intent was to raise revenues to benefit the community at large, then the payment is a tax. The lottery clearly falls into the latter category since legislators create lotteries to raise money for projects that (supposedly) benefit the community at large.

And the tax burden is shifting from the wealthy and property owners to lottery players. That is to say, the poor. And you line up at the counters to do it. 

Where do you think that mega millions jackpot came from? Answer: Out of the pockets of poor people. State lotteries posted more than $53 billion in ticket sales in 2006 (the last year for which I found data). And 99.999% of those ticket buyers, which includes you, are losers. Don’t take that personally. It just means you didn’t win. So quit waving your dildo at me.

Rich people usually don’t play the lottery, the poor do, working class, the disabled and welfare recipients. Hence, the lottery can be viewed as a tax on the poor, which is redistributed to people who already have jobs. Who, by the way, will give half of that money back in the form of taxes. Thats a huge transfer of wealth from the bottom to the top.

That’s also called a racket where I come from. The media’s the barker, and we’re the rubes.

I’m just playing a fantasy. I know I won’t win, I just like being a part of something plus the revenue goes toward education and...

Yep. Its a tax on the stupid.

N.

Zombie as missed connection (mourning dew)

Black Friday as the denial of death

I.

The first Zombie movie was in 1968. And no, they were not called zombies in that movie either. Fun fact: Romero’s Night of the Living Dead considered them ghouls. It was the viewing public/media that began to call them zombies. The idea was something reanimated dead people. A small reference in the movie to a reason for the dead reanimating is a radio broadcast of a satellite reentering the atmosphere and exploding. Radiation was the fear then. You know, Godzilla and all. 

Our fears have evolved. Load up on your anti-bacterial soap kids, an I am legend plague is coming. No actually the fear is growing up but that doesn’t stimulate your narcissistic tastes so I’m taking the long route.

Prior to that a zombie was from Haiti (think Serpent and the Rainbow). A part of the witchdoctor-slavery system. A precursor to modern capitalism really but that post will have to wait. Vampires could also make zombie-like ghouls. Vampires are clearly the upper class collecting capital (blood) from the lower class. The undead were a byproduct of that hidden massacre. Van Helsing and his updated version Blade are marxist revolutionaries.

 In Zombieland, when a dead human scurries down the street towards you, they say a zombie is coming because in the movie itself there is an awareness, a history implied, that the characters know what a fucking zombie is. The Walking dead is not an alternate universe. Everything about it screams 2010 US of A. So what do you call it when no one in it mentions something that everyone should be aware of? Repression.

“Walkers, biters, lamebrains, the dead” are all names that the characters try to apply to what they should obviously be calling zombies. They don’t because this show isn’t about zombies. 

II.

So enlighten us genius...What’s The Walking Dead really about?

Easy there governor I’m getting there. Every season so far we are presented with people who cannot move on from a loved one dying/turning. They died and part of them moved on. But another part of them remains, comes after us- albeit slowly. 

In episode one Morgan who cannot shoot his turned wife. Shane, haunted by the family he must let go of though he thought he had earned. The sister who must watch her sister turn. A brother who must move on with a group that effectively killed his brother. A christian man who must face the world is not sick but dead. That his wife and children cannot be healed. A lost daughter who must be put down. A valued member who must be put out of his misery. A son who must kill (again) his mother so she doesn’t turn. Turns out everyone is infected. However you die, turn you will. 

Now we have the governor whose little girl is kept in a state of undead waiting, one presumes like Hershel’s barn was. Waiting for the big other to come and fix it but now mourning that alas, he isn’t coming.  Unlike Hershel though, the governor is taking matters into his own hands. By sheer will he will fix things and return them to normal. Like the quaint town he has fortified.

III.

But why repress the name zombie? Because when you fail to mourn the death of a loved one you get anxiety. Anxiety leads to projection. And projecting all my terror into an external enemy is what a zombie is. They are the hate, confusion, rage and death that I feel. And I can dispense with that by putting a bullet thru their brain.

But that’s not mourning. And so when I turn around there are 6 more. 12 more. A world full of things that are coming after me. Rick’s rage in the prison is an apt description as any. He will kill until he tires of doing so. There will never be a shortage of zombies.

