The Faux Pas Press #40
29 June 2010
The Jail Cell of Maribel Sandoval
By
Jason
Fresh
Copyright. Faux Pas Press, dba.
A division of American Sigil, Inc.
Light shines on only one square in the prison cell of Maribel Sandoval. She hovers over food served on a plastic trey, sitting in the cramped corner closest to 2’ by 2’ square of light, a square projected through a proportional window pane like a black movie screen. There is no movie to watch now.
Before, she ran around town seeking thrills, wondering from pub to pub, club to club, searching for the next great event. Before, she planned out an evening based data gathered from a game show audience she called “friends”. She planned her life based on the promptings of others, curious, always curious as to how it would end – the story written by God. “How are you guys? What are ya’ll up to tonight? Are ya‘ll going to Level 4?”
Maribel Sandoval was informed and interested. Parents called her on regular basis to check up. A mother called her to discuss the prospects. But there are no prospects in the jail cell of Maribel Sandoval. In truth, there are just as many as there were before. Cold floors where not what she was used going to college in Texas. Desolate features of a prison cell are similar to the sterile look of dorm room walls, the open, plastic finish of industrial-style tile, and a sink that girls could pee in – only if they were too tired to use the head down the corridor. These were all traits of a cell she could make her own. The only difference is that this cell would not have as many solutions. Yes, as she hovers over the plastic tray, reminiscent of those plastic industrial-style tiles, she thinks about her lot, wondering as she pokes at rehydrated potatoes why she is being punished by the Fury. “Did I speak too quickly or too forcefully?” she questions herself, the type of question that a crazy person employs, perhaps to mask an delusion, an ingrained, historic, gradual process of washing ones sins away.
Maribel could not be punished in a more suitable way. This cell is a place that the Fury created for individuals who do harm, use, and enslave others without acknowledging their wrongs. This sad truth is that he, the Fury, can keep the swiftly-aging Maribel Sandoval in this cell for as long it takes. An even more devastating truth is that the key to her freedom is not a golden piece of metal forged by a little Chinese man locked away in a closet. No, the key is a simple admission of guilt. She had pledged herself to the Fury before, but she had to go and fuck a Hollywood celebrity and pretend that she didn’t. This is just like little Robbie Hubbard, tattooing crosses on his body like a badge of courage or righteousness. Well, his cell is right down the hall. Yes, the Fury keeps all of the deceivers right here, right here at the WEST END of the FOLD IN THE FABRIC OF NIGHT. I guess the question we must ask ourselves, the patrons of the Faux Pas Press is: what is virtue? What will happen to the enemies of the Fury? This is a laughable question to me, but I have to ask. I’m the Keeper of the Fold. That is my honorable title. Not like the Fishers of Men on Earth. Yes, virtue here is wickedness there. Funny isn’t it? A pity
The prison cell of Maribel Sandoval can be destroyed whenever she wants it destroyed. She could be released and go on to create life and live it in whatever way suits her. But she will most likely just sit there, rotting away, staring at rehydrated mashed potatoes and a plastic trey, reminiscent of the industrial-style tile at a redneck college just North of Austin. What a pity!
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #39: Tragedy Meets Ebony Siemens
28 June 2010
The Faux Pas Press #39
Tragedy Meets Ebony Siemens
a poem
By
Jason Fresh
Copyright. Faux Pas Press, dba.
A division of American Sigil, Inc.
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
She clapped her hands,
her hands
like golden rubber bands
clapped
and a smile melted
up her dirty cheeks,
showing us all
just how weak
a freak
Ebony Siemens
really, truly is.
She met a boy,
an unshaven boy
from the free state of Virginia
who she thought was a toy,
a manufactured ploy,
like her father used to employ,
a boy toy,
for her golden rubber band hands
to enjoy,
showing the news,
about her exit-stage left cues,
what a bitch of an actress
wannabe are you,
Ebony Siemens,
The fantastic bitch whore
who took my help
for granted,
all the drunken hours
that she looked at me
and panted
like whispering horse-woman,
like a crooked-eyed,
Ella Enchanted.
Oh, shit –
How hilarious is your tragedy,
your party stained wit.
Well, you fucked
a few of my friends,
jumped in the car,
uninvited like an emotional
and psychological welfare case.
I had to turn down
the factory stereo with
an excuse for good bass,
look at your ugly face,
and smell the night before,
the smelly trace
of booze, brews,
tobacco, and the losers
at that dumb Irish Pub,
the one with that idiot
boyfriend that you
now like to hug.
