Disjointed, Incoherent Rambling Has No Expiration Date… But It May Go Sour…

It’s been almost a year since my electric bike got stolen, but I still haven’t replaced it. Forking out the dinero for a new one was never the issue. As much as I loved riding that thing around, I opted to buy a smaller and lighter folding bike I could store on my boat, without worry that some opportunist douchebag with sticky fingers was perpetually hiding in the bushes.

Another motivation to shun the powered bike had to do with ramping up my level of fitness. Since I’ve been riding my non-electrified, 30-speed machine around, I’ve definitely noticed an increase in leg-strength and lung capacity. There’s no real way to get around the hilly areas where I live, so I suck it up peddle hard, pushing personal boundaries every day.

At the beginning, I miserably begrudged not having the ease and speed my electric goddess provided to boot around. But I learned to quickly dismiss those feelings, reacquainting myself once again with enjoying whatever journey I was on. Pedalling through the woods on my path back and forth to my sailboat has reminded me to slow down and appreciate the moment.

I could have bought a car for convenience, but I didn’t. I could have bought another electric bike to get me where I wanted to go faster, but I didn’t. And even though I do have a new bicycle, I find myself walking around now more than ever. Not because I’m afraid of pedalling up big hills, but because I’ve missed far too much scenery and oddball shit while constantly rushing from point A to point B.

As I was biking back from the grocery store today at a slow and lazy pace, I passed two kids who were playing in their front yard. One was holding a rake, and the other a shovel. They were laughing themselves silly, and I’m pretty sure garden work had nothing to do with their folly. They were lost in their imaginations, with nary a thought about owning a car, getting a job, or what the next pressing thing on their daily agenda was.

That scene brought me back to simpler days — days where waking up and having fun were the only things that mattered. Imagination was king. If I was in church, I’d be having light-sabre duels with Darth Vader on top of the massive chandelier. If I was riding the school bus, I’d picture myself following beside on a motorcycle, jumping the fruit stands and parked cars like a maniacal Evil Knievel. Whatever drudgery or routine was presented before me, I always found a happy place in my mind to explore crazy fantasies. Being a kid rocked!

I just got back from the beach, and recalled a goofy thing I shared with my buddy the other day — sailing is utilitarian. It’s like camping — I don’t have a hard-on for sleeping in a tent, I just want to use it as a means to live freely and simply.

But I realized the error of my sentiment as I sat watching a small triangle float on the horizon while the sun went down today — I want to be doing what they’re doing! Sailing isn’t akin to owning a car or a bike or trekking through the woods. It’s a reckless adventure into the unknown, facing fear head-on, knowing Mother Nature could kick your ass at any given moment.

So what the fuck am I doing? I live on my boat, yet I spend more time writing than sailing. Shame on me. I don’t need a contrived destination to inspire me, all I need is the thrill of wandering. That’s the shit I love. New ports be damned, all I need to do is raise my rag to appreciate the magic of the moment at hand.

So now I have to look at the mess around me again. Sailing on a whim doesn’t work when you’ve got shit everywhere. How did I let my personal world get so cluttered? An hour to clean up, but in twenty minutes I’ve trashed the place again. What the fuck does that say about the nature of my mind?

Probably something I don’t want to admit — I’m scattered. Disorganized, sloppy, and cluttered. I haven’t even come close to simplifying my life as much as I’ve led myself to believe. There’s shit everywhere, and I probably don’t need 90 percent of it.

But that realization isn’t grounds for self-admonishment, its inspiration to pare things down even further. What was that line from Fight Club I quoted in a previous post?

Oh yeah…

The things you own end up owning you.

True enough.

It brings me back to walking again. Even though I had a 45-pound pack on my back trekking through Central America, I felt liberated. If I could get that pack down to, oh I don’t know, let’s say, zero fucking pounds, who knows what adventures would await?

Would that make me a “bum?” Quite possibly. Or would that provide me with a freedom and opportunity I haven’t yet had the balls to explore — knowing no safety net existed for survival. No guarantees on comfort, security, or a blow job at the end of the day.

