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|Thursday, November 8th, 2007|
|Bitter, Senile, Old Man
I am not your "friend."
All of my entries are public, no matter how personal or revealing they may be. If you want to read my journal, there is no need for me to list you as a friend.
If you are the type that needs to validate their existence through the mindless hoarding of Livejournal "friends," then you have come to the wrong place. I am not your friend. If you add me, I probably won't add you back. If you try to change my mind by whining to me, sending me naked pictures, attempting to bribe me, or calling me a hateful bastard, I still won't add you back. Instead I will take your bribes and naked pictures and buy some fried chicken, masturbating to your wonderful polaroids whilst chewing on a juicy, breaded breast.
Livejournal is a community devoted to reading journals and communicating through comments. If I don't want to read your journal, I won't read your journal. If I don't think you are terribly interesting to converse with through comments, I won't reply to you. We are not friends. We are strangers who have randomly stumbled upon odd journals. If I read your journal, I am not your best friend. If you read my journal, I am not going to take you out for coffee and rub your back and ask you how you are doing and laugh and laugh at you like friends often do.
I am not your friend.
If you want to read my journal, add me. If you want to be my friend, forget it.
I am a complete stranger with the personality of a bitter, spiteful old man who is always in a rage due to his flamingly painful hemorrhoids and the fact that no one loves him. Becoming my friend isn't as easily accomplished as a mutual clicking of a fucking button on some user information internet page for some idiot's journal.
So here's my journal. If you're going to read it, read it for the right reasons. Read it because you enjoy it. Read it because you think it's entertaining. Read it because you are impressed by it. Read it because you find it terribly pretentious and the sheer pretentiousness of it amuses you. But I'm not your fucking friend.
This is all just a clever way to say "I won't add you back unless I find you interesting, so don't cry about it if I think you are boring and stupid."
|Wednesday, January 14th, 2004|
|Art...the other white meat
Literary criticism seems to me the art of destroying anything thoughtful.
Most lovers of English as an art form tend to be storehouses of knowledge. They can recite lines from every author, they know the autobiography of each writer, and they have vast memories of mythology and religion.
English professors and english majors value trivia. They value feelings over thoughts. More often than not they define art as "a democracy of touch," mindlessly quoting DH Lawrence from their vast collection of memorable quotes, and relegate works that are "monarchies of thought" into the ranks of second-class novels.
What the literary world seems to be lacking is thought. At times it even lacks communication. Lovers of english are oftentimes dreamy idealists who wish to deny reality, to absorb themselves in the frills of emotion, or to overwhelm their senses with some incomprehensible feeling of transcendence. To them, art does not preach, it absorbs. Art does not speak to them, it devours them. Art does not show, it blinds.
But they are wrong! Art is not a meaningless sentence, composed of jibberish so that it may sound beautiful. English as an art is more than just guttural sounds. Art, in order to reveal truth and beauty, must follow a form, a coherency, a rational course. A toddler's angry squelch is not a sound of art, but the philosopher's coldly projected ideals, devoid of emotion and love, are the whisperings of true, thoughtful art.
What separates art from fact? What difference lies between a novel and a consumer report? The consumer report lists facts relevant to the world...but it does not make you think. It does not speak to the sense that dwells in all men that yearns for some absolute knowledge, some vision into the world. Art is separated from mundane written work because it surpasses its historical framework, or it rises above the social skeleton that produced it, or it causes thought beyond the present far into the future, and it tells not of ideas describing what IS, but of what could be and should be.
The fundamental characteristic of art in the field of English is its ability to provoke thought and turbulence in the reader. It does more than to stir emotions. It stirs the mind and its message bounds across ages, genders, and times.
Art is a means, not an ends. It is a function of the HOW, not the WHAT. Art is not a reason to live, but a process of living. Art is thought, reason, and feeling all bound into one novel, story, or poem. Art is nothing trivial. It is not a random fact to be collected into the dusty minds of antique english professors. It is not some unchanging gem which must be displayed from behind protective glass. It is a thoughtful, evolving organism. It is an idea which must be attacked, challenged, and embraced. Art is not a process of assimilation...but a process of growth and learning.
Communication is an act of understanding. Language is the form of comprehension. The art of English is the art of knowledge spawned from thoughtful evaluation. If a work does not make you think, but merely makes you feel, like the ball in your stomach when you watch a grisly murder, then you are not witnessing art.
The critics of our age seem to have misunderstood the point of literature. They are ambassadors of superficial tinglings in their nether regions. They do not want convictions or explanations or thoughtful ideas exposed beautifully through prose. Instead they insist that the writing be "beautiful," neglecting to define the beauty they blindly seek. When an author expresses himself, they recoil in horror to their thoughtless caves, where they can bask in thoughtless literature and collect their unthinking feelings in little jars like so many lightning bugs to display to the awed students of english courses.
These monsters must be destroyed. The time has come to overthrow these oppressors of the intellect, these vile seers of the spleen and stomach. Art is not a grumble raging through your body. That is indigestion. Art is a product of the mind. And a work that produces an idle mind is not a production of art...but merely a waste of words and paper.
|Saturday, January 10th, 2004|
|Why I Be an Atheist (This is for you, anonymous fuckaaa)
Who is the mysterious "the man?"
If you have no idea what I am talking about, you be a fucking cracker. You probably live in the suburbs and wear hot pants, ya goddamn beeyotch. And I bet you pronounce the "g" sound at the end of gerunds, too, you fuckin' candy-coated teacher-fucker.
