Life has me,
No fault to my family.
No fault to my friends.
No fault to myself, if we’re being honest.
It’s ‘its’ fault for the way I feel.
I feel like a shy stray dog that has been twice abandoned on the side of the road, hungry, visible rib cage, tired, knotted hair, waiting for that one car to stop and help or at least hit them and put them out of their misery.
I feel like the French fry that has been riding around underneath your car seat for the past year waiting for another French fry to be dropped between the cracks so I can have some company but it never happens and you finally decide to stop at the car wash and vacuum your car out and you suck me up and it feels like all you did was waste my time.
I feel like the penny, nickel, or dime that you drop on the ground and do not care to pick up anymore because, well, I do not matter anymore and bending over would require too much work and effort considering you have a debit or credit card in your wallet.
I feel like a peasant’s peasant.
I feel like a giraffe with a two inch long neck and all the good leaves to snack on are high up in the tree tops all the while the other giraffes look down on me and scoff because I am not like them.
I feel like those couple of stray butthole hairs that you miss when you shave and you do not discover them until they are almost three feet long.
I feel like the detached head hairs that your brush has collected over the past thirty combings and you’d rather leave them entangled in it because it would take too much time and patience to yank them out so your scalp could receive a fresh massage.
I feel like your pointer finger that isn’t wrapped in enough toilet paper and when you go to wipe your anus you turn your fingerling appendage into a tootsie roll and every time you eat that day you eyeball that finger because it went ‘a little too far’.
I feel like I work all week long for the weekend and then, *poof*, I’m right back at work.
I feel like I spend more time at work than I do at home.
I feel like that one pair of tighty whitey underwear that has a half serious skid mark screeched in them and you’d rather keep them and wash them and continue to use them because the stain ‘isn’t that bad’ and because ‘who has time to spend money on underwear right now’.
I feel like the hashtag that is popular one week and forgotten the next.
I feel like the hard perky nipple poking through on a see-thru white t-shirt of a not so attractive girl.
I feel like the booger you pick out of your nose and flick out of your semi cracked car window but it sticks to your finger so you resort to wiping it on the outside of your window and letting the passing wind take care of the rest of the work but it doesn’t work so you then roll the window up and down to where the booger is at in hopes the car will erase your formality.
I feel like the popcorn ceiling that no one wants in their house anymore yet some are stuck with them for the time being.
I feel like another countless Weiner sashaying around in the biggest sausage fest known to man and there’s only one bun walking around and she’s already half soggy.
I feel like the house plant that is dying of thirst, sitting next to a window, staring inside out at a land that receives at least one rain shower a day.
I feel like the half-smudged phone number of some sexy significant acquaintance written on the hand of someone who looks at it later while washing his hands while being extremely horny and realizing that his washed hand is the only action he will be receiving if he does not use his photographic memory to remember the digits yet he still forgets and settles for another KY Jelly night.
I feel like a bitch’s bitch.
I feel like the bag of chips that is filled with more air than chips, the current status of seventy-eight percent of all bags of chips on Earth right now.
I feel like the empty toilet paper roll that you stare and cuss at when you finally notice it after you take a shit and you know you’re going to have to squeeze your butt cheeks together, smush the fudge, and waddle to where your paper supply is at.
I feel like that piece of thread you continuously drive over with your vacuum cleaner yet it will not suck it up because that one piece of refuse is velcro’ed to the floor with the strength of a million tiny, pretentious snow crab claws and you start to wonder if it was woven into the very fabric of the floor and you’ve never noticed it until now.
I feel like the buffering symbol that comes across your television screen at the best point of the program or movie.
I feel like the buffering’s buffer.
I feel like the buffering of the buffer’s buffer.
I feel like the buffering’s buffer of the buffer’s buffered.
I feel like a crinkled five dollar bill hanging out next to a stripper’s semen stained thong waistband, a dancer who is proudly performing at four in the afternoon on a Tuesday at the beginning of the month.
I feel like a single rat turd in a shaker full of pepper.
I feel like the WiFi connection that acts like an asshole and you have to put your password in every other time you want to connect your phone, television, or tablet.
I feel like the one guy that looks forward to a sloppy yet organized blowjob all day long and his wife calls and says, ‘honey, I finally did it! I went and got braces and the dentist told me that I only have to wear them for the next two years! Isn’t that exciting?’
I feel like that one stain on the lens of your sunglasses, the smear that you push around for minutes on end while driving with your kneecaps, a tease that even the surface of the sun or the tongue of a well renowned pornstar would never be able to clean off.
