My Privation

Allow me to present a debriefing on what it is that is going on with this Blog, as of late -- namely, the new format I've been following. Yes, that's right, you heard me: I do have a semblance of a rhyme or reason to what I put here. As of this point, things are mostly based on the day of the week; here's the calendar, of sorts, I use:
Monday: A day for absurdity and humour. I post random fiction (short stories, songs, poetry) meant to make laughter happen, or something like it.
Tuesday: A day wherein I wax poetics. Because I do like to think of myself as a "slight poet," this is when I would put any poem I felt it necessary to post on the site.
Wednesday: A day of anger, ranting, and raving. There is no end to the amount of stuff I have to say about any given subject, at any given time; therefore, this is when I will put that sort of entry up.
Thursday: A day to review. One of the oldest and most long-lasting themes of this Blog is the review, and that's mainly because I have tons of opinions about everything. Classically, I review movies, but I've been known to do other things, like books and bands; anyway, Thursday is the review-day.
Friday: A day I leave for revision. Sometimes, there won't be anything new on this site, so much as there will be revisions made to recent or old entries. It's kind of the day I "take off," per se, and just edit what I already have done.
Saturday: A day where I wander. This is the explicit location that I will insert those types of writings that tend to be meandering, aimless, and philosophical rambling. If you hate my incoherent babbling about life, love, religion, psychology, and so forth, then this is the day to skip.
Sunday: A day dedicated to fiction. The newest style of entry I've been exercising: fictional short story, this is my place to try and create an interesting story from my mind. Thusfar, you'll notice all the stories are inter-related, which is a trend I plan on continuing for awhile . . . Uh, until I stop. Yeah, you'll know when that is.
I figured that it would be nice of me to enlighten you, dear readers, on what I'm doing. Hopefully, this will bring a clearer logic to what transpires on a day-to-day basis on this little Blog o' mine.
Also, there is another matter I wish to address: May. (For one thing, it's an excellent, albeit disturbing movie.) I'm going to just . . . Take the month of May off, and not put anything new here. Think of it as a sabbatical, kind of, where the author vacations from his writing. Not that I don't enjoy writing what I put here -- I do, immensely -- but it's mostly for getting other things in my life in order. I plan on working on other projects of mine, trying to create some progress that is visible, and getting a handle on where I'm going with . . . Life. Sometimes, one must step back and evaluate the direction one has chosen to take; this is that time, for me.
Granted, if I have the itch to write something, I will do as I have always done and write it, but there just won't be any posts until June. Hopefully, I will have a nice cache of entries and ideas for the rest of the year, and I won't teeter off and fall flat on my face, like I have in the past, in regards to updating this.
I hope you have enjoyed everything I have lovingly created and shared here, thusfar on the wheel of time, and I promise I will return on the first of June.

Adios.

"When I set out on this journey / I thought it would never end / When I started down that road / I could not see the end / And when I took that first step / I fell in so deep (So fucking deep) / And all the things that were so hard won / I thought I would always keep. Now what do you think I see / Standing like a wall in front of me / Defeat, not victory / Defeat, not victory / Defeat, not victory. So what are you going to do: die? (No) / You going to lay down and die? (No) / I will not admit defeat / I will not admit defeat / I will see victory." - Nomeansno, "Victory"

Adios

Not that happy,
Not that sad,
About it all,
I'm not mad.

Kind of down,
Sort of high,
Real damn tired,
I won't lie.

Brain's on low,
Mind's not on,
Moving pretty slow,
Words seem wrong,
Actions speak,
Mouths run free,
Where'd I go,
Where'd I go.

Lethargic catharsis,
Orgasmic siriasis,
Tasteless oasis,
Uncontrollable stasis,
Welcome virus,
Adios.

Adios, I go,
I go, Adios,
Find me, Find me,
Adios.

Not that happy,
Not that sad,
About it all,
Not that mad.

Sick, sick, sick,
So very uninspired,
Way too damn tired.

Am I still typing this?
Am I?
Am I...
Er...
No?

-

I'm not gonna break under the pressure,
You think in terms of such inanimate leisure,
Sifting through the sand searching lazily for the treasure,
What you want is so far beyond measure,
So far underneath the latest greatest blister,
"Listen, mister, I don't ask you what to say
so you don't ask me what to do, you."

Waiting for the hammer to drop for so very, very long,
Waiting for the downbeat of the first movement of our song,
Making time after every contrived rhyme has left you without a damn dime,
"Never said I wanted to do it for a livin', hon."

Your trail is easy to find in the dust,
I'll pick up after you only if I must,
You don't seem to be trying very hard to trust,
Fortunately, I'm not a man driven by his lust,
I'm not fool enough to dance in the rain until I rust,
"Every cent to the dollar and every dollar to the grind, baby."

Kindly move out of my light.

-

Only way to know is to try it on for size,
World might change colour through another person's eyes,
Don't fear the results if you can't break the mold,
The impending loneliness may be much more cold,
Don't be lulled into a pit of despair by routine,
It may be worse, it may be the latest forensic scene,
It may be a catastrophe, but trust me, trust me,
Trust me when I say it ain't all bad,
There are reasons out there to be glad,
Not everything is about the dark and black,
Half the fight of life is finding your way past the tears,
Forget all the faces of the monsters who choose to leer,
It'll be their own Hell when they find themselves down low,
It may be a number of years that pass slow,
It may be a day or two that fly by without warning,
But it's all moot in the event of the turning,
Wake up, sweet thang, wake up.

