looks like her

okay.

as i'm finishing writing that last post, klarity shows up. i finish it, push the laptop over toward her, and i go out and smoke, and she reads... what i assumed she would... less than half of it. i was sitting out there smoking, and i thought to myself, she'll only read about half of it. it would have been followed by 'how much you wanna bet', but thinking that to myself isn't funny. in my own mind, i actually try to cut down on unnecessary verbage. what minimal time that is. anyway, she read about half of it, and i come back in, she says 'wow', pushes away, i hand her a cigarette, she says 'thank you', and goes out to smoke. i love the reactions i get. i wish people could ever consider their reactions and the effect they might have on the person requesting them. she comes back in, and gives me her 'more thought out' reaction. honestly, it was minimally helpful. what i found most helpful was the sympathetic aspect of it, but rarely do i find the advice helpful. sooner or later, this society's going to have to realize, what works for you, what helps you... does not work for me. that's what fifty percent of my blog is about, all through the history of my writing and having to explain myself, clarify myself, repeat myself, over and over, defending myself... you'd think someone could just understand once in a while. and say 'dude, i get you, one hundred percent'. not followed by any ancient advice or dust covered opinions. because i honestly feel like i'm hearing the echoes of your ancestors saying the exact same shit through your ear to mouth tunnel. she said that most of it was overgeneralized, which is fine, i tend to do that a lot, and i don't mind it. she said i might have misunderstood the interactions on the beach, that a 'double take' isn't a bad thing, and that the 'instagram' girl might have been saying something completely different. that's fine, i'm hoping i'm usually misperceiving those sorts of things. most the time in my head, i'm tracking two different perspectives of those thoughts, the one more hopeful than the other, thinking that their thoughts are more along the lines of 'why doesn't he come over and introduce himself?', or something like that. but to those thoughts, in my mind, i react with feelings of despair, which i cannot help, because i've introduced myself to so many people and circles of people, why can't anyone ever approach me? i imagine things in my head differently as they're happening, seeing all the different possibilities of what could be happening in that moment. alternate realities branching off in fractals of everything that could happen. when the naked lesbians came out of the water, i felt like the short haired one could have walked up to me and said high. naked, brave, smiling, dripping. she could have said 'you wanna come over and share weed?'. she could have said 'nice legs'. she could have said 'what are you watching', or 'is that the daily show?'. anyone could say anything to me, but it's me who has to initiate every fucking conversation, no, that is not fucking fair, on a social level, or an antisocial level. should i have to be the one to initiate every fucking conversation i ever have? seriously? how do you justify that? what excuse could you vomit out into my lap at this moment? how valuable should i expect it to be? no, i hope i'm misunderstanding you! i fucking hope to all of my dreams that i'm misunderstanding these situations! if i had a god, that's what i'd pray for! but how am i supposed to know when all the evidence i have to go on is that strange sour look on your face, and no words ever exchanged? because the language i understand much better than poetry or whatever shit you're spitting out... the language i'd much rather speak... is physical contact. flesh. the true language of connection. what the words should lead to. the goal. the higher level of communication.

so... she came back in, and told me those things, made a few calls on my phone, and then said...

she said 'why do i try?', and i tried to tell her, i ask myself that constantly.

then, she said...

...

what does success look like to you?

...

she said that should be our question of the day, that we should try to answer.

she said yes, most of the world functions on money, so it's hard to find the few who don't. it's one thing to say that, it's another to say it while stepping to my side of the fence. in fact, i'd be impressed if you kept the sentence going while sliding out of that haze, realizing you're suddenly all alone. so i ask you, klarity... do you know what it's like to oppose everyone? do you know why you would?

do you understand the purpose of doing so?

so... okay... we'll answer that question. what does success look like to me?

we stepped out of a cave, thousands of years ago.

man got to thinking... girl getting too bitchy, i need better ways to make her smile.

caveman doesn't quite translate on google, he could have meant 'moist' rather than 'smile', but what's the difference? the level of offense a female should feel?

