Issue #146 : Blocked

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I don’t have any control over the things that I do.

I mean, I know what’s really going on, even though I can’t prove anything. It’s as if there was someone else out there, controlling everything I say and feel. I don’t know why, but I have this clear image in my head of some guy, maybe with stupid, black glasses, hunched over a computer and writing out every last moment that I experience. And of course, whoever this guy is that’s pulling my strings, he’s got a fucked sense of humor.

Like last week for example.

If I didn’t have someone controlling everything, do you think I really would have gone to my boss’ private party and pissed all over his wife’s lime trees? You think that’s a decision I would have made on my own?

I like my job.

I need my job.

Do you think I’d really blow up my life for no reason at all? Does that even make sense to you? Because it doesn’t to me.

The week before like tree-gate, I went over to my sister’s house for dinner. Simple enough, right? What could possibly go wrong?

Maybe setting her Christmas tree on fire?

Yeah. Maybe that was it.

And it wasn’t me. I mean, it was me, but it wasn’t me, if that makes any sense. I was just going along for the ride. One of those little moments where someone yanks the strings and up I go, like a little fucking puppet.

I’ve been calling in sick for the past few days because frankly, I don’t know what’s going on, just that it’s clearly getting worse.

This morning I was sitting at the table, just staring down at my hands and I couldn’t move. It was like I couldn’t make up my mind or maybe the asshole pulling my strings couldn’t make up their mind.

So I just sat there, like another piece of furniture. What that, writers block or something?

It’s like something snapped in the grand scheme of things, and now I’m not the only one behind the wheel steering the ship. So far, nothing has happened to get me hurt or too embarrassed, but who’s to say that won’t happen eventually? Isn’t it pretty much a matter of time before my invisible puppeteer who has been jerking me around by the nose gets bored? What happens then? I think he’s going to be brainstorming ways to make me more entertaining. Who the hell knows what that will involve?

How much longer is this going to go on? How much more of it am I going to be able to take? It isn’t like I can go to anyone for help. Who would believe me? I’ll just end up a hopeless puppet and locked up in a padded room with jello and non-toxic crayons.

I thought about going to a priest but honestly, even if I believed in all of that, what could God do for me? For all I know, God is the one who set my controls for the heart of the whatever. Sure, there might only be one set of footprints in the sand at the moment but that’s because the prick is going for a free monkey-ride, throat punching me the whole time.

I don’t remember anything about my life before this started happening. I know that I existed, I just can’t remember it. It’s almost as if my brain is trying to trick me into thinking that I just popped into being, fully loaded with a life history that I can’t really remember. That this entire universe was created just for me.

What a bunch of bullshit.

Yesterday, I was talking to my mother on the phone, trying to convince her that I was okay, of all things. I was talking when, out of the blue, I just started repeating the same sentence, over and over. I’d finish saying it, pause, and go back to say it again. I did it like six times but each time, it was a little different. The order would be different or I’d add a different word, like someone couldn’t decide what I should say, and just kept rewriting it.

Sorry. You have a question?

“What’s the point of all this?” asked the reader.

I’m sure you decided a while ago that I was tin-shit nutso. Don’t worry, I’m not going to try and change your mind on that score. I’m just trying to make a point. That if any of you out there are the creative type, a writer for example, just think about the things you’re doing when you create. Maybe that isn’t just some pretend, make-believe person you’re making up in your mind. Maybe in some universe out there that you can’t see or understand, there’s someone who’s having their strings being maneuvered by some invisible asshole who doesn’t know what they’re really doing.

I blacked out this morning. No idea for how long. When I woke up, I was sitting on the walkway attached to this billboard, looking out over the freeway. Someone must have spotted me up here during the morning rush hour traffic because a couple of cop cars just pulled up, pointing up at me and running around like crazy bugs.

As if I even have any control over what’s going to happen.

So I thought I would say a few words. That’s the custom right? That’s what a prisoner on death row gets, right?

A few words.

Just some words of caution to anyone out there who might be hearing it.

It must be time to stand up now. They’re all running up here,as if they think they’re going to save me. As if they’re going to catch me or something.

Anyway, looks like we’re done screwing around. 

I guess we’re doing this.

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