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onslaughtofdays-blog · 7 years

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(951)555-3798

Last night I was up late thinking about God knows what and you came to mind as you usually do. I tried thinking about phone numbers. I knew my best friend’s but much to my surprise I didn’t know yours anymore.

I was exuberant. I figured I could finally move forward now that you’ve become as distant a memory as you deserve to be, but life isn’t Grim Fandango. You can’t look up a walkthrough every time you get stuck (but you do get stuck). If you’re stuck, you’re stuck there all... stuck.

But the point was you’re my impediment. You’re my little hurdle that I can’t jump over because I’m laying down. I thought I finally had you out of my head, but much to my dread there was that number instead.

(951)555-3798

I feel like it’s tattooed to my scalp.

#OnslaughtofDays #September21st2017 #RonaldRaspberriez

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onslaughtofdays-blog · 7 years

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The Majestic Nazi Penguin- January 15th, 2017

Granted, some people are like deer.

However, you are not deer.

And I am not deer.

You are more like the floppy walrus,

and I am the majestic nazi penguin,

but I love you just the same.

And,

Granted,

some people are like french horns,

and others are saxaphones,

sensual and interesting and smooth

but you are like the intercelestial galactic horn,

and I am the clumsy trombone.

We are pitch-corrected farts.

I am tired of the images we paint of the world being pretty,

when things are rather silly, some times.

Most times.

Stoner sloth? Stoner sloth.

I shall be chubby, streamlined, and orderly,

and you shall be rolling around the floor pathetically gasping for air

and I will not have it any other way.

#onslaughtofdays #poetry #January #2017 #RonaldRazpberriez

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onslaughtofdays-blog · 7 years

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Hey, Everybody- December 30th, 2016

I know I haven’t written in a while, and sorry that this isn’t a work. I’ve decided today to focus more on the whole “journal aspect” of this blog I created for myself. Today I’d like to make a very real confession: I’ve grown to love fighting on the internet.

Not about important things, mind you. I like correcting people over completely trivial bullshit, like what that video game character actually said. By the way, one time a guy asked what someone said in a video, I told him, and then he told me that he heard something else which wasn’t that. Like, dude, if you’re so sure of yourself that you’re gonna deny an answer, why ask the question? In fact, as I wrote this, the particular fight which inspired this post got to a point where a separate commentor, one who I wasn’t directly addressing, asked me why I had to be such a dick. The thing is, I like it... Maybe I wasn’t powerful enough as a kid. I got into all sorts of fight and lost plenty of them, and recently I’ve been on a power trip “saltmining” or “trolling” or whatever. Maybe I should also explain that I make an effort not to directly insult anyone, hell, I’d dare say I’m even voicing a legitimate concern or trying to prove a legitimate point at times, but I do think it’s much more rewarding to try to piss someone off without ever calling them a dick. Whatever, the point of this post is, I think letting go of some of it here will make it so I don’t have to think about this fight in particular anymore. Allow me to finish by saying there have been a lot of times where I’ve piped down and been the “bigger man,” and people praise that. They even go as far as to say it’s more courageous to back off than it is to press on. However, I’ve never found that go to method satisfactory. In fact, I think I was angrier when I tried to ignore things. Somewhere, there’s a balance in between the two. And it’s now one of the new reasons I’ll keep this blog running.

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onslaughtofdays-blog · 7 years

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Not my typical shtick, sure, but I found this online and thought it was brilliant!

#November Fifteenth 2016

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onslaughtofdays-blog · 8 years

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Poem in the Shape of a Beautiful Woman- September 24th, 2016

Red hair

Thick eyebrows

Blue eyes Big schnoz Mischevious, thin lips sweaty neck Collar bone

School uniform (small breasts) tinytummy Goofy hips (ttub tcefreP) Sassy legs White shoes

#onslaughtofdays #poetry #t #creativewritings #September #it'sokthatitdoesn'tlooklikeanactualbeautifulwoman #welcometochange

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onslaughtofdays-blog · 8 years

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Watches- July 27, 2016

Watches tell time in many ways We all know this, already But I think that They tell time Best when You Lay down and press the second Hand against your carotid and Feel the ticking needle Digging deep, deep Into your Sleep.

