Fuck time, fuck progressing, fuck leaving and fuck living.
Fuck winning, fuck acceptance, fuck disorderly conduct and fuck illegality.
Fuck earning, fuck inheritance, fuck buying and fuck money.
Fuck religion, fuck belief, fuck the afterlife and fuck the before life.
Fuck the world, fuck yourself, fuck everything and fuck anything.
Fuck government, fuck the police, fuck the laws and fuck the legislature.
Fuck the poor, fuck the rich, fuck neighbors and fuck taxes.
Fuck wills, fuck eulogies, fuck caskets and fuck death.
Fuck the hospital, fuck surgery, fuck broken bones and fractured skulls.
Fuck euphoria, fuck happiness, fuck highs and fuck the high lows.
Fuck control, fuck love, fuck sex and fuck break ups and downs.
Fuck events, fuck regulations, fuck protesting and fuck caring.
Fuck support, fuck medications, fuck psychiatry and fuck therapy.
Fuck waking up, fuck moving, fuck divinity and fuck reality.
Fuck goals, fuck standards, fuck self help and fuck yourself.
I'll fuck the world today, I'll fuck the world today
I will break everything and throw it all away
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Broken
Lately I've reflected on what I say and do, and the more I feel that way I isolate myself.
It's exhausting to have to read and gauge the response of and study body language for people you'll forget months or years from now. It's a waste of time, but you can't help it.
For a while, everything around me started to decline, and I could watch myself drop and not worry about it because I trust myself.
The days I spend like this ruin the few days I have with people important to me.
The past three times I've gone to see my mother, Angela, in the course of a half year, I'm speechless. There's nothing to tell her anymore, and it leaves me feeling empty. I have to pretend to not be fucked up in front of her, as if it's all temporary and eventually going to get better. Next month it'll have been four years without her, and that everything between that day and now felt excruciating.
I'm not friends with anyone who knew her, and I have to shelter or hide whenever I'm around any relative of my family. I feel alienated.
I can't remember the last time anyone was happy for me when I saw my mother, I get scolded by my grandmother for not bringing her different food, food which I can't prepare and have no money to buy, and my solution is to not visit her on the days my grandmother will arrive.
Every time I go, I am driven a half hour away from the house I stay at, and watch the freeways go by, and fake a conversation with whoever is driving.
The billboards on the side of the freeway are about gambling. Losing money isn't a gamble, it's a donation.
I wait for the family member who drove me to leave the car before I go in with them, because I cherish the moments between the time I see my mom.
I walk into this retirement home, seeing people who are closer to death than they have been their whole lives. Often times you'll hear nurses speaking languages you don't understand while patients scream in pain.
I walk in the room my mom is at. Her room mates are never there.
For the hundredth time, I see an aging woman staring at a television, because the remote is the only thing she can do with her left arm, the one that isn't paralyzed.
And it truly hurts to see how horrible she looks. My mother had the nicest teeth and the nicest hair I had ever seen. Her gums are swelling and her hair looks no better than an old broom, with black and gray bristles.
She can't speak anymore, and she loved to talk so much. She only grunts out of curiosity, and points when she needs you to sit down.
When you sit down, it's the happiest I've seen my mom in recent years, and she's so excited to hear what you have to say. If only she had the stamina to pay attention for more than a half hour.
And I sit there and play with my hands and stumble on my words. She looks at me, anticipating what I could say next, because she's been waiting to see her son and have him speak to hear for the first time in four, five, six months.
The hardest part is saying good bye, because it repeats the day I found out.
I was at my dad's fiance's house, a month away from finishing seventh grade, and I was arguing with my sister about a Wheel of Fortune Family Board Game, and my dad calls my sister and I over to the couch.
He's never looked so conflicted and he's never looked so pained.
My mother hated being called mom, so she had us call her Honey, because during I Love Lucy, Ricky always yells "Honey, I'm home!" and my sister and I adopted that habit.
My dad tells us that Honey has an aneurysm, and while riding her bicycle with friends she had a stroke, and her last words were "Something is wrong." right before she fell into the brush of the California desert.
That wasn't supposed to happen. What was supposed to happen was me going to go up over the weekend to see her in San Jose, and meet all her friends. She had so many friends because her job required her to travel, sometimes for months.
I remember I made her a promise to finish all my work and study so I could see her again.
When my dad finished the sentence with 'aneurysm' in it, I immediately began to cry. The year before I learned from the book Tangerine taught me what they were.
He told us she had a stroke. I can't imagine how my father felt at that moment, having to give his children the worse news of their lives.
From that day, every dream I had was never the same, and every major decision in my life I couldn't think about without my mother on my mind. I couldn't think the same way.
For two years I couldn't tell anyone about it. I just couldn't handle it.
I moved out of Tujunga and into her apartment in Montrose. I never spoke as much, day to day, from then on. I can remember the first summer after that experience, where I would come to an empty apartment, and yell and scream and talk to myself to keep me amused, so I wouldn't feel lonely.
It's exhausting to have to read and gauge the response of and study body language for people you'll forget months or years from now. It's a waste of time, but you can't help it.
For a while, everything around me started to decline, and I could watch myself drop and not worry about it because I trust myself.
The days I spend like this ruin the few days I have with people important to me.
