With (more than) A Little Help From My Friends or It's A Funderful Life

Unlike nearly everyone else, my dreams are actually very detailed and captivating tales that aren't just interesting, but captivate entire rooms of people, leaving them in rapt attention throughout their entire telling. I rarely share them, but considering how this one involved so many of you, I felt the need to share.


It takes place in an undetermined amount of years from now. I find myself driving a dirty, beaten-down wreck of a car. I am drunk. Very drunk. I look down at the dashboard to see all kinds of warning lights lit up. I'm swerving all over the road, still taking swigs from a whiskey bottle. It's summer. A bright blue sky lights up the windshield. I can barely see. The sharpness and definition of everything is blindingly painful.

I somehow manage to navigate the thing into a parking lot. I'm cursing it the entire time. I'm older. I'm worn down. I hate myself. I leave my car parked crookedly in a spot, climb out into the harsh daylight and light a smoke. I smell. I'm aware of this, and on some level, I am almost proud of my odor. I can't remember the last time I showered, changed my clothes, or shaved. I'm walking through the parking lot to some rich, deuchey place. I know what lies inside. I know how much it will hurt to be in there, with those people, yet I continue on almost relishing the oncoming punishment. Every step I take increases the sense of impending doom I feel. I yank open the elegant glass doors and shuffle inside.

I stumble into an ornate lobby. I'm acutely aware of the staff's eyes on me. I keep trudging on looking resolutely forward. It's too late to turn back now. Just as I enter the ballroom, a member of the staff stops me. Before I can answer, Christine Feola, who seems to have appeared from thin air, informs him that I'm a guest of hers. She greets me warmly, gives me a hug. I know I'm revolting but she pretends not to notice and beckons me to follow her deeper inside. My attitude is cold and offensive. She again remains unfazed. She's much older, but you can barely tell. The years have been kind to her. She still looks so young and alert. She's wearing a suit and effortlessly carries an air of illustriousness. Everything about her is clean and smart and epitomizes the success she has achieved thus far.

She leads me over to a small group of people. I know all of them: known them for years. Back since before they achieved their fame. They're laughing like they don't have a care in the world. I hate that laugh. I'll never know that laugh the way all of them have. I'll never feel its deep resonance rising up from my belly, galloping out of my mouth. I'll never feel its lightness or its freedom. Everything I have is heavy and full of filth. I slime my way through the garbage of this world. I dwell in darkened corners and seedy alleys. I owe people money, people that will hurt me without a second thought. I am a slimy eel writhing in a puddle of sewage. I don't belong here amongst these soft lights and crystal glasses.

Erik Rudic shakes my hand with an honest, ivory-toothed smile. I shake begrudgingly and grunt a greeting. His suit is probably worth more than my house. Why am I here? Why did I accept? What evil inside me relishes this pain? He asks how I've been getting along. I answer that I've been fine, doing what I've to do get by. I am no one. Why do they care about me? He also overlooks my disturbing appearance and treats me kindly. I hate him. Him and all the rest. I go on, prolonging my self-abasement.

I see the members of Hot Blood. I try to pretend I don't. Matt Kiley runs up behind me, grabs me, and carries me over to the rest of them. They're always so excited to see me. It's a genuine excitement I can't stand to bear. It hurts me to know how far I've fallen whilst others have achieved so much. I watch myself: engaging in silent talk. I wonder how this came to be. Why have I given up? I see myself, and I know I am me, but I am also another. I watch from afar, staring at this strange person I've become, yet that person is myself, while at the same time, another.

We are here for a concert. A sold out stadium. A fishbowl of eyes eager to drink the sights of visions from my past. A multimillion dollar event once thriving in my living room. Time's bedraggled effect now working its alchemy on the masses of hungry, empty minds. Is this all there is? I catch up with myself to discover my body 5 glasses of champagne drunker, scowling at a Doug Zambon. He's not participating in the act. He seems genuinely concerned over my state of health. He keeps asking if I'm okay, if I need anything, if I can even hear him. I respond by insulting him. Him, or the wall next to him. What the fuck does it even matter at this point?