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onslaughtofdays-blog · 8 years

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The Ooze (Excerpt 1)- 6/28/16

Jerry Seinfeld (not that one) woke up one day to find all the channels on his television were playing PewDiePie’s videos. It was the year 2030, and cable television had by and large been overhauled to make room for exclusive Let’s Players, exclusive to each channel, that is. Jerry checked his calendar and realized it was the holiday, July 27th, the anniversary of Kim Kardashian’s death last year. It had been declared a national holiday, which was the cause of the riots outside and the labor protesters. Labor protesters, by the way, are those who go to work when they’re not supposed to be at work, because of the holiday. There’s probably some legal term for it, but Jerry didn’t know it.

Jerry turned to look out the window of his floating apartment on the 17th floor of a hovering building, shaped imprecisely squarely. There was a certain concavity going in on all four sides which kept the building from being an absolute square. Kind of like a... peanut, he guessed? Listen, nevermind.

He then tapped the window and pulled up his desktop. Then, he chose to run the parental unit programs. Blocky discolorations in the floor whirred open with the noise of a pencil sharpener, and like a pop-up book, his companions emerged.

Mom-bot and Pop-bot, 3000 (he couldn’t afford the newer 5000 model, or rather, his orphanage couldn’t afford it) sprung to life like vampires from a coffin and emanated the cool teal glow of electricity from their eyes. Well, their optical cameras meant to simulate eyes.

“Morning, dear,” croaked the Nancy Reagan voice sample, from Mom-bot. She was dressed in a long pink polka-dot dress, with a big ol’ bushy hair-do pointing out to both sides, and a set of pearl earrings. She was about as cliche as you could get. Jerry was getting tired of it. So he pulled out his universal remote and clicked the outfit button. He cycled through every single kind of mother you could have (eight), revealing, each time, the polygonial Mom-bot body underneath jutting out like an aluminum pot-belly. All the bikini-clad mother variations made him a little uncomfortable, but he eventually got to the plain mom-jeans and white t-shirt with tiny little short-sleeves that barely covered mom-bot’s “shoulders,” and black stripes... or was it a black t-shirt with tiny little short-sleeves with white stripes? Who cared?

Then he turned to his Pop-bot. Pop-bot was in his typical red satin bath-robe, his pipe in aluminum tongs about as strong as a thin hanger. Pop-bot looked distant and unattentive, in stark contrast to his mom-bot whose head would track his movements.

“Speak to me,” Jerry demanded of Pop-bot.

“Pop-bot is currently in silent mode,” said the ceiling.

Why was Pop-bot in silent mode? “De-activate Pop-bot’s silent mode.” “You are an orphan and no one loves you,” responded pop-bot’s voice sample of Humphrey Bogart.

“Re-activate Pop-bot’s silent mode.” Oh, right.

...

Jerry scrutinized mom and pop-bot for a moment, not knowing what it is he would do today. He figured that, regardless of what you do anyday, there’s always one consistent choice that can be used as a first-step. Breakfast.

“Mom-bot, bend over,” that’s not as bad as it sounds, trust me.

“To what degree, Jer-Jim-Jimbaruu?”

“90, also, choose a new pet-name, please.”

“Accepted.”

Mom-bot revved forward until there was a pointed stilt on the ground, which used to hold mom-bot upright, a moment ago. Jerry found a bread-bag and inserted four pieces of bread into the four toaster slots on mom-bot’s back side, falling through her t-shirt’s hologram with ease. Then he pulled down her ear to start the cooking. Jerry then went to the shower.

By the time he got out, the toast was done. Even if it had been done for a while, he didn’t really mind. He then pulled the toast out of his mother, and pinned it to the wall with a thumbtack. While he was doing this, he also put his bath-robe on... and off... then on... then off, etc. etc.

