No restraint

Suicide List

--Make arrangements for the kids; put them up for adoption, sell their organs, give them to ex-wife

--Quit work; get fired; d I s a p p e a r  

--Go through personal effects; dispose of through donating; take tax refund and mail it to a stranger  

--Reminisce(reflect) over the few photos, the unread letters, the forgotten memories (collected cobwebs over the dusty shoebox)

--Burn what is left of your belongings 

--Get drunk for days, into ceaseless nights; commiserate with the ones who have no place (the bums, the prostitutes, drug addicts, derelict dropouts); sleep on the streets, in cemeteries (theghosts can see right through your clothes)

--Follow the footsteps of ex-lovers; spy, stalk, smell the backs of chairs their hair lay across; do not let them see you, even if you are invisible 

--Wander through the booksellers' stalls; smell the yellowed paper, feel pages disintegrate beneath your fingers, gaze at the words you will never know

--Give your house away (to who?); abandon it, leave it for the rats, the roaches

--Tell the few you still talk to you are moving away you don't talk to anyone 

--Listen to your favorite song

--Surround yourself with people; sit on a bench and watch the crowds churn, break against and move away, disperse

--Spend the night where the wind blows, the whisper of the leaves, thoughts all alone

--Jump off a bridge, into the river; dive off a cliff into the sea; swim into the setting sun somewhere that isn't your home

Fart Throughout History: A Guide to Flatulence

(ONE): "In the beginning there was the FART. The FART was with God, and the FART was God."

Some may call it the Big Bang Theory, bang being a more acceptable substitute for FART.
Be that as it may, this is undeniable: the heavens, this earth and others on which we and aliens tread, incandescent balls of flame, hurtling meteors--all owe their existence to God, who suffered from an acute case of one clogged alimentary canal. The gas had no where to go, the gas created the galaxies.

(TWO): "So spake Zeus in anger, whose wisdom is everlasting; and from that time he was always mindful of the trick, and would not give the power of unwearying FART to the Melian race of mortal men who live on the earth. But the noble son of Iapetus outwitted him and stole the far-seen gleam of unwearying FART in a hollow fennel stalk. And Zeus who thunders on high was stung in spirit, and his dear heart was angered when he saw amongst men the far-seen ray of FART."

Without Prometheus defying Zeus, mortal man would have forever lived in darkened caves, gnawed the raw flesh of the bovine, indistinguishable from the beast whose blood stained their mouths. But lo! Prometheus brought the sacred FART to man, ignition brought swift provisions. Hunching man banished and cowers no more: straightens limbs and unravels from crawling on all fours.

***Chapters missing, pages lo(ose)t***

(THREE HUNDRED TWENTY-SEVEN): In feudal Japan, the power of the FART was well known. Derision and mockery were not the twin attendants of those who employed the use of this fatal art; rather, a wary reverence, a heightened sense of awe, accompanied those who were masters in the art of FART. Schools abounded for those willing to train under a ruthless regime run by gassy aficionados. To strain under the rigors of controlling the air passage nestled between one's bowels: this is no easy feat, and most students succumbed to sharding and a shameful self-induced suicide.

Those lucky enough to be born with the gift of flatulence were hailed as gurus, wizards, samurai of the wind. If they were women, they were in extremely high demand as geishas with a special kink.

A ever practical people, the Japanese even utilized the FART as a tool of warfare.

Legend has it they stole this idea from the Chinese, who in turn took it from marauding Mongolians.

 Tired of dealing with annoying door-to-door salesmen? FART him out of business.

 Someone peeping in on your orgy? FART.

Perfect way to get rid of that pesky kitten.


***Chapters missing, pages lo(ose)t***


 EPILOGUE:  This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a FART.

