Dahlia Eats Dasies

The night was dark and everything was total fucking shit. Dahlia rolled over, scratched her crotch, wondered sometimes if she should have choose the path less itchy. Would that have made all the difference? Life was on the rocks, no chaser. She was a free spirit. For whatever the fuck that means, she would say. Free spirit’s always were the camping gear junkie’s, total fucking oxymoron-hypocrite’s. It probably meant that she was just able to cuss like a bird shits in the wind unabashedly. Her parents were hippies. Had been. I mean they’re still alive and all, probably. She wouldn’t know. Dahlia was born in Shit Creek, Missouri. It’s a real place. Google it. It’s not on a map. Too small. She called it Misery Shits. Dahlia was the run off from Misery Shits, she’d say. Trying to climb out of the diarrhea pool she’d been born into. That’s when she found she had something in between her legs that had magical powers and she used it like a catcher’s mitt catching strikes to get the fuck out and as far as she could from that place. And Dahlia. Dahlia eats daises.
There was this guy always passing through everyone’s lives. Nobody knew much about him. Anyone ever asked him he’d just say he was nobody and was just passing through, no destination in particular. He wasn’t really much about the journey either. Just that passing through mostly was his thing. His name was John. “Fuck You John” to be more precise. He was always saying fuck you to everyone as he passed along, for no fucking apparent reason. Which seems insane and probably was, but not knowing his personal history or anything, maybe it made a lot of sense or something. You never know with things like that. “Fuck you.” He said, as he passed Dahlia one day. She was always having to react to everything with a sense of justice and purpose. It was automatic like a sea Anemone closing after being fingered by masses of idiotic children, living its horrible life out in an inescapable pool of overpriced aquatic sodomy of which didn’t come with health benefits nor retirement package. There wouldn’t be any sea Anemone’s retiring to Florida and hitting the golf courses taking pictures of their wrinkly sea Anemone butts on the nudist beach with their friends and posting it to Myspace. She had a sense of fairness and morality that had to be upheld. She would fight for every little scrap of fairness and justice like a mentally questionable Chihuahua orally fixated on a favorite dog toy that has some weird aggressive angst fetish thing going on probably too and just won’t give it up. She also was a free spirit who believed in giving life everything. Most of the time. To some things at least. Like the more important ones. Sometime’s. “Go suck a bag of fucking dicks you fucking dickbag and while you’re a dickbag inside another bag of dicks sucking them all, go fuck yourself fuckhead twat.” Dahlia retorted. It probably wasn’t necessary but what is when it comes down to it? It was a solid return, delivery was strong. Way to go Dahlia.
Dahlia would go off into the wilderness and go on far hikes and see real beautiful things no one else was seeing. She didn’t have a phone. If she did, she wouldn’t post it on Instagram or those other prick social media sights because they were all fucking pricks and twats she thought. This could partially be because of resentment of not having a phone, it’s difficult to know. If she had a phone maybe she’d share those beautiful landscape photographs, hashtag, freespirit. Hashtag, lovinglife, hashtag, social-media-is-for-fucking-pricks-and-twats who have phones and too much time on their hands, hashtag, fuckeveryone, hashtag, Ihatemylife, hashtag, whereisanythingreal, hashtag, my culturehasnomeaning, hashtag, whowillsavetheworld, hashtag, nobodywill. That’s the problem with everyone. Everyone thinks the world needs saving. People just need to manage their god damn selves and everything will be just fine. The world does not need saving. It never did. It’s hard to know with things like dahlia’s theoretical social media posts. Besides for all the sexual transmitted diseases crawling inside everyone’s brains, eating, and killing and making them insane insidiously to include herself, besides for that, Dahlia was beautiful. Not the kind of beautiful where a guy likes a car and wants to stick his monkey-meat up the tail pipe nor the kind of beautiful of something you can capture and convey. Well I could convey it. It’s a little like when you see a nice tire on a car. Not too nice, but not ordinary. Maybe like a whitewall. And you think to yourself. That’s a nice tire. But what has