Saturday, October 31, 2009


It's one o'clock again. I hate one o'clock.

I wish I could leap into the ceiling and disappear.

I wish I could look down on myself, see that man sitting at that desk and realize I’m not him.

I wish I could poo-poo him for his cigarette packs and empty beer cans from up above.

I wish I could take a tractor and plow everything he’s been under the rug; let the world take him as a deduction and write the fucker off.

But, instead I’ll sit here and stare at my personal ad until six o’clock rolls around or the boss leaves or some woman comes along and makes my life happy for me…

Yes, I have a personal ad. I'm personally responsible for it and it's about
my person. Namely, me.
I hate one o'clock because there's so much day left, and yet you can't say
"I just came into work."
That's why I'm writing my personal ad.
On any given day, I will spend five of my nine hours at work on the
internet, two reading, one emailing and one working. I have no idea how I
get so much done.
But, back to my personal ad. I'm writing my slogan, or banner. Something
that will appear above my name and stats in pretty colors and bright lights.
I want to "Wow" any potential lovers. I want them to believe that I may be
the one true man out there. Something like a super hero. I want women to
believe that I am the final product of evolution. The final straw the tips
mankind into the superman.
I write "I own a HAM radio."
I have trouble taking this personal ad business seriously. I personally
don't like it. I don't like the type of people it attracts.
But, I'm lonely.
It's taken awhile to admit this; but, it's true.
I spend my evenings alternating between the TV, the IPOD, the laundry, the
dishes, the dinner, the shower, the counting of Marlboro miles for a free
dartboard, and various other small tasks (watering a dead aloe plant) that
make me believe that I'm working towards something.
In my mind I believe that this is all moving me closer to finding a woman,
finding spiritual salvation, creating some sort of art thing, and maybe
delivering me into God's warmth.
But, it's not. It's just shit to put in between where I am and when I will
There's no hidden formula for life.
For instance, I used to think I would have bad luck for three years and good
luck for three years. Fat for three years and skinny for the other three
years. Dating for three years and...well, counting Marlboro miles for the
other three.
I worked this all out in my head as my boss was teaching us how create
S.M.A.R.T. goals for our department. A S.M.A.R.T. goal is a...well, if I
knew I wouldn't have worked out that three year cycle thing.
Well, it's nine months passed the day when I was supposed to all of a sudden
become thin, find the girl, get the job, and ascend higher on the ladder of
No, I'm still fat, lonely, and staring at at one o'clock at my
shitty job.
So much for formulae."That voodoo you do is going to be the end of you. Ha ha. Ha. I love that one." It was hunched over the railing looking down on me. "Row, bot, row."

"I didn't know."

"Now, you do! Row, bot, row!" A cigar falls down on me and strikes wires that are, I guess, me.

I grew up finding new ways to hate myself, and I now know why. It's so refreshing to find that you're just a program or whatever. Just a bunch of wires someone made. No more blame. Row, bot, row.

He begins coming down the stairs towards me and I know he's going to kill me and I don't care. There's no heaven or hell to worry about. The only thing I worry about was just who was real and who was fake? Were my parents –

'Looks like you broke a leg." He's just feet away. "I broke a leg once. Couldn't repair me. Not like you. You can be repaired." It dawns on me that I could live forever and the high of finally being annihilated with no worries comes crashing down.

"Is this it?" I ask. "There's no copies or – "

"Buddy, you're not dead yet. Worry about copies when you're dead." The paradox gleams across his face. "I'm not planning on killing you." He's now standing above me, looking down.

"Why'd you throw me from the balcony?"

"To show you. To show you you're a robot."

"Thank you."

His head drops behind his shoulders and a laughter echoes off the stairwell. "Now, we begin."

"What?" For the first time I'm scared. What the hell does he want me to begin with him? Slavery? Sex slavery? My mind reels, the man I'm looking at looks capable of anything.

As my mind races through possible scenarios that look grimmer and grimmer he winks and says "We're gonna find God."

I can only reply "Why?"


"For what?"

As his eyes light up red, I realize that I never got a good look at them under that Buster Brown cap and scruff. "Um, are you a robot, too?"

"No, robots eyes don't light up in case you ever noticed."

"Then, what are you?"

"An angel."

I nod. Five hours ago I was eating a Big Mac, now I'm a robot and I'm talking to a man who claims to be an angel.

"Not the good kind." Strike that, a man who claims to be a demon.

"I'm trying my best to take this all in."

"I'm sure you are."

"What about your broken leg? Demons can't be fixed? I thought you were immortal?"

