Outbursts of a Failed “Sociopath”: Thoughts of an Amiable Stranger (Year Two)

By Baethan Balor

"The reader is a fool."

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532079078

Baethan Balor

An ongoing testament to the human condition, Baethan Balor’s experience and rendition of love through the practice and documentation of his unique metaethical philosophy offers a frontiersman’s perspective into the reasons for why people love each other, the resulting suffering, and the societal implications on a global scale.

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 Baethan Balor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7884-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-8708-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7907-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019911923

iUniverse rev. date: 09/17/2019

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgement

Foreword

November

December

January

February

March

April

May

June

July

August

September

October

November

DEDICATION

Dedicated to my Ego, Self, and I.

"It would not be better if things happened to men just as they want."

- Heraclitus, Fragments (Circa 500 B.C.)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Entities written of are accounted to the best of my truth. Errors of spelling, punctuation, and grammar are inexcusable errors. The reader is a fool.

FOREWORD

Sociopath, a word coined c. 1930 by George Everett Partridge, is an umbrella term for a person deemed unfit for society, with antisocial behavior being the most dominant trait. The terminology, sociopath, has, with time, supplanted use of the terminology psychopath, though both words are relevant and may be utilized synonymously in contemporary context.

A sociopath is, in brief, an egotistical template; an adaptable creature; a manipulative, callous, cold, scoundrel, concerned with only the self: A human unaffected by the pretension of practiced virtues beneficial to thrive in a society.

NOVEMBER

40641.png

November 20th, 2017

8:05 PM

Journals are self-indulgent.

Where I have progressed and regressed, I am certain of my doubt.

Absolution: I’m loved or hated, vilified or adored; these conceptions are delusional truths wrought by the process of thought. I’m an instrument on repeat, a vibration of the human condition, residual pulsars of a burnt-out sun.

There is nothing. I sigh, and feel nothing.

I’m a janitor and baker at a grocery store; I babysit two children; I experience delusions of the ego manifest in the form of self-engrossed hauntings of auditory hallucinations. I know how to remedy my conditions for the benefit of myself, and by extension—society, though I’d prefer to remain undevoted in a single philosophical discipline and remain wayward, disillusioned and spiritless, for perceptions shape my mind ad nauseam. Reframement of conclusions in regards to what fools attempt to sell (prescriptions/psychotherapy) to other fools unable to inhibit and control unwanted behavior is a ceaseless chore. Consider this, future self and bored reader: I’m a wretch, a knave, and a nincompoop.

November 21st, 2017

7:17 AM

Arise, arise, said the star to me. I bat my eyelashes, rub white crust out of the corners of my fat-padded eye sockets, and contemplate my retinas—fleshy cords projected from my brain to the bulbous orbs seated in the front of my face.

This is my entertainment: malleable thoughts recorded, flippant, expressive, remorseful, naive. Read—imagine a dance to the rhythm of an out-of-tune waltz—oh, future self; reckon the words perceived here and weep for the void in your life. Your mental condition is horrendous.

Watch:

Two birds flutter through a twilight sky: a race. One bird is red, the other, blue. Both are unable to discern differences between each other except by the speed which they compete and the color of their plumage.

You swine. You hoggish idiot, said the red bird.

The blue bird said, Pigs can’t fly.

Aye, I saw one above the clouds just the other afternoon.

Did you?

Yes.

The blue bird sped ahead and exerted her feathery wings against billows of fierce updrafts blown headlong unto her vigilant gaze.

The red bird jibbed, Got something to prove, eh?

"Show me a pig who doesn’t enjoy its own shit," quipped the blue bird, indifferent to the red bird’s query.

You’ve gone mad.

No.

I believe you have.

The blue bird screeched and said, You are an insufferable companion.

Leave me, then.

An orange sun passed behind a cumulative row of thinned clouds and rendered a shadow onto both bird’s backs. The blue bird veered left; the red bird swerved right. Mutual acceptance rendered both stoic to the sudden abandonment of one another’s company, never to cross air currents again.

9:19 AM

Strange, Shelly—the woman whom I slept with on my floor in a fit of intoxicated lust, idles on my mind. Even though my altercation with Shelly is unexpected (I had no idea who Angelina referred to when she asked if her friend Shelly could stop by), I find myself bonded to her; our impromptu intercourse has elicited these feelings. I do find her irresistible: Her petite, tattooed body arched with my weight on top of her, for a few moments… My state of uncustomary inebriation rendered me inadequate—thirty seconds, at most: premature ejaculation.

