On His Assimilation Into Society

3 and a half years of ambitious career-building at Albertsons/HEB has recently come to an end. It just goes to show you, the average person doesn't come down with a contagious illness three times a month. I didn't figure this out until I was called back into work at 11 am, 4 hours after I would normally have gotten off of work. You know, If I hadn't been sick again. (It was a terrible Autumn for alleged nausea and explosive diarrhea). My manager and I had a friendly chat in which he fired me. Oh shit, I thought. I've never been fired. Since when was being a pathological hypochondriac a crime?

What followed was me getting adjusted to daylight, rush-hour traffic, and homo-sapiens. I had a month and a half of incredibly dilligent job searching. But as misfortune would have it, none of the twelve applications I turned in granted me an interview. Eventually operation "Sean Saves Unemployeed Mk" was put into motion, its execution found me serving as a waiter at Red Lobster.

Going from a hermit over-night grocery stalker tobeing thrust in the middle of humanity proved difficult, as I had expected. But what I didn't anticipate was how many bricks I'd shit in the process. I've wanted to punch customers in the throat and rip out their larnyx for transgressions against my character at least a few times already.

So yeah. I find society a little dense for someone as vaporous and as free-spirited as myself. I feel like an angel descended from the perpetual peace of silence and complete alienation into the maw of the clamoring, multi-headed beast that is society. Its both frightening and funny and relieving all at once. Things happen and I witness them. Its almost too much to bear.

I'd missed ya, humanity. You're like a bad cat who pisses in corners just to spite you. Meowing late at night and early in the morning just because you want to eat grass. Biting me for no real reason. But damn, kid. You got spunk.

Now please start returning my calls,
Mk

On Sharing My Thoughts With The World

It was a day like any other of the same year. I was fifteen, crazy, and eager to share my innermost feelings with the world. The internet had potential to be a safe haven from the scary, remorseless world I had no choice but to live in. Chat rooms dedicated to discussing the finer attributes of Sonic the Hedgehog had turned out to be nothing but creepy fuck smut but I knew I could find respite somewhere in this system of tubes, wires, and beeping modems.

That was the day I discovered Open Diary. I cataloged over a thousand entries into that particular journal, almost recording the entirety of my teenage years in a single location. But life eventually got to me, as it always does eventually, and I realized that nobody gave a fuck, and neither did I. My entries became self-loathing, misanthropic, and damn near apocalyptic. Upon reflection, the diary could appear as an origins story for the newest Batman villain. So yeah, I was disturbed.




My writing all but ceased the past few years. I scattered blogs about the internet willy-nilly, their contents as chaotic and confusing as the years that followed. I had once been sure of my place in the world, but numerous failed relationships, an especially disturbing one-night stand, and my diminished place in society took their toll on me. I no longer knew what anything meant anymore. Or if anything had meaning at all. I didn't even have the energy to be angry.

I am now a shell of a person.

But if anything's worth writing its one man's attempt to discover his soul, right? I sure hope so, because I'm fucking writing it anyway.

Always uncomfortably personal,
Mk