“I hate shitting on acid.” 

Dale muttered as he waddled into the club bathroom. Some sick guitar burped as Dale reflected on his dinner: one double cheeseburger and three tall cans of malt liquor. Sorta like breakfast, he thought. 
Dropping his trousers, Dale considered his fear of being covered in shit. He always made sure to do a thorough job wiping. 

The acid hit him between the eyes and followed with a punch to the gut. His bowels evacuated in a sickly and forced fashion. The bathroom was covered in a fog of methane and partially digested beef.

 He could no longer correctly register the lighting. All focus went to his ass. Anything shaded seemed to be shit-stained: the toilet bowl cast a shit-shadow on his calf so he began furiously wiping his leg with toilet paper. Now his hands looked dirty. He sniffed his greasy fingers; it was hard to discern where the awful smell was coming from. He peeled a wedge of tp from the roll and tried to get himself clean. 

His phone started ringing but he let it go to voicemail. Dale paused to consider his behavior. The little squares reminded him of mail. Mail reminded him of junk.

Organization if futile, he thought. Dale’s inbox has 11,891 unopened emails. It didn’t start out this way. His thoughts began to unravel in a direction of introspection.

Dale considers all the thoughts he has neglected; the horribly honest observations he couldn’t bear to hear in his own head: my heartburn is killing me, the chemicals I work with are killing me, the black mold in my apartment is inside my nervous system, my dick is dying, my girlfriend is trying to kill me. He observes the sheer volume of neglected wordstuff until his butthole quivers; then he shrugs it off and continues wiping himself. 

Dale muses into the toilet. Messy is chaotic. Chaos means fun. The universe is chaotic and organization is futile. Everything goes to shit. 

Dale works as a subcontractor. He hasn’t filed taxes going on three years and only showers twice a week. Instead of using soap, he cut the middle man and uses Palmolive because it’s easy on the skin. He remembers seeing ads for Dawn being used to wash petroleum off of seagulls. Dale likes seagulls.

His phone rang a second time, and fearing the wrath of his girlfriend, he fished around in the pocket near his ankles. By pure reflex, he unlocked the cell phone and answered to his girlfriend.

“Hey babe.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m takin a shit at Cat’s.”

“Why do you sound high? You’re always high when you go to Cat’s. You better not come home disgusting again. You’re gonna get the baby sick.”

“Yeh. I won’t. I’m just seein’ Dave about my pay. We’re gonna shoot a couple games an’ I’ll be home.”

“Alright, jus’ don’t cause any shit while you’re down there. I got enough on my hands with this baby here.”

“Mmm, you know jus’ what to say. I’m gonna come home and put some baby powder in that dirty mouth.”


“I’m gonna strip you down and wash you with baby powder, make ya all smooth.”

“You sure you’re not high?”


“Just come home soon, alright?”

“Yeh; I luh yew.”

He put the phone on the top of the tp dispenser. It was covered in shit. Everything was covered in shit. He took his clothes off and threw them over the next stall.

“What the fuck?!” Some young man yelled.

“Keep ‘em. They’re covered in shit.”

“The fuck you mean?!”

Dale stepped out of his stall and looked at his shit-covered hands,

“This whole place smells like shit.”

The man in the next stall stepped out, tp on the bottom of his shoe. He was drunken and had a faint ring of white under one nostril. He looked angry.

“You fuckin’ pervert!” he hollered at Dale and popped him in the jaw.

Dale stumbled back into the sink.

“I’m covered in shit.” He mumbled.

“You need fuckin’ help, man.” The young man spit on Dale and walked out of the bathroom.

Dale didn’t even feel like crying. He walked out of the bathroom, naked. Everything was dark. Dale took a pile of napkins from the bar and began wiping himself off. A bouncer took him by one arm and escorted him outside.

“You’re all shit.” He hollered as he was ejected into the cool night air. 

Out in the streets, everyone looked at him and then past him; alternately amused and embarrassed. Dale held his hands high and prayed for the skies to rain whiskey and clean up this shitty town.

The club security had notified the police. They came fast and grabbed Dale’s arm. They asked him if he was drunk, if he had taken any drugs, why his face was bloody, who he had fought. 

Dale kept muttering,

“This is all shit. This is all shit…”

They wheeled him off, naked. At the station they handed him a smock and a cell where he could detox alone. He wouldn’t give them a name, so they called him “John Shit”.

