Bastard

Fuck me, I love Lana del Rey. A certain Soul – one I pushed away once upon a time – introduced me to this mistress of music and poetry. Despite my antics for metal and hard rock shenanigans (with a healthy dose of folk thrown in for good measure), I find this woman to speak to me. Her words – fuck – her words are brilliant, that brilliance that can only stem from the tortured agony of introspective self-awareness. Her escape from the Cave was wrought with dangerous Shadows and feckless Chains, yet her words proved her liberation. Perhaps that’s why, comrades, this pop star speaks to my Soul. That tattered Soul of gray, frayed at the edges, worn to the interior, yet pulsating with a light that refuses to yield. Cover it with a bushel basket and you place it atop a hill: it cannot be hidden.

This light had a resurgence today.

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Limping Along (Part II)

On Being a Self-Hating Catholic and Ernest Hemingwannabe

Our story continues in which our Hero is in the midst of regaling his Catholic comrades with a tale of woe and heartache, a yarn of mental deprivations and emotional turmoil, a timeless speech of impeccable rhetoric and colorful banter, this is, dear reader, Part the Second of the Limping Along series.

Yeah, it’ll be a series. Deal wid it.

For those of you first tuning in, might I recommend you give Limping Along (Part I) a read afore you turn your sights upon this. Backstory is always important, you understand.

For the rest of you lot, this next passage continues where I left off: in the midst of giving my testimony to my Focus Mission Group. It’s about as bitchin’ as it sounds.

Gentlemen, ready your canes and adjust your monocles. Maidens fair, contain thy selves and resist the vapors. In the words of Gork (and possibly Mork) ‘ere we go!

Continue reading “Limping Along (Part II)”