But, just so you little corn bread whiteys won't be lost in my long-winded rant against "the man," the man is the person responsible for holding down all us niggas. When a negro doesn't get accepted into college, it's THE MAN who rejected him. When a nigra gets fired from a job, it's THE MAN who fired him. When a church's chicken is built in the ghetto, it's THE MAN who built it.
Why the hizell are the ghettoes filled with fried chicken restaurants? I'll tell you why: Because THE MAN wants the little negroes to eat unhealthy, greasy food that will clog their arteries and make them fat....eventually, the black race will become so hefty that black people will no longer be able to say "white men can't jump," because their hefty folds of fat will prevent them from lifting their feet more than a few inches into the air. It is all a subtle attempt to induce social darwinism into our lives to make us all fat like fat albert, mang.
Now, most whiteys think that THE MAN is merely an invention for black people to use as a scapegoat. If I decide to not go into work because I wanted to smoke pot, slap my hoe around, and eat chicken, I can conveniently blame the ambigious "the man" who oppresses all black man everywhere. But this simply ain't so. The man exists, my friends. And his name is God. He floats around in his WHITE robes with his WHITE beard in his WHITE heaven, and he conveniently causes misfortune upon all us poor black folks. When Kane murdered Abel, God marked Kane with a darker skin tone. He hates our kind. When we say that "the man" is against us, we are saying that GOD is against us.
And it's true, too. Jesus wasn't no nigga. Jesus didn't have no hoes, no fried chicken, no platinum jewlery, no unwanted chillun'. Shit, no black man would EVER consent to being nailed to a fucking cross. If Jesus were black, He would have told those punk ass romans where to shove their damn cross, and then He would have busted miracles all over their punk asses, turning them into toads and shit.
So the next time you hear a black man angrily devoting his life to fighting the man, don't assume that we think "the man" is some white guy in a business suit, or that "the man" is white culture as a whole, or that he is a symbol upon whose shoulders we can conveniently place all blame to absolve ourselves of any social resonsibility.
Nah, when we fight the man, we be fighting GOD, yo. God is a white man's invention, designed to repress and enslave gullible little negroes into submission by making them feel as if meekness is a fucking positive character trait. Hang yo head and humbly let yourself be whipped, little tar-baby, because that's the way JESUS would have done it.
Well Jesus ain't no nigga. Fo' real. The man can suck my big black dick. And do you expect me to believe that it's just a COINCIDENCE that the man (who is God) would try to kill us all with chicken restaurants named after a CHURCH? Aww hell naw!
(I am one sixth mexican, so I can say this. Seriously. It's the rule for saying culturally offensive things.)
|Thursday, December 25th, 2003|
|Why I am an Atheist and not an Agnostic
The following is a fictional conversation based upon real conversations I have had with many people, ranging from christians to agnostics.
Man: Do you believe that there are immaterial flying elephants in the sky that eat clouds and pee rain?
Man: Why not? The fact that clouds are constantly disappearing shows that they are being eaten by the immaterial flying elephants. And the fact that it rains shows that they are urinating on us after eating those clouds. Why WOULDN'T you believe in immaterial flying elephants in the sky?!
Christian: I do not have to develop a relationship with those elephants. There is no incentive for me to believe in them or have faith in them. That is why I do not believe in them.
Man: Oh, I forgot to tell you that the elephants will get mad if you don't believe in them. If you don't love them, they stop eating clouds and urinating to give you rain. Thus, if you don't believe in the elephants or love them, your crops will dry up and the earth will go barren. So, really, the elephants DO want a relationship with you! So why don't you believe in these immaterial flying elephants? You can't say "it doesn't matter" or that "you don't care" because you don't want to develop a relationship with them. You said that you don't believe they exist. That isn't a matter of caring about their existence, but a refutation of their existence! And that makes them angry!
Christian: Well, the reason why I don't believe they exist is becase I have not believed in them for 18 years. Rain has been sufficient without my belief in them.
Man: Ah, but you are only reaping the rain from the prayers of people like me, who DO love the elephants and convince them to urinate rain on our Earth. Besides, if you had believed that the earth is flat for 18 years, and your life had been good even with the belief that the earth was flat, it wouldn't mean your belief was TRUE. Thus, you couldn't say "The earth isn't round" just because you have always believed it was flat and that has been a good thing! The same rule applies to the elephants you said don't exist! Can you PROVE that these immaterial flying elephants don't exist?
Christian: I can prove they don't exist because I have never had a personal relationship with them.
Man: I have never had a personal relationship with a koala. Does this mean koala's don't exist?! Do I have to have sex with a koala before it will exist?!
Christian: But you have seen a koala.
Man: No, I have never seen a koala. I have seen paintings and pictures, but not an actual koala. Here, I painted a picture of the immaterial flying elephants. There, now you've seen them, they must exist! But really, the only point I'm making is that a lack of a relationship with something does not prove that it doesn't exist!
Christian: But you have had no personal encounters with these elephants. You have never felt them or saw them.
Man: I have felt their urine dripping from the skies! I have seen the clouds disappear after the elephants ate them! Surely that is proof enough for you?!
Christian: But I have never experienced the elephants, I have only experienced their urine.
Man: I bet you've never "experienced" a nuclear bomb, but I bet you think those exist. Besides, when you feel their urine on your face, you can feel their love for you IN YOUR HEART. And when they eat those clouds so that you may have rain, you can feel the love of the elephants eminating from the sky! I have experienced them, believe me!
Christian: I have no reason to believe in invisible elephants in the sky. I am not saying that they don't exist. I'm just saying I don't believe in them, because my belief in them will not affect me. It rains even when I don't believe in them.
