Be forewarned. This post is a novella.


By Etienne Michel Garat

Most people, in this world of true believers, base their religious ideals on what they consider to be rock solid foundations. Investigating the spoken teachings, writings, and histories of their preferred deities, and ultimately providing the grounds for investing their time, money, and supernatural essence, completely, into their worship. I, however, have committed the serial transgression of forfeiting all mythologies, historical facts, and experiences in order to put the entirety of my faith into the one pantheon that wanes and waxes more readily than the moon. The one brand of deity that itself knows not the answer to the quintessential question, “why”. The perfect being, whose wrath tends to rain down in times of blessing, and whose choice in blessing will eternally perplex the minds of men:

The Female Sex.

And Other Signs That You’re Subconsciously Suicidal


The first and most influential goddess in my pantheon is Naomi Garat. She is the matron of health and longevity, the goddess of birth and renewal, the source of all that is good and sensible. Consequently, the first immaculate gem of wisdom she graced me with was the following:

“You need to get this thing out of me!”

I suppose the most important piece of information regarding Naomi, is that she is my mother.

I first began my particular religious practice inside an urban maternity ward, elegantly decorated with a tapestry of floral wallpaper and hemmed with a winding construction of morning lilies, accentuating the treasures borne within. It was here that Naomi and I were first formally introduced, and immediately she imprinted on my mind the image of grace and beauty that lingers in my subconscious to this day. She christened me with a traditional name, as is the custom of folk of French-Caribbean descent: Etienne, “crowned one”, promising me a grand and royal future. And after this holy act, she and her subordinate male counterpart escorted me to their temple of residence and graced me with the gifts of love and parental affection. Within two years another follower joined my and my father’s small congregation, a brother, named Gilliam.

Then disaster struck.

My father died unexpectedly, three months into Naomi’s third pregnancy. She, however, rebounded from this loss with supernatural elegance and immediately took over my father’s place as breadwinner. With the force of a lioness on the prowl she and her two sisters took on the gruesomely competitive world of Tupperware sales.

For all six months leading up to my sister’s birth she took my brother and I from housewife to housewife, suburban playground to suburban playground, Tupperware party to Tupperware party, spreading the gospel of compact food storage wherever she went, and she was nothing but brilliant at it. Seeing this goddess rapidly ascend the sales pyramid and provide our broken family with a so perfect a reconstruction plan was all that I needed to reaffirm the truth that was placed in my mind at birth: my mother is a goddess. But something happened that would shake my faith forever.

My sister’s difficult birth foreshadowed a lesson in disillusionment unparalleled by any event in contemporary religious history. Postpartum depression gripped Naomi like a raptor’s talons grip helpless prey, and it was my brother and I who felt the flesh-shredding, bone-crushing force of it. Naomi stopped working, neglected her temple, her congregation, and in a matter of months, our goddess fell from grace and tore down that flowery veil we stood in utter awe before. Needless to say, our young minds could not comprehend why, nor bear the overwhelming pressure of being forsaken in such a way.

Our aunts were our only source of solace for those months, and there was little they could do to rebuild our previous perceptions among the looming, oppressive aura about the house and family. But no force as strong as the illusion of perfection can be held at bay for long.


My second Goddess embodies the concept of grace in victory. She inspires the deepest desire in me to crush my every enemy, to retain my integrity through tireless effort, endless commitment to excellence, and a healthy addiction to her personal drug of choice, adrenaline. She is the infallible, Camille Asahi.

Shortly after Naomi’s recovery, the effects of the time and money lost to her depression began to take their toll. The house was in a state of degeneration unlike any other time during our residence there. Cleaning had to be done. The portion of the funds that Naomi’s sisters’ sales were supplying could not sustain the colossal appetites and various other needs particular to a single mother and three young children. Inevitably, Naomi would have to go back to work. But taking a baby with her to her numerous functions and meetings was out of the question. All that could be done was to hire a housekeeper to watch the three of us.

