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// "Insanity" \\
(( 30/12/01 by the Anada staff anada500 ))
\) ________________________________________________________________ (/
Editor SPEAKS:
Issue 500. That in itself is probably more insane than anything you
might read in this textfile. Anada is approaching its second anniversary.
Textfiles have been passÈ probably since 1995. What does it all mean? I
have no idea, either. Why am I bothering with an editorial note? Your
guess is as good as mine. It sounded like fun at the time.
Perhaps I'm just INSANE! Yeah, that could be it, perhaps.
Enjoy.
[*****]
I
I remember thrashing against my walls. It seems like it was a
million years ago that I felt that way. I remember feeling alone and
unloved despite my friends constantly asking me to do things with them and
my boyfriend sitting in the living room at that very moment. All I could
do was cry. And I cried uncontrollably, lashing against everything and
myself. It was wild, free, unleashed pain. And the moment I started doing
it, I knew it wasn't right. I knew I was losing touch with reality.
[*****]
"HOW TO LOSE FRIENDS AND MAKE ENEMIES THROUGH YOUR WRITING"
by AlterEcho
I choose to begin the story NOW.
Every good story needs good characters. This is not, and can never
be, a good story, but nonetheless, I present to you my cast.
[ 11 Gob Foo] Huh - LIEK OMG LLAMA FARMER PAG SUP OMG (MUTE)
[ 3 Moo Cow] LeatherPants the Apprentice Story Extra
[109 Sex God] AlterEcho the Wise and Fabulous [Chasing Amy]
Yes that's right, this is a story about me, and I advise you to
switch off immediately.
OK so one day Edgar J. Gudjohnsen, the chocolate starfish, was
walking down the street in his hometown of Athens, Georgia. I don't know
much about Athens except that's where R.E.M. came from and it's also where
the Wogs live and worship Zeus and Hermes. It is right near Sparta, which,
I believe, has nothing to do with the Spartak Moscow Football Club.
So anyway, our beloved protagonist, Mr. Gudjohnsen, was walking down
the street, and then he went INSANE! That's right, my friend, his level of
insanity surpassed that of merely insane, but delved right into the very
scary reigon of INSANE(tm). While you may argue that by allowing Mr.
Gudjohnsen to go INSANE at such an early point after you have just been
introduced I have over-accelerated the plotlines to such an extent that this
story has become unsalvagable, my reply of course is: "Ah, but of course you
have failed to take into consideration the various karmic balances, and my
actions merely represent a desire to avoid a thematic breakdown. And
besides, Gloomchen said that this had to be about insanity, and Gloomchen is
like God, oh my god. So, nyah."
So. Back to Edgar! One of the first things Edgar did when he went
insane (right after taking a piddle down his right trouser leg) was to kill
several babies and eat them all for lunch! The reason for this is of course
that Gloomchen suggested that this would be a rather clever thing to write
about! (And did I mention Gloomchen's Godlike status?) The funny thing
about eating human is that it is slightly salty. Further, I am reliably
informed that this saltiness is due only in part to the gathering of sweat
on the skin. If one to discuss the finer points of eating human, one might
mention that the younger the meat is, the better, but also that human flesh
is high in protein. Unfortunately, due to rank obesity (especially in fat
people), the quality of human meat has degenerated over the past decade, a
trend which has not been reflected in the price. Personally, I find a
classy red goes well with a meal of human flesh.
The problem with eating such a big meal during the day is that it
makes you very sleepy! In fact, just writing about our friend Edgar eating
such a sumptuous meal has made my eyes start to close! No doubt you are
experiencing a similar emotion. Edgar certainly was. After he had finished
a small baby from the Republic of South Africa (a coloured child, of course
-- there's no need for me to be politically incorrect at this stage), Edgar
J. Gudjohnsen went home to his small bungalow and took an afternoon nap.
Also, since Edgar was nothing other than a small chocolate starfish, and
thus an inanimate object, he could never wake up!! And since this story is
indeed a true story and very down-to-earth, Edgar J. Gudjohnsen never did
wake up from his dreamless sleep, and the world mourned his passing for a
year and one day.
THE END. No, wait! First it's conclusion time.
So, in conclusion, I'd just like to point out that this wasn't
actually a story about me at all, but I still hope you stopped reading when
I told you to. THE END.
[*****]
II
I stared at my own eyes in the mirror of my bathroom wall. I stared
for what felt like hours. I spoke to myself. With every word came a wall
of tears. I didn't want to be this cliche. I didn't want the bottle of
pills in my hands. I thought that if I stared long enough, I might find an
excuse. I might find some reason. I might start to make sense of
something, sooner or later. The longer I stared, the more I knew it wasn't
going to happen. But now I was curious; now I was wondering if there might
be some answer I missed. I put the bottle away and went to bed.