really happened is the beauty of such a simple thing has just touched you and you didn’t really even notice it. Her beauty was a little like a nice tire. Or like when a crystal with a thousand sides refracts lights and you see something for one moment you’re not sure what it was and you know you probably won’t ever see it again and can never be sure what you saw. She was beautiful in that way. Not as much but close at least. Maybe the diseases really added to it too. They usually do. People say that people look for the healthiest mate’s and the people with the most symmetrical face’s are deemed most attractive but I don’t find that true at all. What people really want is the diseased and nearly deceased. I won’t ever date someone unless they have two or three good disease’s. When they start having the courage to share their medical history with me, the juicier it is the more I began to salivate. I find myself usually hitting on old ladies as the old one’s love to talk about their health problem’s. For me it’s like starting on third base and just have to take it on home. Ideally if you’re looking into dating a 30 year old she should have the medical history of at least a fifty to sixty year old. Ideally. Less than that you can still date them but don’t bring them home to the parent’s. If they have the medical history of an octogenarian you’ve hit the jackpot my friend. Total-relationship-stability. You can count on riding that co-dependency wave all the way in till the sun set’s orange, pink’s and purple’s. She was a mortal dying horribly and surviving like shit and it was fucking beautiful to watch. She wore her emotion’s like fishhook’s in her face, and when she smiled it was like a piece of overdone steak. Raw, but you’d still try to fight your teeth through it. Make it go down. Not complain. Even give your regard’s to the god damn chef if you were feeling spry.
Dahlia would say we came from ape’s and if you didn’t agree with her she’d Hershey squirt some in her hand and throw it at you and scream in your face and then say she hoped that was enough evidence to at least make you consider the possibility. She said believing in the supernatural was fucking great and all for dick’s and twat’s and kid’s but that it was comfort belief’s and it really was a degradation to the rational-scientific-enlightenment possibilitie’s for human kind and she really was a proponent of scientific-enlightenment, meaning she had watched a few episodes of Bill Nye and The Magical School bus and part of the docu-serie’s Cosmo’s, but her hope’s were that everyone could become enlightened so she could then tell them at the acme of their conscious state, …to go sincerely all fuck themselves. Like seriously. She had anger problems from unresolved things that would always be unresolved because she wasn’t even close to equipped to start resolving them. Unless resolving them meant constantly going out for peperoni pizza when she started to feel depressed from them, if that was what resolving meant then yes, she was resolving them, one spicy circle of peperoni boating across a gelatinous cheese and tomato sauce ocean On crust and falling off the end of the flat world right down her glutinous-problem-resolving-face-hole. She viewed the patient-therapist relation as a covertly sexual meeting that no one ever admitted to, in which she would rub her emotional tid-bits into the therapist’s mind, excreting her ovum like substance attempting to produce spiritual cavitie’s inside them like her own. She had a hypothesis there were three species. Mostly the world was filled up with shitfuck’s, ho-bag’s and very rarely but sometimes there was a higher evolved third species that had to deal with the shit show and it was their job not to lose their sanity totally so they could stay on mission and tell everyone as much as they could and as often as they could, to go fuck themselves. This wouldn’t be said directly but telepathically, as this species had found the power of thought. They had also found the power of passive-aggression. If someones a shitfuck to you and makes you mad but you take the higher road and don’t retaliate, in their eye’s you’re totally a passive-aggressive because you’re mad and didn’t do anything about it. Which is fine they see you that way because they’re shitfuck’s afterall. And shitfucks will be shitfuck’s. That’s a saying I say to myself. Not that I ever said it to myself before, but I did just now, so it’s a saying I say to myself now. You got to be careful with thing’s you say cause they become saying’s and most people are only saying one thing on their pull string.
