Alea Jacta Est!

The Whore is unruly.
The Pimp – a fiend.
The Seeds are but ignorant bastards –
nasty, brutish, mean. Mean.
This is the essence of the Syrian scene.


Indeed I said it: the regime is “dead,” the Baathists are “idiots,” and a baptismal rite by “blood and mayhem” seems ever in the offing for the country. But, are we to learn anything from this? This is indeed my hope, though I doubt it, as I doubt everything these days, including, of course, my own assessment of things.

Yet I don’t doubt this, and neither should you: it is because I was so filled with fear yesterday that I am so rebellious today, and will continue to be.

The regime reaps what the regime sows I guess. Their foolhardiness begets and feeds mine. That’s the irony of it all.

My demons rape me. I spit acid in my demons’ face. My demons rape me again, and so again I spit acid, until we are all eventually vanquished. There are no winners in this game. Nor will there ever be. - So be it, for now.

If my demons want me dead, mine will be a public crucifixion – this I promise.
If my demons keep me alive, theirs will be a public trial – constant, nagging, merciless.

If my demons get me by the throat, I’ll get them by the balls.
If they get me by the hand, I’ll get them by their hooves.
And if they hang me by my legs, I’ll piss in their face,
and perhaps even mine… who cares?

I might just be their last straw, you know.
I might just be that little tiny hair that will soon break their backs.

Or, I might be just a nasty little tidbit stuck in their collective throat, which, once swallowed, will leave a somewhat rancid aftertaste, and no more.

So, which am I? What am I destined for?

Oh, dear whoever, do hazard a guess, do place your bet, for the die has indeed been cast. Alea jacta est.