simple math

Trig was breathless.  He’d just gotten off of his future-elliptical, an exercise that his family practitioner had suggested, the idea behind it being that the cardiovascular activity may decrease the risks to his health his malformed heart had laid at his feet, some 17 years ago.

The year was 2025, and he was still living at home, with the She who had brought him into this world: kicking, drooling, and rubbing shit in his hair.   Things were different in his mind, though.  He couldn’t control the way he behaved, the way he looked, the way his tongue rubbed against the roof of his mouth, or the way his mother sighed daily.  If it was up to Trig, he would’ve been the rugged mountain man his sainted mother had dreamed of producing, but it just wasn’t meant to be.  So it goes, c’est la vie.

His assistant helped him to the couch, and removed his working out sweat-shorts and diaper.  Trig admired his own body in the full-length mirror.    His stout, short torso was a masterwork by the most ancient of artists, our Lord Jesus Christ the Savior.  His stubby, thick arms travel downward, to his delighted penis.

“Unghfffom!  Fuhlk! Waaaaa~~”, he chortled, gnarled teeth gnashing together, grinding with pleasure.  “No, no, Trig!  What would your mother say about this!” tch-tch’d his assistant, shaking his head.  Trig allowed his mind to wander, as far as it could wander, to thoughts of his mother.  “Mmmeeoorrr…” he considered, dreamily allowing his head to slip down to his barrel-chest.  He drifted.

She comes into the room, dressed in her 1984 Miss Alaska pageant swimsuit.  It’s a wonder she can still fit into it, only draping around the breasts, their fullness depleted by eighteen years of breast feeding.  “Trig, it’s time for lunch,” she called, that sly lilt in her voice that meant it was going to be a fun evening.

She had prepared her breasts by massaging them with the dripped oil from last night’s moose based dinner.  Trig prefers the taste of the meat, rather than the musky taste of his mother’s milk.    She unzips the custom breast flaps on the swimsuit.

Her pendulous bosoms are inviting, soft and downy.   Trig smiles to himself, coyly pawing at his junk.

His teeth gnash against his tongue, and he mouth-mounts his mother’s breast.  He begins suckling, and she moans softly.   The blinds draw closed, as if by magic.  The curtain closes.  We’re left to wonder, as is Trig, what goes on from here.

He is wiped.

ultra mork

ugh I am bored.  UGH. ULTRAUGH.

I’ve got so little going on, it is sick.  All my ”””creative energy””” just goes into laughing alone in my room, long into the night.  I try to mask the scent of my mind’s stasis by buying tons of fragrance oil.  I’m just some old-timey Yiddish folklore character, molded from organic material into a parody of the human frame, existing only to absorb.  Whatevs, brah.  I don’t have any particular interests outside of schadenfreude, so my choice of hobbies is rather limited.  Making purchases is a classic, but you need money for that, I guess.   I had an interview with Kroger, but they filled the positions with older people, people who actually have a mortgage and important reasons to bring home a paycheck.  I don’t begrudge them their choices, after all, I don’t even have any work experience.  They’re unionized and everything, it’s better that the job goes to someone who needs it.

Maybe I’ll try Walmart, but it would certainly feel dirty working there.  Dirty in all possible ways.

I saw Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds earlier this week.  It was awesome, but the friend I took with me was kind of a wet blanket.  She had not ever listened to them, and I did not burn her a CD or send her some MP3s, or anything; but she still could’ve pretended to enjoy herself, haha.  It was incredibly great, even still.  I hope to see them again before I die or they break up.

Ho hum, baked cookies.  Coconut chocolate chip, I suppose.  Gave most of them to my mom, to take up to my grandmother, who is probably not long for this world.  I guess I’d just rather not think about that.  The chemo has done well so far, her cancerous growth has physically shrunk, you can feel that it’s gone down, and she hasn’t lost any hair.  Even still, it’s lung cancer, and the survival rate for the stage she’s at is less than 5 years, even with the best treatment responses.  Dying is a natural fact, at least with her we’ll have time to accept it.

I haven’t applied for any schools, and it’s been probably a year-and-a-half at least, since I graduated.  I’m just not in a big hurry to do anything, even now.  It’s a commitment thing, maybe.  I’d have to dedicate myself to school, I’d have to dedicate myself to work.  Just like I never really much cared for close friendships; too much dedication expected out of me.  It would be nice sometime, to find someone or something that rouses passion in me, or at least, encourages me to commit to it.  Sometimes- I would think that I had found such a thing, but the quickness with which it was abandoned and forgotten shows that it was just a passing interest.

I have the house to myself a lot these days, which is very nice.  I have always loved to be alone, it just feels so good to only have obligations to yourself.  I sound so Gen-X!  My generation is too interested in things, when it feels so much better to just let yourself go without stimulus.

The Vice Presidential Debate either just ended, or is about to end.  I’m not watching it, I’ll read/find highlights later tonight.  So much now, any amount of politics just boils my blood.  Well, I guess that IS something that piques my passion, gets the old mercury running.  It just makes me too angry to be a workable, long-term focus.  I only ever seem to experience passionate rage, I never feel deliriously happy or whatever other things people want to see me express.  I’m either angry, amused, or I’m bored.

The activities that encourage other responses I’m either forced to abandon, or I get completely tired of in a matter of months.   If it goes on longer than that, odds are good whoever else might have been interested in it has gotten completely over it.  Such is such is such is such is such.

So I guess I’ll just keep laughing at people worse off than me, and trying to find some menial job, until I finally get so tired of everything I apply for classes down to the local college.