What will be saddest,
saddest and most pathetic
about your
final curtain call,
you last recall,
your journey through
Summer only to meet
the Fall,
What will be funniest
about your tragedy is that
I will not give you an ounce,
not one ounce of pity,
will not apologize.
I will say,
“I told you so.”
Yep, that is your fate.
“I told you so.”
After the message
that I sold to both
of you,
the pizza we shared,
the council I graced
you with,
the hours I spent listening
to your dumb complaints.
Shame on me
because I wasted breath,
I wasted
precious moments
listening to you.
You laugh at my jokes,
my shoulders you’ve rubbed,
now that little grey-haired
22 year-old is your hub.
Who in their right
fucking mind would want
to join your
wasted life of a club.
You fail all your tests
because that is what you do.
You didn’t finish college
because you failed
those tests too.
What a ape you are
who is going to spend
the residual of her life
melting away in a bar.
Yes, tragedy has befallen
Ebony Siemens,
the crooked piece of
smelly problems
on psychotic meds.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!!!!
Oh, I’m so done with you.
The Faux Pas Press #39
Tragedy Meets Ebony Siemens
a poem
By
Jason Fresh
Copyright. Faux Pas Press, dba.
A division of American Sigil, Inc.
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
She clapped her hands,
her hands
like golden rubber bands
clapped
and a smile melted
up her dirty cheeks,
showing us all
just how weak
a freak
Ebony Siemens
really, truly is.
She met a boy,
an unshaven boy
from the free state of Virginia
who she thought was a toy,
a manufactured ploy,
like her father used to employ,
a boy toy,
for her golden rubber band hands
to enjoy,
showing the news,
about her exit-stage left cues,
what a bitch of an actress
wannabe are you,
Ebony Siemens,
The fantastic bitch whore
who took my help
for granted,
all the drunken hours
that she looked at me
and panted
like whispering horse-woman,
like a crooked-eyed,
Ella Enchanted.
Oh, shit –
How hilarious is your tragedy,
your party stained wit.
Well, you fucked
a few of my friends,
jumped in the car,
uninvited like an emotional
and psychological welfare case.
I had to turn down
the factory stereo with
an excuse for good bass,
look at your ugly face,
and smell the night before,
the smelly trace
of booze, brews,
tobacco, and the losers
at that dumb Irish Pub,
the one with that idiot
boyfriend that you
now like to hug.
What will be saddest,
saddest and most pathetic
about your
final curtain call,
you last recall,
your journey through
Summer only to meet
the Fall,
What will be funniest
about your tragedy is that
I will not give you an ounce,
not one ounce of pity,
will not apologize.
I will say,
“I told you so.”
Yep, that is your fate.
“I told you so.”
After the message
that I sold to both
of you,
the pizza we shared,
the council I graced
you with,
the hours I spent listening
to your dumb complaints.
Shame on me
because I wasted breath,
I wasted
precious moments
listening to you.
You laugh at my jokes,
my shoulders you’ve rubbed,
now that little grey-haired
22 year-old is your hub.
Who in their right
fucking mind would want
to join your
wasted life of a club.
You fail all your tests
because that is what you do.
You didn’t finish college
because you failed
those tests too.
What a ape you are
who is going to spend
the residual of her life
melting away in a bar.
Yes, tragedy has befallen
Ebony Siemens,
the crooked piece of
smelly problems
on psychotic meds.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!!!!
Oh, I’m so done with you.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #38: The Banishing of Clyde McGoo
The Faux Pas Press #38
The Banishing of
Clyde McGoo
28 June 2010
By Jason Fresh
For all the finger-pointing
that can
possibly be done.
For all the injustice
to which you’ve clung.
I have a word or two
that I would like to say to you.
There is a place in hell
you’ve created,
a lowland in which you stew,
there was a child forsaken
that you
once knew.
I, Jason Fresh,
exercise myself of
that crew,
putting on silver buttons
to go and potluck with the gluttons,
to rock the chairs of Timbuktu,
and emancipate myself from you.
The hurt you’ve done yourself,
no, the hurt
you’ve done me.
yes, no apologies,
we, myself and Lucifer,
we emancipate ourselves
from you,
the man who deserves all
that he has coming to him.
You’ve promised several
golden promises
that never came to pass
so let me drink them
with my morning sassafras.
You’ve promised
karate lessons,
and paid-for educations,
no reward for the kid in masturbations,
you’ve promised and squandered
the inheritance
due to me,
you’ve brought curse,
after curse,
after curse,
upon we,
the Lucifer and me,
so now we curse you
Clyde McGoo.
