525,600 Minutes

How do you measure a year in the life?

In truths that he learned
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that he died


The radio silence of late is but a natural consequence of the black hole I fell into shortly after my last entry. Nothing could escape it - not light nor sound. I suppose one can only hope that if the gravitational forces do not tear you apart, then black holes are indeed nothing but huge rips in the fabric of space-time. Or swirling tunnels that will eventually spit you out on the other side - wherever that may be.

It was not at all a bad year, but I do believe this was my unhappiest Yuletide season to date. Not just your garden-variety Christmas blues; more of a profound existential break that, alas, has produced anomie instead of epiphanies.

But then again, not all Christmases can be bright.

Still...

May the explosions tonight herald that the end to my own implosion is in sight. Because I don't think I can endure another 525,600 minutes of this gaping bleakness.

And as for you, blog friends, followers, and foes, may your own New Year be bright.

And now to all, a good night.

Plans Vs. Zombies

This was the plan.

I was going to spend the previous long weekend lying in bed and enjoying the guilty brainless pleasures of a Zombie Moviefest. My playlist from the undead was all lined up: 28 Days Later, 28 Weeks Later, Planet Terror, I Am Legend, Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead, Night of the Living Dead, Shaun of the Dead, and the Resident Evil trilogy.

But as the cliché goes, life imitates art. In my case, no sooner had I popped the first DVD into the player when some invisible virus seized my respiratory system. It swiftly transformed me into a sneezing, wheezing abomination draining brain fluids from his nasal cavities.

By dawn, I had become a shuffling, groaning pile of biohazardous waste.

"Diseased pariah" would have described me as well.

And so it was that I did spend the long weekend - and a good part of the succeeding week - in bed, as originally planned. But quarantined from humanity, watching my fellow infected onscreen inflicting viral plague upon living tissue, as I, for my part, infected tissue, hankie, undershirt, pillowcase, and bedsheet with my radioactive green contagion.

I hate it when life mutates plans into zombies.

Se7eN

That's how many days it's been since a cigarette has touched my lips.


Whoop-dee-fuckin'-doo.


And no, I wasn't planning on quitting just yet.


Just an interesting side-effect of being an incubus of viral plague.