Anatomy Of A Doomed Writer

The angel operating the lathe of Heaven called out, "Who do you want to make next?"

"A doomed writer!" answered God with a good natured laugh.

"But God, why do we have to make so many doomed people? We just did over 600 future blood diamond miners!"

"Yes, but they know they are doomed. This is a special kind of torment and it provides me with a unique pleasure. It's good to watch them squirm in futile agony like a worm on a hook. First comes the suffering then comes the final fate of being eaten alive as fish food! Me, that's funny! It's sort of like watching the unemployed only it's from birth."

"But don't you remember? That's how we ended up with Hitler? Those frustrated artists are the worst! They have no way of surviving in society so they end up with this twisted drive to rule the world. People don't like dying!"

"Apparently they don't like living either."

"I like it so much more when we make people who've got it made from birth."

"Yes, but how many Britney Spears can the world take?"

"Point taken. One doomed writer coming up. What's the money factor on this one?"

"Zero! Not one fucking cent he gets off his writing. What do I care of money?"

"What level of torture do you want?"

"Give him maximum insight! Let him see ALL the insanity! So when he writes about it everyone will say, "What are you talking about?" Oh, this boy will be delicious!"

And thus a Doomed Writer was born, forced to wander the world wearing nothing but his underwear, a sight to scare children, excite rapists, annoy politicians and amuse women with his perpetually covered penis. And the writer wondered: "What's the fucking point of this!"

His first thoughts were upon the madness of the world which knew nothing but thought it knew everything, deciding how lives should be. Early on came the message: "Math and science! Math and science! Learn it or you're shit!" No one ever said that about art. Artists were on their own to make their own dreams on their own time. But the appetite for time was a hunger never sated by the world. More, always wanting more to feed the ghastly grills.

"Kiss a girl and no one will ever want you. Chicks dig cash, boy!" No one ever told him he was a doomed writer but a future he could never see. So he sold himself into slavery to get the cash cow king but in his slavery he found a life he could not share. He cried to the world, "I need love!" The world replied, "We need the rent!" And in this way God was cursed.

From dark, slimy pits oozed Suicide Slugs leaving a trail of sticky despair on the ground and whoever stepped in their trail was stuck like a fly on flypaper. No one ever killed the slugs or helped those who got stuck, it was merely said, "That's life." As the slugs crisscrossed the globe ruining ever more land life became a game of avoiding death rather than living life. A bad time for all, an even worse time for a gifted artist.

The Doomed Writer, having been given maximum insight, lashed out against the slugs, writing one day the planet would be uninhabitable if they were allowed to live. But this brought wrath and fury raining down upon him, his fellow cohabitants explaining, "We've always let the slugs live so saying that makes us look like assholes and losers! We're going to let the slugs live even more and show you how "write" we are! Hahahaha!"

Hey, wait a minute! No exit there!

Lost and confused like a rat in maze with no exit, the Doomed Writer limped broken and blind. "Are my words not true? Should I write lies for fun and profit? But I've been gifted/cursed to know there's no future in that. I should say a prayer. 'Dear God, fuck you too.'" But God was silent, leaving him in the hands of his fellow man for safekeeping.

A woman of fine bridal linens and ritualistic lipstick posed in front of the mirror to admire her society's perfection. She was pure lace and frills, shapely with human desire to make even a gay man's heart beat faster. In came a Neanderthal grabbing her hair and dragging her outside through the mud while reciting lines from Mad Men. The woman called out to her friends, "We're eloping after all!" Later on TV she complained all men are mindless apes who fearlessly drag women through dirty dirt. She called it a sign of true love.

War Beasts, spreading like blackhead pimples, roamed the land in ancient animosity with metal mallets. In metal they trusted and blinding polls declared them the most trusted of all the beastly beasts. Knowing this, the beasts took their mighty hammers, raising them up to ask, "Do you or don't you like war?" Those who answered no got the peace whacked out of them. Passers-by who witnessed the beatings snidely remarked, "Trust the hammer you idiot or we're all doomed!"

Men Of Vile Words were reviled across the land for their falseness, duping the duplicitous with promises of perfidy. "Why oh why!" cried out the good people, "did we ever elect you?" But the good people re-elected the Vile Word Men en masse or "the terrorists will win!" Then, while wearing "I'm a bad ass terrorist too!" T-shirts, the great whitewashed demanded songs of "lying lies to make us feel better!" Afterwards everyone merged for a massive groupthink hug - "Because God wants us to!" - all the while picking each other's pockets.

The Doomed Writer wrote day after day of the good madness he witnessed, shriveling like an unwatered orchid. At night at work/hell he sat naked in his mop bucket masturbating on the freshly laid carpet thinking of all the well heeled walkers who would trampled over it the next morning. In this way he smiled without pay. Then he put a mock gun against his head (you guess which one) and fired it until exhaustion. His eyes fluttered before seeping sleep. "I don't know what else to do. Why can't I ever make the right move? I must be doomed after all. I've got nothing left to do but love - which means I'm fucked!"

Two women of lengthy legs - traits of indisputable worth in their alleged minds - were disgusted by the sight of the naked janitor in the morning light. "Look at the sick bastard! I am so morally superior to him as far he knows!"

"He's a doomed writer," sneered her friend and unknown hater. "All those goddam artists are like spies reporting on everything we do. Let's call the police before everyone finds out we're not really outraged."

"Well, if that little prick bastard has been writing about what I've been doing I'll have his pinhead on a platter! Life," she swore, "is a state of blind."

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Then I looked, and there before me was the Lamb, standing on Mount Zion, and with him 144,000 who had his name and his Father's name written on their foreheads. And I heard a sound from heaven like the roar of rushing waters and like a loud peal of thunder. The sound I heard was like that of harpists playing their harps. And they sang a new song before the throne and before the four living creatures and the elders. No one could learn the song except the 144,000 who had been redeemed from the earth. These are those who did not defile themselves with women, for they kept themselves pure. They follow the Lamb wherever he goes. They were purchased from among men and offered as firstfruits to God and the Lamb. No lie was found in their mouths; they are blameless.

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