The past three times I've gone to see my mother, Angela, in the course of a half year, I'm speechless. There's nothing to tell her anymore, and it leaves me feeling empty. I have to pretend to not be fucked up in front of her, as if it's all temporary and eventually going to get better. Next month it'll have been four years without her, and that everything between that day and now felt excruciating.
I'm not friends with anyone who knew her, and I have to shelter or hide whenever I'm around any relative of my family. I feel alienated.
I can't remember the last time anyone was happy for me when I saw my mother, I get scolded by my grandmother for not bringing her different food, food which I can't prepare and have no money to buy, and my solution is to not visit her on the days my grandmother will arrive.
Every time I go, I am driven a half hour away from the house I stay at, and watch the freeways go by, and fake a conversation with whoever is driving.
The billboards on the side of the freeway are about gambling. Losing money isn't a gamble, it's a donation.
I wait for the family member who drove me to leave the car before I go in with them, because I cherish the moments between the time I see my mom.
I walk into this retirement home, seeing people who are closer to death than they have been their whole lives. Often times you'll hear nurses speaking languages you don't understand while patients scream in pain.
I walk in the room my mom is at. Her room mates are never there.
For the hundredth time, I see an aging woman staring at a television, because the remote is the only thing she can do with her left arm, the one that isn't paralyzed.
And it truly hurts to see how horrible she looks. My mother had the nicest teeth and the nicest hair I had ever seen. Her gums are swelling and her hair looks no better than an old broom, with black and gray bristles.
She can't speak anymore, and she loved to talk so much. She only grunts out of curiosity, and points when she needs you to sit down.
When you sit down, it's the happiest I've seen my mom in recent years, and she's so excited to hear what you have to say. If only she had the stamina to pay attention for more than a half hour.
And I sit there and play with my hands and stumble on my words. She looks at me, anticipating what I could say next, because she's been waiting to see her son and have him speak to hear for the first time in four, five, six months.
The hardest part is saying good bye, because it repeats the day I found out.
I was at my dad's fiance's house, a month away from finishing seventh grade, and I was arguing with my sister about a Wheel of Fortune Family Board Game, and my dad calls my sister and I over to the couch.
He's never looked so conflicted and he's never looked so pained.
My mother hated being called mom, so she had us call her Honey, because during I Love Lucy, Ricky always yells "Honey, I'm home!" and my sister and I adopted that habit.
My dad tells us that Honey has an aneurysm, and while riding her bicycle with friends she had a stroke, and her last words were "Something is wrong." right before she fell into the brush of the California desert.
That wasn't supposed to happen. What was supposed to happen was me going to go up over the weekend to see her in San Jose, and meet all her friends. She had so many friends because her job required her to travel, sometimes for months.
I remember I made her a promise to finish all my work and study so I could see her again.
When my dad finished the sentence with 'aneurysm' in it, I immediately began to cry. The year before I learned from the book Tangerine taught me what they were.
He told us she had a stroke. I can't imagine how my father felt at that moment, having to give his children the worse news of their lives.
From that day, every dream I had was never the same, and every major decision in my life I couldn't think about without my mother on my mind. I couldn't think the same way.
For two years I couldn't tell anyone about it. I just couldn't handle it.
I moved out of Tujunga and into her apartment in Montrose. I never spoke as much, day to day, from then on. I can remember the first summer after that experience, where I would come to an empty apartment, and yell and scream and talk to myself to keep me amused, so I wouldn't feel lonely.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Day 6,336 of Being Alive
I went to educational learning facility. I learned about the difference between jam and jelly.
I spent a considerable amount of time lying on grass and dirt today.
I showered twice today.
That is all.
I spent a considerable amount of time lying on grass and dirt today.
I showered twice today.
That is all.
These Birds
There were once these birds.
They lived near the ocean, and soon, they would drift apart by the winds and the tides.
This young woman was staring into an artificial sun lamp, to see if she could go blind.
In the dark room, she stared, and as she stared, she saw the shadows in her skin, created by the grooves and the grooves divided her flesh into many small fractions of a relatively large body.
She was locked inside, again. She always locked herself inside when the walls shook.
Her vision would soon distort itself, as the world would shift to a corner of her eye and swirl back to her center. She wanted to blind herself to prevent this from happening.
She hadn't know the slightest bit of rationality, until she actually went blind. She went blind for reasons I cannot explain.
She ran to a corner of a room and began to scream, and screamed violently. She planned on screaming herself to deaf. The screaming aroused her, so she soon kicked at the walls until she had broken her feet. The pain suppressed her urges and she began to hit her head against a wall.
Looking through the open ceiling, spectators watching silently. One spoke:
"Should we get her to a doctor?" an intern asked.
"No, we're not done with the experiment yet." replied the Doctor.
"She's nearly beaten herself to death, what result are you waiting for next?"
"You'll see."
In the cage, she lay bleeding from her skull and her legs, with open eyes. She dreamed:
There were once these birds, she dreamt of. These birds lived under the water, and drifted apart with the wides and the tides. They flew under the sea level with the glimmer of the moon on their backs.
The bird she was trailing began descending, the dark blue landscapes turned magenta, and soon to gray.
She heard the breathing of her observers, and lifted her head to face them, and began to moan:
"Yes! Yes! Don't stop, please, never stop!"
The voyeurs looked down at the woman, with blood trailing down her body, soaking her clothes.
