I think about weird things sometimes. Like the fact that every single thing we eat is made out of shit. Shit that is billions of years old. Shit within shit. Because everything that exists on this world will never, ever leave. (Not counting via spacecraft, of course.) The water, the minerals, the carbon...all of the essence of everything is trapped on this little sphere and destined to birth and rebirth every single thing we see, know, and touch everyday over and over and over until the end when Scientologists blow us up in the name of Xenu or whatever is supposed to happen.
All of the water has been drunk and pissed out a trillion times. In fact your body is made out of the same shit that once slithered and oozed through some dinosaur's colon. Whenever I cram a forkful of food into my piehole I realize that it's been eaten and digested before countless times. Maybe by birds, maybe by ants, perhaps even by illegal mexicans.
Which brings me rather clumsily and without any finesse whatsoever to my next point. The police in the town where I live have arrested two illegal mexicans. As of sometime yesterday I guess. But not just any illegal mexicans. These ones are special. These ones murdered my friend. They found him last week on a remote back road, in some dense woods a stone's throw from a major highway not far from where I live, shot twice in the chest in the passenger seat of his own car.
The car was banged up, as though it had been in an accident. I'm assuming he hit the mexicans, and one of them pulled a gun and got into his car and either drove him or forced him to drive to where he then shot and killed him....I don't know. Nothing makes sense, and no one saw it. No witnesses, no nothing. Just my friend's body, cold and dead and alone.
It's hard to describe exactly how it makes you feel when you get this sort of news. I just kept picturing him sitting across from me at lunch laughing while at the same time trying to picture him gasping in the front seat of his car with two bullets in him, contemplating his own mortality and that he would likely be dead in a few moments. Forever. Dead for the rest of time. It's weird to think about. Morbid and fascinating and horrible all at once. Alive and talking to you, shaking your hand, discussing the holidays....dead and covered with blood, a mere memory, never to be seen again.
I wonder if he was scared when he died. I wonder if he died struggling and angry, or whimpering and begging. I wonder if he even knew it was coming. I wonder if he got blood all over his suit. Did it hurt? Does it hurt to be shot? I've never been shot before, so how the fuck would I know? What was he thinking about as he was dying? His wife? His dog? His favorite television show or what he ate for dinner the night before? Me and the rest of his drinking buddies? Did he know it was all over? Does death creep up on you, or take over suddenly? What was the last thing he looked at? His foot? The gearshift? A speck of dirt on the windshield? Did the mexicans stick around when they shot him? Did they watch him die? Did they taunt him? Have they killed anyone else? Did he try to talk to them as he gasped for air and life? Did he ask for his mom like they say so many men do before they die? How do his parents feel now, knowing that after they shut the front door that night, as they lay tucked cozily in bed next to one another smiling and dreaming and happy, that their only son was scared and alone and bleeding to death with no one to hold him and tell him that they love him? Do they look back on that blissful sleep with horror? Do they hate themselves for being happy while he was dying? Do they hate themselves for letting him leave late at night to drive home to his wife? Do they wish it had been one of them instead of their son? Are they glad he's dead? What if they actually hated him?
I went by the place where they found him after work tonight. Weird. Literally about two blocks from the highway, but in the middle of thick, dense woods so you feel like you're in the Virginian wilderness and far from being smack dab in the middle of the metroplex. I imagined I was standing in the same exact spot where he took his last breath, though of course I can't be sure. So sad, to die like that. I've been thinking about the guy all day, and I can't stop thinking about him sitting in his own car watching his own blood pump out of his chest, gasping and afraid and dying. My friend, slaughtered like a pig. Back to the primordial sludge and dinosaur shit that we all are, never to be thought of again except for in his friends' brains or from a few scattered photographs.
RIP Frank.
Content: have you ever experienced a friend being murdered or dying? Was it just the weirdest fucking thing in the entire world? Is it weird to try to imagine exactly what the person went through and felt in order to come to terms with it?
All of the water has been drunk and pissed out a trillion times. In fact your body is made out of the same shit that once slithered and oozed through some dinosaur's colon. Whenever I cram a forkful of food into my piehole I realize that it's been eaten and digested before countless times. Maybe by birds, maybe by ants, perhaps even by illegal mexicans.
Which brings me rather clumsily and without any finesse whatsoever to my next point. The police in the town where I live have arrested two illegal mexicans. As of sometime yesterday I guess. But not just any illegal mexicans. These ones are special. These ones murdered my friend. They found him last week on a remote back road, in some dense woods a stone's throw from a major highway not far from where I live, shot twice in the chest in the passenger seat of his own car.
The car was banged up, as though it had been in an accident. I'm assuming he hit the mexicans, and one of them pulled a gun and got into his car and either drove him or forced him to drive to where he then shot and killed him....I don't know. Nothing makes sense, and no one saw it. No witnesses, no nothing. Just my friend's body, cold and dead and alone.
It's hard to describe exactly how it makes you feel when you get this sort of news. I just kept picturing him sitting across from me at lunch laughing while at the same time trying to picture him gasping in the front seat of his car with two bullets in him, contemplating his own mortality and that he would likely be dead in a few moments. Forever. Dead for the rest of time. It's weird to think about. Morbid and fascinating and horrible all at once. Alive and talking to you, shaking your hand, discussing the holidays....dead and covered with blood, a mere memory, never to be seen again.
I wonder if he was scared when he died. I wonder if he died struggling and angry, or whimpering and begging. I wonder if he even knew it was coming. I wonder if he got blood all over his suit. Did it hurt? Does it hurt to be shot? I've never been shot before, so how the fuck would I know? What was he thinking about as he was dying? His wife? His dog? His favorite television show or what he ate for dinner the night before? Me and the rest of his drinking buddies? Did he know it was all over? Does death creep up on you, or take over suddenly? What was the last thing he looked at? His foot? The gearshift? A speck of dirt on the windshield? Did the mexicans stick around when they shot him? Did they watch him die? Did they taunt him? Have they killed anyone else? Did he try to talk to them as he gasped for air and life? Did he ask for his mom like they say so many men do before they die? How do his parents feel now, knowing that after they shut the front door that night, as they lay tucked cozily in bed next to one another smiling and dreaming and happy, that their only son was scared and alone and bleeding to death with no one to hold him and tell him that they love him? Do they look back on that blissful sleep with horror? Do they hate themselves for being happy while he was dying? Do they hate themselves for letting him leave late at night to drive home to his wife? Do they wish it had been one of them instead of their son? Are they glad he's dead? What if they actually hated him?
I went by the place where they found him after work tonight. Weird. Literally about two blocks from the highway, but in the middle of thick, dense woods so you feel like you're in the Virginian wilderness and far from being smack dab in the middle of the metroplex. I imagined I was standing in the same exact spot where he took his last breath, though of course I can't be sure. So sad, to die like that. I've been thinking about the guy all day, and I can't stop thinking about him sitting in his own car watching his own blood pump out of his chest, gasping and afraid and dying. My friend, slaughtered like a pig. Back to the primordial sludge and dinosaur shit that we all are, never to be thought of again except for in his friends' brains or from a few scattered photographs.
RIP Frank.
Content: have you ever experienced a friend being murdered or dying? Was it just the weirdest fucking thing in the entire world? Is it weird to try to imagine exactly what the person went through and felt in order to come to terms with it?
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