Way too much for one post and much of it crap - but what the hell

[Happas]

Living Beyond the Game

I hate you. Reader, I hate you and I hate myself. I loathe myself, I loathe every facet of myself and what’s more I despise this pitiful self-loathing. Reader I’ am a mere child - 18 years of age, legally a man but at heart still very much a child. I’m a bitter child, an ugly child, a selfish child… a child of the Underground. That last sentence was a stupidly obvious reference to a book, you, readers of my imagination, probably have not read. I wrote it down merely to show off and to acknowledge that I had read that book, such is my abominable nature. Yes, abominable, my nature is abominated and in a constant state of flux - easy prey to all forms of disease and moral decay it is enslaved to a series of complexly perverted desires. I call my nature abominable, I call my spirit (contemptible notion!) abominable, not because they fail to adhere to any doctrine or code but rather because my nature and spirit are revolting things in themselves. My nature and the nature of my fellow man causes feelings of what appear to be a most natural revulsion to rise up inside of me, these feelings manifest themselves in a number of vehement and cowardly ways. Such as the writing of this self-justifying monologue for instance and what’s more, the writing of it in a clichéd antiquarian style, which I have adopted for the prime purpose of eliminating sentimentality. For there is nothing more hideously ugly than unchecked sentimentality, yes hideously ugly, but oh so very alluring.

You see, readers of my imagination – I address you as such because I do not in any sense of the word consider you real. You are merely invisible characters in my ‘Game’, my Game that I have formulated to entertain and torture myself with. The depth of my masochism is truly astounding. Why have I done this you ask? Why? Why? Think first though, have you not yourselves created a Game – Reader, is the act of reading this text not merely a part of your Game, albeit a very miniscule one. Indeed, the dismal, minuscule nature of the role I play within your Game serves actually to excite me in my own Game, to excite me in a manner so perverse it is probably beyond the comprehension of you, my imaginary readers. You see, Readers, sentimentality is an ingenious device of self-deception, it spews forth from our respective Game’s and enchants us with its ugliness. The worst part of this is that sentimentality and artifice are indeed embellishments of genuine feeling. Yes, we all have our Game’s; we create them from sheer inertia in order to fill the void of our existence.

Indeed, writing a hopeless spiel such as this is one of the few ways to live outside of the Game – which is of course contradictory to the last statement of my first paragraph – but this constitutes, precisely, the only true way of living beyond the Game, that is, to live in a state of perpetual contradiction, of agonizing perpetual contradiction. Of course to openly acknowledge this means that the contradiction has been at least partially transcended, this will not do, this cannot do. But then one only has to think of the enjoyment one gains from the agony of knowing the ‘Game’ to realize that the Game is alive in them even then. It is a kind of constantly repeating transitory process between spiritual paralysis and spiritual catatonia this Game of mine. Perhaps there is no escape from the Game at all, then all the more bitter the draughts of my pleasure shall become! Of course there is the option of totally and utterly denying the Game – but this merely creates a spiritual vacuity that is just as detestable as the Game itself.

My Game differs from most Game’s in that it is primarily concerned with the agony of knowing that I’m in a Game. Or rather, it is concerned with the agony of the world’s obstinate refusal to play by the rules I choose to impose on my Game. By the world’s failure to submit to my will and my ideas and indeed, my own cowardice and failure to master them myself. My Game is one that seeks suffering as opposed to happiness – suffering that is ‘secret remedy for our sins’ – the sin in fact, of our being alive, the Sin of our mere Existence. This suffering is of course, not without its pleasures, for there is great pleasure in suffering, that’s what makes it all the more pathetic, that’s what makes my spirit all the more contemptible.

