We will cut open the notches between your toes, so that you may bleed into your footprints. We will cut open the skin behind your elbows and the skin behind your knees. We will burn you alive. When you perish, we will resurrect you, so that we may burn you again. You will chew on rocks. You will behold the slaying of mammals of all descriptions. You will hear a shrill squeal that never changes. You will be humilated and rejected by all. Your body will sprout tumors. You will live your life at gunpoint. You’ll get used to it.

In hate, as in love, you were always lackluster. Lacking direction. Since you could never properly hate the man, you decided to love him in the most painful way possible. It was never easy. For either of you. You can’t live on passion. You never got a chance to recharge. You were bound to get crazy, or, worse yet, boring. But you stuck it out. You brought the pain, more and more of it. When the explosion finally happened, you were torn apart by the flying debris. Which didn’t keep you from celebrating. You never did want to be comfortable.

Talk to my kids? That’s all you got? You try talking to my kids. I don’t even talk. I just listen. The girl goes on about, oh!, the pain, the boredom… “I don’t know what to do with my life. I know I should do something interesting. I guess I’m not interesting enough to be interesting. I should just jump off a building, or into a lake, or a volcano…” She goes on like this. What the fuck am I supposed to tell her? I don’t have answers. I don’t even have time for this shit. Then come the waterworks.

I will not be there. Not this time. Not the next time. Not ever. I’m not interested in anything you’re doing, or anything any of your friends is doing. I don’t want to hang out. Not in your living room. Not in a bar or at a show. Leave me alone. I don’t want to be involved with whatever game you’re playing this week. I don’t want to make small talk. I can’t look in your eyes or listen to your voice long enough to figure out what you’re talking about. Forget you ever knew me. Forget I ever tried.

Super Bowl Sunday. The Bears lost about an hour ago. It’s cold, well below zero, so cold you can see it through the windshield. The pipes froze last night. The landlord couldn’t get anyone out to fix them. A car pulls halfway into a left turn, then stops, blocking traffic. At this point, the left turn signal ignites. I’d wager that more drunken drivers are navigating the Chicagoland streets tonight than on any other night except maybe New Year’s Eve. By which I mean dangerously drunken. Nothing like a mix of drink and disappointment. I'm not drunk. I'm not driving.

Questionable. That’s how I find you. Not just a little bit questionable, either. Very questionable. Extremely. Your questionable opinions, which contradict my opinions, are deserving of serious question. In my opinion. The way I see things. I have a questioning mind, you see, and I find it essential to question received wisdom, such as the sort of stuff I receive from you. I will not be programmed by your program. To those you have programmed, I say to you, “You might consider questioning this man’s program, the underlying ideas of this program, and perhaps this man himself.” Consider yourself questioned.

You’d like to rid yourself of the habit. Ridding yourself of habits is a worthwhile pursuit in and of itself, of course. But this one in particular… You’re not sure why you keep doing this. You’re not sure how you started. You don’t get much out of it. You must get something out of it, but you can’t, at this time, imagine what. And yet, you keep doing it. You’ve done it for five years. It’s not a big part of your day, but you resent the role it plays in your memories. The opportunity cost. So stop. Just stop.

Look both ways on your way out of the kitchen. If you can’t take the cold… take solace in the kitchen. Kitchen times. Everything but the kitchen sink, and that was down for repairs that day. Three kitchenettes can sing backup for a kitchen. Or maybe they’ll be kitchens themselves someday, if they build a little character, if they’re not afraid of some good grease. Terror-sniffing dogs in the kitchen. If there’s terror in that kitchen, those dogs will find it. Or maybe that can sniff out illegals. Terror is where you find it. Learn and practice kitchen safety.

I’m leaving. Please listen for the phones. I’m leaving. Please help answer the phones. I’m LEAVing. Please listen for the phones. I’m LEAVing. Please listen for the phones. I’m leaving. Please help answer the phones. I’m LEAVing. Please help answer the phones. I’m leaving. Please listen for the phones. I’m leaving. Please help answer the phones. I’m LEAVing. Please listen for the phones. I’m leaving. Please help answer the phones. I’m LEAVing. Please help answer the phones. So. That’s it, I guess. If anything happens to me, please listen for the phones. Bye. Wipe your feet on the way out.

