Camus once said (maybe twice, I don't know)

"How can sincerity be a condition of friendship? A taste for truth at any cost is a passion which spares nothing."

Nietzsche said:
"Does wisdom perhaps appear on the earth as a raven which is inspired by the smell of carrion?"

Sartre said:
"I am not virtuous. Our sons will be if we shed enough blood to give them the right to be."

 The internet said:

A Breakdown is just ahead!

Fuck it. Really. Fuck it.

I really try hard to make a difference. I try to change, I try to prove my worth to my family.

Does everyone feel completely worthless in their family or is it just me?

The past year or so, I have been living alone with my dad. On weekdays, at home, I don't say more than a hundred words to my dad.

That means I spend 16 hours of the day silent.

Do the math, and you'll find that 2,880 hours of my last year has been spent being silent.

Is it any wonder why I don't feel like talking to my family?

My dreams lately are horrible. I don't understand why I can't get past certain things. One of my ex's appears in my dreams, in usually the most obscene and harmful ways. I should stop talking about it.

My dad tells me everyone ten minutes how disappointed he is in me, and my sister laughs quietly to herself knowing that I have to deal with even more shit.

I told my sister basically everything in my life, and I don't get a moment's sympathy.

Is it natural to want to harm your sibling?

The first house I lived in she wrote "I hate David" in chalk on the fence. Every time the grass was watered, I would see "I hate David" at the end of the year. That's the most distinct memory of growing up.

She always finds ways to prod and pick at everything I do. Any time she is present, I face extreme criticism.

Every single time I tell her my ideas, it takes a week for her to make fun of me for it. Any time I have a serious issue, she laughs it off.

I was bitten by a dog and bled profusely, and she couldn't stop making jokes out of that experience. She thinks I don't care about anything, and that I'm a failure.

Her and my dad constantly refer me to situations and scenarios where I won't graduate high school. My dad and sister openly insult me and pretend they understand what I enjoy.

FUCK

I honestly despise my family. You know why? Because they fucking patronize me. They treat me like a drug addict, a devil worshiping, violent individual. I am constantly berated for having ideas that they disagree with. I am approached with arguments that don't make linear sense.

If I could go one day without having to be associated with failure with my family, I would stop complaining and writing this post.

I can't believe I liked my sister.

I don't have much of a motivation to finish this post. I'll be fine soon, don't worry.


Why are there so many songs about rainbows?
And who gives a fuck anyway?
Rainbows are stupid, they only remind me
That my life is sick with decay

And so you are stupid, you choose to believe it
I know we're all gonna die
We'll never find it, the rainbow Connection
The sickly, the worthless, and I

Who said that "every wish would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star"
Some asshole thought of it, some sucker believed it
And look what it's done so far

And it's so pathetic, that you are pathetic
And it's all you aspire to be
You'll never find it, the rainbow connection
The homeless, the wealthy, and me

All of us are gonna die
You could say nature's a facist

Have you been half asleep and have you heard voices
Swimming around in your head?
Some say "I'm lucky!" and some say "I'm Happy!"
But most say "I'd rather be dead"

And I know I'm lazy and apathetic
Sometimes that is all that know

Victory is in sight! What is that? Is that... fuck.

Today, my parent's other juvenile offspring arrived from binge-drinking state college.

She left me messages while crying. Called me while crying. It goes on.

I was at the family after dark eating ritual known as dinner. I actually was capable of expressing my anarcho-political ideals and premises of my radical thoughts. I, for once, was outspoken. No one disagreed with what I said, and I finally felt, that for the first time, I was respected in my family.

Sadly, feelings of accomplishment don't last long for Meidinger.

My sibling mentioned something I had long forgotten about. A chance to raise my academic percentage in a sect of education I was struggling in. My father became vehement. Now he is disappointed that I am not doing what he tells me. Foma.

He told me this:
"Your last article was about getting out and trying new things, and you did the opposite."

I wanted to say 'That's not entirely true.' Words, however, faltered in my throat.

"You don't really have much of a social life."

I wanted to say 'Really? I take offense to that.'
I was so close to standing up to my father. I was going to prove a point for the first time. I was ready.

Unfortunately, I was cut off by these words.