Perhaps that’s where true freedom lies.

If that idea doesn’t work out, I still know where to find a good shopping cart. And I love talking to myself out loud, while wearing gloves with the finger ends cut out. As a bum, I’d probably put those other homeless motherfuckers to shame with my insane verbal ramblings.

Kinda like this written shit I’m engaged in right now.

Hmm. There’s a good chance this writing has run away badly on me.

Meh.

Probably something to do with my scatterbrain issue.

The delete button is here somewhere.

I just can’t find it at the moment…

Life Lessons Learned From Winged Assholes

As I sit here typing, I find myself repeatedly yelling like a full-blown psychopath at the flies that keep landing on my legs.

Fuck off already!!

What’s the deal? If a giant animal swatted at me even once with wild aggression, I’d get the fuck out of the situation as quickly as possible. But no, not these fuckers. It’s like some sick twisted game of petty torment. I can practically hear them saying, “Haha, can’t catch me, motherfucker!”

Flies tend to land on shit a lot, which doesn’t do much to bolster my self-esteem. But they also have a predilection for the sweet things in life. At this point, I could be either one. Or maybe I’m the new version of sweet and sour sauce — except I’m sweet and shitty. The perfect dip for MSG-laden chicken chunks, deep-fried by Mr. Pong down the road.

I have a tendency to overthink pretty much every bit of information my feeble brain tries to process, and the lives of flies are no different when it comes to my obsessive-compulsive analysis. I’ve definitely noticed patterns while observing my irritating boat buddies, but there’s one major question that continues to resurface in my noodle every time these cocksuckers try fornicating on my feet…

If you’ve been gifted with the ability to fly anywhere in the world, on any given whim, why the fuck would you spend your life in the equivalent of a small cave?

It makes me sad — mostly because I’ve come to the realization that the flies around me aren’t much different from humans when it comes to basic behaviour…

They tend to rest when it gets dark. They wake up and start buzzing when daylight breaks. They have times of constant activity, and times where they land on their asses and do nothing. They like to fuck a lot. And despite having a giant open door always available to them to explore new possibilities, they choose to stick close to home. In fact, the giant portal to freedom — that is never more than a 5-second flight away — seems to be shunned, as if fear of the unknown were the driving force to live and die in a solitary location.

I can’t say for certain why an animal does what it does, but the basics seem to be fairly consistent across the board. The formulala rolls something like this:

Find a comfy spot where you can wile your life away eating, sleeping, and fucking. Raise some little ones, and teach them what you know. Step and repeat.

Perhaps my underlying unhappiness with society comes down to an inability to conform to the traditional paradigm…

A steady job doesn’t fill me with security, it makes me feel imprisoned.

Routine doesn’t comfort me, it fills my heart with longing for something new.

Beliefs don’t soothe me, because I know they’ll always fall by the wayside whenever new information is gleaned.

Meh. I didn’t intend to do any whining here, but the deed is done.

My fly buddies may have glorious wings attached to their bodies, but I’ll always be the one with bigger balls. Maybe they came into my life to remind me how much I love stepping through those unknown portals. Opportunity is always there, for each and every one of us. We just need to ditch our programmed mentalities of sheeping in the pasture, and go explore without the worry of consent from some asshole holding a staff.

Thanks for the insight flies, now please, buzz the fuck off.

Happy Anniversary, Happy Happy Anniversary…

There are many times in life where it seems like we’re spinning our wheels. The mud is deep, our two-wheel-drive junker sucks ass, and there’s not a soul in sight to give us a desperate push out of the muck.

But those moments are nothing more than fleeting perspectives.

If we stop to take a few seconds to reflect upon how far we’ve come along in our unique journeys, we might find ourselves pleasantly surprised at how much progress we’ve actually made.

So lemme tell you a story…

On June 15, 2018, some moron named Michael Ciupka posted his first online writing. He was sitting at the end of his boat dock, dangling his feet in the water, and jotted down a couple thoughts in a lame-ass attempt to capture the moment.