So this is a movie about making movies. Kind of like a movie within a movie. Right? And that’s all fine and good. I have no problem with movies within movies per se. But isn’t it a little early in the day for this? Didn’t we maybe skip a few steps as a species? Like curing cancer. Or dividing by zero. Right? This kid has a fog machine inside a pumpkin in his basement, and still doesn’t have any friends. Loser. Right? If you follow music, you’ll know that Leif Garret’s groupies were referred to as the Leif Blowers. Right?

You can date a bike by the serial number. If it starts with “AK,” the bike was made in January of 1974. “A” is for January, the first month. “K” is the 14th letter of the alphabet, which represents 1974. I had this explained to me for my role as a creepy, technically focused assistant in a film. I don’t quite understand it, but it was my job to play a character that does, so I did my best. My best is always the best I can do. You can look it up, if it’s something you think you’ll use.

As it is. As it does. As it stands. As it lays. As it happens. As it goes. As it thinks. As it dreams. As it grows. As it moves. As it sings. As it drones. As it falls. As it plays. As it sinks. As it stays. As it remains. As it will. As it did. As it always will be. As it follows. As it leads. As it progresses. As it won’t. As it didn’t. As it doesn’t. As it never will. As it can. As it cannot. As it wants to. As it needs to. As is.

It wasn’t a fight, exactly. I wouldn’t call it a fight. Not that that justifies it. I was drunk. Doped. Stupefied, oblivious. I found you sitting in a bar. Hanging with your people. I pulled your chair out. Right out from under you. You hit the floor. I walked out like an asshole. You were an intense, intelligent guy. I liked, respected and feared you. I didn’t want to piss you off. When I did, I wanted to get one-up on you. It’s late in the game now, and you seem to have forgiven me anyway. But I do apologize.

A large percentage of projects fail. Particularly if you count the ones that never properly materialize. And particularly if you give the momentarily successful ones, the ones that do come together and run for a while, enough time. So there’s no shame in giving up. Sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes physics says no. Take a breather. Drop it. Let it die. Save your strength for spring cleaning. It was fun for a time. It isn’t worth the effort anymore. Kick back. Watch someone else succeed. All the good ideas have been had. We all knew you would fuck it up.

They won’t stop fucking with this one kid, this kid they call Smiley. Hard to figure. He’s agonizingly friendly. He was the first kid that talked to you. You didn’t know anyone. All the other kids acted as though they’d been chums since the nursery. Except Smiley. He came right up and talked to you. About… a bunch of dork shit you’d never heard of and didn’t care about. But he talked to you all the same. You were cool with the other kids. You weren’t really part of their dynamic. They let you be. But they gave Smiley hell.

There are things that I know. There are many other things that I do not know. There are things I have always known. There are things that I have learned in time. In time, I have learned, and come to accept, that there will be some things I will never know, for no man can know everything, not even the depths of his own ignorance. But I have found that to know some of what one knows, and to have some understanding of what one does not know… this is the noblest objective of a human life. To know knowing.

I have constructed a lifestyle based on the denial of my baser instincts. I don’t fuck. I don’t jerk off. I don’t take any poison into my body that might have pleasant effects. I wash my hands constantly, unless they’re really filthy and there’s a piece of peeled fruit I’m supposed to eat, in which case I just go for it. When I get angry, I don’t yell. When I desire someone’s affection, I think of the most insulting thing I could say to that person, and I yell that. I only sleep when I’m not tired. I hallucinate constantly.

Oh, help me, Jesus. Somebody needs you tonight. Oh, heavenly father. Someone out there is sick, Lord. Someone is lonely. Someone needs your blessing. Someone needs your heavenly wisdom. Look down on me, Father. Hear what I’m saying to you, Lord. People are trying to get food on their table. People are trying to make their dreams come true. People are trying to get out of the wrong lives. People are trying to pick themselves and their families up from the wickedness, Lord. Look down on the sick and the hungry. Look down on the sad and the lonely, Lord.

You take all the people, you round them up, and you give them an IQ test. The ones that don’t pass – you want the bar pretty high, understand – you sterilize the bastards. That’ll cut down on your garbage right there. Then you put the dry ones in work camps. Matching uniforms, everything. Make them pick up the garbage that’s out there, and give them some dynamite, and they can blow it up, the garbage. That’ll get rid of it. Maybe one will get mad and hit another one over the head with something. Cut the other one’s IQ in half.

You should’ve known better, dude. Some people are cool and some aren’t. Some are leaders and some are followers. And some are just fucking fags. But they all have one thing in common. They were born the way they are, the way they’ll always be, and there’s nothing they can do about it except for acceptance. But look at you, dude. You walked into an space where you couldn’t hang. You did something you didn’t know how to do. You fucked up. And we’re all laughing. People you don’t even know are laughing. But you still don’t get it. Fag.

