Excoriating the Unicorn

By E. J. Doyle

New, Released March 15, 2014

Summary: Hitch rides with young adults as they party, vandalize, drift, and

sponge-off others while indulging costly, mind-blowing drugs. The mixology of

cocaine, speed, hallucinogens, booze, weed, and morphine enlivens euphoria,

but anesthetizes responsibility. The fabled good life becomes endangered by the

claw marks of invasive toxins.

Excerpt

This writing is not for the hordes of stockbrokers complacent and sheltered within

bushwhacked lives, nor will it fit in any think-tank lacking autonomy. It is not for those

who shall spit impiously on these words with contemptible loathing and disgust while

realizing that they have wasted an entire lifetime kicking stones for an illusion. I do not

write for the close-minded corporate moguls or yuppie soccer moms or chancre-filled

pederasts who naively live to the timely ticking of a timeless death watch, nor to those who

will refuse to take the precautions to understand these texts, to build on a vocabulary, and

to think beyond the package in which we as a society are boxed.

I do however write for the curious, for those inquisitive, for the unimpeded, for the

free and unfettered. I perpetually and obsessively rant and rave for the all-time damned –– I

wear this heart on these sleeves for the “junkies.”

As a result, I refuse to be bowdlerized or expurgated. For too many years I have

been silenced by utter revulsion, by aversion, tormented to face the fear of discharging the

illicit veracity of a young American’s subjective mind while undergoing a governmental

outbreak of ominous control issues…but no more does this happen. I no longer care for

how society thinks of raw honesty; therefore my life is a bit brighter, a tad more refined and

a speckle more pure. Furthermore, I can say that censorship would leave this read dull and

vague. It would be like cutting your wrists with a butter knife. There would be no juice.

Why would I beat around the bush anyway? Is it truly appropriate to mix in sugarcoated

metaphors and plastic analysis to induce the slaughter of vulgarity? Shall we waste our

time with only half of a wandering mind? Explored in these pages is a crude life indeed. It

has been hallucinated, denounced, dreamed, reinforced with meaning, blown to pieces,

meticulously rebuilt, varnished, tarred and feathered, enumerated and analyzed to the

fullest of extents and then gradually swallowed down deep into the depths of a mind until

this exact moment. Now is the time that I shall spew it back up. Without direction, I will

binge upon these pages for people to pick apart and intrusively molest like demon vultures.

I will tell of things you may already be wise to, about the rusty needles that disease flesh

and organs and blood, about the demise of beauty and the release of mental illness. I will

entail the balance as well, what you may not know, the bountiful equilibrium that justifies

this excessiveness, a revelation that says it shall be done and not only for me, oh no, but for

an entire generation of extraordinary people –– people incredibly diluted by an invasive

breed of modern day suckers, punks, crooks, fat bodies and ball-busters.

I portion out here an otherwise useless existence. Through the undisciplined

endeavors of a single man’s feverish effervescence I plan to dubiously tip-toe into a void of

uncalculated bewilderment and constant capricious uproar. This society has tremendously

influenced our lives of substance. And upon such note I insist that you feel them here, that

you try to live vicariously through them and forfeit inexperienced opinions if you must.

Understandings are more abundant than any civilized man should care to admit.

I am naturally bred from the forests and mountains, a man seduced by naturalism. I

thrive in the unreserved reality of wild creatures and untreated plant matter, in an organic

life like Tarzan or such. I have opted to live the life of a modern day fairy tale rather than

endure the robotic, monotonous humdrum of a repetitious city. With the steel-toe boots of

Duke Hudson, a man I love to hate, we have beaten the raw and bleeding ulcers of this

reality.

My rapture, in the end, is far away now, as my practicality and morals do not

contentedly rest in the city streets where people already fester and rot. Yet life goes on.

However, allow me to allow you to consume such tribulation; bathe in these mistakes here

and roll in this melancholy with me. Ride the proficiencies, rollick in the glorious splendors

and inhale the triumphs, yes, relish in the victories that lay forth, as that is my intent.

My closest acquaintances, I know, will disdainfully read this text, savagely shake

their heads in the swift motion of irksome disapproval because they try so hard to know

me. My acquaintances will try even harder to understand it while believing there is a

hidden insult or unspoken feeling between us. They will despise the fact that I can no

longer help but vilify and ridicule, scrutinize and probe and slander and hoot and holler

and destroy –– and all of it in correlation to my being an addled space cadet, a loon, some

third rate disc jockey or a poetaster, all of which I also feign.

They have witnessed the intricacies of habitualness and misery. They have lived

with this ballistic energy and endured these sleepless years. They have dealt with my

raccoon eyes, these scarred limbs, the many thousand-yard stares, the tongues of furious

speech and the monumental convictions concerning conspiracies and secretive plotting. We

have verbally battled over virtue and hypocrisy, over excessiveness and rationality, and

many times over have mutilated the idea of what is right. We reject each other out of pure

spite, as two negative charges we push each other away, if not only to build a reinforced

elasticity in ourselves.

Surely, my more sensitive contemporaries expect a document detailing beautiful

butterflies, Crystal Mountains, sincere adventures, extravagant sunsets and elaborate meals,

but they shall not discover much of it here. No, not here; this is about the noxious desires,

ill-will, the destruction and rebuilding of a man and the American Dream –– the same

dream we doggedly choose to ignore and neglect, but why? Why is it so? I have come to

believe that in order to obtain the purest love we must investigate the most incredulous

hate –– and here it is, ladies and gentlemen, squares and fiends alike: Allow me to present

to you the enmity. We have mass-produced your hostility, your scourge, your plague and

your reincarnation.

Thank you for reading our excerpt.

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