The next few hours are lost in a blur. So many faces. So many words. Why all these faces? Why must everyone talk so much? Just leave me alone! Talktalktalk, looklooklook. I can't take it! Why does any of it matter? Why did I drag myself to this god awful place? Where even am I right now? It's dark. There is noise, but it is muffled. The ground is like quicksand. I need to step quickly as not to get sucked down into its dark waves. I move toward the sound. Where are the walls now? Its as if someone is disassembling the world around me. Is this death? Is His icy hand finally pulling away all I've known, all structure and foundation, before dragging me screaming back to hell? I"m so weary now. I can't go on much further. I find a stool and table. I sit and give my life over to figure draped in darkness. The world is spinning. I'm watching it being pulled from me. I've hit my limit. I cannot take anymore of this. I leave myself and float by as a ghostly spectre. I see myself moaning, squirming on a stool in the back stage area of the concert. I feel shame for this person that is me. Clarity restored, I reexamine the figure of death. It is not death embodied. It is Amy Malkoff. She looks worried. She asks some of the stage-hands to help her take me to her room. The habitus of death was in reality my savior all along. My spirit follows her, thanks her, loves her: my benevolent goddess. I view my body, racked with fear, clouded with drugs, dragged upstairs and lain to rest.

Outside of myself, whilst I rested, I find truth. All of my friends had moved on to bigger and better things, ultimately becoming international stars. I, being the selfdefeater I have always been, drove myself mad and squandered the myriad opportunities I was presented. In secret, they paid my debts, hospital bills, and bribed people to keep me out of prison. They all loved me and cared for me. All anonymously and from a distance. The friendships we formed years ago had actually mattered. I was simply too dumb to see it. I was cut off from the world. My heart had grown hard. I was unable to accept happiness, friendship, or love. I viewed everyone as an enemy. In my eyes, they were all out to get me. They took what they wanted and left me hanging out to dry, but I was wrong. I couldn't accept the fact that anyone could actually care for me. I wouldn't accept success unless it was through my merit alone. I was a fool and a coward. I shut everyone out. I was scared. Who could ever care for me? The truth was, they all had.

I've had a very bad life. I pushed others away. I never asked for help. I'm terrified that I might be broken.

I wake up and I see Judith looking down at me. It's morning. The sunlight gives her an angelic glow. She looks so pretty. In that moment of waking, my self-abasing issues haven't yet caught up to me. Everything is perfect in this moment. I sit up to see a room packed with people worried about me. Alex Rosen pats me on the back and asks if I'm okay. I see all of your faces, golden in the morning's light, and I start crying.

You're watching the wrong Robin Williams movies

After the news of his suicide broke, everybody has been posting that they're watching his movies in remembrance of his life. But it's all Mrs. Doubtfire and shit.

Here are the three movies I expected to see people watching that are being completely forgotten.


What Dreams May Come.

Come on, it stars a dead Robin Williams. Add on the themes of depression, suicide, and the afterlife and it seems like the first movie that should come to mind.

World's Greatest Dad

Robin plays a father whose son dies of auto-erotic asphyxiation. He then moves the body to make it look like his son hanged himself and ghost-writes a suicide note revealing that his asshole of a son was actually a sensitive, misunderstood soul so he can leave this world with some dignity. Other than the obvious, this movie is relevant because, in a sense, that's what we're all doing to him right now. By reliving the brighter moments of his life we're essentially giving some sense of respect and dignity to a miserable man who died a miserable death.

One-Hour Photo

Robin Williams is terrifying in this. His acting is so believable and unexpected, and being that it's him, it's even more shocking. This one goes to show there was more to the man than a goofy comedian. Even this lovable jester had his dark side. Something to think about.

I'm just venting over the fact that no one has even mentioned these flicks. (except Amanda who watches every movie ever made)

Hook is cool though. After all, death is the last great adventure.

I Had A Dream Where Everyone Gave Up All They Owned

A dream where everything was free and no one wanted for anything.

People only did things because they wanted to do them, or wanted to be helpful. No one was obligated to do anything they didn't want to do or be anywhere they didn't want to be.