She bled from the mouth, her severed tongue gathered blood, and as she screamed, she began to drown.
She hoped desperately the blood would clot and capture her last screams of imitating satisfaction.
In her last moments, she dragged herself to one corner of her cell, and on broken feet, sprinted and flung herself against the wall.
The impact had not killed her as she planned, but she fell backward onto a pool of her blood and small pieces of pulpy flesh.
Coughing up blood, she opened her lips and clenched her teeth. Her teeth were beautifully placed and beautifully shaped and perfectly white and perfectly bright. She smelt the world around her burning. Blood outlined the edges of teeth, and she accepted the violent death she had prayed for.
"Well, Doctor?" inquired the intern.
"Well, that's all." replied the Doctor.
The intern couldn't bring himself to grimace. The room decayed emotion as the watchers left the room. As they left the room, sirens could be heard from the outside. It began to rain on them, the clouds sobbed because they knew what the Doctor knew.
The intern stared at the Doctor, and asked:
The Doctor, speaking in a tone above a whisper said:
"It wasn't a test on her, it was a test on the complacency the people displayed here. No one but you thought for a second that she needed help, and not even you were motivated enough to help her. The experiment was not supposed to end with her death, it was supposed to end with one person in the room deciding to, in any way, comfort her."
The intern returned to the cliff of the high walls of the now tomb. He watched the blood leave her corpse.Her corpse watched him with faded white eyes and red liquid flowing from the tip of her brows.
"Lock your door on your way out, and don't stare at the sun if it decides to comes back." the Doctor warned, leaving.
They lived near the ocean, and soon, they would drift apart by the winds and the tides.
This young woman was staring into an artificial sun lamp, to see if she could go blind.
In the dark room, she stared, and as she stared, she saw the shadows in her skin, created by the grooves and the grooves divided her flesh into many small fractions of a relatively large body.
She was locked inside, again. She always locked herself inside when the walls shook.
Her vision would soon distort itself, as the world would shift to a corner of her eye and swirl back to her center. She wanted to blind herself to prevent this from happening.
She hadn't know the slightest bit of rationality, until she actually went blind. She went blind for reasons I cannot explain.
She ran to a corner of a room and began to scream, and screamed violently. She planned on screaming herself to deaf. The screaming aroused her, so she soon kicked at the walls until she had broken her feet. The pain suppressed her urges and she began to hit her head against a wall.
She soon fell unconscious.
Looking through the open ceiling, spectators watching silently. One spoke:
"Should we get her to a doctor?" an intern asked.
"No, we're not done with the experiment yet." replied the Doctor.
"She's nearly beaten herself to death, what result are you waiting for next?"
"You'll see."
In the cage, she lay bleeding from her skull and her legs, with open eyes. She dreamed:
There were once these birds, she dreamt of. These birds lived under the water, and drifted apart with the wides and the tides. They flew under the sea level with the glimmer of the moon on their backs.
The bird she was trailing began descending, the dark blue landscapes turned magenta, and soon to gray.
She woke up suddenly.
She could not see.
She heard the breathing of her observers, and lifted her head to face them, and began to moan:
"Yes! Yes! Don't stop, please, never stop!"
The voyeurs looked down at the woman, with blood trailing down her body, soaking her clothes.
She bled from the mouth, her severed tongue gathered blood, and as she screamed, she began to drown.
She hoped desperately the blood would clot and capture her last screams of imitating satisfaction.
In her last moments, she dragged herself to one corner of her cell, and on broken feet, sprinted and flung herself against the wall.
The impact had not killed her as she planned, but she fell backward onto a pool of her blood and small pieces of pulpy flesh.
Coughing up blood, she opened her lips and clenched her teeth. Her teeth were beautifully placed and beautifully shaped and perfectly white and perfectly bright. She smelt the world around her burning. Blood outlined the edges of teeth, and she accepted the violent death she had prayed for.
"Well, Doctor?" inquired the intern.
"Well, that's all." replied the Doctor.
The intern couldn't bring himself to grimace. The room decayed emotion as the watchers left the room. As they left the room, sirens could be heard from the outside. It began to rain on them, the clouds sobbed because they knew what the Doctor knew.
The intern stared at the Doctor, and asked:
"Why?"
The Doctor, speaking in a tone above a whisper said:
"It wasn't a test on her, it was a test on the complacency the people displayed here. No one but you thought for a second that she needed help, and not even you were motivated enough to help her. The experiment was not supposed to end with her death, it was supposed to end with one person in the room deciding to, in any way, comfort her."
The intern returned to the cliff of the high walls of the now tomb. He watched the blood leave her corpse.Her corpse watched him with faded white eyes and red liquid flowing from the tip of her brows.
"Lock your door on your way out, and don't stare at the sun if it decides to comes back." the Doctor warned, leaving.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
As far as I'm concerned, I'm not concerned
Someone doesn't buckle up? Let them die. It's their fault.
Someone shoots them self when cleaning a gun, laugh at them.
Steal from a store, what do they care? The people have a fixed income, it's not like their company losing $10 items puts them out of a job.
Cops are being smart asses to you? Watch yourself, they're cops.
Someone sends people nude pictures of you to their friends, cut off your breasts/penis and say the images are out of date!
Get caught masturbating? Finish, and blame them for not having common courtesy to go back where they came from.