Man: But you do have reason to believe that the immaterial elephants in the sky exist. Remember, they explain how clouds disappear and why rain falls! Also, it is only man's love for the elephants that causes them to urinate on us. Should we stop loving them, they will leave and urinate on a more thankful planet to sustain them instead. If it affected you, you'd believe it. And it does affect you, you are just blind to that fact. Besides, just because it doesn't affect you doesn't mean they aren't there. You can't prove them wrong!
Christian: The rain can be explained through evaporation and condensation.
Man: But that is only a theory. You can't say with absolute certainty that it isn't the immaterial flying elephants that make rain and eat clouds, because you can't prove them wrong. Evaporation is only one theory, one simple explanation. Just like evolution is a possible explanation for our origin alongside creationism. But who can say which one is correct?!
Christian: I don't believe in immaterial elephants in the sky. And I never will. It has nothing to do with me proving them wrong. It has to do with FAITH. I do not have faith in the immaterial elephants. I have faith in God. Just like I do not have faith in Buddha, I do not have a belief in the immaterial elephants.
Man: But why did you choose to have faith in God over the flying elephants or buddha? Something must have convinced you. I know you just didn't randomly pick a deity to have faith in. Perhaps you reasoned that the Earth had to be created, and that miracles exist so that explains Jesus's existence as God, and thus that explains why you have faith in God. You don't just pick any theory to have faith in. You have FAITH in what you think is the best explanation. But don't you think my elephant explanation is just as good as yours? You can't prove it wrong. Just as you can't prove your explanation right. Obviously, to choose one over the other is to be close-minded. You KNOW that it's a possibility that the elephants exist, and yet you risk angering them in order to close your mind and believe God made it all, instead! Well, the elephants are very mad at you, dear. And I hope they don't stop urinating on account of your hatred of them and your refusal to believe in them. I will have to love them extra hard tonight to be sure that they make it rain.
Christian: I may be wrong. Elephants may be the cause of rain. Or maybe it is God. Or maybe it is evaporation. I don't know and I can't prove either wrong. But I have faith in God. And that's all that matters. I see where you are going with this....anything is possible, really. But I also believe that anything is possible...through Christ.
Man: You should have faith in the elephants, too. Share the love!
Christian: But that could possibly contradict my belief in God.
Man: So? Contradictions exist. The world is irrational. Anything is possible, as you said. This means that it is possible to have a square circle. And it is possible to flap your arms really hard and fly. And it is possible to walk on water and rise from the dead. So, why isn't it possible to believe in elephants that create rain and eat clouds as well as to believe that they don't create rain and eat clouds and that God created all these things?!
Christian: Because that doesn't make sense.
Man: Of course not. I never said immaterial flying elephants made sense. But certainly they explain clouds and rain, and certainly you can't prove them wrong!
Christian: I refuse to have faith in them.
Man: You've convinced me. I refuse to have faith in them too. Anything that is a ridiculous explanation, even if it can't be proved false, should be discarded. In fact, anything that requires faith because it can't be proven or verified should be discarded. Instead, we should live our lives seeking truth instead of BELIEVING we know truth. We should KNOW truth and not have FAITH that we know truth! But to pretend that immaterial elephants is any sort of explanation is absurd. It is an admittance than anything is possible, when anything is NOT possible. It is a blatant disregard for the things we use to make decisions and learn. Without rationality, you cannot have faith in the best choice, you merely have faith in the first thing you come across. You would believe in immaterial elephants that piss rain if that was the first thing you heard. But this is not possible. And it is the elephant's status of "immateriality" that renders it incapable of being disproven, because no one truly knows that kind of characteristics that implies. When having an open mind leads you to be accepting of ridiculous views such as the existence of square circles, or of two conflicting ideas, or of elephants that urinate rain, your mind has become too open to the point of becoming absurd. There are explanations for things, and the best explanation is the one that is the least absurd.
Christian: God bless, I'm leaving.
Man: Elephant bless!
|Saturday, December 6th, 2003|
I've noticed something strange lately.
I am a very strange driver.
Just today, I cooked myself an egg sandwich and specifically brought it with me in the car. I had plenty of time to eat it at home. But I had a strange desire to eat it while driving. I also brought along four cookies to eat as well. If you see an obituary for a man who died from choking on something while driving, you'll probably see my name on it.
Not only that, but I write rhymes in the car. As I'm cruising down the highway, I'll get ideas in my head. Rhymes will just sprout in my imagination, the most complex rhymes, with multiple syllable rhyme stems and many rhymes packed into single lines. Naturally, I have to write it down before they fade from my memory. So I grab a pen and a scrap paper and start writing while driving. In between braking and pressing the accelator, I'm scribbling down rap lyrics. It's pathetic and sad, I know. So, if you see an obituary that tells about a man who died from writing rap lyrics (talk about GANGSTA!), then that was me too.
Not only that, but I've also become an extremely aggressive driver. I used to be so timid and mundane. I would drive slow and obey the speed limit. When I merged, I would do it very slowly and carefully.
Now I'm a fucking maniac. When I merge onto the highway, I do it at 70 miles per hour. If there are two lanes that merge, I get into the far lane that disappears into shoulder and zoom around the slower cars, always switching lanes just seconds before I'm about to start driving on the shoulder. When there's a punk in the fast lane who won't speed up, I weave through traffic at 80 miles per hour to overtake the lead. When the roads are relatively clear, I rampage past the other vehicles in the mid-90s. Even my music tastes have grown to suit my new desire for speed. I have a CD full of blaring orchestrated instrumental songs. I have the Two Towers Theme (Lux Aeterna, a very intense song, indeed) blasting loudly from my speakers as I drive down highways. The song booms with a regular rhythm like horse hoofs pounding in a raging fury, so naturally I drive my car wildly to match the music. And when those strings kick in, I just start going apeshit in my car and I revv my engine really loud and just blow by old ladies who stare at me in fright. I even listen to O Fortuna by Carl Orff and tear up four lane roads while tapping the cymbal smashes on my steering wheel violently and crazily weaving between slower vehicles, my car threading the fabric of the road like a goshdurn grandmother knitting a christmas sweater.