I will never forget the day Camille walked through our door. It was late spring and she wore a white cotton summer dress with embroidered pink roses rolling across the base. I remember that dress distinctly because when she reached out to my brother and I for us to give her a friendly greeting, that was the first thing we saw and felt. It was like embracing a new mother; undoubtedly it was embracing New Religion.

She was nineteen when she came to us. A third generation Japanese beauty with the spirit of a fox, hidden behind the mask of cheerfulness and stoic determination which, much like Naomi’s resilience, completely captivated my brother and I. For little pay she looked after us and cleaned while taking online college courses. But it was in her off time that she taught us the way of Asahi.

I had gotten a videogame system for my birthday that year and struggled with little success to beat the first level. Every day just before my nap I would sit in front of the television and tap at the controller until my thumbs were sore, but I was absolutely incapable of making any headway. One day Camille was taking a break and asked if she could try. I agreed to it, and to my absolute astonishment, she was superb.

In two weeks she had beaten the entire game and was making her way through the mini games and collecting all of the secret items. I sat between her crossed legs and saw first-hand her unparalleled comprehension of the intricate dynamics of virtual strategy. Her omnipotence was manifested on the television screen before me, and an admiration like no other gripped the deepest part of my soul.

Soon my brother and I were beseeching the goddess, Naomi, begging her to buy new games for us, and she obliged. Every weekday for a year-and-a-half we would congregate in the den and worship the almighty Camille, sing her praises and testifying at the dinner table about each little victory she achieved. Each level completed, each upgrade acquired, each game beaten was a miracle our goddess performed, was a precept she had taught us. They were the reason we woke up each morning. The reason the air tasted so sweet. How, then, did we feel that haunting Wednesday when a glaring, Haitian harpy met us at the door, claiming to be the new housekeeper?

“What the hell happened to Camille!” I demanded.
“Hey! Watch your language, young man!” she retorted. “That little prostitute went and got her pretty little Asian derrière pregnant!”
“Don’t talk about Camille that wa…what!”

Apparently, Camille had a boyfriend who lived down the street and every day after blowing our minds with her amazing skills, she would go over to his house and blow him, show him, and know him, in the unprotected biblical sense. She had been showing for a few weeks, but it was only the day before that Naomi had confronted her about it. Concealing that kind of thing from the goddess of birth and renewal is dangerous business. So, she was dishonorably discharged and replaced by an old hag from the islands.

Once again, biological chemistry crushed my dreams, whatever those may have been. However I was fortunate enough to escape the torture my siblings were subject to at the hand of the Harpy des Caraïbes, on account of the new place of worship I was concurrently enrolled in: Oakcrest Elementary School, where I would encounter the third illustrious deity of my pantheon.


The goddess of the unknown, inspirer of the pursuit of knowledge and academic inquiry, keeper of all that is treasured and secret: the mysterious, Vatara Wheeler.

Experience plainly shows us that lack of motivation is generally what keeps most of humanity from reaching full potentiality, however many people are accomplishing minor success in their daily lives by labeling points of inspiration. In many cases inspiration is drawn from the mysteries of life and things like destiny and a better future, despite the bleak realities of both. But the question I pose to you is what future does a prepubescent child dream of? What motivates them to do better? To be successful? The simple answer is nothing. To children life is the now and is consumed by immediate gratification. That is exactly why the motivation and determination of a forthcoming parent is usually what it takes to help create a good foundation for a child with no prospects.

I, however, did not have this luxury. Every morning I woke to watch my mother strut stiffly off to work. I boarded the very bus my housekeeper exited, and at night I slept soundly while that old Haitian harpy finished cleaning up after my siblings. So in elementary school I was prematurely confronted with the trauma of contemplating long-term consequences and motivation based on the parameters that my world view dictated would usher me into paradise: marriage. And my science teacher, Mr. Hollows was married, so who better to talk to?

