A bullet is a “projectile.” No, it is. I checked it up online. A bullet is defined as a  “projectile propelled by a firearms, sling, or airgun.” The most basic bullet typically contains lead so they dig the stuff up from places like Australia, China, or even here in the US. Once they’ve gathered enough lead they melt it down to form that ominous, pointed shape we’re all so familiar with. 

A bullet is a projectile. It is meant to be in motion so who am I to deny its purpose? The reason it was dug up was to penetrate - what exactly? I really couldn’t tell you… But who is to say its intended target wasn’t through your right temple and out your left? Who is to say it would stop there?

A bullet is a projectile. And sometimes, when I think of how the lead is mined and gathered, I wonder if the guy working whatever digging contraption or tool gives the slightest thought as to lead will be used for. Maybe he figures its meant for pencils and goes home having a little more pride in his work, however, that’s a common misconception. The “lead” in pencils isn’t actually lead. Its a sort of graphite. In all actuality, the man is digging up bullets. 

• ohhhhhh
• nooooooo

Today, he fell in love again… if only for a moment. 

The girl was extremely young but only in comparison to his 45ish years of living. He hadn’t immediately noticed her standing as she stood beside him sheltered under the same library doorway and waiting for the bus to arrive. She mentioned aloud the dark, rainy weather and her obvious need for an umbrella then turned to smile towards him awaiting his response.

He offered an awkward smile and agreed. 

They then both spoke briefly of their backgrounds and how they were lead to the Bay. She was attending a nearby all-girls college and was technically a “freshwoman” majoring in English. Originally from the Central Valley, she had made plans early on to attend college anywhere but there. “There was nothing there for me,” as she put it.  

He had graduated from college and lived in New York for 25 years but fell in love. His love eventually lead him all the way to the West Coast where he would continue to love and be loved for a full 8 years. But gradually his love subsided and moved on. Rather than return home to New York, he remained in California and decided to start anew.

When he was finished with his story, he turned to see the girl still smiling at him. A genuine smile, one that causes wrinkles around the corners of your eyes. 

Their bus finally arrived nearly 20 minutes later when they were both drenched. Without a last word to him, the girl boarded and took a seat towards the front then begun a conversation with the sleepy brunette beside her. He nodded and smiled towards her as he walked past and took a seat in the towards the back of the bus.

He watched the back of her head as it slowly dipped from side to side. He figured she was daydreaming. She seemed like the type: young, naive, and figuring what she couldn’t immediately find at home could only be found elsewhere. 

Several bus stops later, she finally hopped off the bus into the rain only to leave without a name or goodbye. Just a smile.

Well maybe “zookeeper” is me thinking a little too high of myself? I actually just volunteer at the local park zoo for an hour feeding the goats and deer at the petting zoo section. Whenever I walk into their pen - a shared pen since the zoo I work at is too cheap to pay for separate pens or offer me free cold drink on hot days - they always “greet” me with the same, cliché ”stuck-in-the-headlights” stance. I eventually learned not to take this affront on their part too seriously (which otherwise lead me to question my animal skills as marred by several deceased family pets) and focus on my task of feeding.

“Food” typically consists of these pellets supposedly constructed out of dried vegetables, however, I really doubt theres even the tiniest bit of vegetables in the them. Most times I imagine the pellets really have bits of meat - deer and goat meet. Once the small herd of supposed “herbivores” finally dare to move in the prospect of food and suck up the scattered pellets from the ground, I silently judge them. A flash of disgust floods my mind every meal time. 

I remember one specific Wednesday afternoon when thoughts of the goat and deer cannibalism were extremely vivid. After I tossed the bucket of pellets to the ground, I leaned against wall trying not to vomit. The moment I started dry-heaving, the herd simply raised their heads in the same “stuck-in-headlights” pose that they greet with. 

“He knows whats in the pellets,” I figured they must have all thought in unison, “He knows!” 

I just gave another dry-heave in response.

When I met you, you were dying but you didn’t care. When you met me, I was dying too but had you asked if I were living I would have said “Yes” simply because I didn’t know any better. 

We were quite the pair.

“… I can touch a person’s scars and understand how they received them. Often, I might shake a new acquaintance’s hand and “see” that they knicked their finger while cutting an orange for breakfast. The older and lighter scars really aren’t much of a bother because they typically produce fainter memories. […] Once, I remember patting my friend on the back after a swim meet. I guess she’d gotten a few scratches on her back after a “long night” with her boyfriend - a very LONG night. Haha.

But… then there are the nasty scars, the deep scars that never fade away. They remain and can cripple a person. Those are the scars that… well I get nightmares some times. I dream that I’m actually there and I always try so hard to stop the pain before it happens… but I never do. Or worse, I am the person experiencing the pain. The person’s face could easily be a blur but the pain is there crystal clear.”

I am like a fire, a sun, a star. I am radiating. I am shifting. Suppose I close my eyes, will I become cool? While watching the tide lap at the shore I realize that I’ve never really swam in the ocean. I’ve only walked along the shoreline, never allowing the tide to go any further up my leg than my calf.

Who should be afraid of the ocean? Surely not the woman whom the gods forged in nature’s image. Do we not abide by cycles much like the moon? Does growth not occur, cultivated carefully within our wombs? Do we not exhale hot, fall winds? Is the sea not found in our tears?

We are nature incarnate.

“Hello my name is Joleene. I am an employee for [insert company name that relates to memory or includes a pun to memory].”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a memory technician assistant.”

“What do you do exactly?”

“Well… my company is a federally-funded as an effort to counter the rising cases of depression as caused by the troubled economy and current war situation. We simulate happy moments from our patient’s as means to counter their depression and, hopefully, lower the nation’s suicide rates.”

“How do you like your job?”

“I like it. Seeing other’s happiest memories is pretty inspiring. Makes me want to make better memories of my own.”

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Plot: I suppose there needs to be better character development. Exactly how do they feel about their job? Considering the supposed nation-wide cases of depression, is she/ he depressed herself? There is obviously lots of room for creativity when it comes to developing the “happiest moments” that are being simulated.

A darker plot could be that that the main character is actually a patient themselves - suppose they’ve experienced a hugely traumatic event that has altered their memory (hence, no happy memories of their own). As a part of their treatment, they’re a “memory technician assistant” to look on other people’s happy memories.

Today, I remembered an evening when my mother played “counselor” to a fellow suicidal alcoholic. They were both sitting the living-room with their ironic cans of Coors Light in hand. My Mother was slurring out her obviously failed advice like it mattered anymore and the kid just listened.

I wanted to tell him to put down the can. I wanted to tell Valerie to shut the fuck up because she didn’t know jack-shit. But mostly, I wanted to look the guy straight in the eyes and tell him, “Kill yourself. Do it.”

Why? We’re overpopulated, ill-prepared, sacrilegious, and so forth. What good was he doing the world sitting the in dark, sipping Coors Light, listening to my failure of a mother? Fuck “potential.” Much like my mother, any of his potential was flushed out by alcohol.