women get offended by the dumbest shit. to men, what appears as a cooking recipe, or a chemical mixture, to a woman, is a mixture of ingredients she has to approve of or agree with, and therein lie the chaos between the communication or conveyance of what should be a savory meal. why worry over the curry? it's edible art, and they can't just be pleased. like the mother of my children. analytical to the point of total destruction and desecration of art, yet defends my art to others who desecrate it. and then sends me a note saying how she wants to stalk our children. as a chemical recipe, what would that resemble to you? a stable mixture, or an unstable mixture? and i should take how much comfort in that? see, i get two sentences into the concept, and i'm already off on a paragraph of explanations and horseshit because i have to clarify what 'smile' could translate to in caveman. fuck this stupid fucking brain. stay focused you piece of shit!

i don't see how i could write a book using this fucking skull turd. it's like, my brain started off as a rock in the old arcade game asteroids, but ships kept chipping away at my rock by firing little complaints at it, like bullets with 'you're not good enough' fortune cookies etched on the sides, and after you take enough damage, and your rock gets smaller, and your perception changes, and you start to believe that you're not good enough, you start to believe that your mind is a piece of shit. sure, people having gotten to the end of their road by driving a beat up old datsun pickup truck just as rewardingly as someone who drove a jaguar to their golden grave, but it's the efficiency i question, not the appreciation. people keep telling me i have to be positive first, before those outside me would react positively to me... which sure sounds like something my delusions would say. if you were real people, real authentic genuine humans, it shouldn't matter who acts positively first, if it's the reaction that needs improvement. is that making sense yet. i'm asking my delusions to prove to me that they're authentic humans, and they just keep feeding me the same shit, 'you go first'.

i tried leading by example before, it got me nowhere. through arguments and blame, through judgments and shame, i've dragged that explanation in an unrecognizable black body bag.

to make the example, started smiling, giving compliments, trying to inspire, giving an increased level of sympathy and compassion, being verbal about my admiration, trying to offer ideas as opposed to opinions... it would still end in me being called a downer, or too negative. now, sure, i only really tried this in san francisco, but should i have to repeat an experiment in every city expecting different results? or would i just be proving that hippies don't exist anymore? that love is in fact dead? chained to price tags, therefore no longer free? it honestly took me too much mental tracking to be that much of a part of a group, just to only expect any recognition much further down the road. i kept asking myself, how much more do you need, how much reassurance that i am who i say i am? what the fuck more do you need? it soon gets to the point where i feel like i'm just a butler for others again just so i don't feel like such a burden to the group, so i end up carrying bags of heavy shit, pushing carts through streets, just to be 'nice'. and still can't expect any recognition from these people, let alone have i even had the time yet to explain much of myself for them to get to know, and certainly can't expect them to be good enough friends yet to read my fucking blog, so that's still not an option, i just have to hunch through this same day over and over again till it gets me somewhere, even though i know these are the wrong people in the first place, but doing this shit for the right people would mean double the weight and triple the wait. ever been a butler for a billionaire? ever been a peasant? ever had to panhandle? ever had to beg for change?

'fed all the lies and desensitized, taught to believe that it is the way
taught to divide and exactly why, you'll never understand my rage
you've never had to borrow, you've never had to steal
you eat it with your silver spoon, for me it's real
take my scars through hands of god, i found a better way to break the walls'.

machine head said thems words.

you want to keep lacking the knowledge of why they're so close to my heart?

cause they also said...

'well i look at justice in a different light
i been to jail, it didn't make me right
try and conform, but won't be deaf, blind, dumb
been beaten down, just harder i've become'.

etched in the stones in the graveyard that is my heart.
or, like andy once said, 'from the crevice of a broken heart'.

this is what 'staying focused' looks like for me.

it's time i stop leading by example, and start expecting more from my delusions. it's time i stop coddling them, while they keep shouting 'we're not going to coddle you'.

it's time compromise gets fucking redefined. that's success number one.

secondly, as al jourgenson says, 'you can succeed, or you can suck eggs'.

let every other douchebag neanderthal male on this planet think that success is only measured in dollar amounts. let them. let them fucking have it. it's theirs to begin with. why the fuck would i want it. seriously, you need to ask yourself, right now, why the fuck would i want that? if you think you understand even one little minute thing about me, you need to ask yourself, right now, before we go any further, why the fuck would i want to be anything like what i am here to oppose?

you sick fucks that say 'you end up becoming what you hate', yeah, fuck you. i'm your walking antiproof. i'm the omega of that ancient fuckin' fortune cookie factoid.

what we should be saying, is 'you can hate, just don't become'.

