Rats on a Plane

I genuinely don’t know what I would do if I was ever forced into the middle of the ocean and that’s what spawned this piece. Winston Smith of 1984 seems weak until you can compare rats to your own fears.

Scott McSamuelLJackson

calm water with sun and orange sky
Photo by Abdullah Ghatasheh on Pexels.com

“I don’t want to hear it anymore,” Dick Yung said. “We need to send someone to Japan or else it’s not gonna get done and you’re the only one here that I trust to do it. If you honestly believe that Nick can do this, then I’ll send him, but you and I both know that he’s borderline retarded.”

“No…” I said. “I’ll go. But you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you shit. You’re doing the job that I’m already paying you to do. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation. You should just do something when I tell you to do it. This isn’t a democracy, and if it was, the company would go under in a week.” I flipped him the bird and left his office. “That’s real nice, asshole. You’re lucky everyone else here is an incompetent fucking moron or else I’d fire you right now.”

It was Tuesday at 4:00 PM and the flight was leaving tomorrow morning at 6:00. I’d depart from LAX and fly nonstop for almost 12 hours to Tokyo. Unfortunately, my company forced me to get my tickets from United, so if I didn’t wimp out and quit my job altogether, I had getting my face beaten in by security to look forward to.

I grabbed my blazer and left quietly so that Dick didn’t look up from the crossword that he was doing at his desk. Smoke plumed from his ears and his face was tomato red. If he made it to retirement, I’d lose a bet with Nick. We both bet five-grand on him having a heart attack or stroke before he turned 65. If he died before, I won. If he died after, Nick won. We only had one rule, neither of us could intervene if he did have an emergency. It wouldn’t be fair if he had a heart attack and Nick saved him. To be fair, I didn’t think Dick would die beforehand, or even retire at 65 since he’s such a fucking piece of work, but it gave me some joy coming into work and seeing his lonely, divorced body coldly laying next to his desk with as much life in it as a used tissue.

Flying wasn’t the problem with this trip. It wasn’t even talking to the Asians on the other side of the 12-hour journey – it was the fact that I had to fly over the ocean. I hated the ocean and I had since I was a kid. My family and I went on vacation to Virginia Beach one year when I was like five or six, and a wave came in and swept me off my feet. It wasn’t a big deal, but I remember the salt water burning my eyes as I searched for the sunlight, trying to figure out which way was up, and which was down. Eventually I stopped getting whipped around and floated to the surface right before my lungs were going to burst. I was about twenty feet from the shore, and I couldn’t tread water. I breathed in but got a lung-full of water while I waved my hand above the calm waves. If my brother hadn’t been keeping an eye on me, I would have drowned.

Another time, when I was about the same age, I went swimming at my grandparent’s house and they had one of those big inflatable things that one person jumps on and launches someone else. Well, I was always too small and scared to get launched, so I kept my distance and swam around in the shallower parts of the pool so that I would stay out of their way. Looking back on it, using one of those in someone’s backyard pool is beyond irresponsible, but it doesn’t matter. Well, what happened was my sister jumped on the inflatable and launched my brother, but then the stupid thing drifted across the water and parked itself above me, who had just taken a shallow breath and kicked off the side of the pool. When I came to the surface, it was right above me and I wasn’t strong enough to push it up. I took another lung-full of water and since then, couldn’t get over my fear of water.

I can’t even tread water very well. My grandma tried to teach me how to float on my back, but I couldn’t calm myself down enough. The second she pulled her hands away from my adolescent back, I thrashed around and sank. I can doggie paddle, do a weak breast and back stroke, but that’s it. That’s only if I can force myself into the pool in the first place.

Before I went into sales, I thought I’d be a marine biologist. The fear that I had for water, grew to a strong curiosity in the ocean and ocean life, but the fear trumped the study and I was left short of breath any time I thought about sharks, whales or whatever else was below the hellish surface. The fear got so bad that when I was young and still took baths, I couldn’t put my head under the water because I was afraid that orca’s (or I guess I called them shamu’s back then) would get into the tub and eat me. For years, I didn’t wash my hair.

After I grew out of the fear that lay within the bathtub, it escalated to swimming pools. I couldn’t swim alone because I was afraid sharks would flood the pool and I’d be trapped, trying desperately to wade through the shallows to get away. To this day, I still struggle to swim alone. My parents have an above ground pool and taking the solar cover off or pushing it back is enough to sweat like crazy.

And that’s why I was so fucking mad that Dick wanted me to fly to Japan. I had never confided my fear in him, and I still wouldn’t because I’d be seen as this anathema in the office and I’d get forced out within a few days; weakness was a death sentence here. I didn’t have a choice but to go on to the stupid trip to explain our breakers to a bunch of foreigners who could have just gotten them from Mitsubishi.

When I got home, I packed my bags with only the essentials: clothes, my work laptop, a 2-ounce bottle of my cologne and a few Xanax to take before the bastards in the NSA rooted through my stuff. I turned on the news to see what kind of weather we’d have tomorrow and unsurprisingly, it called for sun and low winds. I threw three or four Xanax down my throat and drank bourbon out of the bottle until I felt a fuzziness tickle my brain, then I fell asleep with an alarm set for 3:00 AM.

