Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Rage and Frustration... and damnation.
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!
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!
Monday, February 21, 2005
VERY Late Post Five
What a fanciful feeling.
I apologize for my absence, to any of those who have actually read this blog. It is a difficult thing to try to be utterly candid and write exactly what is on my mind. For a while I was feeling too depressed to even try to write, so I stopped updating this thing after only four posts. Because I have an excess of time right now, I am updating it again, though the chances that I will maintain it from here on out are pretty slim.
I'm in a lot of pain right now, which is very terrible because there is a good chance that my head hurts like this as a result of the anti-depressants I have been taking; but my good mood is contingent upon these anti-depressants. The question is, do I sacrifice my skull for stable emotions, or vica-versa? I will bring it up with the doctor when I go back to him, perhaps there is something else he can put me on that won't destroy my brain.
Because my family is so religious, we have had a christian doctor all my life. Thus, when I spoke to him about how I have felt emotionally and how I can't sleep at night and such, he lectured me for a long time about my spiritual life. Don't get me wrong, I can always use advice on my spiritual life, but I do not think it is my physicians place to give it. I was a little irritated, but then he prescribed me some medication and sent me on my way.
My next door neighbors have purchased a pitbull. This is quite possibly the worst thing they could have done. I loathe large angry dogs. I abhor them, I cannot stand them. Being a paper-boy for as long as I was has instilled in me a great fear of strange animals. He's barking a lot, the John;Joy ratio in my life has just gone down a little. Goddamn mutt.
I guess this is all I am going to write for now. It's not really a conscious decision, I write for a while, and then after a few minutes some part of me realizes that I am not a good writer, and my brain shuts down.
Have a good day, whoever you are.
I apologize for my absence, to any of those who have actually read this blog. It is a difficult thing to try to be utterly candid and write exactly what is on my mind. For a while I was feeling too depressed to even try to write, so I stopped updating this thing after only four posts. Because I have an excess of time right now, I am updating it again, though the chances that I will maintain it from here on out are pretty slim.
I'm in a lot of pain right now, which is very terrible because there is a good chance that my head hurts like this as a result of the anti-depressants I have been taking; but my good mood is contingent upon these anti-depressants. The question is, do I sacrifice my skull for stable emotions, or vica-versa? I will bring it up with the doctor when I go back to him, perhaps there is something else he can put me on that won't destroy my brain.
Because my family is so religious, we have had a christian doctor all my life. Thus, when I spoke to him about how I have felt emotionally and how I can't sleep at night and such, he lectured me for a long time about my spiritual life. Don't get me wrong, I can always use advice on my spiritual life, but I do not think it is my physicians place to give it. I was a little irritated, but then he prescribed me some medication and sent me on my way.
My next door neighbors have purchased a pitbull. This is quite possibly the worst thing they could have done. I loathe large angry dogs. I abhor them, I cannot stand them. Being a paper-boy for as long as I was has instilled in me a great fear of strange animals. He's barking a lot, the John;Joy ratio in my life has just gone down a little. Goddamn mutt.
I guess this is all I am going to write for now. It's not really a conscious decision, I write for a while, and then after a few minutes some part of me realizes that I am not a good writer, and my brain shuts down.
Have a good day, whoever you are.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Post Four!
My skin is turning a grey color, much like an old sick man’s skin does, right before he dies. Too much of me is like an old sick man, it’s really strange. I have an old man’s skin, knees, back, hearing, and memory. What’s next, libido? Maybe. Probably. Definitely.
This night obviously belongs to Lavos. But what about tomorrow night, or the night after? Or our children’s children?
I was talking to my mom earlier about my current life. I had just gotten home from my first class, and she tried to get on my case about getting a job, as she usually does whenever we make eye contact. And I finally realized the truth about why I haven’t gotten a job, that really should have been obvious from the start. I don’t care about it. I don’t care about any of this. My entire life to date has been me, pretending to care about school, and pretending to care about graduating or working or driving or… anything, really. The truth about my life is, I really don’t give a shit about much. I know I’ve said that before but it has never really clicked in my mind until now.
People ask me what I want to do with my life, and I answer, “I don’t know.”
