JakeD
10-06-02, 04:06PM
This is one I threw up a while back on the akpcep for those of you not IN THE KNOW) Anyways, here goes.
Evolution of Reality
Remember when you were young? Let's just say between the ages of 4-10. Those action figures, stuffed animals, whatever you owned weren't just mere objects. They were your escape. You'd spend hours playing war with your G.I. Joes, the girl next door was drinking tea with her dolls, everything was cool. Five years old...and one day, you're out in the yard, slaying dragons as usual, brandishing your sword in the faces of your adversaries like a modern-day knight when about that time, your parents tell you it's getting dark, you need to come inside, etc. So you walk back towards your kingdom with your trusty sword. Upon entering the door, your mother quips, "Honey, don't bring that nasty stick inside the house. It's probably got bugs and fungus and god-knows-what on it.” You look down at your hand, and clasped in your chivalrous grip is a moldy old stick. Not the shiny chrome sword you once wielded. The magic is gone. Part of your imagination is jolted.
Let's go a bit further. You're about 6-7 years old sitting in class. You look outside and the ground is coated in a fine, powdery foot of snow. Your teacher tells you to each get out a piece of paper, because you're all going to write letters to Santa Claus. You beam in excitement. You think, "Great!! I'll ask Santa for that new bike, or maybe a Nintendo or something." So you clap and holler along with a majority of the class while a young boy behind you mutters, "Santa's a load of crap." Horrified, you turn and face this disillusioned individual. He gives you a menacing grin. He's missing his front two teeth. He restates, "Santa's just something your parents told you to keep you amused. He's not real." You whisper back, "Really?" The kid replies, "Yeah. Come talk to me at recess." So you and him engage in a philosophical discussion about Santa Claus. You go home a little bit dejected and a little bit wiser, but your heart skips whenever your parents mention Santa to your little sister. Once again, the magic is gone.
These little experiences, these fleeting visions of enlightenment, become more common with age. You mature, begin to take interest in the opposite sex, hang out with your friends, and spend your parents' money. One day, they refuse to pay for you and tell you to get a job. You are angry at first, but then you begin to sympathize with them, as well as learn to budget and sometimes help out with the bills. Some of the innocence is gone, but you're all the wiser.
Once you hit the job market, you're set. You're making good money, you have a nice apartment, sporty car. You buy quirky, self-descriptive things to decorate your home. You have nice, brand-name clothes, and you come in every night to dinner, a few beers, and zone out on the TV or computer. You're on your own. One day at work, you walk in on a co-worker in the bathroom. He leaps as if terrified, and is snorting and sniffling furiously. He has a bit of white powder spilled on his dark-gray Polo tie, and his eyes are red and glazed. He offers you some..."Sure helps on these late hours." You accept, willingly. After about 15 minutes you become nervous and frantic. You scramble at everything you do and talk at an alarming speed. This drug is nothing like the joint you smoked before the senior prom, this stuff is like gasoline. You begin to hook up with your co-worker and coke buddy, "Brian". You now have something ELSE to spend your salary on. You have another vice. The innocence is gone, but you have new magic. You have nose-candy.
A year later, you find yourself in an uncontrollable downward spiral. You have a $5,000/mo. cocaine habit and are on the verge of losing your job. You can't keep a girlfriend. You quit your job, pack your things, trade in your sporty car for $15,000 cash and a $3,000 junker, and spend 10 of your $15,000 on coke. You rent a hotel room for a month.
All you need is just more...more....magic.
A month later, you're working for a shoddy remodeling company. You start drinking in the mornings with your alcoholic co-workers and get the jobs done slowly. You do shitty work and you retire to your hotel for a syringe full of heroin and a prostitute to shoot it up with you. And then you have unprotected sex with her, nightly. She's worried about the pus-filled sores that are beginning to form on her vagina. Your balls itch.
You go into a rage when you can't find a connection, and you're 2 weeks behind on paying the hotel bill. They're on the verge of kicking you out. But, you have the bottle.
The magic is fading.
A week after, you can't seem to make ends meet anymore. You lost your job, got kicked out of the hotel and wander around the streets babbling like a madman. It's been a week since you've shot up, but you can still follow a man down the alley and roll him for his wallet. However, not many rich people hang out in this area, and the most you've gotten is $20.00. No respectable drug dealer would sell 2 cc of his worst heroin for $20.00. So, you go buy a gallon of whiskey and a carton of cigarettes with your collective savings, and drown your sorrows. You vomit into a gutter, pass out and piss yourself on the sidewalk. The cops kick you out of the way under an awning. It'd be a waste of time for them to arrest you. You awake blurry-eyed, hocking up nasty, bloody wads of phlegm. You stink of the fermenting trash that you sleep in, and have developed a chronic, raspy cough. You start to talk to yourself more often and become unintelligible.
One day, you're following a black man down the alley. You run to tackle him and beat him senseless, but he is aware of you. He leaps forward as you sprawl to the ground in a half-drunken haze. He whips out a .357 Magnum from his jacket pocket and blows your brains onto the pavement.