machine head says 'anger is a gift and i won't be kept down, in poverty there is no democracy'.
rage against the machine says 'anger is a gift'.
machine head says 'you gotta know yourself, and you gotta know the enemy'.
in the matrix, the sign over the oracle's doorway, says 'temet nosce'.
it's latin for 'know thyself'.
rage against the machine has a song called 'know your enemy'.
they did that song with maynard from tool.
skinlab also has a song called 'know your enemies'.
they're from the same scene as machine head.

you want to tell me that those are not my people?
you want me to believe that this is not my argument?
how should i succeed in a world where you set the terms?

because i would measure success there, as destroying you and your 'terms'.

if you can't, what right would you have to exist in the same world?

am i making my point yet?

because that would be success number two.

back to the cave. we walked out of there, and built cities. couches. beds. porno theaters. chairs. tables. fast food dispensers.

ask yourself, why did we do that?

i mean, i know i gave away the answer at the beginning of this post, but pretend like you've gotten lost and confused and don't remember me saying that. it got lost in google's translation.

why did we build cities?
why did we build cars?
why did we invent dollar bills and credit cards?
why did we start this country by killing the natives who were already here?

why did we create guns?
why did we create republicans?
why did we create a society where you must be clothed at all times?

what theory could you possibly have, and how does it differ from mine?

and more importantly... why?

see, i think we built these cities to get pussy. sorry, feminists. be offended all you want. you were the payment, you were the reward, because every dollar earned was to be spent on acquiring and attaining you, the unattainable cave girl standing on a fucking pedestal demanding to be fed, instead of getting an arrow and feeding yourself. and you want equality with the douchebag that just dragged a dead dear into your cave? i'll be honest, right now, i'm telling myself in my own head, that right there should precisely define your insanity, exactly how illogical you are. and that it should stand eternally as evidence. but wait for trump to say that, it might hit you harder.

my answer to those questions, ladies... is you.

why did we build cities? you.
why did we design cars? you.
why did we invent dollar bills and credit cards? you.
why did we build happy meal dispensaries? you.

you refuse to believe it, you get offended at the very notion, instead of accepting the compliment, and you take pride and comfort in your feminist stance, and i can describe with verbal acuity and accuracy the exact imagery of the look on your face, the detail of the frown as well as the emotion behind it, because little do you know, that's my big talent in life. surprise, surprise!

just ask bill hicks. it's the same look that the nonsmokers have.

we know what all that look says. we harbour no doubts either way.

we're men. are we not?

we are devo. now whip it. whip it good.

those looks on your face say, so very clearly, 'high and mighty'.

written all over it. lips. cheeks. that little dimple on your top lip. even your eyes. that look on your face cannot possibly hide its intention: 'high and mighty'.

thinking the exact same thought that's in my head at that very moment: 'i'm so glad i'm not you'.

'sworn to a great divide'...

if the goal truly is pussy, ladies... ask yourselves... why do you think we did all this?

how do you think we got here?

twenty seventeen. june. we have daily show, naked news, and alex jones.

how do you like your news? daily, naked, or rogue?

we have mercedes benz, bmw, jaguar, maserati, ferrari, acura, audi, aardvark.

google spellcheck knows which of those are real.

one of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong...

listen to any comedian right about now. take a smoke break in the reading of this blog, and for about three months, you're going to sit on a couch with a broken rib, preferably my extra one, a punctured lung, stoned off your ass, watching standup comedy. taking their words of wisdom at face value.

then, you're gonna come back to this blog. informed. educated. healthy. balanced.

we have any hotel you could prefer, from hilton to trump.
we have all the food you could possibly hunger for, from tacos to shrimp.
we have fur coats for peta yetis, and cardboard boxes for billionaires.
we have vegan wraps for lesbians, and dildos for vegetarians.
we have economy sized hatred, and twitter sized love.
we have fast food and slow cooked cancer.

what more do you want ladies? can i get my payment yet?