You and Douche Bic Poo.
So, the story goes
for all the sorrowful bros,
all the brothers of the
salamander spread.
Just vengeance.
I feel not
so sorry for you now.
The excuse of
life that you live.
The collection of
hours, loveless hours,
no company,
fat wives,
two fat wives.
I’ve asked
to be left alone.
Once,
Twice,
Thrice,
the next time
you will be
diced to size,
If I have sinned it is
in granting forgiveness
to the undeserving,
yes,
I am emancipated
from you,
you disastrous damned
Clyde McGoo.
I lay a curse now.
A tool that I don’t
readily employ.
But I warn you.
If you don’t disappear,
it will be your end,
from
the rooftops
you’ll be hung
with gross JJ,
the smelly wench,
with
Fatty Walt
and his lunatic friends,
with sad, sad
Midge,
and the turkey woman,
Fatty Joe,
and Fatty Roz.
The barrel
of Mossberg
awaits.
As I belong to those
who sometimes
masturbate,
I’ll bring your head
back to the red queen
on a red fucking
plate,
and lay Midge down
on a bridge
from a ridge
with broken
milk crates.
A father does
what he says
but you’re going
to Utah to wait,
not hell,
hell would
be too nice
a place,
for one who has all your traits.
Dropped from a
rooftop of tears
where you can rot with
Joseph Smith.
I'll be at the intersection
of Wonderland and Haight.
Here is the end of
everything I want
to say to you.
If you bother me
in open space,
I will ask you to stop,
then I will
destroy you.
Yes, you,
Midge,
the Douche Bic Poo,
yes,
you are destroyed Clyde McGoo.
Because it is I who destroyed you.
You can not right the wrongs now.
You are destroyed.
Death to all psychic vampires who have annoyed.
Oh, the left-handed path,
holy cow!!
The weak are not blessed.
The Banishing of
Clyde McGoo
28 June 2010
By Jason Fresh
For all the finger-pointing
that can
possibly be done.
For all the injustice
to which you’ve clung.
I have a word or two
that I would like to say to you.
There is a place in hell
you’ve created,
a lowland in which you stew,
there was a child forsaken
that you
once knew.
I, Jason Fresh,
exercise myself of
that crew,
putting on silver buttons
to go and potluck with the gluttons,
to rock the chairs of Timbuktu,
and emancipate myself from you.
The hurt you’ve done yourself,
no, the hurt
you’ve done me.
yes, no apologies,
we, myself and Lucifer,
we emancipate ourselves
from you,
the man who deserves all
that he has coming to him.
You’ve promised several
golden promises
that never came to pass
so let me drink them
with my morning sassafras.
You’ve promised
karate lessons,
and paid-for educations,
no reward for the kid in masturbations,
you’ve promised and squandered
the inheritance
due to me,
you’ve brought curse,
after curse,
after curse,
upon we,
the Lucifer and me,
so now we curse you
Clyde McGoo.
You and Douche Bic Poo.
So, the story goes
for all the sorrowful bros,
all the brothers of the
salamander spread.
Just vengeance.
I feel not
so sorry for you now.
The excuse of
life that you live.
The collection of
hours, loveless hours,
no company,
fat wives,
two fat wives.
I’ve asked
to be left alone.
Once,
Twice,
Thrice,
the next time
you will be
diced to size,
If I have sinned it is
in granting forgiveness
to the undeserving,
yes,
I am emancipated
from you,
you disastrous damned
Clyde McGoo.
I lay a curse now.
A tool that I don’t
readily employ.
But I warn you.
If you don’t disappear,
it will be your end,
from
the rooftops
you’ll be hung
with gross JJ,
the smelly wench,
with
Fatty Walt
and his lunatic friends,
with sad, sad
Midge,
and the turkey woman,
Fatty Joe,
and Fatty Roz.
The barrel
of Mossberg
awaits.
As I belong to those
who sometimes
masturbate,
I’ll bring your head
back to the red queen
on a red fucking
plate,
and lay Midge down
on a bridge
from a ridge
with broken
milk crates.
A father does
what he says
but you’re going
to Utah to wait,
not hell,
hell would
be too nice
a place,
for one who has all your traits.
Dropped from a
rooftop of tears
where you can rot with
Joseph Smith.
I'll be at the intersection
of Wonderland and Haight.
Here is the end of
everything I want
to say to you.
If you bother me
in open space,
I will ask you to stop,
then I will
destroy you.