Get caught drinking from the carton? Spit in it, show them who is boss.
Drowning and you know you're going to die? Drink the sea and all it's precious animals.
KFC feeding you mutant chickens? Eat the cashier! Eat the Colonel! VIVA LA REVOLUTION!
Sleep with everyone, and fuck the critics, too.
Hooker tries to bite off your tongue? Slash her, slap chop style!
Dentist ridicules you for not flossing? Strangle them with Crest Glide Mint Flavored floss!
Panda won't fuck? Panda won't eat.
Anyone who doesn't want to help themselves is better off suffering. Hail Satan.
Someone shoots them self when cleaning a gun, laugh at them.
Steal from a store, what do they care? The people have a fixed income, it's not like their company losing $10 items puts them out of a job.
Cops are being smart asses to you? Watch yourself, they're cops.
Someone sends people nude pictures of you to their friends, cut off your breasts/penis and say the images are out of date!
Get caught masturbating? Finish, and blame them for not having common courtesy to go back where they came from.
Get caught drinking from the carton? Spit in it, show them who is boss.
Drowning and you know you're going to die? Drink the sea and all it's precious animals.
KFC feeding you mutant chickens? Eat the cashier! Eat the Colonel! VIVA LA REVOLUTION!
Sleep with everyone, and fuck the critics, too.
Hooker tries to bite off your tongue? Slash her, slap chop style!
Dentist ridicules you for not flossing? Strangle them with Crest Glide Mint Flavored floss!
Panda won't fuck? Panda won't eat.
Anyone who doesn't want to help themselves is better off suffering. Hail Satan.
Beautiful Noise Girls Raped My Heart/Andante Maestoso
Saints took me. They took me to The Smell.
Aloof, Mushroom, and the Dishwasher, I went with.
The first women who played sat on her leg. She had long brown hair and slowly drifted her hands to turn the knobs to the dials that played the frequencies like fingertips on crystal glasses.
As I stood I could focus on her, the single light that separated her from the seaweed off the shore, barely swaying from right to left again. Sticks in the cup of water that stood upward, and every single vibration could suspend the sticks into the air for a moment. My eyes would stare at the light beneath her and the darkness turned to spinning needle tips.
Her music felt like the treble of the ocean, as it rang out in a contained, but sharp quintet of dense notes echoed throughout the misshaped venue.
The time she began playing the more I began fantasizing about the Asian girl in the turquoise top with the log black hair.
A couple of people replaced her on the stage. A woman and a man.
Her name is Shannon Kennedy. Her band is called Pedestrian Deposit.
Her name is Shannon Kennedy. Her band is called Pedestrian Deposit.
She was slender, with a very narrow face. Her right ear had a hook with feathers on it, making the side of her face similar to dream catchers. She and her music partner had a collage of foot pedals.
Before the set, she mercilessly tried to pull the metal bar out of the base of a cello. The cello seemed to have resided in a derelict ship underwater. The wood looked rotten, the strings looked rusted, and the bow was filthy.
(Seen above with different hair.)
The disgusting and vile instrument seemed to compliment her beauty.
She had a console of candle holders, where the fifth and final tip had broken off.
The light once more fell around these two people, and the music began.
She was running the bow across the candlestick console, while her partner was adjusting the synthesizers.
The sound of fingertips on bare skin seemed to emanate from the bow onto the metal.
Soon, she set down the console and brought the cello to her body. A wooden person who desired the embrace of this mother of the color crude oil. Her pale face looked to her feet, speculating the floor. Her black fingernails twisted slowly around her tree child, as if crying from the abuse of being carved into a music instrument for the enjoyment of sad, sad beings.
The audio tears harmonized one another as the antagonist in the performance created a wall of noise.
The antagonist beside her created a consistent barrier of auditory density. The world began crumbling around us, and the rotten wood child ceased sobbing at the gaze of it's mother.
I strolled across the unusually long venue to eventually come to sit on an old red couch.
A girl with an earle piercing sat at the other end of the couch. She was stunning.
I watched her at the musician's market stand and I watched her at the bookshelf, but I didn't notice when she walked from the stand to the shelf.
She sat at the other end of the couch.
We had made eye contact during the first performance. Once again, I wanted another girl. A stranger who I hadn't met before, another person to press my empty lips against for the satisfaction of freedom through emotional demoralization. I'm sure by the location she was at, by the way she dressed, and by the piercing near her brow she must have felt depraved.
To be direct, I stared at her. I stared at her while she read the DIY publication titled Bullshit! I stared at her, hoping between now and the final performer, we would speak.
My plan was to stare at her until she looked back, so I could engage her. She gnawed on her thumb, possibly anxious. She chewed and bit and didn't say a word, and didn't acknowledge me after she took her seat.
She had cut the backs of her jeans, with large slits, so when she sat down curled up you could see the lingerie beneath the denim. I want a girl who dresses like that.
I didn't have much of a plan than ask her what her name was, and what her interest was, and who she came with. I just wanted to talk to her.
I should have recklessly spoken to her. I'll most likely never see her again, and someday soon, I will cease to care, but the next time I see her, I will talk to her.
Maybe next time at The Smell.
There are moments when you can stop the world
Remember that friends, don' t be sad
There are moments when you can stop the world
Remember that friends, don' t be sad
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Reunion
Somehow, everything is getting easier. This always happens.