My dreams were full of water, sharks, airline passengers, turbulence and screaming, followed by a deep black that the taste of salt and fish shit. My alarm rang at 3:00 and even though I hit snooze and tried to fall asleep, I couldn’t take my eyes from the ceiling. I dream of the ocean frequently, and it’s never the calmness and serenity that most people find in it. Pulling myself out from under the sheets that stuck to my sweat-covered body, I took a cold shower, downed three cups of coffee and a blueberry bagel covered in strawberry cream cheese before getting a LYFT to take me down the somewhat calm roads to LAX.

I hate the airport, so I took six Xanax and went straight to security, then to my gate. At 4:45, I was seated and watching others join me in the lobby and wait to board. Most were dressed in suits like me, but a few looked like they had just shopped at Goodwill for their entire wardrobe, rolled in mud and showed up. At 5:30, we boarded, and I avoided eye contact with the stewardess’s as I sat in my window seat. The sun was hidden but was starting to light the horizon in the yellow hue of smog that fucked with my asthma.

The Xanax started slowly as I sat there and waited, but I still felt anxious. I was about to fly over the ocean for hours, and then I’d have to come back in a few days. Part of my hoped the plane would crash and I’d die on impact so that I wouldn’t have to endure any more than absolutely necessary.

You know, one of my favorite books was 1984 by Orwell, and I think about the scene that he painted where Winston Smith is staring his biggest fear, rats, in the face. They force him to scream out how he’s had enough, and that he wishes that this was happening to literally anyone else, including the love of his life, Julia. Big Brother breaks him, and it took only a few hungry rats. When I first read through the book, I left thinking Winston was a coward, but now that I’m here, thinking about crashing into the ocean, I’m wondering what I would do. I like to think that I’m strong enough to take the pain myself and embrace the slow death from starvation or dehydration, or the quick death of sharks, but it’s hard to put myself in that mindset without actually being there.

Then, the full effect of the drugs hit, and I fell asleep before they told me how to inflate my lifejacket. If the plane crashed, I wouldn’t want the jacket anyway. I’d prefer to just die than risk surviving a week in my Hell.

Three hours later, I was shaken awake and the pilot was saying something about some turbulence. The man sitting next to me was gripping his armrests tightly and whispering a prayer to himself, while I heard someone behind scream about saying goodbye to their kids and husband. I shook my head, and the Xanax evaporated from my system, sobering me up immediately.

“What’s happening?” I asked the guy next to me.

“B-bad turbulence,” he stuttered.

“Is that all?”

He simply stared out the window to my right and that’s when I saw it – a trail of black smoke going as far back as my craned neck would let me see. The woman behind me was still screaming as an announcement came over the speaker system. “Everyone, please buckle your seatbelts and make sure that your chair is upright,” he said in a voice that was as calm as death. “We will be making an emergency landing on the water below. Hold on tight and brace for impact.”

The altitude changed quickly, and I could feel it in my gut, throat and ears as they struggled to adjust. I threw up directly in front of me and it splashed my shoes and the seat in front of me. Half of the people on board were screaming while the other half stayed silent with their eyes closed. We split the clouds and then deep blue was right below us. I reached into my pocket, looking for more Xanax, but then remembered that I didn’t have any with me. I closed my eyes, held on tight and waited.

The place rumbled as it skipped off the water a few times, then it settled in and landed anti-climactically and started sinking. I looked around and the only casualty seemed to be a woman who hadn’t buckled her seatbelt in the excitement. She had been ejected from her seat and smashed into the front of the cabin, splattering it with blood. I struggled to unbuckle the seat belt and became aware of the pain that stretched across my chest, but the pain vanished when I saw water soak my shoes; I was exactly where I didn’t want to be.

I stood up as the cockpit door opened and the pilot stood in its place. “Just like we practiced before, put on your life jacket and leave through the emergency exits to your left and right.” A few rows up, people started flooding out of the door, all wearing their bright orange lifejackets. I looked around as the guy next to me stood up and ran to the door.

“Hey, where’d you get the jacket?” I asked him.


“Lifejacket! Where’s the lifejacket!”

“Under your seat!” He waded through the ankle-deep water and left through the door as it flooded in. I reached below and grabbed the lifejacket and then pulled the cord; instinct totally took over and before I knew it, I was floating outside the plane, watching it fall beneath the surface.

Then I was suddenly aware of the studying I had done about sharks when I was younger. “They are attracted to wounded animals, so they seek out blood and loud noises, such as thrashing.” We were the thrashing wounded animal. We were shark food, and we were all wearing stupid bright lifejackets that would lead them straight to us.

We were alone… in the ocean. I don’t know how long it would take for help to find us, but I didn’t want to find out. I couldn’t. The water wasn’t too cold, and the current wasn’t bad, but as everyone was cheering and happy for their lives, I was being prepared as shark food.

I started shaking and hyperventilating, looking around as if there was something to grab or hold onto, but there was nothing. I was just this guy in the ocean, and I was surrounded by people dumb enough to think God will save them or that their families matter right now. Right now, all that matters is getting out of this fucking ocean as soon as humanly fucking possible!

