if you would be so kind to read this, its actually written from the point of view of a small wooden souvineer turtle from mexico.
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The abilities of a drugged out mind are far outside the realm of the ordinary. No perhaps they cant preform the mathematics involved to give change for a $20, perhaps they cant manage to determine how to cross the street without becomming a bloody red speed bump. And on rare occasion they have been known to forget the fact that the forces of gravity do indeed apply to them, and that if they do jump off of the edge of that ledge, they will fly in only one dirction... Down.
But the abilities they lack are compensated, although in some peoples opinions, not fully by other abilities. Often times these might include the ability to melt into a puddle on the floor, to mentally see colors and lines and shapes and even people who are not there. Often times the drugged mind can even carry on completely competent conversations with objects universally considered to be in-animate.
and thats where i come in. by all societal regards i am just another in-animate object. viewed by most as a small trinket, a souvineer that was created by the hard working people of...... wherever. but I always symbolize that wonderful trip, that wonderful time that someone had way back in... whenever. Perhaps im just a black hole for memories.
But that is besides the point. you see the thing is, most of these objects that are regarded as societally in annimate often times actually do have their own personalities and thoughts, not all of them, but a hell of a lot more than what most people imagine. Take me for example. A wooden turtle, about the size of an avocado pit, who seems to do nothing more than bob his head involuntarily with the breeze. Yes, i may bob my head quite often, and perhaps im a bit too aggreable, but damnit those nods mean somthing... and once again i have strayed from the point. You see the reason i brought up the drugged up mind being able to comprehend the minds of the percieved inannimate objects is this.
At this very moment, Im sitting on the ledge of a counter. A bank counter to be precise. The man who placed me here is located about 4 feet below me, and would appear to be inspecting the tiled marble floor beneath his nose quite intracately.
As a matter of fact there are about 13 other people in the same room doing the same intracate marble inspection. And as odd as it would seem, Its all my fault. you see, there are very few minds that are able to hear what i think, the words that, for all intensive purposes, i say every minute of my day. I rant on and on into a soundless void where no one can hear me. some days i complement people, some days i muse on my theories of life. Some days i beg for change... but the thing is, no one ever hears me. Today was a different day,
I was bored out of my mind, just waiting for some excitment. Truth be told the majority of my days i'm just driven around mounted to the steering wheel of some fool who occasionally, for whatever reason, brings me along on random errands to make decisions for him. he'll ask me a question and depending on how i bob my head he will react. Its so mundane. Topes, should i buy the conditioner and shampoo seperate? Topes should i take the express way? Topes am i getting fat? Its kind of annoying
truth be told..
On this particular day We were at the bank and i was being asked more mundane questions. most of these involved simple addition and subtraction on a deposit slip. just for fun i decided to give all wrong answers. When He approached the teller with the slip and money in hand all of the information was wrong, and had to be corrected. I sat idly by on the counter just
laughing to myself at the delay i had caused him. does that make me a bad person? no that makes me a bored person who has found some entertainment making him somewhat confused and delayed, HA! yet it was only mediocre entertainment. but you see, this malicious delay that i had perpetrated had some un-forseen consequenses... It would seem that the fellow behind him in line had some very serious problems. I suppose that you could call about 35% of them mental, 40% of them revolving around women.
On this particular day the other 25% of his problems were solely attributed to a beautiful torn image of jesus christ. Well that is to say half of an image of Jesus christ, the small piece of paper that it was printed on was ripped in half so that only the upper torso was visible on it. Truth be told the paper itself was not the cause of the problem. Rather the problem had to do with the fact that the piece of paper was somewhat dirty, impregnated if you will.
Someone had gone to immense troubble to submerse this particluar piece of paper in a rather strong solution of LSD.
Now had the paper itself stayed hidden in the freezer, where by all rights it had belonged, there would be no problem. However this was not the case. A very vindictive former lover of the seemingly calm, yet internally deranged, person next in line had placed this paper in his mouth while he slept. When awakened an hour later reality was somewhat amiss.
The irony is that the placment of this paper in her former lovers mouth was an act of revenge, as she believed that he had cheated on her with her best friend lana. Had this been the case, perhaps she would have been justified. But un=known to her, her best friend lana was angry with her for actually sleeping with her boyfriend, and made up the story to fuck with her head. a very twisted web had been woven.
