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Bad Influence

We sat on my cold marble floor, stoned, staring at a computer simulation of two atoms colliding on my laptop. As a rule, I hated smoking weed but when I came across a girl who made me want to voluntarily undermine my philosophical precepts, I indulged the bad habit.

“So cool.” she whispered, the reflection of the computer screen against her glasses hiding her brown eyes.

“Watch.” I replied in a hushed voice.

An explosion of turquoise and magenta lines created a theoretical representation of the big bang. We felt apart of the cosmic birth, humbled to experience the process of creation.

“So this is what you do for a living?” she asked.

“I don't do the calculations, I just program the simulations.” I paused, “That rhymed.”

We collapsed against one another in silence as hilarity seized the air from our lungs. The wave of the orgasmic laughing fit subsided and we returned to our stupefied state, now sitting slightly closer to one another.

“And then you get stoned and watch them?” she said, eyes drilling into mine.

“No. You're just a bad influence.”

- The Commodore


"Our parents are in Libya, or Dubai, or some other foreign paradise."

The corn fields of society sprawled out in front of me in a neon blue pulsating grid. The simplicity of faint LED read outs from imperfect FM radio waves gave me a sense of comfort only whiskey and a heap of a trashy brunette 90s girl hair in my face could augment. Society intelligent and clean. Equalized against over indulgence and patronizing glares.

- The Commodore

Civilizations Inferno

A man burns in civilizations inferno, flailing about for an exit.

It starts in the pit of his cerebral cortex and spreads as unfulfilled neurons turn upon one another.

The doe faced stare of satiated masses give a programmed smirk and Stay Tuned for These Messages.

He glowers underneath cape and cowl and skitters away, too incredulous to give reason to his words.

He coughs up chunks of logic that pool from his mouth in a kaleidoscope of premonitions that people should know--

But are too repulsed to notice.

- The Commodore

Anatomical Study of the Creatively Inclined Female Commoner

She flinched when the axe poked at her abdomen. Her muscles tightened reflexively and my theories about the construction of the human frame found dark affirmation.

The screams and sobbing stopped hours ago. By this point they had become occasional murmurs of desperation. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a pool of water collecting near a drain pipe. I learned to love the amorality that filled the void where my soul should of been. No cathartic misgivings about what I was doing were to enter my mind.

Photo Courtesy of The Woodsman

Musings on Miss Behave Magazine

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It had every indicator of reality. Her coy retreat from my advances, both of us pausing for long awkward silences to ruminate upon one another's intent, and her allusions to an early departure so there'd be no opportunity for a stolen kiss.

This was reality to me at least.

Jump cut to us sitting closely beside one another on the perilously steep stairs to the second level of my bedroom. We're masked in the deathly pale blue tint of early morning sunlight filtered through snow covered windows. The fact that I had to actually pinch myself in my own dream, which doesn't work by the way, should have shown me that happiness was once again coming to me as a poorly constructed nocturnal diorama of hope. She placed her hands on my cheeks and apologetically brought her lips to mine. The pinch hurt, the kiss felt real, and I believed that months of agonizing longing for an unrequited love had arbitrarily rectified itself in the frozen tundra of Pleasant Valley, New York.

I wake up.

I'm making out with a pool of drool on my itchy pillow and curse aloud. The dreams had stopped for a while. Still, every so often the Idealist Within that I tried to have excommunicated would make a bitter sweet return to the Kingdom of Me. I roll over and cling to my 60 year old bedsheets, recalling all the embarrassing things I said and did trying to woo her. I scold myself for being so blind. Then I think about how happy I felt consciously charging Don Quixote's Windmill of love. Even in failure. Utter and complete failure, I was starting to realize what a relationship could and should be. Though it was not going to be with this particular idealized trashy brunette 90s girl, the lesson learned gave me solace in considering my next romantic escapade.

- The Commodore