Are You a Fan of the Dead?

It’s fucking Tuesday and I’m hungover as fuck, you fucks

“Are you a fan of the dead?” says this well-groomed, pasty-faced waiter at this fancy-assed cafe.

“Well, to be honest, they're mostly a bunch of spoilt pricks,” I say. “And it’s hard to have a decent conversation because they won’t slow down long enough to listen to what the fuck you are trying to tell them. They get so fucking panicked about not being solid that they’re just running around looking for a damn body. Any damn body will do. And the trouble is most of them don’t get that if there’s someone in there already there’s barely enough room for two. It’s like squeezing that last bag of peas into the freezer. Ya can do it but it gets fucking cramped and cold. And it takes a special kind of force to get it in there, and a special kind of vulnerability to open the door to someone. And even then they have to know it’s the back of the neck where you enter. It’s why you should always keep the back of yer neck covered when yer sick or mentally vulnerable. Oh and avoid smoking the hooch. Entities are always riding that smoke into your body. Cos it lowers yer fucking guard so much that it's like putting out a fucking sign that says, party in my body, all deranged fucks seeking a body welcome, bring a fucking bottle of madness. And I had this bardo guy for a while who was solid, and believe me, it's hard to find a skilled, reliable bardo kid. Cos ya know they lose it after a while, the bardo kids. They wanna hang around and help all these shaky spirits but spending too much time in that space can make ya fuckin dizzy, even if ya Bodhicitta is strong as fuck. So it's more like when ya get seconded to the SAS if yer an officer. It's just high pressure so they give ya some time, but then ya gotta head back to ya unit. The main trouble with the dead is that they’re always trying to enter bodies that are already occupied like I said. N the only time a body is unoccupied is when it's a fresh fucking corpse in some damn hospital or at the moment of conception when just for a second, the red and white essences meet and the fucking door opens. But unless ya know that's what's happening, ya don't focus on the body which at that stage is fucking barely developed at all. Ya hit that lottery win by accident and it's cos yer either fancy yer mum and yer jealous of yer dad or the other way round. Yer watch them fuckin and ya feel something and the next thing ya trapped in this fuckin womb for nine months and it’s meant to be fuckin damn cosy if ya read the encyclopedia Britannica but its actually…”

The waiter coughs loudly.

“I was referring to your t-shirt,” he says.

That’s right. I’m wearing this fucking Grateful Dead t-shirt.

And it's one of those times where my personal assistant is in the bathroom so she can’t save me from this barrage of nonsense I’ve just hoiked into this waiter’s anaemic consciousness.

“Ah, yeah,” I say. I knew this day would come. It’s the risk you take when you ride around in t-shirts of bands that you barely enjoy. “I like their live stuff.”

I hate the words as they come out of my gob. I do sort of like their live stuff. They improvise well. I find their recorded stuff to be mostly this sedated country shite, and I was always baffled by why it was so damn popular until I started reading about the culture of the Grateful Dead and the psychedelic wave that followed that band around America. That’s why I’m wearing this fucking t-shirt. It’s more about the culture than the music.

I like these words better but I realise I haven’t said them out loud but only in my head and the waiter has been standing, watching my eyes dart about awkwardly. What is wrong with him? Why doesn’t he just leave or change the subject?

“The live stuff is all they released,” he says. I don’t know what he means by that. “I have a few vinyls.”

I awkwardly nod at him. I want to ask him about vinyl but I haven’t had coffee yet.

“Can I get a fucking cappuccino?” I say. “And she’ll have an almond magic.”

“Oh yes,” he says, simultaneously looking relieved I ended the conversation and shocked that I don’t worship him for having the Grateful Dead on vinyl.

And now it's just me and this fucking menu.

I planned to eat bacon today. But I feel wrecked from the Jack Daniels last night and the Diet Coke and the fact that I ejaculated three times in four minutes. And I just know the bacon is gonna send me into a deep coma and I’ll end up getting angry at men for wanting to be women and I’ll have my PA call me a fucking close-minded bigot again.

“It’s not close-minded,” I’ll tell her. “It’s fucking open-minded. I’m happy for men to want to become women. But I’m also angry at them for it.”

“No, Frank,” she’ll say. “Being open-minded is just letting people do what they want, it’s relaxing and not forming an opinion.”

She’s one of those twenty-three-year-olds that thinks she understands the fucking world.

“No, Kitty,” I’ll tell her. That’s her name, Kitty. “That’s called fucking nihilism. Let’s all float around wearing golden knickers and fucking whoever we want!”

I realise I’ve said this last part quite loudly, and Kitty isn’t even back from the bathroom. She must be having one of her IBS moments.

I wave gently at everyone around me and mouth the word, sorry. This isn’t the type of establishment where one is free to yell about golden knickers, especially when seated alone.

They can’t help but scowl at me, cos that’s how we are, us humans.

We fear madness more than anything. We fear non-duality. We fear not being able to tell the difference between right and wrong. The true fear isn’t with the monster, for a monster is only terrifying until we have engineered a system to manage it. The true terror lies in the loss of boundaries, the loss of solidity.

In other words,

While restrained by firm boundaries of dark and light, the monster’s function is to illuminate the light — since both dark and light cannot exist without each other. It is only when the darkness begins to penetrate the luminosity, and the sense of sane order begins to fall apart that transgression occurs.

(Lyrics from My Dark Boyfriend by Taylor Swift).

“Cappucino,” says the waiter, placing down my coffee. “And an almond magic.” he dumps Kitty’s coffee on the table opposite. “Now, can I get you some food?”

I’d planned to order the bacon, but I order the porridge instead. Or as you damn Americans call it, oatmeal. And I just know it’s gonna come out like a fucking dessert with chunks of snickers and some kind of sexual syrup and nuts that have been soaked for three days in honey from the bees that live in Cindy Crawford’s pussy. When did we become so childish about food? I just want normal fucking food that isn’t doused in fucking sugar and salt, you pricks.

Kitty emerges from the bathroom looking distressed. It’s almost definitely an IBS thing.

“We might need another minute,” I tell the waiter.

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