Nascent Being

I think the only real way I can describe the current state of existence that I have slipped into is to say that it is very, indubitably numb. It wasn’t so much of a conscious decision of mine as it was a resultant of certain subconscious influences and some unrelated, yet tangential conscious choices. I don’t know, sometimes, why I say what I say and do what I do, think how I think, and, in general, be who I am. Well, I should clarify: I don’t know those things in any exact way. It’s sort of like I have passing, haphazard knowledge of who I am, but I’m not what one would describe as a devotee of myself. Maybe I could be completely and totally aware of myself, but that presents a problem of time management and productivity; in other words, being a Buddhist monk would be acceptable if I could afford to do nothing but meditate and sweep.
To be honest, it wouldn’t bother me to much at this point if my life consisted of dwelling on a mountaintop within a Buddhist monastery, living peacefully in tranquility and harmony with myself and nature. There’s a very heavy tinge of romanticism to the idea, of course, and I’m aware of that . . . Hence why I’m not running off to denounce my current lifestyle and start anew. I’m rather fond of living how I live now, and I do accept the pitfalls of such a life. And the one, large side-effect that I am noticing, lately, is emotional absenteeism.
I feel things, obviously, but everything is sort of muffled and distant, detached and grey. The tones of the world don’t fall across my face like a flag, just subtle gradients that shift ever so slightly in the wind. Occasionally, something will happen that penetrates fiercely though this fog of apathetic neutrality, but it is fleeting and ineffectual. Everyday, I grow a little bit more numb, I think, because I’m beginning to physically feel numb. Sitting at this computer, safely positioned at a desk, there is a faint, cold chill that blows through my veins. Earlier, standing in anticipation of the police officer with the keys, my mind was lazily tracing over memories and thoughts, while my body felt intensely cold – not a biting cold, however, like the touch of Winter. It is very unlike the nip of cold weather, no; it is like a simple, uncomplicated cold. There is no wind, nor is there any frost or ice: it is simply cold. I can only equate this with being numb.
I think my heart has just been wrenched empty, and all the passions that I once felt have dwindled down to simmering ash. An event, or joke, or conversations here and there: that’ll toss kinder on the fire, but it merely flares and dies right back down, in a moment or two. Interestingly enough, none of this entails a sadness or depression, anger or frustration; both of those sets of emotions I’ve dealt with before, in spades, and am familiar enough with to know they’re not here. I still go through the motions of living, and I still . . . Well, yes, I still enjoy the same things I always have.
Which is what I find exceptionally odd, really – I still enjoy . . . Things. Writing, drawing, creativity, programming, logic, solving equations and problems, analysing arguments and dissecting philosophies, contemplating the psychology of everyone around me, myself, and the race as a whole: these are all what I truly love.
Love? Love, yes, that is my problem, and what drains me. It is easy to love activities, and it is easy to love friends and love laughter. It is easy to love what I create, and love to view what others create; it is easy to love nature and love life, honestly. All those things, I love and adore. But, there is a component of love that escapes me, eludes me. There is an utter and total lack of any sort of romantic love of another and myself.
I have a theory (and I have a lot of theories) that one does not truly love one’s self until one has loved another, because the method for that sort of love can’t be discovered on your own, but only with the guidance and example of someone else. Contentment and acceptance of one’s self, sure, is simple. The sum of the knowledge of the various parts of who I am brings me solace in my identity, and that is all that is necessary for a sense of self-satisfaction, in the end. I know what I am good at, and what I excel at, and where I fall short and what I don’t easily understand; that is fine, that is just who I am. There is no argument within myself over my strengths and weaknesses, my talents and expertise. Let me digress for a moment and deviate onto another topic, and return to the one at hand, afterward.
Something that people don’t like to face is the fact that there are people who carry images that are not attractive. “Everyone is different and beautiful.” No, no we’re not. Sure, everyone is different in ways, but “you are not a beautiful snowflake.” I know that I am not handsome or pretty or any such adjective, by the standards of society, because I can openly compare myself with those who are. I do not have a face, body, mind, or soul (or any of that crap) that people generally like, and it’s that simple. I will not say that there has never been and will never be – or aren’t, right now – people that think I am attractive; people can be attracted to anything. That is the beauty of human beings, that we, as individuals, can find the most repulsive and vile thing alive and divide ourselves enough from the collective mass of the race to declare our own, personal approval of it. That is me: there are very, very few people in the world who will decide, on their own, to think of me as appealing to look at or be around. Also, there are very, very few people in the world who will decide, on their own, to think of you as appealing to look at or be around . . . And you, over there, and you, and you, or you -- it goes the same way for everybody. No one is universally beautiful, because that is a concept we made up.
Universal beauty is a myth, at the end of the day. We, as a society, construct these ideal images to model our males and females on, and rate them against, but they are nothing more than shallow, superficial facets of the greed, lust, and other despicable traits of our human nature. If there was not a man who could make money off of red lipstick, or some sort of profit, then red lipstick would not be “pretty.” If there was not a fashion designer who would profit highly off of the sale of that off-the-shoulder, silk dress in the department store window, then that dress would not exist and it would be impossible for it to be “pretty.” What I am getting at is that everywhere that you see products and ideas of the nature of a standard appearance that is “pretty,” it’s a corporate lie (to sound very antiestablishment). Nowadays, to me, it sounds kind of hokey to say things like that, but it’s the truth that I’ve discovered and I know other people who have uncovered the same reality, underneath the velvet blindfold. No one person thinks the same way as the next in regard to what it means to be beautiful, at all, and it is retarded to practice a game where we all pretend to agree on who’s “Hot or Not.” Aesthetic taste is entirely subjective and wholly personal, and making it a profitable business and viable venue for sales and marketing is a disgraceful blemish of modern society that my disdain toward and disapproval of can not be expressed enough times.
Granted, there are some things which are naturally pleasing to the human eye: curves, soft lines, and symmetry – to name a few examples. However, the level at which this natural, aesthetic pleasure extends is quite short, because there is no reason that I am wrong to say that olive complexes are more attractive, and you to say that pale ones are. It is when we try and argue -- nitpicking away at our subjective opinions -- that stress and worry over self-image becomes an issue. If we were all to, collectively, throw our hands in the air, and say, “You know what, there’s nothing wrong with thinking that anything is attractive or beautiful, ever, at all,” then maybe there wouldn’t be all this idiotic strife over how to look on what day of the week during whichever season of the year. Fuck it, people, I think that sumptuous hips and full figures – preferably including nice, shapely buttocks – is more attractive on a woman than scrawny waists and heavy chest. Do you know how absurd it sounds, to me, to write that out, for whatever reason? Society has managed to implant in me this subliminal embarrassment over the fact that I think Britney Spears is not all that lovely. Peer pressure on a grand, immeasurable scale has put in all of our brains – well, maybe not all -- that there is supposed to be people who just are undeniably attractive. No, no, there really aren’t. I think Nicole Kidman is fucking gorgeous and I don’t know why, but I do. My individual psychology has lead me to find the combination of traits on Victoria Silvstedt to be better than those of, say, Pamela Anderson. There’s no right or wrong answer, here: no multiple choice, no A, B, C, or D. Fuck that bullshit.
I have managed to become horribly wrapped up in this tangent – I only meant it to be a short deviation. Still, my point is that . . . Well, I had a lot of points, but the big one that I started off with the intention of delivering was that self-image is superfluous and, thus, not worth worrying about. I look like how I look, and that’s how I look, and there’s no reason – no need -- for me to feel any emotion about it. I don’t love my face in the mirror, and I don’t hate it. It’s the face I have, and I’m resigned to keeping it the way it is, give or take, for the remainder of my life.
So, back to that theory of mine: there is no love for one’s self until one has love for another human being, and that person reciprocates that love. This holds true, as far as I can tell, for everything about one’s self; there is no genetic, instinctual reason to have love – which is just an emotion, don’t forget – until love has been displayed. Love is something which is not part of the world of nature, if you ask me. It is not helpful to the survival of a race to love anything, or anyone; in some cases, it’s detrimental to survival. Therefore, until someone actively loves you, you will not love yourself, since it is opposite to survival instinct.
I suppose I should expound on the fact that I do not think this is a bad thing, so much as I find it to be a confusing and subtle thing that people overlook. I do not love the way I look because nobody has ever loved the way I look. I have absolutely no idea how to do so, unless it is demonstrated how. On the other hand, people have hated the way I look, so it is very natural, almost reactionary, to do so, myself; moreover, it is an endurance to overcome such a behaviour, because that is unhealthy. This is a very difficult sort of idea to convey, I realize, so let me use the devices that which society has laid out for me to utilise.
Take the typical romantic comedy wherein there is a girl who is “the ugly one,” who nobody has ever loved and to whom no affection has been shown. However, there is a boy who is popular but smart, funny but sensitive, et al: he has a girlfriend, and she is “the popular one.” Everybody loves the girlfriend, and she is adored and worshipped (blah, blah, blah). Through the course of the movie, certain trials and tribulations will cause the boy to see the flaws of the girlfriend (she is, inevitably, shallow and self-centred), the strengths of the “ugly” girl (invariably, she is intelligent and kind), and his error in the pursuit of a girlfriend based on popularity and/or looks. He, then, dates the “ugly” girl, who emerges from her sad cocoon of low-self esteem and becomes a smiling, happy princess.
Alright, now that I have outlined the example, let me extrapolate from it what it is I mean. As clichéd and dull this movie plot is, it is oddly real to life in ways: that “ugly” girl had never thought of herself as “pretty” until the boy asked her out. Is this because she does not believe in herself and who she is? No, because, in the usual case, this girl, on her own, does what she likes and is very successful at it – perhaps, she is a poet of choice word, or an actress of secret magnitude. In this case, the girl is not truly unhappy with herself, because when one is depressed, one is not typically prolific in any way. She may hate her appearance and social status, but that is because that is always what has been given to her and it is what has been bred into her mind as the “truth;” that, in my opinion, is the real tragedy of these romances.
What, invariably, happens in the mind of the “ugly” girl in these sort of movies is this set of thoughts: “Nobody loves me, nor does anybody think I look good. Wait, he loves me and thinks I look good? I guess I am loveable and do look good.” Not necessarily the most in-depth and perfect description of this mentality, but it suffices for my purposes. This simple, three-step process is human nature, and it is how things tend to go, with few exceptions.
There is an alternative to the line of thoughts present above, and they are these: “Nobody loves me, nor does anybody think I look good. Wait, why do I care about what they think? I am loveable and I do look good.” However, the catch to this is that if someone has really never known what it means to be loved or admired, then he will not know how to act or feel about it. It becomes a mantra to him: something to be said, over and over, in hopes of making it true. Eventually, it may very well become true, but not usually without the help of another. From my experience, what tends to transpire is that he will find someone, they will uncover his hidden insecurity, and together they’ll work through it.
I should say that I don’t think either mentalities are all that great, to be honest. They just seem to be the predominant trends in human psychology. Which one am I? I suppose I have tried to find a middle-ground, a road between the high and low ones, per se. If I were to describe how I think, it would look something like this: “Nobody loves me, nor does anybody think I look good. Well, I hope somebody will, someday, love me and think I look good. Until then, nobody really does love me or how I look.”
Before I end this, because it’s becoming too long, I should point out exactly what I was addressing: love, in the romantic sense, and attraction to someone’s appearance, as a whole. Not necessarily just the physical shell, but also the “look” of the personality traits. Ugh, I really could’ve done this in a better manner, but I’ve lost the zeal to write, anymore. Sometimes, I just don’t know when to stop and create an ending point where I should.