A year has gone by since.

The moron is still writing today, and, on July 26, 2019, he decided to take stock of the stupidity he’s amassed to date.

He found himself smugly amused. Although it seemed his dreams were unfolding painfully slowly, there was much to be proud of.

Why he talked about himself repeatedly in the third person was beyond anyone’s best guess.

So enough of that.

I suck at gauging time. Although I feel like I’ve been writing all my life, this website is only a year old.

And I missed my own anniversary. Thank God Bonerfruit’s not my woman, cuz she’d be pissed at me for not buying a stupid card or something.

On that note, happy anniversary to me.

Yeah, I know, shut the fuck up you self-serving asshole.

Meh, whatever.

I didn’t plan any of this. It just sorta happened. I don’t even remember how or why I chose one day to begin compiling a book. It was never on my radar. To the best of my recollection, the catalyst was being gifted with an aging laptop.

It feels like an eternity now since Everything is Bullshit was written, but it’s only been a year and a half. BonerFruit exists because I typed a non-existant reference to it at the end of that ridiculous writing.

And now here we are.

So indulge me for a moment.

Aside from finishing some artwork, 3 books are now under my belt. The first two were about testing the waters — short and sweet (sour?) compilations that provided a much-needed learning curve. The latest absurdity, Original Sin, is a kick-ass piece I’m excited about. Editing a 400-page book is time-consuming when you don’t have lackeys working for you, but who the fuck else is gonna do this properly but me? Any editor I could hire would probably end up leaving the 47 references to “fuckwads” in the trash bin. Screw that.

Including Daily Bread, Bonerfruit has over 400 hundred postings. The word count of those writings sits at the 80,000 mark — definitely nothing to sneeze at, unless you’re allergic to the word douchebag.

Even though there have only been some 3,000 views to this site, I don’t feel discouraged in the slightest. The only way to garner any traction in this goofball reality is to keep doing what you love to do. Fame and fortune don’t mean shit. If you’re excited to wake up and take the day head-on, there’s a good chance you’ve found a path worth treading upon.

In the last year, I’ve also learned how to sail. I had the balls to jump on a plane and spend 3 months in countries where I couldn’t speak more than 20 words of the native tongue. Looking back on the last 365, I have no reason to feel ashamed.

Probably much like yourself.

Forgive my self-babble. This crux of this post is about letting you know you likely deserve a solid pat on the back. Do yourself a favour, and think back to all the cool shit you’ve achieved and experienced over the last year, no matter how small or piddly those accomplishments may have been. The list is probably far more impressive than you thought.

And then use that inspiration to keep doing the shit you truly love — to blow off the bullshit that doesn’t serve you, while constantly re-imagining bigger, grander, and crazier dreams.

Time slips by pretty fucking fast, so don’t waste it on status-quo garbage. Grab your passion by the balls — just don’t squeeze with too much aggression. A little massaging and tickling will always serve you better than a painful clench.

There’s a “suck my balls” joke in there somewhere, but I’m not seeing it at the moment.

Meh, no worries. That’s what Daily Bread is for.

Rock on, friends.

I’m proud of you.

Mikey’s Top 5 of the Day

As I’ve been analyzing other blogs over the last few months, I noticed there seems to be a lot of posts out there formulated into lists. I guess David Letterman had far more influence on our stupid society than I realized. Everywhere I turn, I find shit like The Top 10 Ways to Build Self-Confidence, 5 Tips to Land Your Dream Job, or 12 Reasons Why Everyone Should Consider Fucking a Goat.

For the most part, the writing is pure shit, and loaded with obvious, common-sense advice that isn’t worth wasting 5 minutes perusing. It’s pretty sad when the number of ads outweighs the words of wisdom.

But in the spirit of attracting a wider audience to the BonerFruit fun, we’re going to try putting a bit of self-help guidance together today using the listing technique. And we’re going to try using some advertising as well for the first time here. Society loves a formula, so who am I to argue?

Today’s Topic?