Well, I guess the honest answer would be that I don’t care. I don’t care what I do with my life, frankly I think I would be unhappy with any career or calling. The only thing that has kept me in school is a desire to not disappoint my parents, and a fear of whatever invisible consequences my dad has in store for me if I drop out completely.
I don’t understand the minds of people who care about things. There is very little that actually matters to me, and most of it is stuff that really shouldn’t matter to anyone, like how my shirt fits me, or the symmetry of my coffee table.
I don’t really have a whole lot more to say about this. I told my mom (and later Katie,) that I am contemplating perhaps looking for an internship at a graphic design or publishing company or something. That might hold my interest a little better than nothing, which is what I am currently doing.
It is kind of depressing to realize that the big monumental reason for my lifetime of shining failure is exactly what the guidance counselor told me in fourth grade: that I just don’t care about schoolwork. But, I guess she was right. I don’t care about much of anything (except maybe being redundant, har har) and I don’t see anyway to change that.
So that’s where I am now. Nowhere, that is. I don’t want to do anything with my life but sleep, watch tv, and of course, make sweet sweet whoopie; and I can’t really think of any reason why I should do more than that. Except surviving, but that really only pushes you so hard.
Of course, throughout all of my violently inactive life I would want to continue drawing. I love to draw, and I always will, that’s a given. And of course, there will always be reading, and to a lesser extent, writing. But those are just the exercises of my mind, in spirit I will always be lying there lazily, thinking about how well my shirt fits and dreaming up new ways to organize my coffee table; and all will be right with the world.
This night obviously belongs to Lavos. But what about tomorrow night, or the night after? Or our children’s children?
I was talking to my mom earlier about my current life. I had just gotten home from my first class, and she tried to get on my case about getting a job, as she usually does whenever we make eye contact. And I finally realized the truth about why I haven’t gotten a job, that really should have been obvious from the start. I don’t care about it. I don’t care about any of this. My entire life to date has been me, pretending to care about school, and pretending to care about graduating or working or driving or… anything, really. The truth about my life is, I really don’t give a shit about much. I know I’ve said that before but it has never really clicked in my mind until now.
People ask me what I want to do with my life, and I answer, “I don’t know.”
Well, I guess the honest answer would be that I don’t care. I don’t care what I do with my life, frankly I think I would be unhappy with any career or calling. The only thing that has kept me in school is a desire to not disappoint my parents, and a fear of whatever invisible consequences my dad has in store for me if I drop out completely.
I don’t understand the minds of people who care about things. There is very little that actually matters to me, and most of it is stuff that really shouldn’t matter to anyone, like how my shirt fits me, or the symmetry of my coffee table.
I don’t really have a whole lot more to say about this. I told my mom (and later Katie,) that I am contemplating perhaps looking for an internship at a graphic design or publishing company or something. That might hold my interest a little better than nothing, which is what I am currently doing.
It is kind of depressing to realize that the big monumental reason for my lifetime of shining failure is exactly what the guidance counselor told me in fourth grade: that I just don’t care about schoolwork. But, I guess she was right. I don’t care about much of anything (except maybe being redundant, har har) and I don’t see anyway to change that.
So that’s where I am now. Nowhere, that is. I don’t want to do anything with my life but sleep, watch tv, and of course, make sweet sweet whoopie; and I can’t really think of any reason why I should do more than that. Except surviving, but that really only pushes you so hard.
Of course, throughout all of my violently inactive life I would want to continue drawing. I love to draw, and I always will, that’s a given. And of course, there will always be reading, and to a lesser extent, writing. But those are just the exercises of my mind, in spirit I will always be lying there lazily, thinking about how well my shirt fits and dreaming up new ways to organize my coffee table; and all will be right with the world.
Sunday, January 16, 2005
Post Three!
I got in a fight with my father today, which is extremely rare. I think this counts the second actual fight that we have ever had. It was so stupid, too. He was trying to pull the refrigerator out of it’s space in our kitchen so that he could try to re-hook up the ice-maker thing. Of course, he didn’t try to do this until he was five minutes late for work. So he can’t do it, obviously, because of his sciatica; and he calls me to help. I tell him that pulling it out at all is pointless because Pastor Thom (who was installing it for us) had said it doesn’t work yet, though I could not recall exactly why (Or if, in fact, it was actually true. It just came to mind.) Anyway, he is in a pretty foul mood already and starts arguing with me about doing it anyway because we need to fix it. This causes my temper to flare up, because I have one of the worst tempers in the world, and then we start yelling at each other until I drop the words, “This is a waste of time.”