Instantly, people seemed more at ease. There was no longer anything to protect or fight over. There was no need to struggle and strive for your basic needs.

People were carefree and friendly. All doors were open wide. Everyone had a place to sleep. There was a palpable air of generosity and brotherhood.

Virtually overnight, the arts and sciences flourished and crime practically vanished. Never before had artists been so free to create; and with no more need for competition, the greatest scientific minds could work together to invent the best possible things for all mankind.

All phones were unbreakable, waterproof, insanely fast, and had constant, worldwide coverage. Cars were done away with entirely. A brand new public transportation was devised which could take a person anywhere in the world in only a few hours and created almost zero pollution. All but a few diseases were cured, leaving serious illnesses a thing of the past. People were living up to 200 years old. The elderly were not crippled and incoherent. Instead, they were happy and independent until their final days.

Every inch of every surface was beautiful. You would die if you could experience just a moment of such vast, endless beauty.

People vacationed to the moon. All goods and services were always of the highest quality. Life was of the highest quality. And there was love. It was all over. Everything was soaked in it. It was almost disgusting how in love they all were.

Even the Earth itself seemed to display love and gratitude with its rich bounties and pleasant weather. The air was fresh and clean. The destruction of the planet, at last, stopped.

It was the best of all possible realities, and it was so easy to attain. All we had to do was give up our delusions of ownership and privilege.

As I woke I felt brand new and full of hope. But then I remembered the kind of world I actually lived in, and the kind of people that inhabited it, and I felt my dream die.




What a stupid fucking dream.

You ever just sit there and look up?

I heard a bit of conversation today I found interesting. Someone was basically saying that something he did was important because "people were talking about it" afterward.

And I started to think...

Is all we're trying to do is prove to other people that we're important?
Are we only capable of achieving any kind of importance via the eyes of others?
Is it possible then to do something significant without recognition?

If not for other people, would anything I do matter?


I looked up and stared into the night sky. I imagined all the planets and stars up there. And I wondered if any of it mattered. We are but the tiniest speck of nothing in the grand scheme of things. If you grouped every living person on Earth and placed them side by side they would only fill an area about the size of Texas. Yet we act like gods of the universe. The scale we use to prioritize things is based on how much they affect us. Each and every one of us is vying for the attention of others, attempting to change the minds others, and trying to remain in the minds of others after we die. But are others really that important?

What gives them that power? What mysterious energy is generated by these others that we lack within ourselves? Can I not do something in solitude, that no one else will ever discover, and have it amalgamate any value?

I looked around and saw things for what they were. It's in names and labels that things acquire a succinct difference from what they're actually made of. By classifying things, we gloss over the actual composition of these things and create a new, magical reality in which they inhabit.

We don't want to know how things work. We just want them to work. We don't want to know what's inside or how it functions. If one of these magical things is not functioning properly, there are these magic people who encompass all knowledge of such things. They can use their special abilities, a learned sorcery, to repair any discrepancies within the enchanted item. These sorcerers go by names like: doctor, scientist, repairman, and chef.

The doctors have the ability to remedy any illness within the human body. If they say they cannot, it is a lie. They simply choose not to.

The scientist has complete knowledge of the universe and all it encompasses. He can take the simple materials provided to us and use them to create anything the mind can imagine.

The repairman has the mystical gift to undo any damage done to an inanimate object. With a wave of his almighty wrench he can effortlessly and instantaneously rejuvenate anything to exactly as new condition.

The chef has made a blood pact with the gods of bounty and nature and can summon food out of thin air just by willing it.

They are the very conquerors of the material world and only bow down to the absolute greatness present in the desires of the Others. Remember: a single man does not have this power. It is only by the unification of many that it manifests itself.

So next time you or someone you know has a terminal illness, a currently unanswerable question, a totaled car, or an order for a menu item that is no longer available, MAKE A SCENE AND WIELD THE CELESTIAL POWER OF GODS!

SEX. DIRTY DIRTY SEX.

