For the past six months I've been cycling on and off steroids, but it's strictly for masturbatory purposes.

If the course of human existence has all been unfolding to a creator's plan, the creator's plan must have been to sit back in a recliner with a cold beverage and a bag of popcorn to enjoy some chaos.

There are numerous, generally meaningless catch phrases for how to live a happy life, or a meaningful life, or a life worth living one way or another. I have an instinctual disdain for oversimplification, ergo, catch phrases tend to make me want to blow my own pseudo-intellectual snark factory out the side of my head with a pressure washer crammed in my ear hole. That said, I will credit all of these silly platitudes for one meaningful shared concept. They almost always, in one form or another, call for action. If you want a happy life, do something about it.

As for me, I wouldn't necessarily say I've grabbed life by the balls, but I've definitely stuck my finger in its butthole.

I am I am I am you are; we are just the same.
I am tired and weary, and not so long in the tooth to be deservedly so. I am a eunuch, yet manage to rape myself daily, a very inconsiderate lover.
I am resentment sent home to take a nap; bitter, childish, likely to wet the bed.
I am scared stiff.
Fear rains icy with no umbrella to protect,
How will my socks stay dry?
I am a smile locked in a box and told he is inappropriate, even if it is his birthday.
I am my family, each and every one fighting it out in my head, my home, never enough money.
I am I am I am, you are.
He is, she is, we are all the same; I hope,
Otherwise we are all alone (or maybe it is just...).
I am alone.

I don’t ever want to die, at least not in this lifetime. Life plays little tricks on us called dreams and sometimes, aspirations. Someone fooled me into desires I could never see fulfilled. Not within the age any man could achieve, that is. From what I can see it would take an eternity to fix this place. I have more time than I know what to do with now and it is not enough. Maybe someday I’ll get moving. Maybe someday, the baby steps I take every once in a while will become leaps and bounds from moment to moment. Maybe someday I’ll be happy. Maybe someday, all this nonsense in my head, and heart (I think), will turn into something I can sell? Maybe someday I’ll feel loved. Maybe someday enough of this shit will change, that I will spend more time thinking of others and less of me. Maybe someday I’ll fit in.
      - Or at least feel like I do. No matter what they say I don’t trust them, not one bit. The smiles are lies and their eyes hide wickedness. Not a one of them latches on and screams “Don’t ever let go or I’ll die!” No! -
Maybe someday could be tomorrow, it certainly isn’t today. The world will probably make its way without my influence. It is a shame though, that it has learned to play such tricks on us as it has. Showing us all we could want, all we could have, all we could be, if we would just get off our ass and go get it. Or, if we were somebody else. God, give me an eternity and I’m pretty sure I could not stop being me, but give me some time lord and maybe, just maybe….
 
And the Lord said, “I don’t deal in maybes.”

Killing a cupid is a hard thing to do.
He struck me first and it was my right to fight,
To fight back in defense of his soft, warm blanket of oppression.
Who is he, it (she?), to make these choices for me?
An attack is an attack, good intentions (road to hell) or no.
His arrow was uninvited, yet
Loftiness became a mental state for old boy as much as a physical disposition,
And when you elevate yourself it is opportunity to fall is it not?
And so he found me holding his toe,
Like a fly on a string,
A new chosen destiny for he who has so callously fucked with me.
His valor will no doubt be chirped about,
Championing his mission to the bitter end.
But he wasn’t much of a fighter,
Poisoned arrows and all.
A simple branch changed the direction of his wind and,
He spiraled to the ground like a lover lost in excess.
Now to brood over those smashed feet,
Blue black and red, the color of this murderous heart.
His arms and hands have lost distinction,
Now puddles of flesh slowly trickling away from his body.
His face holds discontent like it is candy,
A smile on that sweet cherub head.
Forever was this his expression in life, and forever in death,
Pinned to him, tail on a donkey, by the arrow through his cheeks.
Remorse creeps through the back door as I survey this selfish act.
Who have I denied his gifts with my outburst of fear and failure?
Yet who have I saved?
Has he been a punisher rather than a savior for others as he has me?
As filthy as the sight at my feet is,
It pales in comparison to the damage in my breast.
It is a hard thing to kill a cupid,
A hard thing.
Kill the cupid!
I’m sorry.
He might have been good to you.
Kill the cupid.
Killing a cupid is a hard thing to do.