At which point he explodes and starts saying all this stuff about how horrible it is for me to say that him trying to improve his House is a waste of time. Also, that my time isn’t exactly precious because I sit around all day doing nothing (True enough, one point for Dad.) to which I replied that his time was precious because he was already late for work. Then he said that I don’t care about the house and I don’t do anything to help or something and I said, “I am glad to see how you feel about me, Dad. I am done talking now.” And went into my room.
Not only do my Dad and I very rarely have fights, but they have NEVER been as pointless and heated as that kind of fight. My Dad prides our family on being too intelligent for that, our fights are usually more like chess games (well, when they aren’t just petty, “NO! I don’t WANNA!”s).
Anyway, it was thoroughly depressing. He came to my room and apologized, and I said, “That’s fine.” I didn’t apologize myself, though of course I should have, because I am a mean and angry bastard.
He also lost his hat. He’s not really having a good day.
Right. So the general shitty tone of the night seems to have been set, and I don’t really think I can shake it. What’re you gonna do though, right? The answer is nothing. That or pop perk. I’ve had a headache all day, might as well dull the pain both physically and mentally, right?
The answer here is, “Sure, John. Do what you like, we don’t mind.”
I picked up my old habit of doing crazy black sketches with a uniball pen. It is so fun, but it’s annoying because, as fun as the pictures are to draw, there isn’t whole lot you can do with them afterwards; and sometimes I get my best stuff out that way. Depressing, no? You’re right, it isn’t.
You can tell my creativity is lacking tonight, stringing thoughts together right now isn’t exactly going well for me. But then again, it never really is.
I want to take a shower, because I didn’t take on today and I feel all gross. I probably won’t, though. I’ve been very lazy lately. Laziness begets laziness.
God said to Abraham, “Kill me a son.”
And what does Bobby Dyls have to say about this? I will cut this joke off right here, as it is past it’s prime.
A young man I know, who’s name shall go unspecified, has recently uncovered an ancient Egyptian brand of nicotine known as Rah-o-dyn. Evidently, if you smoke it you become a GodKing. He decided to take a little toke, and now he is ruler of the promised land. Who’da thunk, huh?
This isn’t quite a page, but I don’t really feel like typing anymore. There wasn’t much Journally about this entry anyway, so I’m already breaking the rules.
At which point he explodes and starts saying all this stuff about how horrible it is for me to say that him trying to improve his House is a waste of time. Also, that my time isn’t exactly precious because I sit around all day doing nothing (True enough, one point for Dad.) to which I replied that his time was precious because he was already late for work. Then he said that I don’t care about the house and I don’t do anything to help or something and I said, “I am glad to see how you feel about me, Dad. I am done talking now.” And went into my room.
Not only do my Dad and I very rarely have fights, but they have NEVER been as pointless and heated as that kind of fight. My Dad prides our family on being too intelligent for that, our fights are usually more like chess games (well, when they aren’t just petty, “NO! I don’t WANNA!”s).
Anyway, it was thoroughly depressing. He came to my room and apologized, and I said, “That’s fine.” I didn’t apologize myself, though of course I should have, because I am a mean and angry bastard.
He also lost his hat. He’s not really having a good day.
Right. So the general shitty tone of the night seems to have been set, and I don’t really think I can shake it. What’re you gonna do though, right? The answer is nothing. That or pop perk. I’ve had a headache all day, might as well dull the pain both physically and mentally, right?
The answer here is, “Sure, John. Do what you like, we don’t mind.”
I picked up my old habit of doing crazy black sketches with a uniball pen. It is so fun, but it’s annoying because, as fun as the pictures are to draw, there isn’t whole lot you can do with them afterwards; and sometimes I get my best stuff out that way. Depressing, no? You’re right, it isn’t.
You can tell my creativity is lacking tonight, stringing thoughts together right now isn’t exactly going well for me. But then again, it never really is.
I want to take a shower, because I didn’t take on today and I feel all gross. I probably won’t, though. I’ve been very lazy lately. Laziness begets laziness.
