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60w, 3dWhen it's all worn out17 comments · 954 views
No fun anymore. Never was any good. Too many bridges burned. Too many arguments that shouldn't have been. Too much booze. Too much anger, and too often directed at people who did nothing to deserve. Too much in my own sandbox. Choking on the grit. Too many castles I'll never finish and better that they weren't built or even imagined in the first place. Too much wait. Too much waste. Too much, too much, too much.
And too old.
And no longer a point in playing.
I am sorry for wasting your time. I shall do so no longer.
11 comments · 332 views
76w, 6dWhat A Piece of Work Is Man7 comments · 249 views
It must needs be divined for us, whether we are to say that the Procreative Instinct is descendant from the Survival Instinct, or if, instead, the Procreative Instinct is first and the Survival Instinct secondary. Whether it is in pursuit of tomorrow that we fuck like dogs, or in pursuit of the noblest organ that we retain for tomorrow.
And, in either case, what madness is it to continue in one without the other?
By Darwin's logic, it is the will of the species, the greater will than the individual, that demands the pursuit of propagation. But, then, why age? Why the dimming of the faculties and the slowing of movement? If the mass of the species is the point, then why the needle-tight torture of the individual? What then, the evolutionary purpose of all this boredom? The graceless slur that is life, what has this to do with my genetic virtue? It existed once, I can only believe, why does the meaning in my seed exist no longer? Have I, in my eagerness to consume these cancers, dimmed it? Would my children now be a race of beasts?
And would they, in being so ordained as animals and not men, do any different than I have been?
Then one finds, it is the driving lash of survival that demands we force our genetic markers into others. It is so that my face may be seen tomorrow that I seek its preservation beyond my physical and temporal limits. So I am driven till foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog in pursuit of flesh or, failing that, to maintain an eternity in some other way.
Some other way.
Art. Literature. Nations. Architecture.
What a hideous menagerie of words.
The once genius who received just 300 francs to put bread on the table, and now his useless parchments are exchanged by rich men, the same eternally rich men who have eternally allowed genius to starve.
Art is nothing more than the hypocritical obsession of names. There are none who glorify Kafka, only their own interpretation of "aboutness." Only their own politics. Only their reading and their references, as if trampling could be compared then with gardening. Van Gogh and his flowers, uncared for in an attic until they are officially rendered acceptable by critical opinion, and his name is uttered like the tolling of the bell, the bell of bourgeois worship.
And what is the tone of this bell? This bell, whom does it exalt?
Not my name. Not his name. Only the name of current ownership. The name of the adoptive father, that will continue after the planted seeds are lost. The name on the bill of sale, that will endure forever. The name of a bitch's lie. Had I sense of future, it would all have been burnt. It could all still be burnt, but then what of tomorrow? If there isn't tomorrow, then what else is there? If there is, then what profit when everything will be held in another's power and for his glory?
There are nothing but these meaningless names and appearances.
Then, these instincts are worth nothing.
Now, nothing but this bitter spilling of beer.
Until there is no dignity left in it.
"Man delights me not. No, nor Woman neither."
"Nor women neither."
81w, 3dThe End Draws Neigh5 comments · 255 views
18 comments · 282 views
I have been known to preach politics slightly left of the aisle (provided that said aisle is through Noam Chomsky’s living room, and why shouldn’t it be?), so I feel it only fitting that I make a confession, for I have become a Decadent.
It was upon a couple days ago where I and a supple acquaintance came into possession of a windfall totalling not a cent less than $500 through the exercise of principles most in keeping with capitalism as extolled by such late 20th century philosophers as Ronald Reagan and Christopher George Latore Wallace. Upon the application of democratic process, we arrived at the conclusion that it would be unfitting to despoil any pure or natural cause with money so obtained, and rather that the funds should be purged in a more unnatural bent.
Our first venture was to that hallmark of the modern suburb, Jacques Pennè. Venturing within, we espied and commandeered a shopping cart, a vessel which neither of us had found ourselves within or behind since the fallow, callow years of youth. It was I who, perhaps out of guilt, first declared the feeling of bourgeois sliding over us in a thick, molasses-like coating. It was but a few moments into comparing the relative merits of polo and buttoned shirts that we were giggling and babbling in French. Or, rather to say, as close as either of us could remember from our collective history and educations. Fortunately, there are a great many things within this fallen land which can be described as "beaucoup." "Je suis tout le monde," first posited by my most supple acquaintance, also seemed a wonderful statement of non-entity.