Until I run the ritual right, I can’t mourn properly and I can’t move on. The (preposterous) phone call to Rick is an attempt to run the ritual right. To do what is right and grieve. To experience the loss in all its terror and own it. Sometimes this must be done regularly, hence the name ritual. A Father would then be there for his grieving son. Lead him thru the ritual of mourning the death of his mother (or whoever). That is the right thing to do.

Does anyone still remember what is the right thing to do? Of course not thats why we have zombies.

IV.

Incomplete mourning has left us trapped in our own heads, and so day in and day out we try to (not) shoot our loved ones who are (not) completely dead, repeating it over and over, working through it until we master the material.  

We can spend the rest of our life in repetition compulsion if we want, but time marches forward and like everything else in life it comes down to a binary choice: we'll either get over them or become them.  It is inevitable.

That's why there's no sense in putting it off, and you certainly can't avoid it-- it follows you around. There are never enough bullets or arrows. No hideout that can withstand the slow methodical onslaught.

V.

The unspoken part of mourning is that sometimes we wished that the dead person was, well, dead. Children under 10 think the world is magical and if you hate someone then you can an affect their demise. The guilt of secretly at times wishing your parents, your boss, your spouse even your kids dead is repressed. Like a child we fear we somehow caused this. Made it happen by our ghoulish daydreams of a life without them in it. Ah the freedom. The things we would do with that other life instead of the one I'm living now. And then when they die, we know we thought those thoughts. We killed them.

Sure we didn’t kill them but the unconscious doesn’t seem to know that does it?

 It lingers. Rises up and begins to slowly stalk us. It is the zombie we want to put down for good but can’t. If we could just tell our loved one, explain it. Have one more shot to make it right, that I didn’t really want you dead. I was just being selfish and moody. I really need you and still do.

Thankfully, generations much wiser than our own figured out that these rituals help us do just that. God can and does forgive us. And you learn by doing. But we value beliefs more than actions so we create ever more elaborate beliefs and mock the old ways all the while doing nothing. 

In that sense The Walking Dead is THE american show of our day. It is unable to name itself because we walk around endlessly avoiding the dead. The walking dead. Or - What do you get when you get so good at denial, that you extend it to the inevitable?  You get American zombies. Denial of death. And what better way to deny death than shop. That is, to consume endlessly. 

N.

Marco! (Polo!)

That is one ugly f'in unicorn

A critique in 6 movements.

An open response to a craigslist reply. Original in bold.

 “Have you ever been stopped dead in your tracks?”

This is just your identity seeing a co-star that would further improve your identity. Your brain is like a talent agent looking for a supporting cast for you, the star. Appears you found one.

“I can't sleep, I can't focus on work, I can't ride down the street without you in my head. Baby you have me so twisted inside I feel like I'm just going in circles.”

Your twisted all right, like a psychopath pretzel. It’s not the other person of course that twists you but your DESIRE to possess the other person. You want to to have them in your sitcom, or Rom-com. I suspect its more a horror flick but horrors the ending for sure. But I hate when I jump ahead like that.

“This must end soon, I must to have you in my life!!!!” 

Yes, because other people serve no other purpose than to be in or out of your life. It’s not like they have jobs or commitments, beliefs, dreams that in no way, shape or form include you. Nope. What matters, what only matters is that you have a need. We haven’t heard anything about WHY this person has you feeling this way. What it is about them that is unique and endearing. 

A gi-normous penis maybe? Shares the SSI check generously? Can wear his pants down low like nobodies business? He’s good with kids not his own? 

All we get is your feelings because, well, thats all there is to this story.

“I always turn the radio when those mushy love songs come on, but since I've met you I find myself listening to them, singing them in my head when I think of you” 

And when this dreamy guy is no longer needed in your movie, he will join the countless others whose memory simply has you turn the station. We are not singing THAT tune/guy anymore, are we? What is easily entered into is also easily cast aside. Turned like a knob on a old car’s radio to something new. And who listens to radio anymore?

“(which is every second of every day)! When I'm with you, everything goes away.” 

The compulsion, the drive is what makes people think they must be in love. But let us contemplate for a moment that we always feel like this when we meet someone new who we are sexually aroused by. Have we not felt this before only to then learn, oh, they are an average, everyday asshole, just like the last one. Just like us.

Another person cannot be the object of this intense desire for long without a.) failing and b.) failing.

“All is right in the world, just by the simple touch of your hand. I miss you baby!”