The voices ego speaks-

"That does sound better," mumbles a woman after I revise a previous sentence for clarity.

This man and woman are invaluable—my mind; my holiness.

My state of becoming is a warped canvas of bickerings.

I’ve laxed on the ambition of bodybuilding; a modest, healthy physique is adequate.

The dead classics—names on paper—tortured souls: writers of the caliber of Kafka, Goethe, and Nietzsche…their physical bodies are irrelevant and now reside as a skeletal chassis within a tomb; a few vainglorious depictions of these men dressed in fanciful garb are the sole reminders of their respective physical forms. I relinquish the mantle of superb physical ability to the brutes, barbarians, savages, and vain; let them awe the meek with the brief and awesome flare of sexuality and beauty.

Even though these transient thoughts of Shelly dominate and overpower my logic, I struggle to remain apathetic with this woman, albeit, I know better, for the sake of myself, (i.e., ego): my preservation.

To love from a distance and nod my respects to others who ingratiate en mass—for bodies are flesh, destined to death.

8:32 PM

The flattery I endured from my bakery manager, Frederick, numbed me with gratitude; I knew his words were a sycophant’s; all successful modern managers must be sycophantic in relationships with subordinates; undue executions and exile are anachronistic options. I could dedicate my energy to Frederick’s department and help him accomplish his status quo, though my desired avocation is adrift with the maintenance dregs and shelf stockers among the worn hallways of a grocery store receiving room.

I’m weary of human relations… to cultivate and sustain; we are sick creatures.

Compassionate and empathetic individuals struggle to maintain and accept ploys and deceptions wrought by others for sustained periods. This recent bout with Angelina and Shelly has sapped my vitality. I feel nauseous.

I squatted and braced my palms against a carpet. I’m a twenty-six year-old man, in my father’s domain, squatted onto my knees on a carpet I’ve known since my mid-teenage years, in and out, to apartments and out of state, with lovers and alone—always to relapse back to the carpet. I will jettison myself into hardship and restore order. There is no certainty; life is a joke.

"Why do you lay in a pile of filth? Get up, then, shoo—you, get on with your life. Get going. I’ve had enough of your vile bosom protruded from the earth’s grime. Get away with your rubbish and begone from this place. In condemnation of the pains and tribulations of being your landlord—I denounce this hellish hole in my heart, one that cannot be mended. My body, mind, and spirit, crave the solace of isolation away from you lot. To enter in dealings with strangers for the sake of coin, to house them, and provide for their well-being…" said a steel-clad knight to an imbecile sprawled in a mud pit; the horse beneath the knight reared up onto an armored set of hooves and snorted.

The imbecile said, "Get on with it then, do me in."

Did you listen to me?

I did.

Well, what’d you think of my verbose diatribe?

"Absolute rubbish. I’ve nothing more to say on it."

The knight lifted his helmet’s visor and steadied his horse; he said, "But… well then, these are my thoughts, they must have some meaning, aye? There must be a reason for my concerns. You buffoon, don’t you understand?…"

Clouds blackened overhead; a blue sky flooded with rain. An abrupt downpour obscured lush treetops of a dense grove. Rain ceased—an abrupt dissipation of an unexpected deluge; clouds dispersed; rays of light returned through the single-layer canopy.

The knight huffed and rode onward to a town hall with schemes to issue his second complaint of the afternoon.

The imbecile floundered in the mud.

November 22nd, 2017

10:40 AM

I feel new love creep into my state of being; this homeostatic balance perturbs and harmonizes. I have acted on this notion and have arranged to accompany Shelly on Thanksgiving day. We have explored each other’s bodies, though our minds remain a mystery (even to ourselves). I’m eager to delve into the shallow depths of another tortured soul.

All the tortured souls I’ve known, flit and waver wherever they go. I’ve yet to know a friend who’s died; I imagine the pain is bittersweet—a sanguine concoction poured forth from an opaque glass chalice:

Hark, said a hag to a beautiful young woman, quieten now, my virgin, my innocent girl; there is much for you to learn on the wicked ways of this world. Men will wound you, and steal away your life if you allow them. You must subdue them with your charm, understand? Use this.

A pasty concoction dribbled into the girl’s mouth and down the external contours of her slender neck—soaked into the neckline of a pearl-white blouse. Tears spilled from the girl’s eyes, tinted with mascara, black trails of grime akin to the tasteless gruel within the downturned chalice held firm by the hag’s withered hands.