The Top 5 Ways to Determine if a Top 10 List Was Written by a Douchebag

Snappy title, eh?

We’ll do it in reverse order to build the suspense. The anticipation probably already has you jizzing your pants.

Here we go…

Reason the Fifth — They Sell the Shit They’re Praising

Yeah, not too much conflict of interest there, asshole. A thousand-word essay touting the benefits of organic spirulina, and the fortunate coincidence of you selling the “best” brand in your online store. Guess what, fuckface? Infomercials have been pulling that same con long since before you learned to shit your diapers, so do me a favour, and fuck off.

Douchebag!

Reason the Fourth — About the Author

10 Tips on Building a Successful Marriage, written by some twat who mentions in the first line of her bio that she’s the proud mom of two dogs. Hmm, lemme take a wild guess here Angie — there ain’t no weddin’ ring hangin’ off your finger. If your fabulous marriage wasn’t worthy of noting to readers — the people wondering if they should put any faith into your bullshit — perhaps time to focus your “love of writing” on topics you have a little more experience with. How about The Top Ten Ways of Determining Why Your Life is a Total Failure, or 5 Tips for Breastfeeding Chihuahuas.

Douchebag!

Reason the Third — An Obvious Lack of References

Who the hell made you king-shit to determine what ranks highest in any given category? Where are you sourcing this? Was there some kind of world-wide vote I missed out on, one only you had secret access to the results of? Why did reason 11 get left on the scrap heap over reason 10? Was it months and months of research that allowed you to compile this ultimate list, or was it half a bottle of tequila last night that provided your confidence to print your bullshit authoritative drivel?

Fuck you, Douchebag!

Reason the Second — Advertising

Here’s a good one — 10 Ways to Spend Your Money Wisely, with an advertisement linked to Amazon between each paragraph. Just a quick question here, Hemingway — how far up your ass is your head currently stuffed? That’s a topic I’d be far more interested to read about, not the copy and paste shit you put together between phone calls to mommy asking her to lend you a few bucks to cover your rent.

Douchebag!

Reason the First — Honesty

You won’t find too much of it out there, but you’ll sure as hell get a good dose of it here. It’s easy for me to spot a douchebag for one simple reason — I’m a douchebag. I walketh in the same shoes. And when it comes to writing a list of The Top 5 Ways to Determine if a Top 10 List Was Written by a Douchebag, I believe I’ve now violated them all, solidifying my douchiness. If you seek legitimate advice, forget the pompous rhetoric of bullshit experts — track down an honest professional like me. You’ll sleep better at night, knowing your faith has been placed in good hands, no matter how sticky they may be.

About Michael Ciupka:

Michael, a published author and creator of the BonerFruit blog, has been compiling know-it-all, bullshit philosophy for a solid year now, pumping out some of the stupidest and inane babble the internet community cares nothing about. His commitment to writing “Daily Bread” has produced more worthless puns than a lobotomized Stephen Wright. His new book, Original Sin, will continue enforcing his legacy of total obscurity. Michael secretly wishes the world would fuck off and die — one of his many poor strategies to acquire fame and fortune. Subscribe to his work at Bonerfruit.com, and you’ll always have the satisfaction of deleting something mindless from your inbox. He also loves cats.

Flippin’ the Fitty Cent Piece

There’s a simple philosophy to living a kickass life that I’d like to share today. It’s an idea that stuck in my brain from some crappy movie I sat through one day while arguing vociferously with the flies who repeatedly kept landing on my body. Apparently I’m deliciously sweet, or a massive piece of shit. The jury is still out…

Although Hollywood is probably the greatest scourge on humanity when it comes to evolving the unlimited potential contained within the human-animal, every once in a while a snippet of brilliance can be gleaned from the mindlessly formulaic drivel the entertainment industry pumps out on a continuous basis.

