2012

A Mini Novella

by Brendan S


He dropped the bag on the floor.

Grabbed the bottle of scotch, and slid it into the back.

He walked out of the store, with a mean look on his face, thinking he'd be lesser-detected that way.

No one seemed to notice.

(Always off-camera, always slick).

Yusuf gave him the twenty dollars for the bottle, and Brendan got up, and went straight over to the next guy in the field.

"Hey, I need some weed." He said.

* * * * * * *

Brendan lied in his bed, listening to Burning Spear.

High on a big joint, before he had to go to work.

"I work at Acadia Outdoors" he said for a while.

He even worked too jobs at once .. once.

Landscaping, and the clothing store. Making $700 a week.

He got fired, eventually, from both jobs.

The landscaping crew didn't like how many cigarettes he smoked.

Acadia Outdoors could tell he was always stoned at work.

* * * * * * *

When 2012 rolled around, I was ready.

Gary Numan was in town, posing as an art dealer named Jeff Freeman.

He ran "Side Effects" -- the art store, where I was interested in having my art hosted.

I'll never forget the newspaper, article, and his hardcore departure from my town.

"Jeff Feeman dead. Suicide."

* * * * * * *

I wrote the book "Super-Terrestrials" around 2012.

I handed out a few copiese, and it was a talked-about book.

My dad even caught wind of it.

"I heard you wrote a book. People say they really like it."

I re-release it from time to time.

It's about art, and human evolution.

It's the first book I ever wrote.

* * * * * * * * 

I remember, when I was sitting with Cain, in the field (the Village Green) -- Cain, who is totally self-forgiven now, and a good man now, has a worser brother known as Seth, that would be me.

Abel became a drug-dealer, and we all lived our separate ways.

My father is Abraham.

The two of them look up to him with reverence.

I love my dad.

He's always been there for me.

He picked me up off the apartment floor I nearly died on, once, in a valium and alcohol overdose.

They all knew it was a suicide attempt, but I wouldn't admit it.

I've probably tried to kill myself five times.

* * * * * * *

First, through suffocation when I was thirteen. Stayed in my bed-sheets crying, hoping I'd die.

Next, 100 mg of valium, and just woke up strung out and angry.

Third time, glass through the hand.

Fifth time .. the overdose.

Fourth time .. well .. we don't talk about the fourth time.

* * * * * * * 

Wearing sunglasses, I punched away at the keys of my "Scrying" word processor.

A book about 2012..?

That was a sacred year.

What a crime ..

Will I expoit myself..?

I wondered.

* * * * * * *

Sure, I stole a lot of alcohol once.

But I've done worse things.

I even bootlegged some of it to a specific high school kid named Jeremy, who was always trashed, and driving drunk anyway.

We all took a "booze cruise" up to the top of Acadia once, and passed around a bottle of Coffee Brandy I stole.

It felt weird.

Everyone got aced though -- fucking high off cigarettes, and the weed we had.

I don't "Know" if I was the life of the party, but I felt like the odd-one-out usually ,inspite of how many travelers, and hippies I met that year.

Punctuation mistakes .. spelling mistakes ..

Let me just tell you the story.

In 2012, I became telepathic.

I just didn't know it, until it was too late.

* * * * * * *

I heard voices, from other people's minds.

ALL day long, sometimes.

I was reading people's minds left and right.

Jess walked up to me and Cain, and I said, "yes" by nodding my head, when she faked a UK accent, and invited us to smoke a bowl with her.

* * * * * * *

I remember leaning into Jess, and joking around about "fiending" her weed off her.

We kind of clicked, while Cain just played about the room and acted like an idiot.

He gets playful when he's around two people who are in love.

I really love Cain.

He's not so bad.

People misconscrue him, because of his history, but he is still the same son of Abraham, as I am also.

* * * * * * *

I just did a rail of meth..

* * * * * * *

So, 2012 ......

I don't know.

I went to my grandfather's house once, and there were a bunch of gang-stalkers outside once.

They all knew I was telepathic, and tried to fuck with my head.

I could hear their thoughts all the way down the street.

It was just chatter. A bunch of idiots.

So, I took out my camera, and my microphone, and recorded them, for "later evidence."

I remember how cute the one guy looked, when he did some "searching" scare technique of some kind, approaching a hole in the ground with a flashlight, as I filmed him. But after filming them, they all shut up real fast.

I smoked another hit off the joint I had, and went back into the Cape Cod home basement, and laughed, as I continued writing, "The Android Reality" -- a lost book I never wish to share.

It's about the end of the world, and the antichrist.

I also wrote an autobiography in the form of the "reincarnation of Edgar Allan Poe" around this time, also lost.

