Jul 042012
 

Me, July 4th, 2012

 

Dear Me in 1989.

As you read this your little brother is just a few months old, you are still adapting to a new school in a new city and life is getting rather overwhelming. This is a letter from yourself that you will write many years in the future when you are thirty-two years old.

First the bad news: it's the twenty-first century but pretty much none of what the science fiction writers and tv-shows promised you has happened. We don't have flying cars, we don't have laser-guns. We do have jetpacks but they cost about a million rand and only a few very, very rich people can afford them. 

On the other hand some awesome things happened instead. In about 5 years something called the internet will take hold in South Africa, and it will rapidly explode into the most world-changing innovation of all time. It will change everything by giving every human being a voice. An information superhighway. On the other hand most people will use it to post pictures of pokemon's butts. Oh right, you don't know about pokemon yet, you will.

You're not really interested in girls yet, which is quite good because the bad news is – for the next ten years, they aren't going to be interested in you at all. Don't fret though, after that you become a lot more interesting to them and by the time you're me, you've met the love of your life. There's some really bad times in between, which I won't tell you about because otherwise you may try to avoid them. The thing is, if you do, you may not be ready for the most wonderful woman on the planet when you meet her at thirty-one. So I won't take that risk. Just be strong and know that it all gets better.

I am not going to lie to you, highschool is going to suck. You won't have any real friends till you're almost at the end of it. I am telling you now what I wish somebody could have said to me back then: you're  a geek, you are awesome as a geek, but you are born too early. Geeks don't get girls, they don't get friends – they just get made fun of and bullied. It does get better though – as I write this, geeks are so cool that all the people who used to pick on them are wishing they was us and trying and failing very hard to pretend they are. That's irony. Remember that word.

The trouble with this letter is, I'm pretty sure you won't understand most of what I really want to tell you. You haven't learned enough yet. But a lot of the stuff you will in the next few years feel make sense the world will tell you is wrong, you will ignore them and follow your heart – and in most cases, you will turn out to be right, you will come to live very much the way you believed you should live. So be strong – I had to do that with nobody telling me I'm right, just my own stubborn-headed personality that refused to give up.

I guess the one thing I can tell you is – you're going to go through hell soon, for a long time, but you will come out stronger on the other side, determined to fight for others and defend them from what you went through. And it will get better, it will get so much better.

Oh one last thing: you're wrong, your first car will not be a porsche, but you will drive a very awesome black Audi by the time you're 32 which your best friend will call the "batmobile" – that's pretty cool no ? I won't tell you the model name because they won't come out for another decade, but it's worth the wait. And who knows, maybe I'll get a letter from my 40 year old self to say he finally bought that Porsche.

Enjoy the good stuff in your life. 

Your older self.

PS. In about 2 years when Star Trek: The Next Generation starts, you're going to love it !

Jun 262012
 

The assignment for last week was to write something inspired by one of Amanda's previous assignments. So, I wrote a sequel to her story for assignment 3 – with my own special twist.

I make my way to the front of the church. Some idiot had actually chosen an open casket for this ? Seriously ? Because looking at corpses always brightens up everyone's day right ? Fucking idiots. I look down at the former habitation of my soul, which is now standing angrily at my own funeral. There's some sort of flicker to it, I can't describe it. It's like, looking at your own house – you know where the window is that doesn't shut properly. There's something that says "I can get back inside."

He walks up to me. Still the silence, but he is shaking his head vigorously. He knows what I saw and he is telling me not to. Well screw him, screw all these people. I lean down and bring the face of my soul to the face of my body… and touch lips to lips. It's like being sucked into a vacuum cleaner, and then I'm inside… my eyes pop open and I'm looking at the ceiling from my cold body. I can feel a certain unfamiliarity though – the stuffing and embalming left it's mark, and the smell hits my senses. Let's just say Calvin Klein won't be bringing out "Embalming Fluid 1" cologne any time soon.

Of course all the movies and media have been full of stories of zombies and vampires and the like for years, but I know the true name of those who rise from the dead… revenant. That's me. I revenant. I shamble therefore I am. I reach my hands up, grip the sides of the coffin and say "Boo !"… at least, that's what I try to say, what comes out is more a sort of ghastly groan. Apparently my vocal cords don't work very well… and it seems I am not entirely in control of my reanimated body, my arms struggle to remain upright and as the church erupts in screams of shock, surprise and fear I managed to shuffled all the way out of the coffin, but I'm clumsy and it clatters to the ground beside me. 

Without my willing it, my legs shuffle towards the nearest person, I vaguely remember her as a colleague I never much liked. I try to pull back, but my body is not listening. I try to speak but all I that happens is more groans and growls. Is this what it's like for the zombies in the movies ? Fully conscious inside a prison body that does whatever it wants ? Is this the reward for the revenant who returns ? A body you reanimate, re-enter, and then cannot control ? My arms reach out and grab her as she struggles into the mass of people, pull her closer, and my jaws open and then my teeth sink into her arm – not stopping their motion until they clench into the bone and my head jerks back and I rip a giant chunk of bicep off her and swallow it as blood sprays all around me. 

