T.F.N. (Too Fucking Nice)

Alright enough with the pondering of existence. We have established that there ain't that much to ponder. Let's a do a little Josh-Life-Update. What I'm working on and why nothing's working out. Let's call it T.F.N. as in Too Fucking Nice as in Josh is Too Fucking Nice.

I quit my job and started another one. I put in my 2 week notice, you know, typical process. It is over 4 weeks later and I'm still here. Slogging at my old job while I balance shifts at my new job. 14 hour days are really amazing things but don't need to be experienced consecutively. I could have just quit and walked out. Had a short, easy going vacation and started my new job. No, instead I offered my services in finishing all my tasks and training a replacement. See? Too Fucking Nice. The funniest part is...I'm still fucking here! Right now! Being Too Fucking Nice. Saying "Yes I will do whatever you need" as I barely keep my brain awake.

Here's another scenario. A friend visits me, one of those "I'm absolutely in love with you but there's nothing I can do about it since we're friends" deals and I spend 4 or 5 days playing host and what not. All fun and games. For anyone who has been in that situation it's like getting punched in the stomach every hour, on the hour. Just absolute powerlessness. Your ego fights back by making you think you can will yourself into someone's romantic favor. But you never can. I've tried 9,834,372,000 times. It never works. You continue to make yourself available, helpful and generally wonderful to this person. Too Fucking Nice. The girl runs off with some piece of shit and I wake up with a bargain bin discount chick I picked up at a bar. Wax on, wax off. Too Fucking Nice.

Then friends of mine hilariously think of me as a 'terrible person' for some of my less reputable actions. Because that's what I show. They never see the long days of work, the dedication to my music, the discipline in my diet and exercise routines, the time I spend talking to people about their personal problems and legitimately helping them out with advice, the genuine love I feel for someone. No one sees that. My brain tells me "Josh, you're Too Fucking Nice" but all anyone else knows is my cartoony disposition. This would be fine if one day I get buried in a cartoon coffin in a cartoon cemetary but I won't. I get buried in a real one. Because I'm a real fucking person.

And I'm Too Fucking Nice.

Accidentally Here for No Reason

The human condition is something we all struggle with. Nothing makes sense, bad things happen to good people, suffering is abundant and it never seems to change. We invent platitudes like "Gotta have the sour to enjoy the sweet" and continue on our merry way. What is even more disheartening is that you can't prepare yourself for the violent ramifications of existence. Nor can you try to help anyone else. You are forced, in your sacred first person perspective, to withstand infinite punishment without the benefit of explanation or compensation. We have named this tedious process 'life' and made ourselves believe that it should be cherished. Oh, silly human condition.

As I stated, you cannot prepare yourself for this experience. Education means nothing - words, history. math and science are glorified hobbies when put up against the universe. No clever wisdom will shine a light on your mundane humanity and no learned lessons will be of any good to your children and their children. Like getting attacked by a shark, it is impossible to imagine the situation accurately without being - you know - attacked by a shark. Thus, you and the rest of reality are thrust into the great unknown, learning the limits ourselves (physically, mentally) little by little with each consecutive deliverance of pain upon our being.

In this sad state of affairs, illusions are absolutely necessary. Religion works as a great pacification tool but things like love and wealth fall into the same category. A human being fulfills its needs for food and shelter. Then it moves onto the next. This is part of that infinite process. One million unanswered prayers doesn't stop that one millionth and one prayer from being made. A dozen broken hearts doesn't stop the romantic. A string of bad business ventures doesn't distract the entrepreneur from his next scheme. It is ingrained in the human condition to carry on despite the very obvious lack of reason. There's no grand goal or finish line. There is only ebb and flow, high tide and low tide. With full understanding of this absurdity in tow, death seems to be the obvious punchline to this cosmic joke.

I guess we'll have to dig up Edgar Allan Poe to see if he's laughing.

Guess who's holding the dynamite?

I quit that fucking job.

So here we go again, Universe. You, me and the infinite.

Your move, fucker.