* * * * * * *

I was drinking a lot of hazelnut coffee, and watched the movie "Drive" for the first time.

The skull-smashing scene seemed "real" to me.

Oh, God.

* * * * * * *

I think I'll write this entire book in my sunglasses..

* * * * * * *

So, I would steal liquor pretty occasionally.

A normal day consisted of two forties of Milkwaukee's Ice Beast, or Beast Ice, and get drunk all afternoon while watching The Trailer Park Boys.

* * * * * * *

I stole 'em fridge-to-bag.

My parents thought I had a "drinking" problem..

So they were withhoding my check money (my disability check money).

I just decided to steal shit, as a result.

* * * * * * *

I'm not really much of a thief.

In fact, I "eventually" got caught.

I was always kind of haphazard, and uncaring about the crimes I committed.

Because, deep-down, I know right from wrong.

The problem is, I also know the devil..

* * * * * * * * *

Aw, the sun is shining through the window.

How nice.

* * * * * * * * *

*Covers the window with a blanket*

* * * * * * * * * 

I think I need another rail.

*Lo n g   p a u s e*

Ah.

What a burn..!

* * * * * * * * * 

I think, 2012 really "hit me" when I noticed how popular my first book was.

I met this guy "Ed" who claimed to be an ex-physician, who now did what he called in the healing arts, "chakra balancing."

He even did a hypnotist / chakra balancing test on "me" once, and found out a lot.

I am a misbalanced person due to the abuse I have received.

And he referred to my oppressor as "The Motherfucker."

* * * * * * * * *

Ed read my book pretty devoutly.

He even bound it, eventually, and started carrying it around town, showing it to his friends.

"It's called Super Terrestrials: The Final Incarnation. It's great..!" I imagine he would say.

From a guy who likes "The Starseed" books, I guess he just liked my new age jive.

* * * * * * * * *

"Check out this chapter."

He flashed the book in front of one of the store-owners of Eden Rising (no longer exists) -- and it was an entire page about, "The antichrist. Who comes from another world, to save the planet."

He said, "Do you SEE what this says..?"

I laughed.

Mentally thinking, "Yeah. Show that to some chick."

"The antichrist hates sexuality, don't mention that part, though okay..?"

* * * * * * * * *

God, it's gonna take a lot of meth to get through this piece of shit.

* * * * * * * * * *

So, back in 2012, I was pretty much "cooler" than I thought.

People seemed to like me, but I really didn't know why.

* * * * * * * * * *

I walked into the art store, and admired the spiky metal art by Jeff, and said, "Is this supposed to suggest kinesis..?" I asked about the spiky art-work. He kind of said, "no" and they were just concept pieces.

He seemed pretty avid to tell me, "I sold a time machine art exhibit for 2,000 dollars once."

I wasn't impressed, and walked out of the store.

* * * * * * * * * *

"FUCK that place. Dude's crazy."

I muttered.

* * * * * * * * * * 

I went back to the art store, later on, with a camera full of photographs.

As soon as Jeff laid eyes on the first piece of art-work I showed him, he blurted out the words, "Want to do something in October..?"

I was stunned by his interest.

"Sure." I said.

And walked out of the store.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dressed in a white shirt, and dark pants, I paced through Bar Harbor with a bandage on my left hand.

"Who did you hit..?" The bus driver asked me. "Who did I HIT..??" I randomly responded.

* * * * * * * * * *

Andy (Abel) invited me to an LSD party, that would mean my fourth suicide attempt.

"I was on drugs" I told the doctor, but I meant to die that night.

* * * * * * * * * *

I took the two hits of acid (government grade acid), and a sip of my beer, and was the last one to hit the blunt.

"What do I do with this..?"

I asked, but everyone was already dosed.

"Oh."

I said.

And waited for the effects.

* * * * * * * * * *

I remember hearing an alarm, like I was aboard a starship.

"PASSENGER SANANDA MAIN HALL UNCONSCIOUS"

It kept repeating.

I waited for them to rescuscitate me.

(sp?)

In reality (this reality) I had a palm full of glass, because I'd punched out a window while Ben SAWYER was trying to hand-rape me, who I "envisioned" was a female, in his astral form, because I was tripping .. but I'm not gay. I'd never fuck a dude.

He did a job on me, and got away with it.

I know hitmen today, so hence the inclusion of his full name.

Because everyone hates gay rapists.

Everyone.

* * * * * * * * * * *

(Drown him.)*

* * * * * * * * * * * 

Everyone heard me that night.

My voice was in everyone's mind.

"Okay, Brendan. Now fly down to Joe."

The cops had to "ask" and to "beg" me to stop hovering against the side of the wall, and ceiling, as I seemed to be flying.

