he's very proper, always says hi, nods if you catch his eyes on the way to the men's room, or the director's office in the corner. he speaks very slowly, but not too slow, just very clear. he's got a low voice, thick and deep and easily audible, he never raises it. he spews as few words as possible to convey his message, as if he pays sales tax on every single one. he only talks business, with the most subtle smile on his face.

in his small nylon lunch box he carries fruits for breakfast and a sandwich and a tomato for his lunch. he takes his lunch in private, noone ever sees him eating. you just know he's just had lunch if you catch him rinsing off his tupperware in the kitchen. he pops a soda in the afternoon, same time, same can. noone knows if he finishes, he rarely takes a sip. nevertheless, you'd find his can in the recycling bin at the end of the day, everyday.

there was a bee in the office today. v announced its presence with a short cry from her cubicle. then it bugged d and s, and then it was on my monitor and i waved it away. then i heard a loudest slap from the next aisle. i turned around to catch the new guy whirling like a mad man in the middle of the his cubicle, slamming his big white hands together every which way, panting nonstop. he suddenly froze with his hands clammed supposedly on the insect, crunched them together for a while, and dropped the remainder on the carpet and stumped on it with a firm and loud thud.

he straightened his collar, nodded at a few of us staring at him, and sat down at his cubicle, completely in peace with the world. we heard him slurp his soda today, i think he finished it too.

on his right shoulder he's got a barcode tattoo from a kleenex box once full of white two-ply tissues, clean and scented and folded with ungodly precision. do you feel shitty in general? did you have a shitty day at work? did you just break up and feel like shit? did your significant other defecate on your whole entire life? well why don't you take a tissue from him and vent all of your crap into it? please dispose responsibly when you're done, and also be considerate, don't take too many, there are others behind you with their own shit with nowhere to dump it.

did you not get a chance to use him today? no worries, there are a few tissues left for tomorrow, and the day after, and the next day as well. oh please don't, he's totally fine. it's not like he's never used human tissues to wipe off his own shit. what goes around comes around, ten times stronger, some times a hundred.

a bottle a day safely keeps all these shitty thoughts away, for a few hours, until he wakes up in the middle of the night, panting, looking for the white clicker of his bedlamp, and remembering for the millionth time that he's moved out today, or was it yesterday? or seven years ago?

just in case you do, i hope you didn't create everything, say human beings. in case you're there and you did actually create human race, i sincerely hope the common belief that you know everything is but only a popular rumor.

because if you exist and you created mankind knowing very well what they'll go through during their miserable little trailers of a lifetime you are most definitely the sickest, meanest, loneliest, most fucked up being in the entire universe.

please tell me you don't exist.

he then produces a rather peculiar package out of the side pocket of his jacket, wrapped in newspaper, smothered in blood. he proceeds to unwrapping a slab of raw steaming meat out in the middle of the sushi table in front of him. fresh hot blood oozes out of its corners as he carefully slices it with sashimi precision and hands us each a few juicy crimson pieces, upon which we start chewing absentmindedly. once rinsed down with another pour the other presents some chopped liver lightly braised in bile and kidney broth followed by two racks of fresh raw ribs still withholding live breathing lungs in between. once garnished with sea salt and fresh red pepper flakes we take turns in poking our fangs into the lungs, tearing a couple of ribs apart and passing the rest to the next one around. more wine, and more wine. he says something without expecting a response, and he gets none.

though still pounding, the blackened heart reeks of rotten dried blood. he starts peeling off the dried crust as tears start to blur his eyes, the next peels another layer of somewhat softer tissues and we keep peeling and peeling until all that's left is a pink piece of muscle the size of a small toe with all our four faces soaked in tears flooding our of our swollen eyes. he sets the finger on fire and we stare at it burning slowly into a a black piece of char filling the air with its stinking odor. wine, more wine. noone says anything.

then they leave. the funeral is over and the remainder of the deceased is now part of our bones and flesh, his blood running inside our veins. it's a good thing we got rid of his rotten heart, we're all better without it, without him. i speculate about when they'll come back to me again, and who's next to die. until then, i keep drinking the rest of the wine in the world, one decanter at a time.

i hope i'm next.

but that wasn't all. not that he didn't know any of it before, but reassurance never hurts. he tried his best to talk succinct, nothing wordy, although he did make sure he throws in the keywords. indifference, inevitable death, universal misery and innate miscommunication of mankind.