The girl swallowed and said, "I love it."

To quote a quotation quoted in my first installment:

The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.

- H.P. Lovecraft

Words of wisdom from a tortured soul; symbols dance and twist, an anguished orgy.

Wonderful life and sweet blue skies.

Cemetery walks on cold winter days.

What an absolute joy, the gift of music is—a pleasure to the mind—body… Waltz to the music, my body becomes me, a vessel of my methods.

The marty within. Words are power, an extension of will. The voices of my ego taunt me; I will subdue myself: The pursuit of power over consciousness.

7:36 PM

I stand. I listen. I wonder: What is there? My father is drunk and rendered hostile when I talk of a causal connection to his old age and loneliness and how my decision is uncertain on whether I find a soundproofed studio apartment somewhere in town or depart from this region. I attempt to repress these moments in time. Here: I record them.

Satire: A Jesus & Coffee mug situated on top of a book titled Pagan Meditations; I am in awe of this incredulous occurrence. God has the credit for it.

November 23rd, 2017

5:42 AM

In celebration of the mass slaughter of turkeys nationwide, I lay awake and stare at the blackness of my ceiling. Last night I retired to the floor before the mother and her children who live in the apartment above me returned. My presence—near undetectable, startled the young boy, whose room is above mine, when he heard me snort: a sudden inhalation of air due to abrupt wakefulness, the manner one experiences on the cusp of sleep. The boy sprang from his bed and cried, I heard him—he’s down there!

I steadied my breath. For a span of one and a half hours, the mother, the mother’s boyfriend, and the young daughter, stepped in and out of the bedroom and listened for me. The boy screamed: a horrendous, terrified howl; he said, I don’t want to live here!

Serrated talons crawled out from a four-inch gap beneath a five year-old boy’s bed; a glossy black mane slithered over and draped onto the central squares of a rainbow-colored quilt; an arched finger prodded one of the boy’s rosy cheeks. "Hello…" it said.

The boy woke.

"Hello…" it said again.

The boy lurched upwards off a pile of pillows and scrambled against a corner where his mattress aligned with two bedroom walls; he reached for his book light, pressed a padded mechanism inward, and beheld the gruesome visage of an ovoid mass: congealed spittle dripped from an incurved maw into the undulations of three overlapped porcine chins speckled with greasy fur; beady white eyes, accentuated in presence by the glare of the focused book light, peered out from behind a long tangled veil of mottled gray hair.

The boy screamed.

"Little one…" it sighed, and spoke in a muted drawl: "You’ve yet to grow into something you’ve never known. All your flesh is born to die; don’t let this be a reason why you cry. I’ve watched you now and seasons past, so tell me…"

The boy shrieked and wept.

When you grow into what you’ve never known, what do you desire?

Mommy! Mommy!

The mass gurgled white foam and said, "And why—little one… and how… do you seek this with your spark of life? Come with me instead… I’ll show you magnificence; I will become you, and you I."

The boy unleashed a wail and succumbed beneath an immense weight.

4:39 PM

The vestiges of my mind are cloth scraps: dregs of ripped and scattered linens, tattered beyond recognition. Spooks and thrills. Unsavory nights. I’m ashamed of drunken intercourse with Shelly beside and beneath the glorious painting of Sir Galahad hung high in my room. The beautiful, framed, vintage art is an antique, worthless treasure. Galahad’s gaze faced to the left—away from our romp; he no doubt reckoned our rambunctious thirty-second intercourse—ah, to anthropomorphize a painting: madness.

Shelly is a beautiful girl; troubled and sorrowful—of course she’d be drawn to one of my esteem.

I attempt to write and hear derision above me; these paper thin walls and ceilings transmit my typing. True efforts of creation are hindered when these inner voices are engaged in diametric opposition of my will—espoused in hateful monologues:

Lunatic; horrible-loser-kid; young man; hard-worker; douchebag; asshole—all these names—I’m perplexed by prosecutions and assurances—a paramount sensation buried in my psyche? Embrace the madness to learn and overcome.

6:25 PM

My father cooked an exquisite piece of cow, asparagus, and two sweet potatoes; he said, with implied irreverence to the holiday, Every day is Thanksgiving.

November 24th, 2017

10:14 AM

Shelly ghosted me—a modernized terminology for a terminated relationship rife with unrequited feelings. I reap what I sow. She may have gifted me a venereal disease; I intend to schedule a test.

November 25th, 2017

10:49 AM

Just what are you, said a man to another man.