[*****]
"EXAMINATION"
by The Corpse
Is insanity a form of awareness? Kerry Thornley, R.I.P., wrote an
article asking the same question of paranoia, but since I haven't read said
article, I can't say what his conclusions were. In fact, I don't even wish
to draw my own conclusions regarding the question posed in the first
sentence of this untidy little essay.
Instead, I will set forth an example to be studied by the eyecramped
masses that choose to spend some of their time reading textfiles. The
situation I will speak of has not been entirely dealt with as of the time of
this writing, and I sincerely doubt it ever will be, unless those involved
in the scenario (which, alas, is all too real -- another reason to choose
fiction over fact) have some sort of Joycean epiphany and make some attempt
at solving their problems.
Damnation. At least two weeks have past since I wrote the above
paragraph, and now I'm not even sure what situation I was referring to, nor
can I recall the people tangled up in it. As a matter of fact, my
comprehension of this textfile is all but gone. It is time, I believe, for
a closer examination of things, a study of the minutiae of certain paths
that my thoughts take as time streams by.
Ha. I'm not even myself anymore, or so I'm led to believe. My
desire for logical analysis of my own mental patterns is decidedly unlike
me, I think, but I'm not sure. Damnation, self-evaluation is a sure
precursor to madness, or maybe just suicide. Or the entire body of work of
Philip K. Dick, and possibly Borges, though I'm not as familiar with the
latter's work. Alas.
It appears that I have looped back upon myself, which leads me to
hypothesize that my thought patterns, if represented visually, would appear
as a Moebius strip, or maybe just a simple and unappealing figure-eight.
The minutiae of which I spoke earlier have escaped me, but I notice that I
wrote something regarding my sense of un-self as demonstrated by an
inconclusive attempt at rational examination of my "self".
Is this paradoxical? Am I closed system? I had better alert the
proper authorities, that is to say, my "self" and myself that I am not. I
believe this all had something to do with insanity, but I see that I
mentioned Kerry Thornley and his questions about paranoia -- which is a form
of clinical insanity -- and now I wonder where it all began, and where it
will end.
The answer is obvious, of course, but I cannot entrust it to my
"self" or myself. Thornley's issue of paranoiac awareness prevents me from
doing so, because the answer will only raise more questions, and I (ha!)
will only grow more suspicious.
[*****]
III
Everybody was entertaining. Everybody told such great stories. But
everybody was a liar. They all had the center of attention, but it was all
lies. None of their fantastical stories were true. They only created these
stories to take the attention away from me. I rightfully deserved that
attention. I didn't have wild and imaginative things to say and I refused
to make any up. But how can your dismal reality compete with fantasy and
imagination? I crawled back into the corner and waited for it all to be
over. And they didn't even wonder why I had stopped talking.
[*****]
"...AND THE TASTE OF VOMIT STILL LINGERS"
by Intrepid Travelor
Insanity, huh...
one sentence should do it...
maybe even a fragment...
here goes:
suffering all night with the worst stomach flu youíve ever had and thinking
ìwhoa, I must have lost five pounds ñ I look great!î when you wake up the
next morning
That is insanity.
[*****]
IV
She didn't look at me with those same eyes anymore. She knew that I
knew her dirty little secret -- she was a liar, a fraud, a cheap imitation
of intelligence with only a brilliant ability to lie with a straight face to
back her up. I had finally discovered that she was absolutely worthless.
So in retaliation, she fought to destroy everything I loved. And she was
more than successful. She had won. I had nothing left. She had buried my
world with the snap of her charismatic fingers. I had nothing left to do
but punch her in the mouth, but instead, all I did was stare at my feet as
I slowly began piecing my life back together again.
[*****]
"THE NUTTY PROFESSING"
by Schoolboy
The world fucking loves insane people. Theyíre gods, prophets,
criminals, geniuses, artists and urchins. They occupy every echelon of
society from those muttering, dustbin miners in subways to the very leader
of a country. And why? Because the word insane is meaningless.
The human mind still has a very underdeveloped sense of social
psychology. That is, we donít handle very well the fact that other people
arenít ourselves. If youíre not insane, then youíre not human. Murderers
are either ìcrazedî/insane or ìa bloodthirsty monster/animalî. Paedophiles
are ìdepraved monstersî. Experimental artists have ìa warped sense of
realityî or are nicely insane. Peace campaigners are ìdriven loopy and
pinko by Pot and other weirdo leftiesî. I could go on.
