I was standing in my kitchen when the realization struck.

I had a dream last night.

I experienced visions so profound, so shattering that I would need but whisper the merest hint of them and change the world with a near-silent breath.  I stood on the precipice, poised on the cusp of godhood...

And I could recall only that I had dreamed.

A whole life can pass like that:  in the evaporating memories of opportunities missed.  Just wake up one day and wonder what I missed.  And, even sadder, would I even know there was anything to be missed?

...

Anyhoo...

So, time to get to work.  I have had some fun, I guess, playing the days away.  Constantly busy accomplishing nothing.

Somehow I can't wait until the gas is turned off.

And the lights.

Maybe because when I walk away, I want it to seem like a good idea; like the sane choice of a well mind.  Maybe not so much like the calculated decision of a very sick creature still trying to pass for human and the poor, chubby bastard it drives like a car through the world.

Because I feel like that.  I say it, and I don't think it reaches the right ears, maybe.  I am trapped in here.  I am not in control.  I did something wrong, once.  I made a poor choice, or was tricked, or acted in haste and still no leisure in which to repent.  I don't know.  The end result is that, at any given moment, I do not (consciously) grasp the import of almost anything.  Part of me does, though.  Understands it all and doesn't share makes plans to which I am only privy when they see fruition.

Or maybe I am simply insane, a paranoid schizophrenic anxiously anticipating his eventual psychotic break whose "They" is himself.  I don't want to believe that, but what kind of choice is left me when, after some bad shit occurs, I am walked backwards up the path that led us to this moment, having the landmarks pointed out to me.  A silence here, a seemingly innocuous sentence that planted the seed that, over here (sometimes many months later), blooms into an awful shape as voices are raised, maybe glass breaks.  With a slowly growing sense of dread I see the exact sequence of events that have led to this outcome, how almost all of them hinged upon my decision, my action or lack there-of... all of these choices that, in the moment, seemed to not only be logical or somehow sensible; but also seemed to made of my own free will.

Or maybe this is all just too romantic.  Maybe I doubt my feelings of entrapment just enough to ensure I don't test the strength of the bars.  Maybe I am made to doubt.

The thing is, I would like to say that I am possessed of an evil spirit, or alien transmissions have me in their sway, or secret government labs are pointing migraine machines at my vas deferens and forcing me to masturbate my intelligence away through special tubes the UFOs hooked up between my cerebellum and epididymus.  But that's all bullshit.  A tinfoil hat will not save me.  Magnetic tattoos cannot block the cosmic rays.

Because the enemy is me.

I managed to create a meat puppet out of myself.  I did it so well that my puppet thinks itself alive, thinks it is a person with feelings and thoughts and motivations and a destiny.  And that is why it is only a mirror.  And I keep myself so well hidden, and play the role of myself so well, that I have actually forgotten who I am.  And, moreover, I don't know how many copies of myself I made in here.  And, most unfortunately, not only do we not all agree, we all hate each other.

So... what the fuck do I do now?

I am a puppet of myself and, like any mere toy, can never comprehend the motivations of the hand that masters me.  The right thing to do would be to cut the strings, throw the puppet away, and allow the real me to come out of hiding.  That, however, will not happen.

I had a thought just now.  Perhaps what I am experiencing is conscious recognition of something akin to the Freudian concepts of Id, Ego and Superego...  That sounds sort of sexy, but it doesn't explain the trips down memory lane, the guided tour of my sins and the sense of gloating that accompanies my realization of just how easily I was to manipulate and how easy it was for me to manipulate others into the design of the monster I made of myself.

Now that sounds crazy.

So, if you happen to know any headshrinkers, forward this on to them and ask them how I fix this.

I hate this hollow feeling.

I hate more knowing that I am being played.

I hate most knowing that it's all my fault.

The really funny part about all of this is that, while I type this, I am wearing my Arkham Sanitorium pajamas.

And now for something completely different

I am going to remove the Forum from the site.  It is never used and it is easier getting rid of that feature (along with some modules that go along with it, further easing up on server resources and hopefully speeding up this place) than trying to find a way to treat Forum comments as seperate from all other comments.  Once that is done, the peanut gallery is re-opening.