When I'm in a rhyme writing mood I listen to the training theme sequence from the Matrix. Not only does that instrumental make me churn out great rhyme combinations, but it allows me to do so at around 80 miles per hour. And I create my most gansgta-ish rhymes when I'm listening to my classical instrumentals, holmes. Fo' real, G.
Apparently I've gone car-insane. Of course, I'm a much better driver now than I was before. I don't slow down traffic when I expertly merge at highway speeds. I don't gawk at traffic lights. I save time by cruising by slow people. And I listen to some kickass music.
So remember folks, if you read an article in the newspaper talking about some guy who died in a horrible car accident that exceeded speeds of 90 miles per hour all because he was writing a rhyme with one hand and eating chicken nuggets with the other...that article is about me. Because I'm just that gangsta.
|Thursday, December 4th, 2003|
Everyone believes that all opinions are equal. Most people don't even know what an opinion is. "The earth is flat," they will say. If you try to argue against them, they will say "It's my opinion, and I have a right to it just as much as you have a right to yours." The statement about the earth being flat, however, is a factual statement. It can be verified as true or false. It is not a matter of subjective preference. It is NOT an opinion!
Then we have the problem of people who think all opinions are equal. "I think that if koalas want to live, they should all jump off of a 200 foot cliff into the grand canyon." This is an opinion about what koalas should do in order to live. It is an illogical, irrational, and ridiculous opinion. But, of course, if I argued against it, I would merely have the ridiculous person state that he is entitled to his opinion, and that his opinions are just as worthy of credit as mine.
Opinions are not equal. Some opinions are more informed than others. Some opinions are more logical than others. Some opinions are more realistic than others. Your fucking opinion is not equal to mine if you pulled it out of your ass.
I am sick and tired of people who come at me with that "That's just your OPINION!" defense. It's such a fucking cliche and it's WRONG.
Please, anyone who reads this journal. NEVER make the assumption that all opinions are equal. For the love of all that is dignified and respectable, don't do such a thing!
|Tuesday, December 2nd, 2003|
|Stealing and Novels and Junk
Here's something flattering:http://www.huhs.org/activities/zyzzyva/famefall03/reupert.html
This person, who goes by the name of Michelle Reupert, is unable to think for herself and has apparently purloined several of my journal entries in order to pass it off as her own work.
It's quite flattering, really. It also makes me realize how sad and pathetic people can be. How can anyone feel a sense of accomplishment from submitting something to a literary magazine when they didn't write it?!
Michelle, you say you want to study law. I hope the first book you crack open is about theft, copyright laws, and any other various form of stealing what another has written. I hope you also take a glance at business ethics while you're at it.
(EDIT: I've found out who this person is and we had a very long discussion.)
Moving on, my journal has been relatively dead the past week. This is because I have undertaken the task of reading EVERY book on list of the "Top 100 novels of all time" as dictated by some web site I have found. I am going to move through the list slowly but surely and read every one of those books, even the ones that I have already read. So far I have read Catch-22 again and the Great Gatsby again. Two down, 98 to go.
Naturally, I am embarking upon this literary journey not for my own amusement or to build my knowledge, but to snub people who will then be inferior to me. I will be able to wrinkle my nose at their plebian way of life and then call them unsophisticated...and they won't be able to question it because I have read the 100 greatest novels of our time and this makes me a God among men.
My superiority will exert itself over people like so:
Me: Have you ever read "Of Human Bondage" by Maugham?
Random moron: Yes, I have. I didn't like it very much, but...
Me: Yes, yes, but anyway, have you ever read "Ulysses" by James Joyce?
Random moron: No, I haven't, but I have been plan...
Me: That book was magnificent. And you STINK, dear sir, for having not read it, you filthy illiterate scum bag.
I could then haughtily walk away with my nose upturned at him while scoffing at his imbecility.
Obviously, I have been busy with this new task of asserting my superiority over others by absorbing the ideas of great men and not thinking for myself. It's very draining. I bet Michelle Reupert would know all about that.
I really am going to read all those novels, though. But the real reason I have not updated in a while is because I have been bogged down with writing five hundred papers, all due this week.
So, I might see you in a few more days. Then I can relax.
|Thursday, November 27th, 2003|
Behold my favorite part of speech: the almighty verb!
The verb makes love to my mind and patiently rests faithfully by my bed like a loyal pet as my favorite part of speech.
Like an adjective, it can lend description to an event. "The man embraced those ideals..." compared to "The man believed those ideals..." shows just how starkly the verb "embraced" contrasts with the verb "believed" by making the man in the first sentence seem much more passionate about his ideals. The verb "embrace" is also a metaphor in the cited example, as he isn't PHYSICALLY embracing the ideals. Verbs morph from metaphors to adjectives at the writer's whim. Verbs bask in their multiple literary functions.
The verb demands a necessary position in any sentence, but it can also be employed in various forms to change the tone of a piece. To sound formal, simply use the passive voice. To force a piece to appear action-oriented and present, employ the active voice. The tense of a verb can affect a whole novel, telling a reader whether a narrator is relaying the ideas of something that already occurred, or telling the reader that the events are presently occurring.