“I have a dilemma.”
“What is it?”
“I want to get married.”
He chuckled, “No you don’t.”
“I know I do.”
“Really?” he said warily, “When?”
“And who is the girl?”
“One of your students.”
“Are the feelings mutual?”
“She doesn’t know I exist.”
“Oh, well that sounds like a match made in heaven.”
“Yeah, wait, what?”
“Look, Etienne, marriage is the end-all-be-all. Once you get married, that’s it, your life’s over.”
“Sounds like my cup of tea. But that doesn’t solve my problem.”
“Endless devotion, painstaking work, and you can’t go around having affairs,” he said with a look of distant regret.
“What’s an affair?”
“Look Etienne, if you really like this girl you’ve got to get her attention by doing things that she will be attracted to.”
“She’s kind of an introvert, a recluse.”
“How do you know those words but not ‘affair’?”
“So if I do well in school will that get her attention!?”
“Sure, Etienne, that'll probably do it.”

I got straight A’s that year, but Vatara Wheeler still didn’t seem to notice a thing. But as long as I was at Oakcrest, getting her to marry me was my primary motivation. And every day when I saw Vatara, always by herself, in the halls, at lunch or at recess in that plaid jumper, walking on air the way she did, eating her homemade lunch like an angel must eat, or picking flowers, like a solitary nymph in a garden, the goddess of mystery inspired my every academic pursuit.

Late in fifth grade Naomi’s father died and I attended the first funeral since my father’s. Everything about it was bleak. The turf at the cemetery sunk under my every step, and given the amount of mourners in attendance, I’m not quite sure if the soft earth was because of the rain or because of the amount of crying that was going on. My eyes were fixed on the casket that concealed my grandfather’s lifeless body and suddenly, I realized that marriage was not the end-all-be-all, it was just another chapter in life, and there must be something even more elusive, more complete that directly preceded the unknown. I thought about what it would be like when I died.

“Here.” Vatara said, handing me a white lily.
“Thanks.” I replied.

Wait. Vatara Wheeler. What was she doing here? Why did she hand me, a flower? Then I realized that all the people to my left were lining up before the open grave to pay last respects. I watched them for a moment, each bursting at their glandular seams as they laid eyes on the casket, then I turned back to Vatara and saw that she had glided away, down the row of people, disappearing into an ocean of jet black. Just as the mystery and misery in my conflicted heart had reached a strange, bleak precipice my turn to pay respects had come, so I mindlessly followed Naomi to her father’s final resting place. As I peered down and was on the verge of throwing my lily in, I hesitated. This is my flower. A goddess gave it to me, and it means something.

“Etienne, put it on top of Paw-paw’s casket. Come on baby, I know it’s hard. Just toss it in.” My mother said with her battle-hardened gaze. She was just going through the motions, while hundreds of others were genuinely grieving, she was genuinely stone. And for my part, I was genuinely confused, and inferior both to tradition and the will of my mother. She grabbed my hand.

“No! It’s mine!” I cried.

She wrenched the flower from my clinched fist and tossed it, bleakly, into the pit. I watched in pain as the flower fell, my shaking hand reaching out to it but all that I caught was a glance, the lily was still suspended in mid-air and I witnessed in what seemed to be super slow-motion, Vatara setting herself neatly beside the morticians. Up on the hill, hands clasped in front of them, each wearing that same stoic expression that Vatara always wore. As the flower hit the casket, the truth hit me, my hand recoiled and I uttered an incredulous no.

When I realized that I had spent the last four years of my life pining after a girl destined to take up the family business of burying people, a sort of repulsive rush pulsed through my veins, and I realized that that really was not something I wanted. This time, the biological process and human ritual that thwarted me was death and burial, in stark contrast to the sex and birth of my previous encounters. Remarkable. What then can a disillusioned youth do to cope with such trauma? What change must occur to reestablish a conscious reason for being? Really, the answer is quite simple: puberty.


The goddess of romance and seduction, natural beauty and inherent emotion manipulation skill. She is hot, hot, hot, and at the time of reverence, she happened to be fourteen years old.