The words ebbed, aimless, lost to a slow wind.

Both men lugged the burden of their consciousness henceforth until death; separate ways, each certain the other knew the secret machinations of their self-directed designs.

"I’ve made it, rasped a woman to a sphinx within a forgotten tomb; the lifeless face of the sandstone cat glared straight forward at blackened limestone walls. The woman huddled up against the central toe of a colossal forepaw and continued, Aren’t you proud of me—with how I’ve labored through this world and come unto you as I have? I’ve mourned my losses and praised my gains in your name. My flesh is weak and my mind, tired. Please…"

A guttural hum resonated throughout the chamber.

The woman shed three tears and said, "Please…"

"WHAT IS THE IT THAT YOU’VE MADE?" roared a voice in the woman’s subconscious.

I’ve returned to where I began with what I’ve made of the experience of a lifetime.

"YOU HAVE NOT MADE THE EXPERIENCE OF A LIFE; THE EXPERIENCE OF LIFE HAS MADE YOU INTO IT."

The woman grasped at the giant stone toes of the monolithic cat and sputtered through her tears, I don’t understand!

"TO UNDERSTAND IS TO KNOW DEATH; IS THIS YOUR WISH?"

Please… cried the woman; she fell to her knees. Have I done good by you?

The voice in the woman’s subconscious ceased and the stone toes of the sphinx warmed against her touch; she persisted and wept for three days and two nights. At noon of the third day, she perished within the sepulchral darkness.

November 27th, 2017

8:30 PM

My father screamed at the upstairs tenants on account of their boisterous altercations heard through the ceiling. His drunken shouts shook the house.

I prevented my father from resorting to direct threats and violence: I chased him outside, and when he heard I had run after him, he diverted himself away from the tenant’s stairwell, returned indoors, said nothing to me, and I nothing to him.

November 28th, 2017

11:56 AM

I wish to toss this life away and begin anew, thrust into the world of mechanized slavery: The military. I have prospects of either the Navy, Marines, or Air Force. My suffering will be causal to overdo growth. I await response from a recruiter.

2:29 PM

Prostrated on my standing mat; there, I listen—often. The voices ego culls themselves itself when I listen for them it: a clarity of thought, similar to writing.

This little hole for myself is lacking in ideals, hopes, insights, and experiences. My nerve is soft, rational, lax, and muscles atrophied; my flesh betrays me and my stomach rumbles.

Eggs are a playful food. Fat and protein permit these words to be typed.

A playful food.

November 29th, 2017

5:29 AM

My distrust for the world and humanity has apexed—an elevated state of disappointment for the condition we all suffer.

A butcher position has opened at the grocery store and I’ve applied. A recruiter contacted me and I refrained from answering; my (self?) perceived mental afflictions and demeanor would prohibit me from military clearance.

Cameron and Clyde may soon no longer require a babysitter, their father has informed me; their mother awaits on approval of a new position with hours conducive to her being home to raise her brood. This is well by me, for I’ve been accused of pedophilla by several mothers of the neighborhood who observe me while I idle with a book in hand by a cluster of trees in expectancy of the boys at the bus stop, and while I escort them for walks. One mother, accompanied by a leashed golden retriever dog, approached me one afternoon and accused me of Scaring all the school children, on account of my stern expression and formal black attire while I stood motionless at the center of a roundabout with a small pamphlet of Greek epic poems held up to my face; I nodded my head and flashed her a defiant smirk.

November 29th, 2017

1:15 PM

Submit to psychosis. Submerse yourself with madness despite being unable to create—you’ll learn, damn you, and be better off once you emerge from the murky depths into clarified air.

Corporations beckon me from all horizons; I feel good, plugged into the system.

The voices ego taunts me.

DECEMBER

40641.png

December 1st, 2017

1:14 PM

I’ve decided to leave.

No matter where, I must be gone. My space (environment) is in shambles. The job I’ve attained serves no function other than to produce material wealth and misery. I’ve considered a cult based in Los Angeles and have submitted an application to a recruiter.

To pursue a great pilgrimage on foot across the United States to a desolate landscape would harden me and cultivate growth.

Perhaps a monastic life could be adopted within a cult: a drone left to his own devices; maintenance, cleanliness, cooking, etc., until leisure is granted, whereafter my superiors would reciprocate with the basic necessities of human life through the sustenance and housing of my body. I’d pursue my own writing, meditations, and reading—courtesy of their books—no doubt, due to a library; a cult wouldn’t be complete without the "Kool-Aid"

December 2nd, 2017

11:33 AM

My father split the cost of a squat rack with me: A birthday present.

