-Patton Oswald, Feeling Kinda' Patton.

A blurry mix of bad cover tunes and melodromatic memories.  People and events swirl around me like fat kids caught at a tidal pool.  At the water park.  Where the fat kids don't shiver, because of all that fuckin' blubber.

So much sits and stares me in the face, like what I desire is both unattainable, and mine at the same time.  Like wanting a particular watch, or a piece of jewlery, then realizing you had it in your pocket all the time.  My brother told me through numerology, that the thing I'm supposed to work on while I'm killing time on this sphere is to be creative.  To work on my creativity, and be a creative person. 

I'm trying to work on that.

When I used to do LSD frequently, and it was my friend, before the acid would groove down hard, make you clench your jaw and think mad thoughts, sometimes I would leave messages on my answering machine for myself.  Then later on I'd stand in stymied arrythmia of life, wondering who in the FUCK had the GALL to call me at such an hour and leave a message.  It could be anyone.  Corral the tangents of thought and THINK, man.  Bastards be damned, they're out to get me.  This could be the harbinger of doom that I've been waiting for ALL THIS TIME.

"Hey arg, its me.  Keep it together, man.  Good luck."

I stopped doing it, not because of the incessant narcisissm that such an indulgent practice dictated, but rather, aside from the twisted fact that on some level, I was clearly fucking with myself, playing mind games with myself, because I knew of the mad intensity of the trip, I knew that I would forget much of what happened that day before the trip, because its very much like waking up from a bad dream, finding the acid, the clarity of mad thought at fantastic speeds, of dexterity and skill, strange warped confidence and visions. The shaman in the hut, revealing to the TRIBE.  I could outhink anyone.  And anything that came before that electric bliss was irrelevant.  It would seem to have happened weeks, months ago, now, not mere hours.

BUT.

What was with this 'good luck' bullshit?  Do I need luck?  Is this symptomatic of some weakness?  Did I actually think I was some weak willed prick who NEEDED good luck?  Like a bullfighter going out into the ring of modern life about to get his ass stomped by the bull?  It spoke of weakness, and I ended the practice.  Besides, no need to fuck with myself.  Real life is twisted enough.

And truthfully, I appreciate that now.  Weirdness abounds, and you really don't need to spend five dollars (or twenty, if you're into the X these days), to find it.

I had a strange dream last night.  They could not elect a pope, and it was announced in the papers that there were no suitable candidates.  And that I was the only person alive who was qualified.

I lived in the original house that I grew up in, in the country.  Which I left, to go to a ancient bar in the desert, where the original bar was actually carved of sandstone, and buried beneath the sand. 

As I uncovered the original bar by digging out the dry, dusty sand, a patron read from the paper to me.  A biker gang, a gang of rebels was coming across the desert to murder me, so as to further spread chaos and discord across the land.

In a flash, I saw them spread out across the desert, roaring in their choppers and hogs, dressed in black, with clubs and knives, waiting for the kill.

I waited at the bar, digging it out, shoring it up.

I was unafraid.