One time she was standing at the base of this mountain and lake. Beautiful, like a nice tire. And she didn’t want to capture it because she was a free spirit, you god damn fuck’s. As she stood there taking it all in when a piece of shit paper caught the wind just right and hit her face. Brushing past her mouth and nose so her tongue stuck out in surprise and got a tip touch. “HAS EVERYTHING GONE TO FUCKING GOD DAMN SHIT?” she yelled with her eyes closed, as it carried across the top of the lake traveling like some existential skipping stone that was actually probably a turd cause it floated, directed at some omnipotent god that was a big no-show at life. Hadn’t god heard what Woody Allen said about showing up? God was playing hooky. You think you’re too cool for school god, …but …you’re not.” God knows between all the free spirits and shit-fucks and ho-bags, there’s a lot of poorly buried shit paper blowing around out there. That probably means something but I don’t know what. I don’t know if anyone knows what anything means really. Now they say that the problem with everything is communication and I couldn’t agree with that more. Even if I could I wouldn’t know how, and that’s just the problem see.
Dahlia was high on marijuana, which was a gateway drug to hell and a life of crime creating societies incorrigible’s and also nice, because it took away the pain of everyone else’s stupidity that she had to be subjected to most of the time. Which wasn’t a problem for most but for Dahlia it really was. Men would rate themselves as more intelligent on average than they actually were as compared to women, go figure. Dahlia would make up her own words to song’s, “She’s got the whole world, in her hand’s, She’s got the whole stupid world, in her hand’s, she’s got the dick and twat shit show in her hand’s, She’s got the whole world in her hand’s.” Sometimes and sing to herself as she hiked. “Five for a fuck, ten for a suck, pro-bono orifice’s if you’re in luck” or anything else besides strangling and anything that draws blood or leaves permanent disfigurement and scar’s. That was all at least twenty and up on an increasing scale depending on people’s ugliness and lack of hygiene. The worse hygiene and uglier the cheaper. It got her off rubbing her pussy on the most disgusting people she could find. Everyone’s got their thing. Don’t judge. She didn’t want to raise her price’s too much because she might gain some self-respect. After sleeping with the men, she’d tell them she identified as a strong black man named Chad just to fuck with them since most of the shitfuck’s were homophobic as all get up. She said that her vagina was actually a huge cock and their prick was a vag and they made Chad proud squirting for her. She liked to mess with them a bit. A lot, some would say, but it was really just a bit for her. She could really light someone’s world to dust if she wanted. Too much effort usually though and no one cared so either did she and that was that. She told them Chad thanked them and considered them one of his girl’s now and went on her way. If you ever see assholes riding in big raised trucks driving aggressively and cutting and trying to piss everyone off, it cause they’re still upset Chad slept with them.
O’Ryan was a magical Tigress from another land. She had an old black women’s voice, wise and loving, but fierce when needed. O’Ryan would come around from time to time, when an adventure or some picking up was needed. Or hard drugs with demonic hallucination’s were in play. One of the two appeared to be happening now. It’s hard to tell with knowing about taking hard drugs because often you’re tripping too hard to know what’s happening or if you took drugs or what the heck is even happening until it’s over. Even when it’s over you won’t really even know what happened often and maybe you’ll be lucky enough for someone to tell you parts about what you were doing or saying. You may even come back with pieces of those elusive treasures from Altered states of consciousness. Drug insights. They can honestly change your whole world. I would only recommend doing it a bit though or else you’ll become so insightful no one will no what the heck you’re talking about anymore and you’ll be living on the streets and your insights will look like a sad burnt out drug abuser from everyone else’s perspective. And you’ll probably have lots of cardboard sign real estate and it will say things like plato’s allegory of the cave which will be weird because your insanity will have partial truths. And people will have to wonder if your an angle and if this is a test of their compassion and humanity. But you’re not an angel. You just flew into the sun Icarus.
