Tagged: life

Obedience vs. Disobedience

Dear Planet Earth,

Not sure what to think about this yet.



Dear Planet Earth,

Sometimes all you need in life is some fried chicken and someone to call you “friend.” I was lucky enough to have both yesterday.

Karter, Maria, and I had a nice talk all through the night about the miracle that we’re all still here. It was a dark hotel room and a mostly dark conversation, though I am happy to report that they are very much an “item” now. They told me about the horrors they were put through in the labor camp. They worked sun up to sun down, building those strange towers with all the pipes — Karter thought they were some sort of power generators because of the heat they gave off.

At night, they all slept together in a large underground cavern. They could feel the red, glowing eyes of the mole people watching them as they slept on the rocky earth, and those same eyes greeted them as they awoke each morning. They carried rifles as big and alien as those towers.

Maria told me a story about a small child who slept near her each night and always cried about food or his mother. His whimpering grew softer and softer each night until one day, he wasn’t there. She didn’t have to ask what happened to him.

There were more stories — stories about the starvation, the beatings, the executions — but we tried not to focus on that. We tried to focus on the miracle. We justified our feelings of regret, shame, and loss by affirming our shared experiences as humans, allies, and above all, friends.

And then we went down to the kitchen and scored some fried chicken.

Negative Light

Dear Planet Earth,

Well, here I am. It’s anybody’s guess as to how long. They‘re telling me to write, to tell my story, busy myself and the rest of the world with the cold, hard facts to prove that they’ll get each and every one of us eventually.

I resisted at first, spat in their faces. I pretended to be the tough guy for two long days, but what does it really matter now? If I’m dead, I’m dead, and it won’t change anything to anyone if I retell what happened or not. I’m doing this now to be remembered. I’ve realized now that’s what’s been driving me from the very beginning. All I’ve ever wanted was for people to recognize my existence, be it in a positive or a negative light. And I don’t care if that sounds selfish now. I don’t care about humility, or pride, or any other quality I once thought made us human. I only care about being remembered.

I’m going to take my time with this. God knows they are. They keep saying it’ll be at least a week before “The Big Guy” comes. I’m trying to ignore the little voice in the back of my mind that might understand what that means.

It all started the day after I killed Jennifer Lopez. I couldn’t find my netbook in the morning. Halston, Linares, and Karter sat me down with the most serious faces. They asked if I knew where all the weapons had gone, if I heard the truck leaving last night. I sat open-mouthed, thinking a hundred different thoughts at once. Then Maria barged in and said they were gone. Mrs. Bing, Mr. Ozawa, Randall, Rachel. They were all gone.

Civil Tribal Warfare

Dear Planet Earth,

My conversations with Dr. Eimer have become increasingly less depressing over the past couple weeks. That all changed today as he went on and on about how I’m in a tribe now and that I have to put my own needs behind the needs of my tribe.

It was my own damn fault for telling him how isolated I feel from everyone else. Of course, he already knew about the graffiti fiasco and the laptop affair, so just admitting that it got to me was enough for him to diagnose me with “introverted tendencies.”

I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about anything besides killing mole men. And isn’t my refusal to examine my own feelings the highest form of sacrifice I can make for my “tribe”?

Probably not.


Dear Planet Earth,

I don’t know what’s going on. Nobody seems to have it together right now. We camped out in the desert last night; the those of us who weren’t sobbing about the loss of our friends or former normal lives spent the twilight hours crouched over the enormous hole left the by ginormous metal snake drill.

I was one of the sobbers. We lost seventeen. Seventeen people, seventeen fellow humans who just days ago were considered “survivors,” a word used to show great strength over horrific obstacles. Today, they are “victims,” a dead word for dead people that only serves to stress the impact of their finality.

I only knew three of them, all soldiers. Chambers. Seka. Jameson. Even typing their names feels as impersonal as reciting dog tags. They’re memories now, and nothing more.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

In Insomnia

Dear Planet Earth,

I haven’t slept in over 24 hours. Despite everything you’ve heard, it is not easy to fall asleep in a roomful of snoring, smelly soldiers, children, and grandmas. It sounds like a circus here now at Gary Goldberg’s Discount Cars with everyone moving large crates from one place to another or complaining how the large crate they need isn’t right in front of them.

I was able to finally catch up with Dr. Eimer last night. He seemed to be avoiding me ever since the mole men emerged from the drill and I wasn’t shy about telling him.

“Long time no see, doc.”

I found him leaning against the dealership building, staring at the infinite stars above. If I smoked, this would be the cinematic moment when I coolly pulled out a cigarette, and right before lighting it, offered one to my old friend.

“Yeah. Scott. Long time.” He gave me a quick glance, then just as quickly resumed investigating the night sky. We stayed like that for several minutes.

“So. . .” Like many of our past conversations, I assumed this one would soon devolve into him recounting a traumatic memory and end with us both drinking his whiskey in a tent somewhere.

“You’re a smart boy, Scott.” I’m glad someone’s noticed. “I think I was a smart boy, too, when I was your age. Now . . . I’m just a foolish old man with some pieces of paper to show everyone how smart he is.”

This is when he would take a long drag on the cigarette I gave him.

“I said things to you that day — when they attacked — things no old man should ever admit. I still feel, I’m still afraid of dying. I’m sorry, Scott.”

I patted his shoulder. We didn’t drink any whiskey.


Dear Planet Earth,

I changed the layout of the blog, and after turning over on my right side, watching static on the TV, and counting all the water stains in the ceiling, the only thing left to do today is to write about something.

I’m in a lull here, a stagnant void that could easily make me forget that the mole people are out there, intent on killing me and the rest of humanity. I need to keep my brain active. I need to use this time for something more productive than just scoring free drugs and waging war on orphan children. It would be good to lay out the facts, to remind me and anyone else willing to listen what the hell has happened to the world we once knew.

I’m working on a timeline now of everything that’s led to this moment. I’m going to need a minute or two.