A Few Words for the Expired
A friend died today.
On Fucked Book how is that any different? Somebody dies there every minute.
Someday I expect to see a story about how some guy who cleaned the set toilets for every movie ever made, died, and I should be moved, by his moving on.
This friend who died today, is a real friend who died, not just some virtual de-coded autocratic, nomadic, algorithmic Fake Friend on Friend Bitch.
He's a mystery in some ways, that's ok.
Why shouldn't your friends have some unknown legends in their background?
I want to be happy.
He's no longer in miserable pain.
I want to be sad.
He's dead.
Is it covid quarantine that's put all my emotions in a box?
People are dying.
People are less real than I am.
How do you scream at every daily tragedy?
I ask questions over and over, but what answers do I have?
I feel like a lowercase i.
My emotions go no where.
Unbox the box they're in.
This is fucked.
Make art?
Somebody just died.
Angry?
Why shouldn't I be?
I remember when my now dead friend offered his theory about conspiracy theory loving cult suckling Trolls, they want the world to end to prove them right.
Who wants the world to end?
Life is better.
Life is what I want for everyone, even the Trolls.
Maybe if the Trolls live long enough, they'll learn to stop hating.
My now dead friend, we were going to make some writing together, right?
Would it have been art? Who knows? I don't care.
It would have been fun.
You sold stuff, that always impressed the hell out of me. Selling words is a Troll pit.
I want to own that pit, not be owned by it. You were never owned by it.
That makes no sense.
Back to the point, working with my now dead friend, would have been fun.
I needed to get some records down first I said. I wasn't even sure what we should do, but I was thinking about working on a short story with you. Who knows. I should know. I should have put off the records. I couldn't stop my full speed self.
That's me, being the biggest idiot in my own story, which is really supposed to be about my friend. His nickname was Zell.
When we first met, Zell thought my nickname was my real name.
It was that kind of meeting at the cable access show we crewed on together for a billion years of beers, strange stories, free pizzas, directions, misdirections, occult invasions of our video, freakish forms waving disembodied limbs in a mutation wave, the night with the equestrian with the riding crop, who wasn't really an equestrian, you were very freaking funny.
I remember that skit you did where you never even said anything.
So funny. Laughing. Thanks for all those laughs.
Your blog had more variety than a variety store commercial in the middle of a TV variety show on the Variety channel.
You told emotional stories about childhood, funny stuff about encountering obnoxious buffoonery perpetuated by empty skulled blithering trog-bogs, why did people ask you, you Zell, the sarcastic bastard of comedy, why would they ever ask you such stupid questions and not expect you to verbally eviscerate them? You are like a sarcasm artist spraying acid sarcasm everywhere, burning everything around you.
The stories you told about the weird things you saw everyday...
Were you starring in a cult movie directed by a crack addict?
I remember that concert we saw, although we both had gone separately not knowing the other was there.
Good taste I guess.
The intention had been to keep this rant short.
I'm sick of my emotion box that unwraps in no way that makes sense.
Tired from being tired of the quarantine dishwashing soup bubble floating in the stale air.
So, Zell I'm running out.
See you again some better day, even if I don't see you.