Free for all

Where is my mind? I’ve been wondering for a long, long time. I thought I found it once, sitting on a couch at a coffee shop where you used to be able to smoke inside, next to a midget but the midget went inside the bathroom with a friend of mine and everything I felt sitting on the couch next to him must have drained away with the piss in the urinal of their collective stream. Once, I peed standing up, but I do that a lot, what was different was that I stood atop the toilet bowl it was at Felipe’s after one too many margaritas. I think I drizzled just as much as a man would have, no less, no more. My fake green card said I was Giovanna Vargas, call me Gia, yes I am twenty-sex. I am worried about my subconscious, too much revealing always makes me uncomfortable, I wouldn’t care to know what I was thinking. My dreams horrify me too much, I must sleep with fuzzy animals and when I wake up screaming it is their snores that bring me back to the nightmares. I shouldn’t have cats who have sleep apnea. It makes me feel guilty, but I know what I’m doing. Leaving this city, I’m in love with a dead city no longer, it’s been almost eight years and gentrification and the American government have taken away my respect but I still love. Why is it so hard to emigrate with pets? My cats will take forever to die, I’m afraid one is eternal, is this why I overfeed them? Obese cats will die sooner than lithe, svelte felines, ones who actually catch roaches rather than lazily eye them from the depression in my couch—the result of years of sleeping behind my head. This sofa has seen more action than I have. I shouldn’t mind. I don’t. Came from a thrift store anyway. These useless spewings from my mouth are not as surreal as I suppose dadaesque techniques should be. Alas. Carnival is over and my sanity lost with it, all the crazy swirling images must have disappeared along with my numerous wigs. Everyone ignores me, and then they hear the rasp of my voice, a wraith speaking, and they say “If it isn’t that surly bitch Sheila” or its ilk. The roaches—they’ve won. The german roaches won’t die no matter how hard I try. They know it, too. They know I have relinquished, can they smell it in my indifference as I watch them scurry nonchalantly away? You would think I would eat less after finding roaches in my fridge, my microwave, and at first it was so. Sushi is the closest you can come to orgasm, sometimes, one love affair I will not let the roaches or failed humans take away. What do you say when you have nothing to say? It’s easy to think nothing, I do it all the time, I think nothing nothing nothing I will stare at something perhaps with seeming intelligence glinting but like a cat I am watching the play of dust motes as they shimmer in the rays, or the light refracting, or seeing the wind as it moves the light the clouds the shadows across the sky. Mardi Gras day, why can’t it always be you? Lost my voice, bloodied my feet, cut my hair out the flowers tangled through my scalp. Always I am a maenad, and unfortunately I cannot stop what is streaming through my mind, I am tired about hearing how terrible I think (wo)men humans are. Stop stop stop stop stop no words no words no words where are my thoughts? I shouldn’t creak so, my skeleton has skin, I want to the be skeleton dancing with roses dripping from his/her/its mouth. Delicate as bone. I am too much flesh, yellow teeth, lungs that are not pink like shells from the sea. Nothing is permanent, I hate change, but it is comforting to know that this state may to be fleeting, where to next? Connections are hard to come by, I have more cats than friends, is it the wanderlust in me that loves speaking to strangers—preferably with wolf dogs? One day I will find my perfect wolf dog and we shall travel from place to place, on the continent I have set my heart upon once I know it. My limp will be more pronounced, my crooked feet will never forget how to dance, and maybe I will have to scar my face. Would that prevent crimes against woman(people) that are naturally in men (people)? How long are my thoughts supposed to go on, and on, and on? My subconscious can be summed up quite simply; I wouldn’t like to know what it says about me. Sushi sushi sushi CATS (wishing for sobriety) lying human-hater the comfort found in when the dead sleep, in the dead sleep, no dreams. Dreams=thoughts; thoughts=dreams. No thoughts, no dreams. Can’t tap into my subconscious. There was no thought put into this. I’m not sorry for the lack.

My technique was Dada automatic writing, which is tapping directly into the author’s subconscious and writing as quickly and thoughtlessly as possible. Supposedly something like Freudian free association. Normally this sort of thing comes effortlessly to me, but lately I have been feeling unmoored, and I don’t know how effectively I employed this technique. If only I could transcribe the useless rambles I engage in on my cycling rides with myself! Still, this is an interesting technique. If one’s subconscious can be unleashed with all its random horror and delight in order to be harnessed experimentally, then perhaps schizophrenics have a vocation that screams for them to let go.

Customer Review

Perfect for paraplegics. 

