march is grinding it corpse style

i've thought of so many things to write here...

i've tried to think of so many different ways to say the right thing to get the right person's attention. but those people are not looking in my direction, not even online.

this is making me sick.

i can't stand seeing people walking their dogs on leashes.
i can't stand seeing people enjoying their credit card consumer lifestyle while i can't.
i'm sick of being ripped off every time i try to find a friend with weed.

or hell, even just when i try to find weed. fuck the friends.

i can't wait to get to the point where i'm no longer trying to make friends...
and i can tell those people trying to be my friends to fuck off...
i can't wait till i'm at the point where i can tell people...
if you want to work with me, you need titanium balls...

people who i've pictured being my friends, are the people who don't fear a fuckin' thing.
my friends wouldn't fear a fuckin' thing.
my friends wouldn't bitch about who gets the check.
my friends wouldn't be pussies who can't decide which haircut to buy.

my friends know who the fuck they are, and no product can dress them properly.

those are my fuckin' friends. where are they. i know some are here in los angeles.

...
last night, i got ten bucks cash back from seven eleven.
this morning, i tried to buy a dime bag from a nigger named alex.
he was way too paranoid about the cops, so needless to say, i never got my weed.
i'm sure he had fun wasting my ten bucks, though.

that's what happens to me every time i try to buy weed. i get ripped off.

where are the people who don't look to rip you off?
where are the actual, legitimate humans, with organic hearts?
where are the worthwhile people on this planet?
and why can't i find any potheads in this pathetic fucking city?

there's too much concrete here...
there's too much plastic here...

i can't feel where the actual life is. and i'm at a loss for how to find it.

i've tried just about every social site there is. i don't belong there.

i can't get my voice heard online, and i can't get my voice heard in person, and i can't find where to go, to find a set of ears that might hear me. so what do i do? where do i go?

easiest step one: find someone who speaks my language. find an otep concert, something. anything. talk to metal people. find the metal people who also smoke weed. out of those, find the ones who have enough talent to play an instrument, and don't just spit out two dollar excuses like 'my job keeps me busy'. fuck your job, if you were really passionate about music, you'd do what i'm doing.

i don't make excuses.
i don't tolerate tradition.
i do not excuse superstition.
there is no excuse for fear.
there is no excusing procrastination.

stay in your little hole.

and you can see my bright mind light up the fuckin' sky from a cave where you belong.

stop telling me i don't belong here. it's you who... ain't from 'round here, are ya, boy?

you've been stumbling on this earth with no direction or purpose for long enough.

i have a purpose. and i'm headed in one direction.
get the fuck out of my way, so i can find the big brains.

...
that's not at all what i wanted to write here today, but... i have no weed.
i get inspired with so much hatred, that the hopelessness just takes over, and i say 'fuck it'.
i've let too much shit go recently.

i have a feeling it's all gonna come crashing back.

karma doesn't take a day off. i know that. i inherited hitler's karma, so i'll be the authority on that one.

my arsenal of information against you is pulsing and throbbing with excitement.
your fear of me gets me high. your paranoia gets me hard.

i'm into shock value as a kink.
i'm doing this just to scare you.

why?

cause you look so stupid when you get scared.
those faces you make look so fucking pathetic.
i can see the price tags in your tears.
i want to plaster those faces all over the internet.
i'd love to instagram the fuck out of your stupid mug.

doubt me.
debate me.
debunk me.
wallow in disbelief.
drown yourself in fear.

it's all making my job easier. and more fun.

and right now, i'm so sober, i could kill your god.

and i'm the best chance you've got of avoiding a global suicide.
maybe the only fuckin' chance, cause i ain't got no friends yet.

eat that, fascist.