I don’t want to swim through life with my heart locked in a shark’s cage, but here it is.
I don’t want to be filled with contempt, but there is nothing else filling the cup, so there it is.
No one wants to be exactly what they are, at least according to them, but there they are.
No one, maybe some, but not me, wants to be in love and all alone so ha ha ha here we are.
Somedays, most days, every day, I’ve some place to go, some thing to do, and a little piece of nothing to say.
Some weeks, most weeks, every week, I’ve something to hide, no thing worth speaking, and another on the way.
Some month, one month, this month, I’m gonna do something, find someone, say something you’ll hear.
Some year, one year, this year, we’ll meet and laugh, you’ll lie and leave, and I’ll hold dear.

The last thing the world needs is another me. Another voice of reason. Another boy. Another white person. Another weak link in the chain of Christianity. Another unfocused artist. Heaven forbid another moderately talented wanna-be artist. The last thing this world needs is another me. Another person futilely resisting their place within mediocrity. Another me is already out there, expressing himself more eloquently than I possibly could. Turning my base emotions that burn inside, making me want to create, into something tangible and beautiful and expressive on multiple levels I could never achieve or understand. Another me is saying what I want to say, loving how I want to love, living his life with a fearlessness I could only dream of. He is taking the things I’ve been given and applying them towards greatness. Another me is the athlete I never trained to be, and the leader I’m afraid to be. Another me is the person I’m destined to be, but without the patience to wait on destiny. There are millions of mes out there before me, doing a better job at being who I want me to be then I ever could. The last thing this world needs is another me. But, here I am anyways.

The eras of our lives often come to an end without our permission. I find myself filled with both joy and profound sadness when I recognize that an era of my life has come and gone. It typically moves me to tears.

We are surrounded by inequities. As an adult, I am supposed to readily accept these as reality, despite the fact that these inequities go against everything I was taught about right and wrong as a child. It seems to me there is a grand acceptance that we can’t live our lives the way we know we should.

I understand many people fight this easy path. They endeavor to change the world.

The insistent adherence to one particular school of philosophical thought or sociological -ism has way more to do with the indulgence of human nature's desire to be correct, and to win at discourse, than it does reason.

I decided to start collecting litter when I'm out walking the dog. A cranky dude accosted me because little doggie and I were picking up street garbage while out for a hike on a beautiful day. I'm not sure why my desire to help out keeping our neighborhood offended him, but it did.

"What the fuck are you doing?" the unfortunately bitter dude said. "What are you some kind of Jerry Goodbody or something? Why don't you take your aardvark bars and your soy-nut shmelts and go fuck a koala."

"Look man," I said. "It's either this or I'm street jackin the whole time. I have to have something to do with my hands. It's a condition."

"Whatever, you nerdy bitch," he said. "I'm sick and tired of all you do-gooder pieces of shit trying to do good."

So I said, "I don't want to cause any trouble, but I get instantaneous erections when people are mean to me. You're gonna wanna get out of here."

He was not deterred. I ran away.

Humans are machines. Their functional output is dictated by genetics and programming. Anything we do, choices we make, goals we achieve, they are all outcomes of our programming. Who receives what programming is the happenstance of life, the end result of organized chaos.

The dynamic gulf between conservatism and progressivism has reached a point of contentiousness on Earth, I'm not certain we will have a renaissance of civil debate and problem solving without some form of massive, worldwide upheaval. AKA, the Earth freezes over and humanity goes extinct. Problem solved.