God said to Abraham, “Kill me a son.”
And what does Bobby Dyls have to say about this? I will cut this joke off right here, as it is past it’s prime.
A young man I know, who’s name shall go unspecified, has recently uncovered an ancient Egyptian brand of nicotine known as Rah-o-dyn. Evidently, if you smoke it you become a GodKing. He decided to take a little toke, and now he is ruler of the promised land. Who’da thunk, huh?
This isn’t quite a page, but I don’t really feel like typing anymore. There wasn’t much Journally about this entry anyway, so I’m already breaking the rules.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Post Two!
My bed-room just had it’s nightly nocturnal emission, spurting a gooey mess of John all over the computer desk, leaving tiny wriggling organic jet planes wriggling into the interior of the internet and impregnating cyberspace with it’s cozy seed. How is that for graphic?
I was trying to go to sleep and I found my pillow plagued with loud thoughts. I thought to myself, “Perchance I will whisk my pillow away and build a home for it in the stars.”
Then I came online. Nobody was here, so I decided that I would make my second “journal” posting, as promised. I am, after all, supposed to put one up every night. I still haven’t figured out exactly what I want the tone for this thing to be, though. It’s mainly a challenge for myself, to see if I can organize my thoughts and put them somewhere instead of just letting them stew and boil away into nothingness in my head.
I’ve been thinking a lot about things, lately. Things like love and time and death. All those things that I really don’t have a whole lot of control over. Things I have NO control over, to be exact. I was thinking about love because I don’t know what it is, I was thinking about time because it seems to be kicking my ass, and I was thinking about death because my imagination is morbid and I am pretty much always thinking about death.
I have a lot of friends, and I have a girlfriend whom I care for a lot; and I say that I love them. I say it all the time. And… I do believe that I do. The thing is, I still end up feeling lonely, despite the love I feel that I have for them, and the companionship that they so willingly offer me. I could pine for any woman in the world, I could be jealous of any friendship in the world. I often do, and I often am; but it’s not because I lack those fulfillments in my life. I am lonely because, although on the exterior I have an unlimited supply of warmth and comfort from all those people that I know and care about, on the inside I do not have myself. I do not know who I am, I cannot connect with my own mind. If I do not have the love of myself, how can the love of others ever entirely fill that space?
That’s what makes people get greedy. People like Me, inside our chests is this huge black hole that wants to suck the love out of anyone it can because it’s own love is in short supply; that’s something that can make us clingy and it can destroy relationships and lives. I guess you can just chock that up to another lil’ problem made to torment the lives of Man, though. It seems everybody has it, but nobody knows how to deal with it.
Tomorrow I plan to go to apply for jobs at Wendy’s, and at Jersey Mike’s. I need a job really badly. I think of the two I would prefer to work at Jersey Mike’s, because it is a far smaller chain and I think it is an individually owned and managed franchise. I don’t want to punch in to another international corporate powerhouse, or allow my name to be stamped on the employee roster of the Beast and be forever denied entry into the break-room of righteousness.
This is my attempt at being honest and uncensored, and it is just coming out as a whiny and hackneyed attempt at depth. That is okay, though, I will press on. If at my heart I am just a whiny hack who craves depth, then so be it. I will just have to accept my whiny hack-dom and move on.
Having my hair short makes me look like a nazi. I probably should have gone to a barber or something to get it cut, but I was trying to get it over with before I lost my resolve. I have finally come to terms with having short hair, now. It is a crazy thing, but I think it actually works as “Me”. What the hell do I know, though?
Tim raised an interesting point the other day. He said that adults (which I now resemble) can sport a larger array of hairstyles then kids can. That is probably why I don’t look as bad with this as I did when I was a younger lad. Or maybe I do look as bad, and I am just better at lying to myself. Either way, it’s a good time.
I left my cinnamon at the apartment. I will have to go back and get it tomorrow morning, if I want to have a cappuccino or anything. I had to use this other cinnamon this morning that really sucked, it was “chopped” and not “ground”, and it had a built-in grinder on the bottle that didn’t really work well, so I was chewing tiny bits of spiciness in my coffee. No fun, no fun at all.