Aside from that, I have one book to edit and one I should be writing.  Also, both this place and my real world home could use a woman's touch.  I am just the bitch for both jobs.

Now, I need coffee...

Ah, much better.

Okay, so.. yeah...  I hate Facebook.  I'm sorry, I just do.  I know it is a technological marvel and the guys behind it are geniuses all.  It is only as useful as it is irritating, though, and it has way too many icky things associated with it.

I am getting irritated with Gmail, as well.  I mentioned frozen mice in an email and there were ad links for it right next to it.  So Gmail's servers are reading my mail.  Incoming and outgoing, I am served ads based on the content of my messages.  Yes, I know its just doing keyword searches and it is all automated and not only does Google not give a fuck about what I have to say to whomever, nobody else does either.

That does not make me like it, however, or even begin to be okay with it.

What if those were love letters?  A desperate missive to my psychotherapist?  A tear-stained note explaining why I had to abort the baby (assuming I am, like, a pregnant teenager or something)?

Advertising is probably the most insidious symptom of the sickness in our culture to date.

So, yeah... we are not Facebook.  We are not Google.  I am going to make damn-sure of that.

I am going to be shaking things up around here a bit, probably going to break the site over and over again.  I hope ya'll will stick around to watch.  It might be interesting.  You will probably be able to see changes happen in near real-time by refreshing the page throughout the day.

If I can be motivated to do so, I may try to do a sort of microblog on the Site Updates so people know what to watch.  Tried that before though, and it isn't really worth it...  so, probably not.  I will, however, take notes about everything I am doing so that I can do a summary of the updates with something resembling accuracy at the day's end.

I don't know who reads this drivel or who cares, but...

Fast.  Cheap.  Good.  Pick any two.

Seriously, if I am doing work for you and I am working for peanuts or less, don't expect lots of motivation.  I am happy to help with almost anything, but I'm going to be doing it on my terms.  I am going to get worse about this as time goes on, in all honestly.  If there is something you want of me and I can do it inside my own house, that's where it will get done.

For instance, I drew a tree to be used as a wedding guest book.  I finished it mere days before the wedding and there-by caused a lot of undue stress in the bride-to-be.  However, I did say I would do it and it was done before the wedding, just as I said it would be.  It was done well and it was free.  And, somehow, when it wasn't done fast people were surprised?  Really?

And, most importantly, if you know exactly what you want, don't call an artist; call Kinko's.  I am not one to settle for "good enough" and never have been.  I like to take everything "too far" because why should I be bothered with doing anything unless I am going to throw myself into it to the point that full body exhaustion and muscle aches are the result of my creative fervor?  "All or nothing" is not a bad way to live.  It is only one way.

Those three little words...

Don't placate me.  Don't lie to me.  I am incapable of the sort of subtle social games that make up human society.  I am really good at video games, though, if that makes up for it.

Seriously, I try to say what I mean and mean what I say; often in the fewest words possible.  If you ask me if that dress makes you look fat, I will say, "Yes."  Sometimes I will say, "No, you make that dress look fat."  I will tell you the answer to anything you ask of me, to the best of my knowledge, and as honestly as possible.  I have neither the stomach nor the patience for the stroopid games people like to play.

Every social interaction should be as simple as "Want to fuck?"  "Yes, I do."  "Cool."

I don't know why this is difficult.

This is, however, not the point.  Here is the point:  Don't tell me pretty lies.  I won't do it for you, why bother wasting such effort on me?  Don't tell me that you appreciate my art or writing and then don't read it.  Don't tell me you've not the time to leave a comment on this website when you are constantly updating your Facebook status and you don't even know the people who run that site.

We have, at current count, 853 individual pieces of content and only 115 comments.  That's about one comment for every seven pieces of content.  And that is fucking terrible.

And, yeah, you're goddamn right I'm pissed off.

Been online for, what, four years now?  And my only brother has still not visited this site even once.

Hey Houston, guess what?

I am going to crash and burn, and soon.  I can feel it coming.  I feel it, but I don't know what it means.

Now that it is just me, the snake, and the dog here, it suddenly feels like I have a helluva lot less to lose.

I don't think that is probably a good thing.

Best keep your doors locked.