"Hope For The Hypoactive"

by Dom B.
2002.02.11

Some days, I understand, utterly and completely, why people do drugs. After the past three weeks of being ground down I can see why chemically induced nothingness is as inviting as a warm blanket.

Some days, you just wanna say FFFF it and run off to New York City and try to make your fortune, go as a naive beginner in a town that lusts for and hates naive beginners, eats them by the thousands, digests them, incorporates them into its vast cellular being, or excretes and leaves them as hollow shells with tears and sad tales as numerous as sand grains.

Just another junkie with a dream, destined to fade into the background noise of America, a gray static ghost lost in the fields of TV snow, a cautionary story for the kids back home in Anywhere.

The radio asked, "Do you think you can tell heaven from hell?"

The radio said, "Take me to the river, drop me in the water."

The radio said to go forth and create a new art, one stronger than love. The radio talked about satellites orbiting God and the death of faith in the 21st century. The radio begged for orgies of autophagy, eating yourself every day until you disappear. There are office product print ads of smiling men in blue ties with thought bubbles proclaiming "THE MORE SUCCESS I ACHIEVE, THE MORE I WANT". And I don't think anyone got it, but I nearly choked on my breakfast this morning when I saw it. Because it is so damn obvious, and no one sees a problem, and everyone is feeding themselves bullets and cocaine and things in amber bottles.

The radio said, "I'll find you. I'm looking."

The radio sang, "You have to sleep sometime."