Saturday, July 19, 2014

feigning enthusiasm vs. eating garbage

I can already feel the shackles of wage slavery hanging from my limbs and dragging me down into the mud. it's not outcome projections but manifestation. I will simply do nothing else all week but work. work. sleep. drive. work. for a pittance. a token. such a hypocrite. a fraud. 

I guess I could purchase tools for my escape? books. rations. waterproof matches? a proper amp? 

that's how it starts. the rationalizing of one's own servitude begins with some as-yet-unneeded item becoming necessity. suddenly one finds themselves with a wife and kids at walmart "buying" patio furniture on credit.

I will not:

use credit 
purchase new

I will only buy that which supports revolt. 

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

another irrelevant hypocrite blogs on The Great American Bowel Movement

it's not really insomnia if its due to oversleeping. such is the case this evening. or, this morning. the problem with commitments is that they rarely square with nature. they annihilate it. I'd prolly be sleeping now if I did not commit to 0800. 5 hours and 40 minutes from now... five, if I slept right now and gave myself forty mins in the am. this is not going happen. $80 doesn't mean so much at 0740, which is the last possible moment I could hope to make it in time. and there's no way I will be sleeping before 0500. 

and now I'm hungry. 


I'll just shut the phone down and sleep until whenever I goddamned feel like it. 


Sunday, July 13, 2014

I know.

"life is food?"

"there's something to look forward to?"

"just do it!"

"love the world?"

"somebody cares?"

"you're a piece of everything?"

"don't be a fucking tough-guy?"

"you're on a team?"

"everything's fair?"

"you're a fucking original?"

"everything's a level playing-field?"


Wednesday, July 2, 2014

I don't know

"life is shit."
"there's nothing to look forward to."
"what's the use?"
"fuck the world."
"nobody cares."
"you're a piece of shit."
"don't be a fucking pussy."
"you're on your own."
"everything's rigged."
"you're a fucking fraud."
"everything's a scam."
"why bother?"

Thursday, June 5, 2014

on being the local vo-tech's homecoming king...

I'd rather catch frogs for fun then keep score at a mindless job. 

the local absence of words is not due to any "progress" with the "lack" of vocation, but an increase in farting-around due to the earth's shifting axial-tilt relative to this writers location in sol. we moved some dead leaves, rocks, and felled limbs. tinkered with both small and medium sized combustion engines. shifted the detritus in the local abode as to accommodate the maximal viewing of moving-pictures and their accompanying sounds. we reacquainted with old friends, and grew distant from new ones, and also declined two offers of gainful employment. saw the croaker at the VA, etc...

in other words, spring has exploded and the gypsy-moths are shitting everywhere. with frogs the size of an adolescent fist, little flying pests that suck your blood, and ivy to poison eve's children, there's plenty to do here...

yet that blackened-cloud of the season we-dare-not-name still lingers. that cordite knot still explodes in the guts, and no amount of physical exertion seems the sufficient antidote. sure, some ultraviolet- radiation encourages the appropriate melatonin reaction, but it lays on the surface of the skin and is no longer the panacea it once was.

so, back to the appropriately prescribed chemicals... our little experiment in mood adjustment as adjucated by our alleged professionals. and while we balk at it all, we must admit failure in the face of simply not getting-by on the good-bye, but encouraged by the hello.  


Sunday, May 11, 2014

desperation is a pair of christmas socks.

suspect anything created in fear and pain. a nation's military or a culture's god. 

the mind abhorres a vacuum. it cannot ponder non-existence. it rebels against even the slightest brownout... those jerks that precede sleep are the mind's desperate attempt to cling to conciousness. 

recently, while on the trail I was thinking about desperation, and how some consider it a gift of sorts. it's about time for my seasonal bear encounter, and I was contemplating how would I behave if said bear was hungry and attacked? would I cry out in terror? would I resort to a foxhole prayer? fight futilely? or die stoically? 

what kind of gawd would I create in that moment of terror? surely it would be the god who favors this hairless-ape over bears. perhaps this bear was starved and my survival meant the end of bear? 

sure enough, as I turned the corner, there was ursus americanus, looking at me curiously. this was a first. Usually I spot them in advance and sneak off convinced undetected (yet prolly not). this time, instead, the bear saw me. I made the mistake of turning and running away, convinced I was being followed. after some trailblazing I came upon civilization and was able to breath again. 

in retrospect the fear was not of dying per se, but of the terror in dying alone, in pain, and afraid. there something about pain that requires a witness. sometimes, when there isn't one plain... we'll invent. there's never really a need to pray in a foxhole because there's always a guy suffering alongside. 

any invention made in haste and fear is going to be incredibly inventor-centric. like an omnipotent robot blindly serving it's master. 


Friday, May 2, 2014

claustrophile or agoraphobe?

they wouldn't take a reality-check, so I had to pay cash for my creative-license:

4-5 hrs of tv a day
read about 2-4 hrs
sleep & eat lots
Internet a little
the occasional 12-step meeting
local family (origin kind)
coupla friends
no significant others
no chilrens

poly-substance-abuse disorder (in remit)
obsessive-compulsive disorder

in other words:
The Quintessential Addict.

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