We write off othersí different or, especially, diametrically opposite
views as the blitherings of someone not in possession of their faculties.
Liberals are just as bad. They say that right-wingers are ìnot in touch
with real life and the everyday lives of real peopleî. Theyíre cold,
utilitarian control freaks ñ note the word freak ñ who want to see the world
an unnaturally orderly place.
I was thrilled, cinematically, watching the ending to Fight Club but
I was intellectually disappointed to see such an intelligent movie cop out
and say that to be a true, radical leader and be anti-establishment you
would therefore be insane. Why do you have to be a whacko to see through
the ridiculous pretences and norms of 20th/21st Century society? Itís way
too easy an out.
But thatís it, isnít it. We want an easy explanation why others donít
see the world like we do. Why does your best friend, whoís been through
thick and thin with you for years, still not love Close To Me by The Cure?
Whatís with that? You explain to him about the tune and Robert Hughesí
phrasing and the arrangement and you hear it and you become full of joy but
your friend just doesnít. WHATíS WRONG WITH HIM? NOTHING. ABSOLUTELY
NOTHINGÖ. People who hate The Beatles, theyíre the fruitcakes.
But equally, mad fuckers HAVE gone about unnoticed. Prophets; they
hear voices for christís sake. Gods (in human form, usually with feathers
in their shorts) or messiahs; well, we canít assume theyíre ALL who they say
they are can we. And Iím sure some artists are/have been nuttier than a
squirrelís turds. Hitler. Was he insane? Is to be as evil as him also to
be mad? But then, as has been asked so many times before, does it alleviate
the responsibility he bears to label him mad? Why should that stop us
calling him mad? Itís a less than good reason to pull back from declaring
him nuts but then, we have to go back the question, how evil do you have to
be before you cross the imaginary line between being a nasty, conceited,
coldhearted fucker and being either not in control, not aware of the true
reality or being delusional?
This is another strong influence on societyís rules on whom we should
call mad. You piss off someone enough or scare the shit out them enough and
theyíll refuse to believe you donít know what youíre doing. The lay
understanding of madness is gibbering, drunken-like behaviour with barking
and wandering. If someone talks in a loud confident manner, looking you
straight in the eye, people cannot accept this person is so far removed from
reality he hides M&Ms up his butt because he thinks theyíre eggs heís got to
hatch.
A satirical, and very funny, TV show in the UK called Brass Eye
demonstrated how gullible people are to patently untrue information when the
production team created fairly credible charities railing against completely
fictional social problems and persuading public personalities to perform
lengthy campaigning segments for a fictional video. It was all in the
delivery. All the production team acted very confidently that, in one
episode, Heavy Electricity existed and, in another, that paedophiles could,
in fact, feel childrenís bodies through computer screens over the internet.
Phil Collins, MPs and news anchors were all duped simply because these
people wore T-shirts, had literature, a Website and wrote a script for them
to read. Utterly ludicrous stories of little girls being flattened by
ìheavy electricityî (it supposedly fell out of wires in India) and being
forced to squelch around like a slug and paedophiles uniquely having the
power to make keyboards produce gases to make children suggestive were
stated without a hint that these highly paid and highly educated people
realised the shit they were reading.
You say it confidently enough and some people will believe you,
thatís how so many mad people arenít pegged. And thatís partly why Hitlerís
rantings somehow made sense to the desperate German people. So yes, Iím
saying there are more than enough ìmentalî people (as we Brits say) in this
world, but the trouble is deciding just who those people are.
[*****]
V
I leaned far out of my second story window. I'm not crazy, I yelled.
I'm not crazy, I yelled again, this time feeling more conviction in my
screams. I know I'm not fucking crazy, I yelled once more as I noticed the
entire world pointing. Look at that crazy girl screaming out of her
bedroom window, they snickered. See how all it took was one vendetta and
one crash to the self-esteem to drop her down to ground zero. See how she
so easily fell to pieces? See how the rest of the world can't find anything
wrong in her life, yet she somehow thinks everything has crashed down around
her? What a silly girl, they said as they shook their heads, and dismissed
her, giggling, and walked away.
[*****]
"FEAST ON THE BLESSED VIRGIN JENNIFER"
by AuraNoir
\m/
I cut her.
I did.
Too many times to count.
Her eye.
It was both the easiest and the hardest.
Her eye.
Too often it wept for me.
It did.
I cut her.
I loved her.
I did.
Once a long while ago.
Her eye.
It sits leaking on the floor near her face.
Her eye.
I tried to find it pretty.
I did.
I loved her.
\m/
He cut me.
He did.
It didnít really hurt.
My eye.
I hear thereís no nerves in oneís eye.
My eye.
He made me eat it.