I’ve applied to a monastic retreat and seek refuges worthy of pilgrimage. This little house on this weathered track of land won’t detain me forever; I refuse to listen to twenty-five more years of grocery store muzak under fluorescent lights alongside tired, haggard, wayward souls on the rat race treadmill to nowhere. If I’m to be nowhere, I’d rather be among the company of individuals who value compassion and empathy opposed to production and efficiency.

Feeding the public worthless confectionary does not become me, although I have become a baker in this moment, the identity is a mere role I’ve cast myself into within this wretched society. All wretches among wretches, yet, nobody wants to admit of their own wretchedness i.e. humanity/mortality—ever.

My time with Cameron and Clyde is finished. I’m back to where I began on my self-induced jaunt from the mainstream workforce. Damned. Damned if I am to remain stagnant, sentenced to a back and forth mission to bag bread and scrub toilets for the remainder of my days. I know I may give the world more—a cause worth committing to.

Six months ago, while I worked in the maintenance department, I said to Frederick, who is now my direct manager, The bakery department is the most useless department in the entire store and offers nothing of substantial nutritional value to the general public. The community would be better off without mass produced sugar-laden treats and grains. Frederick agreed with me.

Now I’m with him, a subordinate to the task of my judgement, condemned to my own sentence.

December 3rd, 2017

7:51 AM

Stations in life are temporary; words are void of integrity.

A grocery stores becomes me.

Relationships are mended. A mop bucket beckons. I am my own void.

December 4th, 2017

7:57 AM

Last night after a return from work, I knocked on the upstairs tenant’s door of my father’s home; when the woman, Bella, approached and answered, I said, Hello-

"Are the kid’s being too loud? I know it’s late and they’re taking awhile to get ready for bed."

I stared at Bella for a moment, flabbergasted by her anxiety-stricken face; my father’s audible complaints of the noise Bella and her children produce had no doubt taken a toll on her, and there I was—an exacerbation of her stress. I said, No, the noise doesn’t bother me, only my father cares. I continued after a slight pause, I know this is a strange question, I’d just like some clarification; do you ever hear me chewing?

She leaned harder on the door, stepped further out, and a quizzical smile spread out underneath her wary eyes. No, never. Why? Do you chew loud or something?

I shook my head, looked down to my right, ignored her question, and said, Do you ever hear the clacking of my keyboard?

"I never hear it."

You never hear my music?

No, never.

Even when I have the volume increased while I’m in the shower?

"Nope—never hear it."

Alright, thank you for the clarification, I said, and looked down to my right again; she too, cast a downward gaze towards the inside of her apartment, eager to retreat.

I returned downstairs and heard Bella and her boyfriend resume complaints about me lapsed into madness. The boyfriend’s male voice, riled, desired to inflict physical harm on me, and I was ready—oh, so ready, to receive the impact of his conviction straight to my face in the form of a fist. Amused, I tested my theory: I knew Bella listened to my footsteps; I stopped and idled in the kitchen for thirty minutes: Silent. The boy’s bedroom had been displaced to a room above the kitchen out of the room above mine—for the boy fears me—whatever hapless notion the boy’s my mother and father figure instilled in his my psyche served to ignite the catalyst of his my imagination. The boy is innocent.

However, the boy a child’s voice began to cry when he it believed me to be situated underneath it’s room and together, the two stunning examples of parental excellence stood above me and listened for me. They bantered; the man’s rage exacerbated and the mother’s mania amplified until she too cried. I prepared myself for a physical confrontation out on the street with the boyfriend myself, (i.e., nobody).

My father rounded up from the small stairwell with nothing more to do than to chat, and he saw me standing motionless by the kitchen table. He began to speak to me;, and the tenants upstairs my ego quietened and awaited my response. I answered my father’s questions with hand gestures and subtle facial expressions.

He mocked me: Oh no—they can hear me breathing upstairs. I better hold my breath as long as possible and be as quiet as I can! He braced his hands against the top of a wooden chair and squinted his eyes together in order to mimic one afflicted with a cognitive deficiency.

Finally, I spoke, loud and clear, The boy upstairs is frightened of me and I’m listening to Bella and her boyfriend speak of me. I went upstairs and asked for clarification on whether or not they ever hear me, to which Bella lied and said she didn’t.

You went upstairs and asked them? said my father.