“Ewww gross!” She said during our first encounter. “At Jamie’s party last night, Marcus totally tried to kiss me, but he’s a complete douche. I told him abso-fucking-lutely not!”
“Alejandra, shut the fuck up, you know you totally blew him in the broom closet.”
“So the fuck what, Maureen!? His dick was way cleaner than the inside of his mouth, I assure you.”

Now, myth is always a factor when discussing theology and religion. No deity is without his or her image-boosting tales of triumph and humanizing tale of compromise. What tale then, can be told about my dear goddess, Alejandra Cloacina?

Well, Maureen would say, “She’s a fucking slut, and she’ll hop on any dick that’ll get hard for her!”
But wait, story of triumph first, shameless bashing, later.
On August 27th, my first day of eight grade, the metro-area reporters were swarming.

“William T. Armstrong, Quarterback for the TLU Titans has been arrested on multiple sex-offense charges coming from the D.A.’s office, after he made a DVD of himself having sex with a fourteen year old girl. Now we go to Pam Alameda, on location at the apartment where Mr. Armstrong’s arrest is currently underway, Pam?”
“Mr. Armstrong, Mr. Armstrong, what do you have to say about your alleged sexual relations with a junior high school-aged girl?”
“I don’t give a shit how long they put me away for, man.”
“Wait, what do you mean?”
“I mean, I can die a happy man now.”

He said this with contentment rather than mania in his voice.

“It was so worth it.”
“What was?”
“What else? The sex.”

Seductress of seductresses, beast from the pit yet babe in the cradle. Her heart was an urn overflowing with the scorched adolescent fantasies that all boys have during that awkwardly quasi-pubescent phase known in America as junior high school. Her mother was an Italian porn star, her father, some claimed to he was the big double-H himself, but regardless of the rumors, the one fact I can give you is that she was the first girl I ever dreamt about, and it was a good dream. My only question is, why the hell didn’t she deflower me?

As we sat on her couch watching the arrest via television, her mother laughed hysterically in the background on the phone with her agent. Alejandra, or Allez Ici, as I had dubbed her the way that I dub things, metaphorically, sat on my lap in her signature short skirt and lily-patterned bikini top, reminiscing about how ridiculously unfulfilling Monsieur Armstrong was in bed. Her words were as sweet as anything, but my boner was the size of the state of California, and to my disgrace I didn’t hear a single one.

Her goal was to have one million men under her belt, literally, before menopause. At fourteen, she was well into the hundreds, and by anyone’s standard, that is incredibly over-sexed. Since I was impeccably under-sexed at that point, however, and with her being a gracious deity and all, she did not want to put me through the trauma of losing my virginity and having inferior sex for the rest of my life. So I was, in the parlance of our times, her friend, instead of a true minister of the gospel.

“Do you know what I’m doing Etienne?” She asked in the way she does, seductively.
“No, Allez Ici. What the hell are you doing to me?”
“I’m saving the best for last.”

For a short time I did find some odd sense of comfort in this, because I was sure the goddess would reach her goal long before anyone expected and usher me into the golden light of ethereal pleasure. But it is truly a sad day in heaven when the infallible is contradicted. Though, to be fair to the faith, it comes as a surprise to everyone when a nymphomaniac falls in love. Especially when the subsequent effects are an adherence to a lifetime of monogamous sexual practices pursued in earnest, and earnest comparable only to the veracity with which she had previously embraced her addiction. But her shift was absolute, my admiration for her lost, and my heart, grievously prepared for a new icon to prostrate myself before, or, preferably, on top of.


She does not have the pristine figure of a celestial being. She does not bear the harsh burden of being voluptuous or extravagant. She is simply the goddess of absolute purity, and, to this day, the bane of my existence.

Maria Iglesia came from a devoutly religious family, the seventh of thirteen siblings, and she seemed to be, by far the most reserved of the lot at first glance. After the incomparably disappointing incident with Allez Ici, I was pretty much desperate for anything, so it seemed as though she had heard my prayer and sought me out. We had religion class together, year two of high school, and with the vast differences between our religious ideologies, we inevitably clashed. She saw herself as the last defense of orthodoxy against the evils of sex, drugs, and rock in roll as far as the vast realm of high school was concerned, while I was simply a connoisseur of the perfect and the perfectly strange feminine qualities of the world.