A blonde woman stands outside of an elementary school. She has a gap in her top teeth which forms a 45 degree angle pointing down, towards the bottom of her mouth. It’s exceptionally unattractive, and once you notice it, you may begin to pluck out all the other little faults in her features, like the brittleness of her hair which seems browner from the bottom than the top. Her belly flabs out on both sides of her abdomen, like two Pillsbury Dough Boy hands gripping onto her hips, making up for the lack of hands otherwise. Her eyes, while both a dark brown bordering on blank, have uneven lids which point up to two different extents. The one on the right is almost vertical, and the other one nearly horizontal, giving one the impression that her eyes were in sideways, and she looked like an alien. Her eye-brows were so thin that it was hard to notice they were even there, especially because their hair color was nearly identical to their skin tone. Basically, Scarlett Jo-Hanson is not allowed to play the part of her in a movie. Neither is Jennifer Lawrence. In fact, don’t make the movie.

A dark haired-man who is unfortunate enough to lack as many distinguishing characteristics as her is standing next to her, chatting her up. He isn’t handsome, per-se, he simply isn’t ugly.

Who even knows or cares what they’re talking about? They’re probably stupid and arrogant, anyways. What’s more interesting is that they’re waiting for a kid, the same kid... but they don’t know that yet.

The bell of freedom and demise rings out and the kids flock out the front door, as if the school were a giant concrete monster vomiting children. The woman spots her little blue-haired brat among all the neon-colored dyed hair snots and chirps happily. She takes him by the hand and walks to her car. Then she opens the car’s back door and finds that her hand is gripping air and the child is missing. Instead, the child had left with the default man. While your butt-hole may be clenched with worry that this escapade would take a drastic emotional toll and perhaps she would begin bawling on the concrete in the fetal position, burning her skin on the hot pavement, but instead she simply turned her head with curiosity, mimicking a puppy. Leaving her car door wide-open, she began the quest for her child. Not forgetfulness, the car simply closed the door and locked it by itself.

The blue haired-boy and the black-ish haired man were already in another car, driving to another home located right next to the woman’s home. They made it home safely and were happy for it. The boy began his homework and the father told the boy to do his homework, oblivious to the fact that his child already was doing his homework. He texted the woman “hey, I made it back from war/work. where r u”

The woman was, ignoring her phone temporarily, making her way to a certain unfinished construction site, with a nice little collection of gray bricks shaped like a u just perfect for holding up someone’s butt. She sat down and read the floor (there was a plaque on the floor that she read, she just thought of it as reading the floor)

WAR MEMORIAL: In loving memory of those who fought here before the establishment of the GRA, and in pride of our achievement of the GRA.

War... something about that seemed familiar to her. Oh, right! Her husband was in the war. He should be home by now, actually. Maybe he could tell her about where her kid went. She went back to her car. Then, she opened up the text messages on her cell phone.

“hey I made it back from war/work. where r u” & “are you at the memorial again? This happens every day with you.

#The Ooze silly onslaught of days #Ronald Raspberriez

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onslaughtofdays-blog · 8 years

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I’m Not Mad at You (Just Frustrated)- May 21st, 2016

It’s not like I’m going to meet someone else As I try to cast you aside Though I know that sentiment’s where you hide It’s where all of you hide. The girl with the flaming hair is all too much alight like a candle, ever-bright It’s happened so many times that I can’t write about it, anymore. How much nothing can happen to me before I cease to be alive? I’m alone, so & still at this point My feelings feel nill.

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onslaughtofdays-blog · 8 years