Yes. She said that she never hears my music even when I have the volume increased; I shook my head; disgust crept onto my facial features.

My father, upset with my actions, announced how pissed off, he is, twice. Once, when I told him there is a volatile man upstairs, the second, when I asked him why he’s pissed off.

He said, I’m really pissed off right now.

Why?

Because I’m really pissed off right-

That doesn’t answer why.

Stay away from the fucking tenants, he stepped closer, Don’t talk to them, don’t go near them. Leave. Them. Alone. He walked away, and I stood with myself and my upstairs neighbors; the family awaited my next literal move, silent. I returned to my allocated room and knew at that moment, I must leave my father’s home: original intentions before I once again resumed the role of a grocery store laborer. My role is elsewhere, far from here. Whether I’m insane—paranoid schizophrenic—bipolar—stunted—autistic—moronic, is irrelevant to my decision.

I shiver from the cold and ponder my survival if I were to depart amidst the dead of winter, on foot, with nothing except a meager fund and a spare change of clothes. I await a response from a commune or monastery.

I’m dead—anhedonia; janitor extraordinaire. Despised by many myself, their my words of hatred veiled under the guise of love and admiration. Industriousness is my grace among the fold of my peers and superiors.

Men never work any good unless through necessity, but where choice abounds and one can make use of license, at once everything is full of confusion and disorder. Therefore it is said that hunger and poverty make men industrious, and the laws make them good.

- Niccolò Machiavelli

December 5th, 2017

2:14 PM

Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic. All my ego screams is pathetic through variegated entities; my inner delusions manifested as the voices of others? No… Rather, my father’s judgement of me; we shook hands several weeks ago and he confirmed his pity of me, and I, my disgust of him. To understand the self, or lack thereof, is the singular justice, the straight road to wisdom.

Or—perhaps, even better—I am pathetic—to my own standards; life is nothing but a gargantuan joke. Aren’t I blessed. Bestowed with what people tell me is a remarkable intellect. Remarkable, I say, because others often speak remarks of my intelligence being superior: Fools.

If plebs—plebeian masses akin to myself who claim to be evaluators of intellect, knew the extent of my "remarkable intellect," my wretched misery would be obvious: self-imposed doubt and flagellation. My singular relief is the consumption of animal and plant flesh.

You dress like Jack the Ripper and care that people judge you and think you’re a psychopath? Get a fucking grip, will ya’? Get fucking real dude. You’re a grown man, said my father. My one-to-one family dynamic is bizarre and unbecoming. I’m in a constant state of stagnation: a comfortable, placid, stasis. Growth is impossible from a man conformed to his father’s household.

By nature, I have grown—in my wretchedness, and subject my local grocery store denizens to suffer the sight of me on a daily/bi-daily basis.

Everyday for the past week I’ve altered my retirement plan from 75% of my paycheck to 0%—back and forth. I’ve also spoken to many coworkers about my plans of becoming a monk, or to endeavor for life in a commune; I speak to them despite knowing I shouldn’t. For instance, I spoke to an eighteen year-old man four days ago, and uttered, in response to his inquiry, How are you Baethan? that I desire to kill myself, with intent to test the ripple effect of gossip. Days passed and those words have circulated among my peers; some are confused, dismayed, perturbed, and delighted. My human resource manager summoned me into her office days later and assured me I may speak to her any time I desire if I’m ever in want of someone to talk to.

Wonderful—let them eat cake too! Delicious bakery cakes straight from your local grocery store, complete with all-natural, organic, certified GMO-free, tubs of sugar.

Tubs and tubs of sugar for you all—you scum, knaves, fools, nincompoops. I crawl and slither amidst my peers as a used dish rag tumbles in a dryer without being cleaned first: all the clothes are fouled.

Why do you work so hard? said a pleb named Mark.

Another pleb, Bob, said, I work to support my family.

I wish I had cancer.

Bob raised an eyebrow. Why?

That way I could be like those people with welfare and sit around all day smoking weed and watching T.V; I could collect money and not have to do any work.

Oh, I see, said Bob, and he scrubbed harder at a stubborn piece of grit adhered to the edge of a bread pan submerged in the opaque black water of a dish basin.

Yeah. Mark folded his arms. If I had cancer, life would be great.

5:54 PM

There can be no more of this.