'you didn't work for anything, why should i fuck you?'.

thanks, for discounting the last ten years i spent with a demon whore.
thanks, for discounting the fact that i pulled two kids out of a black hole.

so all those times i drove that cunt to work and back, that didn't count for anything?
that was just pennies spilling around the outside of the piggy bank?

cornbread crumbs for the rats i'm feeding, right?

what do we do everything we do for? why do we do everything we do?

now, of course, i can't speak for gay men, or lesbian women...
i can't speak for construction workers and child molesters...
i can't speak for housewives and deadbeat fathers...
i can't even speak for that kid in seven eleven...

but when i speak for myself, saying that i thought you ladies were always the reward...

you get offended.

why?

why do you ladies get offended at that? did you forget that it was a compliment, or are you just pushing us out of another cave?

yeah, i'm fucking born, lady, you can stop pushing now!

what if women understanding the functionality of their own vagina led us to understanding the secrets of infinity and the universal loop we're living through... hmm...

sorry, don't mean to distract you, i'm trying to stay focused with starfucks mannequin pussy all around me. sorry if i sound shallow and superficial, but when you ladies walk into starfucks with ass on display, how do you expect me to not be shallow and superficial in that moment? your ass literally looks plastic, in fact, it looks so plastic, it makes me feel real, which makes me feel less shallow and superficial than you are, which kind of undoes all the shit we're currently ranting about and fighting over, but then i remember that you still have different opinions in that head, and starfucks becomes that scene in indiana jones, where he's screaming 'just don't look at it!'.

am i making sense to anyone yet?

cause ever since i first said the word 'cave' in this post, i've been working on success number three.

being understood, that's success number one.
being touched, that's success number two.

you ladies? you are our success.

after all, you're what we pull eachother out of, in order to stay here.

saying you don't want your child to be gay is about as dumb as saying you don't want your child to be male.

you don't get to decide what your child is. you only get to decide what you are.

but so many children end up being what their parents want.

are you incapable of walking your own direction? forging your own path?
then why do you reject me because i'm doing that?

oh, and then you claim that i'm not even forging my own path, that i'm just sitting and wallowing in the mud of my own loneliness... gee, thanks for that observation, it didn't hurt at all!

no, i'm fine, i'm marching on like a good soldier, don't worry about me.

i'm drilling my way to success number three. pussy. vagina. sex. love. flesh. physical contact. the most offensive reward on the planet. whatever you want to call it. whatever term is least offensive to you, or in case you're choosing the most offensive, then i hope you find in my mouth whatever term is the reward you're looking for. take the most abrasive term possible, if it makes you happy, just pay me. i don't accept cash. i don't take visa or mastercoward. i might be convinced to take paypal once in a while, if i'm hungry or sober, but i'd like to cut out the middle man, because we've already got plenty of buildings now, most of which i don't even belong in, or can't afford to be in anyway, so i'm cutting out the bank, the guy holding the paycheck, the guy dangling the carrot off the stick, i'm cutting out all the middle men between me and pussy. from now on, for my talents, the only payment i take, is the only one i ever wanted in the first place, ever since i stumbled out of that cave and lost an eye to the sun. fuck the middle man. actually, don't fuck the middle man, that's the point. i'm tired of fucking the middle man, and his abrasive asshole, while women are calling my verbal talent abrasive, instead of appreciating the effect for change it has, it's like a beltsander, if you're going to change the surface of that human flesh table you're building, you're gonna want something harsher than a banana peel, aren't you? they even negate the fact that banana peels are hazardous, which makes me laugh.

but anyway... getting carried away here... 'now bring that shit in'... (rage against the machine).

yeah, see, i'm going to simplify everything right now.

fuck the banks, fuck the empty suits and stuffy ties, shiny shoes and golden lies.

i'm a vehicle for change. a vessel for evolution.

'spiral out, keep going'...

'to feel the rhythm, to feel connected, enough to step aside'...

you want to know what success looks like to me?

it looks like a georgia o'keeffe painting.
it looks like a fuckin' lotus flower.
it looks like a mutherfuckin' orchid.

i guess she was drunk last night, and someone wrote the word 'pussy' all over it.
(redneck dictionary word of the day: satiate!
say she ate a whole cow, could i still drive her home?).

screaming children come out of it like a water slide in an amusement park.

i never hear any laughter coming out of there, though.

but maybe i'm looking for love in all the wrong places.
or maybe i'm like ron white, picking the girl up and holding her to my ear to hear the ocean in the sea shells over her tits.
or maybe my metal is too loud, but hey, if it's too loud, you're too old.

parts is parts, after all.

success?
payment?
reward?
fulfillment?
gratification?
satisfaction?
satiation?