After I got past her heavily guarded belief filter we began to debate our different perceptions of health, addiction, tradition, revolution, and the acts of righteousness and damnable deeds of our two worldviews, and how they related and contrasted. And we eventually realized, we both were, essentially, worshiping things that might not actually exist, and on that basis, we decided to start dating.

Homecoming rolled around and it took our collective efforts a solid week to convince her parents that we would not “kiss in public, make love in the bathroom or, God forbid, dance the way you kids do these days”, and they insisted that I go through the traditional motions of purchasing a boutonnière and corsage, and I went the extra distance and bought the parents a bouquet for their dining room, composed completely of flowers gilded with platonic symbolism, having made the correct assumption that her mother would research them to find out if the universe would tell the tale of my true intentions with her daughter.

Of course, every message conveyed was contradicted by our actions.

She freaked the shit out of me on the dance floor that night and we made out in the corner for half-an-hour before she dragged me to the bathroom and opened the pearly gates, synchronizing our essences on that ultimate celestial plane. It was INCREDIBLE with all capitals, and I felt like I had truly reached the next stage of existence, entering a richer world, my sins cleansed, my scars healed, and my soul partaking of the sensational meal my deity had materialized solely for my consumption.

By fourteen my brother was similarly an appreciator of all things heavenly and female, but unfortunately the crowd he ran with worked in perfect discord with my ideals. They were sociopaths, cult-starters, and drug addicts-in-training, and he fell for their antics, F sharp, A and C natural.

He was a musician, and a damn good one, slipping seamlessly into the world of popular rhythm and blues. At fourteen his band opened for a band whose name, sadly escapes me at the moment, but I assure you, they are ridiculously famous. And in two years he came a long way, ending up as a solo bass guitar act that traveled the country.

I, on the other hand, was confined to our hometown, and because of Maria, had no desire to leave. But eventually my brother’s success became a source of jealous frustration. My brother had become, almost overnight, the primary provider for my family. My mother worshiped him, my sister idolized him and even had the audacity to ask why I didn’t do anything with myself like Gilliam did.

So Maria and I got together and made an effort to decide for what kind of occupation should I study in college.

“What about a warlord with delusions of fascist takeover?” She suggested.
“I’m not really good at waging war on anything but my own psyche, honestly.”
“What about your war against America’s misconceptions about the lead content in Azerbaijani tap water?”
“Yeah, well look how well that’s going, most Americans don’t even know what Azerbaijan is.”
“You could always become a wine taster.”
“But I don’t drink anything but merlots, and shitty ones at that.”
“Well you could be an international authority on shitty merlots.”
“Maria, these are all way too obscure. I need something I can do now and help build a future off of.”
“But you don’t have any natural skill.”
“I have an eye for beautiful women, that could be considered a skill.”
“Yeah, well for the time being, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t look at any beautiful women. It’s hard enough for me in daily life without you doing it professionally.”
“I’ve got it. How about I become a therapist for any and all men who insist on putting pussy on a pedestal.”
“I don’t think you’d be the best candidate for that.”
“Why not, I’ve had enough experience. I’m like the poster boy for successful recovery. Right?”
“Are you kidding me, Etienne? You still worship me.”
“What do you mean?”
“How long have you been here?”
“What? You mean in suburbia? All my life.”
“No I mean here at my house, today.”
“I dunno, seven or eight hours.”
“What day of the week is it?”
“Why are you here?”
“Because you’re not feeling well and I want to take care of you.”
“How many siblings do I have who are out of school and at home today?”
“So why are you missing school?”

I had no answer to this question and suddenly I realized that I was committing one of my main damnable acts: abuse. Now, even though this was not physical abuse of the usual kind, me keeping her from resting, and hurting our future by not bettering myself through education, was a subversive way of potentially ruining our life as I knew itl. So, like any of the damned, I tried to cover my ass and lie to get into heaven.