He did.
He cut me.
He loved me.
He did.
Thatís why he did it.
My eye.
Tasted like jam after sitting in the sun.
My eye.
I tried to forgive him.
I did.
He loved me.
\m/
Thomas sat there scraping the door key to his Buick Century against
the countertop. He kicked Jennifer whenever she struggled. The fresh
bruises and gashes across her body formed an accurate map of Middle-earth.
Gorgoroth. Rohan. Mirkwood. Et cetera. Thomas concentrated on this fact.
By the thirteenth hour he was able to judge precisely where, how hard, and
with which part of his foot to kick in order to perpetuate her bodyís
resemblance to fictional geography. Eventually, when the sun rose, Thomas
just left. He didnít come back.
Jennifer expelled her partially digested eyeball and reached for the
phone. She slipped in a pool of her own cold blood and smacked her face
against a wooden chair. The sharp corner caught her now gaping socket and
pulled her tenderized head in two. Three miles away, at St. Joseph
Hospital, no ambulance came.
He loved me.
He did.
And Jennifer died.
OrÖ
Thomas went to work on Monday and flirted with Jennifer, the new
girl. They arranged to meet for drinks on Saturday. The week went by
slowly. On Friday night, Thomasís father had a minor heart attack. In his
haste to drive up to see him, Thomas forgot to call Jennifer. On the return
trip, Thomasís car ran out of gas, delaying his arrival by about two hours.
He was unable to make the date and felt really bad about it. Oh well, he
thought. Iíll stop by her house tomorrow and explain the whole deal.
Thomas explained it on Sunday. Then he just left.
Another Monday. Jenniferís roommate returned from a business trip.
Jennifer had been dead at least six hours before she was found. Her hand
clenched a drill. It still spun deep inside her skull. There was really no
way for the roommate to comprehend what was going on; she had just wanted
breakfast and some sleep.
\m/
Insanity is no laughing matter. Neither is passive misogyny in
creative writing.
So who is it?
Me?
Thomas?
Jennifer A?
Jennifer B?
You?
And that, my friends, if proof that a college-aged American male has
absolutely no idea how to resolve the multitude of gender and relationship
issues facing us today. So I guess itís me, at least for a few more years.
Eventually Iíll meet a nice girl named Jennifer and weíll get married and
have 2.3 kids and live in a nice two story home in the suburbs of St. Louis,
Missouri, maybe in Crestwood or Webster Groves or, if weíre really lucky,
Chesterfield. Iíd even settle for Oakville, as long as the kids go to
private school.
\m/
Yeah, Iím definitely the insane one in this picture. Here I am
preparing for a life I know Iíll never have, while any person with half a
brain will tell you things never turn out the way you want them to. Just
ask Jennifer.
[*****]
VI
I sat down on the couch. He sat in the chair. There was nobody else
in the room. We were alone. We had no time constraints. We had nothing
to stop us from fucking in every room, on every piece of the furniture,
filling the house with orgasmic moans and screams. I sat on the couch,
waiting for him. He sat in the chair.
[*****]
"JASON ON INSANITY"
by Jason
Did you ever have one of those jobs that sucks the life right out of
you, turning even the act of breathing into a terrible chore?
No? Well nevermind then.
Good thing I'm too unmotivated to REALLY snap and go on a peanut
butter-slinging rampage through the office I loath so much.
That reminds me: is it me, or is it getting harder and harder to tell
who's insane these days? You get a crack-snorting puppy-burning devil
worshipper, and they're not insane, they're just 'misunderstood'. The sick
freak who masturbates to Barney isn't insane, he's just maladjusted. The
trailer slut who gets knocked up 5 times by 6 different dudes (what a ho!)
isn't insane, she's just got abandonment issues.
On the other hand, a guy who plots the murder of his grandmother for
her insurance money IS insane, because his lawyer says so.
Back when I was young and happy, I used to claim to be insane, but
that was just a feeble attempt to be "cool". Heck, I never heard voices in
my head, never believed I was Elvis, never had wild mood swings, and never
ran naked through church screaming that Satan was my butt-buddy. I was just
a nutcase wanna-be. These days I recognize how stone cold sane I am. I
also recognize just how nuts everyone around me is.
Oh, how I envy those insane people. If I could convince people I was
truly insane, that would be carte blanche to do whatever I wanted. I'd be
free to rant and rave and wear unfashionable clothing and vote libertarian
and eat octopus and everybody would just say, "That's just crazy Jason
again!" If I played my cards right by, say, pouring a 2 liter of Pepsi
Twist in each and every one of the Macintrashes at work, I might even get to
go to one of those fine institutions for like-minded people. That, my
friends, is the American dream: free room, free food, free drugs, and I'd be
allowed to sit on my bed, staring at the wall, muttering to myself all day
if I wanted. I can't believe I never thought of this before.
