Archive for 2009

It could be described as the most prolific moment in the eve of my life—never more than a whisper from death or complacent living. Yet, a whisper is only what it is named, and what more can be done when it is not heard? Because of the simplicity that such a conclusion brings to my life, I am drawn to two possibilities: either I will find what I seek or I will move closer still to that fatal whisper. Somehow, neither is the case; I am but a lonely decrepit man—or rather, I was. By most accounts I died in my own wretched ignorance, a cesspool of thought and depravity left behind for the vultures of life to divvy up, tear apart, and ultimately leave to rot and decay until nothing was left but the remnants of a corpse – nothing but a steaming pile of pungent odor remains. By most accounts, I was the most villainous, albeit industrious, individual to have roamed this rocky orb.

In life I was unaware that I had been accused of committing so many misdeeds, because I had instructed him so well. He devoured my words. He did this until my instruction ended his existence. Many ask, “What heinous act has this villainous creature thrust upon society?” But I tell you now, this was no misdeed by any standard; it was only a means to an end. What was this end? The appeasement of his soul. Yet is this madness? No, I dare say it is not madness; it is only a dream that shall be unrealized.

Now I sit in this cell caged like an animal, never to break loose. Always wondering if on the other side my words will ever be heard or comprehended. I doubt that a mind such as mine exists in this universe. I am locked in a cage—while real in every sense, it is beyond description for mere mortal eyes. But it is my mind that leaves me here. Am I insane? Hardly. For one not to see that is in itself insanity. Oh dear friend, I am aware of what you may be thinking. Yes, there is no doubt in my mind that I would look upon a man such as myself as a bigot and a delusional, babbling twit, but I am so much more.

Every night I looked upon the stars wondering why in God’s name I had been thrust upon this hellish earth. I stared about me and never once saw a soul as deep in thought as my own. Oh, how this disgusted me. The torment was like the blackest night’s icy tendrils. Its baneful howls sliced my ears constantly. What was I to do, was I to remain calm and allow this vileness to continue? Of course I could not. My course of action was as calculating as it was sane. I decided to demonstrate to the world just how intelligent I was.

I was determined to undermine the fabric what I knew. How I was to accomplish this is still quite a mystery to me, but do not judge. Another person in my place would have done this very thing. Imagine it; imagine how wonderful it would be. This is my place in life. I found much sanity in this insanity as some have said. I cannot say I agree, for where is the insanity? I would be proud of any other who could devise a plan such as this.

Stop wondering what it was that my plan accomplished, or for that matter what it was. It shall be revealed. I beg, sir, not to judge, nonetheless. My mind has a purpose and my plan has done what it should have. Had I not been put away, who is to say that my plan would not have accomplished its purposes? That is the insanity that I must face daily. Physicians, psychiatrists, and the like, all wish to understand my thoughts. Their minds are a modicum of ideas at best. No better than a dog’s mind when compared to my own. So of course I shall not explain what I already know. It would seem frivolous would it not?

To my own detriment, it would seem I am a mound of ambivalence. Knowing not which way was up or down was my only blunder. My plan was perfection. I declare it true. The lone imperfection was its perfection; this is why it could never have been completed. Those dastardly officials shall reap their deaths in their own time; if not by my hand, then by the hands of providence shall they meet death face first. Their visage will be one of ignominy and darkness upon their deathbeds. They are nothing more than shadows of men, and my heart, it seems, knows that I am so much more. Truth be told, I am sane. I shall achieve what I set out to do. Nothing but shadows of men, I render this thought and leave it.

What more can be said now? I am caged as a rat; left to rot until death thrusts its loving hands down my throat and rips me apart. I wonder. How is she coping? My old friend death. She seems so lackadaisical of late. Has she forgotten me? No matter, in time I suppose I will hear from her again. Such is the way of such things. No matter.

What now, shall we say, my dear friend? What doth one inquire of me?

Cross posted at Minor Speculum.