Simply put, the verb destroys all of the other parts of speech because it can be used in so many ways and in such magnitude. The verb could survive any brutal wave of a parts-of-speech plague, should such a thing ever threaten the health of a sentence, because it is the most resourceful and useful part of speech. The verb, as a result of its supreme importance, is the only part of speech that can stand alone and still be considered a complete sentence in standard english: Win. The subject is an understood you: (You) win. The sentence is a command. Win. It evokes an impenetrable sense of pride as it stands stoically alone. And it will win. The verb cannot be conquered.
|Monday, November 24th, 2003|
I am one of those annoying people who has an answer for everything.
I have a problem. The first step is admitting it. I know this because I once knew a man who went to AA mee....I'm doing it again, aren't I?
I first began to notice the problem when I began to answer questions that no one else would answer. Oftentimes, I would say something plainly obvious, and the listener would say something like "No, shit, is the sky blue?"--to which I would reply with a factual "Yes," or, if I was feeling more argumentative, with a determined "No," only to explain that the sky actually has no color as easily verified by looking at it during night hours.
When I noticed that no one else ever answered these rhetorical questions, I began to sense that I had a problem. I always answered these questions without the slightest hesitation, giving them all the information they could ever want on the subject they had no interest in. I simply couldn't grasp the fact that these people were trying to impart information to ME through the question. How was I to know they weren't genuinely asking me to provide them answers? They ask why George Bush must be so stupid, intending only to imply that he's stupid, and I tell them exactly why his ploy of stupidity allows him to appear more innocently dumb than plottingly sinister. People say to me, "Jesus, why are you such a smart aleck?" and I reply that I am a smart aleck because I am oh-so intelligent and if I rearrange the letters of my full name, including the middle, I can spell out "Aleck." I'd also inform them that my name is not Jesus. My God, I remember those question answering days in literature classes, where the teacher would profess an empty question from a piece of literature..."WHY ME?!" and I would answer why him with the abundant usage of sources to back up my conclusions.
I have a problem.
I am even a member of a community called randomquestions here on Deadjournal. Of course I'm a member of a question asking community! The community has dozens of posts per day with people asking mindless questions. It's like heroin to me. I drool like Pavlov's dog when I see that someone has asked a random question begging for my witty answer. I have a problem. I can't abstain from answering questions. I grub for these queries like a starving ant eater searching for a fucking mealworm. GIVE ME SOMETHING TO ANSWER OR THE DOG GETS IT!
I have managed to control my impulses better. I no longer answer EVERY question I hear. I no longer become violent to my dog when it refuses to ask questions of me while I talk to it lovingly and we play. When I ask my dog in my cute little purposefully lisping voice: "Why aw you so cute?! Why aw you so cutesie-wootsie!?" I no longer become furious with my dumbfounded pet when it doesn't answer my question with brutal seriousness, telling me just exactly why it is so cutesie-wootsie by explaining how its floppy ears and wondorous fur are just so damned loveable.
I have learned to not answer such questions as "Why must you be so dense?" with a hearty reply that I must build a hearty, thick exterior in order to drown out the sound of the trivialities sputtering from the speaker's mouth. Instead I call them a jackass. It seems to work for me, not answering the question. Simply calling them a jackass saves me time and helps stave off my addiction.
I am steadily improving...steadily...but...
Why can't I stop answering questions?!
Because I have no self-contro....God dammit, I did it again.
|Sunday, November 23rd, 2003|
Inflation isn't just an economic term. It applies to love as well.
When an economic system experiences inflation, money loses its value. Generally, the production of more currency causes inflation. If you only produce five pennies, they will be worth five cents. If you produce five billion pennies, there will be such an abundance of the money as it gradually spreads through the system that prices begin to rise to account for it. The pennies will steadily lose value. Five pennies will soon only be worth about two cents. The overproduction of money leads to a loss in the money's value.
What happens when you overproduce love? People often say they love someone when there is no reason to believe they truly love them. After a night of fucking, a gullible, naive girl might think that she is in love with the man she had blown so romantically the night before. Because she spreads her idea of love around so loosely, applying it to virtually any manwhore she blows, she devalues love into something essentially worthless. Love becomes just another name for a faceless man in a bar who is looking for a quick blowjob and who will leave you in the morning.
The idea of unconditional love is another factor that leads to the demise of love's value. When you love without condition, you are forced to love everyone and everything as an equal, for to discriminate with your love would be to apply a condition to it. Thus, you produce love at a massive quanitity, applying it to everyone. You end up loving your dog as much as your mother, a rapist as much as your father, an inanimate rock as much as your God. When love has no conditions upon it, inflation will occur and all love loses value. Your love for your mother is no different than your love for your girlfriend. Your love for your father is the same as your love for a distant stranger.
Another factor that leads to love's economic instability is the fact that people no longer value it for themselves. Instead of loving people to meet their own needs, they love people to meet OTHER'S needs. They give away all their love to charities. They pour their love into a bum's homeless cup. Love becomes something pointless and worthless, and all it takes is a simple realization that you don't want it for yourself.
Much as many would suddenly burn their money without flinching should they realize that it is merely printed paper, that it is merely a SYMBOL, the same would happen to love if they recognized that they do not want love for themselves. Love becomes just worthless paper with no gold to back it up. You will throw it away without caring because it no longer affects you.