God, I hate my job.
One question remains, though: Is it cool to be insane? Besides all
of the practical benefits of being able to do whatever you want without
legal repercussions, is it generally a good thing? Well, let's see.
Lunatics hiding under the guise of eccentricity like (insert celebrity's
name here) certainly get their press, and criminals like Chuck Manson have a
certain mass appeal. Or maybe the answer is in organized insanity, like
animal rights fanatics, religious fundamentalists, communists, or eaters of
fuzzy fruit.
I suppose in my case, the question is academic. My job leeches away
any excess capacity my brain may have before I've even figured out what to
do with it. If I were to go mad, it would be the types of quiet madness
that is virtually indistinguishable from sanity. It's a cruel, cruel fate.
[*****]
VII
I told someone. I let it be known that something wasn't quite right.
I finally realized that most people never went through what I was going
through every day. Sure, not everyone is happy, but their heads work and
their minds focus. I wanted that more than ever, so I told someone. I
finally gave my cry for help. How was I to know that thousands before me
had given my same cry, but theirs was only a cry for attention? So easily
waved away and dismissed... I guess I had been right all along.
[*****]
"FELIZ NAVIDAD"
by Pavement
My second cousin Sarah was something of a legend in my family. If
she had any conception of an outside world of peer pressure, morals, and
social standards, she never let on. The world was her playground. She'd
stomped through the rain forest several times; lived and made love on every
continent but Antarctica; published novels; gone on African safaris; smoked
opium in China. Even more amazing, she'd accomplished all this on a
shoestring budget and before the age of 40. Her mantra was 'we've all gotta
go sometime, so juice life for all its worth,' and her every waking moment
functioned as a glossy full color advertisement for the joys of being a free
spirit. I was extremely proud of my relation to her.
Sounds great, right? Living life to the fullest -- isn't that what
the smarts ones among us are constantly striving for? To reject what we've
been told is moral or correct, and discover the meaning of life specifically
tailored for each individual? I certainly try to follow that philosophy to
the best of my ability. It looked like a dream come true on paper; but the
little voice that should've been in the back of her head -- the one that
should've told her that something was self-destructive and/or completely
irresponsible was missing in action. She was a free spirit indeed; so free,
in fact, that she was completely fucking insane.
Now when I say 'insane' I don't mean it in a colloquial sense; she
had honest-to-God certifiable mental problems. People like Sarah are the
people who make their psychiatrists resent their occupations. These mental
problems may have been caused by her many years of drug abuse. Name a drug,
any drug; Sarah had already been sent to court-ordered rehab for it. Good
ol' standbys like acid, speed, and shrooms? She'd already blown her mind on
'em twenty years ago and wasn't about to insult the temple of her body with
kiddie stuff like that. No sir. Her newest addictions were mostly exotic
painkillers she bought on the cheap in Mexico.
But I'm getting ahead of myself here. Four Christmases ago, I
decided to pay a visit to Austin, Texas, the semi-permanent home to the
woman I'd heard so much about but never met. There were two schools of
thought in my family about Sarah: the first version of the stories made her
out to be an inspiration. The second viewed Sarah as the very reincarnation
of Satan; a little Hitler thrown in for good measure and extra spite.
I arrived in Austin only to find my Great-aunt Sylvia dying of lung
cancer. This was Sarah's mother, so I assumed Sarah would need a shoulder
to cry on, or some quiet time at the very least. Not at all; Sarah assured
me that moral support wasn't needed; she DIDN'T CARE that her mother was on
her death bed. Her chest was empty and her mind was focused on the trip to
Mexico we had planned for the weekend.
It took me quite some time to compose a tactful question.
"But Sarah, your Mom is 'sick,' I mean, is now really a good time to
leave the country?" I asked.
"Yeah, why not?" she said. "My Mom had her 85 years on Earth, if she
wanted more she shouldn't have smoked for so long. So toss your bags in the
car and try not to act like a gringo when we get there."
There wasn't much I could say in reply. It wasn't my business, so I
let it go, but it disturbed me to no end.
Sarah and her Featured Selection from the Boyfriend of the Month Club
climbed into the front seats of the car; her 10-year old daughter and myself
settled down in the back for the long journey from Austin to Mexico.
Sarah asked us if we wanted to hear about some of he adventures to
ease the drive.
"This was about '85 or so," she started. "I was working in Mexico
City as a nurse. One day, I transcended my physical body and spontaneously
metamorphasized into an angel from Heaven. I told my patient to lie still,
then I left the hospital and ran out into Mexico City traffic. You know
what kind of traffic they have in Mexico City?"
