/\{}[]\/^*&#^-/\{}[]\/^*&#^-/\{}[]\/^*&#^-/\{}[]\/^*&#^-/\{}[]\/^*&#^/\ \/ \/ /\ THE CHRONIC! /\ \/ \/ /\ Issue 5 Acting Supreme Editorial Mistress: /\ \/ \/ /\ /\ \/ May 2005 Absinthe \/ /\ /\ \/{}[]\/^*&#^-/\{}[]\/^*&#^-/\{}[]\/^*&#^-/\{}[]\/^*&#^-/\{}[]\/^*&#^\/ The "Bullshit Apology" issue: In which we explore apologies and lies we may or may not care about. Featuring: Carrying a god in a bag by Tapmo Sorry Damnit! by Absinthe ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Introductory Attempt ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It's been a while my friends, oh my goodness has it been a while. I'm so sorry. Sure..... I could mean that if we were in an alternate universe where up was down, black was white, turtles were ping pong balls and I could figure out what the fuck C.A.M.P is (Something to do with homo erotica in the fifties/sixties, beyond that it's simply back hall speculation), then I'd totally be sorry. I am the queen of the bullshit apology. I also happen to rule the sincere apology as well, but that's the way moldy cookies crumble. One has to wonder why five letters seem to be the end all in the quest for forgiveness. I use it constantly, and all things considered, that's quite a bit less than I used to. It'll get better I'm told. Sorry is just five letters. Sorry is a curse and sorry is binding. Sorry and I love you are two of the worst phrases on earth. They're thrown around constantly, and our reactions to those phrases have been programmed into us so thoroughly, that it's hard not to say the ordained response. That's okay. I love you too. They come forth from your mouth and you're suddenly caught in the moment where a rewind button would come into good use. Shit shit I didn't mean that! Abort mission! Abort! You now find yourself stuck in the consequences. You don't love her, she's just a pleasant diversion until someone better comes. Come to think of it, you're fucking her best friend since kindergarten too and in this post coatis pause, one more lie shouldn't hurt. You are still pissed off as all fuck. You said it and now you're stuck with it, (but shouldn't the fact that you said it like a curse, snarling and spitting it out contradict it?)but now it's said. You've given forgiveness where you wanted to remain angry and sulky and bitter and if he thinks forgiveness is going to stop the torrents of your rage, he can take that sorry and shove it. He never meant it. I'll let you in on a secret: I can be the queen of hypocrisy too. Just because I said it doesn't mean I meant it. Dress-up was always my favorite childhood game. Apparently my sense of style is that of a child in an old box of clothes. I like that. We all know what that means. I'm lying right now or right then or all the time or maybe I'm a wealth of honesty. All this aside: I'm sorry. -Absinthe ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Carrying a god in a bag by Tapmo Carrying a God in a bag across the country, I'm heading home on this train. The God bounces in the bag. Can he bounce powerfully? He is muffled in the shirts I will wear when I get there. Can he be muffled and dictatorial? Inscribed on him is all that he is, everything he stands for. There is no mistaking his intent: he is tattooed with his unalterable laws, laws that came before the word, yet are apparently so easily expressed with words. Who would claim, against this somber god, that the laws were shaped with words and not the other way around? He will change the town that I live in. The robes and the upholstery in the church will be made to match whatever vague rags I can find to adorn him between here and my stop. Someone will feel ecstasy, clench tight moist fists in utter grace, saying the name that I tell them is his. Someone will feel guilt throbbing like a monster in their veins and scream that name. Now the name, what will the name be? Sorry Damnit! [a voyage into self indulgance] by Absinthe I should be at school right now. I should be learning. The phone is ringing and I don't want to answer it because then I'll be found out and we can't have that. It rings and rings and I meant to answer it just to see who it is and hear a voice and get a lecture. It's not ringing anymore. That could have been a call from Hannibal Lector, our new Pope. FUCK! I've missed a call from the fucking Pope all because I should be in school. Then again if I was in school I wouldn't have had the blissful honor of hearing the phone ring with a phone call from the Pope. Then again maybe he wouldn't have called if I'd been in school he probably wouldn't have called because he probably wanted to excommunicate me for skipping French and Law, because that's what Popes do. Didn't you know? For shame. I had an anxiety attack yesterday and it was delightful. I have a theory that crying is the only thing that keeps people sane. Every once in a while people need to flush out all the emotions and whatnot or they will be overwhelmed and go mad. I've given up crying to see what would happen. It gets easier and easier to not do it, though one would think that it would get harder. Despite the fact it's easier, tears have developed a new plan of attack, prickling my eyes at any given moment. Those motherfuckers. Just because I want to evict sanity doesn't mean they can push me around. 