We are dalmations

When I stand in the snow all I can think about is how black we all look next to something so white. When I ride in a crowded subway train I feel the same way. My soul is black and yours are all white, with some black spots. My biggest fear is that somebody will perceive this and single me out.

I saw a documentary on TV about a "soul-seeker", he lives in Uganda luckily. Whenever this man finds a person with a black soul he kills them and feeds them to children in the form of a sweet soup. The reason he feeds black souls to children is to pollute their innocence. There is no malice in this. All of us have a little black in our souls, otherwise we would fall victim to cancer or fraud.

In the US we get our doses of evil injected into our souls by means other than cannibalism. Sometimes it comes in the form of children's vitamins, sometimes I just spray a fine mist of it into people's faces as I walk around the city.

The Origin of Johnn

As you are well aware, I spell my last name Johnn rather than John. It wasn't always this way, I had my name legally changed some years back. It has always bothered me that people always assume they know how to spell my name. They used to always get it right, now they always get it wrong. This gives me the opportunity to correct them right off, which gives me a social edge when meeting new people. There is absolutely no way you knew this before I just told you.

I am Brandon, I am a man.

I was born on the day after Christmas 1976, boxing day in Canada. Boxing day is appropriate because I came out fighting, a cesarian. I never wanted to leave my mother’s womb, sometimes I’ve thought about constructing an artificial womb to live out the rest of my days inside. I think an exercise ball filled with warm pudding would be ideal. I would have some kind of breathing apparatus and when I got hungry I would just eat pudding.

My biological mother was a 15 year-old high-school dropout. My mother was weak, but my father was powerful, like a cumulonimbus cloud. I inherited this trait from him, power, sometimes I can feel his energy pulsing through my body as if it were electricity. My ears buzz and my heart booms and I feel like I could kill somebody with a simple touch of the finger. This energy sends me messages from time to time. They are messages from my father, from beyond. I never discovered this until I was about 15. I had been feeling the energy for some time, it would come and go. Then one day in the 9th grade I put my hand against my locker while I was feeling the energy and I heard an echoey, rattley voice that seemed to come from the metal. I drew my hand back and it stopped. I put my hand back and received my first message from my father: “Brandon, I am your father, I love you.”

My father has since told me a little about my mother and what led her to give me up for adoption. He explained that she and him had accidentally swallowed watermelon seeds and while they made her belly swell they made my father shrink down so small that he climbed into my mother’s belly button. He continued shrinking until he no longer existed as matter, he became a force that lives inside my flesh and blood. He has taught me so much and I am eternally in his debt.

I’ve never told a soul about this before, about my father, he instructed me not to. I feel the time is right, since I’m nearing the end of my life and he no longer lives within me. I don’t know how common or uncommon this type of relationship might be but I hope that these revelations might give others comfort in knowing they’re not alone. A comfort I’ve always yearned for myself. Is anybody out there?

Big Brother

I was home last night playing strip solitaire after work, the game was just getting interesting when I got a phone call from an unknown number. It was a 702 area code, Las Vegas. I didn't answer the phone in time so I missed the call. They didn't leave a voicemail. Spades and diamonds were already on my mind, I didn't know what to make of it. I don't know anyone in Vegas, but they must know me. Did they somehow see me cheat just then? Can't I play by my own rules in my own house? I really don't mind being watched, but I've always hated bullies.

How to make friends and loved ones

I don’t like wasting my time with idiots. When meeting people I usually implement a social filter of some sort to see if they are worth my time.

Here is a walk-through of what I recently began doing in parks:

1) I first go into the park and sit down right next to somebody on an otherwise empty bench, our bodies touching. Some people find this uncomfortable and will leave within minutes. Most people like to stick it out and prove they aren’t afraid or suspicious of strangers.

2) Next, I Begin leafing through large-print photos of myself, photos big enough that my face appears life-sized in my lap. I have seven different photos I use for this (happy, sad, surprised, eager, asleep, dramatic, and silly). I make sure to tilt the prints towards my friend so they can be sure to see them. I let the photos do the work for me, a true Johnnrade will seize the opportunity to strike up a conversation.

3) I put away my headshots and let the friendship or romance take root.

Be creative, don't be afraid to try variations on this. My friend Quint uses photos of children playing soccer.

A social problem with a simple solution.

As I was coming up the stairs out of the subway I saw a man at the top, likely a bum, with his hand up soliciting a high five. I could feel his filthy eyes greasing up my jib, but I focused my energy and ignored my natural curiosity. I strode past pretending he didn't exist. I do this with all bums, especially ones who try to engage me. Humoring him would have resulted in a hand full of filth or an embarrassing "diss".

Bums are a social problem that breaks two otherwise solid conventions:

You can't judge a book by its cover. This is not applicable, bums are just as filthy on the inside as they are on the outside. No bums have any potential whatsoever.

Ignoring a problem is not a solution to a problem. Also N/A, I can actually see bums shrink in size from the corner of my eye as I ignore them. By my estimation it would take approximately 150 cold shoulders to make normal-sized male bum disappear completely. Think about that, it's a problem that's frighteningly simple to solve if we all pitch in.

The Decomposure of Brandon Johnn

My face is covered in flies

Only pregnant women get by

I am medium sized

Don't tell me who i am

I am Brandon, I am a man.

Let's try new things

My pursuits come passively

I am not without sin

Don't tell me who I am

I am Brandon, I am a man.

I'm never recognized

My computer burrs and pipes

this is not a jive

Don't tell me who I am

I am Brandon, I am a man.

This is a work in progress, but I think it's going well. It's meant to be a song.