...
i'm waiting for someone to ask me this question. or whatever question leads up to this answer.

i'm interested to see people's reaction, when i say that i've never really had a legitimate friend.

my high school friends were all a bunch of lazy, whiny little shits.

i could never find any of them to play guitar for me, let alone the music i like.

which... that's number one. i don't like music that anyone else likes, so... i'm pretty much fucked for the good social times there.

i never considered anyone a friend of mine yet. if i did for a short time, they'd quickly lose me by being some form of moron i just don't tolerate.

my stupid lazy high school friends... none of them ever had a direction in life.
and if i ever spoke of a direction in life to them, i'm sure they didn't hear it.
after high school, they all disappeared. high school was their best time.
i've never wanted to be friends with those pussies.

how come i have memories of setting foot on beaches of islands that...
i know these two feet have never touched.

how do i explain half of what's in my head, if i don't have a receptive friend?

that's been my entire life. misunderstood at best, unheard at worst.
well, no, honestly, i've seen it get worse than that, just about every day.
being dominated, talked over, authority poking its finger in my chest.
harassed, told what to do, where to go, who to be, what time to wake up.

but i'm curious to see what people think of the fact that i've been deprived of having something as simple as 'friends' my entire life, cause i haven't met anyone who could match my intellect.

'oh, so you think you're smarter than everyone else'.

no, i know for a fact that i'm smarter than everyone else, and i can prove it on a fuckin' billboard.

you see anyone from mensa talking to me?

no, i never had any highschool friends. none that even stuck around.

nannette is going to college in alaska, married with a kid, lives a basic paranoid life, never talks about anything to lively on facebook because she's scared for no intelligible reason, she hates herself and her life, and doesn't even like sex anymore, never smiles...

naomi... who the fuck knows where she is.

brad... last time i saw brad, he lost his job at klpx, and there was no personality left to him. married with a kid, and there was an empty shell of brad where the jokes used to be.

booboo... who fuckin' cares. i'm sure aaron still works at the fuckin' rent to own place.

every fuckin' pathetic one of my friends ended up having kids.
in high school, we were the misfits who thought we'd never get lucky enough to breed.
hell, one day, this jimmy hixon asshole chucked a glass bottle at a friend of dana's feet, hitting her leg, and dana said something, and the idiot says back, 'at least i'm not a breeder'.

dana and her friends were all lesbian and shit. the gay kids in school before that got too trendy.
when we were all still kind of oppressed and harassed by the society we didn't want to fit into.

after mom died, i wish i could have gotten ahold of dana, she was really the only person i wanted to tell. cause i remembered that picture of her and mom hugging and smiling in the park.

i always thought my friends liked my mom more than me.
now that she'd dead, it's become obvious.

i was just the 'misunderstood weird one' of the group of misfits.
are you paying attention? i didn't fit into a group of misfits!
how the fuck am i gonna suddenly want to fit into your plastic fuckin' world.
i think it's pathetic, and one morning, i'm just supposed to wake up, and walk to starfucks like you?
just stop bitching about how you get to live a better life than i do, but this is fair how?

there's so much hypocrisy in there, i could piss on it and sell it at ihop.

yeah, some dude named dave has never said thems words before. i'm proud of that.

i'm unique. from my perspective... you're not.

and spank. the only halfway worthwhile friend i had ever made...
i reluctantly sent him a friend request on facebook lately...
he sent back, 'not even if you were dying of cancer'.

that's fine, i didn't want to friend anyone who listens to minimum anyway.
and i can find a better satanist friend to argue with about the afterlife.

but that's the thing. i don't see any other satanists with pentagrams...
i don't see any other potheads who smoke how they dress...

if i see a slacker looking person, i'll walk up to them, and i'll ask them...
do you smoke weed?

most common answer i get: nope.
second most common answer i get: yeah, but don't got any.

is everyone in los angeles this much of a fucking loser?
is this pathetic plastic city really that fucking sad?

you'd think someone would finally get offended, and say 'hey, not everyone here sucks, come over and smoke a bowl with us, let us show you some actual humanity'.

that'll never fuckin' happen. that's how i've tested reality. if i think it, it won't happen.

anything i think, never happens. the proof is in the evidence.

so if i can't attract my type of people to me... what the fuck do i do?

where do i go?

but these half assed slacker wannabe idiots that i see dressing like potheads, and then i ask them, and they say no, they don't smoke weed, i can't help but thinking, every time...