If you're going to love someone, love them for the right reasons. Love them because you love yourself. Be happy for them, but do not let their own desires destroy your own. Love shouldn't be a mutual enslavement, with each party humbly bowing to each other and relinquishing their own wishes to the other. Love should be a desire for a mutual happiness met through each party's individual satisfaction. Love should never demand an automatic concession. All compromise should be thought-out and carefully considered. Should your partner ask you to kill for them, you should not resign yourself to becoming an assassin. You must first ask yourself whether your own individual values are more important than your love's wish for murder. Love takes into account the other persons's desires, but it does not automatically accept those desires as something which must be met.
Some people say love is blind. Love isn't blind. Love has the sight of a hawk. When love is blind it stumbles through emotions, destroys the value of feelings, and renders everyone your emotional equal whether they deserve such status or not. Love only becomes blind after you have gouged its eyes out with your stubborn, self-sacrificing persistence. One should never feel chained to a sinking ship. Don't let your love drown in the destruction. Don't let your love inflate into something meaningless.
You can't love others if you don't love yourself. And when you do love others, always remember to love yourself more. Your most important selfish goals take priority over any social allegiance you may feel to a parasitic lover.
|Saturday, November 22nd, 2003|
I was given a once in a lifetime opportunity today.
A chubby lady waddled up to me while I was at work skillfully scanning someone's baby food.
"Would you like to be a haircut model?" she said.
Stars in my eyes, a dreamy look sweeping across my face, and with a loose-grinning stare into the ceiling, I replied that it has been my dream ever since I was a small child to be a hair model. The customer then yelled at me because I had stopped scanning her baby food, so I finished scanning her baby food and gave her the receipt and then resumed my starry eyed gaze and my story about how I had wanted to be a hair model ever since I was a small child.
"Okay, then" she said, her double chin wobbling with a mesmerizing force, "You can just stop by the hair salon and we will cut your hair...you won't have to pay a dime. We will set up a video and everything."
I let out a blissful gasp. My dreams of being a hair model were finally being realized. Now the whole world would see my beautiful locks being trimmed on this video that would no doubt be set up. I would get to smile and shake my hair just like the people in dandruff shampoo commercials. There would be close ups of my wonderous folicles and posters with my toothy grin! Everyone would see the majesty of my greasy, unwashed, uncombed hair. Small children would see me in magazine ads and point and goo at me!
The hair salon, located within the store, because private businesses often invade Walmart's space like tiny, annoying squirrels, stood like an oasis before me as I clocked out and walked slowly towards it.
I stepped in, and a guy who looked like a meat packer, yet who had a woman's voice, said hi.
Much to my chagrin, the "video" she had spoken of was a training video. My beautiful hair would not be filmed, produced, and manufactured onto videos to be sold throughout the country. Instead the hairy meat packer was going to watch the video and use my hair as a guinea pig for his amateurish slicings. I wasn't going to be a hair model in the sense of a SUPER MODEL who makes lots and lots of money, but in the sense of a mannequin head model that hair stylists use to master their scissor skills. Instead the meat packer was going to perform odd hair stylist experiments upon my hair, like some sort of crazed mad scientist who looks like a meat packer and wields a tube of hair gel.
So, the meat packer talked in his womanly voice and watched his video and badly mimicked the actions of the skilled hair cutter in the video. The skilled hair cutter man in the video looked like a truck driver in nice clothing, and he also had a woman's voice for some odd reason. The fat woman with the double chin oversaw the whole process, informing the meat packer whenever he did something wrong, like slice my jugular.
Of course, it was a double effort. The woman did one side of my head, and the meat packer cut the other side. He was supposed to watch her and copy her, making my hair symmetrical. Instead he didn't. "Meat packer, your fingers are much too much bigger than the fat lady's. You aren't going to cut my hair to an equal length on both sides if you use your stubby, fat, hairy fingers, you silly meat packer!" I thought.
In the end, I was a haircut model...model in the sense of a store mannequin model...and I got a free bad haircut. My dreams were realized and then quickly shattered in the blink of a meat packer's hairy eyelids.
I'm still waiting for someone to one day offer me a job as a hair model, the kind that make lots and lots of money and get to shake their head in television commercials about shampoo.
But for now, at least I'll always have my bad haircut. Or at the very least I'll have it for another week or so, until my hair grows back greasy and unwashed once again.
|PRESIDENT OF WALMART
The key to being successful in the workplace is to simply not give a damn. People who give a damn are always hated. They are the nervous managers who constantly pace the workplace, trying to get people to work harder, unable to stand still for half a fucking second lest they feel unproductive. They shake like crack babies as they flicker in and out of existence in their movements like hummingbird wings. Everyone grows to hate the sound of their shrill, nerve-racking voice that seems coated in awful desperation. Their eyes bulge and twitch with stress from the severity with which they treat their unimportant jobs, ultimately leading to nervous breakdowns during their lunch break, where they continue to command and order while off the clock.
Everyone knows a manager like this. And everyone hates a manager like this. This manager will never make it to the top. There is never a manager like this at the very top. They take their job much too seriously to ever be able to handle running a whole company. They can barely manage a team of twenty people without having the pulsing nerve in their forehead pop in bloody frustration.
The managers at the top are the laid back ones. They do not give a damn about what happens, they simply get things done with the instinctive will of a cheetah indifferently downing a gazelle. Anyone who cares about their job will hit the glass ceiling and never make it past middle management. To truly be of value, you can't give a damn.
I work at Walmart. I don't give a damn about my job. I don't give a damn about my customers. I just get things done. And I won't do something that I don't have to do.
I could run this fucking company in five more years.