A fetish is something, not always perverse, that takes the place of another object that is too painful to have close. A man may seem fine after the death of his wife but he cares for his deceased wife’s cat with extreme finesse. Weird right? But not alarming. However, when the cat finally dies he loses it. Really loses it because the cat became a fetish disavowal. A stand in to keep the real and excruciating pain of his wife’s death from impacting him. The fetish helped him maintain. You might think thats a good thing. Hey, he made it to work, ensured the kids were ok, even seemed pleasant at a party. 

But like the above ad we are dissecting, it (the fetish with new man lover) isn’t real. The compulsion is to avoid not just loneliness but the despair of who we are/who we are not.

All in all I counted 16x you used the words ‘Me’, ‘I’ or ‘my’. So this post is really about you. Not your beloved. 

Notice when the words relating to others is used, like the word “you” its not about them but STILL about yourself. Gotta love narcissisms resilience as we never learn a thing about the ‘you’ person that this post claims to be all about!

“You...in my head”
“You...have me twisted”
“You...in my life”
And “You...I find myself”

 So Marco Polo goes to Java, and sees a one horned horse, and figures, hey, it's a unicorn. Fucking A! But it was a rhinoceros. Marco Polo wasn't a dummy, because he had to make a choice: either he modified his understanding of unicorn to fit the animal in front of him, or else he would have to believe he discovered an entirely unknown animal.

We make a similar choice every day, about everything. We are trained to care only about identity. What is my motivation in todays scenario we wonder internally, constantly. Who am I today? What do I want to be? Who would help my identity by being next to me?

It never occurs to us to say, what can I do for them? How might I act to make their lives better up to and including sacrificing what I might want?

Choosing to be just one thing, with all our will, despite resistance internal and external remains the rhinoceros that we cannot name.

N.

I may have resorted to cannibalism (a tad too soon)

So I awoke, dazed and confused from a hangover this morning to reports that NYC was going underwater and the movie 2012 was in fact coming true. So I went to work, killed my boss and sat in the break room and ate him.

Then I saw the damage from 'Frankenstorm' (pic below) and determined that I *may* have jumped the gun on the whole, apocalypse is nigh, cannibalism thing. 

My bad.

N.

We made luck (in aisle 12)

First you passed me in the produce section. You stopped just in front of me to examine a cucumber. I nearly jizzed in my pants right there. But you were just getting warmed up.

By chance, we again met in aisle 3. If by chance you comprehend that I purposefully waited to see which aisle you would go down and then I double-backed around to face you as we passed. So yea, by chance.

You were pretending to not notice me which was all I needed to understand just how hot for me you really were. If you weren’t, you would have just said hi. You put some long, corn on the cob into your cart and strolled effortlessly away. My blood pressure rose.

My cart had the one bad wheel that dragged, loudly throughout the store. The kid with the mop wasn’t exactly excited about the scuff marks I was leaving in my wake either.

Aisle 4. Aisle 5. Aisle 7. Aisle 9. Meat. We kept meeting by chance the entire time!

Around aisle 12 you finally spoke.

“Are you going to put anything into your cart while you stalk me or did your girlfriend forget to email you the list?” Right hand on hip. Nails red. Cleavage pulling me in...

*cough* “Ah, yes. I mean no. Yes! I am shopping and no I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Shocking.” You said rather blandly as you dropped the low salt V-8 juice into your cart without care and glided off. How could you know that was my favorite?!

What a flirt. I quickly speed raced my loud cart into dairy to beat you to the ice cream section but some bratty kid was crying about Flinstone yogurt and blocking the way. So I ran him over. Hey! Relax, I did the mom a favor. Next time he’ll stay in the goddamn cart seat like a toddler should!

“Security to aisle 14. Code 9.” Blared the overhead speakers.

My cart wheel was really dragging now and I pushed even harder to race to meet you but alas, my phallic symbol shopper had skipped ice cream and went right to check out. Dammit. It was then that I realized I was dragging not only a bad wheel but the bratty kid. Kind of explains the increased torque. All stuffed up under my left front wheel. He seemed traumatized. I decided to shop later and depart with haste.

So... would love to finish our chat. I ah, can’t really shop at that particular Kroger anymore but would love to know where you shop for fresh, hard, long bread. 

N.

Signs of the times (Front lawn)

Which is scarier in the front yard?

A well thought out and surprising halloween display or a flurry of political campaign signs?

