Learn To Like It

“I assess the power of a will by how much resistance, pain, torture it endures and knows how to turn to its advantage.”  Friedrich Nietzsche

–Pain is discovery. Pain is the meditation of insanity. Of the consciousness candle set on fire. Look here at how these men writhe in their beds, the lurid light of Sirius pelting like sleet upon their feeble and sorrow-soaked brains, calling out to blind night for their long dead mommas and their divorced wives who sulk away in fashionable mansions, their mold-infested pussies hiding all the keys to their hearts. Look at all the little girls in chaps and black-velvet riding caps weeping for their dead horses, having been flogged to death by a single roving gang of defrocked, denuded, deflated priests. Look at the grayed-over eyes of the horse-faced couple under perfect rows of japanese maple, holding hands, grazing for hay, already reducing a particular sunset to the glorious retirement of sunsets, the myopia of senile aesthetics. They are perfect fodder for this cosmic diet coke commercial: passing cold cans out from the back of the silver and red streaked van to the homeless lined up for miles to strangle the city, jonesing out of their minds for an aspartame fix. The shrieking orchestra of stabbing suicides filling the night streets, waking up all the old ladies who instinctively reach for their canes and stab at nothing real as it turns out, nothing real at all or ever, just the mocking images created from pure pain-drenched music.

–The bums on calabray street were licking up the horse shit faster than the horses could drop it. That created a problem for the bums, so they had a meeting in the alley between the Diet Coke Building and the 55-story Blue Heron Twin Towers and it was decided by direct democracy that eating horseshit, while still a fun and rewarding thing to do in moderation, was inhibiting their long-term mental and economic well-being at their time-honored rate of consumption. It was then they decided to adopt a diet that was exclusively dog star turds and diet coke. A parade ensued.

–One day, some bright day with Sirius shining down on my life, with horses dropping out of the sky, and diet coke rivers bubbling over with aspartame dreams– shit, this isn’t going anywhere, fuck it.

–Pain creeps up on you like a clever cop, calculating your felonious downfall one little misdemeanor step at a time. Takes you down like a hungry greco-roman wrestler, all hairy and sweating and stinking of feta cheese and cheap semen cologne. Pins you to the donkey moon, and your life is a child’s tale, told generation after generation, even your name lost to the changeable winds of language.

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