December 6th, 2017

11:14 AM

I understand and accept the terms I’ve laid out for myself in the framework of my mind: I’ve contacted an intentional community titled the Peaceorama with a request for visitation and potential membership. This small group of six people live together in a large farmhouse and provide for each other through a minimum of eight hours a week of labor. From there, I will schedule a retreat with the monks in a monastery further south. My insanity, in this hole of my father’s domain—this metaphorical hellish hole of my mind and physical reality must be brought to an abrupt end: a cull of my internal madness.

Empathy is the greatest burden to oneself and the greatest gift to bestow. The emotions of others are reckoned by me and I feel the latent energies: sorrow, fear, hatred, and love… What love there is—stymied by the forces of this material world.

I’m a ghost here in my box—a nobody, an invalid, an unknown, an anonymous patron of the world’s providence, and I seek my own refuge among a tribe where my wealth and social status are rendered obsolete and inconsequential.

There is hope in this world, for the sun shines bright through the opaque film layered over my window. Though the outside is unseen due to my latent paranoia and knowledge of my current socioeconomic status in regards to my predicament due to my choices—this isn’t all there is, and not all there has to be. I’ve returned to the drudge of grocery store labor and lamented my choice upon the first day of the execution. Trials and tribulations of the soul estrange me from reality, and those around me laugh and mock my decision—in secret, never to my face, oh no… Us—social animals, those I associate with, all strive to live their lives, paycheck to paycheck, the daily drudge of family life and suffering through work they loathe. I’m told: "It is what it is," the greatest joke of all.

I affirm in response, "It doesn’t have to be what it is—whatever it is," and receive contemptuous glances and scornful glares. Those who love and adore me know nothing of their own feelings. They love an image, an illusion, a pretense of virtue in constant practice; the maintenance of this act is degrading to all involved.

Each instance of my seven digit PIN number entered into an electronic interface followed by the press of an enter button, an electronic ping resounds… quiescent, sullen, a testament of existence, subservience to an unseen overlord; the great marketplace of corporate America and all those involved with whimsical notions and fancies of an imagined future.

I trek up and down the halls of the upstairs breakroom; people smile on posters: old men and women with esteemed grins—satisfied with a thriving retirement; wrinkle-free, blemishes altered and negated. Young models suited up in grocery store garb. The marketing is deceitful, and the pay is perverted enough to render those employed perpetually dominated by a system that supplants inner solace and provides the basic sustenance for human life, always working towards the next material advancement: a pseudo expression of lordship over your peers.

Tomorrow, I submit my two weeks notice to terminate my employment. A plan is futile under the perpetual guise of the omnipotent factor of chaos. There can be no certainty, and regardless of the numerical value in my bank account, there will always be hope, and individuals with compassionate opportunistic spirits primed to reciprocate acts of kindness on their behalf. The energy exchange is temporary, transient, and beautiful; entropy is God.

I relinquish all I’ve ever owned although I’ve owned nothing all along. My body taunts me with grumbles and aches, a reminder of my brief lapse of time on this plane of dirt and rock.

"He’s pathetic," thinks my father, and I know, while also knowing he submitted himself to a system he hated (The Post Office), he therefore became a conduit of hatred; his sentiments have sloughed onto me throughout my life; I refuse to endure his demons any longer, for I have enough of my own, and I will no longer be an example of self-imposed "patheticism."

Bagging confectionary for the people of my hometown and scrubbing the underside of toilets for the sake of my meager wage is intrinsically selfish. There are those who boast that their contributions are self-less and for the greater good; these same people profess their hatred for the general public to lovers and return to their individual homes, eager for entertainment.

The grocery store manager enjoys her third trip to Las Vegas; does this speak volumes of the conditions of society? What is it that she desires—a chance for riches manifold, danger, uncertainty, for what directive? With power and wealth, overcome by decadance—what…

4:44 PM

I am ready to assimilate with a new domain; an abode with similar minds; a recourse to this hell of a culture I find myself submersed with. Akin to a subterranean creature I persist with an outlook of enforced depravity; I am therefore rendered a wretch by the observation of my fellow human beings, for I flaunt my contempt.

My father attempts to convince me of my insanity even though my assertions are valid in their merit and integrity; he cannot disprove my words; he lingers and floats around me. His words attempt to dissuade me from my course of exploration and individualistic action on account of my mental health.

December 7th, 2017

7:26 AM

Perhaps in my journey I’ll be punched in the face.

Last night I wandered upstairs to the second floor of my father’s home, knocked on the door three times, and when Bella answered, I said, Hello, I believe I may be paranoid schizophrenic. I’m under the impression that there is a man up here speaking ill of me and you are engaging in the discussion with him.