what's the one word i find most synonymous with those?

i guarantee you, whatever word i choose, it's going to be ultimately offensive to you.

which... i wonder why 'pussy' is offensive to women...

wouldn't the same definition in men's mentality be being offended by the word 'cock'?

and do you think we are?

oh, well, only the least mature of us, usually the televangelists and 'practice what you don't' preachers, and the catholic priests, and that's because they're busy molesting young boys, so we'll just temporarily exclude them from the consensus of this debate... even though, they're not used to being excluded from anything... at least not like i am.

see, i'm used to being excluded, rejected, and kicked out.

in case you weren't paying attention to the whole 'know your enemy' lesson, that's something i can use to my advantage... is it not?

what, do you think a priest would win in a fight against me?

cause i got a joke for you...

a priest and a metalhead walk into a bar, who walks out?

you're goddamn right, baby. let's go get some free dinner.

ladies, if you're offended by what's between your legs... perhaps not even a sex change would help you? because what's between your legs, i assure you, is more natural than you are. and that's meant to offend you. that's meant to be more offensive than the word 'pussy'. that's what boxers call 'below the belt'. i'm hoping that comment hurts you worse than you've hurt me. i'd love to see slow mo blood off that blow, when they make a movie out of this. like the dude in 'thank you for smoking', while he's standing at the podium, it's the machine gun sound coming out of his mouth.

'...and then came the shot...'.

take a wide look back at chivalry, if it ever existed. men battling other men over one lady.

now, either that means there weren't enough ladies to go around, and we got down to a game of musical pussy... or that could mean that some of the feminists were bitching too much, maybe they were looking at instagram on a nude beach and got sand in their vaginas, or maybe cartman was just saying that, but either way, something sounds very wrong in that situation to me, because i don't think you were paying attention to that part, which is where my observation usually reigns socially, but okay... hold on... we're going back... do that little wayne's world sound...

do da loo da loo...
do da loo da loo...

okay, i see two guys fighting, and one lady standing there in a dress...

i'm looking for other ladies. are they in the saloon, perhaps?

yup, got a couple drunk ones in here, but it looks like they're done for the night.

there's a couple sleeping in their beds next to their husbands, but they're out of the race, so they don't count anyway.

so, i guess this little lady really is worth fighting over.

what's wrong, you guys never heard of a threesome?
yeah, it's all the rage these days... i mean... where i'm from.

does google work back here? yup, sure enough, yeah, here, check it out, see that?

that's called 'double penetration', which means you don't have to put your swords down, you can just sandwich her right in the middle of this little party. make it extra fun.

is that not more rewarding?

because i believe the pen is mightier than the sword, because that's what nature intended.

shove your swords up your asses and fuck yourselves.
the language of my heart could conquer you all.
if you had audible receptacles.
but i already wrote that poem, too.
how could you sit back and let me get four steps ahead of you?
it's easy to be better than you, i'm out of your league.
i wasn't born screaming on some assembly line,
i was dropped out of god's cunt like an aborted fallen angel.
i make the phrase 'fuck you' more valuable.
i am offensive, i own offensive, so if you're offended by me...
you're just a human chemical experiment having the correct reaction.
like a mouse answering yes or no for a chunk of cheese.
this is my game. welcome to the battlefield.

and ladies and gentlemen...

i do believe we have success number three...

judges? yes!

the scores are in...

and we have a winner...

what i'm looking for, more than success... is love.

call it what you want.
be as offended as you want.
take all your abuse out on me.

'take your hatred out on me,
make your victim my head'...

take out all your abuse on me, and i'll take you out for teriyaki, deal?

ladies...

you are the reward.

and yes, i intend that as a compliment.

so can we get the roadblock excuses out of the way, the fears, the sheets, the inhibitions, the lies, the warfare and weapons of mass deception, can we brush the dollars off the bed, and...

can't we all just hit a bong?
bang a gong, get along...

he's got hair down to his knees...
hold you in his arms so you can feel his disease...
come together, right now, over me!

('welcome my son, welcome to the machine')...

yeah, i think i've got it now, mama. i'll never lose my tongue.
through all the trauma, it still defends me like a leather whip.

i don't want your money.
i don't want your jobs.
i don't want your apartments.
i don't want your cars.
i don't want your clothing.
i don't want your beliefs.
i don't want your arguments.
i don't want to fight.

to quote ozzy osbourne...