The clip went down something like this…

Some old dude turned to a hottie at the bar, and unabashedly uttered the lamest greeting a male could proffer a potential suitor. Knowing he was way out of her prissy league, he walked over anyway, and engaged conversation. When she asked him to extrapolate the odds of him being successful in his endeavour to get into her pants, he confidently replied a bold 50/50, with an explanation…

It either happens, or it doesn’t — the odds on absolutely everything in life boil down to a 50/50 chance.

I like that.

When it comes to accomplishing anything on this wacky planet, ya pretty much just gotta go for it, no matter how wild, weird, or unrealistic your goals my be. All the fancy technologies and structural marvels that exits around us today were all probably deemed “impossible” at some point by a closed-minded douchebag lacking the ability to see anything outside his pathetic little ego-box. But the wonders exist around us nonetheless, along with a steady supply of fuckers dining on crow.

There’s one thing I know for certain when it comes to playing the odds — you have a ZERO percent chance for success when you sit on your ass and do nothing. When you dive into the game, the 50/50 thing is kinda cool — it’ll either happen for you, or it won’t, so there’s no sense in overthinking or worrying about whatever hurdles you need to surmount. A solution exists for every problem — they are facets of the same coin, forever entangled.

New adventure is always a single decision away. But talking about grandiose plans won’t do fuck all for you until you take action. When you’re scared about the boneheaded idea rattlin’ around in your noggin’, you’re probably on the right track. But if you don’t keep moving, no matter how ideal those rails may seem, there’s always the possibility of getting run over by a faster-moving train.

So I say jump onto the beaten up handcar, and start pumping away. Small progress is a lot more fun than no progress. And you never know what awaits around the next bend. Don’t let Google maps sway you — there’s a fifty-fifty chance their stupid charts are completely fucking wrong.

Go find out for yourself.

The Power of Now? How About the Power of No!

I used to work a job where it seemed my boss hardly ever showed up. There was always a “legitimate” reason of course. Illness, family emergencies, testicles caught in the leafblower, whatever. No matter how tired or overworked I was, whenever he asked me to cover a shift, I always said yes, despite my heart crying out, “Fuck no! Stop putting this on me. I never really wanted to work a day in my life to begin with, asshole, so leave me the fuck alone!”

I’ve never been very good at saying no to people, but I never really clued in how damaging it’s been to my psyche over the years.

I started a new job recently based on a simple agreement — I only work 3 days a week. Those days are on the weekend, the busiest times, and I put in 10-12 hours a shift while there. I’m still basically a full-time slave, from an hourly perspective, but I have the freedom of 4 days off a week to pursue my truer passions.

4 days off also allows me to adequately decompress from slavery. Each Friday I go back to work, I almost feel like it’s a new job, so I do my work eagerly and enthusiastically. Ultimately it’s a win-win situation for all — if there is such a way to describe engaging in menial work for stupid fucking paper dollars.

When I was asked last week to cover a Monday shift, supposedly for only 5 hours, I agreed. My bosses are hard-working people, and they wanted a day to spend at the beach with visiting family. I was happy to help.

The only problem was I didn’t bother taking a look at the schedule. Once I realized the incompetent jackasses coming in at 5 o’clock couldn’t adequately handle the dinner rush, I had no choice but to stay. A few hours of “being a nice guy,” turned into a 10-hour shift of “get me the fuck out of this building forever.”

So now it’s Thursday, and instead of feeling like I made any headway accomplishing other goals, I’m dreading the weekend. My mindset is anxious and stressed, as I feel the need to rush every single thing I want to get done today.

3 days a week off doesn’t fucking cut it for me anymore.

Before you call me I’m a whiner, and go on a rant about how you haven’t had a day off in two weeks, let me share this with you first…

I know what it’s like to put in 80-hour work weeks. I know what it’s like to sleep 5 hours a night for years on end because “shit needs to get done.” I know how to do all of it with a big smile on my face, and not a single complaint about fatigue or exhaustion. I’ve never suggested anyone “feel sorry for me” because I’ve been on my feet for 16-hours without a break.

The point of this post has nothing to do with shitty jobs or stupid responsibility.

It has to do with the power of saying “NO,” perhaps one of the most important words that gets underutilized on this planet.