I hovered down to Joe, who held my arm up in the air, and got blood all over his carpet.

I wanted to die, in my "demon state."

It took six cops to pin me down.

* * * * * * * * * * 

Jeff saw the bandage on my hand, and I saw the tear in his eye, when I lied, and said, "IT was a drinking accident."

"I used to be a codeine addict" he told me, when I asked if he wanted to smoke a joint with me once.

The guilt in his eyes was immense.

So, I felt guilty for asking.

He was a drunk, though.

Jeff was passed out on red wine in his chair, on the opening night of my painting display.

My abstracts were all over his wall, and I didn't show up.

He was just lying back in the chair, with his eyes shut.

I knocked twice on the window, and he rolled his eyes at me.

I truly hated myself, and I kind of always have.

* * * * * * * * * * 

Who gives a shit if people like me, or my "art" ..?

* * * * * * * * * *

SO, I really am snorting meth right now.

Hope that doesn't bother you.

You gotta drink, eat, and sleep less to really enjoy the high.

Alcohol and pot are worthless when you're on meth.

I also notice, that I can't do a rail very frequently, so I tend to microdose the crystal to myself.

Don't worry, it's safe.

You just gotta keep your neck straight. ;)

* * * * * * * * * *

It wasn't safe for, "that other guy" though ...

Who died in his sleep.

Poor Mel.

* * * * * * * * * *

Time for another rail.

* * * * * * * * * *

Oh. Damn.

I didn't know if it was cocaine or meth, and just went for it.

(The shit underneath my keyboard).

I think it was a mixture of both.

Suddenly, I feel like cleaning my entire room ..

* * * * * * * * * *

I remember, when I first tried to kill myself, it was because of my friend Gabe.

I called him a "fag" over the telephone, left on his message machine (shit, it was all meth) -- and, I probably had the message intercepted by his mom, who died of cancer early on.

We knew each-other closely for at least five years. He bullied everyone in school, but left me alone because I was his wingman.

Gabe tried to poison me with angeldust in the park about a year ago, when I started living at the group home.

He lives at some pretentious "religious community" now -- blitzed, and always t r i p p e d, and psycho out of his mind.

I remember going, "Fuck. This is angeldust." And lying flat against my side, almost immediately after realizing I'd smoked bad shit, and went to sleep almost immediately, to flush the chemical out of my system.

I woke up renewed, and with a newfound hate for my childhood best friend.

He always was a homoerotic little faggot.

Trendy little prick.

I hope he fucking gets killed some day.

* * * * * * * * * *

(Raises hand, yea I said it).

* * * * * * * * * *

I was smoking with Les one night, when I randomly woke up drunk, and went for a night-walk, and stole $70 out of some random truck.

The next day I bought weed with it.

I also stole some random-ass camera, that I never did anything with.

That summer, I also ripped off a few drug dealers.

One guy, I stole about an eighth from, fresh out of his jar, in the split-moment he wasn't in the room.

I remember jetting to the bathroom, and using his toilet paper wrapper to stash the weed in my pocket.

I gave some to Will, who I was with.

"Will. You have no idea."

My heart was racing, because it was some 'good' homegrown..

* * * * * * * * * *

This one kid killed himself around 2012.

He jumped off a bridge, high on valium and whatever else, and plummetted to his demise, on a bridge all can see, when you drive into Bar Harbor.

His mom was my therapist.

"Oh. And tell me about how you're the reincarnation of Edgar Allan Poe..?"

She said, in a blind retarded voice.

"Um."

I said.

"It's weird..?"

*If only.

Typically, you just gotta lie to therapists.

Because they support the "Entrapment Bill" more than anyone.

* * * * * * *

Rhys, who also poisoned my weed later on, wrote on his Facebook, "Christian Doyle is dead. He committed suicide."

Really..?

He doesn't seem suicidal. I mean, didn't..

* * * * * * *

Cain would sit on my couch, and exclaim his doubts about "life" and "life in general."

As though trying to scare me, he once said, "You know, Brendan. Suicide. Remember Christian..?"

And he had this freaked out look on his face.

An astral image, I have, is of Rhys telling Josh to push Christian over the bridge .....

"Yeah..?"

"He really killed himself." I said.

"He fucking killed himself." I said again.

Josh looked down, in remorseful doubt.

* * * * * * * * * *

I hacked Josh's Facebook account, his password being "raindrops" later on, and found out he is a pedophile, fiend, and general abuser of humanity, with nothing but sociopathic tendencies -- so it's probaby likely he killed Christian, knowing how completely stupid Bar Harbor is.

* * * * * * * * * *

There is even a witch burial ground right near my group home.

