Jonny Numb

It’s cold outside.

Pour the bucket of icewater over your head.

Pour the bucket of icewater down your throat.

So you’re properly chilled on the inside and outside.

And when you’re properly chilled –

Feel your gray matter develop a fuzzy skin, like a kiwi fruit.

Feel the hitch in that no-man’s-land between your chest and stomach.

As if some internal organ is slumped over a pulley-hook.

Unable to move.

Not budgin’.

Putting conscious thought into the effort to remove the pulley-hook makes it dig in deeper.

It’s stubborn that way.

What’s one to do?

When the icewater’s chilled you inside-out –

And there’s seemingly no hoodie or flannel pajama thick enough to bring warmth back.

That even curling up under blankets in a bed with a mattress that’s more comfortable than the one you used to have and a purring cat putting a heat wedge between your ankles doesn’t bring that feeling of warmth –

No matter how hard you try to assume the fetal position –

(wanting more than anything to not go back to the days of luxury within the womb, but the great days when the notion of reproduction wasn’t even a passing thought in your parents’ young minds, because the womb necessitates one of two outcomes, and the one where the child exits into The World seems an unparalleled cruelty)

No matter where you put your hands in an effort deliver heat to the necessary extremities –

Heat not budgin’.

What happens when everything is an irritant?

Where does one go when the things that once fostered pleasure and satisfaction, become harbingers of stress –

Over-analysis –

And fear?

What happens when the hook in your stomach-chest signals regret?

Of time pissed away on countless hours of MTV and Social Media –

Of time when you could’ve, should’ve been “honing your craft” –

Of not using your mind – your imagination – when it was at its ripest…

Uncorrupted by the arbitrary workings of a world and human-made system we have no choice but to be trapped in.

What did KMFDM say?

The rules, the rules do not apply…

Yet the fucking sore-ass bitch of it all is, they do.

Sinew, muscle, bone –

Tangled within and torn asunder by the nightmare circus of capitalism –

Trapeze artists doing spins overhead, sweating out their waste products as a bed of spikes lies expectantly below.

“Frank” from Hellraiser, before exploding into a greasy mess of elastic viscera:

“Jesus wept,” indeed!

If only Jesus could see us now!

Jesus…had days like this. Ha, ha!

Give in – conform – be miserable – lay down – wait to die –

None of these thoughts are new.

Those who say we should act within His image have blinders on to the fact that the lack of a cap on human reproduction has created –

And will continue to create –

An ever-untenable, irreconcilable situation.

We’re gonna hate because you’re taking up my space!

The talking cure does not cure.

When the icewater doesn’t take hold –

An incensed warmth does.

Anger – anxiousness – thinking horrible thoughts about others – myself.

Not wanting to drag myself down to a level of pettiness and easy, unchecked fury –

But the exposed roots extending from the earth are slick with rain.

I can’t get a grip –

And if I can, my hand slips, and ever further I fall.

And the real horror of it?

There is no bottom.

Planet Earth didn’t need to be Planet Terror, but – to quote Rorschach:

“God doesn’t make the world this way. We do.”

I realize that deflection is de rigueur in terms of talking about how we really feel these days –

It’s scary to risk being completely blunt or vulnerable (or both) –

And seeing the color drain from the face of the person whose ear you’ve unpleasantly bent.

Perhaps the real horror is that we’ll never again be truly honest with ourselves ever again, because we’re –

So –

Fucking –

Scared.

I know I am! Ha, ha!

I feel cornered and trapped –

Like the character in those game ads who’s trying to push a door (or something) while avoiding impalement from descending ceiling spikes –

(again with the spikes)

Options haven’t been explored, but options are a waste of time!

Options are the gatekeepers of unwarranted hope and all-too-frequent disappointment!

But I defeat only myself by thinking that –

By not even fucking trying –

Because, let’s face it, trying – according to Homer Simpson – is the surest path to failure.

Even if it weren’t –

Trying sometimes takes an insurmountable effort, akin to climbing a mountain only to be eaten by hungry goats at the peak.

If nothing else – at least we got to stake our flag in the crag.

It feels embarrassing and pathetic to think this is where I’m at –

But I scrolled through –

And was nodding and “yup”ing to myself in sad and frustrated agreement:

https://www.helpguide.org/aging/healthy-aging/midlife-crisis

I used to think nothing could be worse than the way 2025 started.

Then 2026 started.

Not even two full fucking months in, and already I want off the ride.

The distraction of turning 45 – halfway to 90, oh boy! – and having my birthday month peppered with events I’d look forward to under normal circumstances, is doing nothing for me.

I’ve gotten less wise and more neurotic.

I’ve become less capable of dealing with…much of anything, really.

Committing to any sort of project outside of those I’m paid for is commanding of a willpower I am unable to coerce and affirm.

I’ve always talked down about myself –

Always downplayed my talents –

Always kind of hated that I did that, but also –

Hated the notion of being an annoying braggart –

Willfully full of himself.

Embarrassed that he’s like that –

Embarrassed of other things that can’t be mentioned, but are ever-present –

Constantly reminding and insisting upon themselves –

Creating a perpetual discomfort deep in my guts.

Feeling pinned –

Feeling trapped –

Walls closin’ in, boss.

Not only in the literal –

But in the existential and metaphysical.

How does one change their circumstances when they feel pulverized on the inside –

Incapable of forward motion –

Something always fucking up –

Every effort taking an extreme strength that exhausts once a small peak is conquered?

The measure of a society’s sense of collective well-being is:

How much dogshit is there?

Is your residential neighborhood a mud pit of unkempt animal waste?

What about the streets in the vicinity of your work?

Does it look like the owners just don’t give a – well – just don’t give a shit?

Maybe it’s mental illness –

People who never should have acquired a pet in the first place.

Maybe it’s sheer sloth –

Who’s gonna have the stones to tell me I have to pick up my dog’s shit, huh?

That’s right – just keep on walking, man.

So –

Here is to “another trip around the sun” –

And just wishing to be catapulted into that fiery, angry ball of hellfire –

Still soaked, inside-out, with icewater.