Originally I was just going to write one page per night, but now I am going to revise that into just a minimum, because I feel very loquacious right now. I am pretty doped up, you see. I take Percoset when the pain in my legs or head (or both) gets unbearable; though I am also guilty of taking it if I get very emotionally distraught and feel like avoiding the inevitable contemplation of suicide by getting a little dopey. Personally I think the benefits outweigh the costs, but I am sure there is a host of people who disagree with me; which probably would include myself were I not currently “under the influence.”
My nostril hair has been growing at an alarming rate recently, and we no longer have the barber’s scissors that we used to, so I’ve just been pushing it into my nose and hoping it doesn’t pop out in the middle of some awkward social function. It inevitably always does, though, which is all right. My appearance has never been anything of much merit anyway.
In any time of great stress, my face suffers this thing I have come to know as, “Massive Skin Death.” It means that the skin on my face both dries out horribly AND somehow grows a mess of pimples and blackheads. Which means that I can do one of two things. I can continue to fight the acne that has been my constant opponent since the tender age of nine, sacrificing ENTIRELY any kind of comfortable life I may have previously had until my body naturally fights things off or summer rolls around and my skin starts to turn all spicky again; OR I can NOT fight the zits, and leave my face to it’s own devices with the most minimal amount of washing until the natural oils can build up and repair it. The latter, of course, gives my arch-nemesis Acne another foothold from which to bombard me, but it also restores comfort to my life in a pretty speedy manner. That is to say, maybe 8 days.
This time, though, I have been trying something different. I have been cutting back my acne battle a bit, using the “pore-cleansing and emasculating” gel that I have every other day as opposed to daily, as well as postponing shaving until it is absolutely necessary and using a lot of hydrocortisone, which fixes EVERYTHING. It isn’t a quick process, though. It means I won’t have to wait until my natural spickiness comes out in the summer months, but it is going to take a couple of weeks for things to get back to normal.
And this is only the first step in the process I like to call, “John’s Cycle of Stress.”
Among the next 7 steps are (in no particular order) an increase in insomnia, oversleeping, lack of appetite, increase in appetite, increase in masturbation, hallucinations of talking hornets, and finally: temporary blindness (after shooting myself in the face with wasp-killer).
Har Har. In all honesty, though, I can feel myself beginning to slide into the spiraling and poorly built escalator that leads into the winter of my discontent. Or whatever.
Dante, huh? Gotta get me some of that.
This is when I begin to lose my train of thought, and my high. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, you know. “Shatter my brain.” Said the rice-a-roni silkworm.
There are things I write sometimes that don’t seem to make any sense, even to me. That line just now? That was one of them. All these people think all these things, and every one of them is wrong. It is a very large question then, it seems, what exactly is the truth? I think the truth, in a nutshell, is that no matter how much we think about it, and no matter how certain we are of what’s right, we will Never, in this life, know ANYTHING for real. That is the only truth I can really glean from my very short and shallow dive into the human experience. Don’t take my word for it, laws no. All I am saying is that there is too many conflicts on this earth for any person to have anything exactly right. By “things” I mean… philosophies, and… what not. Who knows, man? Fuck that, man, it’s all in your interpretation.
Alright. I guess this is the end of the journal for tonight, as I can no longer think of anything to write. That’s what I said I was going to do, though, right? Empty my brain. Even though it doesn’t make any sense. Pointless it may be, but I feel better.
I was trying to go to sleep and I found my pillow plagued with loud thoughts. I thought to myself, “Perchance I will whisk my pillow away and build a home for it in the stars.”
Then I came online. Nobody was here, so I decided that I would make my second “journal” posting, as promised. I am, after all, supposed to put one up every night. I still haven’t figured out exactly what I want the tone for this thing to be, though. It’s mainly a challenge for myself, to see if I can organize my thoughts and put them somewhere instead of just letting them stew and boil away into nothingness in my head.
I’ve been thinking a lot about things, lately. Things like love and time and death. All those things that I really don’t have a whole lot of control over. Things I have NO control over, to be exact. I was thinking about love because I don’t know what it is, I was thinking about time because it seems to be kicking my ass, and I was thinking about death because my imagination is morbid and I am pretty much always thinking about death.
