08 January - The Bus Ride

I saw her again today.

She had a smug smile on her face. A Smile so good, so clean it made me hurt to look at it. It made my stomach churn at how fake a single person can be. As fake as a Dutch prostitute begging for more candy while she’s riding the Donovancoaster.

That’s what I hate about the world. How fake it has become. Plastic. Disposable. Non-refundable life wasted by pretending you like the people you surround yourself with.

We all make the same mistake. Mommy and daddy ‘learned’ you to be kind. Be considerate. Be understanding and thoughtful. All at your own expense. It’s ‘proper’ to put yourself last in the queue, and hope at least the mullets in front of the queue gets enjoyment from life as your expense.

I saw her again today. That fake mannequin doll sculpture of a person. Acting like she cares, acting like she gives a shit. I bet her husband cheats on her. How can anyone be happy with the mediator wife. The supporting emotional wreck of a person who needs to make her marriage work as it’s the proper thing to do. Go through life with a good dose of happy pills, and a bucket load of denial. I bet he cheats on her with every opportunity he gets.

Pathetic excuse for a life. Not just her. You. Me. Us. All of us. I’d like to be able to change that. Fix it, or at least make it tolerable.

I’d have cheated on her was she my wife. Hell. I’d be single again was she mine. Such a waste. Such a waste.

I saw her again today. On the bus.

I hate riding busses, as I’ve always done. Generic vessels void of any emotion. A ‘Chanel Nr 05’ add featuring Kate Moss marking the peak of the marketing gurus’ genius. What were they thinking?
‘Target Market! Middle aged commuters who can’t afford their own transport. They would want to be prepped up with a little dash of Nr 05?’
Cunts.

The bus came to an abrupt stop, and my newspaper fell to the ground. I was consumed by the genius marketing ploy at Chanel Nr 05, so much so that I did not notice.
She picked it up. SHE did.

She handed it to me, and I felt like stuffing it in her mouth. Again doing the ‘proper’ thing by helping the old man with his paper. How nice of her. How quaint. How proper.
It hurt me to smile back as I retrieved my paper. It hurt me to play their game. Your game. I had to smile. I had to pretend. I had to be one of you.
‘Why thank you, my dear. I didn’t even notice it fall’ I said.
I smiled. I gestured. I even pulled my fucken eyebrows up in recognition. She saved the world- she picked up my newspaper.

The heartburn started as I forced my smile. Fucken heartburn. Again I had to adjust my belt line, and suck in the stomach acid in effort to keep from boiling over and exploding. All because of her.

Pathetic.

The bus stopped at Troy Street. Salvation beckoned. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I removed myself from the government-subsidized demon, and made my way to my house.
Both my hands were firmly in my jacket pockets as I clenched onto my sanity.

In my left pocket I had (as I always do) a portrait of the derogation of our society. A disposable pop star, put on a pedestal by her adoring fans. The same people who will ultimately crucify her on Golgotha. Like puppies they tire of their toy, and cast it aside, whilst still on the look out for their next false idol whom which they could so easily elevate above themselves.

I tore the picture out of a people magazine in the news agency as I could just not stand looking at it one more second. The ruins of a false god, worshiped, and then crucified by her closest loved ones.

Who is at fault here you ask?
It’s the pop star herself. Delusions of grandeur. Her first sin was believing the sheep. Her second sin was believing the sheep’s lust for Idolism.

I reached sweet relief. Home sweet home. Away from Darwin theories. Away from the church of Scientology. Away from war on terrorism and oil prices. Home sweet fucken home.