Adios.

A Short Review: Kill Bill

Dear Quentin Tarantino,
I love you so much. When she plucked that bitch’s eye out, I knew that I would forever be your’s.
- Sincerely,
C. Jay B.

I Can Think Of No Possible Way to Incorporate "Ossify" Into This Title: So There

In lieu of actual content this Wednesday, I will instead deliver upon you, the readers, a treatment of ten hyperlinks (that's right, these links are hyper -- in your face). A lot of these links are brought to you by my roommate, because he introduced me to them and his soul is constructed from the blackest, darkest, vilest fibres of creation -- mostly the former, but the latter never hurts. I will now present them to you, in no particular order . . . Wait, how about in reverse alphanumerical order? Nothing can stop me, now.

10. 665 - I've endorsed this site before, and I will endorse it, again, just in case anyone forgot it existed. Go, read it, and enjoy the six hundred and sixty five entries of goodness.

8. Book of Ratings - For those times when you've thought to yourself, "Hey, if I were to grade the most mundane things in the world, but in a comical fashion that entertains for hours, what would it look like?" This, my friend, is what it would look like.

4. Home Despot - So, there's this 40-year-old ex-punk who moved to Tokyo, Japan and put up a website about the various subcultures there, and, also, his rants on various subjects. Crazy!

9. BloopWatch - In tribute to Lovecraft's writing, these people observe the news and point out stories that are of the more strange and bizarre fair: the type that can be likened to H.P. Lovecraft's fictional mythos, to be precise. Madness!

7. Studio Shinnyo - I don't know why I feel obliged to pimp out this old haunt of mine, but I do. This is the homepage of a fan-fiction writer who also hosts a place for Manifestos, which boil down to ranting and raving. Can't say, "no," to ranting and raving.

6. Satan Stole My Teddybear (Plus Others) - S.S.M.T. is a wonderful review site for bands that you may or may not have ever heard of, before. They tend to focus on metal (death, black, progressive, et cetera), but do cover other genres. The other websites on the index page this link takes you to are worth poking, too.

5. IMdb - The International Movie Database: I use it all the time, for any such occasion wherein I feel the need to know about an actor, director, writer, producer, or movie. It's very handy, and I'm sometimes surprised that people don't know about it. Go, go forth, my children, and use this tool for good, not evil (or evil, really it doesn't matter to me).

3. Get Your War On - A comic strip about politics, specifically the "War on Terror," and everything related. Harsh, and funny as fuck, if fuck were to be classified as funny.

1. ABA Games - Don't mind the Japanese on the website, and just click on the pictures to get the games (look for links to zip files). Tycho Brahe (PA) is playing these games, why aren't you?

2. Addicted_425 - This final link isn't here so much for happiness or . . . Well, good things. Go here if you feel the need to fuel your undying hatred of humanity -- to be quite honest, there's little reason else to go here. This girl's journal will make you laugh and cry, but always in pain.

Adios.

The Dam

now i'm finding it's the world that is ruined
now i'm finding that it's the race that is spoiled
now i'm finding it's the people that are lying
now i'm finding that it's numbers that destroy
that a crowd is not worth the sum of its parts
only the parts have value that don't apply to the addition property
and i'm seeing the status of the city is overrated
the fish on the hook are stupidly baited into believing
that this is the best we can do
if we burn it down bring it down bulldoze it all
and start over we'll probably get something greater
than the metropolis effect
people are herding into the flames
people are hurled into the dust
open your hand take my hand open your hand take my hand
and together we'll ascend above it all
seperate yet one and in the setting sun
we'll smile at all that we've done
and the dam will have broken to bits
yeah

So: Lackluster

i just keep askin' what i'm lackin' cause i've been hurtin' for somethin' more
and i know what i'm missin' and it's diggin' a hole in my soul
'cause nobody can know nobody can know nobody can know
if it's all for show if it's just a matter of one more then i'm goin' to explode
and it's time to reload my ammunition 'cause i'm packin' an empty gun
and there's no fun in shootin' blanks into the ranks of misinformed fools
so so so so what so so so so what
you're stuck in a rut made out as a slut and then it hits you it hits you
that i'm askin' a lot of nothin' here
for what huh did you say stop shh be quiet what when did you start
i don't know i don't know i don't know i know what i'm missin' and
it's diggin' a hole in my soul so maybe you can supply me with the answers
maybe you can clean up the mess i left in the party next door
so so so so

Do I Really Have To Explain That This is Even More Fiction? (No)

She’s not here, and you know why, don’t you? You liked it, didn’t you? Yes, no need to thank me. Shut up. Oh, don’t be cruel – after everything I’ve done for you? Shut up. Where would you be without me? Shut up! I’m the wind beneath your wings, baby. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Fine, fine . . .

“He was a good man, a good . . . Good man.”

“Yes, yes he was . . . Real shame. Really.”

Oh, you’re such a liar. He was a good person, at heart, and I know it. I saw him at his best – and at his worst – he could’ve changed back. I know it. No, you don’t. Sure, I only knew him for a few months, after he started working with me at the burger joint, but I . . . I never saw someone fall so fast and hard, and it wasn’t the end of the world. Liar. I mean, it’s not like it was . . . Intentional that he died – or anything like that. Right.

“I knew him since he was this high, eh?”

“Oh, wow, really? I only knew him . . . A short while.”

“Huh? How long?”

“A half a year or so, I guess . . . Worked with him, at the j-job.”

You’re a real case, you know that? Why don’t you tell them the truth, for once – liar! I remember when he first came to work; the manager said he came highly recommended from higher-up, so we had to treat him real good. Used to tease him, ya know, call him the manager’s pet and stuff . . . Heh, he took it real well, all in all – never seemed agitated or nothin’. Never? We all knew when he started using – it was God awful apparent. I don’t know how he got his hands on the stuff. Don’t you? The manager fired him the third day he came in completely gone: out of his mind, wasted.

“He could’ve done such great things, had his life not been cut short – Such a tragedy!”

“Yeah, it real-really is, eh? So sad . . . “

“Man, are you alright? You look pale. You alright?”

“I’m . . . Fine.”

He came to you, after that, and you know it. Came to you for help. He called me on the phone, two days after he got axed. Said he needed money, help – I told him I couldn’t spare nothin’, but I told him where to go. Didn’t you? He I couldn’t believe it when he showed up at my door, it was crazy. He looked all sorts of torn up – withdrawal, I guess. I shut the door in his face, it was all I could do. All? Yes! Was it? Yes! Liar! No!

“I hope they catch the vagrant who did this to him! Justice should be served.”