"I'm being completely serious about that." 

There's never a lower point in my life where the only parent capable of speaking insults you without batting an eye. The words felt like studs on a whip. I felt impaled.

What can I say?

"I'm sorry that you're a horrible parent and you raised me to not speak against or for anything?"
"I'm sorry I'm such a fuck up and that you have every right to be disappointed in me."
"I'm sorry you've had poor execution with all the promises you made me, so I'll do the same."

So many things I wish I could have said, so many ways to redeem myself. Such hesitation.

Unstuck in Time

My father was telling me about when he had surgery for the removal of his tonsils. I imagined what he looked like at a young age, and I assume it was a proto-face of what mine is today.

He told me they gave him the gas mask.

What this reminded me of is when Billy Pilgrim, in Slaughterhouse Five, would wake up in different times and places. How he was once a child and soon a man in the blink of an eye. He would know when he would die, and he would know when.

I was telling a friend of mine that since we were friends before now, we're friends for existence.

I wonder if one day, I'll go unconscious due to some brain trauma, and I'll be seven again.

Maybe I'll be seventeen again, and the trauma will happen when I'm middle aged.

What I'm wondering right now is: What happens next?

Certain close friends are leaving, others are changing, and I'm meeting new people.
It's like my life has reached some sort of a horrible sequel.

What I can't seem to understand is why can't I just end it here, write up a script, sell it as a movie, and live forever in film? Why can't I just settle now and lay back until our we all die our inevitable deaths? That's something we can all enjoy.

One of these days I'm sure I'll be in a delirious state, likely related to a variation of manic depression, and I'll think everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

All the mountains we climb crumble into sands of time
No mail to send, to fair-weathered friend

Hold on

Let me think of an appropriate caption.

The Sea Nile Cat

I'll dedicate this post to my friend's cat.

Here's a brief tribute to this cat. (Only partially accurate.)

This cat apparently lived in Pasadena, in a communal front lawn of a disgruntled couple's house.

For some estranged reason, this cat lived with ten other cats.

When Charlie arrived in the Ploof Family Front Lawn, he had some sort of an infection. He was also a total asshole. Hiding in his bush all day, and angrily meowing at passers by, he was subconsciously deemed the one "Most likely to die first (in various infected cat related antics.)"

For some, ungodly, bizarre reason, he managed to survive. The other cats ran away, or died off (you know how Pasadena can be) while Charlie refused to give into his long awaited damnation. He was so much of an asshole, that Death didn't want to have to deal with the "Carry On Animal (To Hell)" paperwork.

Charlie now spends his days inside a log cabin, talking to himself. Ploof tells me he's senile. There is no explanation for his blatant outbursts of trivial conversation (in which he privately engages himself in stimulating conversation) while complaining about eavesdroppers. He lives with a dog that has separation anxiety, a German Sheppard, a guinea pig and another cat. The other cat is named Oliver, however, she struggles with a 'sexual identity' personal crisis.

From hence, ye beauties, undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters, gold. 

Outside of Society

I haven't fucked much with the past, but I've fucked plenty with the future. Over the skin of silk are scars from the splinters of stations and walls I've caressed. A stage is like each bolt of wood, like a log of Helen, is my pleasure. I would measure the success of a night by the way by the way by the amount of piss and seed I could exude over the columns that nestled the P.A. Some nights I'd surprise everybody by skipping off with a skirt of green net sewed over with flat metallic circles which dazzled and flashed. The lights were violet and white. I had an ornamental veil, but I couldn't bear to use it. When my hair was cropped, I craved covering, but now my hair itself is a veil, and the scalp inside is a scalp of a crazy and sleepy Comanche lies beneath this netting of the skin. I wake up. I am lying peacefully I am lying peacefully and my knees are open to the sun. I desire him, and he is absolutely ready to seize me. In heart I am a Moslem; in heart I am an American; in heart I am Moslem, in heart I'm
an American artist, and I have no guilt. I seek pleasure. I seek the nerves under your skin. The narrow archway; the layers; the scroll of ancient lettuce. We worship the flaw, the belly, the belly, the mole on the belly of an exquisite whore. He spared the child and spoiled the rod. I have not sold myself to God.