The pilot was trying to get everyone clumped together, saying that “staying together is our best chance at survival,” and although he was right (at least for sharks) it didn’t matter. For miles, sharks would smell the blood of the woman smashed against the front of the plane because she wasn’t smart enough to wear her fucking seatbelt! Chances are we’d be fucked because one of the women on here was on their period or someone doesn’t know how to cut a bagel without hurting themselves, but right now that retard was getting the sharks appetite ready for a feeding frenzy.

I joined the rest of the passengers as the plane completely submerged itself under the ocean, and a wave rocked all of us as we tried to keep our armed interlocked. It needed to end right now. Great Whites are probably swimming at us from underwater, about to launch into the air and eat us like seals. Fucking Christ, we’re fucking done for.

My lifejacket was the only thing keeping me from sinking. My legs flailed around, frantically trying to learn how to tread water, but all it would do is make me the first target of their feast. I’m the weakest one out here and the sharks know it.

I ripped my lifejacket off and took a deep breath. “What the fuck are you doing!” the pilot screamed. “Keep your jacket on! We need all the help we can get right now, and deadweight isn’t going to help!”

I took a deep breath and dove deep underwater. Kicking with my feet and doing my best attempt at a diving, I swam lower and lower into the water. My eyes burned as I looked around to see what was near me, but it was completely empty, which is scarier than if it was full of sharks; the only thing worse than certain death is uncertain death.

I dove farther and harder, until my arms, legs and lungs were sore. The ocean was dark, and I was about fifty or sixty feet below the other passengers. They were all looking down at me like I had lost my mind, but I was the sanest person out of all of them.

I coughed and breathed in water, gasping like I had when I was a boy at Virginia Beach. It feels like breathing, but you keep inhaling to get air, but water floods your lungs leaving you breathless, but with a feeling like you should have air.

My vision started to blur as I knew my time was coming to an end. I was either going to float to the surface as an overinflated corpse, sink to the depths, or be torn to shreds by sharks before I could go anywhere. The pain of drowning is worse than I had imagined, but the swiftness was therapeutic. My sight turned to tunnel-vision, then black as I saw a large shape speed toward me.

Winston Smith and the rats were the last things to enter my thoughts as my brain lost function. If Big Brother got hold of me and put me in the ocean, I’d do exactly what I’m doing now. If they wouldn’t let me, I’d wish this fear and pain on anyone and everyone just to end it faster.

Dragon or Na?

I wrote this after watching How to Train Your Dragon and having an existential crisis… so this is what you get!

I’d rather die fighting a dragon than anything else. Well, I’d also be okay with dying to some other mythological creature, my personal favorite creature is a hydra, but if Cerberus or a minotaur killed me, that’d be cool too. If I die from a car crash, it’s tragic but shows the morality of man, and their willingness to get into, what my dad called automobiles when he was teaching me to drive, “speeding metal death traps.” If I died from old age, I’d have lived a long, potentially fulfilling life, but I’d fear the uncertainty of how or when I would pass. What if I died without saying I love you to my family one last time?

Image result for dragon

I’m not old, so the idea of death is still foreign to me and difficult to think about. It’s impossible to think about the end when you’re still at the beginning, and that’s why I want to die fighting a dragon. If I catch fire and burn to death, then I’m a valiant warrior and heroic person. If it bites my head off because I didn’t dive out of the way, then maybe I gave it enough food to protect a nearby village from its treachery for another day. If I tried to ride it, pretending like I’m a cartoon in a kid’s book, then I’d fall to my death as the most daring man who’s ever lived.

Dragons are fucking cool, and no matter how big and dangerous they are, dying to a dragon is awesome, and you would feel like a god. I’d be the guy who attacked a dragon and lost, but I’d be the guy who attacked a dragon. Instead of the failure that I’ve become today, I’d be a dragon warrior tomorrow. I wouldn’t regret all of the things I haven’t been able to do, but instead, I’d be remembered as the guy who failed to kill a dragon.

I’d rather be someone who failed at something amazing, then the guy who died in some other meaningless way. I could save a baby from the hands of a dangerous wizard but get killed by a lightning bolt. I could cut the first six heads of a hydra off but have the seventh take me down. I could even get so close to medusa that she turns to stone because of the reflection off of my eyes as they turn to stone too.

I just don’t want to go in some way that makes me easily forgettable. I want to meet my grandkids and live long enough to see show my parents that I’m successful, even against the most terrible odds. I would like to see my siblings all be as happy as they can be with people that fulfill their every need. I want this dragon to eat me, so that I don’t have to be disappointed when I fail on everything that I’ve set my heart to.

One Week With Depression — The Psych Talk

Check out the post that I wrote for The Psych Talk. It was a lot of fun and I hope to do more work with them soon. Click the link below to read the whole thing and then read some of the other stuff that they’ve put up too. It’s worth your time.

To me, depression is one of the most unique things for someone to go through. No one likes to talk about it but if you find the courage to, it’s hard to find someone who truly understands it. People take depression as far as they can, before it chews them up and spits them out. […]

via One Week With Depression — The Psych Talk

Wait Until It’s Over

Nothing that I write it supposed to inflict depressed thoughts on anyone. These are just some struggles that I have shoot through my head from time to time.