"What kind?"
"The really fucking bad kind," she answered. "Traffic laws are a
foreign concept to those people, and woe to the pedestrian making his way
across the street, because they'll practically (and sometimes literally) run
you over. But guess what happened when I ran out into the traffic?"
"What?" I asked.
"The traffic stopped. And do you know why it stopped, Evan?"
"No, why?"
"Because they understood that I was an angel. My body no longer
existed; only a pure, radiant white light, totally awash in love of the
highest form. They had no choice but to stop. I'd taken over the
consciousness of Krishna as my own, and the entire street realized that I
was the only hope for the world's salvation."
I patiently waited for a moral, a punchline, ANYTHING.
"Um, and then what happened, Sarah?"
"Oh. Then they took me to the fucking nuthouse. They're infidels,
Evan. They didn't care that my healing power would be useless imprisoned in
a mental institution. This was no different than when Jesus was condemned
to die for the world's sins."
I laughed nervously and Sarah continued:
"After about six months in the loony bin, I woke up in a cold sweat
and realized I had to get out right away. So at the next group session, I
renounced my divinity, and a couple weeks later, they released me."
"Whew," I said. "That must have been hell. Thank God they realized
they needed to let you go."
"Oh, they didn't realize anything," Sarah said.
"They didn't?" I asked.
"Of course not. I was controlling their minds."
"So what happened after you renounced your divinity and left?" I
asked.
"I didn't say I renounced my divinity."
"But I thought you just, I mean, what happened? Why aren't you an
angel anymore?"
"Nothing happened. I'm still an angel. You're telling me you don't
see my aura?"
I thought this must be an elaborate practical joke. But there was
no punchline, no wool being pulled over my eyes, nothing.
We crossed the Mexican border, then Sarah asked me if something was
wrong.
"No, not really," I lied.
"Well if it's about my mother, don't worry about it. We're gonna buy
her painkillers at the first farmacia we see. She asked me to come down
here for her," Sarah said.
I knew that was a lie because I'd watched her Mom beg her to stay,
but I'd already realized that anything not orbiting Planet Sarah was
effectively lost in space.
We continued driving south until we reached the town of Nuevo Laredo.
My first sight of the town is forever seared into my mind. One building out
of three was in rubble; the other two were boarded up or fighting vainly
against their inevitable structural breakdown. This wasn't the Mexico of
high school Spanish classes and smiling faces in tourist brochures. This
was the Mexico of suffocating poverty, sweatshops, and illiteracy.
It was Christmas time in Mexico, but Santa Claus wasn't coming to
town. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer had already fled, pursued by a mob of
hungry Natives in search of dinner. Frosty the Snowman had been melted down
and bottled as spring water. That's just one more reason not to drink it.
We parked the car and hoofed it to Alma Latina, the most popular
restaurant in town. Sarah ordered us all identical meals. The food
arrived. I took one bite and instantly felt my entire mouth go numb. I
took the pitcher of water and started pouring it down my throat.
"Just a mite bit too hot for tastes," I said as soon as I recovered.
Sarah rummaged in her purse and produced an orange medicine bottle.
"Here sweetie," Sarah said, handing me a handful of multicolored
pills. "Take these."
"What are they?" I asked.
"Just something from Cousin Sarah's bag of goodies," she smiled.
"Wash them down with lots of beer and you'll be just fine."
I looked at the pills, contemplated for a moment, then gurgled them
down with a few gulps of El Sol.
We sat and talked. The pills started to work their magic; my muscles
loosened and I slipped into a state of detached, pleasant relaxation.
We left Alma Latina and Sarah gave me a guided tour of Nuevo Laredo.
The relaxation became so intense as to be nearly unbearable. My feet kept
getting lighter and lighter, number and number; finally, I couldn't feel
them at all. I had alternating sensations of floating like a ghost down the
street and bouncing like a Gummi Bear next to my Cousin.
It was around 9 o'clock that night when I finally came out of my
daze. I found myself in a roach-infested motel; Sarah's daughter was lying
down in the next bed over, looking at me.
"Andrea, where's your mommy?" I asked.
"Oh, she and Doug went out on the town. You're baby-sitting me,
silly!"
Oh Jesus.
"Hey guess what, Evan. Ya wanna hear a secret?"
"Sure," I said.
"This one time, mommy put a giant cross around my neck, took all of
her pills at once, and told me to call 911 if she didn't wake up in 30
minutes."
"SHE DID WHAT?"
"Yeah, and these men in white suits came and put her in an ambulance.