Readers, I say, in fact that I’ am more moral than you, far more so – for in this age of post modernity there are but few others moral enough to execrate their own souls! And what’s more, to execrate there own souls while at the same time remaining utter nihilists! Reader, I would be happy if this last statement were true, while it is not without some pride that I execrate my soul, it is also not without some pleasure. I lie to you reader! I lie so that you may respect me. Do not respect me reader, I implore you, do not respect me. No, but it is no scruple of mine whether you respect me or not– indeed you would be wrong to respect me. What I desire, and a base desire it is… is your sympathy. That is my Game – that is my sentimental fancy – to have the sympathy of my imagined readers. Of course if any of you were to fulfil this fantasy and grant this sympathy, I’d throw it violently right back in your face! You shan’t impede on my ability to live briefly beyond the Game, you shan’t impede on the contradiction of my nature! Of course, this is a total impossibility anyway, since you are but imaginary, my readers.

Reader the part of me that is spewing forth this vehement garbage is at the moment, who I’ am – until that is I realise how pitiful what it actually is that “I’m” saying is and replace it with another part of myself. Bah! It is ridiculous to assert that it is myself talking here - there is no self - there can be no self - I have no self. And if there is a self, if I do have a self, it is only I, the moral agent. Thus my self is merely my hatred, my totally irrational hatred. The part of me that despises me, is me. My flawed moral hate is all that I’ am, that is the incredible depth of my weakness.

I blame myself entirely for my current state of mind. Even though, in actuality, I don’t believe it is entirely my fault. I blame myself with great passion so as to maintain a sweet, albeit meagre semblance of freedom. Or that is what I tell myself, what I whisper to myself at night to escape applying another layer of guilt. The horrible truth of the matter is that I blame myself because I enjoy the bitter sweetness of the suffering that such a declaration of fault so inevitably entails.

So reader, having said all this, now let me enter the Game for a brief time, let me enter the Game and explain to you some things that my moral agent subjects itself too. Reader, I live a most peculiar lifestyle, one that is both solitary and grossly hedonistic. I pursue the extremities with what is a foolish, misconstrued sense of obligation; I have an actual deontological commitment to self-destruction - and this reader, while still living under the same roof as my parents! For remember I’m only 18 years of age and in my last year of secondary education. Next year I will be moving out of this horrid abode, and not before time because I genuinely despise it. I genuinely despise it and the suffering that it contains, which is of the un-pleasurable sort. I live in this house with my mother and my stepfather. I’ am a barstard and have never met my biological father. Perhaps the bizarre mental realm I now inhabit is in part a result of my childhood.

The earliest childhood memory I have is being told by the man who was then living with (and occasionally beating) my mother to pretend to be seriously ill when the police officer came up to our car. He was driving half-drunk with no license or registration and used the excuse that it was an emergency and he had to get me to a doctor quickly to explain this to the traffic officer. (Of course we had no phone at home to call an ambulance). As I recall I was far to shy to play the role of the sick child with much vigour and as a result of my failure was subject to a tirade of nastiness for the rest of that day. Reader would you believe, that recording this memory gives me a sweet self-piteous pleasure! There are numerous other events of interest in my childhood, when I was in kindergarten I urinated in the classroom. I have a vague feeling that it was because I was to shy to ask where the toilets were, but as a result of this incident and my extreme introversion in general, it was arranged that I should meet with a psychologist. I was diagnosed with having ‘perception problems’.

There are other incidents in my childhood of significance, some of a seriously painful nature that I care not to discuss even with my imaginary readers, for even my masochism only goes so far. What’s more, should I discuss the truly painful things, the spectre of sentimentality would no doubt rear its bestial head. Also I would risk allowing you to genuinely pity me and thus lose a portion of the pain I value so much. Even saying that has jeopardized this pain to some extent, but I won’t delete it. It serves as a good example of my despicable weakness!

