Confessions of a Shitposter: This is (not) the Epilogue



Part three of a multi-part introspection/journey by Tom O’ Bedlam. Part One and Two can be found here.

I’ve shown you my Heavens, and I’ve shown you my Hells.  Both are flawed, im­per­fect, and in­cred­i­bly frag­ile.  Sadly, life is of­ten not so light and del­i­cate in its touch.  Reality has a hand heav­ier than lead, and when it touch­es you, you of­ten bear the scars for the rest of your days.

The shit­poster lacked com­pas­sion and em­pa­thy, wan­ton­ly throw­ing around im­ages meant to of­fend.  The hip­pie on the moun­tain lacked a proac­tive na­ture and as­pi­ra­tions, con­tent to sit around and be at com­plete peace.  Conversely, the two ideas seemed to fill the other’s holes.

There is a point where we must shed child­ish dreams and be­hav­ior, yet re­al­ize that this world still has all the mag­ic it held when we were young.  We must be able achieve that peace, yet still have that anger and pas­sion to take ac­tion.  We must tem­per the anger with em­pa­thy, the sloth with aspiration.

The monk on the moun­tain­top is a fool’s fever-dreams.  The shit­poster is a fool’s anger, unbound.

I’ve found peace in my mad­ness, and pas­sion in both.  I’ve be­come a hip­pie on the edge, a mad­man with a mis­sion.  A dis­ci­ple of Hicks and Hunter, ready to go gonzo.  To live in delu­sion and chem­i­cal haze, to write with reck­less aban­don and no sense of self-preservation.

I’ve be­come a swirling night­mare, a fevered dream while I’m awake.

There’s no point in be­ing the mes­si­ah, all the best are apos­tles.  The mes­si­ah isn’t al­lowed to err, but the apostle’s sto­ry is in chang­ing for the bet­ter.  Trolls and shit­posters def­i­nite­ly fill that start­ing point, re­viled as they are.

It’s what I have to do, con­tin­ue on this strange drug-fueled trip I’m on.  Weaving lit­tle mag­ic on the page, do­ing what I can to en­ter­tain.  It’s a life I can be proud of, sit­ting around and telling lit­tle lies dis­guised as truths, and big­ger truths as small lies.  A strange­ly sat­is­fy­ing sort of pros­ti­tu­tion, sell­ing off lit­tle bits of my soul to who­ev­er would spend time and mon­ey to bed them.

I’m a delu­sion­al­ly mad mes­si­ah, telling sto­ries for food, coin, and bed.

I’m the avatar of anger, re­laxed and calm.

I’m Tom o’ Bedlam, and I’m here to entertain.

Yet will I sing, Any food, any feed­ing, Feeding, drink, or cloth­ing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will in­jure nothing.”

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I’m that crazy guy that writes things and hosts the Graded PointFive comics podcast.

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