“Me too. I’d kill him myself, given the cha-chance. Do to him what he did to . . . H-h-him . . . Ugh.”

“You want some water?”

“Sure, that’d be . . . Great.”

Only you know the truth, Bobo: only you. That was the last time I saw him, ever. Tell them the truth, Bobo. Tell them! I watched through the window, as he walked away – staggering, falling over himself. What about her? What about her? Her? Her! No. Yes! No! Yes, Bobo! Yes! Her.

“His fiancé must be heart-broken – Oh, I hope she took it well!”

“Ye-yeah . . . I heard she was doing good, you know, in spite of everything . . . Strong girl.”

You know all about her, eh? Really familiar with who she is, how she works, what she thinks, how she feels . . . Shut up! Oh, you don’t want to hear about it? I guess so, considering you did it, yourself, and were, thus, there and all, heh! God, I wish you’d shut up. Don’t you? Ugh. She was really sweet, huh?

“That is a beautiful arrangement of flowers, who did it?”

Listen to them.

“Oh, that would be . . . Uh, I think Betsy brought it in. You know, she’s been seeing that tall guy, a lot.”

They need to know, Bobo.

“Has she, now? Do I smell romance, tee!”

Bobo? Bobby-boy? Boborino?

“Wheehee! I bet! I sure do!”

Nobody knows . . .

“Aw, now look at you, aren’t you just growing up nice and big and strong?”

. . . Except for you, of course.

“Yes, he’s just like his father! He’ll be a pro-baseball player, I bet!”

They rattle away, like skeletons with loose jawbones: oblivious, without a clue. No trace of the killer left behind, they say. Nobody knows.

“I sure hope so, someone has to support poor Lisa, always slaving around the house. Hmph, that husband of her’s, I swear!”

Tell them.

“Yes, I sometimes wonder if he works, or if he just goes out and drinks with floozy tramps!”

Tell them what you know.

“Brenda! Stop that! This is a solemn occasion, show some respect for the deceased.”

They must know the truth.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Toffee cake?”

The toffee cake is delicious, isn’t it?

“Ooo, lovely! I will have some.”

What? The toffee cake is quite tasty. What do you mean? What do you mean, what do I mean? It’s toffee cake, Bobo, and it’s good. Eat some. I don’t like toffee all that much, and you know that. Eat it, Bobo. I don’t . . . Want any. Eat it! Stop fucking with me. I don’t want any damned toffee cake. Aw, come on, eat --

“NO!”

The Troglodyte?

As I was sitting in the doctor's office, perched on that paper-clad table all doctors have, I glanced sideways at the mirror on the wall. I gazed at the image of myself in reflection, and I had one, dominant thought in my head: "I am fat and ugly."
This was immediately after the nurse had led me to the scale and taken my weight. I didn't read the measurement myself, and she mumbled the number, but it was not what I expected. I had hoped all the work I'd been putting into trying to slowly and permanently lose weight actually paid off; I thought, for sure, I had lost something more than ten pounds or so.
Engulfed within the white, sterile world of a clinic, I could not help but think of myself as a stain to be cleaned up, some disgusting blemish on the surface of perfection that is otherwise maintained in this private, pristine world.
Perhaps it was the angle of the mirror, the way it captured the bulk of my body in full. Perhaps it was the fact that I had been putting off shaving for so long that my face was a scraggly, unkempt mess of brown hair. Perhaps it's just that I haven't had a haircut in three years, and my hair is reaching down my back, now, like a homeless tramp's would. Or that my eyelids droop half-open, all the time, even when my eyes are, for all intents and purposes, wide-open; it gives me the appearance of someone extremely tired, or very apathetic. I have this mark above my left eyebrow, from getting stabbed there with a dart, but that's not visible except up-close -- still, it bothers me.
As I lingered on my mirror image, I thought back on all the women I had ever thought were exceptionally beautiful; moreover, I reminisced on the ones I had found so attractive that I persued. Without exception, it never failed that I would . . . Well, fail. Sometimes I wonder if I have a knack for going after women that think more highly of themselves than they honestly should. Of course, that just sounds like embitterment, but I think there's something to be said for the theory that every single woman I've ever asked out has been, to one degree or another, conceited.
It's the extreme, spectrum opposite of my low self-esteem, so it probably poses a quality of uniqueness and contrast in women to be full of themselves: that wonder and awe at the idea that someone can not only be content with how they look, but believe it to be that damn good. To be able to put one's self, or to be put there by the rest of society, up on a pedestal where nobody can touch, but everybody can admire, it's a novelty to me. Also, kind of stupid, I think.
I only let myself dwell on these trains of thought for a short time, but it imposes a cold grasp on my heart when I do. It's interesting that such emotion has a physical effect, but not uncommon. Sure, I am rather overweight, but I've seen worse -- I finally shaved, today, as well -- and it's absurd to think oneself to be the most atrocious being alive.
Sigh. Still, I sure would like to be able to say I've had one date in my life. Eh . . .

Adios.

Love Fails

[Author's Note: This is a review I wrote for Introduction to World Drama Class. I was rather proud of it, so I decided to share.]
Allow me to preface this review with the statement that I dreaded seeing this play thoroughly; moreover, I had absolutely no desire to see a play entitled The Triumph of Love that was being produced on the weekend of Valentine's Day -- Nothing about this was good, in my eyes. And let me just say that I, in essence, received exactly what was to be expected from a play entitled as such and produced on such a weekend. As the play swung into motion, set within a "Garden of Reason," I knew from the first instant that this was surely all to crumble to dust in the "unstoppable, inevitable" face of Love (quotation marks used solely for irony, here). I must admit that I did hold some hope out that, during the first number, "This Day of Days," in which the inhabitants of the Garden sang of brutal, gory regicide, that, perhaps, this play would have a black twist to it that would lead to young Agis not requiting any love and, instead, running the Princess through the skull with the axe. Needless to say, no such thing came to fruition; Triumph of Love proved to be a comical and (somewhat) entertaining play about happy-wappy luvey-wuvey, colourful rainbows, and lollipops (Disclaimer: no actual lollipops presented herein, unless you count vague allusions to erect penises that may or may not possess a fruit flavour).

The play's plot plods forth as thus: there exists a brother and sister -- Hermocrates and Hesione, respectively -- who are terribly strict, sober philosophers of the Aristotelian blend whom their nephew -- Agis -- is raised under the tutelege of these vulcan minds; also, Agis is the exiled, rightful heir to the Princedom of Sparta. They live happily in a Garden of Reason, studying very astutely on a daily diet of philosophy, history, science and mathematics, while also plotting the assassination of the usurper of Sparta, Princess Leonide. Thus goes the exposition and status quo of the play, which opens on and takes place entirely within the day in which Agis is to march forward into Sparta and slay the Princess -- But, wait! Who is to show up at the Garden and spoil it all, determined to woo and cuddle the nubile Agis, someone whom has only been seen once before by this intruder, but true love struck at a moment's glance and forever petrified fated unity in time and space, a match woven into the very fabric laid out on the Loom of the Three Fates? (Think contrived, here) Why yes, indeed, it was, in fact, Princess Leonide, herself, with her faithful companion and servent, Corine: otherwise known as the token slut. Hijinks ensue (also, crossdressing), a polygon of the love variety is birthed, Hesione falls for Leonide in the guise of a worldy male student of philosophy, Hermocrates falls for Leonide in the guise of a flighty, empty-minded debutante who is "willing to learn" (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), Corine has her way with both the Gardener, Dimas, and the Harlequin, Agis is none the wiser and stupidly befriends the male alias of Leonide, followed by the eventual revelation of truths, confession of true, pure love, and your classic, happy ending is had by all (except, of course, by the aunt and uncle, who now need cold showers).