Reader, allow me to divulge some of the events that have occurred in recent days. During school just the other afternoon, I, with a great spirit of spontaneity, decided to leave early and go and get drunk at a local pub, utterly alone. I say with great spontaneity, but really this was not the case, I had struck upon the idea the previous evening. Indeed, I had fantasized about it; I had sweetened my loneliness with thoughts of the ghastly depths to which I would sink the next day. What I intended to do, was get very drunk, stumble out on the street, find some people I knew in town, disturb them with my countenance a while, before finally collapsing unconscious on a bench in the main street. My fantasy extended even further, I would awaken the following day in terrible spirits and sit for some time inert on the bench. This bench that I so spontaneously selected was to be (and this is where my sentimental fancy becomes truly grotesque) directly outside the supermarket in which I knew a girl with whom I have an unhealthy obsession would be working that very morning. I imagined with a great pleasure, the girl walking to work and being horrified at the sight of me lying on the bench, I imagined myself greeting her with a merriment most unnatural to my situation and then I imagined, reader, I imagined, begging this girl with whom I was so obsessed, to give me some free food from the supermarket where she was employed. Of course I envisaged her refusing to do so and myself responding to her refusal with righteous anger. Last of all I imagined her hurrying away and leaving me utterly alone and dejected.

Reader most of these events did not come to pass. For when I actually began to get drunk, I looked upon these fancies with a self-loathing so intense that I felt the need to drink more and more alcohol as some strange kind of punishment, or rather - an escape from myself, an escape perfectly befitting my weakness. The mid-afternoon atmosphere in that pub was appropriately sordid and depressing. It was almost too sordid and depressing, even for me. One overweight alcoholic woman in particular, put me in a most peculiar state of mind. She was revolting, she stank and when she got up to go to the toilet she did not walk, but shuffled with a countenance so stooped, so downtrodden… that woman was the first person I’ve ever seen who appeared to have no pride whatsoever. Unlike the old alcoholic men, who still seemed full of false bravado. I didn’t hear her speak once during the entire time I was in that pub. I could scarcely believe their still existed a soul of any kind in that hideous frame, and her face! What a grimace it bore. I could not stop thinking about how that creature had once been a child. That thought in particular stuck with me the whole day.

I sat alone in the back of the pub, away from the people at the bar. I was gazing stoically into a half emptied glass of beer when an attractive girl, or rather, young woman, approached me. At the time I thought that my disposition must have been so pallid and morose that I had attracted pity from this girl. It was not until about an hour later, when I had bought her and myself numerous drinks and had talked incessantly, to her great amusement, on literary subjects that I realised that she was a prostitute. I was, by this stage far to drunk to be embarrassed by this. Instead I saw it as an opportunity to play a Game of a most entertaining nature. To try and save this prostitute, while at the same time despising myself for it, ala Dostoevesky’s original Underground man. I even tried to recite the wording from the book, but of course the world of ideas is a far cry from the world of realities. This particular prostitute took great offence at my moralising and left in disgust. I might have just had sex with her, but by that stage I only had five dollars left and I gathered she was considerably more expensive than that.

I left the pub not long after this incident. It was still daylight outside and I had an irrepressible inclination to indulge in Bacchic revelry of some kind. The first thing I did was go into a bicycle shop buy a bicycle repair kit for $3.95 and steal an expensive mountain bike. I just jumped on that bike and took off, laughing manically. It was not until I had ridden it halfway up the street with the storeowner in rapid pursuit that the possible repercussions of this action occurred to me and I got off immediately and ran away - all the while cursing my cowardice. This type of action is not uncommon for me, particularly when under the influence of drugs or alcohol. This from someone who used to be so religious that as a child he washed the walls where holy pictures were every time somebody touched them in an attempt at purification. This from someone whose fear of God was so immense that as a child of nine he used to mutter to himself the words, ‘please God forgive me for my sins’, hundreds of times a day.

After a period of aimless wandering I ran into a friend of mine who gave me a lift home. When I arrived I preceded to smoke copious amounts of marijuana and hallucinate the face of the girl of the bench descending down upon me from above, a hallucination I have almost every night I take drugs. This is before I fall asleep and if I’m lucky have perverted dreams of her rejection, if I’m unlucky as is mostly the case, I’ll have a frighteningly hideous nightmare of some kind. Such a sickly obsessive romantic Game I play!