Scott McWaitingroom

Does it ever feel like you’re just wasting your life? You haven’t done anything impressive and everyone around you has. Some people have kids and dedicate their lives to that and others spend all of their time doing meaningless activities, but they both find fun and satisfaction in it. But what are you doing? Nothing.

When you play a game, it’s a waste of time because you’re not accomplishing anything. You’re just using your time and speeding like a bullet towards death, where every wasted minute is another that you’re feeling like there’s no point in having another minute of existence at all. You can’t have kids. They’d grow up to be the shitty ones at school that either bully the good kids or are too dumb to get anywhere in life. No matter the thing that you dedicate your life to, whether it’s friends, family, career or some other thing, you’ll fuck it up and be left as miserable as you are now.

headphones man music person
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That’s when the suicidal thoughts really hit. They hit when you feel like you can’t do anything right and that no matter what decision you make or what you spend your life on, it’ll still be a waste of time. You’ll still be nothing more than an object flying through space until the universe ends. If you can’t find purpose in something that’s directly within your power, then why push forward?

Everything feels so hopeless sometimes. Nothing you’re doing matters. Nothing that you’ve done has been good. Nothing that you will do will make you feel better. Maybe it’s best if we just lay in bed and wait until it’s over.


Scott McCrayola

multicolored smoke
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Hue was a man whose heart was made of gold. His crystal blue eyes could comfort all of the people around him; they cradled you like the ocean cradles a boat. The wispy white hair on his head was a constant reminder that age doesn’t have anything to do with youth since he had the spirit of a new born, even though he was past his prime.

Hue was the kind of person that could make flowers bloom into beautiful shades of red, orange and yellow as he walked by. He lit up every room he was in, turning the blacks and grays into delightful mixes of green, pink and every other color of the rainbow.

Hue was a joyous old man who knew what to say, along with when and how to say it. He was the man that you would go to with problems that you never knew you had and he would help you with them. His calm demeanor made him everyone’s best friend, even if they never shared words. Hue was the person that everyone wanted to be around. He found joy in helping others.

So, when Hue died, the world seemed to stop. All of joy that he brought to so many was just a memory. His influence on the world was no more.

Hue was the best person that I have ever met. He brightened the world with kind words, thoughts and actions. Now that he’s gone, everything around me seems darker. It’s as if the brightness and the colors have dimmed. With Hue gone, it’s only a matter of time until the colors fade completely.


Ratt and Sia were right.

Scott McHerooftime

Every day is a gift. If you’re given the privilege of opening your eyes to see the yellowish-white ceiling with that ugly design that every ceiling in history has had, then you need to make the most of your day. Get a shower and start it off right. Eat breakfast, three eggs and a bagel, English muffin or toast, whatever you have available, and get dressed to take on the world.

The traffic to work isn’t bad because it could always be worse. Like the good little employee that you are, get to work five minutes early so that you’re sure you’re not going to be late. Then, when all is settled, take the first sip of life-giving coffee because it was too cold to drink up to this point.

The computer screen flashes and it begins. You’re back doing exactly what you had done the day before. You’re moving forward in time, but every day is a time machine to the day before, like a movie that’s on repeat. You’re moving forward in time, but every day is a time machine to the day before, like a movie that’s on repeat. Each day the coffee gets staler and the conversations with your coworkers get duller. Every morning that you come in, you’re closer to death, and no one is moving forward – just repeating the same day.

white analog clock
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Time is the only thing passing, and I can see it in the people I talk to. The bags under their eyes droop more and the smile lines start to crack, ink pouring out because they’ve drawn on fake grins since they joined the world because of the archaic things you’ve been told by people who have already signed their lives away to time and don’t want it back. “Don’t tell people how you really feel. Just be good and do your job. Then, when it’s all said and done, you die, just like the rest of us.” That’s what they say. I’ll never know if they believe it or not, but I know that I’m expected to believe it too… and I can’t.

Why can’t I believe that the world is meant to be a place full of true emotion and happiness around every corner? Why am I told to keep pushing forward and accept my fate when the people that are telling me to push forward and be a puppet to those born before me are the same that didn’t see travesties happening all around them? Why does it feel like I’m the only one who sees that anytime someone gets hurt, whether it’s an impressionable, unsupervised boy at youth group or a government that can’t feed its people, that it’s totally avoidable?

I don’t think that the world and the people in it are stupid, but why does everyone just accept this new fucking way of life that’s only existed for like 200 years and has hurt so many people. This is the first time in history where people are starting to get access to medicine, emotional support groups, food, technological advancements and an infinite number of other positive things, but because of the outdated hierarchy in place and idiots with ancient principles at the top, we’re still going to destroy the planet with our greed and gluttony.

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So why the fuck, do I have to get up every single day, and carve a smile into my face with a knife (because I’m not fake enough to use a pen. The ink fades too quickly.) Why do I crawl out of bed and get told to vote one hundred times a minute for candidates that have no moral standing to follow their goals once they win? Why does it seem like I have to wait until the people in charge of the system die to make a difference? It’s because everyone’s moving clockwise, which is just another way to say running in circles.

How Depression Affects Friendships

This week on Acceptable Madness, I’m going to talk about how depression has, and still does, affect me and my ability to maintain friendships.