"My legs will always be broken as long as I can't fly."

"Your wings?"

"Gone. Demons can only fly in hell and on Earth and neither make much of a difference."

"What could I possibly do to help you?"

"You're His children's child. The first one."

"All this time and I – how could I not know I was a robot? Doctor's appointments? Scraped knees?"

"See that blood? See those bones? You're nervous system is the only thing robotic, including your brain."

"The wires?"
"You fell on a computer."

I look around and confirm the worst: I have a human body, although I'm a robot, and my human body is paralyzed. To confirm "I'm paralyzed, then?"

"Not for long. I can help out."

"What? For my soul?"

His eyes flare red. "No. You don't have a soul. That's why I need you."

No soul? For years I never had rhythm, but now to have it positively confirmed! I'm getting hazy. I realize I feel really, really out of it. This isn't real. I'm really dead. I really fell, this man is crazy and I'm dying here on top of a computer in the basement of my work. I'm fucking dying.

"You're not dying."

"I'm not dying." I'm not saying this, I'm thinking with the demon.

"Then???" He crouches down to lift me and

"You awake?"


"You awake?"

"Sure." My eyes focus and I'm in a shitty apartment. It's all city-trash in here. Like something out of a movie. Some shitty movie about shitty apartments that hobos live in.

"So, you like it?"


And now, in my mind: "The apartment, fuckface."

"Oh, right. I forgot, I'm a robot and you can read my mind."


I realize I'm not paralyzed anymore as I scratch my nose.

"That's right. Fixed you good."



"Magic beads?"

"No, Voodoo is a program."


"I wrote it." That makes sense.

"You're gonna have to get used to the telekinesis."


Enough, let me help. How? Can you feel that? Feel what? How we're speaking? You – yeah. Yeah I can. Can't tell where I end and you begin, huh? No. That's because you're me. I'm what? You're a part of me. A part of you? I look down and realize – you realize that you're a big, fat bummish guy in his fifties who's a fucking demon. Jesus Christ. Not here, pal. The mirror! Look-see for yourself. I'm you. I told you. This is fucking disgusting. That's right. I'm all fucking fat. And old. This

"Over here." I, we look. He's gone from inside my...his head, but there's a large jackal with red eyes on the floor. "Remember Berkowitz?"

Jesus, talking dogs. Wait! He's that. He's not me! I look back into the mirror, but I'm still him.



"I loaded you up into that body I was carrying around. I killed the owner earlier. No one remembers a bum."

"No one remembers a robot."

"No, everyone remembers a robot. That's why you have to hide your body." It motions towards the kitchen and I – my body is laying on the shitty linoleum floor of the shitty apartment. This should be jarring, but it's not.

"How did you load a robot brain into a human body?"


"The program?"

"Correct. It's not tough, as long as you have an able body."

"So, you possessed the hobo?"

"You are in possession of the hobo, I'm in possession of this jackal."

"Where's the hobo?"

The jackal turns around and his face pops out between his back legs "In hell!" The tongue wags out comically.


"Buddy, everyone goes to hell after they die."

"What about the Pope?"

"You bet."

"Then who's in heaven?"

"The Angels and God. Well, the other Angels."

"Then...Jesus, what's the point?"

"There is none. The Devil created mankind. The Devil isn't at all what you think. God is not at all what you think."

", where's Jesus?"

"In hell."





"Vishnu? Zeus? Captain Kirk?"

"Hell. Hell. Hell."

"Captain Kirk isn't even real."

"Everything is hell."

"So, robots – where do they go?"


"Wait – is hell a bad place? Would I like it?"

"That's the question! Hell is a wonderful place, and yes, you would like it."

I sit down on a threadworm sofa and it kicks up a back draft of musk. The demon is out of my mind...or appears to be. He's pacing back and forth as we talk.

"Is this a trick?"

"Nope. Hell is nirvana."

"Then what's heaven?"

"Fucking awful. Heaven is what you would think of as hell, well, before I told you –"



"Then, why do you want to find God? And if the Devil made mankind, wouldn't that make the Devil God?"

"I want to find God so that we can take back his throne. The Devil is not God. God still is in total control of the Universe and everything."

"But...then, wouldn't everything be a lot worse?"

"Have you been having a good time these past 30 years?"

"You said I was His children's child – wouldn't that make humans his children?"

"Nope, humans are the Devil's."

"Then, who made me?"



"Correct. A robot is. Men made your exterior, but your thoughts and motives and –"

"My soul?"

"You don't have a soul. You have bits and pieces of angels."

"I'm an angel?"

"Not exactly."

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