Yet, our enjoyment was not entirely derived from ourselves, for this particular outlet was home to a startling variety of white people. At times we simply stared in awe at their natural gravitation to this location as if the world were but a plane and discounts of absurdly overpriced bits of cloth a depression in it. It was all we could do not to withdraw a camera and begin photographing these magnificent creatures in their natural environment.
Of course, as any man of the world will tell you, the principle purpose in spying majestic creatures in their natural habitat is to piss them off. Whether by shooting them, polluting their environment, industrializing them, or pushing a shopping cart into their path. The shopping itself soon became a secondary concern as we glutted ourselves upon the added space which the shopping cart allowed us to occupy. If you’ve never pushed a shopping cart inside a relatively crowded store, I highly recommend it. Cutting off others and generally compounding their misery of existence was such a source of joy to us that we could scarcely focus on actually purchasing anything and wasted a fabulous quantity of both time and space.
So, taken were we with the nature of the cart’s artifice, that even though the trip had been made on foot, we carried the cart all the way out to the furthest collection station in the parking lot, just for the privilege of knowing another human being would be paid to collect our debris and return it to its original placement for future use.
It is sadly true that even the youth were not spared from our capitalist corruption, as it was that I paid a child a quarter to dance for me and my supple acquaintance. It was not the erotic sort of dancing that Natalie Portman performed in The Professional, but the mindless arm-waving and cries of “doo-doo-doo-doo” were no doubt a heavy influence upon the creature. She will certainly be selling her body upon the street within a week, or so my newly found conservative instincts told me.
After discarding the child back unto her mother, by which one means I and my supple acquaintance hauled ass when the mother appeared and asked what we were doing with her chile, we proceeded to the liquor store, where eschewing our usual purchase of brands that come in large jugs bearing labels like “Aristocrat,” regardless of the contents contained therein, we made to purchase instead, an 18 year aged bottle of Glennfiddich. Legal to fuck, yet not legal to drink itself. Such are the ironies of the world when one is a $90 bottle of scotch.
It was at this point that we experienced a breakdown of the democratic process, the inevitable fate of any two-party system. The question at hand was whether it was better for the bounty of our booty to be consumed directly from the bottle, or mixed with the remains of a bottle of pepsi. My supple acquaintance rather forcefully put forth that the mixing was more important, and that drinking directly from the bottle was “wrong,” it lacked the open heresy of Pepsi.
I, however, could not be dissuaded from my insistence that to drink directly from the bottle would be not just wrong, but reminiscent of a monkey or fallen revolutionary who has broken into his king’s stores. More to the point, I have been sworn to the path of clear-headed sobriety for some couple months, and wasn’t about to waste my head-first dive off the wagon with mixed drinks.
The decision was eventually made that each should go their own way, and so did I did chug my portion. First of all, drinking directly from the bottle will burn your throat and stomach like a molotov cocktail from the heart of an anarchist mob. Scotch, as usual, being the most aggressive of the hard liquors, and putting even tequila's and vodka's within its own weight class to shame. Being able to repress your gag reflex is essential here. Even my fine self leaked a not insubstantial portion from his nose to dribble across the grimy floor like so much revolutionary blood spilled in vain.
As it fills out to swell your mouth, the taste of apples barges into the front row with an aggression matched only by jackbooted imperialists pouring mace into the eyes of peaceful resistors. Sherry is there too, lining the edges of your cheeks like so many spectators, easily forgotten the moment they’ve passed.
You horsefuckers may never be able to taste Applejack’s apple-flavored vagina, but from now on I shall imagine this marriage of pain, apples, pine bark and sherry as being the next best thing. After swallowing it shoots through your intestines with more intensity than is usual for a whisky, burning all the way until it finds your colon and demands exit an hour later. There's a dash of cinnamony-sweetness, but you won't taste that unless you exhale through your nose after drinking a large quantity.
Mixed with Pepsi it tastes like, “Pepsi with some dirt in it.” Proving, once again, that I am a genius and the expert at everything because you donotmixscotchitispointlessomigodyoustupidwoman.
UPDATE: After wasting money, I suddenly don't have any! Oh, woe is me! Please donate to support my ridiculous lifestyle.