Firstly, before I go any further, let me just comment on the aspect of Triumph that I did rather enjoy: the performance of the actors in regards to the musical nature of their parts and the physical showmanship. I rather quite liked the flavour of the numbers in this play, specifically the ones revolving around Corine, which tended to have a Jazz/Big Band feel to them. For example, "Mr. Right" had a very heavy influence from the female Jazz singers from the early twentieth century, with throaty lyrics and a healthy bass beat. Also, one, even of the most cynical nature, can not fail to love the whimsical and spontaneous song routine of "The Sad and Sordid Saga of Cecile," that absolutely reeked of absurdity and a faux impromptu nature. All in all, the songs reminded me of the 1920's and 1930's, even the romantic ones which sounded almost reminiscent of Blues, in my opinion, i.e. "Teach Me Not to Love You." The true musical talent of the play mostly laid with the female lead roles, Kate Collins Brown and Lisa Johanson, who belted out their vocals in a practiced, refined and professional manner, while still successfully remaining on track with where they were and what they were doing on-stage. Alexandria Finnegan, the other female role in the play, didn't overly impress me with her singing, sounding to me to fall a little flat and weak, for the most part, to be honest; granted, this may have been an intentional approach to her part, considering she was to be Hesione, a woman unfamiliar with the musical arts and obsessed in totality with science and mathematics -- Definitely not one to be a privy vocalist. Come to think of it, actually, the same went for Aaron Page, as Hermocrates, and his vocals: they rang of an amateur tone, appropriate for a philosopher and logic-minded person. The musical parts for Anthony Colosimo -- Agis -- all sounded exactly like how a boy in late puberty would sound, always with a tinge of insecurity and a lack of confidence in his voice; ideally, this was meant to be this way for Agis, and if not, I'm being very cruel to Colosimo. The larger emphasis with the roles of the Gardener and, even more so, the Harlequin was indubitably placed on the physicality of their movement and gestures, not so much the music. The Gardener, a big, dumb lug of a fellow, always came off exactly as such in the songs he was featured -- A baritone, slow-minded bumbler; while the Harlequin sang as someone who is wound up on caffeine and other somesuch stimulants: rapid and a blur. These two men, however, did help to underline the play's wonderful physical performance, in general, from everybody; if you didn't notice just how precise and coordinated the choreography of the others were, you could not help but notice that the Harlequin was doing flips, and the roudy Dimas was pushing everyone around (also, there was a lot of clever use of that hoe of his -- not ho, har-har, that'd've been Corine). The actors all tended to move around the set, a lot, over and around the statue in the middle, and the two benches on the sides, which lent itself to an effect of an active, energetic atmosphere. If Leonide wasn't bending some poor schmuck over a bench to seduce him or her, then someone else was constantly changing position -- Sitting, standing, sitting, moving, circling. It made what would have otherwise been a long, bland series of exchanges of dialogue much, much more enjoyable to view; nothing is quite as dull as long monologues or sililoquys being spout off by a stark-still, rigid actor. The synergy of the music and movement on stage, in my opinion, is what made it twice or thrice as entertaining as it would have otherwise been; kudos to the actors for a job well done, really -- For as much as the play, itself, was lackluster, the execution can not be faulted, not even a little bit.

The Triumph of Love? What, precisely, was Love triumphing over? The obvious answer would be Reason, I suppose: I just found this theme to be amazingly silly and flitting. I’ve never been all that especially fond of love stories, or romances. Not because I’m a deep-rooted and embittered cynical bastard who sneers at hope, love, and kittens (which I am, mind you), but because it’s not these themes that are something that these forms of art tend to explore and expound upon, elaborate the intricacies of or make any the better for the time. Kittens are so passé. You see, the way I see it, is that love is just what it is - love - and these stories, tales, plays don’t change anything about it. Also, they don’t reveal anything startling about it. For example: oh my God above, love is a confusing, convoluted, emotional, tumultuous, strenuous, chaotic, lucid, maddening, frustrating, euphoric, pleasing, uplifting, and twisted sort of thing. This is truly an unexplored concept, never seen before in the annals of history, literature, theatre, and art. I will concede that love-based dramas are entertaining, but my problem with them is that they can’t be anything more than that. It’s certainly not a message which is vital to the world that must be promoted; love has never stopped being around, because, you know, we’re here. There is no age of the past wherein love vanished, dried up, and was forgotten - no, there really wasn’t, not even the Age of Reason. Love is what love is, and love is still where love has always been. So, in other words, love is unchangeable, unbendable, and unending. Plays can be meant to be mere, trifling fun, frolicking about in the fields of lilacs and butterflies, but maybe the only thing I am trying to say with this is that these types of plays aren’t to my taste. Love isn’t profound. Love isn’t deep. Love isn’t thought-provoking. It is touching, it is heart-warming, and it is amusing, at times, and horrifying, at others. Love is emotion, not thought; as such, I don’t like spending time dwelling on it. So, what is the main theme of Triumph of Love, to me, is a very trivial and pointless one -- Alright, so Love can conquer Reason, so what? What else is new? For the purposes of the plot, sure, it was appropriate; I'm not going to say it was a badly-written play, by any means. It is just, to me, the idea of love over reason isn't one that is valuable; indeed, one might say, namely that one being me, that, instead, this case in vice versa is what should be propogated. Reason over love is something that occurs more rarely, so it would be more, for one, interesting, and, for two, original. Love conquering over a cold heart has been done since the era of Greek mythos, since it was being put on the walls of Egyptian tombs, since the Mesopotamians and Minoans wrote of it, I'm sure. In other words, it's been done and, then, done some more, and, just for the sheer Hell of it, done, again, once more. I don't mean for all plays to be dark and brooding, philosophical and existential; just, all the plays that I like would probably be, in actuality. I do not command the cease of love stories, but don't expect me to pay attention to their existence. Love is here, it happens, and that's all there is to it; the resulting events don't particularly matter much to me, unless they directly relate to me, of course. It's no surprise my favourite dramas of all-time include Death of a Salesman and Three Sisters (last year's production was awesome, by the way).

So, in conclusion, I was asked to attend a play on Valentine's Day weekend, that was entitled Triumph of Love, featured song and dance, and revolved around the destruction of logic and reason by the hands of lust and love, and, for anyone who knows me, the result was predictable: I spent a few days ranting to random people about the frivolity of romances. If you had seen me directly after the play, the first time I saw it (I went twice, just to be thorough), I would have delivered a long, didactic diatribe on how utterly pointless the entire endeavour was, in the end, because love is inevitable and integral to life, so why should we focus on it? Nobody needs to be taught how to love, nobody needs to be shown how to fall in love, nobody needs to be given a lesson in the proper ways to feel about love, nobody even truly understands love or can explain it coherently, hell! I'm calm, I swear, I'm calm . . . The admirable bit was the craft of the play, though, and that I took enjoyment in seeing. To see a group of fine artists of the stage so flawlessly and seamlessly execute a play like that, it's truly inspiring. Indeed, sometimes, I walk away from a play feeling as though I'd like to take up the art, myself, because I was involved heavily enough with the theatre in high school, doing set design and helping people rehearse and whatnot. The music was great, to be frank. I applaud the performance of the orchestra and band behind the stage, for they were on cue and finely tuned. On my own personal scale by which I measure my opinion, the Failure Rating System (FRS), wherein 100% is God Awful and 0% is Perfect, I would give the whole experience a 45% Failure Rating: excellent acting, great music, good design, and boring script.

