Good Thoughts, Good Words, Good Deeds

Impossible. At some point after so much torture – one has no good thoughts left. Any words left are seldom good. Deeds are of necessity and never pleasure. Good and bad are relative terms to a beaten down dejected individual.

This pessimistic conclusion goes against the way I had chosen to live my life up until recently. How does one combat evil force without using force to repel? In instances of battle; equitable acts of evil between warring parties are noble if done with a pure and good intent – but they still haunt the doer if he’s good inside. No pleasure is taken in attacking.

Pleasure is in peace and harmony.

If necessary, sometimes good men must act evil to protect the peace and harmony of themselves and their people.

When a predatory evil doer infects the thoughts and life of a good human; is there some balancing force somewhere that equalizes things and protects the good? At one time I had deep faith in this; but the older I get – the less I feel protected by the human systems that feign basic protections that are hardly delivered to the funding-class.

Our spirits can be infected by the evil. It will beat you and slap you and stone you.

Being taught to turn the other cheek has a limit. I turned the other cheek and it ruined my life.

Instead of the abundance of good; that perpetual good vibe upon which I lived – I find myself in the darkest of passageways – wishing anguish and destruction on those that stole my youth.

My body is aging rapidly and falling to pieces; those small drips of things other than pain that once provided an occasional sustenance; the periodic plateau and rest of momentary pleasure or respite; are fewer and further between.

I love being a father. Period. Despite the near constant physical pain I am in – seeing her smile and achieve things that make her proud makes every bit of work worth it.

Unfortunately, an exceedingly elusive feeling is that of a benevolent outlook on my fellow creatures.

As I observe the world around me; it would appear that not only has my micro-life disintegrated on the evil wishes of a select few awful people – subtly influencing me in destructive ways – but even coming out on top in the situation still leaves my child harmed by people that are supposed to care for us and especially her.

My chosen truth of so many years that ‘Man is Good and Just’ shattered by so few individuals, so quickly.

Not only has the micro-world around me shattered alongside the rose-colored glasses through-which I viewed my past – the larger macrocosm has taken such a dark dystopian turn that the only real vestige of faith or hope I can muster is that in some way or type or place we really are in a simulation of sorts and that the soul is immortal; that no matter what happens – at some inevitable juncture the lights will suddenly turn on and the DJ will halt the music with a scratch as a benevolent wizard stumbles out from behind the emerald curtain to reveal how all the plotlines weave together and beautifully display the poetic ways in which justice shall be served.

Here’s the difference between me and you, mystery stalker – you’re weak. Thats why you take so ruthlessly of others.

I’ve lived more genuinely and joyfully despite the shade thrown at us.

Kick all you want, you can’t kill the spark.

That’s all I needed.

Just a spark.

Then I took a calm deep breath and uttered a few simple words of truth; burning your house of cards to ashes.


To be clear:

  • People are allowed to be odd.
  • If I could paint the neat shit I think about, I would.  But I prefer bang out word sounds.
  • Fuck off, mate.


‘The Book’ by Cara Sombrero

The choice to put down an enthralling book full of suspense and literary horror, one with which
you fall in love with and become entangled in the details and traits of the main character, seems (for lack
of better words) idiotic. Especially when you’re setting the book down, never to be touched again.
The portion of the book that you’ve read and pondered and dwelled within will slowly fade from
your memory. You’ll start to forget your favorite page numbers, and the memorable moments that kept
you reading. You’ll forget the details you learned to know and love about the main characters, and the
small but eloquent ways that the author kept you awake 3 hours later than you should have been with a
tear stained face but an undying love for the plot twists that were around the corner. You’ll forget a lot of
things about the book you loved, no matter how much you try to keep it alive within your mind.
The ending of the book will haunt you for what seems like forever. You will lie awake at night,
wondering what you missed or how the character you loved grew or reached a turning point or
conquered their troubles. You’ll wonder if it was a happy or devastating ending, and whether or not you
would have been able to deal with what you had read. When browsing a book shelf somewhere in town,
you’ll be horrified to see it sitting there amongst the other novels and magazines, and you’ll wonder if
anyone else is caught in the depths of its story like you once were. You’ll wonder forever. It’ll become
less frequent and when it does cross your mind you won’t long to turn those wrinkled and tattered pages
anymore, you’ll just wonder and try to ignore the stabbing urge to find it and pick it up all over again.
You’ll even forget the all so familiar smell of the pages you’d called home for so long.
You can’t pick up the fucking book, and you can’t forget the fucking book.
You have to let it collect dust and wait for someone else to pick it up who might have what it
takes to read it to the very last page and then start all over again, because you tried for so long and you
couldn’t. You’ll wonder if the next reader will pause in the places you did to revel in the fear, excitement,
torture and joy that were your favorite chapters.
I can’t help but think that I should have burned the book.
Fuck that book.
– Cara Sombrero