I have a lot of friends, and I have a girlfriend whom I care for a lot; and I say that I love them. I say it all the time. And… I do believe that I do. The thing is, I still end up feeling lonely, despite the love I feel that I have for them, and the companionship that they so willingly offer me. I could pine for any woman in the world, I could be jealous of any friendship in the world. I often do, and I often am; but it’s not because I lack those fulfillments in my life. I am lonely because, although on the exterior I have an unlimited supply of warmth and comfort from all those people that I know and care about, on the inside I do not have myself. I do not know who I am, I cannot connect with my own mind. If I do not have the love of myself, how can the love of others ever entirely fill that space?
That’s what makes people get greedy. People like Me, inside our chests is this huge black hole that wants to suck the love out of anyone it can because it’s own love is in short supply; that’s something that can make us clingy and it can destroy relationships and lives. I guess you can just chock that up to another lil’ problem made to torment the lives of Man, though. It seems everybody has it, but nobody knows how to deal with it.
Tomorrow I plan to go to apply for jobs at Wendy’s, and at Jersey Mike’s. I need a job really badly. I think of the two I would prefer to work at Jersey Mike’s, because it is a far smaller chain and I think it is an individually owned and managed franchise. I don’t want to punch in to another international corporate powerhouse, or allow my name to be stamped on the employee roster of the Beast and be forever denied entry into the break-room of righteousness.
This is my attempt at being honest and uncensored, and it is just coming out as a whiny and hackneyed attempt at depth. That is okay, though, I will press on. If at my heart I am just a whiny hack who craves depth, then so be it. I will just have to accept my whiny hack-dom and move on.
Having my hair short makes me look like a nazi. I probably should have gone to a barber or something to get it cut, but I was trying to get it over with before I lost my resolve. I have finally come to terms with having short hair, now. It is a crazy thing, but I think it actually works as “Me”. What the hell do I know, though?
Tim raised an interesting point the other day. He said that adults (which I now resemble) can sport a larger array of hairstyles then kids can. That is probably why I don’t look as bad with this as I did when I was a younger lad. Or maybe I do look as bad, and I am just better at lying to myself. Either way, it’s a good time.
I left my cinnamon at the apartment. I will have to go back and get it tomorrow morning, if I want to have a cappuccino or anything. I had to use this other cinnamon this morning that really sucked, it was “chopped” and not “ground”, and it had a built-in grinder on the bottle that didn’t really work well, so I was chewing tiny bits of spiciness in my coffee. No fun, no fun at all.
Originally I was just going to write one page per night, but now I am going to revise that into just a minimum, because I feel very loquacious right now. I am pretty doped up, you see. I take Percoset when the pain in my legs or head (or both) gets unbearable; though I am also guilty of taking it if I get very emotionally distraught and feel like avoiding the inevitable contemplation of suicide by getting a little dopey. Personally I think the benefits outweigh the costs, but I am sure there is a host of people who disagree with me; which probably would include myself were I not currently “under the influence.”
My nostril hair has been growing at an alarming rate recently, and we no longer have the barber’s scissors that we used to, so I’ve just been pushing it into my nose and hoping it doesn’t pop out in the middle of some awkward social function. It inevitably always does, though, which is all right. My appearance has never been anything of much merit anyway.
In any time of great stress, my face suffers this thing I have come to know as, “Massive Skin Death.” It means that the skin on my face both dries out horribly AND somehow grows a mess of pimples and blackheads. Which means that I can do one of two things. I can continue to fight the acne that has been my constant opponent since the tender age of nine, sacrificing ENTIRELY any kind of comfortable life I may have previously had until my body naturally fights things off or summer rolls around and my skin starts to turn all spicky again; OR I can NOT fight the zits, and leave my face to it’s own devices with the most minimal amount of washing until the natural oils can build up and repair it. The latter, of course, gives my arch-nemesis Acne another foothold from which to bombard me, but it also restores comfort to my life in a pretty speedy manner. That is to say, maybe 8 days.
This time, though, I have been trying something different. I have been cutting back my acne battle a bit, using the “pore-cleansing and emasculating” gel that I have every other day as opposed to daily, as well as postponing shaving until it is absolutely necessary and using a lot of hydrocortisone, which fixes EVERYTHING. It isn’t a quick process, though. It means I won’t have to wait until my natural spickiness comes out in the summer months, but it is going to take a couple of weeks for things to get back to normal.