I don't deserve it. Every stroke of luck I receive prevents me from working harder for my goals.
Oh well, I'm alive and that's divine.
I once killed baby in September
But details are too hard to remember
I stabbed it on the bed,
My piece got all red,
"Next time just use a rubber"
Ha!
Got you.
Hail Satan
I don't deserve it. Every stroke of luck I receive prevents me from working harder for my goals.
Oh well, I'm alive and that's divine.
I once killed baby in September
But details are too hard to remember
I stabbed it on the bed,
My piece got all red,
"Next time just use a rubber"
Ha!
Got you.
Hail Satan
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Limerick Mania Fanatica Apocalypse-1025 BC Vol/Pt.1
Today has been full of limericks.
Let me share ones I wrote today.
I once stole candy from a store
My life had become such a bore
More sooner than later
I stole an alligator
Now it craves babies even more!
I am a youth who wants a whip
So I gave the waitress a large tip
I tied her to the frier
The screams went higher
Up until I heard a rip
A friend once had to pee
So I told him to climb a tree
He let out a sigh
I started to cry
'Cause now I have an STD
I gave money to a secret society
That relieved my religious piety
When they got paid
They gave me Kool-aid
Now we die in a variety
To my good friend B Duck
Who always seems down on her luck
Getting wasted all day
Giving hell to pay
She doesn't really give a fuck
There once was a man huffing paint
Who told me "Listen here, Saint!"
"I bought some gasoline,
it fell in the latrine,
Too much more and I'll faint!"
There once was a drug that I lied
to my friend that I had once tried
I ran to the hall
to pick up a call
to find out my friend had died!
- Sir Paranoia
Let me share ones I wrote today.
I once stole candy from a store
My life had become such a bore
More sooner than later
I stole an alligator
Now it craves babies even more!
I am a youth who wants a whip
So I gave the waitress a large tip
I tied her to the frier
The screams went higher
Up until I heard a rip
A friend once had to pee
So I told him to climb a tree
He let out a sigh
I started to cry
'Cause now I have an STD
I gave money to a secret society
That relieved my religious piety
When they got paid
They gave me Kool-aid
Now we die in a variety
To my good friend B Duck
Who always seems down on her luck
Getting wasted all day
Giving hell to pay
She doesn't really give a fuck
There once was a man huffing paint
Who told me "Listen here, Saint!"
"I bought some gasoline,
it fell in the latrine,
Too much more and I'll faint!"
There once was a drug that I lied
to my friend that I had once tried
I ran to the hall
to pick up a call
to find out my friend had died!
- Sir Paranoia
Monday, April 19, 2010
Forgive Yourself
Forgiveness is vital. No progress will ever be made without forgiveness.
People who live in the past were never forgiven, and their struggles are perceived as handicaps to some disability that no one can understand, not even themselves.
Religion seems to feed off of masses due to the forgiveness it carelessly diffuses.
This is how crimes in the name of religion are justified, by the failure of the perpetrator to find some error in their reasoning by lack of analysis the issue was given. Meaning that if you are forgiven now, you won't have to think about what you have done.
Forgiveness is treated like an opiate. If you forgive one person for their wrongdoings, you can sedate them with alluring (but false) love and affinity.
This is how ignorance is birthed. The gross misunderstanding and lack of reflection of errors creates an expression of impulsion, and impulsive behavior leads to immediate self gratification, which is the beginning of an addiction.
Failure to forgive yourself creates an addiction. Addictions, however, can be managed. Addiction is seen as another handicap for a person who isn't 'mature.' The person I am talking about is one who is mature, who does understand that they have an addiction but do not seek attention because they maintain stability by using their addictive subject as a crutch to intrinsic recompense.
A mature person can be addicted and still manage to have a healthy social life. The single draw back is the separation of the subject.
Addiction is not the problem, it is the withdrawal. The addiction is not the problem, it is the lack of forgiveness.
Addiction is the middle ground between the pleasure and the pain. Emotional purgatory.
The matured addicts may seem to be like all other addicts, but their insight is more valuable because of the constant planning and infrequent discrepancies that prepares themselves for the situations outside of their obsession. Their addiction is their world, but the way the addiction is handled can improve their world.
Addiction is not a problem, it is immature addiction.
Forgive yourself, and your addiction may subside.
People who live in the past were never forgiven, and their struggles are perceived as handicaps to some disability that no one can understand, not even themselves.
Religion seems to feed off of masses due to the forgiveness it carelessly diffuses.
This is how crimes in the name of religion are justified, by the failure of the perpetrator to find some error in their reasoning by lack of analysis the issue was given. Meaning that if you are forgiven now, you won't have to think about what you have done.
Forgiveness is treated like an opiate. If you forgive one person for their wrongdoings, you can sedate them with alluring (but false) love and affinity.
This is how ignorance is birthed. The gross misunderstanding and lack of reflection of errors creates an expression of impulsion, and impulsive behavior leads to immediate self gratification, which is the beginning of an addiction.
Failure to forgive yourself creates an addiction. Addictions, however, can be managed. Addiction is seen as another handicap for a person who isn't 'mature.' The person I am talking about is one who is mature, who does understand that they have an addiction but do not seek attention because they maintain stability by using their addictive subject as a crutch to intrinsic recompense.
A mature person can be addicted and still manage to have a healthy social life. The single draw back is the separation of the subject.