Improvident Bastards and The Downfall of Man

Have you seen this tripe: I Want a Famous Face, or whatever the name of this hideous, awful show is? It’s about a bunch of women who all want to look like some flash-in-the-pan, ten-minute celebrity (like Pamela Anderson or Jennifer Lopez) and they give them plastic surgery to help them “achieve their dreams.” Oh, sweet Jesus Lord Christ Above and Hell Below! Allow me to express my hatred, here.
Blonde is not beautiful. Tan skin is not beautiful. Huge, disproportionate breasts are not beautiful, either. Anorexic complexions with skeleton frames and protruding ribcages supporting orange-charred flesh painted in make-up is not beautiful. Fuck society’s image of the perfect woman. Fuck the fashion magazines and the entertainment television shows, the music videos and the bubblegum-pop starettes. Fuck all that shit, and never, ever stop fucking it. There are not enough italicised words to convey my rage.
This show: it fails. It fails with a Failure Rating of 100%; it fails with such extreme prejudice that its failure is hardly contained by my meagre rating system. Why? Why does it fail so much, you dare ask (or you don’t – like that’ll stop me)?
It symbolises the huge, gaping, festering problem with American society, that is why it fails harder than an undiagnosed retard in advanced Calculus class. I am sick of “blonde, buxom babes,” and, moreover, the troupe of sorority girls on campuses nationwide who all look like clones with bad dye-jobs. Look, the reason why blonde hair was originally associated with beauty was because it was rare, thus exotic and interesting. This quality is destroyed when every third woman has blonde hair. It’s come to a point where I find a natural brunette to be inexplicably intriguing because it’s like spotting a white tiger in the Amazon.
Am I the only man alive who desires a woman who looks human, not like some abhorrent rendition of a Barbie doll that has a higher ratio of organic matter to plastic than the doll herself? Certainly, yes, there is an aesthetic quality to the oiled-up, posed and primped models you find in glamour and “gentleman’s” magazines – I will not be the hypocrite who denies that. But, that’s a novelty, like a glass elephant figurine you perch on a shelf in the living-room; it’s not something you want to marry. That’s what it is, really: it comes down to that these women are trophies -- for display, not purpose.
All I’m saying is show me a woman who isn’t “perfect,” who doesn’t care whether or not she matches up to what the rest of the bleeding world envisions the ideal woman. Actually, I’m not saying I don’t already see this, but . . . Jesus Christ, seeing some blonde airhead on television being patted on the back and congratulated for the fact that doctors just wasted precious time and material to make her breasts look five times too large for her frame, it elicits such frothy, furious anger. Nobody should be rewarding this mentality, it’s disgusting and deplorable and other such d-words that mean really bad.
I don’t want to exist in a society that condones such shit, that’s what it boils down to reveal. Rawrgh!

Kill . . . Everything!

My House

Welcome, welcome, come anon,
To you – the player – we call upon
Your service, to play and stay here,
Nights past days long gone.

All too frugal, all too rich,
Don’t be shy; it’s in the pitch
Of the wrist, of the eye,
Catch one card slip aside.

Rancid jeweler spun around,
The Jacks, the Queens, crimson royalty,
Marbles drop – hear that sound?
Money spent in money’s vain.

This is the gamble,
It is the trick, keystone to
Building a house of cards,
Tumble, tumble, tumble down –
Fate to fall and rise again,
Would you like to take a spin?

Did You Miss The Fiction Last Week?

I'm not going to go: I don't want to go. I never need to see him, again; I saw him enough in life -- what difference does it make, now? I don't have to go, and nobody really wants me to: I know the truth. I'm not stupid, I can see how they look at me, with those wary eyes. He never looked at me like that, but they do -- all the time -- because they hate me. I'm not going.

" . . . That was the latest sing--," the radio clicked on just long enough for a pale, white hand to dart out and strike the alarm button, coming out from under the covers of the bed like a snake after its prey. The mass underneath the grey blankets waffled about, shifting and turning. Visible at the head of the bed was a tangle of hair, the auburn-tinted sign of life in the cataclysmic scene of this bedroom.

Nobody is going to be asking about me, there; nobody is going to know I'm missing. Because, as far as they're concerned, I'm not missing, I didn't belong -- not in their precious family. Sure, they could point and tut about me, but they'd never admit to anything wrong with him. He was an angel, I was a devil: that's the way they saw it. I'm sure they blame everything on me, too: all the drug business. Jesus Christ, fuck them all.

Clad in a black t-shirt that loosely clung to her body, a girl of somewhere in her late teens sat in the bed, her waist wrapped in sheets around. A picture that was almost like a little girl --lost in a sea of fabric -- waiting for rescue. Her eyes peered blearily into the light of day that was coming in through the one window in the room, while reddish-brown strands of hair fell over her face, into her mouth. Distastefully smacking her lips, she slowly lifted a hand and pulled the hair out of her mouth, spitting and coughing.

What difference does it make? Even if I were there, what difference . . . ? He's dead, and gone; funerals aren't for the dead, they're for the mourners. A morbid march to the graveyard in the overcast midday sky, little black figures against the foggy backdrop like soldiers on a bleak battlefield . . . They carry the coffin like a lost comrade, bearing it upon their shoulders like it's a favour to the corpse for them to be carrying it. In the end, they barely knew him, they barely cared for him -- it's a sham, fraudulence. They'll pause before the tombstone and recite their prayers to a deaf heaven, moving their lips in synchronised motion and hugging themselves in the cold air. Hah, what meaninglessness . . .

Standing in the middle of the mess of a room, the girl rubbed her eyes and then stretched her arms out, yawning. Blinking her eyes multiple times, she scratched her thigh and looked around at the floor, in search of something with her newly-awakened eyes. She had a moderately attractive figure, with an amount of fat not in obese excess clinging to her abdomen and hips; at somewhere near halfway between five and six feet, she was hardly short nor tall. One of the only notable features about her was the scar running along her left inner-thigh, tracing from above her knee to end at her panty-line. She shivered faintly -- cold, wearing merely the shirt -- moving around and kicking at the clutter on the floor.

It's not fair, really: I was always nice to them. I put on a good face, when I did see them, at the grocery store or in the street. They ignored me, still, even as a smiled and waved and bid them a good morning, evening, night or whenever it happened to be. Too good to associate with the riff-raff, huh? Heaven forbid you tarnish your pristine status in such a foul manner, indeed! . . . I guess I shouldn't say they all ignored me, there was that one little kid (his cousin). Nice boy, he didn't belong in that family. I remember that one time I saw him walking down the street with who was probably his mother: I called out, "Hello," and he started to try and walk over and say something. His mom just tugged on his arm and shot me this regretful, apologetic look; then, they kept walking.

Leaning down and yanking up a pair of black and white, plaid-patterned boxer shorts, the girl sucked her lip and plopped down on the bed. Holding both her legs out, she quickly slid on the boxers and jumped back to her feet, stepping on a book in the process. She nearly lost her balance and tipped over, but shot her arms out and grabbed a nearby shelf. Her hand knocked over a framed picture on the shelf, though, and she paused to pick it up and replace it. Within the brass square was a photograph containing a very small, young girl; a large, bearded man with dark, brown hair; and a thin, beautiful woman with red hair and a glowing smile. Nestled in the corner of the frame was a smaller Polaroid, picturing a boy with black hair and gray eyes. Sighing, the girl let herself linger -- gazng at the picture-frame -- before moving to a chest of drawers and withdrawing a bra.

She would've understood, I'm sure: she always did. Mom was always understanding, evening out Dad's short temper. He had always been a rough and tough with me and Mom, but he loved us both – I know it. It’s only been a year and a half since he left: disappeared, nobody has seen him since. I’m not sure if the police investigation is open anymore or not; really, I doubt it. I miss him, and wish he’d come back. He always reminded mf of Dad, with the way he was quiet, gruff, but surprisingly gentle and compassionate. He was a good guy, no matter what everybody else said – they both had been good men.

Standing in front of a mirror in a bathroom, the girl moved a toothbrush up and down, left and right inside her mouth, scrubbing her teeth with the white, minty paste. Staring at her own two, teal eyes in reflection, she hummed quietly to herself: a tune with no name. As she brushed, she swayed back and forth every so slightly, shifting weight from one foot to the other in an impatient but casual manner. She was wearing simply a white, cotton bra and the plaid boxers, now, and the scar at the bottom of her throat was visible albeit faint and pale blue. It was a tiny room, with just a porcelain toilet, sink, and shower; clean, somewhat – enough to pass for sanitary, not enough to be sparkling. Her eyes wavered back and forth from her reflection to the far-off, distant nothingness of space, as a line of paste dribbled out her mouth and fell onto the middle of her chest.