he's stuck on track two of thirteen, "once". it's pretty cheesy. too cheesy. right up his alley, and he's stuck. nice is the new deceitful, according to dr m. noone's nice, unless you're lying of course. everyone's just who he is. selfish lonely creatures scattered across planet zoo. "and when i'm a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in." gods are brutal, but they're feeding us, so suck it up and live it.

track two restarts, only for the millionth time. she asked what he sees in the world, and if he ever stares at ants. of course she doesn't need to know that he counts the ants line on the edge of the tub every single morning to decide how many he could wash off into the drain that day. he says he sees perfect order in the whole and perfect chaos in details. she says ocean is significant and powerful and it's only made up of insignificant drops. he says he chooses to be the one that's left behind on the sand when the tide goes in, detached for good. cliche. corny. right up his alley, stuck on track two.

it's her voice probably, marketa irglova, suits the voice. she says indifference beats depression since the latter is a known phenomenon with a clear recovery path. indifference is the survival strategy of the selfless. when all one lives for is others, when self is suppressed, disappointed. she's right and wrong. he does live for others, yet his ego beats the ocean she's mesmerized with, which part of i-know-better-than-all-of-you-suckers signifies suppression?

or maybe it's the beat? or the scene from the movie? dr m believes his anima is suffocating him. she believes his dreams of we-all-know-who does not mean he wants her back, but that he hasn't let go. that he's in love with his anima and embodies it in the memory of this one woman who's walked him through the discovery. she's right probably. for one thing this explains the intimate shower sessions between his hands with the masculine member, it's not him, it's the horny anima.

last time he listened to one song so many times was probably first year of college, the all-nighters, indefinite whispering phone calls with this one tape of one song recorded over and over again in the background. whatever. towards the end dr m has one advice. cherish the dreams. she believes when the conscious persona gives up on life, the solution is in the subconscious. write down your dreams, she says. don't take them for face value, they're showing you what's holding you back. she asks if he believes in symbols. dr m does. he doesn't. he's lying like a dog.

thank you dr m, he thinks. he might never visit her again. dr m is a fine woman who thinks his soul is dead, that his status is worse than depression and that his self is suppressed with his anima running his show. she might be right, or might be wrong. dr m's words don't make any difference either. words are meaningless, expressionless. nothing matters, really, and the same song plays over and over and over again: if you want me, satisfy me.

sometimes we make love. she's often quite, her lips placid, her eyes wide open looking away to one side. sometimes she comes first. when she does she closes her eyes, gasps and stretches her neck, clings tightly to my shoulders for a few seconds before relaxing her facial muscles; after which she thrusts me in between her thighs not to stop until i finish and we both lie down dead still, i hear her heart beat as she breathes in my ear. then she leaves for the bathroom, and i watch her wobble away from me, in silence.

sometimes she's on the phone. she grabs her knees into her chest and leans against the cushions on the couch. her voice is serious, i almost don't recognize her, she never uses that tone with me. sometimes i put my head on her lap while she's talking, sometimes she walks away, fully naked, and i don't even notice.

sometimes someone's over. sometimes it's a friend of mine, i talk to him. sometimes it's a friend of hers, she talks to her. we go to movies. we eat. we talk about things. then we say bye and we go home. sometimes i brush my teeth first, sometimes she gets online before coming to bed. sometimes i'm asleep when she does, sometimes i hug her from behind before going to sleep, before we settle away to our own sides. sometimes our toes touch. sometimes that's all that matters to me, that our toes always touch when we're going to bed. sometimes i don't even notice. sometimes it's weird, since we've just had a fight, but our toes still touch.

i always wake up first. i always look at her. sometimes she's naked, sometimes she's not. sometimes she's wearing her pink gown, with her breast hanging out. sometimes its the white one with the string, sometimes i pull it to bare her nipple. sometimes i don't.

sometimes she's not there. then i realize i am awake. that she'll never be there, ever. sometimes i smile. sometimes i don't. it doesn't matter, really.

there's a black crow flying high above the hills in front of me, way below the clouds. its getting dark outside, a storm is coming and i should leave now.

i always wonder, did we ever talk?

there's nothing you could do to make someone love you; but there's a million things you could do to make them hate your guts. there's almost nothing in life to look forward to, but there's a whole lot to regret. there's very little to appreciate, but there's everything one needs to feel disappointed. lovers who leave, friends who let you down, and families who are just not there anymore.

and of course it's only worse when you're the lover who leaves, the friend who lets down and the one who moved away. how do cowards seek closure? how do assholes get along? is there a jerks' support group somewhere? hi my name is fuck you and i'm a douche bag. i'm worthless, subnormal and intolerable.