I feel like the one gas pump you pull up to and is covered with a trash bag so it cannot be used so you say ‘fuck it’ and spot another one and commence to drive over there then three people line up at it before you can even get your keys into the ignition.
I feel like a used band aid that missed the trash can and lies, for years on end, on a cold cement floor because, ‘who the hell has time to clean that shit up?’
I feel like the band aid you pull out of the box and unwrap then you realize it is not going to fully wrap completely around your finger so you mentally say ‘fuck it’ for the third time that day and throw it away for a bigger one.
I feel like that one used paper towel in the hand of a patron who is looking at an already full trash can and wondering, ‘what the hell am I going to do with this’ so they throw the towel behind the trash bin and hide their malfeasance from the person that has to clean it and then you begin to realize later on how lazy of an asshole you truly are because, in all reality, all an ass does is sit all day.
I feel like a janitor in an endless sea of dirty diarrhea toilets.
I feel like the only proctologist in the entire galaxy and my colon is the one that needs to be scoped out.
I feel like that one curly stray pubic hair that keeps you from putting your butt cheeks on a toilet lid or your hand on a bar of soap or shower wall.
I feel like that one tampon that clogs the toilet for the next twenty flushes.
I feel like that one bite of an apple or popcorn that lodges a samurai sword into your gums and you debate as you try to find it with your tongue or toothpick if you are going to have to go see an oral surgeon to have it removed so you can finally be at peace again.
I feel like an empty movie theater.
I feel like a fingerless man in a room full of rubber holes.
I feel like a bowling ball in the middle of a pandemic, whether that pandemic is make believe, real, or cunningly constructed in order to test limits and thin out populations.
I feel like a middle finger that is too tired to flick off someone.
I feel like a middle finger that is too tired to flick on someone.
I feel like the dryer that quits on you and you have just washed your sheets and all the while you were looking forward to that feeling of crawling into a freshly washed bed cloud and taking that first whiff of razzle dazzle before you snuggled down for a naked viewing of a movie.
I feel like that one patch on a tire that a dog sniffs out and decides to piss on.
I feel like that one squirt of body wash you spurt onto your wash rag, not enough to fully wash yourself, so you result in taking the top off of the bottle and filling it with water so you can ‘get by for just one more night’.
I feel like a racist, except, I’m blind, and nobody will tell me what color I am.
I feel like a sexist on a planet of a population of one – that being me.
I feel like that one piece of bacon that pops and scares the shit out of you while you cook one of your most favorite meals of the week, breakfast, and sends you jumping like you just ran a full blasting water hose over an electric fence.
I feel like that one guy that drives a Mercedes Benz, misses his child support payments, and lives in a single wide trailer.
I feel like the guy that still sells seedy marijuana.
I feel like an empty beer bottle in an alcoholic’s house.
I feel like a restraining order with no recipient.
I feel like that one guy that is working a full time shift on a Friday and everyone else is walking and driving around outside, not doing, what us Southerners call, ‘jack-shit’ and are getting in your way and hindering you from accomplishing tasks so you can finally go home and they do this because they have nothing else to do.
I feel like the senior citizen who just left Walmart and wants to hold up rush hour traffic by going twenty under in the fast lane beside a tractor trailer and the person behind them is riding their ass but they cannot see anything because of their cataracts and three layers of sunglasses.
I feel like a legless Flamingo.
I feel like an arsonist who accidentally sets himself on fire.
I feel like an alligator that has TMJ.
I feel like that one ingrown hair or patch of razor burn you get near your freshly washed vagina or around your penis and you know you’re going to have a saucy night of hardcore sweat and devious sex and you debate canceling all your plans and social media accounts until it clears up and everything goes back to being silky smooth just so no weird thoughts or questions arise when mouths and hands enter the landing zones.
I feel like a wet fart that we call an ‘uh oh’.
I feel like that one iTunes song that is ninety-nine cents and you have ninety-eight point nine nine nine nine nine nine cents in your account.
I feel like that one traffic cone in a construction zone that is tipped over while the other three million are standing straight up in a perfect line.
I feel like a half smoked, snuffed out cigarette lying on a busy city street near a homeless shelter or inside the fenced off yard of some maximum security prison and it’s time for recreation.
I feel like that one plastic grocery bag that just wants to dance in the breeze and across the highway but instantly gets caught underneath a piece of shit vehicle and is drug, asphalt beaten, across six state lines before being torn off and left for dead and can no longer dance and has to wait to be stabbed by a roadside worker and put into a nicer, newer trash bag and then deposited into the fine living of landfill life.