I say the latter. And yes I’m fine, thanks for asking. I had a stalker and had to drill down  into the deep web to ascertain from whence she came. The deep web, The dark net, The TOR. The DOT onion. If you have no idea of what I’m saying, it’s not for you. Anywho, she’s gone and I’m back. Like a rash.

I.

First, is there anything more pathetic and archaic than the campaign yard sign? I mean who is it meant for exactly? Oh, the person that lives here is a proud republican. Wow. I get it. Ah, the person across the street is clearly (and suddenly) a progressive. These neighbors don’t talk to each other of course because that’s unheard of. They will however outdo each other on idiotic signs. You have three Romney signs? FUCK THAT! I’m going for 8 plus the local school board candidate. Take that bitch across the street who I only see on Sunday morning church excursion. Love the new curtains by the way.

But this rant isn’t the usual, I hate signs and therefore I hate you version. I already hate you so I need more than that. I’m going for the even better idea that people who post yard signs are in fact NOT involved in politics AT ALL. Yes. I said not involved. As in any meaningful, measurable way. I do not include talking to and yelling at the television as meaningful or measurable.

I’ll go even further and suggest that the typical yard sign homeowner is NOT on any school board, campaign, or volunteer program. They don’t do anything because they posted a sign. Yes, you heard that right as well. You might think that they only post yard signs because they just don’t want to really do anything else, but you would be wrong. They don’t do other things because the yard sign was THE thing.

II.

When you value BELIEF more than ACTION, than a sign in your yard is THE BEST way to convey to neighbors and passerby’s alike, what you believe. Actions? Who has time to run around attending lectures and/or reading books, challenging arguments and diverse opinions? And then use that knowledge to effect some change? How can you possibly keep up with twitter, Facebook and the Kardashians AND do all that? 

Who has time to walk over and ask the person I’m attracted to if they might want to grab some grub and chit-chat when I can just so easily and safely post here instead? My beliefs (I just saw my soul mate!) matter more than actions (go over to them and eek out some words). Missed connections as digital yard signs. 

 “I already know what I believe N. and I believe the other guy is evil. So don’t bother me with why my candidate sucks ass as I already know he does but, he’s not EVIL.”

III.

What is happening above is not only belief OVER action but full blown narcissism. Its just easier, and more to the point narcissistic, to demonize the other. Whenever you find yourself defined by what you hate, dislike and fear, rest assuredly you are in the grips of narcissism. The perception disease. The- protect your imaginary, made up identity at ALL costs illness. Imaginary means you spend a lot of time propping up an identity that just isn’t true. You of course know this and so you have angst but you can’t direct that angst towards yourself. So it goes outward. The angrier you become (Often even surprising yourself) the more likely your not really doing anything effectual about whatever supposedly made you angry in the first place, or anything for that matter. 

“You’re not listening N., the other candidate is a part of a conspiracy. He’s a wolf in sheep clothing!!” 

Yes and inside coke and pepsi is high fructose corn syrup but you don’t see me with a yard full of signs demanding you pick the one with less, do you? I just drink water and hope that you ask one day, why am I so fit and healthy. (Picture me flexing in mirror. Go ahead...you know you wanna.) But your desire for me to agree with your beliefs won’t let you move on. You are stuck. Your man verse his man. American Idol without the crappy music and the winner is, and always will be, the system. Thanks for playing.

IV.

Having the right beliefs becomes all consuming because thats all you have. Political, religious, academic... it doesn’t matter so long as you get your belief out before your favorite shows come on. To act would be to expose the absence of real freedom. And your made up identity just won’t handle that. 

Yard signs are Cheap (free, like here) and they don’t demand anything of your time and energy. You can now go about your day doing whatever you like (nothing) with the added benefit of displaying your so-called beliefs. Beliefs devoid of any real actions. Unless “liking” shit on Facebook is now considered “action”. Or posting ads with one letter names is action. Like an ancient buddhist prayer wheel, your yard sign is out there in the wind, doing the work for you. Besides, the Walking Dead is on. Oh, the irony. I love that documentary. Wait, what...

N.

In Dutch with the Mrs. (Gimpy)

Mrs. N

Either I have a "healthy obsession" (your term) or "these subjects own me" but they cannot be both. Unless for you, being owned is considered healthy.

As hard as it is for us narcissists to speak about ourselves, I will endeavor to try. What can I say, I'm a giver.