Isn’t it funny how one day you can wake up and remember how it used to feel to have something to live for? I don’t mean that life isn’t worth living; on the contrary, life is worth every penny. But really, think about those times that made it seem like it was true; those days when life seemed to be going the way you wanted—too bad I rarely wake up with that feeling. Most of the time I’m stuck working a job that makes me feel sick to my stomach. You know, I wish I didn’t have a conscience; it would make things a lot easier. But really, my job requires that I don’t; it’s written in the description on page two, right around line three sub-paragraph six. If my boss found out about mine, I’d be fired in a second.

So you’re probably wondering what it is that I do, because I know I would be curious. In a few words, I find ways to sell you stuff that you don’t really need, but are willing to spend thousands of dollars for—going in debt along the way—in order to get that momentary sense of elation. And don’t pretend like you don’t know what I mean. We’ve all sent in those three easy payments of $19.95 for the Ronco Rotisserie Oven in the hopes that we could make as juicy of a game hen as Ron Popeil did; those blasted infomercials. But, I’m basically charged with creating the same kind of campaign. The kind of advertising that makes you drool. Makes you want to lick that roasted duck on the television screen; tricks the hell out of you into buying the product that’ll never get used, and will definitely never create the five star dinner the ‘normal’ chef on the tele made—but it sure looks tasty. Don’t get me wrong, though, it’s a great job. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be on the inside? Not that most people don’t catch the techniques we use—on second thought, eighty percent of the American public will definitely never catch those techniques—but I certainly do.

So I have to lie a little about the products to do my job—what’s wrong with that if I can make a quick buck in the process? It’s pretty simple really, a few pieces of currency exchange hands for goods slash services and everyone is happy. No harm done; its not like anyone really expects their Dyson Cyclonicon Pro Vacuum to do a good job. It has moving parts; it is bound to fall apart sooner or later. Right? I guess if you want to get technical, I’m not actually doing the lying, I really only pick the colors and typefaces that trick your eyes into looking at the ad. A little kerning here and a leading adjustment there and we’re all set to ship it off to the various magazines that’ll print the marketing department’s little white lies for thousands to consume—provided that my designs are approved.

Seriously, though, who wouldn’t want this job? You sit back and get to create all day—really, you get to problem solve and figure out what solution will best fit the given advertising situation. How? By helping to create the little lies that get your mommy and daddy to purchase that brand new Lexus LS 300M Mark II with a base MSRP of $45,699; pretty nasty when it comes to financing, since they’re already stretched so thin they can no longer afford to make timely payments, but what do I care? My little contribution to the ad was so small it isn’t worth mentioning or even attributing to their need for the vehicle—but I’ll tell you anyway. I adjusted the kerning on the word “the” next to “all new.” So maybe my contribution wasn’t glamorous, but I had a hand in the final ad. On top of that, I was always quick in getting the art director his morning cup of coffee, which I’m relatively certain sets me up for the next promotion in the office. I’m crossing my fingers on that one, but it’s a lock. Really, what could be better than earning that Assistant to the Artistic Creditor position? I definitely don’t know.

What would I be doing once I land that promotion, since I most definitely will? I get to take notes and pour cups of coffee for yet another person; boy, I’m pumped about that one. I can’t wait to hear, “Hey you, can you get me another tall mocha espresso latte, with a double shot of the espresso? Yeah, thanks. Make it quick, alright?” Seriously, this is my dream career; in another five years I’ll have enough experience to start designing entire campaigns on my own. Mind you, they’ll be immediately ripped apart by the art director, and then completely redesigned or even ignored, but I’ll get the ball rolling on the process and that is what truly matters. Hell, by that time I’ll have learned to lie so subtly you might not even trust me enough to have a conversation with me, let alone befriend me—you really always have to have a goal—and won’t that alone make life worth living? I think so.

Really, the chance to influence others easily, albeit without their knowledge, sounds like the dream of every man with a Napoleon complex—and I get to do it every day. It seems to me that Disney didn’t lie. Some dreams really do come true. Sure, you spend most of your professional life catering to higher-ups, but what is that in the scheme of things? Not much. The bottom line is a career in marketing and advertising is the way to go, and it’s the best job I’ve ever held. Hell, I guess I must be learning something since I got you to believe half the stuff I just wrote.

Cross posted at Minor Speculum.