And this is only the first step in the process I like to call, “John’s Cycle of Stress.”
Among the next 7 steps are (in no particular order) an increase in insomnia, oversleeping, lack of appetite, increase in appetite, increase in masturbation, hallucinations of talking hornets, and finally: temporary blindness (after shooting myself in the face with wasp-killer).
Har Har. In all honesty, though, I can feel myself beginning to slide into the spiraling and poorly built escalator that leads into the winter of my discontent. Or whatever.
Dante, huh? Gotta get me some of that.
This is when I begin to lose my train of thought, and my high. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, you know. “Shatter my brain.” Said the rice-a-roni silkworm.
There are things I write sometimes that don’t seem to make any sense, even to me. That line just now? That was one of them. All these people think all these things, and every one of them is wrong. It is a very large question then, it seems, what exactly is the truth? I think the truth, in a nutshell, is that no matter how much we think about it, and no matter how certain we are of what’s right, we will Never, in this life, know ANYTHING for real. That is the only truth I can really glean from my very short and shallow dive into the human experience. Don’t take my word for it, laws no. All I am saying is that there is too many conflicts on this earth for any person to have anything exactly right. By “things” I mean… philosophies, and… what not. Who knows, man? Fuck that, man, it’s all in your interpretation.
Alright. I guess this is the end of the journal for tonight, as I can no longer think of anything to write. That’s what I said I was going to do, though, right? Empty my brain. Even though it doesn’t make any sense. Pointless it may be, but I feel better.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Post One!
This is the first post in a series of 1 page long nightly posts, created in order to get my thoughts in order. Read 'em, if you like.
Begin!
This begins paragraph one of page one of chapter one of a more candid and in-depth not-currently-online diary that I am composing in order to pass the time here at my family’s new location; which, until I get a car, is isolating me from all other branches of humanity.
It is twelve-thirty AM, which means several things. Foremost among them is that, after a long day of existing, my left knee has decided to hurt like a crank-addicted-son-of-a-bitch. I, therefore, must wear a slightly too tight knee brace that makes the crank-addicted-son-of-a-bitch joint a bit more bearable, but not much.
The point of this writing I have just decided to undertake is to allow my brain to speak out in the most uncensored and honest way possible, thereby freeing myself from all the pressure of containing thought, and shackling everyone else into the blood spattered chains of my overactive imagination. Thus beginning now, there will be no re-writes, no corrections—and except for the changing of minor spelling errors, this journal will remain as is. What comes out comes out, and I will not apologize for it. Read on, if you will. But beware, the footing is tricksy.
My mother’s leg has recently swollen up to roughly the size of a cumbersome 1986 Buick, which worried everyone in my family, mainly my father. My father, as a nurse, knows a good deal about medicine and what-have-you, and was able to identify her swollen leg as a “Possible DVT” (or “DBT”, I was never quite sure) which can cause a heart attack, stroke, or other serious complications if left unchecked. She is making an unexpected trip to the hospital tonight to get it looked at.
I didn’t expect to eat any cookies tonight, but here I am, eating cookies. That is my interesting life, man, I get shocked if I unexpectedly eat cookies. I mean, it is no one’s fault but my own; but seriously, who would have expected COOKIES? Of all the god-danged things in the world: Cookies?! Man, I am one cuh-razy cat, but Aye n’Aye been in Babylon, too long.
See, that’s the kind of thing that happens to me. I get sidetracked while walking on this great and glorious highway of life, and I go down these mysterious dark boulevards, in which hide hobos of pestilence, and prostitutes of devastation. Those prostitutes aren’t your normal prostitutes, these prostitutes know how to share. They allow each and every human being a fair share of their devastation, as long as each of us, in turn, doles out a dose of devastation to the nearest long-haired housecat. You see, long-haired houscats are actually the only thing preventing the earth from sinking into the murky waters of apocalypse. Housecats, and the ineptitude of the vile devastating prostitutes. Devastalicious. Desticious.
My challenge to myself grows ever longer. I now plan to force myself into typing one page a day, at 11 font, single spaced. I think that is a good idea. It is nothing compared to what Dickens would write daily, and I’m ten times better than Dickens, right?