Scott McFriendly

I am not a doctor, so do not treat this as therapy or medical advice. I just do this podcast with the hopes that it can help some people.

If you’re interested in other content by me, follow me on:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AcceptableMadness

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/acceptablemadness/

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCpiT4JjAzziR-EODaBDPaJg


With the scale of the universe and the tremendous amount of weight that each of us puts on ourselves and others, it’s no wonder we all feel empty.

Scott McTiny

Image result for whale vs hamster

When I look to the stars or to the sea, there are endless things to observe. There are so many different creatures and planets; so much empty space that’s full of imagination. When I look around, I see all of these things that are much bigger than I, which in turn, makes me see how truly small they all are… and that terrifies me.

It makes me tremble thinking about the scale of the universe around me. If you look at a hamster in a cage or a fish in a bowl, they know nothing of the outside world. They only know what is directly in front of them, and they are completely content with that.

Even a whale, the biggest animal known to man does not think of what’s above. It doesn’t ponder the thoughts about what’s outside of its immediate presence. It just thinks about what it needs to do to stay alive. It’s a pity. A behemoth in a world that offers it nothing but the constant race for continued, flourishing life. It truly is a pity.

But then I continue to think about what this world has to offer me. I am simply a man in a world created by others. The more I pity the ease of a whale or a hamster, the more I wish to know their thoughts. I would like to know what it feels like to know nothing of the outside world. I would like to know what it is like to not think about the stars above.

Who am I to complain? I am a genius among the other creatures. Maybe not among humans, but I am certainly smarter than the other creatures of the world. I can love and think and feel like no other creature. I should be grateful. But the more I think about it, why should I be grateful?

The emotions that I feel and that make humans different; more intelligent… all they have done is disappoint me. I have struggled with them for my entire life. It seems more like a curse.

I would give anything to feel as small and insignificant as a hamster or a whale. Two things that are so different in size, but just as small as the other. I want to know how it feels to not think about how it feels.

Close-up of Woman Holding a Hamster

Down the Rabbit Hole

Scott McAliceinWonderland

“Turn the TV off,” she said. I know that we were running late already, but she didn’t need to tell me to turn the TV off. I’m not that easily distracted. I can have some background noise on if I want. It probably helps me work faster than otherwise, since being left to only silence is distracting all on its own.

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I can work and have the TV on. I actually can’t believe she told me to turn it off. Does she really have that little faith in my ability to work at a moderate pace so that we can leave? Is that what my own abilities lead her to think? I’m just so incapable of accomplishing such a menial task without getting distracted, so she needs to create circumstances that I’m more suited for. That makes sense. I know I’m a screw up, but damn – I thought I could at least pack up in a reasonable time.

I’m steaming. We’ve been together for over a year now and this is what she thinks of me? She must think that I’m just the dumbest fucking moron to exist. If I can’t even convince my girlfriend that I can pack up with the TV on in the background, then I’ll never be a published writer or start a successful business. She’s the one that’s always supposed to be by my side, but she thinks I’m fucking retarded!

I know how I’ll get back at her. I’m not going to talk to her while we drive. That’s it. That’ll teach her. If I don’t talk then she won’t know how angry I really am, and it will eat her up inside. God, that’s a good plan. I’ll do that.

At mile marker 170, I reached out to grab her hand. I still haven’t said anything, but I don’t want her to feel bad about anything. I mean, I’m not malicious and I don’t want to be emotionally abusive, so I don’t get why I’m even doing that. I should talk to her, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.

At mile marker 160, I said hello like the awkward person that I am. I haven’t talked to her for twenty minutes and that’s the best I can muster up? Hello? No wonder she asked me to turn the TV off to pack. I can’t even apologize in a timely matter for being ridiculous. I should have turned off the TV. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have had it on in the first place. I’m the reason that we’re going to be late to Thanksgiving dinner. It’s all my fault.

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I waited to say something again until the 140-mile marker. Fuck man, I know how stupid I’m being, and I can’t stop it. I don’t get why she puts up with me. I was so angry like thirty minutes ago, and now look at me. I’m never going to become a good writer since I can’t even focus if the TV is on in the background. I’ll never create a business. I’ll never be a good boyfriend. I can’t believe I’ve lasted this long, but all good things come to an end someday.

I should just kill myself. I’m a burden to everyone that I know and love. If I disappeared overnight, no one would care. My writing would perish and so would all of the other work that I’ve poured my heart into, but it’s for the best. I don’t get why I even try to do something with any amount of passion or ambition. I’m a nobody and everybody knows it. If I killed myself right now, it wouldn’t be through selfish means, that’s for damn sure. I would do it because it would make your life better.

Bored of Existence

Idea by: Nikos Koufus

Written by: Scott McAllknowingandpowerful

brown ganesha figurine
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I find it interesting. The first thing that my creations did was develop time. Even the very first ones knew about time before they discovered time.

I have never had the privilege of feeling time. For me, nothing ages: It just changes. The grass that grows. The creations that evolve. The planets that harbor life and destroy it just as quickly.

Time is just a concept. I have no need for concepts.

The most interesting thing that they always do is create religion. I knew it would happen, but it still amuses me. There are many different religions. They are all so wrong.