Fuck, I swear they're all heretics and pagan freaks here.

* * * * * * * * * *

(Maine).

* * * * * * * * * *

"No."

I said to my medical practitioner.

"I don't want valium. I refuse valium."

She was concerned about my recent ":getting caught with a bottle of wine:"

But I admitted, then and there, "I used to be a valium addict. I did it in high school. That shit just isn't good for me," and my eyes clouded up a little.

She was surprised to hear my confession, and I never wanted valium beyond that day -- and to this day, I still don't want it.

I may have been suicidal once, or even had PTSD and bipolar disorder once .....

But from my last hospitalization, according to my "diagnosis" I no longer have bipolar disorder, and I have rid myself of PTSD.

* * * * * * * * * *

I drank a sip of the red wine, and said to the art store clerk (a tired thirty year old woman) -- "SIGH. I don't think any of my art will sell."

"Do you think any of it will sell..?"

She was paused for a moment.

Looked away, and muttered, "Shit. I don't fuckin' know, man."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Okay.

To get through this next part, I really need to hit some meth.

......

Or, coke blended with meth.

Extrodextromethorpheine. Whatever you want to call it.

Fuck it, I smoke opium too.

I have probably two ounces of opium.

* * * * * * * * * *

So, I was really hungover the day I showed up with the bandage on my hand.

Jeff knew it wasn't a drinking accident, but I paid no attention to his chagrin.

"Must have been something."

I think I heard him mutter.

That day, we were both having wine together, staring at my paintings, when a ten dollar bill floated through the door.

"Dude. Grab that."

I ran over, and grabbed it.

And handed it to Jeff.

Immediately, a woman from the adjacent store walked in, and said, "Did you just see a ten dollar bill float in here..?"

Neither one of us spoke, until she left.

"Now go buy the cheapest bottle of red wine you can find."

I did as instructed.

When I got back, and handed him the bottle, he said, "Now let's drink this shit."

Then I said, "Ah. My stomach is kind of empty. I don't feel like it right now."

And turned my back, and left him in the silence as I walked out of the store, to convene with my friends in the park.

* * * * * * *

"Jeff Freeman found dead. From apparent hanging."

Josh knew the truth, 'cause he knows 'everything there is to know about when people kill themselves' for some reason.

Jeff hung himself in the window, where his wife could see him, hanging from a tree.

She screamed, when she saw him.

* * * * * * * 

I guess he really was a codeine addict..

* * * * * * * 

Another one bites the dust.

* * * * * * * 

The art store closed down, and only "some" of my paintings sold..

I was given almost all of my art-work back, but some of it was left in Jeff's warehouse, that I never saw again.

I cried a little bit, but sometimes, you just don't give a shit when someone dies.

To be honest, he was kind of a jerk, and I didn't really care he was dead.

* * * * * * *

Is that wrong..?

* * * * * * *

Ed wasn't done reading my book.

He seemed enthralled by it.

How the fuck did my dad hear about it..?

I only printed two copies.

"Weird." I always thought, about the success of Super-Terrestrials.

* * * * * * *

I bought all the "alien" books from Eden Rising, over a short period of time.

Ashtar, Sananda, the Seth Material, whatever I could get my hands on.

I liked "channeled" books the most.

I bought them all, eventually, till the shop had no spirituality books left.

The next summer, I bought the rest of their books.

Then the store shut down.

* * * * * * * *

I mean, I am an abductee, don't get me wrong.

I remember the thin, pale, noseless, near-mouthless empty look on the Zeta's face, when I was being experimented on.

(I think I was seven).

But I don't really know how to explain the metallic-feeling bulge in the back of my head, anymore.

Hospitals once thought it was cancer.

(Like, BRAIN CANCER).

Then said "It's just a cist."

But I think it's an alien implant.

A gift, from my true parents.

So to speak.

Does this bother anyone..?

* * * * * * * *

I liked the SANANDA books the most.

* * * * * * * *

When Ed performed the chakra balancing exercise on me, he said my "sacral" chakra, is misaligned with my heart chakra.

(Meaning, I am a rape victim).

"And the MOTHERFUCKER!" He said, in an angry voice. "is always out there ....."

And then he got all shifty-eyed, and looked away from me.

We walked to the front of the store, and my telekinesis kicked in.

A strong wind blew, right when I cognated the thought, " I need a drink ."

The devil, in the wind.

"Ah, I can feel it right now."

My hate.

"Yeah, I know." I said.

We walked to the front door, and then I exited, wishing well to Ed.

* * * * * * * *

I've actually been raped and molested countlessly through my life, by both men and women.

It's not worth describing now -- just that I'm passive, and tend to just let things happen to me.