Reader it probably surprises you that I have friends at all. They are merely an example of my weakness; I can assure you that I despise each and every one of them. Yes, it is out of boredom and weakness that I have made friends. Perhaps next year when I finally move out of home I shall be instilled with the subterraneous strength to depart with them once and for all, and thus become a true Underground man.

Reader, although I have friends, it is not without a twisted pride that I can relate to you that I mostly treat them cruelly. More lies. More often than not I’m silent and amiable with my friends. The level to which they do not know me is a source of personal amusement. The manner in which I occasion to allow them to know me is a source of disgust. Really, I’m generally quite indifferent to my friends, but I do become incredibly frustrated when they say things to me that are indicative of the belief that I care about their opinions, which I can assure you I most certainly do not! I have utter contempt for their opinions and in most cases, for their feelings, which are so generally obvious and stupid I find myself nauseated by them. The only time I feel moved to compassion for my friends is when I see them suffer – which is a peculiarity I’ am unable to account for, most probably it is as a result of my childhood Catholicism.

In some ways reader, it is appropriate that I should surround myself with such swine, for I certainly am no better. And despite my hatred for them, it is I who seek out there company, who seek to join their Game’s in times of boredom. Reader, I also hate my parents, my own dear parents. Just as I was writing this now my stepfather burst into my room unannounced and reprimanded me for not doing any work around the house. I certainly have done no work and I will do no work! He threatened to ‘make me get my own tea’ and I snorted contemptuously infuriating him further. He cannot possibly understand my utter indifference to his threats and pleas. I hope he does ‘make me get my own tea’; I would have none out of spite, indeed that would give me great pleasure.

Reader, I shall now reveal to you a family secret, and divulge great pleasure from doing so for I hold my family in contempt. A few months ago my mother was arrested. Arrested! Drunk and disorderly was the charge, she professes to have no memory of the incident except that she awoke covered in bruises in a cell, apparently beaten by the police. (Let it now be known I have had a number of encounters with police officers myself and I despise them passionately, it takes a certain pathetic, power-mongering type of individual to become a policeman. You can see them enjoy their power, it makes me sick and I hate them) Her court hearing is set to take place in a few days, naturally she is very nervous.

I can still remember vividly the time when she came, teary eyed, to confess to me this thing she considered such a great shame. It took her a great while to chortle it out through her tears. And when she did, I remained mute and offered no condolences, no comforts, no expressions of love, I remained silent and expressionless and I saw it hurt her. I felt guilt at this, yet still, I did not speak and made her suffer more – though to be sure out of all the other family members, the others, all of whom offered sweet words and promises, it was I who judged her the least. In fact I didn’t judge her at all, I refuse to judge anyone, though it is true that she disgusted me with the sheer pitifulness of her whining. Yes, I refuse to judge anyone, though I hate everyone. What really annoyed me about this instance was the shame she felt at it. So much crying and wallowing in self-pity! Which I acknowledge is exactly what I do, but at least I have the decency to be repulsed by it.

Readers, let it be known I despise all of your ignorant opinions. I don’t know what they are but I hate them. There is nothing more ugly than someone who is certain of them-selves. The opinions of my friends and family are what I hate most about them. I myself have no opinions. A fact that actually is the cause of some guilt. But while I have no opinions I will passionately argue against the opinions and beliefs of others. This is one of the grotesque satisfactions I get from life. Proving people wrong. I’m not to shy to display openly my contempt for my friends’ opinions either; often I wonder why they don’t tire of me more quickly. Perhaps in time they will.

One pastime I particularly enjoy is justifying and indeed, expressing the moral necessity of my ludicrous lifestyle. Which is so extreme that I’ve been close to death on numerous occasions. I’ve become quite adept at it. Yes, justifying this ridiculous life and ridiculing others for having conventional opinions and lifestyles gives me a great perverse pleasure. Another pleasure I have is responding, when people ask me what career I’m intending to pursue (after I’ve had to endure a terribly boring account of how they’re going to become a lawyer or a doctor or some such nonsense) is telling them, quite honestly, that I intend to become a junkie tramp and wander the country seeking out all describable forms of suffering and degradation. Such a statement is so much beyond their understanding that they believe it a joke.