When I had first met him, he didn’t seem like my type: beforehand, I had only gone out with sort of rambunctious, loud fellows who drank and partied. It had always satisfied me to just hang on their arm and be shown around the social scene, silent and observant of all the goings-on. He was cute, though, with his pubescent attempt at a goatee, scruffy haircut, and tan complex, so I gave it a shot. That was two years ago, thereabout, and it had been pretty serious ever since the first two or three dates. I was happy, he was happy, but then, as the cliché goes, “everything changed.”

She bathed under the tempered spray of the showerhead, relaxing in the steamy sauna effect that was being created. Scrubbing the shampoo into her hair with both hands, she faced directly toward the stream of water, letting it help her wake up from the clutch of last night’s sleep. The girl was still humming the same nameless tune she had been, before.

The last time we saw each other, it was in that garden behind the grammar school playground. It was a really lovely sight, honestly, with all kinds of flowers and plants grown there by the school’s biology classes. Tall hedges surrounded the entire place, and the only entrance and exit was an archway of twining ivy and flower buds. I recall that when he took me there, the first time, I felt as though it were a fairy tale land. I suppose I was more of a little girl, then, than I am now . . . But, that last time (it was five months ago, I think), he wanted to cheer me up because my Dad had been missing. The whole ordeal tore me up, naturally, and I spontaneously cried around him, all the damn time – shameful, now that I think about it. Should’ve been stronger, should just move on, let go and all that motivational, self-help crap. We made love, there, and for a moment, I felt like I had escaped from reality and been freed; truly freed, from the chains and cruelties of the world. A temporary bliss, it all was, in the end. I suppose I’d go back, do it again, but I don’t want to go – don’t need to go.

Removing a shirt from the closet in her bedroom, the girl took out a different black t-shirt, with a series of five, thin, white and grey stripes along the front. Tossing it over he head and putting her arms into the shirt, she wriggled it on and left the room. Dressed in the shirt and a pair of grey, denim jeans, she made her way through a cluttered living-room, then down a flight of stairs. She knelt down and picked up a pair of ratty, off-white sneakers; leaning against the wall, she forced them on, one socked foot at a time. Before opening the door and walking outside, she tied her shoes and let out a deep sigh.

“Another day closer to death . . .”

The Mountebank of Interest

[Disclaimer: Boring rambling to follow.]
I think there’s something just inherently listless and gray about Saturdays at work. My job entails sitting at a computer outside of a computer lab, intended to be the consultant for any problems or questions lab-goers have, and also the technical troubleshooter for any problems with the lab computers. More oft than not, however, my job comes down to being a printer-monkey, because my computer is the only one hooked into the printer and everybody just brings me floppy disks or Flash drivers or CD-RWs or whatnot with their file or files to be printed on them. It was the semester before I landed this job that the powers that be decided that it’d be a great money-saving tactic to un-network all the computers from the printer and have the front, consultant box be the only one left that can print; moreover, paper is to be provided by the student in need of printing. As a result, most people go to the library to print, where there’s a lab with a printer ran through all the computers, and free paper. Saves IT Services money, I guess, though.
Anyway, all that is rather boring exposition, I suppose. On Saturday, the lab is open from noon to six ‘o clock, which is entirely my shift. I come in, call the campus police to unlock everything (because no consultant is entrusted with keys, ever), boot everything up once I get in, and sit. This place is just dead. Nobody needs the lab on Saturday, unless the dormitory networks are down. Maybe one, two, or three people waft through the door, like wandering, aimless ghosts.
Today is exceptionally laced with ennui, since there’s some mediocre, generic, rock band performing outside. My ears are being battered with the muffled, incoherent sounds of poor, white-boy vocals, trite guitar riffs, and slipshod drumming. It adds to the effect, just creating an atmosphere of absolute vacuum. My company consists of electronic buzzing and the whirring of fans.
It is on Saturday nights that I typically run my roleplaying game, which I always wholeheartedly look forward to holding. In fact, on Saturdays, most of what I work on in the lab is material for the game. It’s something to pass the time with, and it’s a hobby I enjoy indulging. Still, it doesn’t make the day exciting.
I open the doors. I close the doors. There’s nothing interesting here, nothing of a spectacle. Such is who I am, what I am, where I am, or so it feels. Saturdays at work just remind me of how drab life can be, or how drab existence can be.
So bored.

Adios.

Vertiginous Outburst

It's like writing about it was a cocky dare to the bacteria within me; having seen the challenge, they rose up to prove something to someone, somewhere. Well, if that something was, "Burning sinuses and a cramping stomach make the host unhappy," then they win. Oh, do they win -- such winning is, dare I say, undisputable.
And it was about at this point where the bacteria decided that because it wasn't quite enough to light my inner nasal passages on fire and twist my intestines into the shape of some quantum probability model of an atom, that they had a committee meeting and moved to pass the bill to increment the temperature by which my body operates by a notch or two -- the motion passed with a ninety-to-three victory. Those three committee members who dissented have since been sentenced to death by white blood cell consumption. It was an ugly scene, reporters reported (as is the trend of reporters, to report).
The world is a warm, warm place. Not necessarily warm and fuzzy, but warm, nonetheless; unless one is to equivocate fuzziness with the haziness of being drugged. As a result, everything is sort of slow and disconnected. I tried to get some writing done, and I had lots of ideas, but nothing came out, in text. Blasted common cold, one day I will have my revenge.
I'm going to go back to groggily . . . Uh, existing.

Remonstrating with Bacteria

If there is one solitary example of a force in the universe that is a driving factor in listless and unproductive behaviour, I would say that it’s a cold. That previous sentence was way too convoluted; the proportion of words to ideas was way too high. Anyway: being sick, it sucks.
It feels like tiny little hands are pressing on the backs of my eyeballs. I despise headaches, and I generally try to not have them, but fate has deemed it so to thwart that. Also, the pressure on the back of my skull feels like a raging monkey is trapped inside my skull and pounding his way out, angrily punching my brain from the inside. Ugh, and other such expressions of pain.
Semester coming to close, and work is due. Programming and writing needs to be done, and studying has to be done, all too soon. Have to attend a play, a production of the Scarlet Letter, for which I shall write a review (for class, that is). Need to take care of financial aid, apply for some for the Summer. Job? New boss, need to ask him about summer hours. Running a side-run tonight, too . . .
Must read “Master Harold” . . . and the boys, which is what I shall do right about now (the funk’s so brother).

Less with the irrelevant, life-related rambling in the future, I promise..

A Manifesto (Long and Dry)