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The Chronicles of H

Before I start telling you of the days and events which have surmounted to what I call “The Chronicles of H,” I suppose I should tell you all who H is. She is a small, thin, spindly child known for her tomboyishness. She’s of some sort of middle eastern descent which I can never remember, and her big eyes look like maple syrup and her hair looks like a fountain of chocolate. I looked at her as the sun shone on her, once, and I could not speak, for my heart was beating too fast. It beat so fast it hurt a little. She pretty much wears the same thing every-day, with only a few changing parts. A jacket; one of those thin rain-coats people work out in, that are made out of that one fabric that sounds like zippers when you rub it between your fingers, or a plaid shirt. Tacky Nike sandals, those real ugly black ones which seem like they want to be flip-flops but just have velcro straps before the toes instead of the toe divider. It’s like wearing an old-timey car seat-belt on your feet. Those atrocities with black socks. Or a pair of overly polished running shoes. What really sells the tomboyishness, though, is the backwards cap, with a bulky pair of over the ear headphones pinching it into place. The only time I’ve ever seen the hat change is the one time where she wore a pink baseball cap, I like to pretend she did that because she wanted to look more girly. It was funny, and I thought it might actually be right, until I looked at where the front should be, and Kanye West was above the bill. I’ve noticed she wears tight pants. That always gets me, when girls do that. I still think about the one day where she wasn’t wearing a bra. I don’t know if she even remembers, I doubt it, and I really, really doubt she remembers I was there, she could only assume. It just stuck out to me (no pun intended), because she looked natural that day, and I noticed that first but didn’t notice why I thought that until later, when a took a better look. In case you can’t tell by this point, I like her, at least a bit. I like plenty of girls, so don’t be surprised or confused when you start seeing “The Chronicles of A-Z.”

Anyways, as with most things in life, it turned to shit, at least at some point. I guess it’s not so bad, now, and if I wrote on it earlier it could have been more tragic sounding, but that wouldn’t be as honest, now would it? Here’s an anthology of the important excerpts from the days where it started wearing down on me. 4/06/16- I hesitated from writing this yesterday, but *sniveling* H WAS MEAN TO ME! I tried sitting next to her in class this morning, and before I make it to my seat, she gets up and bolts across the room. I have no idea why, I’ve never done anything to her.

4/08/16-

I saw H walking to class. It was raining, I saw her holding her hand up to her forehead… she didn’t have a hat, this time. I had an umbrella, and I wanted to help her, but I don’t think she would have accepted my help… not after what happened in class… and I was hungry, and didn’t want to turn around and walk back from where I came and do the whole route three times.

4/11/16-

She doesn’t even try, when I speak to her. She’ll say only what’s required. I tried to be casual, cool, small, she was wearing something fancy. Why? “I have an interview.”

For what?

“A job.”

She just said it so curtly, so quickly.

4/12/16-

It was actually kind of nice not seeing H, today. I still like her, but it’s just incredibly stressful. Do I ask her why she bolted? What if she runs away again? What if what she says makes me reasonably mad at somebody else? What if she chews into me and is totally right about what a dick I am? I guess what I’m saying is I wish I didn’t care.

4/13/16-

I snuck into my old Math T.A’s office hours, since my current one doesn’t have office hours that really work very well with the class. The homework’s due before them. I figured that my old T.A was really pretty and smart, anyways, so why not? I even remember her talking about scheduling her office hours specifically so that they happen before the homework is due. H was there. I was worried that that might have scared her, but I stayed, sort of as an aggressive way of implying “I’m not here for you, calm down,” but maybe merely thinking that means I was… no!

4/18/16-

They waved at me

They asked for blood

They confused me

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That’s all I wrote for that day.

I know I might be ruining the mood, or whatever, but I need to explain this; besides having a nosebleed pretty much every day since then, I sat in the row of seats H usually sits in. She wasn’t even there yet, I tried to sit far from where her seat usually is. She came to that row, anyways, sat only a few seats away (still keeping a “safe” distance of course) and waved at me, even smiling a bit, maybe coy? Not coquettish, not flirtatiously, but… trying.

Later that day, I saw her walking to class with some guy with a nice tattoo on his left arm, the blue of the Misty cigarettes my grandmother smokes. Then, right before class, after blue tattoo leaves and H is talking to her friend, “Oh, that’s just Tim,” because of course it is.

“Just Tim” was eating pizza with H that night. She was wrapped around his arm the next weekend. For all I know, they’re happy, even. I doubt “Just Tim” is “Just Tim.”

I mean, I’d fuck ‘im.

#journal anthology The Chronicles of H Ronald Raspberriez

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