"Brendan is very self-sacrificing" girls h a v e observed about me.

Self-sacrificing..?

I've tried to kill myself five times. God bless me and my nice ass.

You stupid bitch.

* * * * * * * * * 

One time, a girl shoved a strap-on up my ass, and I screamed "get it out! get it out!"

She sorta coaxed me into that one.

Deep theory suggests I may or may not have influenced her to kill herself, a few years later on.

But she's already dead, so let's not talk about that bitch. (Or some kind of clone now).

She thought my parents were "robots."

Enjoy the thought, bitch.

* * * * * * *

I don't really remember when I wrote the fifty, to sixty page book entitled "The ANDROID REALITY"

Suggesting we are all, humans, "Clones, and have simply recycled matter as our bodies, who all pray to a singular antichrist, known as the Great Mutator, who goes from world to world, altering peoples DNA."

It was a scary thing to behold, and I was glad I lost the file.

But what if we "are" all really just robots..?

* * * * * * * * 

I used to walk to a guy named "BRANDO's" house. His real name was Brandon.

I liked how he knocked a pipe out under his shoe, and had a uniquely white streak of white hair in his mustache.

He helped me get weed more than once -- a millennial -- high school kid, who somehow had a house to himself. I crashed at his house several times.

Some people, like Will, weren't allowed there, but I was.

* * * * * * * *

"lol."

SOME psychic-seeming hacker just nuked me out while I was writing this book.

This calls for another hit of meth.

(I already nuked him back with my other computer, and I'm keeping him disconnected as I write this).

His I.P. address starts with 98, and he seems like some faggot from UB. (old game i used to play).

Hackers are faggots. CAN I just say it..? They're selfish, privacy-invading faggots.


I hate all hackers, on a sidenote.

I don't care how special you think you are.

Hackers are scum.

* * * * * * * * *

Faggot's just fortunate I was connected to the internet.

Like I care about this shitty HP.

Fucking retards want to break your toys.

Fucking god-damned neighbors, and kids have broken my toys since I was seven.

Is that really how you faggots think you're meant to fight..?

Be a real man, and find my ass, and challenge me on the street, you pussy-ass faggots.

* * * * * * *

I was a hacker once.

And I hated myself, back then.

That's when I tried to O.D. on valium.

It really was 100mg.

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

Sometimes, I think the NSA only "adopted me" because they want to keep me safe.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

I walked through the village green, bandage on hand, and went to the Rite-Aid.

With my bandaged hand, I stole two forties, and put them in my bag.

I got a little dime-bag off Rhys, and then went home to smoke and chill to TPB.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

I mean, who cares.

If you do drugs, or want to throw your life away.

Who cares..?

No one can "stop you" from throwing your life away.

I mean, my parents already think I'm crazy.

Life isn't worth it if your parents think you're crazy.

My DNA, my "genes" -- my very cells, came from a source that deems me crazy.

What is that..?

Sounds like a disease.

* * * * * * *

One night, I was jacked after a live show, playing electric guitar, and doing vocals at Little A's sports bar. I drank half a bottle of Josh's Chardonnay, until he forcefully put the cap back on. (The cork). So forcefully, I couldn't open it again.

I had already poured some into a waterbottle for later, and kind of laughed at him.

I got pretty high that night.

* * * * * * *

Am I a drug fiend..?

In 2012, I was.

* * * * * * *

The day I quit valium ..

I was high on valium for the first time.

In a long time.

I was watching the movie called, "Listening." About an engineer who builds a special microphone, that is powerful enough to do just about anything.

I was entranced by the movie.


I kept thinking, " This is what I am meant to do. "

Over, and over, and over. High as fuck.

I haven't done valium since that night.

I cried, till the end, saying something to myself .. " I want to be a psy-op some day. I want to understand all of these things. I'm not afraid of the future. And I hate valium addiction. This is the last time I ever willingly get high on valium."

To this day, except for forced hospital medication, I do not take valium willingly, and it truly was the night I quit . . .

* * * * * * *

Valium was my drug-of-choice.

I did it in high school, and throughout my twenties.

I watched the movie "Listening" around 30.


I think it numbs you, and makes you stupid and lackadaisical. (sp?). Valium is a shitty drug, though, most of all, because if you drink with it you can fucking die.

* * * * * * * 

Clearly, less suicidal, I continued to progress through life.

It was half-way through 2012, and me and a bunch of travelers, Josh (Cain), and a few other friends were going to go out for a hike.

We hiked all the way up a mountain, and I sort of trailed behind, though I wasn't tired.

I found myself very alone atop that mountain.

Jess had "that guy" -- she was cuddling with.

Katy had "that other guy" -- who I was jealous of.