This rant, it bubbles forth from me like some kind of indignant geyser, exploding after a due amount of pressure and time. But, seriously, fuck it, I'm not letting this dwell inside of me, and this is a place I have created for me to write as I see fit, and, sometimes, it'll be funny, sometimes: anger will permeate, soaking, into my words. I am rather unfond of several qualities of people, and I plan on addressing as many as I can before I don't feel like it, anymore.
Let me preface this with a small factoid in regards to my life: so, a few weeks ago, a friend of mine that I considered close decided that the thing to do was to throw everything about our friendship into question, and, in the end, declare her unwillingness to be good friends with me, anymore. A small bit of information to provide some relevant scope and context to this whole thing; granted, not all, but some. In case you were wondering about the source of my steam: yeah, that, too.
Okay, firstly: seriously, fuck that people don't ever feel satisified letting things go in any sort of uncontrolled or natural progression of events. Somewhere along the line, this race of ours has forgotten how to construct their lives around, I don't know, satisfaction or accomplishment. Is it some sort of secret trend that I have been left privy out of that the fashionable thing to do is manufacture my life around appearances and societal etiquettes, that it somehow, now, actually reflects any sort of spiritual or moral code of ethics to tiptoe around the truth and coat everything with a pink, sugary frosting? (I would really like to hammer home that I am not specifically targetting or referring to the aforementioned friend, but that she happens to just display a recent example of such behaviours.) Somehow, I'm supposed to care that only on alternating Mondays, from sunrise to noon, it's kosher to, then, state things matter-of-factly or with a reasonable amount of assurance of one's own knowledge of any given subject.
It seems to me that it has become the accepted and expected behaviour for people to suppress all forms and facets of their personal capabilities and expertises in lieu of exercising authority on anything. It's one thing to be arrogant and claim to unjustifiably be in the know of something you're not, but it's another to have a long history of being, in general, intelligent about something, or doing something smartly, and to have that portfolio of past events to point at and use as reason to exert a semblance of confidence over. Does anyone seriously not notice why self-esteem is at an all-time low in the world (look around you, look at the commercials for depression medication and all the children sitting in counselor's offices throughout the day). It's because we teach each other that it's impolite to ever act like you actually are equally intelligent as someone in some particular field, and actions in contradiction to such an ethos are profoundly offensive. The generation before mine was so tired of being belittled and looked down upon by the traditionalist powers that be that they raised their children to squelch any desire to ever (oh, you know) act competent.
The current pop-culture is stupid. The current movies being pumped out are stupid. The television we watch on a day-to-day basis is stupid. The cleverest comedy in America is that which points at the stupidity and recreates it in an ironic sense. The books we produce are poorly written and mentally bankrupt. The culture we propogate is terrible and disgusting. Anything produced at a level vaguely equal to that of someone who would have been considered of moderate intelligence fifty years ago is touted as the most brain-wracking piece of work ever to grace the human race, for that month or three. We don't hold ourselves up to the standards that have already been proven and set down, in the past, at all. We've decided that the thing to do is to, instead, take three steps back and reinvent the wheel, when it comes to intellectual life. I'm not basing this on personal, subjective vendettas, I'm simply looking back at the library of works that have been created in the history of our existence, and holding it up to today's examples.
But, to wittle this back down to a more specific and less broad arena, I will get back to human, social interaction. What it boils down to is that we have been brought up in a generation that is expected to exchange the stupidest of dialogue, day-in and day-out. So, any exception to this kind of conversation is viewed as an oddity or estranged abberation, examined closely and scrutinized in a fine light. Maybe these are all timeless truths, and because what survived from the past -- which was what was, by nature, worth surviving -- seems so much better than today's tripe, but it pisses me off.
To shift gears, slightly: I expect an amount of respect from those who I treat with respect, is what it all boils down to, at the barest of cores. This respect is reflected in an assumed quality of being, even despite apparent faults and glaring flaws; in other words, I have problems and you have problems, but I will treat you as a shining example of this race, and I hope you will do the same for me. What I do not appreciate is the hypocritical activity of expecting the absolute perfect from me, and then wanting me to forgive all your issues. If you think it's not obvious when you think more highly of someone else somehow, then you're dead fucking wrong, too. Anyone with a smidgeon of perceptiveness can gauge how high the light on one's self is.
The problem all comes into play when one considers the previous paragraph, and factors in the two preceding that one; to clarify, I expect equal treatment, but our society is intrinsically stupid, so the prevalent concept of equality is treating everyone as if they're dumb. Also, everyone automatically suppresses their intelligence, insofar that the normally visible amount of stupidity seems . . . Normal. I don't treat people like they're stupid, I never have; I listen to more points of view than is imaginable, honestly. I'm not trying to say I'm some great Saint (because, fuck the Vatican), but I am simply stating what is true. It is an easy thing to show that I do listen because I can remember almost everything of what I hear, even if hazy with specific details here and there. Thus, it can not be proven that I don't listen, when I have the memories I do have, and it is requisite for me to have these memories by listening: a simple logical proof. But, this, of course, is somehow bad, that I treat people with intelligence.
What has degenerated due to the predominant trend in stupid-speech is the individual's ability to communicate ideas with clarity. Nobody knows how to say what they want to say or express their thoughts, because it is not their role in society to do so; however, it is base human nature to wish to share one's self with everybody around them, moreso for those they deem as loved or cared-for ones. So, when I give someone the benefit of the doubt about their intelligence and speak on a heightened level, their automatic response is to want to and strive to communicate their ideas in the exact same likeness, but they have lost a grasp on the coherent methods how. The result is that I continue to not just do the stupid thing and assume I understand, instead pressing the individual to refine their words and better convey their meaning. It is about at this point that I am labeled as arrogant or overbearing or somesuch, because I have chosen to try and understand more deeply and completely an idea that has been spoken to me, since, you know, I question it -- remember, it is stupid to never question, so that is the popular practice accustomed. In the end, I just wanted to hear more and learn more about the person, and I am given a pile of shit for it.
Here is the part where I inevitably do sound arrogant: I find it hard to believe that it is my fault that so many people are incomprehensible when I have interpreted so much complex literature and philosophy, psychology and theology, and similar subjects, in the course of my lifetime. You can try and say that maybe I don't comprehend everything I've applied my attention to, but . . . I don't know, that'd be a retarded argument, considering the independent observations and insights I've made about them. And it's not as though I go around with a t-shirt that says, "I Read and Understand Faulkner and C. S. Lewis," so I don't feel as though this is arrogance. You see, by definition, arrogance is the act of claiming to be able to do something that one is truly not able to do; the commonly forgotten key to that definition is the act of claiming. If I never claim to be capable of doing so, then I can't be arrogant -- of course, one could argue that I just did do that very thing: make a claim on my comprehension of in-depth ideas. I suppose continual deliberation on this matter will innately end up circular, and I can only conclude this paragraph by stating that I think what matters is that I absolutely do not believe I am the only person alive of having such capacity for interpretation.
To further try and say what I am trying to say (that I'm not a prick), I will also assure you that I do not repulse from -- and, in fact, expect -- the identical behaviour I display. Moreover, to be elaborate here: if someone were to press me for understanding of my ideas, then I would not deliver upon such a deliverer of such treatment any malcontent. I do not think I am the most comprehensible man alive, nor do I think that I am infallible or omniscience. Rather, I try and always establish that all I ask for from interaction is a complete and full discussion, not some half-assed, pathetic jungle of half-finished and cut-off statements. Too many times have I witnessed and been subject to conversation that boiled down to incomplete ideas being bounced off of impenetrable walls, such talking coming down to nobody listening and just talking, exchanging what may seem to be interesting dialogue (but, in reality, is dull recitation of preformulated sentences). Also, I do accept the fact that not everybody always wants to engage in intellectual conversation, and I would say that I do a consistent job of switching modes when need be. After all, I can stand around and spew brain-trash and comic relief with the best of them.
I'm not getting anywhere with this, and it's beginning to frustrate me, which is going on top of my pre-existing frustration about non-communication. Hah, I'm a raging contradiction, aren't I? Sure, I'm saying things, but -- these things -- they are not what I desire to convey. Ugh, I think I'm going to just conclude this with one more paragraph.
People aren't stupid. People need to stop acting stupid. People need to stop being indecisive about what they expect and adhere to a constant and reliable standard of reactions. It is only when people, as a whole, act stupid that they become stupid. But, the stupidity is only surface-deep, it's just a matter of how deep the surface is before one comes across the actual mind. It is not rude to seek clarification on obfuscated points, and it is not implausible that one would expect the same, in return. (Heh, I just made the typo of "retard" where I intended to type "return," I think I'm dwelling too much on the conceptual state of stupidity.) There is nothing wrong with being confident in what you think; at least, when said thoughts are justifiable with viable and, preferably, communicable support. Do not play stupid, it is stupid to do so, because that game only makes you stupid, in the long run. An intensely frightening thought, to me, is a vastly intelligent person slowly dwindling away into a confused and contradictory fool, because he got lost in the game of stupidity that human society has become. It's a horrible thought, and all too common.

Be Strong,
Be Wrong.