Who cares though, honestly? Dickens can kiss my ass and call my Aunt Francine De Nixioux de Monoie a porpoise here to save the day, for all I care. Then again, she is an aquatic mammal. Which raises the eternal question: What exactly is a mammal? I know what a “mammalian” is. But we don’t talk about those. I would giggle, but nobody is around to listen to it.
I used this Night-Time Pore Clarifying Gel, from Neutrogena, tonight. I love that stuff, but it seems to dry out my skin pretty badly, I am ambivalent about continuing use, unless something changes soon, OR I am able to find a better set of skin to replace last year’s model. This thing is getting pretty wrinkled, and lord knows how long that could be! My hands have become to create a language all their own, and fly back down to their meadow, to rest in the arms of the sacred middle-aged woman, whose lifesaving housecats know no boundaries against the vast forces of darkness.
Night One: Complete!
Begin!
This begins paragraph one of page one of chapter one of a more candid and in-depth not-currently-online diary that I am composing in order to pass the time here at my family’s new location; which, until I get a car, is isolating me from all other branches of humanity.
It is twelve-thirty AM, which means several things. Foremost among them is that, after a long day of existing, my left knee has decided to hurt like a crank-addicted-son-of-a-bitch. I, therefore, must wear a slightly too tight knee brace that makes the crank-addicted-son-of-a-bitch joint a bit more bearable, but not much.
The point of this writing I have just decided to undertake is to allow my brain to speak out in the most uncensored and honest way possible, thereby freeing myself from all the pressure of containing thought, and shackling everyone else into the blood spattered chains of my overactive imagination. Thus beginning now, there will be no re-writes, no corrections—and except for the changing of minor spelling errors, this journal will remain as is. What comes out comes out, and I will not apologize for it. Read on, if you will. But beware, the footing is tricksy.
My mother’s leg has recently swollen up to roughly the size of a cumbersome 1986 Buick, which worried everyone in my family, mainly my father. My father, as a nurse, knows a good deal about medicine and what-have-you, and was able to identify her swollen leg as a “Possible DVT” (or “DBT”, I was never quite sure) which can cause a heart attack, stroke, or other serious complications if left unchecked. She is making an unexpected trip to the hospital tonight to get it looked at.
I didn’t expect to eat any cookies tonight, but here I am, eating cookies. That is my interesting life, man, I get shocked if I unexpectedly eat cookies. I mean, it is no one’s fault but my own; but seriously, who would have expected COOKIES? Of all the god-danged things in the world: Cookies?! Man, I am one cuh-razy cat, but Aye n’Aye been in Babylon, too long.
See, that’s the kind of thing that happens to me. I get sidetracked while walking on this great and glorious highway of life, and I go down these mysterious dark boulevards, in which hide hobos of pestilence, and prostitutes of devastation. Those prostitutes aren’t your normal prostitutes, these prostitutes know how to share. They allow each and every human being a fair share of their devastation, as long as each of us, in turn, doles out a dose of devastation to the nearest long-haired housecat. You see, long-haired houscats are actually the only thing preventing the earth from sinking into the murky waters of apocalypse. Housecats, and the ineptitude of the vile devastating prostitutes. Devastalicious. Desticious.
My challenge to myself grows ever longer. I now plan to force myself into typing one page a day, at 11 font, single spaced. I think that is a good idea. It is nothing compared to what Dickens would write daily, and I’m ten times better than Dickens, right?
Who cares though, honestly? Dickens can kiss my ass and call my Aunt Francine De Nixioux de Monoie a porpoise here to save the day, for all I care. Then again, she is an aquatic mammal. Which raises the eternal question: What exactly is a mammal? I know what a “mammalian” is. But we don’t talk about those. I would giggle, but nobody is around to listen to it.
I used this Night-Time Pore Clarifying Gel, from Neutrogena, tonight. I love that stuff, but it seems to dry out my skin pretty badly, I am ambivalent about continuing use, unless something changes soon, OR I am able to find a better set of skin to replace last year’s model. This thing is getting pretty wrinkled, and lord knows how long that could be! My hands have become to create a language all their own, and fly back down to their meadow, to rest in the arms of the sacred middle-aged woman, whose lifesaving housecats know no boundaries against the vast forces of darkness.
Night One: Complete!
