Maggie wanted me to live my life taking the middle road. You can’t take risks, you can’t show bright if you never go that far. Taking the less confrontational path always will end to some peaceful existence you resent yourself for. Peace is only after you’ve resolved a conflict, peace is only true once you’ve fought for it. Peace from a piece. “Green Piece” with a small pistol painted green laying below it.

Mental Terrorism

“Do I have those moments often?”, she asks as my mouth starts to form a small smirk cocked to the left side of my face. “Not often, but they happen.”
Totally begging the question and steering her into a more desirable conversation and not about fucking having children. From here I expect to play chess between keeping her mildly offended, but praising her still and completely off the topic of children. Mental terrorism, hijacked that conversation successfully.


“I really do think that you would be a great father, or even a father figure, to a child”, Maggie says to me over the internet.
“You think so? I’m pretty crazy, I have some messed up ideas and definitely don’t think I’d trust my own kid around myself”, in my defense, scheming my next move.
As I’m distracted by the TV screen there’s another ding and flashing window, “I know so, I’ve seen how gentle you can be with me through my annoying moments. I’ve always wanted a boy with blue eyes and a great big smile.”
In a panic I’m trying to seriously come up with some material to run with, “Everyone has their annoying moments, I know I have mine so it’s not right to fly off the handle on them when they occur. Kids don’t know any better, so they don’t deserve my wrath until they know they’re in the wrong.” That was weak, I need to bite onto something soon and just not let go. Death-roll it, like on the Discovery Channel.


You live your life serving others and you attract a certain following. These best friends run away at the sight of you turning to them in need, or demanding respect. You find your true calling as the axe wielding madman inside and these so-called friends scurry away. Perhaps they are trying to preserve the relationship by getting out of the way, perhaps they scamper away because they know that the axe is sharp and the kitchen is closed. It’s hard to find that balance once you get your feet on the ground. “Not everything is black and white,” is what advice Maggie always brought to the table in relation to my way of dealing with problems. Yes or No, there is not a grey scale when it comes to the truth. She always wanted me to be nice, diplomatic, or some other thing that requires less of a spine. Normally I would, but with an axe in your hand you feel like you can do no evil. Well, in retrospect, it’s the evil that you do that will never be spoken about. Diplomacy means compromise, and if anything I’ve compromised the last 20something years trying to bide my time with the friends I thought I had. I’ll trade you my devotion for some companionship.

Conversation Hijacking

Conversational Hijacking is a skill that I would teach everyone and no one at the same time. Perhaps instate a rule that prevents anyone from hijacking my conversations. It spawned once as a kid being a keyboard tough guy talking trash to my fellow comrades and counterterrorist unit about the news bulletins of the day.

I’m too young to know how to drive a stickshift, but I’m in the field fighting off people who had high thoughts of themselves, ranting on about how something should be changed about this policy that has little bearing in his mother’s basement. I don’t want to be one of these guys. I enter the conversation and mix it up a little. I sidetrack and jump on a tangent and ride it until there’s just a speck of the original conversation in the horizon. Hijack complete, take me to your leader. I can steer this conversation anywhere I would like.


“That was really good, I liked that,” he stops himself feeling profound, even I was in a small state of amusement and shock. He stops the conversation that’s lasted the last fifteen minutes and looks at me saying, “What the real point of this whole talk is to know that you’re not being abandoned”.

If no one else would wean me off, I’d have to do it myself. I know the feeling of being abandoned and neglected, this isn’t that feeling. This feels right, no matter the knots in my mothers stomach. “You’re not going to be able to make it”, she says, blasting the last two decades of her parenting into shrapnel, like an F1 grenade thrown inside a flimsy bunker. Pieces of rock, dirt, ammunition, flesh and blood are landing all around as I sat on the corner of the bed. The sound of clangs and tings and splats and thuds as the raining debris lands all around us. Conversational Hijacking has occurred, I have a bomb.


A plunge. Solid, feet first, minor resistance. Surface tension of water at great distance will still bring certain death. Traces of inhibition stripped off as the acceleration continues. Focused on the dark blue landing pad closing in on me. Pop the parachute with training manuals torn asunder traveling at maximum speed.
Terminal Velocity. Something dies with this speed. — Terminal Velocity is reached when the object in question is in free fall and the drag present is an equal and opposite force to gravity. Gravity: Nature’s embrace pulling you in versus the unnatural inhibition of drag. At terminal Velocity it’s not the acceleration that ceases, but inhibition. Something intangible, irreplaceable, incomprehensible such as inhibition. Having let go already there is nothing to fear. Master of the Universe and the blueprint is complete. A print on the dark blue sea.