Regardless, the man next in line was becoming very impatient with the delay in timely service. My mind games that i was playing trying hopelessly to escape the monotony of my life, up to this point they had not worked. to fill the time I started singing a version of an old folk song about a train called the city of new orleans, who'll have gone 500 miles before the day was done, sadly i could never remember the rest of the lyrics and stopped the song mid verse...then somthing odd happened, somthing that 99 times out of 100 has no other option but to have been a co-incidence. Welcome to time 100, the odomiter had rolled over. The man second in line started singing the very song that i had just stopped so abruptly.
"Good morning America how are you? Don't you know me I'm your native son, I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans, I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done."
Had i actually been able to move, i would have frozen in my tracks. as was usually the case none of the close minded 12 other people in this bank had heard me sing the first portion of the song, and didnt really think much, or for that matter anything, of the verse that rang throuh the lobby.
My owner, if you can call hiim that, finally wrapped up his bungled transaction, and in his confusion had left me at the counter. he was always doing that, leaving me places, only to come back moments later to pick me up. The bastard never apologized. However this time he was going to have a small problem coming back to get me.
As he walked away, out into the vestabule, almost to the exit of the bank counting his money, he realised his mistake, and turned around and went back in. I still on the counter, despite my lacking ability to move under my own power, was still metaphorically frozen in place, muttering the same thing over and over in my head.
Oh shit Oh shit Oh shit This crazy fucker is going to kill us all..... o fuckin hell
During this time the next man in line had become the first man in line. He looked down at me, and kindly asked me to lower my tone, that there were children present... There was not a man or woman in the bank under 24 at the time, and i think that at around that time my suspicions that somthing was horribly wrong was about to be confirmed.
You see, as i said earlier, very few people have the ability to conversate with me, and it would seem that the pretexts to talking to me usually include the ingestion of a fairly large amount of psychadelic drugs. Usually this is a wonderful opportunity for me to broaden my horizons. Most of the time i end up talking to tripped out hippies at music festivals who happen to wander close to the car that i spend most of my time in. We talk on all sorts of topics ranging from politics to life, to food and even the weather. I cherish those times.
but what you have to understand is that the psychadelic mindset, when not carefully prepaired for or in the wrong setting is somthing that usually creates a terrible situation. And most times a monster out of the person with the drugs coarsing through their body. this was one of those times.
But back to the bank, a man with a head full of acid was now at the teller window, and was kindly greeted by her. As is custom her welcome was replied to with a warm hello, a grin, and a nod. However this polite introductional patter had another optional greeting attached to it, which was usually reserved for bankers in 3rd world countries, and the occasional southern state. That would be the chrome .45 Caliber semi-automatic handgun. Not only capable of putting large and painful holes into the flesh that made up most peoples bodies, but also the ability to blast a wooden turtle such as myself into several small splinters. Health care for such an injury for one of my kind, was currently not publicly avaliable.
So there the man stood, pupils expanding and contracting, sweat beading from his brow, and a grin from ear to ear. He lightly placed the gun down on the counter, and looked down at me. "Despite your profanity, youre a hell of a singer", and in a complementary tone "most turtles cant even hold a tone". He then turned his attention back to the teller, who by this time had frantically pushed hersilent alarm button over one hundred and twenty seven times in 17.6 seconds. Sadly there were no devices in place to record the multiple pushes of this button, as it beat the previous world record held by teller Norma Jean during a bank robbery in tulsa, oklahoma in 1997. she managed to push the button only one hundred and ninteen times in 18.3 seconds. Her record also went un-noticed. For shame.
-------------------- PEACE
zippoz "in times of widespread chaos and confusion, it has been the duty of more advanced human beings - artists, scientists, clowns, and philosophers - to create order. In such times as ours however, when there is too much order, too much m management, too much programming and control, it becomes the duty of superior men and women and women to fling their favorite monkey wrenches into the machinery. To relieve the repression of the human spirit, they must sow doubt and disruption" "People do it every day, they talk to themselves ... they see themselves as they'd like to be, they don't have the courage you have, to just run with it."
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