Twisted Treatises

  Bensenville '94. Me at 17 under a tree in Bensenville, IL. I remember staring down an undeveloped access road that led to the tracks in one direction and in the other to the dingy apartment complex my mother, sister and I lived in, a place where gangsters, meth cooks, and one serial killer (I didn’t find out about him until after we moved, but we all smelled his handiwork) did dwell. Was it October? I want to say it was. Someone knows and in this case it’s John Bruni. He knows because he is half if not more of the reason that I was standing under that tree 29 years ago. I wrote it on his computer. It was a real piece of dogshit called “The Dark”. One positive about it— the tale contained an easy chair which would prove to become a legendary inside joke that has since taken form and made it into things that have seen print. The chair was immortalized; the story died on the launching pad. “Just the way she goes,” A great man would have said. I have to backtrack a bit. I think

For Fuck's Subholy Sake.  I’m laughing at football itself. The sport always has been rife with hype, but these days anyone can see that there is an abundant awareness of the horseshit of which the NFL reeks—the stench is on the wind—ironically, a lot of this is due to a woman who is named after something you can be on the wind and indeed, the stink is swift and foul. The Kansas City Chiefs have dome more over the years to make football look dumb as fuck than any other team that comes to mind—Tony Romo being the announcer for the team and having once made them look like plastic shit during his Jessica Simpson romp, and Travis Kelce repeating a like debacle for Gen Z with Taylor-the-fuck-Swift just makes it worse and all the more obvious. I wanted to lead with this because I know a lot, not all, but a lot, of my friends will see this post and be like, “Rob, really? You like football?” Kinda. My bad. I’m not all happy about it. I don’t paint my face and holler at the TV, I gave u

Fuckin' place is so ghetto I can't even find a picture of it. Here's what I used to see most mornings, though. I miss it.* TN it was, below Rock City, hotel sitting behind the soft shoulder of Lookout Mountain Road. I lived there for years…Mountain Valley Inn was the name of the hotel. Later it would become Chattanooga Inn and Suites. Is it still there? Maybe not. Whole place was a meth lab when I lived there, back in 2006. I was stylishly strung out back then, the dope-sick evident but I was able to stand up to it well enough to cook food for people at a square job so I could still pay weekly fee. My neighbors, BJ and Shandy, helped a lot with this. BJ always had weed, sometimes he had a hydrocodone, and on these mornings when my connect was dry and I was (at this time) one of those junkies that don’t like fucking with every pusher in the city—my only recourse was to check and see if he had, at least, a bit of keef to get me on my feet and in the fucking shower so I didn

This is what must die before it kills you.  INTRODUCTION: Though I address any who are interested this is mainly for people who are trying to kill neurosis ( abundant irrational fear manifesting as anger or cowardice to the point where the overthinking damages the mental state*) bred of disorder, bipolar, PTSD, personality disorders, the like. If that is not you, maybe you don’t need this, but don’t shit on those who do. Hopefully I’m not the only person on the planet who isn’t a little bored with the shit-on-everyone-who-isn't-like-me attitude. This is NOT Christianity, though it should be. As with everything else occult, which this is, you must not concern yourself with what anyone else is going to think about it. Seriously. Fuck people and what they think. Absolutely do not heed them and they will lose all their steam. Trust me. In time you’ll be presented with much more suitable people and know how to interact with them. It also follows you must not be an asshole and trea

When you dig into the Self, things can get gonzo very fast.  In meditation today I saw my subconscious animus—a whale of a woman on a spotted, torn couch…there was a lady in Beavis and Butt-Head that looked a bit like what I saw. She was a sex phone worker in the cartoon, but in this vision, she only squat on the couch with her mouth agape and vibrating. I heard nothing. I got the sense that this was my inner critic—a thing that creates confused imagoes of the people I know in my head and tries to convince me they’re the actual people (imagoes is the fancy word for that), a tyrannical thing is only pacified by reaching goals.  The split off ego in a man I suppose will often turn female, and it doesn’t like him. Not a bit. Once you start getting away from this energy, it shows itself. This is the first time I’ve seen it. That must mean I’m doing something right. It must also be said that most men have no idea they have an evil bitch who is really a version of themselves that never got t

Is like digging into my own plasma and going for a swim... I’m going to have a 300 plus printed pages book when I’m done with this. I’ve barely cracked into the editing process, and I’ve already added 4k words to the first chapter, finding it thin and kind of a non-sequitur...not anymore, but it was. I don't know if the other chapters need that. The last third of the book, very likely. Since I already have 280 plus, it won’t be hard to break 300. I have no idea the monster this will turn into. I only know it needs to be better than it is, and I have incredibly high hopes for what the book could be...if I can just bring it there. The writer I was last year is not the writer I am now. Not by leaps and bounds. However, I for damn sure didn’t suck back then. This book is easy to read, and it takes the reader where I want them to go. Hell, it better, I spent a year agonizing over just what I have now. It is good, the stuff that happens is fucking peach…a fine tale of the street…but th