I cannot stress the beauty of this product enough. Its simplicity astounds me; its utility, undeniable. As a disabled member of society, my voice matters.  Loosing the use of my legs was the single most devastating experience of my life. Beer was to blame. My mother was an alcoholic, my father Irish. It was fate. One night after consuming copious amounts of ale, contemplating the stars, I fell headfirst over the edge of my roof onto the cold cement of my driveway. Luckily enough, my head stayed intact, but the same could not be said for my spine. Beer reduced me to the state of a helpless paraplegic, and I swore never to swill that cursed brine again. Oh, but it was a dismal life. A bleak existence, one without hope of succor. How I missed those throaty belches that would ripple from somewhere deep inside my belly, erupting in a roar, the contended sign of bliss! My adorable beer gut virtually vanished. Chicken wings lost their appeal. No more one night stands. I was a shadow of a man.

And then a breath of new beginnings...I discovered the RC cooler! Surely a sign from the universe that my suffering had not gone unnoticed, that my penance had been fulfilled. I forsook my vow of abstinence. This ingenious invention has brought brewskis back into my life. From the comfort of my wheelchair or my chaise lounge, I recline like a pasha and eagerly await the cold, crisp sensation of the brew kissing my lips. When I press the remote, quivering with anticipation, I swear I can feel my toes anxiously wiggling in a paroxysm of delight.

I may never regain the use of my legs, but the RC cooler has given me back something just as necessary: beer.

Who is Sheila Ann Tahir?

     S.A.T., not to be confused with the standardized testing bearing the same appellation, came into this existence roughly twenty moons ago on the lost city of Atlantis. In S.A.T.'s present form, flowing curls the color of sea foam adorn a head too large for the slender neck that supports it, consequently causing S.A.T. to wilt with the weight of accumulated centuries of feckless conjectures and hopeless disappointments (and producing an unsightly tripe chin from certain angles). These thoughts, though pointless, stem from S.A.T.'s immortality. So, too, does S.A.T.'s disillusionment with life as it is. For it is known that S.A.T. is constantly dying and being reborn; a curse with karma has caused S.A.T. to embody such dissimilar bodies as a psilocybin toadstool and an extremely attractive monkey (thus explains the recent AIDS epidemic). 
     In the present, S.A.T.'s morbid speculations on the order of the universe have caused quite the stir amongst humanity; this unique being's singular insight into life and its foibles over the ages, in different forms, has afforded S.A.T. a cushy, plush existence that any materialistic American would envy. Replacing Oprah as talk show pundit plus publishing many manuals per annum upon such controversial topics as the depressing nature of the asexual and the inevitability of every man being a potential rapist, S.A.T. has been hailed as the guru of our times and the world's most desirable (and only) single phoenix.
     Unfortunately for us, this phoenix will all too soon return to the flame. More disenchanted than usual with society as it is today, S.A.T. has vowed to leave this Earth and its fleetingly obsolete technology behind, to return in a more enlightened and less obese age. S.A.T. has always expressed a desire to die in New Orleans, which is not only S.A.T.'s birthplace but what will also become the phoenix's elephant graveyard.

 An unflattering rendering of S.A.T. in the phoenix's present form. May the next reincarnation have reproducibles.

About me

Hello. My name is Sheila. Saying I'm a girl feels like a double negative. I enjoy reading, riding my bike, and much prefer the company of animals to humans. Growing up, I ran through the gamut of strange pets. Perhaps the most bizarre thing that happened to me was when my pet duck Peeper proceeded to enact his Freudian fantasies by vigorously humping my head and nearly drowning me in the pool. I was eleven.

Indeed, one could say I am a prematurely aging cat lady. Here are my two furballs, Sable and Rory-Lion, engaging in a friendly kiss.

Enough about cats. I know I am sickening quite a few of you.

Here are some details to flesh out my person: I live for traveling, can't cook worth a damn, am terrible at technology, and love singing self-composed ditties as I ride my bicycle at night. This, I rationalize to myself, is to prevent mugging, as I hope would be miscreants will assume I am a bag lady and stay the hell away.

I apologize for how hideous this blog looks. Eventually I'm going to ask my computer whiz little sister to teach me a few tricks to beautify my blog. Until then, bear with the fluffy dandelions and know it is not representative of me as a person.

There is a new strain of gonorrhea

And it's coming for you