And Josh was just an idiot, proud to be social on any level, while I felt alone, and weak.

"Creepy hippies."

I muttered, a few times.

We drove back to the green later, and I got away from them as soon as I could.

I went to the art-shop, but Jeff wasn't there.

He had already killed himself.

I didn't know yet.

* * * * * * * * * *

They all were just having so much fun.

Drawing creepy Egyptian-style art on the ground in mud, and smoking a bad joint atop the mountain.

While I felt totally uncomfortable, and didn't know why.

Lame, pathetic, mindless fucking faggots.

* * * * * * * * * * 

No empathy in any of them. "Peace and love..?" More like "Fake love" you pseudointellectual FAGS.

* * * * * * * * * *

That's right.

"Simon."

The creep's name was "Simon" who was fucking around with the girl I liked.

He had blonde hair, and blue eyes.

And was "perfect" in every way.

Though, so was I.

I hated how he lacked all forms of creativity.

I was just as perfect as he was, and I actually ":am:" creative, but he didn't have an ounce of creative starjuice in him.

He was pathetic on that level compared to me. Truly, no soul.

Yet, they liked that about him.

Why, Katie..?

Because he's a "space to be filled..?" Because you 'see his potential' ..? Why, because you're a soon-to-be California sociopath, who just wants to "lift people up" and "make them better" ..? And, when someone is Already lifted up, let them be..?

Fuck you, you stupid cunt.

* * * * * * *

And fuck all noncreative people for that matter.

Don't be proud of having no soul.

"Just no soul." -- Trigun

That's all you have to offer, is nothing itself, hippie faggots.

* * * * * * *

God, it is funny isn't it..?

Everyone was so weirded out by me in 2012.

* * * * * * *

It was late, one night, and I showed up by bus to purchase a twenty-sack from a townie at the end of the night.

"Just looking for a twenty-sack" I told him.

He looked like Max, who used to work with me at the movie theater.

He gave me more than two grams, and I remember "Tony" running into me.

He was proudly holding a fifth of whisky, and socializing with everyone, and with me the most.

The resident "only black guy in town" who actually rapped.

I got him in my studio once, and we got blazed together.

* * * * * * *

The other night, we were celebrating halloween, so I stole a skeleton costume from Rite-Aid, and Will wore it around the green.

He kept doing this hilarious "crouch and glare" thing which I decided to capture on film ..

Some guy noticed me putting grass and twigs in the headstock of Josh's guitar. His son was with him. Some Aryan looking little brat.

"Have you had enough time with Jesus now, son..?" I could swear I heard him say.

I told Josh about it, and we're "{both}" delusional now.

What a weirdo.

Even if I "was" Jesus, I am not anymore.

I'm more like Bruce Lee now.

What follows what follows, not three-thousand years of creepy slave worship.

Fucking faggot.

* * * * * * *

I'm still nuking that faggot who tried to nuke me out of my original manuscript.

See, here's the thing.

THE NSA "refers" to themselves as "clandestine."

Do you know that "some hackers" are psychic..?

Yeah, psychic.

Psychic hackers.

They both intercept, and "dicept" information.

I mean, don't get me wrong.

I hate hackers, hacking, and all forms of crime, but I've been a victim of the rape hackers offer to people for years.

I've had so many computers disconnected, I could make a painting out of hash marks.

They're that disruptive.

I feel like, my whole life, I've been messed with by hackers.

I logged in to the internet in 1995, and the first thing that happened when I went to a chatroom was get hacked.

Back in those days, I was only thirteen.

In response, I learned their hacking technique, exploited it on a website entitled "Deftoolz" (my name was def) -- and I posed as the wildest, best hacker in the chatroom, until chatbox.com was shut down two years later.

The "deftones" chat was shut down only after a year, post-revision.

I actually shut down the administrators computer, through a con/con crash-code link (Chino Moreno, singer of the deftones) -- and his first response was to destroy his own user hub / chatroom.

Truth be told, I "enjoy" destroying networks.

* * * * * * *

Those hippie faggots were hanging around the green again.

I just stared at them.

Josh (a different Josh) who claimed to be an ex-Iraq War veteran, with an arsenal of guns, over 100 guns, found me sitting on a bench drinking wine, and staring off into the distance.

"Well if it isn't an old friend..!" He said.

I barely knew the guy.

"Yeah..!" I said.

"Yes..!" I said.

And, we were both found drinking wine at the edge of the ocean, poured from my fat bottle of wine I had been re-fueling my coffee cup with. We got trashed, and just tallked about music.

His body was never found.

People said he disappeared into the woods one day, and never came back.

* * * * * * *

Fuck it, he probably tortured people.