The magic is gone.
:c: Jake D '2002
Evolution of Reality
Remember when you were young? Let's just say between the ages of 4-10. Those action figures, stuffed animals, whatever you owned weren't just mere objects. They were your escape. You'd spend hours playing war with your G.I. Joes, the girl next door was drinking tea with her dolls, everything was cool. Five years old...and one day, you're out in the yard, slaying dragons as usual, brandishing your sword in the faces of your adversaries like a modern-day knight when about that time, your parents tell you it's getting dark, you need to come inside, etc. So you walk back towards your kingdom with your trusty sword. Upon entering the door, your mother quips, "Honey, don't bring that nasty stick inside the house. It's probably got bugs and fungus and god-knows-what on it.” You look down at your hand, and clasped in your chivalrous grip is a moldy old stick. Not the shiny chrome sword you once wielded. The magic is gone. Part of your imagination is jolted.
Let's go a bit further. You're about 6-7 years old sitting in class. You look outside and the ground is coated in a fine, powdery foot of snow. Your teacher tells you to each get out a piece of paper, because you're all going to write letters to Santa Claus. You beam in excitement. You think, "Great!! I'll ask Santa for that new bike, or maybe a Nintendo or something." So you clap and holler along with a majority of the class while a young boy behind you mutters, "Santa's a load of crap." Horrified, you turn and face this disillusioned individual. He gives you a menacing grin. He's missing his front two teeth. He restates, "Santa's just something your parents told you to keep you amused. He's not real." You whisper back, "Really?" The kid replies, "Yeah. Come talk to me at recess." So you and him engage in a philosophical discussion about Santa Claus. You go home a little bit dejected and a little bit wiser, but your heart skips whenever your parents mention Santa to your little sister. Once again, the magic is gone.
These little experiences, these fleeting visions of enlightenment, become more common with age. You mature, begin to take interest in the opposite sex, hang out with your friends, and spend your parents' money. One day, they refuse to pay for you and tell you to get a job. You are angry at first, but then you begin to sympathize with them, as well as learn to budget and sometimes help out with the bills. Some of the innocence is gone, but you're all the wiser.
Once you hit the job market, you're set. You're making good money, you have a nice apartment, sporty car. You buy quirky, self-descriptive things to decorate your home. You have nice, brand-name clothes, and you come in every night to dinner, a few beers, and zone out on the TV or computer. You're on your own. One day at work, you walk in on a co-worker in the bathroom. He leaps as if terrified, and is snorting and sniffling furiously. He has a bit of white powder spilled on his dark-gray Polo tie, and his eyes are red and glazed. He offers you some..."Sure helps on these late hours." You accept, willingly. After about 15 minutes you become nervous and frantic. You scramble at everything you do and talk at an alarming speed. This drug is nothing like the joint you smoked before the senior prom, this stuff is like gasoline. You begin to hook up with your co-worker and coke buddy, "Brian". You now have something ELSE to spend your salary on. You have another vice. The innocence is gone, but you have new magic. You have nose-candy.
A year later, you find yourself in an uncontrollable downward spiral. You have a $5,000/mo. cocaine habit and are on the verge of losing your job. You can't keep a girlfriend. You quit your job, pack your things, trade in your sporty car for $15,000 cash and a $3,000 junker, and spend 10 of your $15,000 on coke. You rent a hotel room for a month.
All you need is just more...more....magic.
A month later, you're working for a shoddy remodeling company. You start drinking in the mornings with your alcoholic co-workers and get the jobs done slowly. You do shitty work and you retire to your hotel for a syringe full of heroin and a prostitute to shoot it up with you. And then you have unprotected sex with her, nightly. She's worried about the pus-filled sores that are beginning to form on her vagina. Your balls itch.
You go into a rage when you can't find a connection, and you're 2 weeks behind on paying the hotel bill. They're on the verge of kicking you out. But, you have the bottle.
The magic is fading.
A week after, you can't seem to make ends meet anymore. You lost your job, got kicked out of the hotel and wander around the streets babbling like a madman. It's been a week since you've shot up, but you can still follow a man down the alley and roll him for his wallet. However, not many rich people hang out in this area, and the most you've gotten is $20.00. No respectable drug dealer would sell 2 cc of his worst heroin for $20.00. So, you go buy a gallon of whiskey and a carton of cigarettes with your collective savings, and drown your sorrows. You vomit into a gutter, pass out and piss yourself on the sidewalk. The cops kick you out of the way under an awning. It'd be a waste of time for them to arrest you. You awake blurry-eyed, hocking up nasty, bloody wads of phlegm. You stink of the fermenting trash that you sleep in, and have developed a chronic, raspy cough. You start to talk to yourself more often and become unintelligible.
One day, you're following a black man down the alley. You run to tackle him and beat him senseless, but he is aware of you. He leaps forward as you sprawl to the ground in a half-drunken haze. He whips out a .357 Magnum from his jacket pocket and blows your brains onto the pavement.
The magic is gone.
:c: Jake D '2002