We all want to be helpful. We all want to make others happy. And we all know what it’s like to be let down by someone we thought we could rely on.

But the truth of the matter is, if your heart isn’t in agreement with your mouth, the only creature who’s going to feel tormented is you.

If you wanna agree to stupid shit, then go all in. Put whatever resentments you have aside, and fucking do it. If you’re body and mind are pissed at you for being a spineless twat who gets walked all over time and time again, all you’ll end up doing is slowly destroying yourself from the inside out.

It’s easy to feel like you’ve let someone down by saying no. It’s easy to feel guilty or ashamed when putting your personal agenda first. But when you agree to something at the cost of your own sanity, on some level everyone ends up a loser, whether it’s you feeling like a victim, or the bitter, angry work you do to fulfill your verbal contract.

If I had been told a 10-hour shift was in order that day, this writing would probably not exist. I would have done it with a big smile on my face, and be done with it. It’s the feeling of being duped into something unwanted that has ultimately cheesed me off over the course of the week.

My personality has been conditioned over the years to say yes to everyone — anytime, anywhere, whatever they need. It took a lifetime to realize that always trying to be a “dependable” guy has filled my soul with a lot of ragey bitterness.

I truly do want to be of service to others in need, but I also realize that I don’t respect people who can’t follow through with the commitments they’ve made, always pawning shit on suckers like me. I guess I’m still a judgmental asshole, quel surpise.

We all need a hand from time to time, and there’s no shame in asking for help. But only do it when no other option seems possible. Helping is much more fun when you can do it for someone truly in need — when you can go all in to make their situation better, with nary a thought of being deprived of personal time.

For the rest of us doormats, try practicing this word from time to time, and maybe you’ll find a little more contentment within your soul, bullshit guilt be damned…

NO!

P.S. There are a few other variations to consider:

Suck my balls!

Fuck you!

Not bloody likely, asshole!

Munch my ass.

No thanks, dickwad.

Sorry, I’m busy bangin’ your mom that day.

 

I don’t know about you, but I feel more liberated already…

Planet Earth, Everyone’s Favourite Prison…

What do you do when you’re a stranger in a strange land?

Pretty simple, I guess…

You roll with the natives. Blend in. Adapt. Learn the basic customs and protocols. You make note of every major rule “normal” people conform to, and try to play their game the best you can, without rippling too much water during your learning curve.

But what if you come to the realization the new land sucks — I mean really fucking sucks? What if you’ve done your best to live amicably among the denizens, but you ultimately find their lifestyle unbearable and intolerable? What if you find yourself amongst a collective so hopelessly indoctrinated to idiotic rules, rituals, and modalities of thinking, that each day you spend with them seems like a living fucking hell?

The most obvious answer is you get the fuck out. As quickly as you can.

A simple solution, indeed, unless you’re no longer able to locate the exit door — either because you can’t remember where it is, or because it’s been intentionally hidden from you.

So you’re stuck. The only thing you can do is “make the most of it.” You tell yourself all kinds of fluffy, happy bullshit to turn your days of torment into something tolerable. You do the best you can to mitigate the pervasive insanity that no one seems to question, and try to keep your mind occupied on the little things that still put a smile on your face, while robotically trudging through your duties and responsibilities necessary for survival.

But how long can you keep it up? How long before you end up losing your fucking mind, pretending to give a shit about things that don’t excite you in the least? How many more conversations about politics and weather can you endure before considering swallowing a bullet, or taking a fifty-foot swan dive off a tall bridge?

I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’m nearing my quota…

Earth is a fascinating planet. No question about that. The physical experiences we can collect here are innumerable. There’s always something incredible waiting around the corner. The only fucking problem is that we’ve been forced into a situation that is completely unnatural to our species. We’ve built up this ridiculous construct around ourselves called society, and if we’re unwilling to play its game, we quickly become labelled outsiders, freaks, losers, whiners, manic-depressives, or a hundred other names to denote creatures dispassionate about following the herd.

