Resetting The Pins

The Gonzo Journals

May 16th, 2023

I thought this was a proper title for today’s journal. Life is like a busy bowling alley. No matter how many times you set up the pins, the ball is ALWAYS rolling toward you. Also, there are times when the shoe guy gets bogged down and you must wear someone else’s stinky offerings without a shot of disinfectant. That’s called walking around in a stranger’s funk. Get used to it. I believe Twitter was built on that principle.

So, here’s to another Tuesday:

Kid at school? Check.

Coffee in hand? Check.

Chocolate donut eaten? Check.

Hognose snake doing laps behind me? Check.

Squeaky cat begging for shredded cheese? Check, but why?

I managed to buy a rather expensive light gun from Sweden or Finland or one of those other countries over there who charge a lot for shipping. Now my arcade cabinet can play games like Operation Wolf, and I never have to leave my house. I’m running out of reasons to look out my window, folks. Humanity is in the process of tuning my last nerves and I feel a power chord on the horizon.

I haven’t exploded yet with all the crazy things going on over the past month or so. That is how my life has always worked. I’ll be passive for months, sometimes even years, and let it all build up. Then, in a fit of hopelessness, I break down and cry for a few minutes. It’s within those few minutes that I solve my deepest conundrums. I guess if you’re a person who can make me cry, then you deserve whatever punishment is born from my sadness. Revenge is never a dish served cold in my kitchen. I prefer to dump that shit in your lap scalding hot, so you’ll feel it every time you try to pleasure yourself. Besides, thinking of me during those ‘special’ times is stomach turning. Mission accomplished.

No, it’s never a violent reaction. There’s no need to tip off the authorities because you think I’m going to lob cannon balls at your safe haven from a distance. I’m way more devious than that. I do my best work behind the scenes and play off peoples’ fears. Have you ever been doing seventy down the interstate and noticed a snake on your passenger side floorboard? Have you ever turned on your home air conditioning unit and smelled fish or human fecal matter? You’d be surprised what a crackhead will do in this day and age for fifty bucks, and you never even need to get your own hands dirty. If working for law enforcement taught me one thing, it’s how to be a better criminal. Deep dives into psychological criminal profiling courses and military anti-terrorism training gave me some great ideas at the time. Sure, I’d never do anything to physically harm anyone, but that mental playground resulting in a very public black eye is fair game in my book. Most of all, I get a good laugh out of their misfortunes. I mean, if you can’t get a chuckle out of the game, what’s the point of playing?

I guess what I’m trying to say is that the vehicle known as my mind is slowing down. I can see the barricades ahead through the fog and there’s no one officially there to move them out of the way. I have no choice but to plow right through in a show of IDGAF dominance. In the immortal words of Anakin Skywalker, “this is where the fun begins.”

I have enough leads to make a solid guess regarding who is responsible for my latest misfortunes, and I’ll bide my time. After all, being unemployed has given me many moments to ponder, plan, and placate myself into being a better person once again. All I need to do is transfer portions of my mental anguish onto someone more deserving. Someone who’s gotten away with more bullshit over the last decade than they deserve.

The original plan was to be passive and allow them to self-destruct on their own. Eventually, these people or this person should be able to move on, giving me the freedom to grow professionally and live harmoniously. They have yet to do so regardless of how I’ve allowed them to live out their lives or life worry free when taking my vengeful tendencies into consideration. Now, I must reach down into the cellar known as my dark heart and wake the gimp. My inner asshole is channeling Marsellus Wallace. We, he and I, are about to get medieval on that ass.

If life is a bowling lane, and my adversaries are the pins, then that would make me the inevitable ball inching ever closer to the quaking Maple beneath the pin setters. In the end, who will be lucky enough to finger my holes and set me free in the direction of my enemies? Time will tell, with no warnings and no quarter.

Of course, all this means is that I’ll write a rather drawn-out story and torture my nemesis within. What? Did you think I would actually go and physically do something harmful to a fellow human? As joyous and fulfilling as that sounds, it’s illegal by both man’s laws and the laws of my maker. Pagan traditions normally imply that harm shall be returned upon me threefold, and I don’t need three times the bullshit landing back in my lap.

No, I’ll just kill them in a literary sense, and then sell it to the public for $12.99 a pop. I’ll take that money, in turn, and buy happiness. Weed, videogames, movies, sex toys, pets, food, hockey tickets, festival passes, and gasoline for my truck to make it all happen. As complicated as I may seem from time to time, I’m actually a pretty simple guy. I prefer to love and live without negative interruptions. I talk a big game in hopes it is taken out of context by those who are too stupid to keep reading until the end. We live in a ‘headline’ society, after all. Now, most people think I’ve suddenly taken an interest in bowling.

Fucking never.

Today, I begin drafting my next story titled “Your Mom Is a Loose Article” for the 666 Flags anthology. I’m going to destroy them all, one page at a time. It’s beautifully orgasmic.

Peace.