There is no man up here, said Bella. I’ve been up here all night and I can assure you there is nobody else here.

Would you mind escorting me around your home so that I may search for this man for the sake of my sanity and mental health?

Alright—sure.

I said, Thank you, I’m going to do a thorough search.

I skipped two rooms and two closets; the attic intrigued me and Bella offered me her phone light to explore. Even though I found no man, my discomfort of searching the woman’s home prevented me from searching every room, therefore my suspicions remain, my enterprise null.

7:40 AM

I won’t do this anymore—write this.

December 8th, 2017

8:44 AM

Yes, I will, I recall now—my martyrdom and self-directed purpose; my godlike plan of existence, my consciousness, is this—this self-perpetual mundane document.

My directed path I’ve chosen for myself is one of death and rebirth. In two weeks time my possessions will be sold or given away. The desktop computer I’ve assembled—being my most utilized possession and single source of materialistic pride, must be relinquished. This New Year’s, I will depart with nothing but a 55 L pack and undergo a journey southwest towards a warmer climate where I may find myself in an environment where I may thrive among individuals with similar lifestyle paradigms and precepts.

Sheer abandonment to all except the future and now—the only true moments to ever be known, for a flicker of the past is forgotten, and those above me who listen to the click and clack of my writing instrument complain—they too will diminish into my past and mean nothing. I engage in calisthenics on my floor and—

He’s pathetic, I hear from above within, and relinquish all control to the voices, whatever source they may stem from. My life is an act and I convulse: violent histrionics on stage; judgements coalesce in muddy waters of a stagnant river occluded by the rot of self-engrossment.

A woman’s thighs jiggled and wavered; blue jeans two sizes too tight encased gelatinous hips and compressed the folds of her waist up and out from beneath a red tank top.

How do I look? she inquired to her boyfriend of four months. A coy expression shaped in the contours of her lips and the furrow of her brow.

Yeah, said the boyfriend; he gazed down at his phone and flicked the screen twice with the tip of his left thumb.

The woman said, You aren’t even looking at me.

What?

"Oh my God—nevermind, forget it."

You look sexy.

Sure.

The boyfriend stood and shook the house; his 329 lb body tumbled and strained from the sudden exertion. He said, C’mere’ baby, and reached out both his arms towards her.

No, get away.

C’mere’.

No, said the woman, and she turned away from him. The boyfriend’s arms slipped under her armpits and she expulsed a puff of air out from between creased lips painted red with a fresh coat of convenience store lipstick. He groped downward and looped his fingers through the belt straps of her pants; he tugged downward.

"Stop it," she demanded.

The boyfriend said, Alright, and the world ceased to be:

Space and time convoluted, impressions dispersed, the universe dissipated, and the woman and her boyfriend were deprived of a night out at Kentucky Fried Chicken.

December 9th, 2017

1:36 PM

I live in my little hole.

Here I hope; there is a chance, something more.

Greeted by people of all demeanor with unwarranted warmth, I am perturbed by those who perpetuate an act (everyone). A couple inside of an enclosed porch on my home road hailed me; they inquired of my endeavors; I informed them in brief; they wished me positive sentiments and a good future.

December 11th, 2017

10:56 AM

Propelled into new events, I set a course of action: in preparation, I’ve compiled a list of all my material items of value I intend to sell with the inclusion of the computer I utilize, proceeded to print forty copies of the document, and distributed each copy to acquaintances at the grocery store. Word has spread fast of my plans and motivations throughout the employee social circles, and many have attempted to convince me to remain employed (to forsake the suffering I share with them is an insult).

Yes, stay true to my role—a janitor, baker, and whatever other act I’d be enrolled in if I chose to forgo my self-abandonment.

Flatterers and sophists are my single concern; the elements may be overcome with preparation and careful planning. This town of my youth must be banished from my immediate sensory faculties.

To bind myself to these external influences and identify with the affections of others would be detrimental to my ego. Wherever I request work, I shall write on my resume: Scrubbed shit; baked bread.

December 12th, 2017

7:18 AM

Opportunities are abundant. I intend to speak with my human resources manager about advancement of my role at the grocery store… to become a maintenance manager and revoke my self-termination. The circumstances, relationships, and fortunes of my life have aligned in a manner in which I seek and pursue all ventures available to me and remain indifferent to the outcome. If I am to secure a higher position at my current job, my supervisor will need to be demoted. An aggressive usurpation attempt—no—rather, a relief to his burdens, for I