EDIT: ....run this company into the ground.
|Thursday, November 13th, 2003|
What is life but a state of constant blinking? A fogged morning eye yearning for focus. A toilsome fit of attempted understanding.
We know so little. Our lives are mysteries. Our purpose is ambiguous and fleeting. Everyone trudges through city streets, bathed in lamplight, their faces lifeless and silver.
We can only know what surrounds us. We know blurry visions, muffled cries, pins and needles, soft stenches. And when we think we've mastered the blurs and the stenches, we find more questions. We stumble through eons searching for answers, unearthing only questions. Each explanation is only a mass of further queries. Life answers a question with a question.
And what are we to think? Are we to lay in morning coffins? Are we to mold our faces to the expression of zoo beasts pacing in their cages? Are we to dive into unconciousness?
Our searching lives are futile. Do we search for something that cannot be found? Are we finding patterns in mere accidents...in spilled ink? Do we see butterflies and babies' faces in the random chaos of an exploded pen's meaningless ejactulations upon a splattered paper?
A man is a man is a cloud shaped like a man wearing a cowboy hat. And if so, should I really believe in cowboys?
I am brittle and ancient. My tired mind slumps into a dejected, cowering posture. Nothing exists. Knowledge is death. Everything is a mirage. Every cold moment is composed of infinite possibilies strewn together without thought.
The only absolute is that nothing is absolute, except this, and maybe gravity, and possibly even thermodynamics. But that's it.
Everything else is a vague guess. Everything else is a horrible odor we can't decipher, slowly invading our tingling nostrils. It could be a corpse.
Let's close our eyes and fade together. The darkness can't be a mirage. Nothing can feel by being made unfeeling. And the nothing I can sense is the nothing that is there, no longer breathing.
|Monday, November 10th, 2003|
|So so Stupid
I'm not going to take myself seriously anymore. I'm going to dance an oblivious dance. Why should I care if someone thinks I need to be more serious, if someone thinks I need to be more social, if someone thinks I need to smile less? I like to laugh at things that aren't funny. I like to smile at any trivial remark you make to me. It's how I greet people. I like to smile my goofy smile like a big idiot. I'm going to relax and let myself do whatever feels natural. I may ignore you, I may smile at you, I may be overly nice to you, I may seem like a smiling puppet that you can't talk to through its jeering smile, but that's natural for me. I don't know why I took you serious to begin with.
In a choice between doing something I should do and doing something I want to do, I usually do the thing I should do.
I hate myself.
|Saturday, November 8th, 2003|
|Oh, so Sad
Don't notice me. Don't look at me. Ignore me. Swish, swish go the rustling pant legs. Don't hear it. Don't look up. Her eyes see me. Swish, swish, I quickly walk past her. How can she even look at me? How can she stand to turn her eyes upon me? I never want to see her naked face again. The sigh of obligation. The whisper of her words. I turn and talk to her with broken sentences. Hello how are you goodbye. Get away. Her face a jagged rock of mere formality. I can't stand to watch her transparent eyes. Mumbled good byes. Don't pretend to like me. Don't pretend. Don't act. I'm not acting. Swish, swish, get me away from her.
|Friday, October 31st, 2003|
A sculptor must feel tremendously embarrassed as he chisels at his creation's crotch, slowly shaping the form of male genitals. Cupping the stone nuts in his hand, he would no doubt feel a shudder rip through his insides before he maps out the ridge of the penis. On his knees, examining the coarse genitals slowly becoming erected, the sculptor could no doubt feel nothing but a sense of shameful wonder as he stared at the nether regions of his statue like a whore fondling her very first cock.
This is why all sculptors give their sculptures tiny penises. They are much too ashamed to dwell in that horrid region. They shoot through it with nervous fury, hastily shaping the penis so that they may be through with it, clenching their eyes shut like a ghastly rape victim.
I challenge you, little arachnid
I'll break your back, kid--so spin your webs of wackness
And I'll smash 'em, rip through your exoskeleton
leave your guts dripping out like melted gelatin
leave you lookin' like a celibate melon-head
too delicate and lacking intelligence to challenge this new development
Try to battle me and I'll rip out your thorax
Stomp you like an insect until you're flat like a doormat
Your vanity is mere insanity, you look like a manatee
while randomly panicking and spitting inanities
or blasphemies, you're only damaging your own family
you're actively sandwiching your lack of rappin' deeds
into a cavity to make it magically appear as havin' more savagery
but you're only managing to rapidly increase your own agony
your magesty's rap tapestry has the artistic merit of a magazine
that emphatically and fanatically supports depravities
Akin to the law of gravity, your words will always be a travesty
and mine will always prevail massively and radically
You spit sporadically, your rhymes always lack integrity
Regrettably, I feel shamed that your rhymes even mention me
So I have to respond aggressively, punch you in your gut till your intestines bleed
You call your rhymes a pedigree...they are: inbred for years like families in Tennessee
I leave your rhymes dissolved like solvents with my newest installment
My logic is flawless, if you question it I'll have you visiting an embalmist
|Wednesday, October 29th, 2003|