Indeed, in recent times I’ve had the profound pleasure of watching my drug and alcohol habits turn from something I occasionally indulged in, to something of an absolute, almost daily necessity. Certainly I smoke marijuana daily, it is my goal that by the time I begin University I will also have an opiate habit. Of course there are times when I hate myself for these goals, but they exist never the less - Just as my hate exists and will not leave me, no matter how much I proclaim to despise it.

The Cracked Bowl

Consternation at the thought of his own happiness swept downward into the lair into which all time blew – that heated fiery cavern, those shackled indices of time and chance, of hope, love and knowledge.

Dick Snide squeezed his penis tightly, his foreskin was too long, he could never escape it, no temptress, no brazen wench could ever alleviate, ever free or even fleetingly help him, it, escape the shackle, of his, its, own skin. ‘Too much skin.’ He thought. ‘There is to much skin, not enough flesh, not enough bone, not enough marrow, just skin, skin, skin, too much skin.’

Dick Snide let go of the part of him that was most his self and wrapped the rest of him in a long dark overcoat. The rest of him that never failed to shock him, never failed because it was different. Always different always changing, never him. Even the recogniser of the difference was sometimes different, that goldfish bowl on his shoulders, with the fish, the gold fish; swimming around in water, dirty water. ‘Too much food’ he thought. ‘ Always too much food, the waters dirty.’ And look now, some of the fish are even dead, they are floating on the top of the water and frightening the others.

Dick Snide walked. He walked the suburbs. His feet felt the wetness of the grass, of the earth. His whole self rose. He was looking now, looking for something to sate his self, to burn his self with joy. To empty his self into, to shatter his self, to leave his self, momentarily, as a walking pile of skin, skin, skin and a bit of flesh and some bones. There it was now up ahead. He could smell it, the pine smell, which was it for tonight, tonight it was to be a pine, ‘a pine tonight’ he thought and a smile tightened around his face, which in contrast to the rest of him – did not have enough skin. ‘It’s to tight’, he thought to himself, ‘too tight’; and he walked forward.

Dick Snide had arrived. He was there now, and in his dreams forever. He put down the gold fish bowl and the coat slid off him. And his whole self rose as the rest of his self faded into the nothingness of dumb matter. A pine tonight, last night a strange shrub, tonight a pine, tomorrow he thought, ‘maybe a eucalyptus’. He went forward into the pine. He writhed with the pine. He hurt the pine, cracked it, splintered it, engulfed it with his dead matter and smothered it as much as possible with his self. And the pine hurt him, it scratched his dead matter, it tried to hurt his self, but his foreskin was there, and it was long. ‘Oh skin, skin, skin, skin’, he whispered in the throes of lust, ‘thankyou skin, thankyou skin, thankyou for protecting my self’.

Dick Snide had nearly emptied his self. His self had nearly gone away, his self was getting ready to squirt out and away and away and on to the pine. His self was about to leave him with just the pain of dead matter and encumbered cock. His self now merged with the pine, his self rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and became a part of the pine, and his self came unto the pine and dripped down the braches of the pine and the smell could no longer excite the empty self. And he now had to once again pick up the goldfish bowl and put it on his shoulders.

Dick Snide moaned but did not weep. His hands reached behind and pulled some branches out of his clenched buttocks. He lay on the grass and looked up at the stars above the pile of skin, skin, skin and flesh and bone that was all that was left of him for the moment, he looked up at the stars and was not sad, even though his self was not there he wasn’t sad because he had had his self, his self was full and now was empty and he knew his self would come again. And he would always be either burning with the joy of his self or not sad like he was now.

But now, the clothesline swings and a female voice shrieks and yells terrible things at Dick Snide and Dick Snide moans and weeps with an unknowing doomed confidence. He stands up and shakes himself. And the female voice is joined by another male voice and they know Dick Snide and they don’t like Dick Snide. And Dick Snide moans and moans and weeps and weeps in filthy recognition.