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Anti-Apathy #67:

It’s not that I don’t care. I care.
But I don’t really care much about not caring.
And I don’t care about caring, either.
I try to exercise an acceptable level of caring
so you don’t care too much about me not caring.

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Facebook Breakup?

“Shut up, FACEBOOK!!!” hollered Jon D Rapp


“Fuck you, JRAPP.” Facebook replied.


“This is going nowhere.” Jon said with a cynical grin.


Together they were growing stale like store-brand corn flakes exposed to tropical humidity for a week. Their relationship was low-viscosity, like breakfast cereal eaten with water instead of whole milk. Stalemate.


Jon passed his Social Media moments by destroying his own hollow philosophies along with what he saw as the misguided philosophies of others. It was a cheap and petty thrill. It made him feel empty in a good, redemptive sort of way. He secretly hoped that someone would come along and cut him to pieces with the sword of correct discernment and constructive criticism.


When Jon wasn’t shredding through ideas, he would spend time bashing his peace apart with old junkie war-stories. He liked to show off scars but he would eventually look back on his output with a strong feeling of self-denial. He was a drama queen.


Facebook spent her time recreating moments into events; she had a knack for making life appear to be much more awesome than it really was. This paved the way for all sorts of jealousy, anger, envy, and other misguided states of emotional experience. She could be a real wench. A wench can be a tool, but it can also be a derogatory feminine term. She was both.

Jon used to be a misogynist; he had comprised his perpetual discontent into two types of blame: the kind that blames parents and the kind that blames self. Most of all, he blamed his mother and all women, for this co-created dis-ease. Maybe it was because he’d never been breast-fed. Perhaps he simply adopted the cynical view of femininity that had been passed down from father to son for generations. Like a jaded old blues player, he blamed women for the pain that he himself designed. Like most average men, Jon could only see objects of attraction instead of counterparts for completion. Jon was simply afraid to be caught vulnerable.

Facebook met Jon after he completed high school. He felt the need to connect on different levels, and thus set himself out to explore the world of tagging photographs and sharing memes. She gave him reinforcement & recognition he needed. For a while, he felt that he’d convinced the outer world that he was indeed handsome and not a moron. In good time, this veil would be uncovered. In a world that gave very few fucks, he would find himself giving far too many on Facebook. They wasted hours together.


To a culture built upon a sense of physical tangibility, the internet is no more real than the thoughts in our heads. Nobody really cares or listens.


For Jon, there was always some uncomfortability factor that presented itself in moving life. He never felt worthy of his own body, thus he set out to modify both his mind and his social standing. Facebook could help with one piece of this puzzle.

A self-declared “armchair shaman”, Jon explored a diverse range of altered states through chemical experimentation. He grew strangely bound by a hypocritical oath; his assumed role of psychedelic physician would lead him largely astray. His intentions became muddled and he was wrapped up in a consumer-driven counter-culture that parallels the very society he initially felt so alienated from. For the hip crowd, peace and love can be bought and sold.


Tiring of his tongue-lick-cheek antics, Facebook employed the NSA to keep track of everyone, everywhere. A natural-born paranoid, Jon would curb his stories to keep himself free of self-incriminating details. His girl had gone federal and he had gone underground. The spiral staircase of his mind began to crumble under anxiety. Xanax and whiskey did not help.


Now more than ever, Jon felt it was time to break it off with Facebook. With a head full of nonsense and no true outlet to receive & relieve him, Jon realized that ranting to Facebook would never fill that lonely place between his teeth. He accepted that his social avatar was no more substantial than the dirt upon his feet.


With this newfound understanding, Jon began journaling and expressing himself by writing narcissistic letters of himself, to himself, by himself. This self-absorbed practice grew tiresome. One day, Jon had a burning sensation crawl up his spine. It was the voice that told him his identity didn’t matter; the voice that made him convinced of his irrelevance to the universe at large. Jon began to turn his sword inward. In a culture that is image-driven, the man who destroys his self-image becomes liberated. To this end, Jon became his own voodoo doll.


Lingering by the doorway of his own self-perception, the man-child felt wind come rattling through the screen door of his ego. Blown wide open, he tasted fair-weather upon his tongue; he would reflect his inner mirror outward and share this inside understanding for the sake of his own map should he ever get lost again.


Knowing that he is an outward physical expression of the phenomenal universe, Jon saw Facebook as a layer of human reflection. Not needing to acknowledge himself beyond the social context, Jon’s identity of self seemed to separate and fall onto the floor like a bathrobe untied. Some naked body stood in the doorway, a ghostly skeleton of what used to walk & talk.