I feel like the mold you discover growing on the last two pieces of bread in the loaf when an idea of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich pops into your head and you happily go into the kitchen, set up everything to prep your treat, and discover the spoilage only to throw your hands up, say ‘fuck it’ for the second time that day, and leave everything on the counter until the next morning like a ghost’s ghost.
I feel like a fireplace that has never been used.
I feel like that one shopping cart with the squeaky, shaky wheel and, after the first seven steps, instead of getting a new one you mentally say ‘fuck it’ for the fifth time that day and keep pushing it because it would be too much effort to get a new one and you are impatiently ready to go home, shower, get naked, draw the blinds, and binge watch your favorite show in the confines of your bed.
I feel like the frog, spider, or grasshopper that latches onto your windshield or side mirrors and rides all the way to wherever you are going and jumps off whenever you get wherever that is and can never find its way home back to its family after you leave and is forever lost and the insect or reptile family later dies because I was not there to supply for them.
I feel like a monochrome jackass in a sea of sexy stallions.
I feel like that one piece of junk mail that you do not take a second glance at as you tear it in half like it has offended you, it inevitably landing in the trash can next to a rotting banana peel, a dirty diaper, last night’s leftover spaghetti sauce, and some expired Spring Mix.
I feel like the broken sun visor in your car, never staying up flush against the roof of the car, pissing off the driver every time they have to look at me because I’m either bumping their forehead or obstructing their view when they have to check their blind spots.
I feel like a broken pallet in a beer factory’s warehouse.
I feel like a broken pallet in any warehouse.
I feel like the car that has two flat tires.
I feel like the car that has no tires.
I feel like the one flavor of soda that sits behind the transparent doors of a convenient food store and no one ever buys me and I constantly have to see all my other comrades get chosen and taken away from the cold prison I am contained in, me knowing I will never be pressed against the next customer’s thirsty lips.
I feel like that one suction cup that never suctions.
I feel like that one piece of meat that you floss out of your teeth ten hours after the meal is over and you make sure no one is looking at or studying you and you tongue it off, re-chew it, swallow it, and get a little dessert dessert before bedtime and also because you’re a nasty sonuvabitch.
I feel like a used condom that is tied off because, heaven forbid, the jizz I contain happens to make a mess or splatter before you can get to a trashcan and throw me away forever since I helped aid in your five to ten minute dance, you rookie you.
I feel like the three-way bulb that only works on one setting – brighter than the devil’s butthole.
I feel like that one tub of ice cream that only has three satisfying spoonfuls in it and you have been craving ice cream all day while working your nine to five and the only thing that is going to give you salvation from your hell of a work life is eating at least half of that specific flavored tub.
I feel like the refrigerator or freezer light that is on the fritz and flickers every time you open the doors and, considering your appliance is only three years old, makes you even more frustrated.
I feel like a dildo whose batteries are dead and you look in your junk drawer for those fresh, unwrapped D cells that are going to help aid in getting you off and you realize you are one battery short from having that perfected climax so you settle for your tired hand and whatever infatuation you can conjure up in your brain and you give up and plan on stopping by Walgreens on your way home from work tomorrow and you end up forgetting.
I feel like a shower loaded with seven thousand bottles and every time you get in you start the domino effect and all of them end up in the shower floor yet you continue to stack them like fucking Jenga blocks in preparation for the same shit happening the next night until you finally wise up and throw half of them away, maybe, one year later.
I feel like a five year old porno video that only has three views.
I feel like a lying politician standing in front of the throne of God.
I feel like anybody, in this day and age, standing in front of the throne of God.
I feel like the milk jug that fools you into believing it is full so when you fix yourself a nighttime bowl of cereal and go to reach for me, as soon as you pick me up and shake me, you cuss to yourself, throw everything away in the trash, take an extra Xanax, and go to bed hungry yet still having the best sleep of your life.
I feel like the one item you forgot at the grocery store and after you get home you realize it and it ruins the rest of your day and you fixate on it and it chases you in your dreams and it bothers you so much that you are turned off from ever purchasing that specific thing ever again and when you see me at the grocery store you turn your nose up at me and mock me like the bastard that I am.
I feel like a fresh bird turd on a freshly waxed car.
I feel like a hungry man, craving seafood, sitting down to a fish fillet that is filled with more bones than meat.
I feel like the booger that is cemented to the cave wall of your inner nostril and is going to surgically pull out three long nostril hairs and make your eyes water when you finally decide to tug at it for the last time and yank it out.
I feel like the rainy day symbol on your forecast app when you have vacation days planned.
I feel like the lack of vacation days you currently have when all you’ve done is worked your ass off all year long and made your company more money than what you were paid.