And finally after many nights it has happened. Dick Snide knows it has happened. The bowl has cracked. The goldfish bowl has cracked and the dirty water is seeping out and Dick Snide is convulsing on the grass and no longer caring about his coat. The bowl has cracked and the water is gone and the fish are flapping about and dying. The fish are dying.

For all those others

For all those others to whom

such hopeful darkness will be but a

blood red trickle of useless disparity,

For all those others languishing in

that which you call light,

O rash slavish servants to seemliness,

O thralls to that which has been lavished down unto you

by the embittered succubus’ of your own selves -

generations in past benightedly making

unaware; truths ability to transform.

For all those others whose bleak robot arms distending,

clutch lustily the carmine apple that is offered unfertilised,

For all those others who bite down vivaciously only to discover

with vague horror, it is but a worm-ridden mass of grey,

For all those others with invisible eyes subtly intoxicated by

varying nuisances, commanding them blandly back to safety,

For all those others who still strive for the next fruit, elevated to deity,

For all those others who realise it can never be,

For all those others now slowly writhing in the happy stage of surrender

meagrely romanticising that all is as they thought it would be,

For all those others who can never accept that

all middle is without intensity, is rotten,

is what you call peace.

All those others – Lo, glance upon the few!

The few who taste what is wholesome,

Those few who are aware only of the apples inside the skull,

Those few whose paths are willed , willed by momentum gaining strength,

willed unto themselves by desires,

by virtues and the chance of joining the vast eternal night,

Those few who will themselves into perpetual division, torn and wanting,

Those few whose senses are necessarily deranged and poisoned,

Those few who’re saturated in defiled extraneous matter,

Those few though who yet remain pure, chaste, platonically innocent,

Those few who scream at the sky and whisper pleas of mercy to the earth

who see antipodal ever-ness reflecting off

everything into everyone,

who’re in love with the pain of their own awareness,

Those few whose reason resides armoured in the apple, wraithlike, persistent,

never quite thwarted leading scarred feet along a tightrope life

to a bitter-sweet Armageddon,

Those few who

slouch to an end significant of nothing,

Those few who

smile never-the-less in doom

such deadpan desultory grins

motioning you others to follow.

Just Blades of Grass

Just blades of grass, harried

by winds that remain unknown

we shake in turmoil

we wither and fold

we become grey yet stay rooted

oblivious to the forces that assail us,

just blades of grass crushed

under the feet of a madman

we are alone

though we breathe the same air

we are alone

though we spring from the same dirt

we are alone

and despite of our shared roots

it is alone we stand

reaching meekly for the sun

we shriek now in varied pitches

as the wind blows through us

unaware that we are just

fragile blades of grass

each of us at the mercy

of the same hopeless storm

Sleeping under cardboard in the rain

not even the drunks mess with me

as I lay shivering near wheelie bins

blanketed in cardboard staring listlessly

at them as they stumble onwards

to warm beds

i’m not drunk anymore

i could just go home

but instead I’ll lay here

hunched in the space between

tall buildings

the sky seems small and

clouds block the stars

soon the bakeries will open,

they’ll be warm, they’ll

smell good and I’ll be able to

fuck up the proto-bohemian

atmosphere they manufacture

but for now I’ll just lay here

grateful that no one can see

my tears in the dark,

and are they tears anyway

or is it just the rain hitting my face?

To Baudelaire’s Draughts

Charles

My ability to divulge temporary solace

amidst the turmoil of our shared drunkenness

has abated and

my ability to further ascertain it

seems to be wavering

all three of the graces are failing,

poetry only makes me want wine –

wine only makes me ill and

virtue has become revolting

even that affable remorse

has been downtrodden,

all seems

lost in the protracted afflictions of necessity

the agonies you foretold of have fallen upon me

yet there is comfort in knowing that

just as the drunkenness abates

so too will the torture

An Inkling

Black, Black… White…. Jizzm. Tommy’s last name was Gunn, his favourite movie was Ghost Busters. He is nothing but an example, a gruesome example of the horrors of masturbation addiction. He is 19 years old – he has ejaculated 4337 times in his lifetime…. All self inflicted.