Yes, you,
Midge,
the Douche Bic Poo,
yes,
you are destroyed Clyde McGoo.
Because it is I who destroyed you.
You can not right the wrongs now.
You are destroyed.
Death to all psychic vampires who have annoyed.
Oh, the left-handed path,
holy cow!!
The weak are not blessed.
The Faux Pas Press #37: Can't Be Good
The Faux Pas Press #37
27 June 2010
Can’t Be Good
By Jason Fresh
Have you watched those hording shows? You ever think about people in the third world? You think they have a hoarding problem in Bangladesh? Oh, how hilarious is this?
People with compulsive hording disorder are a product, a product of consumerism gone completely array. This can’t be good, if good can be ascribed to either situation – not enough or too much. Bangladesh Man is not concerned about acquiring goods, he is not concerned about expressing himself through a catalog order, not concerned about what he is going to get for the holidays. You think he hoards?
He is not worried about being buried alive. He is concerned about eating. Oh, this can’t be a good sign of the times. I think I’ll laugh myself into a coma and wake up when the coast is clear, wake up when all the hoarders in America are buried alive. Oh, this is fucking hilarious.
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
www.fauxpaspress.com
27 June 2010
Can’t Be Good
By Jason Fresh
Have you watched those hording shows? You ever think about people in the third world? You think they have a hoarding problem in Bangladesh? Oh, how hilarious is this?
People with compulsive hording disorder are a product, a product of consumerism gone completely array. This can’t be good, if good can be ascribed to either situation – not enough or too much. Bangladesh Man is not concerned about acquiring goods, he is not concerned about expressing himself through a catalog order, not concerned about what he is going to get for the holidays. You think he hoards?
He is not worried about being buried alive. He is concerned about eating. Oh, this can’t be a good sign of the times. I think I’ll laugh myself into a coma and wake up when the coast is clear, wake up when all the hoarders in America are buried alive. Oh, this is fucking hilarious.
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
www.fauxpaspress.com
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #36: NOIR
25 June 2010
The Faux Pas Press #36
By Jason Fresh
NOIR
do you want to hear the truth?
do you want to hear the truth?
my feet are aligned
fighting the years of terror
wrought by non-ergonomic chairs
and knee-bending supplications
to a god
who taught me to say please
but didn’t really care
now
at the edge of a new humanity
at the apex of the peak
at the point of a star where
the earth and the heavens meet
at the edge of a cliff I stand
and the cliff is ready to awaken me
reminding me of half-opened plans
and parents chubby clans
that say I have forsaken thee
so
I walk into the night
and I ask
where will you go
when all the bodies that you’ve slain
are face down on your kitchen floor
what will you say when all the sailors
that you’ve fucked have
sailed so far away
and I hope and I pray
that there’s a cozy place in hell
where the devil lets you stay
you’re need to control me
has led you astray
why can’t you see that
your hair is turning gray
and you’ll probably see
an early grave
if you keep behaving in this way
you’ll probably see an early grave
you mistake all the pieces of bliss that you are and you
try to reach the day with out walking through noir
you’re spending all my sweat and blood
you stole from my account,
you write a check with a broken pen
that’s now begun to bounce
the tragedy and the comedy
have sent you all the cues
I wrote the play we’re acting in
and you wrote the bad reviews
and now you blame the energy
I’ve stolen from the gods
I won’t be your disciple
I won’t join your ugly cause
won’t go to your Jerusalem
and lie down in the streets,
won’t site your verse of holiness
and the saints I ain’t going to greet
the images are burnt
into the valleys of my fear,
I try to push them all away
but they keep coming near,
the water is like the harshest words
that leave me broken down,
I try to swim to get some air
but oh I’m gonna drown,
you’re racing cars to get them fixed
and then you watch them burn,
you act like you are listening
but you’re wait for your turn,
you drop the moon to grab some stars
and act like you’re doing fine,
you eat the grape
and drink the wine of
apothecary vines,
the sun makes no apologies
so pay homage to the earth
I’ve been waiting on the sweetest verse
to finally prove my worth
I walk the length of madness
to invite the newest choice,
I walked along the fabric’s fold
to finally find my voice
so don’t question my intentions
and relieve me of my debt,
the payment that you think you’re owed,
you’re never going to get,
you sing a dirge of sadness
all along a cursed day,
so make all your concessions
all the things you want to say
my feet are aligned fighting the years of terror
wrought by non-ergonomic chairs
and knee-bending supplications to a god
who taught me to say please
and didn’t really care
now at the edge of a new humanity
at the apex of the peak,
at the point of a star where the earth
and the heavens meet,
at the edge of a cliff I stand,
and the cliff is ready to awaken me,
reminding me of parents chubby-clans
and half-opened plans
that say I’ve forsaken thee
so I walk into the night
and I ask
where will you go when all the bodies
that you’ve slain are lying down
on your kitchen floor,
what would you say
when all the sailors
that you’ve fucked
have sailed so far away,
and I hope and I pray
that there’s a cozy place in hell
where the devil lets you stay,
your need to control me
has led you astray,
why can’t you see your hair
is turning gray
and you’ll probably see
an early grave,
if you keep behaving in this way
you’ll probably see an early grave
you mistake all the pieces of bliss that you are,
you tried to reach the day
without passing through noir
The Faux Pas Press #36
By Jason Fresh
NOIR
do you want to hear the truth?
