Pondering schadenfreude.

What are notes? Are the the fog in your brain that’s finally lifted after a particularly bad binge where you can barely get out of bed long enough to wander to the crapper to release the bowels of hell into their waiting receptacle? And once you’re there, you seriously consider falling asleep on the floor in front of said crapper?

Are they the things that make my dreams vivid overtures of rapid-paced, stop-action surrealism? Like the one where I was in Japan with a coworker and then I suddenly had two left feet, two left hands, and then tried to stick my dick in the wall just to see if I was dreaming? (I woke up – damned evasive lucidity!) Only later to enter into an ovoid building where everything was white, and a man in the center raised his baton, glared a menacing smile towards me and split his baton, thrusting each half skyward, which then caused 2 massive white cylinders to erupt from the foor, shaking the foundations and leaving me just a little confused.

Because it all made sense, you see.

What about wondering whether you’re so damned deep into a downward spiral of insanity that you don’t even realize it, and that by realizing it you’re just condemning yourself to being committed to that path?

Or is it the pull back from the semi-consciousness of lucidity that feels so much like the sudden yank of the bungee at the amusement park?

How about when you ramble into the abyss after tottering to the edge just to get a peek at eternity, only you realize that you can’t handle it so you tell yourself to turn, like so many bad houses pressing towards you from your past while you stumble and fumble into your future, fucking frantic and amazed that you’re still making it despite your obvious lack of any real skill or intelligence in that brief moment of your life as it becomes a speck within infinity. Your rambling voice in the abyss becomes an echo and then dissipates before being captured by strange creatures.

Maybe a note is that random stitching of your daily life into a technicolor tapestry of dreams where your subconscious desperately tries to release itself and make sense of your twisted, fucked up life (or is it just me that’s fucked up and twisted and everyone else is normal? If they only knew the threaded coursings through my grey matter)

But, either way, I don’t have an answer. No, I’m not drunk, either. I’m not even buzzed. I’m just fomenting here such that you, gentle reader (or is it “intruder?”), can spend a few minutes pondering someone else’s inner sanctum.

Or at least what lies at the surface. I’m afraid of delving too deep, lest I unleash a whole load of shit the repercussions of which would inevitably drive me to sweet, desperate solitude in some shit-assed apartment where it stinks like garbage and the landlord stops by regularly just to make sure I haven’t died, secretly indulging his schadenfreude and “oh god oh god I hope his checks are automatic and he dies and I can double-dip on the rent.”

So it goes.

Have you seen the Nietzsche Family Circus, by the way? I love it.

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