and i'm even getting extremely tempted to start saying this, since i run through so many of these pathetic fucking clones... i keep wanting to say...

why the fuck are you dressed that way then?
why would you dress like a slacker, but not smoke weed?
smoking weed is what makes you dress that way.
the weed comes first, and then you can't afford armani.
that's the way it's been for potheads and people with hearts since the dawn of smoke.

what the fuck is wrong with you?
how against the grain are you going here?

and i'm not talking about the societal 'norm' you adhere to.
i'm talking about the grain of this earth you're standing on.

you're about as unnatural as marijuana laws.
you're about as full of excuses as the bag of dog turds in your hand.

you're children.

if you want to debate me on the fact that i'm more mature than you... i've already won.

but you won't figure that out.

and the next time i go to a doctor, i'm going to take a friend, a lawyer, and a piece of paper with me. and on the piece of paper, it's going to say...

'i'll bet you a billion dollars, and your license, that you're going to say the five retarded words i don't want to hear ever again, and that's 'i don't see anything wrong'.'.

because that's all i ever hear from doctors.
i know there's shit wrong with this body.
they just refuse to do anything about it.
because they've been through too many bullet wounds, bellyaches, and boys crying wolf.

so that's apparently my fault. so they take it out on me.
they laugh at me.

they use the word 'hypochondriac' like it's a skittles dispenser.

it's no different than my grandmother telling my mother it was just gas when mom had her gall bladder removed. it's one elementary school student talking to another.

that's literally all i see there. you never made it off the playground, did you?

still just the school yard bully with a pocket full of stolen lunch money.

and now you're telling me there's nothing wrong with this body. thanks, doc.

they mock me, tease me, and diagnose me in their heads.
they do all they can to come up with any excuse of why they can't do their job.

someone needs to tell these idiots, they're just excuses, and they need to stop.
this has gotten way too childish to still be excusable, you need to stop.
those who are talking need to shut their fucking mouths and learn to listen.
those who do too much listening to television need to think of something better to say.

you're a doctor. you have all the money and tools at your fingertips to help me.

and you refuse.

and i'm being childish and immature? irresponsible? haven't i already had this argument?

with clone number four thousand five hundred and sixty fuckin' two.

i can't meet any humans who give a fuck. about anything but themselves.
i can't find any potheads in los angeles. period.

they're just not here.

and by extension, all of california, there are no fuckin' potheads here. people from seattle or denver, don't fucking come here. if you're thinking about seeing what weed california has to offer, stay the fuck away from here. all there is here is the stench of sobriety, consumerism, concrete, plastic, dog shit, starfucks, hypocrisy, and whiny little bitches. plastic people.

you give me so much to hate on a daily basis...

yeah. sobriety. wow, there's a lively topic there. i see it floppin' like a fillet o' fish.

like an egg on the hood of a car.

stay the fuck away from california. as soon as i leave here with a pocket full of cash, i'm never coming back here. plasticland. i hope this turd goes in the ocean soon, it's been too long.

and i'm feeling just as bound up as the earth is right now, i'm sure these are sympathy pains.

carol told me, 'the earth doesn't need our help'.

that pissed me off and made me fucking hopeless. the night i thought of that, i was full of inspiration and motivation, sprouting these big ideas one after another. i sent her an email asking her to say this little chant with me every night around sunset...

earth, give me what i need to help you.

i guess what i said wasn't inspiring enough.
she sent back, 'the earth doesn't need our help'.

the fuck it doesn't. have you seen all this concrete? or are you in the denial hole with everyone else?

this planet is being run by ostriches who figured out how to fly on a plane. nothing more.

and if they think i can't overpower them. if they're betting on me losing.
if they're the slightest bit doubtful of my potential to evolve this planet against their will.

i'll bet you twenty bucks you'll see their faces on instagram soon enough.

life ain't that hard. swimming through an ocean of seven billion dead zombie clones and plastic mannequin rejects to find a set of ears... i could use a little help with that part.

i didn't quite do the math on seven billion, i guess. where's google translate?

fuck yourselves. this is happening with or without you. preferably for me... without.
have a wonderful day.