“Now, now how are we today, my lovely Ms. Dahlia,” O’Ryan asked in a concerned motherly tone as she floated on down from the sky. “Calling all Adventurer’s for the O’Ryan express! Leaving the station all hands and feet inside. Toot. Toot.” Dahlia and O’Ryan had been friends ever since before she could remember and had been adventure buddies on all sort’s of untold adventure’s shared by the two. Dahlia was always scared of an adventure but always ready too just the same. Even more she needed the flight as an escape from all the heavy things of reality that were always going wrong and making her feel like shit. What does one do when one feel’s like shit? I say really let yourself feel all of it. It will pass when it passes. Everyone feels like shit sometimes. Don’t try to run from it or avoid it or deny it. Really take it all in. You may find that feeling like shit wasn’t so bad or scary after all. People might call you up or text and ask what you’re doing and you’ll have to reply you’ll have to get back to them later, you’re busy feeling like shit and can’t be disturbed right now. When you live in the present you never have to pay anyone any money you owe them. If they keep bothering you about it tell them they’re living in the past and invite them along into the present where it doesn’t matter anymore and there are no problems. The only problem with always living in the present though is there really isn’t any future in it. Not a good one at least.
Up and away they were off, eagle high in the sky and up and higher and higher away, O’Ryan’s fur flapping and Dahlia’s hair blowing in the night sky. The flying and dumb jokes always made them both laugh but it was just the being together that made them really happy. It was nice to see Dahlia so careless and laughing flying high through the sky with O’Ryan, who was much more like a god-mother than an adventure pal, really. Do you have an adventure Pal? Everyone should have an adventure Pal? If you don’t have one reach out to someone close you’re fond of and say hey, would you like to be my adventure pal for an adventure? Even if it’s just getting coffee, everything’s an adventure. Especially when you have an adventure pal. You can call them an adventure friend or bud too. As long as the word adventure is in there somewhere.
Always beautiful music played from other worlds with languages hard to know when they got to where they were going which was always a place in the sky far away. I wonder if classic rock was pop when it first came out. If it was that makes me sad. That I like pop music so much. But then that means that today’s pop might be rock one day and that makes me feel better for liking some of it. It was a world of imagination, it hadn’t need for a name but Dahlia referred to it as “the Dreamverse”, a place where happiness was always present. It was a place she never wanted to leave.
Dahlia would think up world’s and there they would be. Inside a world of her imagination. They came down and there were two long lines of Tiger’s and Tigress’s wearing beautiful silk garments with intricate gold patterns similar to what she knew might be Indian Royalty. They bowed and greeted their new guests. The lands were tropical and it was very warm. A group of young Tigress and Tigers fanned them with long stemmed banana leaves. They were ushered toward a very beautiful building, made of sandstone and marble, with large columns and very beautiful ornate carvings all around, instead of humans it was like Egyptian symbolism made with Tigers. Inside of the main entrance was a hall that lead to one large room with opened walls and ceiling. The sun shone through the sides brightly but the ceiling was a beautiful navy blue night sky with stars swimming around in it slowly like drunk fish trying to mate each other. Much also like night clubs of the young human form intoxicated gesticulating in attempts of species propagation. Not that that is the intention, it just feels good is all they know. Their lives can be reduced to a pleasure button that likes to be pressed yet they can find few to hit the red cold missile nuke launch except for themselves. They are nuking themselves to death.
Under the stars lay the most giant Tiger one could ever want to or dare imagine, some twenty feet long or so with mane much longer and fuller than any lions. He lay on a fine ornate rug, his tail perfectly still, his cat’s eyes glass-glowing-cosmic-bowling-balls striking intently on its new guest. Dahlia stared at this thing in awe, suddenly it whacked its tail down with the swift force of mother-nature, cracking the marble below, and its eyes blinking and finding new stare, the sharp stare of a predator hunting its prey before the pounce.