Oh, I can't be bothered. I can't be bothered by these thoughts. These thoughts bombard my brain like a banana, which is merely a metaphor for an army squad, because they wear desert yellow uniforms and peel away to surround the enemy like discarded banana peels. Everything is merely a metaphor for a metaphor that is strangely like a similie. I smile when I see a similie smiling at me similarly to a portrait of a grinning simian from a simmering nature magazine. Oh, the awful aliteration, the august affront afforded by awesome imitation! The awed auspices of ardent arguments arouse arduous animals to annihlation. Rhyme rhyme rhyme time after time after thyme, spiced lines, spliced crimes, stop the linguistic lobotomy! Stop the fading dichotomy between form and content! Onamonopea pops and cackles to swooshing heights before I can shut my creaking mouth! Stop. Period. Semicolon; It is just another way to stop. A shade of red. A fuscia glaring from the stoplight. Nothing more than a silent, pausing imitation of the popular dot. Nothing but a comma period. Pause AND stop, slowly present the onslaught of information! And what is a literary colon but the equivalent to the human colon: an orifice that expels waste. For what are words but waste shooting from an implied semicolon at the beginning of each sentence? The steaming feces the slowly creeps from our anuses: nothing but compacted refuse and waste, with a few trace nutrients still clinging to life within the dead mass. These words are waste. They are compacted, used up trash surrounding the few remaining nutrients. Where are the nutrients? The subtle subject-nouns and verbs hiding within the forest of rotting adjectives, adverbs, articles, prepositions, onomonapea, METAPHOR, SIMILIE; the horrid trivial constructs of form and sound are the wriggling unwinding intestines that the waste must mold to! Oh, now it's all spilling out, a literal diarrhea of the mouth, the stinking waste attracting flies like human buzzards to a dead ice cream stand. Words are wastes, paragraphs are sewer systems, novels are massive land fills dwarfing the tiny villages on the spreading landscape. Add to the heap, add add add to the heap. A tongue litters but there is no fine. There is no walking night stick, belt buckle, tin star to tap you on the shoulder in awful rebuke. Let flee the wasted words from your working mouth! Create Mount Everests of manuscripts for english majors to climb like stoic adventurers. Beware the landslides, the wordslides slowly tumbling from the heights, the verbs bashing or bashed or will be bashing depending upon the movement, depending upon the TIME. What am I doing? My words are forming and escaping from the wrong end. The toothing mouth, the eating orifice, the smiling gash: this is not the organ I was expecting! This is not the typical route of waste! Could this be vomit? Could this be the colon of the mouth? The gag reflex of the mind? I widely spread my jaws, the flesh hinges aching with the burning tension, and I feel the bile rush out, the particles brushing against my mouth's roof, fleeing between my teeth, piling in heaps upon the paper. The chunks like a topographic map. The steady drying of bile rivers and the crusting of half-digested mountains. Waste waste waste. Can you taste the sickly sweet scent of waste? Can you taste it with your nostrils, like alcohol vapors slowly drifting to your brain?
"Words are collections of sounds. The word pregnancy is nothing but an assimilation of the GNAN-ish grunts of birthing women, the PREG, PREG, PREG whisper/prayers of nervous husbands and the indifferent, cynical CYies of experienced doctors and coldly knowing nurses." I know not who said it. Perhaps it was a whispering voice. The flowing fart of sounds wheezing from a projected anus or a toothy colon of the face.
|Thursday, September 11th, 2003|
I am under the impression that the world is filled with morons. That idiots and mindless goons roam the streets in a numb fury. That imbeciles smash gavels and dolts write out traffic tickets. My greatest fear is that I may be one of them. Does idiocy have the ability to recognize itself? Can an idiot perceive his own wrongs? Or does an idiot blindly cling with an unwavering grasp to his false ideals that are constantly being besieged by reason? Of course, there are morons that recognize their status as lacking brain power. Recognizing your own stupidity is not the only prerequesite for vanquishing stupidity. One must excercise intelligence to be intelligent. Realizing you are wrong is not enough. You must then seek to determine what is RIGHT.
I can see moronic people walking their dogs in the street. The dog leads. It walks through broken glass--you cringe and follow. It walks over hot coals--you cringe and follow. It squats to release dung onto the sidewalk, and you are powerless to stop the dumb beast. It pulls tightly upon the leash and you stumble along behind it. The dog leads you to sprinkled mailboxes, to once marked trees, to fire hydrants that still emit the scent of fresh urine. He pulls you through the suburban wasteland. And you have to ask yourself, who is really on the leash? The leader or the stumbling follower? The dog has his destination in mind, he has his ideals of lifted legs and sprayed urine, but you...all you can do is stumble along behind him, confident and faithful behind the steps of your fervent dog; Confident that your dog will lead you to salvation, while at the same time confident than you can yank his cord if he should stray into any yards of which you may disapprove. The dog knows where he is going, you know where you don't want to go. Consequently you compromise and allow the dumb animal to lead, but you tug on his leash should he lead you to uncomfortable briars and busy streets. You rationalize the dog's destination in your mind. You accept it as right because you pulled it away from anything that may harm your wondorous standards. It is a mutual leash, a form of co-slavery, a symbiosis of oppression.
Only later do they notice the odious, anceint, yellowed stains of urine covering their very own walls and warped corners, betraying the outdoor consistencies to which your dog supposedly only lifted his leg. Only later do you realize that you accounted all of the wonders of the world to a mere wandering dog, when that same dog was a product of and a slave to the very leashes and rules that envelope YOU.
Yes, the world is filled with morons. With morons who don't trust their own senses or their own judgements, and instead put their faith into the vapid wanderings of a listless dog. You can see these morons creeping through homes and sulking through parking garages, the leashes attatched firmly to their fingers. And they think they are in control. They smoke cigars and drink soda just like you. But you aren't one of them. Oh, no, you will never become a moron. Because you will seek rational answers, draw logical conclusions, and denounce the poisoned fruits of ignorance. You will not only rebel against stupidity, but will endorse intelligence. You will follow the correct paths and leave the urine scented trails of ignorance to the useless hounds! You will destroy all who seek to revile intellect as a curse!