Desperate Thinking: I Am a Fraud

26 May 2008

Desperate Thinking: I am a Fraud Current mood: awake Category: Blogging I see you like to laugh so put my funny bone down your throat, motherfucker --AnP I can't go on like this anymore!!! It's time to let everyone here know... that I... Nari Ponder... AKA Expirasin... am a fraud. Everytime I've written a blog on this account, it has not been my true liking. Although it is my execution, the true imagination and mind frame that spawns the term "Desperate Thinking" is only because of one person... Alberto Mysterio... and yes, I only know his pen name. Like I said, everything I write on this blog is solely my work, but the reason I write it is because I've been inspired by him to write from the gut ever since I was in my senior year of High School. Mind you this was in 2003, long before I even knew what a fucking 'blog' was. Feeling the class wasn't aware of the little things that could make Jackson MS fun, my writing teacher Mr. Strong would lay these local magazines stacked in front of the class every week for the deliquents to read (I bullshit you not). Not many people read these, but I happened to grab one during school and I came across a series called "Confessions of a Black Punk Rocker". Simply put, a black guy in his mid 40's who loved rebel behavior would write his opinions and memoirs in the 1/3 of a page space he had to use each week. Normally I would say "long story short, I fell in love with the guy" but this was the first time I actually read someone become a prick right in front of my eyes. Oh sure, I had SEEN pricks, or avoided them, rather. But this guy stuck to it without any remorse. In my eyes, he was actually pretty kindhearted, but time had grown old against him, leading him to do nothing except spill his guts out for a couple of hundred dollars, not realizing the effect he could have on the world, including mine. I kept every article I could grab of Alberto's. First collecting the entire magazines, then cutting out the articles. I have about 14 of them to this day, with no luck of finding anything new after four years. I even remember crying after getting an email from the editor of the Jackson Flyer saying that Alberto had left Jackson and went back to his homestate of Texas (This was after sending many Where's Alberto emails). From time to time, I still look for Alberto's work online without luck, and without fail, I make another Desperate Thinking... With my life, expectations, and shortcomings I've begun to feel like I am slowly becoming Alberto. Not in an experience fashion (There's nothing he hasn't felt anyone else hasn't) but in a sense that the older I get, the less I'll care about what most people think. Which is good sometimes, but that habit is easy to blow out of proportion. Soon, it may be the death of me. So Alberto, tonight's blog is you... and its dedicated to you as well. Motherfucker. Confessions of a Black Punk Rocker "The Year I Lost My Mind" People cling to their rotten memories, to all their misfortunes, and you can't prey them loose. These things keep them busy. They avenge themselves for the injustice of the present by smearing the future inside them with shit. They're cowards deep down and just. That's their nature. --Louis-Ferdinand Celine 1992. We moved into that house. It was $500 a month, with a $500 deposit. The rental agent ran away with the deposit, and I never saw it again. It was me and her and three dogs. Two of the dogs would fight each other, ripping and tearing, trying to kill each other. We had to move them around the house like chess pieces so they never came in contact. That was a constant job. Frat Boy Sr., was still in the White House, so I was having a hard time landing a job. I did a few temp gigs and a little commercial acting. A few bucks came in from the comic book I was drawing, but basically I was being supported by a woman that was making six dollars an hour. How we managed to survive I do not remember. It got hot that summer. Every day was 100 degrees. There was no air conditioner, so I sat in my underwear and sweated. There was no furniture, so I sat on a cinderblock in front of the television and waited to die. Every cartoonist in town came by one night and asked me to party. There were almost 20 of them. I was known as the guy who could draw faster than anyone else. I just sat on that brick and stared at the television until they left. They never came around after that. I would scrape together loose change and buy unfiltered Pyramid cigarettes from the dollar store. Those things were horrible, like smoking rolled sheets of plastic, but it was all I could get. Emo's had just opened up and I would see all these beautiful women there, all dressed up in fishnet and leather, mohawks and black lipstick, and I cursed myself for being in a loveless common-law marriage. I would take my pit bull (Melvin) with me. I rescued him from the gas chamber when I worked as a dog catcher the year before. He only growled at skin-heads. He was a good dog. The woman always accused me of things that never happened. She would tell me that I was going to leave her, that I was going to cheat on her. Every time she cut into me, I'd drink another cheap malt liquor to replace the soul she was sucking out of me. In the end, she left me, but by that time I didn't care. We were too poor to rent a lawn mower, so the grass was about three feet high by October. When we opened the back door, a cloud of mosquitoes rose into the air and attacked like a single living thing. Vermin, vermin everywhere. I bombed the house weekly, bought glue traps and pyrethrin spray, but the vermin were everywhere. You could see the fleas leaping along the hardwood floor, smell the rancid mouse urine in the air. The cockroaches were the worst. Giant Texas palmettos like miniature tanks, indestructible, innumerable. I'd stopped sleeping in the same room as the woman, and the roaches would crawl across my face at night, and I'd jump up, yell, feel the adrenaline pumping through me. I'd check the room before I went to sleep, then put the duct tape around the door seals, but they still got in. How, I cannot say. At 3 a.m. I would laugh to myself as I wondered what could possibly happen next. When Brother Bill got into the White House, I managed to find a job. I carried boxes of magazines in a warehouse, huge packages that weighed more than I did, yet I never got any bigger, just smaller and harder. I'd work there all day and go home to the roaches and the dogs and the woman. When the woman decided to date other people, I was happy. It took about two months to get up to speed, but when I did, I had some beauties. There was Kristen, Koshka, Maria... and Eve. Eve was the craziest of them all, an atomic bomb of a woman. A stripper with a skin-bird haircut and the lack of caution and discretion only found in serious alcoholics with mental problems. I fell in love with her, just like I fell in love with the rest, but in the end I wound up alone, we all do. I suppose I should have been satisfied. I was dating whoever I wanted, drawing my comic books, had a job, and I was popular at Emo's. Yeah, I should have been happy, but for some reason I was sad and disgusted. I'd wasted five years in college. I was poor. There's no dignity in being poor, just anger. You're always lashing out at whatever is closest to you. I was full of love that I could not properly express.I had brilliant ideas that would never do the world any good. I had no way to let it out, and I'd forgotten how to cry. I was imploding... entropy... death. This depression coated me like a filthy oil as summer turned into the chill of autumn that year. Skeletons, pumpkins, frost-breath, cockroaches, and this thing screaming inside me. There was nothing for me to do but wait for it to be over, and I've been doing it ever since. This memory is dedicated to to the beautiful yet deadly women who refer to themselves as "exotic dancers." *New Desperate Thinking coming very soon after this.