Why would they assume that I value them? It is laughably arrogant. They worship me. They think I will help them; save them. They are blind by hope. When they get sick, they pray to me. Ha! I am the one who made them sick in the first place. I should have made a smarter species.

I am so bored. I do not know why I continue to create. It is such a waste of “time”. I cannot share it. I cannot admire it. When I try to design something new, I already know what it will do. Not only do I know, I have already witnessed it before. An infinite number of times, with an infinite number of different combinations.

There is one thing that religions always get right. I am all knowing. What is the point in being all knowing if it is always the same; never a surprise.

I have tried to surprise myself. I have tried to create super beings and I have communicated with them. But I developed their body. Their mind. Their consciousness. What they create, I created. It is so boring.

Maybe I will change them again. I did once before on this very planet. In this very universe. The only choices that I have are from my own thoughts. It gets so repetitive.

I could make another god – but I know that ends. There can only be one. That is how I was created. I do not think I am ready for that.

It is odd. The one thing that I do not have the power to do is simply stop existing. How ironic is that? The all-knowing god cannot find out how to stop existing.

Why am I even thinking that? I am being ridiculous… Right? I can do anything that I please without fear of failure. Any one of my creations would love that privilege. But would only need to tolerate it for a set period of “time”.

I could make… No. I have already done that. I could change something: The laws of physics maybe. But I have already done that before too. It just creates instability in the universe. Then I start again. I am so bored.

What could the new god be? If it is less powerful than I, then it is just another predictable creation; a demi-god of sorts. If it is equal strength, then there is no point. We will be identical. If it is stronger then I vanish immediately. They would have full control. I certainly did.

If the stronger appears, my creations disappear. But that does not matter. With the infinite knowledge and options, the exact creation will be designed again.

I am simply another past god’s creation. I am nothing special. I will vanish as quickly as my creations. Even as a god, I feel just as insignificant as anything else.

Which is why I have decided to create another god. A better god. A god that will take the burden of existence and pass it to another after an infinite amount of “time”. A god that will allow me to forget my boredom. But in the end, they will just be another creation.

Don’t Move

Scott McStationary

apartment bed carpet chair
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Lay still.

Don’t move.

What will happen if I stand?


The window looks welcoming.

The mouthwash looks delicious.

There’s a knife in the kitchen.

There’s a gun in the basement.


Don’t move.

Eyes open.

What will happen if I stand?


I could swing from the rafters.

Start the car, garage doors closed.

Swallow a bottle of pills.

Dive in to traffic.


Eyes open.

Tears streaming.

What will I do if I stand?

Blank Stares

Don’t look up. Ignore them. Keep going.

Scott McEyecontact

Keep your eyes down. Keep them away from those that you pass. Keep them where no one can see what’s inside of them. Keep your eyes down to the ground.

Don’t dare to look up. Avoid confrontation form a passerby. Avoid the uncomfortable feeling of having your eyes meet with a stranger. If you keep your eyes down, you’ll avoid all of the discomfort and simply watch where you’re walking.

Watch where you’re going. Stay out of everyone’s way. Don’t touch their shoulders. Don’t do anything that will make you stand out. Don’t draw attention to yourself.

I’m not afraid of looking up. It’s just unpleasant. When you do look up, you see into people’s blank, expressionless faces. You see through the shield that they put up when they’re with people that they know. Their defenses are lowered and what takes their places are raw emotion.

grass grey alone symmetrical
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When I look up to see this emotion, it feels relatable… and that alone is depressing. When I stop to really look into these stranger’s eyes, they’re no happy than I am. They’re just going on with their lives in the same way that I do, with the same existential questions that I have. When I truly gaze into their face, the gateway to the soul, all I see is the same sadness that I have.

When I see the eyes of people older and younger than me, I become aware of the never-ending escape from the misery that I feel every day. People everywhere deal with the same issues that I have. To some, that may feel comforting; knowing that nothing will change and that you are as happy as you will ever be. For me, it is a rude awakening – an awakening that makes you consider if it’s truly worth seeing tomorrow.

But if I keep my eyes down, it’s easier to pretend that tomorrow will be better. If I avoid these blank stares that remind me of the inescapable future. If I simply avoid looking anywhere but my feet, I’ll keep the illusion that it will all be okay within my reach.

Ax Me a Question

This is not meant to disrespect anyone. Every lifestyle that’s chosen is difficult in its own way and is arguably just as difficult as any other.

Written by: Scott McWordplay

Art by: Kiersten Lee Ketter

I’m either going to work my ass off and become a big success, or I’m going to drive the blade of an ax through my skull. Either way, somethings going to touch my temporal lobe with everlasting effects more impressive than Willy Wonka’s candy. If I stop moving, then I’ll slide into a pit of quick sand. When the tip of my finger gets pulled under as I reach for my last breath of air, I’ll fall into a bed of Indiana Jones-esque spikes, and a tripwire-controlled ax will drop from the ceiling.

If I slow down that much, I’d welcome both the spikes and the ax. If I just kept sinking until I died of old age, never being totally pulled under, I’d be miserable for much too long; so long that it should be a violation of human rights. I don’t understand how people find it acceptable to work upwards of nine hours a day, spend the five after driving home, cooking dinner, and watching TV until they fall asleep. Then, the next morning, instead of working for some change or quitting altogether, they do it all again, hoping that it gets better, but not enough to inspire the hidden ambition beneath their skin.