“I’m here, trying to show you I care. Can’t you appreciate that, even a little bit?”
“Actually, I could, if you meant it. But, Etienne, you don’t.”
“Go home, Etienne, or even better, go to school. Learn something about yourself.”

There was a long pause after this, and in it I sank like a rock, a rock that had been floating on the surface of a long and ethereal ocean until fear devoured faith and the glistening surface gave way. And then she said it.

“Etienne, you know I’m just kidding, don’t you?”
“What?” Bitch.

Worship is a funny practice. It’s a submissive act in its essence, but the majority of its practitioners hope that through it they are finding more of a oneness with the object of their admiration, rather than complete humiliation by offering up their soul to a malevolent dictator. So when Maria threw me for a loop with her jab, stab, and hug-love routine, I realized she was too right in one respect and not so much in others, and I personally preferred not to be toyed with. So in the spirit of not being toyed with, I left for college, without a word to her or anybody.

With no object of admiration to inspire any pursuit besides running away from my last one, I withdrew deep into my own mind and began systematically committing suicide. I started doing sixblade, the local drug of choice, and avoided studying, socializing and anything that seemed at all constructive, like it was the plague.

Little did I know, what I really wanted was to find someone on my same plane of existence, someone just as concerned about me as I was about them. Subconsciously, I decided that that would never happen to me, and that I was in desperate need of a wake up call so I could get out and smell the gruesome roses, the roses that were associated with life in general, real life, and not the wonderful world of women. But unfortunately for me, I was born and bred on the stuff, and was highly ill equipped to adapt.


The goddess of wisdom.

On April 1st, as if on cue, Iris Kurfokski laughed her way into my life. I was sitting in the back of a theater on campus, apathetically watching a documentary on the evils of the lard extraction industry, and how they were directly related to the extinction of the short spider orchid, when she walked in and sat two rows in front of me, slightly to my left. There was really nothing to laugh at, but we were both tickled immensely by the film, she being the more vocal of the two. When, at the climax she got up to use the bathroom, she looked back and noticed me, and I was smiling, obviously more amused than was normal.

“You do sixblade, right?” She said, catching me slightly off guard.
“Why? You a nark?” I suspiciously inquired.
“No, I just recognized you from one of the Chambers twins’ parties. You were the guy carrying the flowers, right? You want to come outside for a sesh?”
Now when I suspect sex as a possible outcome for a sixblade rendezvous the obvious answer is “yes, I will join you” but for some reason I hesitated with this girl.
“Sixblade? Out in front of a movie theater?”
“Of course not. One of these exits goes out to a back alley.”
“So, you coming?”
“Um…I guess.”

So we stepped out back and the entire time I nervously awaited my next sleazy sexual encounter. But somehow we started legitimately talking, and the conversation oddly enough ended up being about her boyfriend, who she was so in love with, and how her college experience wouldn’t have been the same if she hadn’t met and basically seduced him into the sack.

Eventually I got around to mentioning my personal religious practices, and instead of the usual response, which is along the lines of, “what are you, some kind of twisted Casanova?” she said, “you know, I was a lot like you when I was your age”.

I personally could not imagine how this could be so. Male human beings are the least healthy of all creatures on the earth, we kill ourselves intentionally, and unless we’re fighting for a woman or a child, we are essentially cowards. We’re anything but mysterious, we do not see sex as an art form, and we are all-in-all, to our cores, evil. Why the fuck would any girl worship us?