Nice to meet you, Annihilation

I'm sitting at work right now.

Bored.

Contemplating.

I'm fairly convinced that even though things have been shitty for a while now, they are about to get a lot worse. Like burning alive but still flinching because someone is about to stab you. It would be nice if all this punishment would somehow cancel each other out. Then I could return to some sort of normal state. Not the case, however. It's going to continue in this aggressively unremarkable style. The only fashion sense reality seems to know. I wish the knife would push in and we could get this all over with. At least that would be dramatic and somewhat glorious.

Instead all I get is death by average. A long assembly line of death by average. Genocide by average if you will. Mediocrity, obscurity and absurdity. With a splash of unwarranted disappointment. Because you should have never expected anything more in the first place.

I have band practice tonight. That's comforting. It's been too long and I've got a lot to say.

Who needs re-runs when you got the box set?

I live in an infinite loop of insanity where the same behaviors get repeated and beget the same horrible consequences. A never ending loop of two fun-house mirrors facing each other. Each additional dimension more warped than the one before. 5 years ago may as well be 5 years from now. It is terrifying in concept but absolute madness in reality. A cancerous blob that absorbs all my new life experiences and twists them into the same counterproductive mass of spiritual waste. I am driving down a road and I keep passing the same mailbox. I cannot move forward. I cannot pass Go. I cannot collect 200 dollars. It is a living, breathing malevolence that wraps itself around my shoulders like an albatross. I have to make myself laugh to block out its laughter. That of which follows me into my dreams and snickers as I visualize realities of progression and accomplishment. I then wake to its sour breath of morning, where all potential has been exterminated. I repeat this cycle everyday. Like my own personal Flying Dutchman, sailing the high seas of oblivion.

It is a waking fucking nightmare.

Perfect Rendezvous

Another poem - you still are not allowed to laugh.
--------------------

"Perfect Rendezvous"

She was supposed to meet me at 10:30

She didn't

I knew she wouldn't

but I spent my money

and showed up

and waited

because I knew she wouldn't
and I like being right

She was supposed to meet me
the next night

She didn't

She was supposed to meet me
in New York

She didn't

She was supposed to meet me
at the altar

She didn't

I showed up
I waited

because I like being right

I'm always right

it's easy

when everybody else
isn't me

and their words

could be folded up

like paper airplanes

and sent into the breeze

blowing around

with leaves and spiders

and other things

that carry no weight

except poison

She was supposed to meet me again
somewhere

I think it was tonight

or tomorrow

or yesterday

I don't remember

It doesn't matter

maybe she can spend some money

and show up

and wait

Then I could do her the favor

of making her feel

like she was right

everybody deserves

to be right

for once
but that isn't her
because she isn't me
and she can't make
a promise
worth keeping
or an explanation
I'd ever believe

so somewhere tonight
a table will stay empty
a waiter won't get annoyed
with my complicated order
and a busboy
won't have to mop up
a spilled glass of wine
and other patrons
won't be annoyed
by an obnoxious
conversation
she'll get to stay at home
making up stories
I'll stay at home
waiting to hear them

she won't have
to apologize this time
because somewhere
there is a table
that stayed empty
and quiet
where two people
never appeared
and a perfect
rendezvous
was finally
achieved

at a table somewhere
empty
and quiet
like me

Last Rites for Those Who Died Laughing

If the best art comes from suffering, then as an artist I am sort of an 'ambassador of suffering'. I get to remind you of the worst day of your life - then sing a song about it. This pleases me immensely. I couldn't think of a better occupation. Ambassador of suffering. Here to dispel crooked wisdom through cynical prose and the vibration of rusty metal strings. The best part is that if I do it really well, you'll cheer for me. You'll cheer for your own battered experiences, bitterness and plague of insecurities. I'll hand you a general admission ticket to your own personal hell and you'll try to get as close to the stage as possible.

Because that means I must be making good art.

And good art comes from suffering.

But you wouldn't know that.

If you weren't suffering.

Haha.