do you want to hear the truth?
my feet are aligned
fighting the years of terror
wrought by non-ergonomic chairs
and knee-bending supplications
to a god
who taught me to say please
but didn’t really care
now
at the edge of a new humanity
at the apex of the peak
at the point of a star where
the earth and the heavens meet
at the edge of a cliff I stand
and the cliff is ready to awaken me
reminding me of half-opened plans
and parents chubby clans
that say I have forsaken thee
so
I walk into the night
and I ask
where will you go
when all the bodies that you’ve slain
are face down on your kitchen floor
what will you say when all the sailors
that you’ve fucked have
sailed so far away
and I hope and I pray
that there’s a cozy place in hell
where the devil lets you stay
you’re need to control me
has led you astray
why can’t you see that
your hair is turning gray
and you’ll probably see
an early grave
if you keep behaving in this way
you’ll probably see an early grave
you mistake all the pieces of bliss that you are and you
try to reach the day with out walking through noir
you’re spending all my sweat and blood
you stole from my account,
you write a check with a broken pen
that’s now begun to bounce
the tragedy and the comedy
have sent you all the cues
I wrote the play we’re acting in
and you wrote the bad reviews
and now you blame the energy
I’ve stolen from the gods
I won’t be your disciple
I won’t join your ugly cause
won’t go to your Jerusalem
and lie down in the streets,
won’t site your verse of holiness
and the saints I ain’t going to greet
the images are burnt
into the valleys of my fear,
I try to push them all away
but they keep coming near,
the water is like the harshest words
that leave me broken down,
I try to swim to get some air
but oh I’m gonna drown,
you’re racing cars to get them fixed
and then you watch them burn,
you act like you are listening
but you’re wait for your turn,
you drop the moon to grab some stars
and act like you’re doing fine,
you eat the grape
and drink the wine of
apothecary vines,
the sun makes no apologies
so pay homage to the earth
I’ve been waiting on the sweetest verse
to finally prove my worth
I walk the length of madness
to invite the newest choice,
I walked along the fabric’s fold
to finally find my voice
so don’t question my intentions
and relieve me of my debt,
the payment that you think you’re owed,
you’re never going to get,
you sing a dirge of sadness
all along a cursed day,
so make all your concessions
all the things you want to say
my feet are aligned fighting the years of terror
wrought by non-ergonomic chairs
and knee-bending supplications to a god
who taught me to say please
and didn’t really care
now at the edge of a new humanity
at the apex of the peak,
at the point of a star where the earth
and the heavens meet,
at the edge of a cliff I stand,
and the cliff is ready to awaken me,
reminding me of parents chubby-clans
and half-opened plans
that say I’ve forsaken thee
so I walk into the night
and I ask
where will you go when all the bodies
that you’ve slain are lying down
on your kitchen floor,
what would you say
when all the sailors
that you’ve fucked
have sailed so far away,
and I hope and I pray
that there’s a cozy place in hell
where the devil lets you stay,
your need to control me
has led you astray,
why can’t you see your hair
is turning gray
and you’ll probably see
an early grave,
if you keep behaving in this way
you’ll probably see an early grave
you mistake all the pieces of bliss that you are,
you tried to reach the day
without passing through noir
The Faux Pas Press #35: Who Needs a Group?
25 May 2010
The Faux Pas Press #35
By Jason Fresh
Who Needs A Group?