Addiction is not the problem, it is the withdrawal. The addiction is not the problem, it is the lack of forgiveness.
Addiction is the middle ground between the pleasure and the pain. Emotional purgatory.
The matured addicts may seem to be like all other addicts, but their insight is more valuable because of the constant planning and infrequent discrepancies that prepares themselves for the situations outside of their obsession. Their addiction is their world, but the way the addiction is handled can improve their world.
Addiction is not a problem, it is immature addiction.
Forgive yourself, and your addiction may subside.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Your God is BIPOLAR
I am your god. Suck my dinger.
I am the god of not being a god of anything because more people have more amplified personality traits that qualify them for god-like positions.
I need to start writing better posts soon.
Until then, know your god is happy. And looks quite fat in that picture. Sometimes I wish I was fat. I would look good with another ten pounds.
Actually, I'm not that happy, but, I'm not sad.
That's a good start.
Relax Mom
just a goddamned joke,
how the hell could I have known?
Besides this would've been funny
If I hadn't gotten caught
but I did so there you go
Why? Why what?
Do I do these things or think them
I don't know?
Must be something in the water
And not your fault
At least not your's alone
I'm giddy with all the trouble I'm in
oh, god
If I could just get out of this
I'd ending up pushing my luck again
I am the god of not being a god of anything because more people have more amplified personality traits that qualify them for god-like positions.
I need to start writing better posts soon.
Until then, know your god is happy. And looks quite fat in that picture. Sometimes I wish I was fat. I would look good with another ten pounds.
Actually, I'm not that happy, but, I'm not sad.
That's a good start.
Relax Mom
just a goddamned joke,
how the hell could I have known?
Besides this would've been funny
If I hadn't gotten caught
but I did so there you go
Why? Why what?
Do I do these things or think them
I don't know?
Must be something in the water
And not your fault
At least not your's alone
I'm giddy with all the trouble I'm in
oh, god
If I could just get out of this
I'd ending up pushing my luck again
Universal Decree of Tolerance
If you're smart, it is likely you're more tolerant.
If you're stupid, just be tolerant, please.
If you're stupid, just be tolerant, please.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Watch it Crash at the Apollyonic Plateau
These next few months are going to present me with incredibly difficult tasks and critical outcomes.
During this time, I may undergo a personality change.
But I'm not a trendy motherfucker, fuck those people.
I got a sweet belt at the Goodwill.
If all else fails, I have you readers, and you friends.
Hail Satan.
During this time, I may undergo a personality change.
But I'm not a trendy motherfucker, fuck those people.
I got a sweet belt at the Goodwill.
If all else fails, I have you readers, and you friends.
Hail Satan.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Brutalize Dreams and Matricide
For a considerable amount of time, I've felt depressed, but for 9 months, I've had horrible dreams.
These dreams consist of being brutalized by ex-lovers and interacting with people I no longer associate with.
I feel sick. These dreams are too much. I am sick.
Mornings I wake up, and I live in the same place. A place of complete static and utter lack of any innovative instinct to change itself. Imprisoned.
The dreams consist of rape, pressure, negation, neglect, and abuse.
I'm tired of feeling depraved and raped.
I try not to dwell on my emotions, but how can anyone control this internal force that sucks the life out of all other, less significant emotions and all brightness.
I understand why I feel pain. It's the control and motivation to change it. Throughout the day, I feel like an emotional puppet and someone chooses whether or not to despoil my consciousness using trigger words.
I oscillate between calm and complete worthlessness.
I need different dreams. I need images of calm and pleasant ideas, where I no longer feel subjected to lack of control and an onslaught of distressed situations.
I need help right now, if anyone knows what to do or say, I would love your insight.
and losing sleep adds so much time
the days can drag my bleeding mind
into a state of jagged shock
that twists and winds but never stops
and dreams are memories as well
and some of them read just like hell
These dreams consist of being brutalized by ex-lovers and interacting with people I no longer associate with.
I feel sick. These dreams are too much. I am sick.
Mornings I wake up, and I live in the same place. A place of complete static and utter lack of any innovative instinct to change itself. Imprisoned.
The dreams consist of rape, pressure, negation, neglect, and abuse.
I'm tired of feeling depraved and raped.
I try not to dwell on my emotions, but how can anyone control this internal force that sucks the life out of all other, less significant emotions and all brightness.
I understand why I feel pain. It's the control and motivation to change it. Throughout the day, I feel like an emotional puppet and someone chooses whether or not to despoil my consciousness using trigger words.
I oscillate between calm and complete worthlessness.
I need different dreams. I need images of calm and pleasant ideas, where I no longer feel subjected to lack of control and an onslaught of distressed situations.
I need help right now, if anyone knows what to do or say, I would love your insight.
and losing sleep adds so much time
the days can drag my bleeding mind
into a state of jagged shock
that twists and winds but never stops
and dreams are memories as well
and some of them read just like hell
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
I'm not creepy, just lonely
Last night I had horrible dreams. At one point, I couldn't move, or open my eyes for half a minute. I thought to myself "Oh, a dog must be laying on me, because I can't move." But the more I struggled, the more I realized that my body was causing this episode.
My heart rate increased, but I knew that shallow breathing would only worsen my situation. I calmed myself down, and after what felt like hours, I woke up.
