Australopithecus

Fancy using this thing again. I guess I just need to write in a place where I don't feel like a jackass being brutally honest about stuff. I have this strange need to write where people can read it, you know? I write all the time away from the public eye, but something always draws me back to writing for the eyes of others. Anyway, in case any of you forgot (which would be very easy to do, considering how long it's been since I touched this blog) this is the site where I write whatever comes out, and don't mess with it afterwards or censor myself. Therefore, I must warn you, I am extremely strange in the mind right now. If you are weak of faith, read no further, for the things contained herein could destroy your very concept of time and space. Or it could just make you think that I am a whiny, egotistical, self-centered bastard. In any case, I am going to actually dive into what I have to say now, and as I said, I don't expect any of you to read it. Also, you can comment if you like, but I remind you that I am just writing what comes out at the tail-end of a hideously painful headache, while I'm off of all of my psychiatric medications. Therefore, any criticism or reprimand about what I have to say here will not be appreciated. Not appreciated, with extreme prejudice.
That being said, let us now plow on into that thick, impenetrable darkness, and stand upright to face whatever evils may lurk there.

I am a mentally crippled awful bastard, and if it weren't for an elaborate guilt/fear complex that has been built up in me since my childhood, I am pretty sure I would be a completely homicidal cannibal rapist. Thank goodness for small miracles, eh?
This afternoon I got in a little tiff with my sister. She yelled at me for no discernable reason, I repeatedly told her to fuck off, and then I went into my room. What started as my usual pouting session ended up in an enormous temper tantrum, and I smashed my fan to pieces and hurled it across my room. I then stared at the fan for a second, wondering why I smashed it, and then suddenly got filled with inexplicable rage for a second time. I smashed the fan further, this time utilizing a baseball bat instead of my feet, until it was almost entirely unrecognizable as the appliance it once was.
I don't know why I smashed it, perhaps I just no longer felt the need for the fan to exist. I didn't like the fan, I am constantly cold nowadays, so it was of no use to me, and the switch on it had long since been broken, so turning it from high to medium or low (or off, for that matter) was incredibly difficult. Perhaps it was a simple matter of the fan's age; the fan had seen enough days, far more than most fans do. Actually, one could even make the suggestion that the fan was being impolite. I obviously did not want it there, and yet it continued to sit in my doorway, blowing my air around as if cordially invited to do so!
I see now that the fan had to die, but why I was chosen to do the killing? That is a question that I do not think someone as simple-minded as myself could answer.
Looking for the answer, I turn to my most trusted adviser: John Coltrane. He speaks in an intricate code on the sousaphone, having been robbed of vocal cords and genitals at birth, but if one is dexterous and devious and willing to go to great lengths to accomplish things that don't actually exist, one can hear answers to his questions in the code. One can also hear voices advising one to murder one's family in the code. One must use discretion in which parts of the code one deigns to take to heart.

I am off of all of my psych meds, as I previously mentioned, and I can feel my mind sliding back into it's crazy old ways. I didn't realize how paranoid I was, or how many strange sociopathic hours I spend pulling my hair and talking to myself. At least I'm not slapping myself in the face anymore. I remember when I was in junior high, I wouldn't sleep at night, and sometimes I'd just stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom and slap myself in the face, over and over again, for extended periods of time. I'd be careful not to leave a mark, but I'd slap hard enough for it to hurt real bad, especially with repetition. I have now come to realize that I did that because I hated myself, but at the time I thought it was some kind of strange masochistic thing. You'd think the lack of arousal would've tipped me off that that was not the case, but, well... I am not a smart man right now, and I was most definitely not a smart boy back then; and I sincerely doubt that either of me, man or boy, possesses the mental capacity to comprehend such subtle things as erections, let alone the lack thereof. Therefore my mistake was a perfectly reasonable one.
I have spent the majority of my life as an imbecile, I think that by now I should understand how the mind of one works, don't you? Unfortunately this is not so, although I have had extensive experience with my own sub-par brain, I still do not understand even the basest of it's inner-workings. I believe I am doomed to wander on the crust of this earth in complete and utter ignorance of self for the rest of my days; and that is a very sad thing, indeed. To know and to love others is wonderful, but to truly know and love one's self is divine. I only wish more people could decode that little tidbit of information from the clouds and the sand, as I have, and concentrate on loving themselves for who they are, not who they wish to be. It is my sincere belief that that would save us all.
There is an epidemic on this planet, one that threatens to destroy Man. Well, it threatens to destroy the part of Man that makes him so formidable, the part of him that makes him Man and not Beast. It's a terrible thing, my friends, a very terrible thing.
We are losing our sense of who we are!
It is a perversion brought on us indirectly by money, and more directly by those who have money in copious amounts. They take a beautiful imbecile, turn them into a marionette with money, and pull their strings to create an unattainable ideal for the rest of us to strain for. Then we, now very effectively turned into cattle, slave away our days so that we may make money and try to buy our way into the shoes of the Unattainable Ideal. Of course, one of the main facets of an Unattainable Ideal is that they are unattainable; so the cattle continue to slave and give all their milk to the Puppeteer-turned-farmer-for-the-sake-of-analogy.
Of course, this has been going on for ages. Right now it is best characterized as a girl starving herself to look thin and attractive like the woman on TV. Fifty years ago it was 16 year old kids lying about their age for a chance to fight the Nazis. Go back a few centuries and you see a young boy in Europe stealing the armor and weapons of a dead knight and running to his death in a feudalist war of some kind.
Hero Worship, I guess you could call it. It's always been around, but now it has become something far worse. My beloved capitalism has done it to us. Oh, capitalism, a million eternities in hell for those who besmirched your once-functional...ness...
Like all systems of economics or government have at some point or another, our capitalist society has been corrupted. I'm not stupid enough to think this a recent development, I know that it was corrupted as soon as it began. But now insant access to our heroes, instant access to the things we think we need, imaginary money that we can spend with our beloved credit cards, the sharks out there swimming in the murky business waters waiting nibbling at us until we are nothing but living skeletons who cling to the words "financial stability" with their frail grip and bony fingers--all these things are leaving our minds to stagnate, and our sense of self is rotting away!
The Beast is alive and well, my friends. It is money, it is the lust for money, it is the lust for power, it is the lust for that Unattainable Ideal that has become the largest thing in the minds of our children. The Mark of the Beast might as well be unnecessary cosmetic surgery as anything else. Believe it or not, we are turning into monsters, brutes, animals led around in chains to make purchases and believe in the Unattainable Ideal and perpetuate the Status Quo. Stagnation is the Beast, my loves! Stagnation of the mind, of the spirit! Who now truly believes in love? Who now truly believes in anything unseen? Who now creates? Who makes their own path? Who lights their own way? A select few do, I admit, but most of us, like lambs to slaughter, follow the track set down before us blindly, powering the machine ever forward. If our children begin to explore, they are medicated until they are as blind as the rest of the herd.
So it must be generally considered good advice to not lose your sense of self, to think of your OWN ideas, to create your OWN path. Like the great Bobby Frosts said, "I took the path less traveled by, and that made all the difference."

Cliche thing to say, no? If only I could actually phrase what I mean! Perhaps someday I will start work on a parable or analogy that makes my point, like Bradbury did, or every other writer ever did.
Anyway, time to take some pills!