It’s been over a year now

It’s been over a year now, since I died.

Everyone around me is talking like something is supposed to be different. They all say, “Now is when the real work begins.” And internally I say, What? You mean the first year of being dead wasn’t real work? Then what the fuck was I doing?

It almost feels like when I turned eighteen. Suddenly, one day, the sun set. And when it rose the next day, I was an adult. Everything was the same, and I didn’t feel any different, but because the sun went down and came up again suddenly everything “was” different. And that’s how it was reaching my one-year death date.

Dying was the best thing to ever happen to me. I’m a much better person this side of the ether. The problem is that I don’t fit in. I didn’t fit in when I was alive, either. When I was newly dead, I felt a terrific camaraderie with all the other dead people and they welcomed me warmly, with open arms, loving me and accepting me just the way I came to them. But now that camaraderie has become sort of de-facto, and I realise that it’s pretty superficial. Not that they don’t care, but the feelings are all just on the surface. There’s no deeper relationship there. And what I desperately want and need is a relationship with someone. A friend. Someone I can talk to.

Friendship 7

Friendship 7 (Photo credit: NASA on The Commons)

But even after a year of being dead I haven’t made any close friends. I feel horribly alone.  I feel lost, sitting on a tiny, barren patch of sand, surrounded as far as I can see on all sides by an ocean devoid of human life. Nobody can reach me and I can reach nobody. Even after hanging around the same dead people in the same places day after day, week after week, until a year has gone by, I feel like an outsider.


I thought once I’d been dead this long everything would be different. I guess I thought I might get some superpowers or something- or at the very least become more sociable than I was in life.

In life I could create the illusion of friendship for myself. I could go to a bar and sing karaoke and feel like I was a part of something. Now here in the afterlife I really am part of something, but I don’t feel it. I just feel… well… dead.


“It is Absurd That We Should Live”

Write a review of your life — or the life of someone close to you — as if it were a movie or a book.

“Absurd” opens with a nauseatingly adorable baby sitting on the floor in a squalid living room, gnawing on a Lego piece which she could potentially choke on. A woman walks in and snatches the piece away from the infant. The baby looks hurt and confused. The mother starts screaming how dangerous it is for an infant that young to be chewing on a Lego piece, how stupid and worthless the baby is. The mother starts throwing things around and the child flinches, silent tears trickling down her chubby, terror-stricken face. The scene is deeply unsettling and a bizarre choice for the opening. The next twenty minutes of the film consist of a silent claymation sequence of an epic goose migration. The migration ends at a beach somewhere on the east coast, where the geese explode in a pyrotechnic spray of entrails and blood.

After the goose migration sequence, we see a scruffy young man at a bar. His eyes are red-rimmed with fatigue and intoxication. We learn that he is an alcoholic and his life is spiralling out of control. In a drunken stupor one night, the man sells his soul to the devil in exchange for fame and fortune. The fame and fortune never come, but the man loses everything- including his soul.

Another claymation sequence follows, this time of a toxic waste dump. It is grey and rundown, but a tiny plant springs up in a pool of radioactive goo. The remainder of the film follows this mutant plant on a psychedelic romp through a scenic landscape of live-action footage and animated dreamworlds.

This film was fascinating and fulfilling. Definitely not family friendly, but for anyone looking for an intellectually challenging probe in to the psychology of self-discovery, and the absurdity of existence, this film is perfect.

A Moonage Menagerie

I’ve decided that I’m going to buy a white Italian greyhound. His name will be the Thin White Duke, and I’ll make a little doggy ascot for him to wear. Every time he walks in to the room I’ll sing, “The retuuurn of the Thin White Duke! Throwing darts in lovers’ ey-hyyyees…” 

His housemates will be three cats named Major Tom, Panther Princess and Halloween Jack. Major Tom will have a little bombadier helmet (because an astronaut helmet would cover his little face), Panther Princess a tiara, and Halloween Jack will wear oversized roller skates. I will never get sick of saying, “And Halloween Jack is a real cool cat, and he lives atop of Manhattan Chase,” especially when he gets on top of the fridge. And if he climbs the curtains I will get to say, “The elevator’s broke so he slides down a rope, down to the streets below! Go, Tarzan, go, man, go!” There will be a bulldog too named Diamond, who obviously would wear a diamond collar.

Then I will have a rooster named Ziggy and a hen named Lady Stardust. They will wear miniature go-go boots and sequin capes.

Finally, here will be a guinea pig called Hermione, a ferret called Iggy Pop, and a chinchilla called Freddie Mercury. Every Sunday we’ll have a Tofurkey roast, get hammered, and sing karaoke until the neighbors call the police. Of course I pick the best songs but Freddie Mercury is the best singer, and Major Tom does a wicked “Cold November Rain.”

The First Post

This actually isn’t the first post I’ve ever made, it’s probably closer to the five hundred thousandth, but since there’s no context for those thousands and thousands of lost posts, we’ll call this the first.

Once upon a time, creative writing was my main hobby. It consumed my every waking moment, and many of my sleeping moments as well. It was a terrific outlet and the ultimate escape. Every day, for hours, I escaped in to my own fantastical world where anything was possible and nothing could go wrong- unless I decided it would.

Those days are long gone. I have many other hobbies, interests, I even have occupations. But I miss writing. Sometimes I journal, but it isn’t quite the same. Blogging has the opportunity to connect the writer to other writers, or even a small audience, and I want that. Maybe I just want the attention- but who can blame me? I am pretty awesome.