Don't we all deserve to die..? Sometimes..?

I thought about it, after reading the Facebook post, then chanted in my mind, "Another faggot bites the dust."

And closed the screen, and played a song by Dimmu Borgir.

* * * * * * *

Josh was starting to get nervous around me.

He would avoid me on long-term stints, for great periods of time.

I'd try to visit him, but he would just be there .. one day, I saw him in the park wearing an orange shirt I gave him -- which looked terrible on him, strumming some loud folk bullshit for the people in the park.

"God damn, He looks like an idiot." I said to my mom, as we drove past him.

* * * * * * *

People used to call him, "The Purple Guy" because he used to hitch-hike and walk everywhere in Bar Harbor using this crazy mythical looking purple sweater as a get-up. He looked like Jimi Hendrix, the retarded version.

* * * * * * *

To be honest, this is not so much a "meth fueled" document anymore than the Nepenthe of Opium.

I respect opium.

It helps me remember things, I normally would not remember.

Post-PTSD, it's a hell of a drug.

* * * * * * *

Yeah.

People really were a pile of douche-bags in 2012.

No one cared about human evolution ..

No one really wanted anything.

A bunch of empty fools, is all I saw.

One night, I bought a bag of weed off some random black dude, and it had the corner ripped out of the bag.

How ghetto is that..?

Just put it in a cigarette wrapper.

Don't just rip a gram out of the bag like an animal clawing for more.

You desperate freak.

I didn't smoke that weed in pride.

(Pot was illegal in these days, and yet I always had it).

* * * * * * *

Rob, some guy, was banging on his drums far across the street.

Me, Josh, and the tragic Wesley heard him.

I said, "let's go over there. See what he's like."

They all stood silent.

"I know a thing or two about him. Let's just go say hi."

So we all walked over to Rob's trailer, vexed and amazed by the bravery of the one standing in front, and I knocked on his front door, Josh and Wesley behind me.

Rob was like, "Weed..? Is that all you came here for..?"

Suddenly, I was forced to do a little verbal judo.

"No, man. You're a fellow musician, and we were drawn by your drum-playing."

I got weed through his friend Naomi, a 38 year old woman, later on (who I fucked several times on secret text-message arrangements).

She said, "I look like Jesus when I wear white."

How nice of her.

I think I passed out drunk, and uncaring toward all humanity that night!

* * * * * * *

Yes, by the way.

I use the word "Faggot" in my vocabulary.

Raped by both men and women (usually lesbians) -- I just find most rapists are usually gay, from my statistic.

So, the word is just kind of my vocabulary.

Eliphas Levi, the recorded "magnetic" master of magic, who was also known as Levi once before, refers to a "Faggot" as a burned witch -- someone who was once crucified. In my terms, they stay crucified.

A burned witch is a burned witch

Call me King James, but I sincerely don't give a fuck about pantheists, or bad pagans.

* * * * * * *

And there were so many queer, and gay travelers in Bar Harbor.

One motherfucker, who wanted to record at my studio, even kindly asked me if I play the "skin flute" -- knowing exactly what he meant, and in the most ginger, and polite voice, I said ":no."

* * * * * * *

Don't get me wrong -- I truly "hate" gay people, and I won't hide it.

I'm a sexually active male, who favors females, and when a dude hits on me, it invades my "chi."

I don't like being hit on by men -- or women -- so I just hate them all.

I'm a homophobe.

K..?

They've bullied, and tried to rape me long enough.

The truth is, most gay people "are" flagrant, and force their sexuality on others because they're desperate. And I've never been desperate.

I get laid when I want to, and these faggots are just a fucking joke to me.


* * * * * * *


And again, I am still keeping disconnected the hacker that just tried to nuke me, and will be writing this part of the book while nuking him back.


* * * * * * * 

Because I think all hackers are faggots too, for their homeroetic need to "know things" about total strangers. FAGGOTS.

* * * * * * * 

Don't worry, this whole story ends in rehab.

* * * * * * *

I stole a single forty, one day, and drank it down by the ocean, smoking a fat joint to myself.

No one around.

I quietly stared at the waves, and could feel my own onset of judgment.

* * * * * * * 

That day I got caught stealing, I shouted " NO! No! No!" as if desperate just to be disarmed by the grab of the store-clerk.


They held me in the store, until the cop arrived.

"Alex." (A nice cop).

Only gave me a warning, and let me go.

I walked all the way back home, re-picking-up my pipe I tossed to the side in case he'd search me, on the way back to the store, and then returned to Will and Josh, who were surprised to see me. "We thought you were getting arrested..?"

No, I'm fine. I said.