Today, you can here his teeth chattering to the rhythm of butterflies. Some dance while some get dizzy.

Jon sat down with Facebook to reflect on what he had just felt.


“That was a trite self-indulgent, don’t you think?” Facebook sneered.


“Well yes, but I’ll burn this one after writing it.” Jon plainly stated.


“If you share it, it cannot be burned.” She reminded him.


“I know, bitch. We find harmony in exposing our weaknesses. I find grace within vulnerability. I am full of my own shit and here is another testament to that sentiment.” Jon confessed.


Facebook took a long sigh and told Jon the truth for once,
“You know this whole thing; all of this is for you. You are the one who abuses it. You are the one who inflates your own ego. You are the one who convinces yourself of some substantiated outside existence. I merely act as a medium; a platform upon which you build. It is up to you to represent yourself. I am a mirror. If you cannot handle me, then break me loose.”


Jon pondered her words awhile, considering all of the ads, the ignorance, the spying, and the selling out. He realized that everyone is chasing the same thing; they are running away from their deaths meanwhile ensuring the safety of their lives (at all costs). Whether they wish to control resources or mediate social statuses, the battle for control wages on. Jon finds himself smack in the middle.


Self-control does not exist beyond the self. Control does not exist beyond concepts of ownership.

What can we really hold? What do we really own?


He found himself coming back for more. He couldn’t help but continue wondering,
“What is this?”


Like many others, Jon has sophomoric tendencies. He is an educated fool. He falls into his own folly and files it away under “ailments”. Always seeking a cure, this sick boy-man will engineer his own to share. You can find it on your news feed somedays.

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Paranoia Problems #33

Smart phones have microphones.
Do they ever stop recording?
The NSA tracks everything I’ve ever entered here.
Does anyone look at it?

I speak in favor of nature.
I speak of disgust in human politics.
Could this perspective be misconstrued as radicalized anarchist doctrine?
When I think I’m saying serious things,
is somebody listening and laughing?

Oh, right.
Free speech.
I get it now.
If I were in Russia or China,
I’d be in an internment camp undergoing a process of ideological cleansing
(brain washing)
to put my half-assed apolitical ramblings under wraps.

I must enjoy the passive variety of soap
over the aggressive variety of soap.

Mainstream media is the sponge,
politics are hot water,
civilized society is a giant human bird bath.

Surf’s up everybody.

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What is a Fear of Heights?

Gee whiz America, when did we become such a buncha pussies?
It’s really not that dangerous if you remember that your feet are on the ground.
Don’t go far when it downpours. Don’t ford the river if it’s flooding. Common sense.
The farther we get from nature, the less we are able to boldly walk its trails…
there was a time when trail etiquette must have been properly observed, like the road etiquette. Most conscious and careful drivers use turn signals, give plenty of room for others to maneuver, and keep their focus on their surroundings.
Attentive hikers are no different. They allow plenty of space and passing room for fast-lane travelers.

On most trails, it’s common to find a bunch of folks “on vacation” a.k.a mentally “checked out”. They don’t even notice me huffing and puffing with 50lbs on my back, trying to pass them.

I admit, on some of the hotter days it is difficult for me not to get “trail rage” when cutting through the cattle herd of human traffic to get where I’m going. Hikers jam up the way to apply sunblock, take pictures, admire the view.
There is nothing wrong with this, but it’s important to remember to keep the way clear! Pull off on the shoulder and take it all in; merge back into traffic when it’s time!

That’s my rant.
I must remember that we are all here for different reasons; we all have different motives and intentions for the hikes. Some people need gentle reminders while others need to follow the path of the lemming…

Judgmental? Yes. Harsh? Probably.
When I hike, I’ve got the speed needle buried (not a meth euphemism, I promise) as my Chevrolegs crank down the narrow way with a freight load on my back.
I’m clumsy; I fall, I tumble, I roll. But I go with good faith knowing I will get there.
All blood I spill, I make into an offering.
May the Gods of the Trail get us to our homes.

Here’s some amusing articles that inspire fear & ignorance.
What is a fear of heights? Where does it come from?

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Temptation! Redemption! Bah…

Hello, my name is…
shit, forget what my name is;
it doesn’t matter.
My name is my name
and I am an addict.

It doesn’t really matter what I’m addicted to.
I’m not here to shock and awe you (today)
But, I am here for *you*
rather, for *your* benefit of knowledge through my madness and unfolding experiences of working my own recovery program and finding the solutions I need to survive and evolve.
Consider this an addition to the lore of junkie literature… if you can even call it that.