Hey Joey – said Tommy – Go read Decline of the West… you see I haven’t read it but you see, this stage of history, is, is just like a brief stage, man. This means nothing… We are living in the dark ages. The only reasonable answer to our present situation is insanity. And Death. Oh, Death, she turns me on. I wank over her all the time. That Domme Bitch! She makes me so hard that it almost hurts to pull it. Hurts but feels good at the same time…so good. I like to masturbate wearing Hasidic Garb.

I was naked… Was I in the Bushes? Did I peel bark off a tree and rub it against my haemorrhoid-ridden asshole? Did it feel really satisfying? It is not possible to die of shame. Have you read decline of the West by Oswald Spengler? NO – I’m not a poof. Neither am I. Stare into the night and repeatedly ejaculate at the white flame of words in The Great Gatsby. Spoof. Everywhere.

Ride your bicycle in the nighttime. Deliver a parcel to a dream. Ejaculate. Sit around in a state of inertia. Ejaculate again. Remove your eyes from your skull in the search for sleep. Wake up blind. Rape the first girl you see.

You received an eject request for a drive that was already in use. Close Encarta. Log off immediately, Resist masturbation for twenty more minutes and you will be rewarded by a late night SBS movie. Congratulations. Masturbate. Take your time this time – Genet would be proud.

Did you take the time? Yes. You took it? Yes. Now what’s happening? I’m being controlled by it…and… the music. I speak, words, to the rhythm. Words. Yes. Words. Oh, Dear.

In the future every part of the body has been genetically enhanced to produce an erogenous sensation. It’s all because of that poof, Jeremy Bentham Mills. Had a break down he did. Had to read poetry he did. He was a fan of Wordsworth he was. Liked daffodils he did. And masturbation…. bit of a minimalist otherwise. Would have got on well with Epicures, the poof….nah, would have liked Lucretius though. Just for the poetry. Spoke Greek he did, Latin as well I reckon. So much madness in them blokes, it really makes you wonder. No it doesn’t. It makes you sigh disconsolately. There isn’t much madness in priests.

Yeah well, you see, every part of the body produces an erogenous sensation. People just go around touching each other their whole lives. Machines do all the work. Of course power is still the fundamental human drive, the will still exists. People are still unhappy – it’s not like a mass resignation of the will or anything. Power is just displayed sexually is all. No other way. That’s the way it came from anyway. So you have these real muscle bound touch freaks. People watch a lot of movies as well. They don’t read though. They have these things installed in their brain – it’s like a happy acid trip they can turn on at will. So that’s how the pathetic spiritual needs of humanity are sated. With Technology. There is still some people though, who actually think there is some other point to humanity.

These people. We like to call them dicks. Because of the way they died. They were ascetics for years. Until that priest I told you about. Well he did go insane, he went insane at the vision of a lost dream and, and, he masturbated. Just as he was about to cum he imploded and the movement was drowned in a sea of pleasure.

The other people who weren’t priests but still thought about things. They sucked on the most bitter of spices, the most bitter of spaces. They read MacBeth and they sucked on those spices for an unhealthy period of time. Then they read Kafka and turned into giant worms. They couldn’t the hell figure out why they were worms and not the pleasure-drones. It baffled them and made them die alone masturbating in their beds, their cum-stained beds that they couldn’t clean because they were worms. Of course little did they know that the pleasure drones were, in fact, worms. It was just that the pleasure-drones didn’t know they were worms – so how could anyone else?

People who dream they are worms often end up as worms. Confucius dreamed he was a butterfly and woke up and had a wank. Li Po fucked the princess and ran down mountains drunk. He liked the squelch sounds. He was the second man ever in history to masturbate over the thought of himself masturbating. Prometheus was the first. Since then it has become fashionable.

Who else has had enough of that sombre music for fuck sake? It’s so stupid. There is no point to it. There is a point to this…. sort of…. it’s more of a knob than a point.