The soda machine buzzes away, mixing with the faint hum of the fluorescents. “I’m going to have to think about it. I think I have. I don’t remember specifically.” Two quarters slide into the machine, followed by a dime. “There was a blonde, a natural blonde, who was dyed black at the time. You couldn’t really see the fuzz at all, down there. You could feel it, but you couldn’t really see it.” An aluminum can filled with sugar water clunks through the chute. “And there was one girl who was dyed blonde at the time. Sure, I’ve fucked blondes.”

Choice. Choices. Decisions. Decision-making. Decisions not yet made. Fuck ‘em. Fuck it all. I don’t want choices. I don’t want to make up my mind. All this shit, all this great buffet of choices, is just MORE SHIT I GOTTA DO. I don’t want to decide. I don’t want to choose not to decide, and still have made a choice. Give me a PROGRAM. Every day the same. Every day, the same thing at every hour. Nothing ever happens except on the hours and the 30s. I’m TIRED. I’m TIRED ALL THE TIME. I don’t want to ask for anything.

$200 says you have no idea what I’m thinking about… now. But it doesn’t matter a lick, now does it? Go wild. Fuck in Mama’s living room. There’s only one thing that feels better than burning up the dance floor, and that’s a rugburn, or better yet a bunchov ‘em. (“Baby’s On Fire” indeed.) So grab that. Smack that. Eat it up raw. Grow old rememberin’ all the good hot poony-oon you saw. Yeah-uh. Yeah? Uh, yes? No. I… I’m not sure what happened to that. I apologize. I’ll make sure it’s righted. Sorry. Of course. Thank you.

“Hey there.” “Hey. How you doin’.” “You’re welcome to go in and have a look around. We have some films…” “Thanks.” “My name’s Joe.” “My name’s, uh, Emerson.” “Am-ah-ur-sen?” “I had nothing to do with it.” “Right. Totally not your call.” I never had a nickname that stuck. I never wanted one. Everybody gets one name before anybody gets two. Snow still coming down. Did you catch the thunder and lightning? Depends. Sometimes they’ll throw the book at you, just to make an example of you. Sometimes the arresting officer won’t show up, and you’ll walk, after you basically confessed.

Party at your place, winding down. It’s me, my ride, you and her. The two of us are about to leave. The two of you are both depantsed, and you’re eating her crotch through her American flag panties. Pretty rich, right? And then, then you go and throw out the word RAPE, like you always do, as a joke or as a declaration of your big metaphor, your prism for human existence. She winces, pulls her pants up and gets a ride home from us. You call the next morning, remembering nothing, a weak man at his own dubious mercy.

HELP ME GET AWAY. Buy me a ticket to Tokyo. Give me a ride to the airport. Give me a sheet of acid. Don’t fuck up and laminate it. Give me a ride to San Jose. Or psych me up to hitchhike. Introduce me to new things, ideas. Introduce me to new people. Kidnap me. Push me out of a plane, over the ocean. Step on my foot. Hit the in the face. Talk shit about something I believe in. Suck me off. Jerk me off. Give me something interesting to think about. Save me some trouble. Get into it.

Another pulled playing card. Before it was one. Cats and other animals. Drunk on his influence. Estimates high and low. Forgotten simulations of ponds. Go and do likewise. Hate to see it. Igloos, icicles and what-not. Jelly and peanut butter. Kilowatts of raw boredom. Limited to first takers. Mint condition school hubcaps. Nowhere to start again. Ovaries pierced and tatted. Perform for us, goddamnit. Quick one, Ashley, baby. Reload and ask again. Superimposed pictures of cages. Try me, you asshole. Underwater surveillance continues apace. Very crunchy peanut shells. Water the grass, boy. You’re on your own. Zip! Zap! Zounds! Hooray!

A conflicted passion for order and regimentation. Early viewing of goofy comedies. A preference for camaraderie over solipsism. A surge of blood to the brain had after doing pushups. A raging erection had while shooting a firearm. A desire to inspire simultaneous admiration and turmoil in loved ones. A belief that there just has to be a correct way of doing things. A deferred dream of dying in a space shuttle explosion. A deferred dream of being a cop. Residual self-hatred as an indirect result of accidentally setting the alarm for 6:45 PM. A belief that there are no accidents.