Suicide Note

“I died a long time ago, many times, and it was you who chose not to know the new me.”

My response to someone on a suicide watch forum on Friday:

I have thought about it every day to varying degrees since I was around 10.

32 now. Happy most of the time. Have great life. Still pops in when my stalker messes with me but truly your life matters. Chill.

Dunno how old ya are. But here’s my 2 cents as I wait for the cops to show up after I texted them “Come get me, bitch” at 7am.

Here’s my advice as I lay on my couch after an early morning epidural for back pain.

Life sucks right now for ya and it may get a bit worse for a bit but it’ll get infinitely better. Then shitty for a bit. Then better. Then you’ll slip on ice and break a leg when shit finally is super-awesome which will upend your life a bunch while you learn new things about yourself and what you’re made of. But you’ll never seriously consider offing yourself after a certain point of riding the roller coaster.

Life feels awesome too. As shite as you feel, the rubber-mobian-band of time claps back the other way just as hard and if you’re one of the chosen many afflicted with a perception that includes a wider range of emotion – never forget if you kick your demons in the cock – you gradually climb that staircase; magically learning to like yourself and build a life you love and enjoy.

Or try drugs. Hookers and cocaine. Seriously. If you’re gonna seriously kill yourself, go do a bunch of non-destructive hedonistic pleasurable shit and see if you feel better after. All your money is worthless if you’re dead anyway, right?

Maybe that’s all you need, you know? Eat some magic mushrooms and sit by a campfire with a counsellor or psychologist. Throw 500 bucks at one and ask them to come trip-watch you as you find yourself in the ayahuasca.

Deal with your demons in the same such way I handled the police that visited me last eve; at the first sign of disrespect or prejudice – exclaim gloriously for them to suck on your balls. All of your balls. And your asshole. Challenge them to attack you with something other than lies and slander as you extend your double-digits-of-truth


My response to being arrested for defending myself after refusing to for so long:

Someone using my experience overseas as a CIVILIAN to tell the police I am suicidal is not only an absolute miscarriage of what our system is for – it is an abhorrent insult to the very real tragedy of veteran suicides.

Anyone using the public sentiment toward that tragedy to meddle in someone elses life and health has done something far more wrong than me screaming at a cop to suck my balls and come back with a warrant or whatever the hell I yelled at what turned out to be a pretty nice guy so far.

We will see what happens in court.


For the record I have had benign tumors all through my body, literally head to toe, that I believe to be related to my job in Kandahar supporting our armed forces.

I don’t qualify for anything related to veterans benefits and no civilian has since WWII. Nor do I feel I should qualify. I took no oath and bared no arms.

I stumbled, as a hugely vocal anti-war antiestablishmentarian hippy pothead, into a labour job in a war for profit that I didn’t believe in at the time whose role it was to save our government money on training and sending soldiers to do certain jobs and having to take care of them afterward.

If that doesn’t say everything one needs to know about our system, I dunno what does.

Imagine how super awesome it would be for me to be living in extraordinary pain and magically get qualified for Veterans Affairs because of how fucking absurd this is.

I would get the privelidge of waiting 50 years before someone tells me I am actually fucking sick from breathing in burn pits and pesticides like our government did with Agent Orange.

The US has a burn pit registry for Afghanistan and Iraq.

Why the fuck don’t we?