he thought about all this as he wondered if all of this is a pathetic cry for attention. he spent some time thinking if he cares what people think of him at all, and he realized he does though he likes to say he doesn't. he spent some more time wondering if life is about living up to the images people hold from him, he found the idea disturbing and conveniently dismissed it as soon as his mozarella and tomato pizza was ready.

he decided gogol bordello's right when he says there's no such thing as good old days, and that there's only today and a little bit of tomorrow and they're both very shitty. he also decided that from now on he'll only lower expectations to raise satisfaction, maybe now he'll stop worrying about the result, if any. he gave up on love, companionship and affection, and immediately labeled all subjects of this phenomenon to "mentally deranged" and "hopelessly optimistic". he was about to decide many other things but then he was tired and he ran out of wine, so he gave up and laid down instead, and he was really happy, or truly depressed, and then only realized that they're both really the same.

he then grabbed his book and lived the rest of his fiction. facts were never his forte.

the human heart is designed with a certain capacity for love, joy and satisfaction. there's only so much love one could withhold before bursting, only so much joy before feeling lame and only so much satisfaction before wanting more and losing the status quo. noone's ever heard of a series of fortunate events, merely singular exceptions in an otherwise routinely disappointing affairs. that's of course caused by the heart maxing out on its happiness quota and seeking and finding the next glorious piece of misery in its surroundings, and sure enough it's right around the corner.

on the contrary and extremely out of proportion, taking away the little love and joy from the same seemingly lousy heart leads to infinite feelings of resentment, rage and apathy. noone's ever heard of 'as bad as it gets' simply because it can and will always get worse. there's always more to break, more to take away, more to endure and suffer. asymmetric hearts, that's what we've got. capped and bottomless.

he was thinking about all of this walking back home from the theater in midnight's chill. in a moment he took off his fleece jacket and then his t-shirt. in less than a minute he was numb. if only inside could go numb as quickly, if only it could take three years instead of thirty... but then even after thirty it still hurts. as much as things have gone wrong over and over and over again some once-upon-a-time stranger could manage to show up out of the ridiculous blue and take away more. how can one take what didn't exist? did she bring it with her when she arrived and took it away when she left? or was there some more he hadn't noticed until it was all gone? is it all gone now? is he finally safely frozen for good? what is left when one loses grace? what is left when one cheats on himself? when one challenges his own ego and wins? when one identifies with thoughts of all the freaks and losers and pests? when one can frightfully justify any given evil in sixty seconds or less?

but does it matter?

what matters? seriously, what? he got a single scoop of chocolate brownie on a regular - not sugar free - cone last night. it mattered, because he was too busy licking and didn't think much while it lasted. he got a dark chocolate chip muffin this morning and was too busy munching on it for some three minutes, it still mattered. maybe dark chocolate matters, especially its bitter aftertaste, maybe. and nothing else.

the man without a woman is peaceful. he's in no rush. he's observant, patient and tolerant. if you talk to him you'll find he's articulate and friendly. he'll listen. if you trust him you'll be most comfortable sharing your deepest secrets with him. if you judge him he'll just smile and support your argument, never picks on you to get even. only that you won't talk to him. you'll never trust him and you wouldn't ever get to judge him. the man without a woman never talks to anyone. he has nothing to talk about.

the man without a woman is a decent man. he doesn't lie and never cheats. if you get to know him you'll revise your perceptions of the male specimen. if you learn about his past you'd feel most affectionate towards him. if you hear his stories you'll almost like him more than you've ever liked anyone in your life. of course you'll never get to know him, and no matter how much you try you'll never understand how he became the man without a woman. he's the ultimate stranger, a total alien, an element of his own.

the man without a woman is happy although you'll never know. he's got a story you'll never read. he's got a vision you can't begin to understand. he knows so much he needs not think. the man without a woman could be the king. could be god. could be anything; only he isn't. the man without a woman doesn't care. he's utterly indifferent.

nothing ever matters, nothing, to the man without a woman.

meanwhile life happens on metrolink, in traffic, in a half-deserted apartment, in between beers, whiskey half pints and silver patron shots. pointless, everything. and one "can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of his own exactitude" in predecting the absurdity of adulthood. not that i predicted any of this of course, i mean what is there to predict? just feels good saying it. literahigh.

short stories in farsi, anyone? it's safe to state with six sigma confidence that ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent of them are pure crap, too dull, banal, trite, etc. what bothers me is that it doesn't sound like they're even trying. someone's gotta do something, someone. the other ten percent are either too abstract or too old, or both. whatever happened to hedayat's disciples.