Hey, do you like the Spice Girls? My mommy said she was going to buy me..."
The night wore on while I grew more and more disturbed by the things
Andrea told me about her mommy. Finally, I fell asleep.
I woke up to daylight outside and a pounding on the door. It was
Sarah and her boyfriend.
"Shit, Doug! How could you lose the fucking key like that?" I heard
her say.
I didn't want to know. I didn't ask.
We spent a few more days in and around Nuevo Laredo. Sarah kept her
promise, and we stopped at one of the many corner farmacias to buy
painkillers 'for her mother.' Naturally, her mother would never see any of
them.
We started for home. Our party was on the freeway, near Dallas, when
my cousin turned down the radio.
"God, Evan, dig this."
"What?"
"I was driving down this same freeway a few years ago. My dad had
just died. I was listening to the Rolling Stones. Have you ever heard
"Paint It Black?"
"Yeah."
"Well the last song on the tape played, and I was just about to flip
it over. And you know what? My dad started talking to me."
"He did?" I said.
"Yes. But it wasn't HIS voice. He was talking to me from beyond the
grave in a woman's voice, at the end of the tape. She was singing this
eerily beautiful Irish folk song."
"And do you have this tape with you," I asked.
"Oh no. This was a one-night only performance; my tape player ate
the tape immediately after. But I can sing it for you if you'd like."
"Sure," I said.
Sarah opened her mouth and started to sing. She had one of the most
beautiful voices I've ever heard. In a flawless Irish brogue, she sung
tales of the Blarney Stone, Molly Malone, and O'Hare something or other; I
think there may have even been a few verses dedicated to Guinness Stout.
"These are the sounds of our ancestors, Evan. They're talking
through me to you, just as my father talked through them to me."
I was scared and taken aback by my cousin's complete ignorance of
reality. The ghosts of our ancestors protecting us might have made for good
folklore, but there was one small problem: we're not Irish.
Not wanting to create any ill will, I smiled and politely listened to
Sarah's hallucinations.
We drove for hours before we reached her mother's house. The screen
door was ajar. It hit the house with a loud crack, flapped in the wind,
then came back for a second jarring slam. We walked inside, and saw her
mother's elderly friends crowded around the bed. My Great Aunt Syl was
dead.
"You people -- get out of here!" Sarah yelled.
An decrepit woman hunched over a walker tried to reason with her.
"But we're her friends, dear. We don't mean any harm. We just want to -- "
"Get out you old bitch! All of you -- out!"
Tears streaming down their faces, Syl's friends left. One gentleman
paused at the door to take a final look at his departed friend.
"I don't care how old you are, you fuck, I'll come over there right
now and KILL YOU if you don't leave," my cousin growled.
No one doubted my cousin's word. The old man left.
Now, this would be the moment when you'd expect Sarah to collapse
into tears at her mother's bedside, right? Good guess, but Sarah simply
walked into the kitchen and asked her daughter what she wanted for lunch.
Her daughter didn't say a word.
"Honey, Andrea, I asked you what you wanted for lunch, now please --"
Andrea was kneeling over her dead grandmother, weeping. Sarah walked
into the bedroom, crossed her arms and cleared her throat.
Andrea didn't respond. Sarah grabbed her by the arm, twirled her
around so she could see her tearstained cheeks, and shook her.
"Oh Jeeezus. My god, girl -- you're far too sentimental," Sarah
said.
"But grandma is -- " Andrea pleaded.
Sarah sighed. "Will this make you happy, honey? Go get Grandma's
pretty black dress out of the closet and help me put it on her."
I didn't know what to think, but I left the room so they could change
her. I smoked a few cigarettes in the living room and bit my nails. I felt
some sort of uncertain sadness welling up inside me, but I couldn't figure
out where my emotions were coming from. It wasn't the pain of a beloved
relative passing away, because I didn't know my Great Aunt at all; it wasn't
the mild sorrow of a stranger's death either. It was ambiguous grief.
When I was called back into Syl's room, my Great Aunt was made up in
the most obscene, disrespectful way possible. The 'pretty black dress' was
a holdover from Victorian times -- all lace and poof. They'd put matching
black boots on her feet. Makeup on one side of her face, the other side
bare. The right half of her lips were smeared with lipstick, and the other
half left her natural color. One eye had eyeshadow on it, the other did
not. Syl's scarf was gone from her head, and on display to the world were
the harmful effects of endless chemo treatments. Andrea was propping up
Syl's arm, in an effort to slip jelly bracelets onto it. Sarah was standing
off to the side like a stage mother, yelling commands at her daughter:
"You're doing it wrong stupid! Your grandmother's arm won't absorb
the power of her crystal if you put the bracelets on THAT WAY."