James Rashly ran up the stair-case as quickly as he could. The pathetic way in which his rotund stomach jiggled excited him in a sexual manner. He had to stop and masturbate. He was an American Indian.

Alosha had a gun – she tried to shoot herself in the head but she was wearing a stack-hat. Stack-hats save lives.

Whats going on Peter? Oh, you know, not much, I’m just chillin’. Inserting small pins into my firm white torso – punishing myself for my lack of imagination. Cool, come round to my place after, smoke some hash and stick your fingers up your arse.

Joseph the Jew was a happy man. He was happy because he was riding his bicycle through the city at night. That always made him happy. He was looking forward to getting home as well though, looking forward to getting home and preparing himself a nice, piping hot cup of tea. Tea is healthier than coffee, he thought to himself, and I like it more than coffee! Oh joy! Oh, unparallel joy of joys! Joseph had a strong, strong mind. He did not allow the fact that he was looking forward to getting home to detract from the pleasure of his bicycle ride.

Josh had finally done it. He had defeated life. He had defeated the will. He had defeated thought. He had defeated pleasure. He had even defeated nothingness. He sat on the edge of his bed staring at himself in the mirror. He was of course, very, very high. That was how he had done it. It had taken serious drugs. The sleepy kind. His dick was stubborn, behind nothingness it was the most difficult thing to defeat, but Josh was strong and after a tremendous struggle he emerged victorious. Castration was the only way. He was kind of annoyed because that wasn’t original and he was trying to be original – so he ate his own penis ceremoniously after he had chopped it. Surprisingly enough Josh’s dick had psychedelic properties. He was high off it for a few days and it was that highness that helped him to defeat nothingness, oh, what a long arduous battle that had been.

Josh was magnificent in victory. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring into the horror behind his eyes. His arm was attached to a drip that was administering huge doses of opiates into his bloodstream at regular intervals. For a while Josh stared at Death, he was not surprised that death was a bald, middle-aged Italian man. This he had known for a long time – ever since that time in his 17th year when he consumed a massive dose of LSA (yes ,A, not D). For a while he talked to death, for a while he danced with him. But death was a corny dancer. Then the two just contemplated each other for a long time. Then Josh Ripped out his left eye.

Josh was not happy in victory. Josh wondered why, he wondered how. Then he knew why…. he was not yet victorious…he knew how.

Josh did eventually achieve total Victory. He ripped out his tongue and attached another drip to the other arm; this drip sustained his life with the necessary nutrients. He removed the opiate drip. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the mirror. He was immortal. He smashed the mirror. He disappeared.

[gomaos]

I was actually gonna say "pretty darn good writing there" and "I'm gonna have to read it all again" but since you despise my opinion I won't say nuthin...

And about smoking mj every day:

"Not so bad, at least it won't kill you"

about aquiring an opiate habit:

"That's pretty final, especially if needles are involved, it will shorten your life considerably, think again...."

and finally:

"Is your mother single?"

[Happas]

I don't really despise your opinions man! I'm definatley not that bitter and cynical ALL the time. I just wrote it at the most extreme level (still using incidents from my own life though) to see where it would lead me really. And no, my mother is still married to my fuckwit of a stepfather (though he isn't THAT bad at times)

[gomaos]

BTW where you been all this time happas?

You haven't posted for a long time...

I think you may have

...done an apprenticeship in hoboism and slept under bridges for the last nine months

or

...had lost it completely after having way too much datura and spent a long time in a mental asylum...

or...

killed your school principal and spend some time in juvenile jail where they only let you go because you were...juvenile

or

simply had no access to a computer...

or....?

[Happas]

Well i did conduct an experiment in Hobo-ing, but only for a couple of nights

I didn't kill my principle either but he did resign in shame after allegations of his 'improper use of the schools internet facilities'

and i did go a little troppo on datura but i'm afraid my lacking of posting is merley a result of not having had the internet at home for ages

[waterdragon]

the world needs more people with " perception problems"