The ambition crawls like a baby xenomorph. They’ll touch every part of your soul and do everything to break out, but humans have this impeccable ability to reach deep down and refuse to let it burst through their chest because of “security” or “comfort” or “energy” or “family” or whatever else they can muster up and throw at it. They pour the excuses onto the little alien until it’s drowned as much as their childhood whimsical spirit. It refuses to break out because their excitement’s gone.

People can say that adulthood slows you down because of responsibility, but I think that’s closed-minded and ridiculous. Just because your parents and friends have taken one generic route and that seems to be the easy one doesn’t mean it’s the only one. It’s easy because it doesn’t take as much effort. It’s the route for people that are okay with settling down. It’s not okay with people who equate settling down to an ax through the skull.

Axe Me A Question

Grandfather Clock

When depression and anxiety hit at the same time that you’re working on a project, time becomes a very unwelcome enemy.

Scott McFatherTime

The chimes of the loyal timekeeper echo through the halls, vibrating my bones. It’s midnight again. It’s midnight again. It’s another midnight. Another entire day of nothing.

When all else fails, I still have the bells of my six-foot master. When no one is around and nothing that I’ve done brings me feelings other than sorrow, the clock always reminds me of where I fall; between the clutches of sunlight and the strangling’s of night.

They bring me a sense of empty contempt. I’ve made this simple, inanimate creature my nemesis. For far too long it’s dictated my life, telling me how to live; how to exist.

shallow focus of clear hourglass
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It controls me, stealing my remaining sense of calm. Every midnight I wait for its lulling, infuriating ding-dong to command me to sleep. It talks to me. The optimistic sounds conveying that tomorrow will be better…the tomorrow will be better.

But I know all too well that it’s a lie. The optimism isn’t real. The chimes are inaudible when the deafening silence of anxiety take hold. The optimism is gone. The hope ceases to exist.

Even the clock leaves me alone. I thought the one constant was this simple, reassuring ticking and tocking.


In time, even the grandfather clock leaves you alone, to sit in an endless cycle of midnight.

Spotlights and Attack Helicopters

Welcome to Room 101, where no one can hear your screams and the rats are hungry.

Written by: Scott McMusophobia

Art by: Kiersten Lee Ketter

It’s not 1984 or Brave New World. Each of them would be favorable when compared to the nightmares that I see every day. I see only darkness and spotlights when I go outside. Attack helicopters circle every city block around the world. Orwell must have thought he was being so clever when he designed a world that was controlled by three factions (or not, we’ll never truly know what that world was). I see only one, and the helicopters enforce their rule every step of the way.

I’m forced to take the same routine paths to the drudgery the awaits. When I wake up, the spotlight helps me see in the ice-cold shower. The curtain is covered in mold and mildew. It used to be covered in dolphins that were enjoying a seascape, but they’re long gone. Breakfast is always the same. I wish I could sit out with a cup of coffee and watch the sunrise. I haven’t done that since I… well, I don’t really remember when. The sun never rises. The spotlight is the new sun, but it doesn’t warm and gives no vitamins.

At least I’m able to drive. That’s something that will be taken away soon enough, but not yet. They haven’t decided that driving is too much freedom yet. They even let me play music. Every morning I turn it on, but it’s always sung or played by people who are followed by the same aerial enforcers, and that reminds me of only the same control that they have over me. I turn it on and off in the same hopelessly hopeful way as I did the day prior.

Spotlights and Attack Helicopters

When I get to the donkeywork, the spotlight stares through the paper blinds that don’t do what the name insinuates. My muzzle is tightened, and stale bread fills my mouth. I’d rather eat my shower curtain. The nourishment gives me exactly the amount of strength that I need to work, but no where near enough to fight back. I sit back and do my work, occasionally relieving myself into the tube below. They say it improves productivity if I don’t have to get up and get distracted. It’s hard to focus when the spotlight glares off of my computer screen and into my eyes, but no where near as much as all of the other helicopters, all piloted by different demons.

The drive to my apartment (I won’t call it a home because my heart is nowhere and doing nothing but waiting to stop) is always slower than the drive to work. I have no where that I need to be and no one that I have to please. I am only allowed to go back to my strategically crafted bed of nails, which has one too few to elicit any form of pseudocomfort, so that I can have enough energy to do it all again tomorrow. I sit and wait, until my eyes close like a hydraulic press, hoping that they don’t have to work tomorrow.

Ambient Noise

Scott McTinnitus

Birds chirping. Streams rolling. Dogs barking. Winds blowing.

Lost in thought. Not sure where to go. Not sure what I’m meant to do. Just… lost.

It’s beautiful. These sounds… they follow me. I want to be alone. They make me feel unsettled. They make me feel calm. I’m right where I need to be. I feel lost.

Birds mocking. Streams laughing. Dogs yelling. Winds taunting.

The noises stalk me. They’re unwelcome. They feel scornful. They sound like disappointment. They follow me like unkempt demons.