This was one of those horrible moments when you realize an atrocity
is being committed in front of you, but you're powerless to prevent it. I
just watched in horror.
I flew home the day after Syl's funeral. A few months had passed. I
held in my a hand a series of black-and-white prints of Mexico. In the
foreground of the top print was a homeless Mexican passed out in a store
entryway, bottle of liquor spilling its contents out onto the concrete. In
the background was my cousin Sarah, her back to the camera, head turned
around so that half of her face was visible. Her long brown hair was
flapping in the wind, and a mischievous, self-satisfied, and malicious smile
was on her face.
Then the phone rang. I don't believe in fate, but it certainly made
a strong case for its own existence that day. It was Santa Claus, on a
direct line from the North Pole.
I leaped in the air, clicked my heels twice and said "Merry Christmas
and Happy New Year, ANADA readers!"
Nah, not really. It was Sarah's boyfriend, calling to tell me she'd
died of an overdose in Mexico City.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, ANADA readers.
[*****]
VIII
I still see her, you know. She's the last person I want to see in
this entire world, but she lives to haunt me. She's changed a lot, but I
know it's her. She still has that "please, look at me, I am interesting"
look painted all over her multi-colored hair and tattooed arms. I know she
still runs around creating chaos and spreading her diseased personality,
fucking everyone who looks at her with interest and manipulating anyone who
falls into her trap. And I'm bitter that she still has this control over
me. It's been over three years. I should be over her now.
[*****]
"ANADA AT 500 IS INSANITY"
by Oregano
The squad room was all abuzz. Rodriguez rushed across the room and
stopped in front of the Chief, "Chief we have a problem with the prisoner, a
big problem."
The Chief was all straight up standing, he turned to Rodriguez and
asked what was the problem, he had all the national news outlets on him to
reveal information on the man who tried to kill [FAMOUS ACTOR], and
Rodriguez had been interrogating the prisoner.
"Chief, we found out the motive," said Rodriguez.
"Out with it, man."
"You are not going to like it."
The Chief was flustered, "By God, just tell me, I have things to do."
Rodriguez said, "Our prisoner said he was told to kill [FAMOUS ACTOR]
by God."
The Chief stood still, a shock spread in his body from the foot all
the way to the head, "Egads! Man, can this be true? Are you sure he is not
just making it up?
Rodriguez countered, "We were running a voice stress analyzer the
whole interview, he is telling the truth. Then we set up a polygraph to be
sure and that showed it to be true too."
The Chief looked thought-like and said, "There is only one thing to
do then, we have to let him finish the job. If it is God himself who
ordered it, who are we to stop it?"
He sent out Rodriguez to find [FAMOUS ACTOR] and bring him to the
holding room and when Rodriguez went off, the Chief sent a patrolman to get
the axe out of evidence that the prisoner had used when he attacked [FAMOUS
ACTOR] earlier that same day.
[FAMOUS ACTOR] was led to the holding room and the prisoner quickly
dispatched him with nine quick blows of the blade to the head. [FAMOUS
ACTOR]'s body was taken away and the prisoner was officially charged with
murder instead of attempted murder, all neatly captured on video.
Two days later.
"Chief, there was a request from the prisoner," said Rodriguez.
"What is it, man? Can you see I am busy?" The Chief replied.
"The prisoner said that God said he should be allowed to have beer in
his cell."
The Chief sighed, "We better do as God says, we don't need Him
against us on this one."
The next day: "Chief, the prisoner says he needs to be put to sleep
by dancing girls singing to him softly and that God said it has to be done."
The Chief looked doubtful, he looked off into space as though he were
wrestling with great demons in his mind. He shook his head, finally, and
said, "Rodriguez, I am beginning to think we've been had."
The End
[*****]
IX
Yeah, I'm fucking nuts. Okay? I'm fucking crazy. It doesn't scare
me anymore like it used to. I have control over it now. I'm pretty far
from happy and even farther from sane, but I'm so used to it that sanity is
no longer welcome. All the sane people have proven is that they don't want
to deal with the insane people. They would rather pretend it's all in vain,
that us crazies aren't as crazy as we say we are, and that all we want is
a little bit of attention. It appears a few sane ones have ruined the good
name of us lunatics. We're out walking among you, you know. You've hurt
us, pissed us off, stomped on us, ignored us, brushed us aside and diagnosed
us as being attention-starved brats willing to do anything for the adoration
of others. So now we're insane... out walking around. We might be bagging
your groceries or we might be preparing your defense in a court of law. And
we could snap at any time. Just fucking try us.
--gloomchen
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