A Thought Experiment Lab Accident

by Jason John Bartholomew

Note: I usually like the things I write; often I even love my little darlings, I have found that writing things I like and love helps with making sure I show up tomorrow to write more and inoculates somewhat against the inevitable rejections one experiences along the way. That being said, I do not love this piece. It scares me and makes me sad. Not to mention, it requires backstory and that annoys me. But I am trying to live an open and honest life. That means, I guess, the bad and the ugly get a seat as well. It is to that end, that I publish this awfulness at all.

A while back I was involved with someone I consider very special who used to ask me during fights “but what if only good things happen?” After we had managed to lay whatever special thing I thought we had together to waste, I found his question in my mind one day (I had always considered it ridiculous before) and decided to play it out and see what I could spin. The disastrous results are this little bit of mean business.

I can’t imagine waking up to a buffet of life with a still appetite next to someone I like and didn’t just meet last night, stretching, smiling, breathing easy and not holding on too tightly; brushing my teeth, eyeing my reflection, tasting the spearmint in my mouth with a smile in my eyes, instead of gargling curses and spitting out sighs. What would it be like to open a closet and put on clothes I chose from an assortment I like as I prepare for a day of going out and about in the world to do what I love and I do best, giving it all to get those tasks accomplished so my weary is honest and earns me true rest when I return in the evening to a home that doesn’t feel empty, still wearing now tired smiling eyes but with enough reserve energy to get in a laugh or steal a kiss before turning attention to the rituals that maintain myself and honor my spirit with good stewardship, tend to my mind and acknowledge these gifts?

I can’t even imagine what that might be like it’s so very different and removed from my current life of repeating over and over the mantra “I’m alright. I’m alright. Just get thru this and you’ll be home again in a few hours and then you can get high and turn out the lights and shut out the world and lie in the dark and after midnight you can go out for a walk and at least tomorrow you won’t have to go out at all.”

I have no reference for what it might be like going a week without doing without something, be it an ounce of prevention or prescriptive medicine, or proactive solution to a responsible situation instead of helplessly shrugging as another opportunity falls into nothing, and feeling myself hardening and my soul turning to dust as I turn away from hopes and dreams, because I could not cover the post, or the fare for the bus, or pay the tuition cost, or the registration fee, or even happy hour when they invited me for drinks. This has been my life for so fucking long, I’m shaking as I write this from rage and trauma, thinking about anyone who ever called me lazy, how I’d like to take a baseball bat and beat them silly, but thats not quite true if I’m being honest, because what I really want to do is to beat them lifeless, to wail at their ribs and knees and smash in their skull, working them over with that aluminum slugger till they’re dead on the ground and I’m breathing hard, all covered in their blood as the bat slides from my fingers to the concrete with a thud, and I sink down next to it, still breathless and stunned. My god what have I done? Where the fuck did that come from?

Knowing now they’re gonna lock me up, but, squaring my jaw and hawking my throat, I still spit my wad in the face of that motherfucker who shoulda kept his mouth shut, before pulling out a smoke and lighting up, still sitting there puffing when the police show up, face to the pavement as they tighten the cuffs, staring sideways into the eyes of that dead punk ass bitch I just murdered.

See thats just how broken I really am, cuz this started as a daydream of what if only good things happen from here on out, and my mind can’t even fathom what winning would be like, I can’t even imagine it, so much then for “I’m all right, I’m all right, just get through this.” I guess people’ll just have to learn how effective I really can be when they read about my suicide in the obituary. But fuck it man, if I don’t get to have and hold anything, then I’m taking six or seven motherfuckers to the boneyard with me, six or seven useless piles of shit who deserve some comeuppance, way I see it.

As far as you, I hope your dreams really do come true and only good things do happen to you, but you might want to keep that to yourself it makes you sound like a fool and a princess and like maybe someone else who lost at life too, but by playing it so safe you didn’t notice when death overtook you.

August 23, 2017

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jason john bartholomew

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Word storms, poetry, some flat out lies, contemplated long form culture commentary and flashbulb flare lightning fireflies. Behold, Lightbringer!

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