My fist was shaking in fervor at the airplane that buzzed me too close to my naked head while I was merely hanging around as a typical slouch performing within known boundaries no suspicious acts. Even the majestic redwood trees towering above me were bent out of shape. If there is a new natural law against asymmetry, no one told me.
The airplane not only buzzed, but twisted, flipped, and attempted to twirl in a dipsy-doo. I tried to visualize how hard the high flying birds above the San Andreas Fault were laughing their asses off at those primitive displays, and not in the kindest of ways. The dual engines sputtered like a single limp dick before catching on. Fiery spit dribbled out. That’s nature for ya.
The airplane also buzzed a prime number of demographically hapless victims in the Santa Cruz Mountains before landing across the tracks in annexed East Palo Alto. The unsteady pilot turned into a skilled passenger in the back seat of the limousine ferrying him to the faux campus in Cupertino where he recorded reams of proprietary data. He whipped out an electronic device and spread his legs. The unsurpassed feeling was the latest and the greatest. There were plenty of numbers to crunch under his heels. He was wearing boots of shiny leather, nothing underneath. Demand unfailingly created demand. No invisible boundaries recognized. Just imagine a typical world where everything is instantly available with no mess to be slipped though your fingers. The revealing smirk on his face was too pronounced and edgy to fit into the category of a twisted grin.
I had tried my fucking darnedest for eons to stand by with rapt disinterest as the simple-minded delusions of my youth became vaporized by dual engines not unlike those toting all that incessant buzz. My focus remained steadfast on the perfection of malingering. Then it became too late real fast. Fluids thickened. Transmissions missed. Suddenly, I got shook. Where’d that fucking flow go? It’s hard for a small man to crawl up and get decently unconscious anymore. Unless that was took. All I ever used to want to be when I grew up was a tap dancer with the grace, jive, and joie de vivre of Bill Robinson, along with a smart-ass stand-up comic who sat on a wooden stool, and a real swell atypical guy asleep on the sofa, who was available to be had and held tight, and left alone unconditionally. I never dreamed of gainful employment at a thankless job where I got bent. I never believed that one of those numbers getting crunched under that heel would be mine. My ass still hurts every time I am not too blocked to think about it. My neuro-transmitters may need a booster.
References to blocked neuro-transmitters in the the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th Edition, Text Revisions,(DSM-IV-TR), fill pages of dense material. Categories cross boundaries laden with peril. Who needs that? Mitigating cultural distresses are often derived from fluffy wool, petroleum extracts, shards of tinted glass, and blue steel. I for one I am not a big fan of the presumptions in DSMV-5. Too much is more than enough. Like, duh. Not only blockage among multiple complex issues reappear like swallowers in trusty DSM-IV-TR, but rampant disorders. Booby traps abound. I stopped counting when the arithmetic became higher math. Holes opened in my head due to decompression issues.
The prognosis for rampant holes that look like wounds to me is not good. Ignorance is supposed to be no excuse. Like, duh. But, if ignorance and contempt for the shady laws are supposed to be no excuse why does my ass continue to get probed with burning hot rods? That slippery guy looks to me like he knows what he’s doing. The back seat is world renown for hanky-panky. I know I’m not the guilty party lying with impunity in any sweaty night court about what hurts so bad down deep. I did not order that test from the speed menu. What if I prefer to have habaneros with my lean mean beans that would strike back at the crooked pot and stay stuck there? That fire’s not easy to put out.
Once released to ravage and roam, explosive reactions don’t backtrack. Disorder is freed to increase exponentially. Not implosions either. Spinning gizmos with painfully embedded chips can’t haul in any of those mythical big catches that get away when the lines get tangled. But the lines get tangled out of sight and out of mind every day that includes night. At every angle, too. All hooks conceal their barbs like expert witnesses. Do you know how many angles are out there, lurking? I know my mind sweats the heat at night when the black lights are blazing. Probes turn clockwise but deliver no goods, only services. Then the bill comes due. Bad luck and trouble is a classic joke on that comic stool that goes flat beneath the surface. The burning rods are too rigid to bend and the limp dicks too weak, all the limp dicks. That’s a fucking big number. Think of all the surfaces on top of the one world ocean that continues to heat up. That’s where the goods get delivered, no services. You can hear the sizzling stakes in a deep sleep. You don’t even have to admit you are asleep. But what all surfaces, lack, the depth, is where the explosives begin to shake it up before the pop and cracking.
In DSM-5, many timely numbers go up at the expense of those going down. It’s no less difficult than the day before to tell if total disorders are skewed, leaning, compressed, or pulverized. Both ways, too. The number one selling psychiatric substance in the world of nations, after weed of course, like duh, is Abilify, at $8 billion strong and steady last year, no longer a mere potent tonic for straight ahead schizophrenia, but now rated high, great, and chillin’ on the charts with a bullet for bi-polar disorder, depressing collapsed erections, and borderline personality, which as we all know, is rocketing, also with a bullet.
At the Thee Tawny Owl Institute of High Flying and Rising Consciousness, I have learned from all of this ceaseless churning of numbers that if I remain calm and stable, and am able to successfully add the numbers of airplanes flying into Silicon Valley to the numbers of mental disorders newly uncovered in DSM-5, and then subtract the numbers of whales swimming deep in the one planet ocean alongside the numbers of knee replacement surgeries due to genuflections on flat torrid sands, remembering to factor in without failure all of the sequins on the shimmying skirts of Tina Turner, young and old, I come up with a real shot without any use for a bullet in a zero-sum game, to reach zero.
Which is not half bad.
Unless that pesky mood disorder persists. Along with those known issues of avoidance.