Kicked out of Heaven

The empty cluster of chairs set before me reminds me of how starved I am. There is a twinge in my gut that beckons that something be given to satisfy; to push back the whimpers of need and pangs.

Somehow, I think, if the sun were to go black, I would not notice.

I am not blind.  I am oblivious.

It is one thing to pay no heed to the imminent collapse of Mother Nature. It is quite another to be unfamiliar with self.

It is all I know and can fathom: I am starved, but I pray the sun to still shine.

I am a fallen child. Slipped through the crowds. Wandered out of town. Passed the iron gates.

And was hurled to this planet. This . . . reality. This unrelenting chaos that taunts me.

I smell it, tastes, feel it, breath it,

but I do not believe in it.

The List

Things to do before I die
- Dive catch falling baby

- Vacation to space

- Laugh at someone else’s expense

- Wear a red sweatshirt and drink tea using my right hand.

- Eat a bagel while watching a sunrise in Vermont

- Defy gravity

- Rename all the animal

- Build the world’s largest blanket fort

I am open to some more suggestions. This is just the start.

A War of Inches

I am a war. Heated rage tears through me. It is a battle fought in inches. 18 to be exact.

18 inches is what divides the heart and the brain.

18 inches. Less than two feet. 3/1000th of a mile.

18 inches of civil battles, bitter disputes, and back-turnings. Sometimes, the weight of it, eating its way from my head, to my chest, and back again, causes me to drag myself, never fully achieving, never fully believing, never making a name for myself.

I am Ben. And there is fighting within me.

Within those 18 inches of rivalry, love is gained, and love is lost.

In under two feet, everything I know is rattled before me, sifting away all that was too weak to hold on.

18 inches is all that separates you and I.

Is it the end yet?

I don’t know if I should call it a lack of dedication, or even motivation. Nay. It is a lack of remembrance.

Among the clusters in my mind, there hides this blog. Oh, it was not lost, but it certainly was not found, either.

I return to it, my first love, my heartbeat, now, in these times of stress, to write, to ponder, to procrastinate, and to use too many commas in one sentence.

It is my greatest weakness to avoid the things that must be done to do the things that hold no purpose.

You, the lucky reader . . . are part of my purposeless life.

But don’t feel ashamed of your status. You occupy 97% of my life.

Yours truly,

.ben

Blog of the Living Dead

I always feel sorry for zombies. They didn’t ASK to be zombies. They became diseased, in one way or another.

They were just normal people, ya know? Why all the hate? The anger?

Shooting them in the head? Disgusting! Zombies are people, too!

Sure, they are deformed, mutated, undead, flesh eating people, able to withstand shotgun shell after shotgun shell as they slowly lumber towards you, gnarling their teeth . . . but they are still people, and they still need Jesus too.

I know that I would never want to become a zombie. That’s a rough life, or lack there of. . . the whole living world against you like that, striving to fulfill this unquenchable thirst for blood and flesh, not sleeping. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Especially myself.

However, I am making provisions. I have requested that when I am dead, that they bury me with a roll of breathmints. If I do come back as a zombie, I’m sure I’ll appreciate being able to get the taste of brains out of my mouth. I’ll be glad that I thought ahead.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is give a hoot. Don’t pollute. And be nice to zombies.

Thinking Ahead

I keep a collection of cat-sized coffins in my basement.

You know. Just in case.

Receeding, but to where?

The more hair I lose on my head, the more it seems to be showing up in other places.

I’m beginning to better understand the term “butthead.”

The End is Near

February 9, 2009

My Y2K rations are beginning to dwindle. This doesn’t look good.

I might have to go grocery shopping soon.

If only wishes were ponies

I wish I had an Uncle Marv.

You can’t go wrong with an uncle named Marv.

Unless, of course, Uncle Marv touches your naughty places when he babysits you.

The Height of Fame

I use to want to be really tall.

But then I became afraid of ceiling fans.