Fucking hell !  I want to throw up, and if the embalmers hadn't removed my stomach I suspect I may have, but the body in which I'm trapped swallows down the chunk of human flesh with every sign of enjoyment. My spirit is nauseous but the brain it's attached to is filled with the same glee I used to get out of biting into a really good cheeseburger.  I revenant… okay, so maybe this wasn't the best idea I ever had. 

I hadn't let go of her, the crowd is still running for the doors, she is struggling to try and pull away from me but apparently my new grip is rather strong. Maybe I got some sort of mobile rigor mortis. Either way her attempts to pull free of my grasp is about as effective as a mouse trying to break free of a mousetrap. Again my head plunges down and I yank out another chunk of flesh, this time from her neck. As the major artery gets ripped blood sprays up under high pressure painting a crysanthemum on the ceiling of the church and falling on me like a red shower. 

On the upside, at least she bleeds out fast now, and the screaming stop. Revolted as I am, I cannot convince my body to stop. I am just a passenger in it, something else, something more primal is the conductor of this railway now. It keeps eating until all that remains is bones – picked clean. Then it shambles out toward the door, I can sense it's hunger… something tells me that this hunger will never be stilled no matter how much I eat. I find myself wondering if the bite is really contagious, if I bite somebody now and they get away without being eaten all up… will they turn into something like me ? Will they find themselves trapped in a canibalistic, undead body shambling about on an unending quest to feed an eternal hunger ?

Is this the zombie apocalypse ? Am I patient zero ? Oh well, I never did like the world very much. At least I'll get to watch it end. Or maybe I'm the only one, and sooner or later somebody is going to blow my brains to bits. Would that stop my body  ? Or would they need to cut of my whole head ? Or throw a grenade and blast all of me into a pulpy, splattered mess all over the walls ? 

I wish I could have some control at least, I could make sure all the idiots I hate got eaten first, especially that penguin who led the ceremony. That would be poetic justice in my book. But my body is as oblivious to the commands I try to send it as a 3-year old to kid to the finer details of class-action tort law. Fuck me sideways… actually, come to think of it, the body doesn't seem to have any great desire for getting fucked and even if it did I may not be able to ever again anyway. I mean we all know men will fuck practically anything with a hole in it but somehow I imagine that trying to digest them during the act is probably likely to cause a mild case of erectile dysfunction in even the most desperate guy. Pity I'm not a preying mantis. They don't lose out on getting laid just because of an insatiable cannibal urge. 

My body trips over a fallen …something… and lies face down in the sun for a while. 

Jun 112012
 

"I'm one of the freaks, the faggots, the geeks, the savages, rogues, rebels, dissident devils, artists, martyrs, infidels" – Otep, Rise, Rebel, Resist.

She sat down daintily in the chair, carefully folding her dress under her to prevent any revelations. She was wearing a white sun-dress that was just short enough to be comfortable while being entirely respectable.  Respectable was practically a lifestyle for her, almost a religion in fact. She clung to it like a barnacle to a tugboat, it was an anker of reassurance in a world that scared the living daylights out of her. Her shoulder-length hair hung down neatly from behind an Alice-band in light blue, and there was a daisy in her hair. Like her, it was slightly wilted.

She had a sparkly smile, sparkly eyes and a perky nose, her shoes were flat and sensible and respectable white satin creations with light blue bows. She looked in fact, like she just stepped off the set of a Jane Austin movie. Sarah Elizabeth Crowley was everything society demanded a woman to be, in 1895. Too bad she was living in 2012, but she seemed fairly oblivious to the fact anyway. She folder her hands on her lap and waited for things to start with much the same enthusiasm that a vampire might show for a garlic festival.

The lights dimmed and a spotlight shone on the stage. A waittress came over and offered her a drink: "Cover your shame woman !" she exclaimed, continuing: "And alcohol is a scourge to the soul that turns good men into scoundrels and make their hands wander.", the waitress gave her a sidelong grin, it had never occurred to her that anybody still used a word like "scoundrels". "Honey if you're refferring to my tits, I am not even slightly ashamed of them – I work here because I love being able to earn money without having to cover them up, as for alcohol making men's hands wander… I can but hope." she said with a lascivious wink.

"Of course you don't ! Everybody who works here is being exploited by the evils of Satan !" 

"Sugar, what the hell are you doing here with  an attitude like that ?"

"I came to minister to the fallen, as is my duty !" declaimed Sarah and held up a Bible like some  kind of talisman.

"I've heard of Christians complaining about clubs like this from the pulpit, never seen one actually come inside to 'minister' as you put it though…"

"Did not our saviour eat with the moneylenders and the whores ?"