Our addiction to the hoarding of paper dollars plays a big role in our collective illness. Our passions are hindered because of it, and our desires are warped by it. When someone tells me a story about working 3 jobs to save enough money for a month long vacation overseas, something in my heart screams out, “that ain’t fuckin’ right!”

How much time do we spend doing things we don’t want to do for a small window of opportunity to experience “freedom?” If you take this job, Bill, we’ll give you 2 weeks paid vacation time per year. 14 whole days, eh? Wow, sign me up! 50 weeks of annual drudgery in your piece-of-shit criminal corporation sounds like an ideal way for me to wile away my life.

If you choose to own your own business, you’re probably not even gonna get that much. Unless you’re exploiting other people for slave-wages, I guarantee an independent business won’t be providing you any greater degree of freedom from the system.

Over my formative years, I really gravitated toward art — drawing, painting, building shit, you name it. When I discovered my first airbrush, the possibilities before me seemed limitless. After 15 years of 16-hour days to build up a successful mural business, I woke one morning to learn something disconcerting — I fucking hate painting. Not because of the practice itself, but because of its attachment to money. Something I loved ended up becoming a loathsome routine for paying bills and putting food on the table.

Whenever I try to sit down to paint something these days, my entire system screams out I’m wasting my time. I’m not fast enough, not efficient enough, not good enough, and no one will give a shit about the piece at the end of the day, so why bother? None of those factors are indeed legitimate, but they’ve become entangled emotionally in my body because of all the years I’ve spent selling art for survival.

Cooking is another example. Truthfully, I fucking love it. When I lived for 6 months with my Hare Krishna buddies in Hawaii, I took over the job of cooking a giant meal for 30 or more guests every Saturday. No one asked me to do it, and no one paid me to do it — it was something I volunteered for. Though people helped out with some of the items on my ever-changing menus, I was much happier working by my lonesome. Friday night was my most exciting time of the week — planning out newer and weirder ideas to feast upon. It never felt like a chore, and I never dreaded a Saturday cooking frenzy.

Working in a kitchen here in Canada ain’t quite the same. It feels a lot like the mural thing again — rush, rush, rush, from one order to the next. It doesn’t take long for the excitement of a new menu in a new restaurant to wear off, transforming the process into a numbing routine of pumping out a product quickly and efficiently, all in the name of making a buck or two.

Opening my own restaurant isn’t even a thought I’d consider anymore. I don’t want cooking to fall into the same abyss my love for art did.

With all that whining aside, I guess it’s about time to find some new solutions to living a happy life. If everyone else is content to play this stupid fucking game, more power to them. Me, I’m at my wit’s end. If escape ain’t possible, the only viable alternative is to make up a new strategy.

What that might be, I have no clue at the moment. I’m close to considering not publishing my new book, just so I don’t attach a perverse monetary association to it. Maybe I’m better off giving it away for free. Maybe I’m better off doing everything for free, as long as I’m enjoying what I’m doing. Maybe the solution is to ditch every material possession I own, and go wander the streets like a fucking hobo. I’m pretty close to that state as it is, so why not go the whole nine yards?

I don’t fucking know.

But it’s late, and my eyes are growing weary. With any luck, a lucid dream awaits tonight. Perhaps I’ll find some solutions there. Though, truthfully, the last thing I want to do is contaminate my alternate dimensional travels with shitty Earth life. I fucking love exploring the astral realm. It’s one of the last things that keeps my hope of freedom alive. Perhaps the mysterious exit door off this stupid planet is entangled there somewhere.

I’m not done lookin’ just yet…

Either way, this is my last ride on the JunkieSphere. The carnival doesn’t excite me anymore. I’m sick of the candy floss, and I don’t relate well to the pinheads wandering the midway. It was a fun 10,000 incarnations on this blue rock, but I’m getting off the carousel for good this time. Cooler worlds await.

Maybe we’ll meet again one day somewhere else in the Universe — in a place less fucked up and closed-minded than this insane asylum.

Till then, sweet dreams.