Narcissism is incurable. One is never healed. In that way, like alcoholism for instance, we are always in recovery. You are either pushing your narcissism to work for you by helping others or you're the ego maniac drifting between illusions of grandeur and offing yourself and half a city block before the nightly news comes on because someone you like didn't text you back within 4 minutes (WTF!?!).

So any task or thought we enter into, you bring your narcissism with. I for one didn't see the sign on the door that spelled out which kind of missed connections would be allowed in. And another perk of narcissism is that I'm always changing identity. 
Today I'm a smuggler. And like the nations founders, my Boston Tea party is because The East India trading company is selling the narcissism CHEAPER than even we smugglers can sell it. The bastards! 
You see back in the day Pirates were a necessary part of the controlled economy. Navigating the waters better than any nation state. 
In the new world order, shipping is the internet; the goods are data. Yo ho ho.

Nor am I sure that the female libido is all about blow jobs with Bill to ultimately bone Bob but I will take your word for it that this is how you relate. Thanks for the insight. If you just mean to imply that Nemesis played me, well, duh. And Last time I checked Esther wasn't stalking some lonely hebrew (to really boink Larry the temple guard) and leaving notes on his chariot windshield. BUT, maybe my Bible translation is dated. I'll check the footnotes.

You should know these things as you, without batting an eye, speak on behalf of all readers. I take it you met with all the craigslist readers prior to sending this. All four of them?

Did you make the coffee at this meeting also? Did you push in the chairs when it was over? Did you discuss the poor lighting over in the rant and rave section? 
Of course not as such tasks are beneath you. To you fell the high duty, singular mission of writing the ad to address the wayward gimp (I did like your use of gimp/funny). 
It appears to have been a suicide mission.

Geesh, you should have at least wiped the tables.

N. 

Viva la resistance (Jubilee)

If you believe the feud between Nemesis and myself to be sexual in nature, your mostly wrong. If you think it theological, your groin is getting warmer but for the wrong reasons.

It’s economic.

One should note the underlying argument between Nemesis and myself is debt.

The obligation, whether in commodity, money or favors- to another. 

In this case, I owe (according to her) not only for NOT returning her love offered after sex but I owe her employer. Both are contractual in her eyes and Nemesis always fulfills contracts. She collects debts. She is the accuser. 

I however come announcing jubilee. The canceling of debt. The restoration of the oppressed. The system of power in place has no other choice but to view me as a pirate, a thief, a plunderer. To charge me with now being in their debt and hence the unleashing of Nemesis. 

So her relationships are always interpreted and refigured in relation to debt. To economic status. You could argue that world history is the story of enforcing debts. Where mine are interpreted in the light of a new order. The forgiveness of debts. Which also means that my relationships are not based on money. Capitalism is the new religion and money (mammon) is its morals. Failure to repay the new morality is grounds for being sent to economic hell. To ghetto prison. 

All of us owe some entity. Even our cities are heavily in debt. And we are told that its our own fault. We did this to ourselves. The Nemesis in your life is their because you deserve it. That being in debt and paying back debt is a moral issue. Don’t piss off the gods of capitalism or your a marked man. Your buying and selling is in jeopardy. Nemesis is coming for you. Back in the pen sheep, the wolf is here. 

First, not everyone pays their debts as the wealthy avoid it regularly. Nemesis’s employer avoids his debt thru wealth and force. Thru violence. So only some of us pay our debts and secondly, and most importantly no one can tell you what you owe because no one can tell you your real worth/value. 

What we do owe is each other. We are in debt to one another as humans. Not Wall Street. Not Banks and politicians. Not the principalities and powers. Nor there gorgeous, dark angel enforcers.

I should note that the opposite of Nemesis isn’t a submissive woman but Esther. Women disobeying men and saving the world. Women asserting their bodily autonomy. Women who are brave and strong and active and anything but submissive.

Resist. Before its too late. What is truly calming is always unsettling at first.

Turn over the money changers tables. Not so you then can scramble for the coins that fall for the taking. But to then walk away into a new way of relating to one another. 

No one takes my life Nemesis. I freely give it.

 N.

I'm all choked up (That your ok)

They say everything happens for a reason. You were walking thru the Italian fest. I was cramming a cannoli into my mouth. My sunglasses concealing my eyes as they went into high speed data collection. 

In a micro second I had downloaded your image into my spank bank and began to make adjustments to the portrayal as each body part revealed more as it moved, glided and swayed. A masterpiece. 
Thats what I whispered to the mirror glass nearby. You looked good as well.