I’ve experienced peace. I’m not really so sure about bliss on a level that touches the inwards of my soul but I will say that I’m learning that one has to be okay with solitude. You have to be okay with solitude so that others do not use you. Before you go and join a religious cult, before you join a secret society, a politic movement, a student club, or any thing that will take your time or your money, remember that, as Charles Bukowski said, “there are worse things than being alone.” I say, “You’ve got get to the pulp behind the rind, breath deep, and ask yourself what you really need. What void is being filled by going to the group? What are you getting? Are you loosing something?” Consequently, this is the place where most people go wrong in their relationships, the place where you stay attached to an abusive person, and the place where you enjoy chaos in your search for order. Groups are ready to abnegate themselves. You don’t have to join a group because you’re bored. Join a group only as long as you have to. Otherwise, you’re better off playing video games and drinking Mountain Dew Game Fuel. You’re better finding ways to deal with loneliness.
There is always a top-down structure, and you wonder why individuals don’t tune the bullshit detector. I’m not really someone to talk. I’ve bathed in bullshit; washed myself in dedication to institutions, shampooed my genitals in group-think. When I was 17 I lost my virginity, I felt guilty because I was taught, while viewing the dysfunction of my own parents, that the family unit is sacred, and I vowed never to repeat the act. I quit smoking; I quit drinking. I still jerked off when I was alone and could steal my roommate’s smut, but I really wanted to cleanse my life. It is a good thing Mormon’s believe in salvation by works, exaltation through ‘all you can do’ because I might have justified just living a rational, normal life earlier. But no, I had to belong to a damn group.
What I turned to was the easiest, most beneficial, supportive and accessible source. Even though I would completely devote years of my life to service in a religious cult, there would be certain things that I would not have to deal with. Bathing in the bullshit meant that I would not have to speak on my own. Honestly, that was comforting. And I see others in the world around me, folks needing so much to be important, needing so much to feel good. If a company preys on the need to satiate base desires or if a church preys upon your thirst for spirituality – remember - it is exactly the same. I watched a woman chomping on blue cheese crust at Ruth’s Chris, I saw a man proudly inserting 10 percent of his gross income into an envelope, and realized I was looking at the same person. One pays for importance and the other pays for importance. There is no difference. Just because someone speaks the truth doesn’t mean you must give them your money.
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
www.fauxpaspress.com
The Faux Pas Press #35
By Jason Fresh
Who Needs A Group?
I’ve experienced peace. I’m not really so sure about bliss on a level that touches the inwards of my soul but I will say that I’m learning that one has to be okay with solitude. You have to be okay with solitude so that others do not use you. Before you go and join a religious cult, before you join a secret society, a politic movement, a student club, or any thing that will take your time or your money, remember that, as Charles Bukowski said, “there are worse things than being alone.” I say, “You’ve got get to the pulp behind the rind, breath deep, and ask yourself what you really need. What void is being filled by going to the group? What are you getting? Are you loosing something?” Consequently, this is the place where most people go wrong in their relationships, the place where you stay attached to an abusive person, and the place where you enjoy chaos in your search for order. Groups are ready to abnegate themselves. You don’t have to join a group because you’re bored. Join a group only as long as you have to. Otherwise, you’re better off playing video games and drinking Mountain Dew Game Fuel. You’re better finding ways to deal with loneliness.
There is always a top-down structure, and you wonder why individuals don’t tune the bullshit detector. I’m not really someone to talk. I’ve bathed in bullshit; washed myself in dedication to institutions, shampooed my genitals in group-think. When I was 17 I lost my virginity, I felt guilty because I was taught, while viewing the dysfunction of my own parents, that the family unit is sacred, and I vowed never to repeat the act. I quit smoking; I quit drinking. I still jerked off when I was alone and could steal my roommate’s smut, but I really wanted to cleanse my life. It is a good thing Mormon’s believe in salvation by works, exaltation through ‘all you can do’ because I might have justified just living a rational, normal life earlier. But no, I had to belong to a damn group.
What I turned to was the easiest, most beneficial, supportive and accessible source. Even though I would completely devote years of my life to service in a religious cult, there would be certain things that I would not have to deal with. Bathing in the bullshit meant that I would not have to speak on my own. Honestly, that was comforting. And I see others in the world around me, folks needing so much to be important, needing so much to feel good. If a company preys on the need to satiate base desires or if a church preys upon your thirst for spirituality – remember - it is exactly the same. I watched a woman chomping on blue cheese crust at Ruth’s Chris, I saw a man proudly inserting 10 percent of his gross income into an envelope, and realized I was looking at the same person. One pays for importance and the other pays for importance. There is no difference. Just because someone speaks the truth doesn’t mean you must give them your money.
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
www.fauxpaspress.com
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