Before Dahlia could be scared the giant thing leaped through the air for her. Landing just in front of her, with ballerina grace and finesse, he floated down with grace and perfect in landing. She thought how frightening and yet how beautiful this giant Tiger was standing before her. He smiled, his k-9’s smiled having their own devious intentions, long as her arms. He reached out a paw, placing it palm side up, took a bow, and roared, “CRUMB’S!!! THAT’S YOUR PROBLEM AND IT’S NEVER CHANGED, YOU STRUGGLE BECAUSE YOU ALWAYS ONLY GO FOR THE CRUMB’S DAHLIA. WHY NOT TRY FOR A PIECE OF THE PIE. IT IS SO DELICOUS I MUST SAY. IT’S RIGHTFULLY YOURS AND THERE, SITTING ON A WINDOW LEDGE, NOBODODY THERE TO STOP YOU FROM TAKING THE WHOLE THING IF YOU’D DARE. BUT SHALL YOU DARE I SAY I DO NOT KNOW MYSELF. I WOULDN’T THINK LESS OF YOU AT ALL. ONLY THE MORE FOR IT. WHY I TOOK THE WHOLE PIE MYSELF ONCE AND THEN I ATE, EVERY, SINGLE, LAST, LITTLE CRUMB. TILL THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT. AND LICKED THE PAN CLEAN. ALL YOU MUST DO IS REACH OUT AND TAKE IT DAHLIA. TAKE THE DAMN PIE DAHLIA. With that he placed his paw out, “It is a pleasure to meet you Dahlia. My name is Rore. I am the care taker of this world. It is my job to protect it and see that things are well balanced and to greet all visitors. My duties vary and are many and I am very busy and currently needed elsewhere, but I welcome you to my kingdom, and wish you fare travels and adventures, kindly. And with that he took bow and left.
Just then some things she didn’t know what they were or what to call them, came waddling in. They looked like penguins with cat faces, “You know our name! We’re haters, everyone needs a couple. We’re here to follow you wherever you go so we can hate on everything you do. Because everyone great needs some. We are courtesy and in service of Roar. Here to make the best of your stay. We don’t know what you came here to do. But whatever it is we’re here to hate on it.” They all were pretty cute and Dahlia never had haters before, especially a clowder-waddle of such cute ones. Before she had decided what to do they were already talking shit between themselves, which was nice, because she was the topic of discussion finally. She thought for a girl from misery shits she’d done pretty well for herself now. There was an open bar with a sign of adventure choices and fun things to do. She had to decline on the liquid misery cause she collected pirates coins these days. She wasn’t really sober for the sobriety though. For Dahlia it was all about the repetitive sob story she got to force on an audience that largely had to listen to whatever she wanted to bullshit or lie about. “Hi, my names Dahlia.” “Hi Dahlia”, always responded a cluster of spread out unenthusiastic replies, some that wanted to sponsor and sleep with her, which wouldn’t really be their fault, because many of these individuals were co-morbid’s and the party never ends with that. Besides drinking crap ton’s of shitty Folgers coffee in Dixie-cups and smoking cigarette’s to replace the drinking, there’s a 14th step people don’t talk about unless you’re in the club. It involves sticking the coin up someone’s butthole and then having to suck it back out. That’s the only real way you’re initiated. There is no thirteenth step because they’re all god damn superstitious. At least half the coin’s you see when people hold them up, and try to share them and have you handle em’. Well now you know where they’ve been and I’ve done you a solid and you’re welcome. When they’re passing them around in a circle to see them, don’t touch it, unless you want to get another STD or something. I just say, “No thanks. Thank-you-very-much. ” I go and tell my stories to the audience as well. Try to sponsor people too. People never know where the good hook up spots are. The twelve-step programs are always a fish tank of poontang and meat sausage and cheese good times.
Dahlia started to fall sad again. It came more and more these days, for no reason at all. And off the empath O’Ryan whisked her away, tooting a merry song on a flute and singing.
“Dahlia flies past lullabies,
In the garden ivy spreads,
Telling the truths to the masses who,
All have lost their heads,
And with no heads,
They run around,
All a bunch of crazies,
Dahlia’s happiness,
Is like the rain.
And Dahlia
eats her
daisies.