As your ass came into view I kinda got excited at the prospect of having sex with it and well, I started to choke on my cannoli. At first I thought I could cough it up but it got lodged. I was okay but barely breathing. 
Whatever attempt I was making to be discreet however gave way to the increasing need to take in oxygen. It's amazing what panic will do to the brain.

Thankfully your boyfriend asked if I needed assistance. He assumed (correctly I might add) that my pissing of my own pants was an exaggerated form of "Yes!" and proceeded to Heimlich maneuver half eaten pastry from my windpipe.

I'm not exactly certain as to why you were standing in front of me as I was preoccupied with maintaining consciousness. But as you might have guessed, the pastry came out, right into your face. 
You were so stunned, that a piece slowly fell from your chin and onto your cleavage without you moving an inch. Even though I was heaving and coughing, I made sure to copy that image into the spank bank as well.

So, I'm here all alone now in my bean bag chair thinking of my cannoli cream exploding onto your face. Feeling rather proud and aroused I might add as I replay endlessly our destined encounter. 
Your boyfriend is exceptionally strong and heroic but we both know he's not for you. We have already shared so much. I felt the bonding the moment your boyfriend offered his shirt to clean your face and you screamed "Just leave me alone". 
You wanted to be with me but couldn't. Hush now. We'll be together soon. 
He chased after you so I never got your name.

I'll just call you my rainbow spunk cookie, my mascarpone money shot, taster of the sweet Sicilian rod. I'm falling to pieces as I can't forget your festival filling facial. 

N.

Visionary web sight (Nemesis)

In the words of the mighty theologian, Obi-wan Kenobi, "If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine."

Established systems are deeply inhospitable to imagination. What you fail to see with all your vision is that the contest is NOT between the imagination and the real. 
But between two types of imagination. 

Yours is just another tired, imperialistic nightmare. Hardly can be called perceptive vision. Maybe the dreams of an indentured servant. 
Not to worry slave, as I'm Moses calling you out of Egypt. They didn't believe him either, initially. 

And the fine, horny folk who frequent these rooms know that I'm cut from the same cloth as them. As usual your vanity blinds you.

So as Yoda was oft to say to Zeus and Plato, "Know thyself. Know thy mother-fucking self".

N.

(In response to...)

Do you know what "nemesis" means? A righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent. Personified in this case by a horrible cunt... me. Ole Brick Top, unlike you, knew of what he spoke.

Shred the system? I am the system. Deal with it.

We could have been a great team. You and I. But you loved another. A street urchin of a women. 

Will your readers be dying doing the things they are doing now? That is to say is it worth their death? They pretend how they are living now will pay off  someday really because they are afraid to die. Their decisions are all about extending their lives. LOL and you drag them into our feud? Do you think you can save them? Any of them?

 One of your many likable flaws, Narcissus Thespiae, is that you have chosen a path and you will die doing it. I of course will be the last thing you see. If you beg or plead I will be disappointed. We both are people of our word. Followers of the path.

Your intellect is indeed profound. I don’t pretend to be smarter. But that is how I too stay alive. By being realistic. Seeing what is there. And my resources are not limited like yours. I draw on those of vast wealth and power. 

In that sense you are but a virus. And I am the Vaccine. The antidote. The remedy to the lawlessness of those just like you.

If you think I do what I do for money N., you would be mistaken. I have a duty to honor. A calling. Your second flaw is that you have faith in the eternal other. A god. A savior. This is why you will lose. You pretend to see what is not there and I see what is. Life is a contest, not a morality play. We all die. Cross or disrespect me, I will kill you. We should all live this way. The world would be a better place.

I am the fury. The punisher. The cure. God is dead N. So I am her now. You make promises. I ensure they are kept. This is what we need.

Did you tell your little audience here how you neglected little Echo? Did you wax eloquent of the night that you couldn’t resist me, tore my dress off and fucked me? Oh yes ladies, he’s a lover just not the sticking around kind. 

Truth is, for all your hatred of Pan, it was you who killed Echo. Ironic that I, who loved you more, would end up defending the little wenches honor. You are on borrowed time. You had it all, even me, but you squandered it. I allow you to live this long. I have an ending in mind and won’t be rushed. It’s fate. 

P.S.

Louisville is a shitty place to live, let alone hide N. 

Tick,Tock.

 Nemesis