blade or die

They say the greatest journeys start with a single step. But little do many of them know that the first steps are normally under drug-i or alcohol-induced circumstances followed by these fateful words: “Hey, watch this!”

We have created a culture around that. That’s the basic elements of what we do—we alter our perceptions and the world around us.

Some have a very clear vision of what that is and how it should be.

We take the laws of physics and open-hand slap them like the mothers that birthed us into this sick, twisted existence. We contort and dance and frolick along to the confines of gravity, the biggest hindrance of humans leaping over tall buildings like Superman himself.

No, while others sit around and see a world only defined by an alternative reality, we see the alternative reality we’ve created for ourselves. They think they see the same things as us, but only we know the difference between seeing and doing.

We’re all fucking freaks. We’d like to travel back in time and laugh at Sir Issac Newton and shove that dumb apple up his ass right before we fishbrain his spine and fuck his mother in the butt.

Fuck, some of us are so crazy we decide to have fun by vacationing in frozen Midwest cities where even steel-encased crime fighters get about as much respect as Rodney Dangerfield.

But we don’t ask for statues of bronze symbolizing our infamy for our service.

Fuck no, damn it!

We are simple creatures. We only long for a weekend full of cheap beer in stands…

Head injuries…

And illicitly-laced cranberry vodkas shared with men with two first names…

It’s not that we’re not too afraid to throw caution to the wind, it’s that we’re too hungover and bruised and poorly-fed that when we break wind, we need to offer the world its own caution because most of them are too stupid to know what a good time really means.

Fuck, some of us are burly caped beasts flip-flopping and flap-flipping off the god damned rooftops over our heads and into traffic like they’re not absolutely bat-shit crazy.

But it’s not their fault. No sir, these poor suckers are bastard children of misfortune and fate. They’ve been singled out to be creatures of myth and lore, not regular beer-chugging buddies like the rest of us.

They will cry bloody fucking murder into the night, whether it ruins them or not. They’ll see rain not as mere inclement weather but as a sign from God that He’s crying over our inability to follow his rules.

“Fuck no! No way! Not today!” they yell and scream like banshees with yeast infections.

They seek either enlightenment or a body count that would make John Wayne Gacy shrivel in fear. The problem is, they don’t know the difference and would never take a second to figure it out.

That, unfortunately, doesn’t always end the best for all of us. Sometimes the drugs are too strong, the wounds are too deep, and our vision is clouded from some force, whether it be enlightenment or arrogance.

The difference is hard to tell without an eight ball of coke and a hooker to shit on. Sometimes it’s too dark out there and hard to find your way.

No matter the sound that is made or the voices that are heard or where they come from or whether it’s just in our heads, there’s something to be said about expression and mindset and feelings and emotion and happiness.

Some of us unfortunate fucks will never find it because we’re too busy licking our own balls and calling it hot sex.

Sarah Palin.

But fuck the haters and love the lovers, god damn it!

We’re here and alive and connected and aware. We’re lost, but those ten sheets of blotter acid and high grad MDMA laced with Adderall will keep the shiny things shiny until Pony Boy realizes that everything gold will stay until we say so.

The only problem is that no gold is strong enough to withstand a thunderous femur-busting sledgehammer full of French fury.

But no matter which crazy fuck finds their way to the top the fastest, there will always be those who disagree.

Is it about style? Is it about finesse? Is it about a certain jena se qua?

Or, is the hatred for a 90-year-old depiction of the future that wasn’t accurate enough that those of us who remember those ill-fated promises are so bitter in our jaded and scarred hearts that forgiveness is no possible for we have been scorned like lovers promised so much so soon but were tossed aside long before the ejaculate dried?

Could be.

Yes, we were promised rocket roller skates.

Yes, we’re still bitter because they were not delivered.

Still, we charge on.

We charge.

And charge and charge.

We charge so hard that when we document how hard we charge that those of us who did all that documenting of charg!ng, that we drink a boatload of Jameson, say a few words, thank those who have become our family, throw down the mic, and yell, “Start the fucking movie!”

Well, my friends and enemies, that did happen and the charg!ng that was charged was charged full of charg!ng.

Charg!ng.

It fucking charged.

And the next day, some people went to church.

See, some us find what we are looking for in spirituality.

Some of us are trying to find our way.

Some of us charge.

Some of us straight don’t give a fuck.

Either way, we out here.

We used to be out there, but we out here now.

You should come over.

We have cookies.

And acid.

Blade or Die,

— Brian Krans