The following dream felt like an intervention.
I went into a house of someone who I've been intimate with since August. There isn't much of a relationship behind me and her, just going to a few concerts and hooking up. I was at her house. This guy she's about to date shows up behind me, and I decide to step out of the room.
When I step out of the room, they're gone. I was wondering why I was even brought into this situation. I keep on running to find an exit, but the house seems to perpetuate itself. I run into the same rooms, over and over again, and I get nowhere. I'm trapped and I can't get away of how jealous I feel.
The most hypocritical part was that I emphasized that I didn't love her, and suddenly, I feel jealous? I'm such a fucking hypocrite, and I'm the only person who can point that out. That has been my biggest fear.
It's not that I can control my emotions.
All I can do is let go now. Even though I never really had her. There's other people. "Hell is other people."
For months I've felt that time is always running out. There's never enough time for me. I'm never enough for time.
Maybe that's why it lasted,
why I couldn't see past it,
I hooked up with this girl
who crashed it.
My heart rate increased, but I knew that shallow breathing would only worsen my situation. I calmed myself down, and after what felt like hours, I woke up.
The following dream felt like an intervention.
I went into a house of someone who I've been intimate with since August. There isn't much of a relationship behind me and her, just going to a few concerts and hooking up. I was at her house. This guy she's about to date shows up behind me, and I decide to step out of the room.
When I step out of the room, they're gone. I was wondering why I was even brought into this situation. I keep on running to find an exit, but the house seems to perpetuate itself. I run into the same rooms, over and over again, and I get nowhere. I'm trapped and I can't get away of how jealous I feel.
The most hypocritical part was that I emphasized that I didn't love her, and suddenly, I feel jealous? I'm such a fucking hypocrite, and I'm the only person who can point that out. That has been my biggest fear.
It's not that I can control my emotions.
All I can do is let go now. Even though I never really had her. There's other people. "Hell is other people."
For months I've felt that time is always running out. There's never enough time for me. I'm never enough for time.
Maybe that's why it lasted,
why I couldn't see past it,
I hooked up with this girl
who crashed it.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Dreams are Poisonous
I feel more emotionally stable than I have in years.
Dreams are poisonous. They will consume your life until you deal with issues you despise. Constantly berating your day, in and out, and destroying your happiness by throwing your psyche into a whirlwind of past memories and regrets that you could never undo or avoid.
Dreams are rarely fun. They just introduce you to strange scenarios that you wish you were never put in.
I hope tonight that I eat one of my best friends. I'll wake up happy.
I would tell you more, but few people I would ever describe into detail.
We can always find comfort in our friends, but as Nietzsche said, we rely on friends because they are successful in our failures.
We can't rely on our friends, though, or else we'll become weaker. Instead we must learn from them. We must develop their actions and tendencies that we need, and we will all benefit.
Dreams are poisonous. They will consume your life until you deal with issues you despise. Constantly berating your day, in and out, and destroying your happiness by throwing your psyche into a whirlwind of past memories and regrets that you could never undo or avoid.
Dreams are rarely fun. They just introduce you to strange scenarios that you wish you were never put in.
I hope tonight that I eat one of my best friends. I'll wake up happy.
I would tell you more, but few people I would ever describe into detail.
We can always find comfort in our friends, but as Nietzsche said, we rely on friends because they are successful in our failures.
We can't rely on our friends, though, or else we'll become weaker. Instead we must learn from them. We must develop their actions and tendencies that we need, and we will all benefit.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Traveling Anarcho-Bike Club Band
To all my friends, I love you so much.
I'm emotionally in debt with a lot of people. Koko, if you still read this, email me.
If you look back on your life, you can remember all the stupid, mentally exhausting, and troublesome experiences you've had with people you love. If not, then I have very serious issues.
The honest truth is: We'll all die.
People change, they leave you all alone and you will have years where you can't cope. We can't always cope, some parts of our lives will just effect us to the point of insanity.
I have to let go of a few people soon. I hate this thought. In a few months, I'll lose frequency and time with people I really appreciate. As much as I want to tell myself that I'll be fine, I won't be. Whenever a person tells themselves they're okay, they've reached a low point.
I can't tell you the promises I've made with people for the past years, in hopes of never getting old and never having to live with. Living in libraries, Robitussin factories, apartments with other people. It's all so idiotic.
The truth is, we'll never be able to stay friends.
We can talk, send letters and meet up for lunch, but we'll always be a day or a year behind.
I can be your crutch but I won't stay for too long. It's times like this that make me want to off myself to spare the pain.
Our friendships, our hours together, they don't mean anything, the time we spend is just for our enjoyment, and may Satan burn my 'soul' for eternity if I ever ruin my times with you.
There's only one solution if you want to live with me forever:
The Traveling Anarcho Bike Club Band
The TABCB is a group of individuals I'm creating when I am able to.
Half of us will be culinary arts majors, the other half will know how to make clothes. I better hunt FIDM hipsters.
In this organization, we won't need money. We won't have to pay for gas, we won't have to pay taxes, we won't have to feel alone. There will be tons of sex. By the orgyful.
We'll all have various instruments. Accordions, theremins, slide flutes and guitarophones. No bongo drums.
We'll squat the world. We won't have to sleep comfortably on mattresses, we'll sleep comfortably on the ground, knowing that we're free.