6 months and counting. French is better than law, 'cuz my French teacher doesn't try to feel me up. My French teacher is a sadist, that's why she's great. If you're late for her class she makes you sing to the entire class. Love songs to selected members of the class if you're extra late, or were at the dentist or something. I speak great bad French because I can make it up instantaneously. I remember screaming bad French with friends on a bridge of walking. I think we were trying to whisper. That was the day we walked beside the marching band and I tried to whisper that they knew it all and they would come for us, and I tried to reveal the secrets of the universe but between my brain and my mouth the screams became whispers and the whispers were screaming and they'd all been translated into drugged up gibberish. I tried to do my duty and write it all down but I couldn't feel my hands and a friend needed to taste my pen so I gave it up. I've been meaning to say sorry for that. To the girl on the bus with the red dreads: I saw you wink at me when you said you liked my dress. I hope. We've got to run away from them or you'll show up in a pinstripe suit and then I can never love you again. I don't love you. Though I might like to. Will you hurt me? Will you lie to me? Will you make me wish I could change the world, all the while reinforcing my theory that the world will never want to be saved? Will you say monkey wrenching is terrorism, and then join me when I go spike the trees? Will you have a boyfriend and keep me in the refrigerator for safe keeping and sex in a back alley? I'm sorry but that means you're the one for me. Or the one right now and maybe I'll use you as a substitute for going out into the wide wide world where there's a chance that I might find something long term and concrete because I don't like concrete or anything solid for that matter. I may or may not finish school two weeks from today so I'm hiding out here. I hate clothing more and more as the days go on. I never wear shoes if I can help it. Even though as a woman I have no choice but to collect them. Even though I don't. Poke a dot panties are the only thing I'm wearing and a nice beam of sunlight is upon me because I'm like a martyr in some religious painting. I want the phone to ring again so I can answer and see what happens. I want someone to lie to and I want someone to hurt me and I want you to know that I never know if this is truth or lie so go with the flow, Joe. I used to have a shrink in a building full of various drug, Aids and sexual health awareness organizations. I'd walk through the building on my way to every appointment picking up a rainbow of condoms. The shrink tried to say I was a nymphomaniac. I'd go back to school and hand the condoms to anyone I say until they were gone and I'd made my effort for the day to prevent an epidemic of children. Autumn is having baby in Summer so I guess I failed but it was still a fun thought. I'm sorry I failed you and I'm sorry you never showed up and I'm sorry that we were always missing each other. I'm sorry I let you think we had a chance. I'm sorry that you got married. I'm sorry you two are having babies. I'm sorry I make fun of the Pope and I'm sorry I ate the pencil you told me to keep scared. I'm sorry I always want to break anything delicate and I'm sorry that I'm too human for most people. On second thought I'm sorry I hate people. I'm sorry I hate you all. I'm sorry your pussy is a cunt. Yeah you heard me! There's an insult for you! I'm sorry you need to get some of that newfangled plastic vaginal surgery..... on your FACE! So very sore. _____________________________________________________________________ / \ - The Chronic is always interested in submissions. Should you find - - yourself possessed with the urge to contribute a documentt of sorts, - - feel free to email it to eversoobviouslychronic@yahoo.com . As long - - as it amuses the small minds of the staff to some extent, we'll - - probably give it the nod. Length doesn't matter due to the fact - - quality is bundles more important than quantity. - - - - www.geocities.com/eversoobviouslychronic - \_______________________________________________________________________/ By the way, all this stuff belongs to the authors, and cannot be sold or stolen. Failure to comply with this simple request will result in Absinthe hunting you down wtih a chainsaw and her unholy rat army rat army of the night. Or maybe just suing you. Let's leave that one as a surprise. On that note, feel free to print, email or otherwise distrubute this document, as long as due credit is given. Under no circumstances should it be sold.