Not sure where to go. Thoughts jumbled. World moves fast…faster…faster. Not sure what I’m meant to be. Just… lost.

black and white blank challenge connect
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A Bit More About Scott

I feel like I can’t say anything about depression until I’m a bit more transparent about who I am and why I feel like I should make a podcast… so here.

Scott McPodcast

I am not a doctor, so do not treat this as therapy or medical advice. I just do this podcast with the hopes that it can help some people.

If you’re interested in other content by me, follow me on:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AcceptableMadness

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/acceptablemadness/

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCpiT4JjAzziR-EODaBDPaJg

Flesh-Eating Bacteria

person s hands covered with blood
Photo by it’s me neosiam on Pexels.com

Scott McNecrosis

I was told that it was treatable but yet, it’s eating me alive. I’ve tried medication after medication and nothing seems to work. It’s hard not to lose hope. With no chance of relief, what’s the point?

I feel like I’ve lived a decent life. It’s not as long as I thought it would be, but it was still okay. Sometimes I think it’s a little unfair that I’m the one that got this… thing, but I think this is just how it’s meant to be. I think I handle it better than most people so if anyone was to get it, maybe it’s best that it’s me.

The doctors say that the medication will help but that’s just a lie. It’s not their fault. They don’t know any better. They just prescribe the medicine that someone else made. It does surprise me that after around eight years of college, doctors are just pushers for some pharmaceutical company’s product, but I’m getting off topic.

I don’t know how much longer I have left. I think it’s kind of up to me at this point. If I keep powering through, it might get better… but if I keep powering through and it doesn’t, then I’m right where I started, except maybe a little bit more exhausted. If I give up then I get the promise that at the very least, I don’t feel the painful decay of my body and mind for any longer.

But I won’t bother with any decisions today. I’ll keep powering through. It just wears more and more. Every day different than the last. Maybe tomorrow will be better. All I can really do is stay optimistic. But what’s the point of optimism if it all ends in the same thing.

The doctors say that a positive mindset is all I really need to keep going. But what do they know. I’m sure their lives aren’t anywhere near as bad as mine.

Get Out of My Head

The voices clang harder than someone chewing with their mouth open, breathing like they just ran a marathon or the vibrates of an unsilenced phone. They ring in a way that causes unbearable stress. I can do nothing but leave the room until they stop bickering and barking at each other, aggravating me more than any outside annoyance.

Scott McHeadache

Get out. Get out. Get out! Why won’t you let me think for one goddamned second! Just let go of me. You do it so easily for everyone else, why can’t you do it for me?

You let everyone else go faster than a lightning strike, but for me you linger. You stay and dangle a string before my eyes, always distracting me from what’s really in front of me. There’s always something else. Always something that keeps me from what I really want. You’ve done it for so long that I don’t know what I want anymore.

It’s a sick game for you, isn’t it? Just seeing what you can get away with before I snap? Seeing how far you can get and how many buttons you can push before I give in to you. You want me to suffer and I don’t know why.

I would give anything to know why you do it to me. I always thought that you were the one place I could go when everything else abandoned me, but instead I feel more alone than ever. And it’s all your fault.

grayscale photography of human skull
Photo by ahmed adly on Pexels.com

Even now, you taunt me. I don’t know why you have this never-ending ambition to ruin me, but it’s working. Is that what you want? Is that it? Then I fold. I give up. I’ll try it your way for a little bit, but I don’t think it’s going to be helpful.

Why would it be? I wish I could escape you for just the smallest bit of time imaginable. Whatever you are trying to do to me, just stop or pull the trigger. Why do you force me to struggle more than anyone should ever need to? I’m not special. I know that I’m not special. So please, for the love of god, just let me go.

Filling Buckets

Scott McFantasia

Every time I disappoint you, one drop of sweat forms on my brow. I wipe it away with a handkerchief that’s moldy and ripped, then ring the sweat into a bucket. The bucket has filled by only the smallest amount every day. At first it was just a few drops the seemed harmless enough, but as time passed, the bucket started to fill.

white canoe over calm water
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When I saw how quickly the bottom of the bucket was covered up, I began to sweat more and more. How could I be disappointing you this much? I’m trying to be helpful and nice and kind and sweet, but I manage to screw it up anyway. Some days I can’t convince myself to keep trying, and then before bed, I can ring out an entire cup of sweat into the bucket. The bucket fills but what I worry about more is what will run out first, room in the bucket or your patience.

Occasionally, I’ll go down a rabbit hole and try to fix problems that aren’t there in a way that’s so self-deprecating and unnecessary that it starts to feel like I’m involuntarily harassing people. I’m still haunted by visions of me trying to fix things that were never wrong in the first place. Too many people from my past haunt my dreams and when I wake up, my pillow drips into the bucket as well. Today, nothing has changed. I misread people in a way that makes me feel like I should be back in second grade learning social skills again.

Enough time has passed to let the bucket fill to the top. Every drop could be the one that overflows it. I don’t know what will happen when it pours onto the floor. Will I start filling it again? Will I start trying to fill bigger and bigger basins until I’m the reason that Florida is underwater, or will I drown in the bucket so that I’m no longer the disappointment that I think I am? A drop of sweat burns my eyes. I’m afraid to see what happens when it drains over the edge.