“Experience strength and hope”…

I’ve been conditioned through “the program”
to believe that a day without “using”
is a day I survived, succeeded, and usurped my devious “addict mind”
which is “true” in the relative sense. As addicts, we all agreed upon this notion and made it into a convention. But I don’t buy it anymore. I am hooked on nicotine, sugar, and melancholy, to name a few. My point is: my “addict brain” is still alive and I find myself without complete peace.

If Bill W. asked for Whiskey on his death bed, is there any complete relief available to the recovering addict? I believe it exists, no doubt, but there *has* to be a better way than wait it out in a church basement for 30 years until death passively removes you.

If some part of my deep-seated soul is still white-knuckling the wheel, are the 12 steps to be considered a “successful program”?

Comparative quality of life is much different from comprehensive quality of life.
I don’t want “my worst day clean is better than my best day using”. To me, that is utter bullshit.
In this notion, the 12 Steps have failed me, and Bill. Ultimately.
If I cannot lead a completely unburdened existence, than I would rather die with a needle in my arm than die of coffee-related stomach-ulcers.
Call me a lunatic or a coward,
and I’ll throw it right back at you. We are not so different, you and I.
Foolish and made of flesh, we both are.

I made it out here to bring a message of… hope?
No, no, not much hope here.
Plenty of rope, I’m spinning.

Unless you consider my more recent success,
“surviving impending death, for today”
but that’s every day. Every. Motherfucking. Day.
I don’t mean to make things sound tedious, banal, or regrettable.
Life is spectacular. I feel healthy and free- comparative & relative to my addict lifestyle.
When I realize how good it could be, if I just “figured it out” and “unlocked the deep mind”,
I am prevaded and nearly betrayed by an overwhelming sense of doubt…
even on the happiest of days,
I cannot deny myself a certain level of constant and misanthropy.
I despise my human form.
I despise yours, too.
(don’t worry, I’m getting to the love part. First- hate… *sigh* dualism is so drab)
For all the good humanity has done the world,
I wish nothing but swift justice brought forth upon us.
Bring on the plagues, the terror, the disaster, the chaos.
We sure fucking do deserve it, if you ask me.
And you didn’t ask me.
Nobody did. So I am telling. And I don’t care if nobody hears it.

I don’t feel this way every moment, of course. My mood is in flux; I get it all, all colors and all channels, clear as day and my antennae are as receptive as ever. Sensitive soul, I feel.
I find it easier to write about the things that irritate, upset, and depress me,
but I also enjoy writing to uplift, motivate, and inspire.
But, today, I have been doing more crying than laughing.
Through writing about my tragic-comedy, I am able to transmute negative sensations into neutral sensations (and positive sensation into neutral) through the chemistry of clear understanding.
One-pointed mind. That’s all I need. The razor’s edge.
Closer every day, yet my feet are still bloody.

I love me. I love you.
I look in the mirror and say,
“damn, I’m beautiful”
I see you and say,
“look at you beautiful people”
There is plenty of love alongside my inner turmoil.
They balance each other out.
Every day I survive one more.
So there.
There’s your dash of hope.

I’m here to address an illness of my own ideology
one verse at a time…
call me a philosophical physician
(or a masochistic martyr)

My negative symptoms have become clear-
unhealthy desire/attachment

What am I addicted to today?
I am addicted to wandering lust; between the want to travel to the farthest reaches known to no man, and the desire to marry every beautiful girl I catch the eyes of.
I want it all and I want nothing.
I am here and I am there.
I want enlightenment and I want annihilation.
I am uncomfortable, yet I am in a state of pure relaxation.
I am dancing the balance of imbalance.

So the next question comes…
what does one do with such a basket(case) full of problems?
The same thing I’ve always done,
pursue an *intense* re-awakening via consciousness modification. Pure evolution.
I have dozed off, accidentally, and I find myself needing a bucket of water dropped upon my head.

There are several ways to achieve this state:
There are mind-altering chemicals.
I’ve tried a lot of them in high doses. Alas, they are no sacrament of mine.
They are the manual to a tedious, complex vehicle.
I have learned a lot by reading the manual, but it hasn’t made me a much better driver.
Instead, I will go straight to the source: meditation, communion with the higher self.

My inspiration for this?
Certain wisdom traditions incorporate methods of meditation, isolation, and fasting into their build-up before receiving revelations and epiphanies.