I feel like your breath after you sleep with your mouth open all night, have scrubbed it down in Colgate toothpaste, rinsed it in Listerine mouth wash, bathed it in Hazelnut coffee, then ate an onion sandwich with a side of pickles.
I feel like a pickle – a fucked up cucumber.
I feel like the Balsam Fir three wick candle that dies out five minutes after lighting it and you can just taste the delicious mountains in which you wished you could live out the rest of your days and then it evaporates into nothing and you wake up out of your daydream and all you can see is the surroundings of what you have been seeing for the past ‘however’ many years.
I feel like the dream that never comes true.
I feel like the coworker that you despise but you still have to ask for their help to accomplish daily tasks so you can make it home on time to your empty ice cream tub and depleted milk supply and you try to plaster a fake smile to your face but you know you are not succeeding so you result into pulling your face mask over your face to conceal half of your facial expressions and then everyone thinks you still have Covid because nobody knows what’s what anymore and are dumber than an icee in hell.
I feel like a lie that is believed to be a truth in a world full of doubt and sense that is not common and people are robots and their hearts are stone and the world is coming to a halt and everything is going to drift into outer space and then, if we are lucky, might suffocate, if we are not already.
I feel like duct tape and zip ties sitting, well, almost any place where broke down machines are being used.
I feel like the two cars that want to ride side by side on the highway and go ten under the speed limit and turn into a rolling road block and you wished you had a snowplow on the front of your vehicle so you could toss them to the side of the road and into the guard rail for safe keeping.
I feel like a razor sharp sand spur waiting for you inside a washed pair of nicely folded socks.
I feel like the Chapstik tube you forgot in your jean pocket and it spends sixty minutes dancing around in a hot dryer, unknown to you until you take your clothes out and they all smell like Vanilla Bean and feel pasty.
I feel like that one fully filled trash bag that falls out of the back of an idiots junky truck and it tears to pieces and litters the roadside with even more clutter and when the dumbass drives back by it he just shrugs and rolls his cigarette or Wintergreen Skoal around in his mouth and says to himself, ‘well, er, I guess sumbody else will clean er up’.
I feel like fake global cooling in a fake global warming world.
I feel like a boring conversation in a room full of intriguing chatter.
I feel like a room full of chatter in a quiet room.
I feel like the naked hand that touches a hot handle.
I feel like the scalded tongue of someone who just drank something very hot and that certain feeling is going to follow them around all day and ruin anything they drink or consume and they complain about it to at least seven people throughout their day.
I feel like the shoe sole of someone’s brand new kicks and they want to show them off to their friend so they go to their house and follow their friend into their backyard with their three golden retrievers and the new kicks immediately land onto the freshest pile of shit in the yard, the gummy light brown kind, then after cleaning and scraping that turd off, the now not so fresh kicks step in one more turd in the front yard, the charred, flaky charcoal kind, and he cusses the air around him for going over to his friend’s landmine filled yard in the first place because he spent more time cleaning shit off his shoes than hanging out with his friend.
I feel like that one guy that wants peace and quiet at the beach then a family of whatever’s spread their blankets out beside me and all they want to do is feed the seagulls an endless supply of crackers, cuss at their kids, listen to the greatest cover band hits of all time, drink cheap beer and off brand cola, and adjust their bathing suits each time they attempt to bodysurf and jump cresting waves.
I feel like the non spoken ‘fuck you’ when you remain silent because ignoring something is far more potent and hurtful when showing something how irrelevant it is.
I feel like the advertisement in a YouTube video, the ones you cannot skip.
I feel like a perfect size seven and the only thing on the racks are fives and nines.
I feel like a guy’s morning hard on when they have to pee really, really bad so they have to think of something absurdly disgusting to help aid in bringing the crane down.
I feel like four consecutive red lights and you’re already running behind.
I feel like the lack of funnels when you are in desperate need of one, like maybe four times a year, three of those being when you are changing oil in something, transferring liquids into different bottles, or loading a B B gun.
I feel like a vacant mall in an online shopping world.
I feel like feeling feelings would feel more feely if I could have honestly felt the feeling and know the feelings that would have been felt if the feeling could feel its feelings before I felt the feel of the feeling’s feel.
all that aside, I feel like…
I feel fucking amazing compared to how I used to feel.
I feel like I’m filled with more realism and optimism than constant pessimism.
I feel like I’m filled with more of life than of death.
I feel like I’m ‘this’ close to accomplishing my artistic dream and if I do fail then I still have consolation in the fact that I got further than most people ever will their entire life and considering I have two trusty sources to leave my works with if something dire does happen to me.