"Yeah I remember something like that, but if you use that word in here again Billy over there will toss you on the sidewalk, and you really don't want that pretty white dress on the sidewalks we got here. There' s more puke than concrete in their construction by now."

Sarah grimaced. "Could I interest you in one of these bible-verse bookmarks maybe ?" she said sweetly.

The waitress shook her head, "Not right now, you just stay here nice and quiet and behave sugar. If you don't cause a fuss, we won't have any trouble."

"I do not cause fusses."

"You're from that new tent-revival group that's been shacking up outside of town aren't you ?"

"The Reverent Salinger Ministries." Sarah corrected her haughtily.

"Yeah, I read about you lot, fundamentalist maniacs the paper called you. Your Reverent's been saying some pretty terrible things about how we should stone all the gay people to death (only he didn't use that word) and lest we be visited with flame and brinestone."

"Fire and Brimmstone, like Soddom and Gohmora ! "

"Sweety, even the other churches in town are weary of you lot. They say you preach hatred and your faith is meant to be about love."

"My faith… so you are not a believer then ?"

"What I believe or do not believe is pretty much none of your fucking business kiddo, just don't call my titties 'shame' again and we won't have a problem. Now I gots to go minister to the thirsty scoundrels-in-potentia around here."

 

Sarah sat back in her seat with the prim and proper attitude of the well brought up, a posture that was apparently designed after careful study of stick insects.  Music began to play, and then a spotlight hit the stage. A dancer came out and began twirling around a pole. As the dancer got ever more naked, Sarah found herself getting ever more uncomfortable. But what was worse was that she wasn't just appalled… she was feeling, uncomfortable in a way she had always avoided. She was feeling damp in a place she would never admit she knew the name off and if forced at gunpoint to mention would probably have described as her "holiest of holies"… but there was apparently an entire revival congregation singing her temple now. 

It was temptation, she'd come here to minister and Satan was trying to tempt her – that's why her nipples were straining against her dress ! That's why her sensible, respectable and gigantic underwear was damp ! It made her furious and she jumped up on the stage and shouted:" Sinners the lot of you ! Resist the urge ! Resist the temptation ! Go home to your husbands and submit to them !"

The by now very naked dancer looked at her in awe and as the red mist of rage before her eyes came down a little she could see the bouncer coming through the crowd. He was the biggest man she'd ever seen apart from Reverend Salinger himself, but while the good reverend was just fat, this man was pure muscle. Sarah might have described him as a kind of black incredible Hulk, if she had any idea who the Hulk was. He stepped up on stage, and his hands clenched around her arms. He lifted her by merely bending his forearms, her small frame in his strong arms made resistance absolutely futile.

She was about to faint… as far as she could remember no man had ever touched her at all, let alone lifted her off the ground ! The bouncer was carrying her to the door, she was kicking and screaming at the brute but it was like a mosquito trying to argue with a rhinoceros. She was thrown out of the club onto the cold hard concrete outside, rolling into a muddy puddle that quite ruined her dress and sent her collection of bookmarks flying across the street. She sat there for a while, crying, but her breath was short and panting. Slowly she got up and started walking back to the encampment outside of town. When she walked in, ashamed and confused she avoided all eyes and returned to her little bungalow for a much needed hot shower. 

As she stood there, a word was boiling her, she'd heard it a dozen times that night, more than she'd ever heard it before in her life. She could not bring herself to say it, but it was boiling in her, almost without her noticing, her finger traced it in the steam on the shower door. "Fuck".

May 272012
 

In the end we're all somebodies fucking bitch. We grow and we have achievements and we're the best at something, yay you're the tastiest turd in the shithole, whoop-de-fucking-do. Mercy, kindness, justice, it's as likely as giving a  pity-shag to your own lonely widow. We live in a story, written by a drunken cocktard on bad acid. Life sucks the life out of us  like a fifty-rand whore and we make it seem allright by covering our own memories in dumbass window-dressing. In the end the best you can hope for is that the dickhead who ravages your ass might feel kind enough to give you a reach-around. Happiness is as fleeting as an orgasm and as hard-to-find as a conservative virgin's clit. The only truth is love, and the only joy is getting fucked well by somebody who loves you enough to  give a flying fuck about fucking you the way you want to be fucked. Whether she's your goddess or your little slut, she's all there is. Find her, worship her, devour her pussy a hundred times a day and be grateful every time you get to make her cum because life is as short as you deep-down suspect your dick to be and love is as rare as an all-virgin orgy and slightly harder to make work. But it's worth it, it's the only thing that is, the only fucking thing we get. Sex and drugs and rock and roll and love. Because love is the only thing that's really honest, even if we so often lie about it, the real thing is the only thing we cannot lie to ourselves about. You can fake an orgasm, but you cannot fake the reason why you faked it.  Because it's the only honesty we have… love is the dirtiest word of all.