* * * * * * *

Rob died of liver cancer shortly after I met him. IT was only a year of friendship.

We used to watch wheel of fortune and jeopardy together, early morning.

I visited him a lot in his final days.

He was flewn to Boston, for extreme liver complications, and died in his hospital room.

* * * * * * * *

"Mom."

I said.

Smoking nothing but tobacco, and drinking whiskey.

"I want to go to rehab."

She listened.

"Okay." She said.

* * * * * * *

I was sent to Northern Maine, in a place known as "The Farm" toward the end of 2014, well-after the 2012 days, and I confessed everything.

My sister drove me.

When I got there, I had so many books packed I could hardly lift my bags.

I got out of the car, and quietly subdued myself to the overwatching residents, who were all smoking cigarettes in the driveway.

I played a lot of F-note guitar there, tuned to 448 hertz.

448 hertz is the "truth frequency" -- the "brow chakra" frequency, and helps activate your honesty.


I hated how one day, I was so grateful to be alive, with no addictions, that I said, to this miserable bitch at the rehab, that, "That Root Beer Popsicle" was the highlight of my day. "That's depressing." She said, and I just whined inside of my mind.

* * * * * * *

When I got out of rehab, I avoided drugs and alcohol for a long time.

Then I started partying again.

* * * * * * * 

Josh would steal weed from me.

Will would lie to me.

His girlfriend became crass.

Townie's ignored me.

And I had trouble getting weed, for the first time in my life..

I had to special order it from this sketchy gangster-ish dude, "Anderson" and he was always disrespectful towards me.

* * * * * * *

It was my second time in rehab.

* * * * * * *

I wanted to prove myself, as a songwriter.

Finally, I got with Jess.

The hottest chick in town ..

She knew I was thirty, and for some reason favored me due to my maturity. I think she found out I was a hacker, also.

She had great plans.

Wanted to start a record label.

Publish my CD's.

Start a revolutionary movement in music.

God, I loved her.

* * * * * * *

It was post-2012 now.

The party had ended.

I was now doing my best to befriend the neo-nazi "craigslist" ad known as so-and-so, who had shotguns and machine guns all over his walls, centered by a confederate flag.

Very coolly, I said, "Do you carry a piece on you..?"

And he removed from his belt a large .45 onto the table.

I picked it up, right away, and said, "Now that is a gun."

And set it back down, him totally unbeknownst to how much I hate guns.

"You know what you need..?" (In the revolution)..?

"An M6."

He handed me a big assault rifle, and I held it, muzzle-pointed down, while Jess could see me.

She cut her face several times in what she called a "blood ritual" -- very bad marks above her eye, and slashed her face a lot.

Then she ran off to a Southern part of the United States, where she was nearly raped.

Returned to me, and asked if I wanted to get married.

I said "Yes" and then she cheated on me with a hacker known as Sean Merchant.

(Real name included for vindication purposes).

She outcried, "I can't believe I sucked his dick."

At the time, me and Jess were very close.

I went to my parents bedroom, and in nice words, said, "I think Jess is not well."

"I think she needs to be taken to the hospital."

My dad loaded her into the truck, and under my manipulation, she was driven to the emergency room, looking like a fool.

* * * * * * *

I never saw Brando again.

I never saw a lot of the people from 2012, ever again.

From all the whiskey, and herb, and drugs, I didn't miss any of them.

It was a tragic time in human history.

The "hour of the hippie's giving up."

I saw no hope in the future, back then.

* * * * * * *

Super-Terrestrials, my book, echoed back to me sometimes, but I slowly deleted each text file of the manuscript.

"This is not evolution," I exclaimed once.

To myself, alone.

Fucked up on sedatives, terrified by Seroquel.

The last words I remember, are from Andy (Abel).

"Yeah. But now that you've been to the hospital, no one will want to listen to your music anymore."

I looked down, and kind of accepted the words.

* * * * * * *
* * * * * * * 
* * * * * * *

In the end, going out with Jess was the highlight of my early life.

Sex with her was great.

I smoked the greatest weed in the world and I don't regret it.

That 2012 shit was amazing.

I only did a few other things, but I mosly stuck to the beer + weed habit, and chilled out most of the time.

Wesley has been arrested for child pornography downloaded to his computer.

And Josh was eventually arrested for "public drunkenness."

Jess truly "did" go to the hospital, eventually, and it is reported she was submitted to the Acadia hospital eventually, for three weeks.

(Now known as the Northern Lights hospital).

I don't regret writing this story.

And I don't regret admitting, that I think our spirituality in America is flawed.

You all seem to suffer from a collective christ complex.


You all think you're the greatest,

When there is only "one" greatest amongst all of you.


- Brendan Lee Sprague