Sure, we'll probably be shot by radical conservatives, police officers, or street gangs. We'll probably develop infections that will kill us. We'll probably get someone pregnant and carry the child, which might die from lack of medication attention.
In conclusion, we'll be better off dead.
Conclusively, it was a nice thought.
It's a very romantic idea. Sadly, I think you're a few centuries too late for that party. :<
I'm emotionally in debt with a lot of people. Koko, if you still read this, email me.
If you look back on your life, you can remember all the stupid, mentally exhausting, and troublesome experiences you've had with people you love. If not, then I have very serious issues.
The honest truth is: We'll all die.
People change, they leave you all alone and you will have years where you can't cope. We can't always cope, some parts of our lives will just effect us to the point of insanity.
I have to let go of a few people soon. I hate this thought. In a few months, I'll lose frequency and time with people I really appreciate. As much as I want to tell myself that I'll be fine, I won't be. Whenever a person tells themselves they're okay, they've reached a low point.
I can't tell you the promises I've made with people for the past years, in hopes of never getting old and never having to live with. Living in libraries, Robitussin factories, apartments with other people. It's all so idiotic.
The truth is, we'll never be able to stay friends.
We can talk, send letters and meet up for lunch, but we'll always be a day or a year behind.
I can be your crutch but I won't stay for too long. It's times like this that make me want to off myself to spare the pain.
Our friendships, our hours together, they don't mean anything, the time we spend is just for our enjoyment, and may Satan burn my 'soul' for eternity if I ever ruin my times with you.
There's only one solution if you want to live with me forever:
The Traveling Anarcho Bike Club Band
The TABCB is a group of individuals I'm creating when I am able to.
Half of us will be culinary arts majors, the other half will know how to make clothes. I better hunt FIDM hipsters.
In this organization, we won't need money. We won't have to pay for gas, we won't have to pay taxes, we won't have to feel alone. There will be tons of sex. By the orgyful.
We'll all have various instruments. Accordions, theremins, slide flutes and guitarophones. No bongo drums.
We'll squat the world. We won't have to sleep comfortably on mattresses, we'll sleep comfortably on the ground, knowing that we're free.
Sure, we'll probably be shot by radical conservatives, police officers, or street gangs. We'll probably develop infections that will kill us. We'll probably get someone pregnant and carry the child, which might die from lack of medication attention.
In conclusion, we'll be better off dead.
Conclusively, it was a nice thought.
It's a very romantic idea. Sadly, I think you're a few centuries too late for that party. :<
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Passion of the Christ
Probably my favorite erotic non-porno film ever.
Intense bondage scenes + hot devil = hard on
Intense bondage scenes + hot devil = hard on
Satan is pretty fucking sexy.
I'm very excited. A friend of mine is a former equestrian who might be capable of giving me a whip.
There's a thought that we all seem to get, and my friend Brian seems to have it.
"How the FUCK did I end up like this?"
I think about that all the time.
Five years ago, I never expected to be who I was today.
Five years ago I was obsessed with playing and reading Halo novels, listening to AC/DC and having glasses and braces.
Now I'm interested in bondage and listening to crust punk.
So Brian, just wait a year or so, you'll change a shitton. Don't be afraid, though, because it's all up to what you want.
Hail Satan. (see above picture)
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Any Day/Disconnect
Everyday I walk into my bathroom and wash my hands.
Before I touch the towel, I scrub off the dirt with soap.
I had no idea I touch so much dirt everyday.
The dirt doesn't mean anything to anyone. The dirt is just tiny sediment underneath your feet and washing it off is a great inconvenience. You don't understand that the dirt is a milestone of your day.
Watching the droplets of water turn black, the quantity of the dirt is awe-inspiring. I live in a world that tries to cleanse itself, but cannot sterilize itself for the root of phrase it uses: 'dirty.'
Everyday I wash my hands when I get home, and the char reminds me of what I did.
I spent another day on the grass. I spent another day on my ass.
I was hoping for hours to pass. I was trying to not step on glass.
I moved to my right, people were near.
I step to my left, more people steer
further
away
They say I'm weird, creepy, scary, apart, unusual.
I don't understand it. I feel normal. I feel alive. I feel different.
they just judge
no time to waste on thoughts
I find myself ashamed for being associated with these groups of imbeciles. I can't understand how they walk and talk and not spend a millisecond of their time being aware.
I watch them. Most of my day is spent watching the people. If it's not them I watch, it's the clouds and the sky.
At their parties, they drink and cry. They scream and shout and tell themselves they have a good time.
I watched them, separate themselves from all the others. Groups of inebriated individuals pretending that no one else exists.
They are people. They are weak and harmful. They live to excel, no matter what your cost is.
I admit, I did use people. I used them, and I was never satisfied until I removed them from my lives.
I watch them walk by, and all pretend to not notice that anyone else exists. They just keep their heads straight, as if they were horses with blinders, carrying the jockeys on their backs.
There's never anything one could hate more than feeling disconnected from the people he loves, and the people that love him.
There's never anything one could hate more than feeling disconnected from the people he loves, and the people that love him.
They matter so much and not at all. You can never remove them from your life, but you can always remove your life from theirs.
"By my honor, friend!" answered Zarathustra. "All that you are talking about does not exist. There is no devil and no hell. Your soul will be dead even sooner than your body - fear no more!"
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