“That, is exactly why.” She said to the argument I didn’t realize I had verbalized. “I adored every terrible little thing about them. Every kind of vice the guys in my life specialized in, I loved. My father was a chef, a drunk, and a glutton, and a damn good at it. My childhood piano teacher would rather acclimate me to the world of pedophilia than to the world of music. My elementary school crush was the school bully, in junior high, I dated a highschooler, in high school I slept with the entire football team, and after that, I just got tired of myself. I wanted something better, something worth the time and the work, and that’s when I met Jimmy. He was the sweetest guy around, an academic powerhouse, and probably the weirdest and most interesting person I had met up to that point. And I found out, the only way I could get to him was to relentlessly seduce him. It took me weeks, I was about to give up, and you know how I knew I had him?”
“How?” I inquired.
“Well I gave him a surprise visit in his dorm room one night, and he was too nice to not let me in. We talked for a bit, with him trying to focus on his studies and me trying to focus on him, and after a while, I noticed he hadn’t smiled or laughed since I came in, so I told him a joke.”
“What was the joke?”
“How do you know when video games have driven you insane?”
“When you sue a friend for stealing a life. That is, if you have either in the first place.”
“That’s not really that funny.”
“Well, to you and me, maybe not, but he loves video games and thought it was hilarious. At first I started laughing to get him rolling, then he really started cracking up, then I really started cracking up. In fact he laughed so much he farted, and then I laughed so much at him that I peed myself a little, and well, the rest is history.”
“I know, right? But you know what, Etienne, most girls you’re interested in are just as fucked up as I am, and the truth is, it will take them some time to realize that what they need and should want is a guy like you. And if you’re the kind of guy you are, and that’s the kind of girl your soul mate is, then it’s just going to take some time. So go, be yourself, and some day soon, you’ll find a girl who’s just crazy about you, and you have to be willing to be crazy about her. Kay?”
“I really didn’t know I needed counseling for this.”
“Well, you don't anymore. Um, do you have anymore sixblade on you?"


The One Goddess.

I majored and got a BSA in international dragonology, at the recommendation of dear Iris, in order to escape those out-of-character bad-boy stigmas I was developing, while secretly becoming more and more pessimistic about my beliefs.

I simply did not have the knack for womanizing, drug abuse, or the generally hateful disposition towards humanity that is necessary for breeding a successful manwhore. So I remained celibate throughout the remainder of college and essentially became a nerd for all that pertained to dragons. European, East-Asian, Native-American, even the lonely three that roamed the African continent, I knew everything there was to know about them. And so whenever anyone writing a book, screenplay, performing a bogus archaeological dig, or simply a fellow nerd like myself, approached and had a question to ask, I simply had to dig through the nether regions of my mind and regurgitate some fact, while actually, within the nether regions of my body, I was tormented by the fact that I was waiting for someone to come along and say, “wow, you know everything about dragons? Let’s have sex”.

Dreams do not come true, and there is no such thing as the perfect woman, was my final conclusion about life, and eventually I resorted to ignoring every e-mail, telephone and house call I got. The days would pass, my mind would numb more and more until I lost any sense of time. After about three months I decided to burn every piece of dragon literature I owned. That pursuit was just a frivolous way of trying to cover up the frustration. After about six months, when no goddess came to save me, I finally broke down.

I’m now sitting at my Clem, typing what, in these final, lucid moments, I have deemed worthy of publication. The names have not been changed, and every moment recalled is to the best of my memory. My last goddess, is, like the rest, a glorified version of herself. Some call her the end, some call her nothing, I call her Clara Murphy. After a long and arduous journey through the sands of time, I find myself here, before her, prepared to embrace the only destiny true for everyone. Fear of her is the only thing that kept me going this far, and now I realize, the only way to unite, truly, with the object of my worship, is to embrace fear, to embrace the unknown, to embrace eternal clarity, while my mind remains committed to only these six, and no more.

No matter what I said or did in the past, no matter how I was perceived by my peers, I promise, you, I was just like them.




  1. I don't know what kind of post this is, but its goes on too long without clarification. These women are they metaphors for emotions or are they people?

    One of my favorite writers is hunter thompson, his genuine good hearted nature and realistic approach to story telling was unique. The way he describes the second hand hashish smoke altering mental balance cause him to spew money in to sports gambling. Plus he drinks scotch, a true man's drink.

    Whats the best type of drink Camille, you like Martini with olives, shaken?

  2. Loved it. you brought them all to life, really well done.
    LOVE the Haitian harpy!!