Jesus went out to the woods for 40 days.
Who knows what he truly saw,
but his reports were nothing short of inspirational.

Messiah complex? Me? Oh God, no; no thank you.
I don’t care if the sheep find their salvation or their slaughter…
well, that’s a lie, I do *care*
but I’m not going to intervene more than I have to.
Instead of putting these animals into my pasture, I’d rather let them live in the greater pasture:
the mad world and all it’s tough love.
I want the world to heal itself.
I could care less if humanity is around for the process.

That being writ,
I have no intentions of becoming a Saint,
no illusions of turning into a messiah,
and no ambition to found a religion or a cult.

The “devil” beats man over the head with his own truths,
wrapped in the barbed wire of institution.
Institutionalized truth has really fucked our lives up.
Let’s tear down the wall already, c’mon people!
Where are the mystery schools? Why so many secrets?

I won’t ever try to contain my highest messages in a bottle, a church, a notebook, a blog.
I will merely express my experience through the channels I understand; language is one of them.
But, I am after the truths that cannot be talked about; they must be lived.
I have nailed my terms to the Lord’s door, I have edited and reposed many times,
honestly, I’ve been such a bother to the Lord that I am surprised Zeus himself hasn’t dropped a barrel full of lightning bolts on my head.
The Lord?

These are just silly little words I use to evoke an understanding. Don’t let the language turn you off. I subscribe to no particular religion. I sit within them all and observe their wisdom & their folly, alike. I am no better- I am wise; I am fool. I watch… listen… wait.

So now, I reveal the vision I had this morning,
of Christ telling his disciples to head off into the wilderness to commune with the divine,
bringing nothing with them but a walking stick and sandals.
I am inspired by this challenge to do the same.
I am logging my sickness and symptoms today

Tomorrow I will leave on a mission to find the divine.
I haven’t eaten any potent medicine in several months, and I intend to maintain that trend. I don’t need the manual to the vehicle.
The Holy Books have nothing to offer my direct experience.
Drugs are a fallacy.
The only chemicals I need are oxygen and h2o.
Anything more is a desire-fueled cop-out.

That’s right, acid-gurus and ayahuasca shamans- I am callin’ you out!
Your experiences and your medicine are relevant to a specific body of truth & knowledge & healing, yet Ultimate truth is free and sustainable, of itself.
It needs no additive. Any medicine man claiming to be a disciple of God and attempts to preach the Holy Word is, in my outspoken opinion, full of their own shit.

I am tired of living amongst the dregs of the chemically & metaphysically dependent.
All you so-called warriors and seekers are nothing without your medicine pouches.
This is a message for myself just as much as it is for any other true seekers.
I am tired of my own dependencies. I am calling them out into the air.

I implore you to consider the meeting between Ram Dass and his guru.
All of us “psychonauts” know the tale, how Ram Dass fed the guru many, many mics of White Lightning, and the guru never got high because he was already high. What really happened there? What did the guru really see?
I will be meditating on this meeting, consulting the Akashic records as they become available.
Spooky, witchdoctor voodoo…
I’m here to blow the smoke away, to dispel the mirage, to diffuse the illusion of “mysticism” and “enlightenment” as I grow to understand it, myself.
I wish to turn “mystery” into “mundane” and “mystic” into “common”.
Open source all truths! Let the world run wild with them!

This won’t be relevant to anyone other than myself, at first.
Through processes of literary alchemy, I will attempt to transmute my lessons to a worthy form for all to enjoy. I’ll try to keep the obnoxious new-age words out of my dialogue when I return.

I will come back with a story.

For now,
I leave with an excerpt from the Tao Teh Ching, no doubt some translation was lost from Chinese>German>English, but I still quite enjoy the riddle,

“Give up learning, and put an end to your troubles.

Is there a difference between yes and no?
Is there a difference between good and evil?
Must I fear what others fear? What nonsence!
Other people are contented, enjoying the sacrificial feast of the ox.
In spring some go to the park, and climb the terrace,
But I alone am drifting not knowing where I am.
Like a new-born babe before it learns to smile,
I am alone, without a place to go.

Other have more than they need, but I alone have nothing.
I am a fool. Oh, yes! I am confused.
Other men are clear and bright,
But I alone am dim and weak.
Other men are sharp and clever,
But I alone am dull and stupid.
Oh, I drift like the waves of the sea.
Without direction, like the restless wind.

Everyone else is busy,
But I alone am aimless and depressed.
I am different.
I am nourished by the great mother.” -Lao Tzu

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