recent hobbies include cornering people in personal arguments that could potentially excite myself out of my own comfort zone and observing their defense strategy, if any. funny how insecurities surface almost instantly, no interference required, just the initial trigger. also interesting how i could identify similar behavioral traits like those of my own, especially the annoying ones. heck we're all bunch of pathetic hopeless funny creatures, of course some are less funny, they have 'beliefs'; in what?

the struggle is over. i can feel it. this is it. life, my life, right here, right now. hello convolution. hello genesis. hello the end. utopia is hell and hell is utopia, and here i come. let's rephrase, here i am, where i've always been.

but till then i'm going to remain a slave of corporate america. life will be good though, because i have my evenings to myself and myself only. i'll read and listen and play tennis. what the hell, i'll dip into the jacuzzi every once in a while before getting completely drunk. life is good.

in the perfect world there are no books on religion, faith, god or lack thereof. there are also no schools of thought, no ethical codes, no virtues and no values. there are only stories. story books for math, for physics, for medicines, for music, for cooking and for sex. there will be absolutely no differentiation between fact and fiction. imagination is just another sense, merely the strongest. people truly live what they read, hear and watch, and integrate the experience into their wisdom. there are no lies, just different individual preferences in pursuing facts or fiction. good and bad are devolved into their true meanings: descriptive adjectives for personal tastes, never applicable to people, actions or events for that matter.

in the prefect world we're all in love and we create to impress the divine beloved, tangible or not. in the prefect world we're all high and drunk even when asleep. the perfect world is actually a broadyway musical with original score in the air and subtitles floating around people and animals and all other conscious creatures in various paradigms of life.

in the perfect world survival pays. we're all compensated fairly for the courageous act of waking up to the same routines everyday, for enduring misery, for being born, for anything that goes wrong. in fact infants receive a sign-up bonus which pays for their minimal needs for their duration of stay within the current life form. the youth are always struggling and the elderly have the highest rates for having gone through it all.

in the prefect world brains are useless, plans are decorative and deadlines are just for fun. feelings are everything, we feel like somethings, and don't feel like the rest, and we can always choose, and we only choose what feels the best, and we can always switch, and we often do as soon as we're bored.

in the prefect world it's all about me, and it's all about now.

everything is a hoax, everyone's miserable and it's all going down. i feel good right now, and it's a perfect life.

thirty minutes to get ready. thirty steps down the stairway. thirty more soldiers died in iraq. thirty cents short in change for coffee. thirty songs on my ipod playlist. thirty men standing along the track. thirty seats on the second deck. thirty stocks plunging, thirty rising. last thirty pages of factotum. thirty crazy years behind. thirty dirty thoughts on my mind.

i've been with thirty women, some of them in my head. i've lived a day with less than thirty dollars in total assets, much more in debt. i've killed thirty spiders, crushed thirty snails and smashed thirty flies. i've drunk thirty bottles of whiskey. i have thirty shiny degrees piled up on my desk and thirty dusty pictures on my wall. i know thirty people and some more. i fell in love with thirty of them, and i cried for thirty months when the first one left me. I've told thirty million cheap lies and thirty really good ones. i felt really bad when I lost thirty cents to a slot machine, and spent thirty grands on fine dining that felt really good. i had thirty golden opportunities to make it big in life and wasted all of them, i had thirty perfect opportunities to commit suicide and failed on all of them too. i have thirty pieces of new york steak in my fridge and thirty bottles of wine on my rack, thirty more reasons to live.

the mexican girl who'd truned thirty sat next to me for the thirtieth time. she wasn't reading the bible like she used to, she had thirty ways to improve your relationship in her left hand. i spent thirty seconds trying to read thirty lines from her book, but her cleavage proved too distracting at the bottom of the page and i gave up: she had small breasts, thirty a, or b. i thought of thirty lines to start a conversation with her, and i found thirty reasons why we'd break up in thirty days or less. i counted to thirty and back, and i was outside walking on thirty celebrity stars on thirty pavement tiles.

i ordered thirty lattes and thirty croissants and only paid for one, and i realized what the world feels like at thirty. it feels like thirty thousand reasons to live and thirty thousand to die, and a most seductive indifference towards all of them, and the rest of the reasons in the whole thirty year old world for that matter. it feels like thirty venezuelan topless strippers on one side and thirty horny zombies on the other, and me walking in trance in the middle, oblivious, indifferent and expressionless, simply so careless that they can't tell, as if i'm too good for them, as if i'm too smart for them, as if i own more than thirty dollars in cash, as if i'm everything they are not, as if i'm thirty. there. i am.