We’re in an upscale
mental health facility. A young man, white in the face sits talking. Listening
attentively with a clip-board and his case-file is a board certified,
ivy-leauge educated, cognitive-behavioral-neruo-psychologist. She was in her
early 40’s of a mixed race, but still a dark skinned Caribbean woman. She was
wearing glasses, a laboratory jacket, and gold earrings.
The man began,
“Doctor you’ve got to believe me when I say I have truly never before been
so subjugated in will and hollowed by the vapidity of my own tonal
obliteration. I’ve been weakened by this meaningless struggle to prevent the
true chromatic elements of myself from coagulating into a solid shade of
averaged hue. I luminescent grey.”
“You fear
blandness in personality, in character, in cognizance, in intelligence, in
spirit,” the doctor questioned, “which is it?”
The young man
wrestled his hands through his hair like tangled Olympians, the Greek pillars
of white marbled knowledge, statues of gods with heads sized larger than a
humans, cracked under the pressure of his agitation.
“I can’t think
Doctor, my mind is warped by tangential histories of hologrammed eras, parallel
identical symmetry, ‘yrtsymystry’ ” the young man coughed out. He was
still rambling, “I know we live in a continuum of conspiracies, current events
are manufactured and rerecorded. I know that a treaty was signed between
Germany , England, Russia, and the US. The Deutchlanders would allow Hitler to
die, and the West and East would allow fascism to flourish. I know that that
treaty still tears through the minds of men who lead today. That it is signed
in knife strokes, in blood and gold, and uranium.”
The doctor was
unmoved, she crossed her legs, shifted the weight on her ass and stopped
writing. “You have a very serious condition, I’m glad you came to me. It
seems that you are afflicted with too much comfort. You display the tendencies
of over educated, under worked,
liberally skeptic moral turpitude. A
direct result of an extremely high standard of living, paired with undue
amounts of leisure time, a debaucherous sense of self worth and unmerited
parental praise. Frankly you suffer from luxury.”
The young man, with
his head cocked, hand on chin, stared
infinitely into his rolling thoughts. He trembled at the enormity of the
vastness of which the real-universe poured into the cage he called his brain,
torn open by the piercing dart of the doctors diagnosis. “Listen lady, I’m
going to call you lady, partially because I have been threatened by the
closeness of the guillotine which I formerly pressed my neck against
voluntarily and now my observed ineptitude shatters all manners of social
respect which were maintained by my former personality-hood. My ego lies
exposed as a raging wounded prick, foaming with curdled puss and selfish
discoloration. So lady, please tell me,
what the hell am I supposed to do about it?”
The doctor folding a
page in her prescription pad, tore a single signed sheet and handed it to the
man. “I left the first line blank, it’s good for a couple of refills, and
has my signature. Just fill in whatever it is you think will make you happy.
Then take that piece of paper to any pharmacy and purchase your antidote.”
“How is this
supposed to help me?” The young man took his prescription and placed it in
his wallet.
“It won’t, but
to tell you the truth; I’ve got the same fucking problem and I got
grandchildren to feed. The Earth ain’t an infernal hell hole everyday, if you can afford it. Now go talk
to my secretary, I’ll need to see you again in six weeks.”
The whole guttered
race is bound to catch a strong rain eventually.
—–
Six
weeks had passed.
The young man had
bought a crossbow with his prescription. Started hunting wife-beaters, and
rapists, and Republicans. As he sat again in the upscale mental health
facility, he was eager to tell the doctor of his new grand philosophy, the
brilliant light which now lit his life.
The doctor sat down,
“please begin.”
“Well the
absolute grand awakening has finally occurred, transcendence emerges when the
medium that is of that which becomes always has been fully realized.” He
was animated and motioning wildly.
“Let me stop
you right there.” The doctor checked the time on her watch without looking
up from her pen. “You seem to have progressed since our last meeting, lets
adjust your prescription.” The doctor walked to her desk and brought the
young man an IPAD. She took his crossbow and placed it in the closet.
“You have
reached the point where your recovery has become exceptionally productive. You
need a Tumblr. I’m crowd-sourcing your group therapy. Your specific case of
mental instability is validated daily, by the number of hits your website gets.
If you say as you do what you think that you are while being heard by enough
people who concur, why then you’re not insane at all, just popular. Please see
my secretary, you’ll need a follow-up in six weeks.”
The young man was
upvoted by the time he reached the parking lot. He praised his epic destiny,
unscarred by his failproof resolve, he grew bold. He cried out in a tweet,
“Is it really trolling if it makes the ladies swoon?” He attached a
twitpic of his dick to every reply in #RelationshipTrouble. He was a creature
of the new universe. He informationed like a super user, knew the deets to
every dox, and distro’d every repo.
Yet he did not dream
because he did not sleep. And this unbroken stream of consciousness,
trademarked “if you can really call it that”, spewed character
strings until the final day. When natural reality came piercing back, like a
hungry mans hands around your fat neck, a murderous hunger chokes your gasping
breath, and prevents your last words from being uploaded to the…
____________________.