I feel like I am one of the most blessed men in all of the universe and am glad that salvation knows no limits or boundaries.
I feel like the text message or phone call from that one friend or family member that always pulls you out of the rut that you were currently in.
I feel like things are coming together for something that could turn out to be quite big and I’m going to be here to share it with you so you can learn to hold onto love, hope, and faith and in return I hope something big and awesome happens to you so you can share it with me.
I feel like the one thing that goes right when everything else is going wrong.
I feel like the one mud puddle that the kids like to play in, ignoring the fact that their electronics exist, even if it was only for an hour.
I feel like your favorite meal, on a day when you needed it the most.
I feel like the French kiss that makes your toes tingle, gets you hard, and forces you to close your eyes and hold on for dear life.
I feel like that one person’s touch that makes you feel electric and lose your sense of gravity.
I feel like the tree that turned into your paper towels or sheet of paper for your very important project.
I feel like the butterflies you get when you get on a rollercoaster for the first time.
I feel like the lingerie your lover wears and rounds the corner and makes you slowly grin from ear to ear and the only thing you can imagine is peeling it off like the sleeves of a banana.
I feel like that first sip of coffee in the morning.
I feel like that first drag of a cigarette on a break.
I feel like the hickey that nobody can see but it still catches your attention as you strip in front of the mirror while your shower water warms up.
I feel like that first scraping of skin when you kiss someone that you have dreamed about kissing.
I feel like your singing voice when your favorite song comes over the radio while you are riding in your car, alone.
I feel like the opened pack of gummy worms sitting on your kitchen counter, waiting on you to get home and slide your fingers inside of in order to retrieve some mouth puckering treats.
I feel like the magician’s trick that nobody can figure out.
I feel like the empty trick or treat bag on Halloween morning.
I feel like the dinner plates waiting to be laid out on Thanksgiving Day.
I feel like the Christmas tree and decorations that are going to be put up after everyone finally skedaddles after Thanksgiving dinner, if not sooner.
I feel like the feeling your head feels when it hits your favorite pillow.
I feel like the fresh Q-tip you insert into your ear whenever you take a shower and drain the hot water heater.
I feel like your first climax out of a set of four, an excitement that you have not had in over a week.
I feel like the smile you receive from across the room from the person you wanted it from.
I feel like the refund check you receive in the mail when you were not expecting it and when you see it after a really long day it lifts your spirits and makes you see the side of life you should have been seeing all along but you lost yourself instead and that is okay.
I feel like the mirror hanging on a court jester’s wall as he considers poisoning or stabbing the king yet he continues to play his role while smiling and holds off on his plans for another sunny day in the near future.
I feel like that notification you were not expecting.
I feel like the first taste of spring after a long, cold winter and the first taste of fall after a long, hot summer.
I feel like that extra set of hands you ask for when you have a back itch that you cannot reach and scratch.
I feel like the hands that wander to the places you ponder.
I feel like a waring leader who is about to charge the battlefield with the best soldiers around and we look across the battlefield and we can visibly see we are outnumbered but we do not care nor have any doubt about losing because we are so skilled we already know we are going to win the fight because the only things we can see across the way are weak, dumbass, idiot cowards.
I feel like the underdog Cinderella team that wins the championship.
I feel like the groom seeing his beautiful bride for the first time.
I feel like a proud father holding his newborn child for the first time.
I feel like a sailor who has been on the high waters for months on end and has finally spotted his first sign of land in the far reaching horizon.
I feel like the sweaty hand that the girl is brave enough to place between her knee caps.
I feel like an astronaut who lands back on Earth, steps outside, takes his helmet off, and breathes in his first breath of oxygen.
I feel like the inside coverings of a fresh bikini top or bottom being tried on by the sleekest woman in existence.
I feel like a stick of gum that fell out of the pack and is waiting for you in some inconspicuous location.
I feel like the fourth egg when you only needed three.
I feel like a student’s first day of summer break after going to school and pushing hard for an entire year.
Life has me,
somewhat lethargic, but in a livable way.
No fault to my family.
No fault to my friends.
No fault to myself, if we’re being honest.
It’s ‘its’ fault for the way I feel,
you just have to say fuck it.
Not out of meanness, but out of our own hubris, which, if not controlled, can lead to nemesis, the worst of us becoming the best of us.
Hasn’t that been the case for quite some time already?
You know how I feel?
The real question, now, is how do you feel it?
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_ Thank you for your time _
I also have a podcast channel on many different platforms
_ Feel free to start here _
Don't Look Down – vernontalks – "going to the edge and back, one word at a time."
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_Here are some past blog posts that might fit your fancy_