I hated her. I hated her so much. Even as I tore off the tight clothes from her lithe young body. Even as I lifted her up onto the sink in this tiny bar bathroom. I can't stop thinking about the horrible pain she's caused me, all the evil she's done. I hate her even as her perfectly shaped breasts press into my bare chest; her fingers undoing my pants with knowing familiarity. How dare she do this after all that's happened? How dare she control me like this, revealing just how weak I truly am? Fuck her! But still... my lips are on her neck. She slips her slender fingers in and out of her mouth. Wraps them around my throbbing cock. I want to hit her but instead push myself deep inside her, pumping hard, harder than I should, and she lets out a little squeal with each thrust. I fuck violently, angrily. I want to punish her. I want this to hurt. Yet, she only screams for more. She is insatiable. I despise her lusts. I grab her hair, I choke her, but she only wants more. She always wants more. My heart is beating wildly and I'm harder than I can ever remember being. I'll finish soon and be done with her forever. Sensing I might come soon, she bites down hard on my neck. "Harder!" I grunt. I feel her teeth digging into me. I thrust even harder. I hate her so much. Rage floods through my entire body. I thrust even harder, even faster.

I want to stop. I want to pry my hands from her smooth body and walk out. I want to leave her begging and alone. This girl ruined my life. This bitch took everything I had and left me without a word... but I don't. Her teeth pierce my skin. I feel hot blood trickling down my shoulder. Her nails dig into my back. This pain is perfect. She is perfect. I love her and I will love her for as long as I live. I want to run away with her, marry her. But I know how this will end.

We climax, sharing a moment of pure ecstasy. Everything is bright and beautiful. We fall softly into each other's arms. We kiss passionately. In this moment, she is mine, but only in this moment. We put our clothes back on in silence. Cold sobriety rushes over us. When I have finished dressing, I walk out of the bathroom without so much as a glance in her direction. I hate myself for having done this. I hate that I love her.

Back in the bar, I feel ashamed of what I've done. I head out the front doors and into the cool, dark street. I pause at my car. What a fucking fool I am! I hear a small voice come from behind me as I open the car door. "Wait." it says. I turn around and I see her, electric and beautiful. I focus on my facial expression, trying to keep it angry. I fight with myself to stay where I am when all I want to do is run to her and hold her in my arms one last time. "WHAT?!" I bark out. She looks meekly up at me. I see tears welling up in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she says. "Please don't hate me."

Challenge Me

I like the strange. I like the bizarre. I like the anomalies. I like to be tricked, and to be fooled. I like tricks of the eye. I like duality in words. I like to be shamed, fooled, bested, outsmarted, outdone. I like to be taught. I like to be shown. I like to be enlightened. I like to be embarrassed.

I seek these things out. I want to know there is more than what I have already achieved, to what I have already thought. I want my mind to be changed. I want to be humbled. I want to feel insignificant and uneducated. I NEED it.

I need to feel unprepared and unlearned. I need my weaknesses to be shown. I need this so I can destroy them, so I can utterly eradicate all traces of their existence. Show me where I'm wrong. Show me what I don't know. Prove to me I still have far to go.

I can't stand to feel superior. I can't stand to feel more capable and more intelligent than all those around me. There must be someone better than me. There must! I need it. I need it to motivate and inspire me. None of this is fun without a challenge. None of this is worth it without a peer.

Show me how you're better than me,
then try your best to keep it that way.

I won't make it easy.

Conversations with a space heater

We've been together for 8 years now. You've seen my trials and tribulations. You know me better than anyone. For the first time in my life, I need advice. I'm at a crossroads and I don't know which path to take. On one side, I'll be miserable and depressed almost constantly. I'd be ridiculed and tormented. It could possibly destroy me. But at the same time, there are those few fleeting moments in which I feel truly alive. In those moments I understand what life is all about, why we're here, and everything makes sense. It's total life engulfing bliss and happiness.

On the other hand, I can have a normal life, without all the suffering. We can grow old together, stay faithful, have a house and children, and never stray. But it seems so fake, so foreign, so boring. Instead of the thrill and purpose, it's a peaceful, mellow contentment. Even so, I'd be glad to have it.

What should I do? Please, help me. You're my oldest friend. You've always been there for me. Well, what do you have to say?



Oh


I forgot

You're a space heater.