Trigger Warning


“Borderlining schizo and guaranteed to cause a fuss” Placebo

Let me tell you something about bullies. They’re scum of the earth. They pick on the weak to feel superior. And I found that I am one.

It started as a joke on Facebook that exploded into something more. This is the joke, in its original, unaltered form:

So I feel shunned from a reading because I write prose, not poetry. Funny thing is, it’s an anti-bullying event. Go figure. This is fucking high school all over again. I’ll just sit here alone weeping.

Now, you’re asking what the hell am I talking about. I’ll explain. Earlier this week, I was invited to a poetry reading (to attend, not to partake). I agreed to it. I send out a mass invitation to all my local friends. I even went as far to offer assistance in the aid of streaming it. Last night, however, it was posted on the wall that it was poetry only. “No prose. Bring it!” I chuckled because a lesser mind would see as that a shunning of us prose writers. Sort of like the let down of not being invited to the cool kids’ table in high school. Hence, my joke.

I followed my joke status with a joke comment:

I’ll just host my own event. You’ll see. It’ll be way more awesome. I’m gonna gather all prose writers that were left out and we’ll show you that prose writers last longer and party harder. There’ll be music, art, films, a dj and a….a cow! Yeah. That’ll show you poet elitist hipsters!

This is where shit got ugly because it was taken as something factual. Anyone who knows me, knows that I’m way too lazy to organize an event (which is why I piggy back on other people’s shows). I’m gonna have to ignore that fact that I even stated I was having a cow at my pseudo event.

So what happened? A couple of friends made jokes about the post. The day went fine until I noticed that the event page was filled with hints toward my status update. Weird, right? Then I get a message from the chump who invited me. I told him it was a joke that seemed to have gotten carried away (this, by the way, is one of those people who believe that a anti-Islamic film is no reason for all those Islam extremists to get their panties up in a bunch). He didn’t care much for my explanation. He lectured me about bullying, going as far as calling me one.

A little history about me. I was never the cool kid. I made friends with certain people in high school for protection. I was punched. I was pushed around. Shoved against lockers. Choked. Beaten up. Made fun of. My money was stolen from me. I was kicked. I was tripped. I was thrown around like a goddamn rag down. My entire adolescence was spent looking over my shoulder because I knew people just didn’t like me. And it wasn’t just guys. Girls also had their share in personal attacks against me.

In short, I know a thing or two about bullying. And what did I do with all that torturous experience? I molded it into my craft. I’ve learned to laugh in the face of my tormentors. Beat them to the punch, and they have no fuel.

But apparently, my post pissed off a few people. I told my so-called friend (he’s since “unfriended” me) to calm down. His rebuttal? “Asshole, don’t tell me to calm down.” That’s not even a joke.

There are several forms of bullying (political, religious, and cultural are included in this). Attacking a religion based on their extremists is bullying. Calling Liberals idiots is bullying. Putting down other cultures is bullying. Bullying isn’t exclusive to kids. “Man up,” might be the obvious rebuttal, but that’s not the answer. Let’s not forget stating that loving someone of the same sex and wanting to get married is wrong, well, that’s just wrong.

I apologize (sorta) in another post, asking anyone who had beef with what I had to say to take it up with me. No one’s taken me up on that. These make believe text messages (because that’s what I’m taking it as) were just fictional. An attack on me because I never wanted to partake in his group (because I have alliances else where).

I’m not going to cater or censor myself for others benefit. Making me feel bad for something that didn’t happen (I checked the board, there’s nothing there), is a nice way to bully someone. Because what’s a bully exactly? Someone who forces you to feel lesser. Someone who makes you do something you don’t want to do. Someone who pretends to be a friend and uses you until you have no value. Someone who steals others ideas and pretend they’re his originally.


Writing & Writers

Firing Squad


We can watch the world devoured in its pain

The Abattoir

Justice knows no bounds. When a woman slaughters her offspring and walks free, Justice always prevails. In this world and never the next.

Humans, pitiful humans. Lambs to the slaughter. Veil beings. Disgusting brutes. Hate filled and emotional. The world cries out for mercy, but no one answers. Prayers in the dark go unanswered. And what do they do? They continue to maim and kill. Rape and steal. If this is what evolution had intended from the start, then maybe Darwin was wrong.

Smell that? Burning flesh and ozone perfume the scene. It was an accident,  he’ll say. But no. Justice sweeps in – blade in hand – and severs his. If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it. For it is better to lose a single part of your body than to let the flames of hell devour you whole.

A group of four find themselves trapped beneath the ground. A cellar or a dungeon, they cannot tell the difference. Each one of them transported there without knowledge. Fear clings to them, cellophane suffocating them. The musk and thick scent of mold flows through them, sucking out the breath of their bodies. We are here to observe them. To see their decisions and their lives and their histories displayed before them. Burning and crying out, wishing for death to overtake them. In hell, the dead are not aware of the situation.

The Sinner

The sinner is a misguided hero. In his heart, he feels noble. His deeds are done selflessly. He is hated for this. He is bounded and castrated. He is sent to the firing squad and giving his last rites and meals. He prays for salvation, but Justice does not hear. As the guns are locked and loaded, aimed and fired, he feels the weight of the world released from his shoulders. He exhales. In death, his peace is found.

Several years later, when his ideals are better understood, he is relabeled a saint.