The Dharma Bum

By Jaysen Buterin

"Rather, I think one should write, as nearly as possible, as if he were the first person on earth, and was humbly and sincerely putting on paper that which he saw and experienced and loved and lost; what his passing thoughts were and his sorrows and desires." - Neal Cassady to Jack Kerouac

There's a wonderfully anastrophic clarity that comes along at four in the morning. Be it that most normal people, well, grown-ups anyway, will be getting up soon; that everyone else I know on this silly watered down orb is actually sleeping right now; that Miss Cleo and her crappy infomercials will soon be replaced by cartoons; or that at this point I've been awake for so long that my contacts have actually fused to my eyeballs and I literally can't blink anymore - things just seem to make a lot more sense at four in the morning. Of course it also seems like my six-month old kitten, who by day looks all cute and cuddly, is staring intently thru me right now, waiting for me to fall asleep, for my head to hit the desk, for the edge of the tablet to make a lovely little indent along the side of my face while the escaping torrent of deep-sleep drool adhesively bonds my cheek to the paper to the desk, and then he's going to leap up here and suck out my soul...

Then again, maybe I shouldn't have made that last pot of coffee at two in the morning...nah, I'm sure that had nothing to do with it. I think the real question to consider is why the hell did I wait four months to find out who shot JR when it all turned out to be Patrick Duffy's dream sequence - curse you Bobby Ewing! Oh well, at least he's stuck in syndicated purgator with Suzanne Sommers and her thigh-monster commercials...she was always the annoying one on Three's Company anyway, because everyone knows that Jack and Janet and Terry were the magical three-way connection...

To pick up where we left off the last time, I have no idea what is going on in this crazy world of yours (I say "yours" because I have officially seceded from the human race until it stops acting like such a collective git, which I figure will require Mother Nature wiping the proverbial slate clean and starting over, either way, my status here right now is simply "visitor"), I really just don't get it. I thought I had it once, but then I lost it. Then I thought I had it again - turns out I just had to take some penicillin for it. A couple of years ago it finally dawned on me, like one of those four am epiphanies, "I've got it!" Turns out I didn't have it, it was just a vapid ex-girlfriend who I'm convinced was possessed by a devil - not the Devil mind you - more like one of those little volcano devils or maybe a nice gremlin, the fed-after-midnight kind or the watered-down variety...take your pick. Of course now I've completely accepted the fact that if I ever had it, it's not coming back, and that this blissful ignorance is warmly reassuring because I have no idea what the hell I'm doing but at least I'm really happy...and Kindal loves me...and I haven't had the overwhelming urge to strangle anybody yet, of course it is only four in the morning, but as the nice little pills help, I'm noticing the synapse between columnist and ax-murderer ever-widening.

Which brings me to another point - does anybody actually read this? If so, are the nice men in white coats on their way over right now to come and get me? Seriously boys and girls, I was just seeing if you were paying attention. There won't be a quiz at the end of the hour but remember what those sagacious oracles of Brittania omniscience, Monty Python always said,

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition."

Of course now I'm just being plain silly. But I can't always be the sombre and morose bastion of melancholic diffidence that I normally am because I'm so in love, and because finally, despite all my trials and tribulations, bad luck xy goodbyes, and absolutely incredibly moronic things I've done, I'm in a really good place right now...besides the "man room" of course. You see my cunning linguist friends, it's not about thinking outside the box, it's about taking the box and building a fort out of it; or making the Death Star out of it and blowing up those bloody annoying Ewoks who coincidentally invited Jar Jar Binks to visit and he blowed up real good too (this one requires a bit more imagination as the Death Star was round, and many boxes are not); or even taking the box, putting yourself in it and trying to Fed Ex yourself to Bora Bora (which is illegal by the way - not Bora Bora mind you, just trying to Fed Ex yourself...found that one out the hard way)! Don't like the world? Change it! Upset at the way your life has turned out? Do something about it! Lonely? Find peace within yourself first, then you'll be surprised how easily love comes along when you least expect it. Going to see the Britney Spears movie? That one I really can't help you with, you might want to consider professional therapy. Point is, dear readers, I'm not playing pedantic preacher boy or advice columnist, or telling you how to live or love, I've just long ago exceeded my tolerance and patience level for people whining and complaining all the time. I've had enough. It's given me a headache. Ironic as this may be coming from yours truly, stop living with the world and start living in it - life is what happens when you're too busy making other plans...and pull up your pants! As I've thoroughly confused myself now, as I'm sure I've thrown all two of you for a loop out there, I think I should exit stage right. So as the sun sets slowly in the west, I bid you a fond farewell, from my caffeine-powered box fortress, awaiting the Spanish Inquisition, and scribbling "JB loves KB until the end of the world...and then some!" on the wall. G'night kids.