Ben Bonkoske

I am running on only water (and ice). It is impossible (but it is nice). I laugh when I look in the mirror at the dancing bloated whale. If I spin around quick enough I can see that gorgeous tale. I rejoice that I am imperfect with my overgrown hair and bare bottom and I swallow my kale. Such a notion used to make others happy, but while that was happening, I was obsessed with perfection, an atrocity. I never thought I would hate grey and mauve 78; really bad jazz, but decent classical – very good taste. That is fate (if you believe in fairies and library books), and there is no mistaking that I am not going anywhere. I really don’t know why it is so hard for any capable writer to work. I’ve read all of their books avoiding the working life; from taking a raft down the Mississippi to being a hot dog vendor with a Masters. They think they are better than everyone but are absolute hooey. So am I, even as a stable horse. I miss my beautiful mind on drugs. I’m so much happier but twice as shallow now. I wish I was taking a bath in gasoline and brushing my teeth with garlic. I’d light a match and get less sunburn than I would with one day at the beach, plus some nutrients. I have concluded that I am a vegan vampire who aspires to someday walk around in daylight. I hate talking with outsiders, but I’ve come to realize I am one. I don’t fit wherever I’ve tried to build a life. I am an overdramatic puzzle piece, all alone with a world of counterparts and befitting broken hearts. If you look into chaos long enough it will eventually look like a coincidence. There is hope at the end of the tunnel; a bright light I look forward to – the afterlife. Where did happiness go along with joy? They ran away and left me with contemplation, cynicism, and crude nihilism. I’d be a happy nihilist if only I wasn’t a damn demon. The only problem is is the more freedom I give myself the more trouble comes looking for me. I look the other way usually, but sometimes it is so enticing I hate my life. My goal is to suppress all dopamine release until I come down with depression. In my nightly journal there is a constant math equation defining my life by how long I abstain from all my pleasurable activities. As if reading will suffice as a reason to live until I die. It makes me proud to think of all the pages I’ve digested, but all the other things make life enjoyable like t.v. and masturbation. I don’t know why I think that diminishing my intake of release that I will be a happier, more productive independent.