'i just want you'.

now could we stop the war and start fucking already?

'make love, not war'...
'fall in love, not in line'...

'when there are no thrones, we can all live like kings... and queens'...

money can't buy me love, but pussy makes the world go round.

we didn't put you on the pedestal, ladies... we sat you up there cause you just happen to be attached to the thing we did put on the pedestal. but the douchebag that sat you on the pedestal, was trying to keep you from the men who deserved you most, so he stuck dollar bills and shiny shit in front of your face, and your eyes were forever distracted...

all we wanted was a moment with you.

every building...
every car...
every meal...
every bed...

for you.

if you didn't have to set up such strict and confusing rules for how we can get your attention, we wouldn't be having this problem. if i didn't have to walk into a bar and buy a lady a drink just to find out she's an alcoholic who can't cuntrol her drinking or her mouth, especially when i don't fucking drink, should that be a fair option, and should that be the only option on the table?

so ladies, you answer me...

it's your turn, after all...

if i don't drink, where do i meet ladies?
if i don't want your jobs and paychecks and suits, where do i meet ladies?
if i prefer metal over anything popular, where should i meet ladies?
if i follow no trend, where do you think i should go to meet women?
if i'd rather smell like a human than a product, where do those ladies congregate?
if it's decided that we're done working for shit, and we can finally relax and celebrate...
if it's decided that success is no longer judged monetarily...
if it's decided that politics are no longer necessary...

where would i go to meet those types of ladies?

because i don't want a lady who thinks herself better than me while bitching about my smell, and thinking she's going to have to pick up the check...

those women are walking war zones. disasters waiting to be aborted.
those women are responsible for bringing criminals into this world.

argue that, you cunts, go ahead. i'm waiting for that war to start.
this argument is easy to put to rest, that's the war i'm waiting for. the big one.

the war to end all wars. don't you think, after you win the war to end all wars... you'd finally see sex in the streets? bars wouldn't even have walls at that point.

and the sign saying 'can't touch the strippers' would be sacrificed to the flames of love.

that's success.

but for now, i'm just looking for a lady, who, instead of the walking war zones, can accept me as i am, and enjoy the free meal i'm walking her to. maybe, she can even be open minded enough to actually appreciate the fact that i'm homeless, and still capable of taking her to a free meal, perhaps she could even see the style and class in that sort of experience, the originality, the uniqueness, it would be a story to tell her grandchildren, of how she fell in love with the most unlikely of companions...

how do you expect to change, when you can't step outside your repetitive routine?
how do you expect to change, when you're intent on living the same life every day?
how do you expect to change, when you use the same excuses...

i'm asking for change.
so you're goddamn right i'm asking too much.
and i'm not gonna stop asking.
i'm gonna keep asking.
i'm not lowering my standards, mom!
i'm not even rephrasing the question to appease the weak.
i'm demanding change now.
i'm standing my ground, i'm sick of this shit.
and how dare you accuse me of anything.
i've already changed.
i've already proven it.
and i've already written the song that says,
if you don't know that,
then you don't know shit about me,
you do not understand me,
therefore you have no right to speak on my topic in the first place.

this is my flag.
i've planted it in my ground.
and here i stand.

you ladies want confidence?
you ladies want to prove that you don't just want a free ride through life?

i'm right here.

you ladies want equality, or would you rather just stop bitching about shit?

cause i'm still single.

you ladies want something to look forward to, something to enjoy?

i'm standing right here.

a famous fictional woman once said, '...you have to plant your feet, and look them in the eye, and say 'no, you move'.'.

it's time for society to realize, i ain't budgin'.
it's time for society to realize... it's your move.

you want to know how i'm four steps ahead of you, why don't you look at my last four steps?

'the better you understand the pathway behind you, the more it illuminates the way ahead'.

who said that? i said that. would you know that? nope.

so ladies... if you're still questioning... if you're still wondering what success means to me... if you're still trying to deny the truth for the shiny shit in the windows...

let this settle it. debate's over. you can all go home now.

the answer is loud and clear:

you can say that we came out of that cave for success...

but we came out of that cave...

for you.

that success should not be unattainable.
if it acts that way, fuck it and shoot it.

a real woman is capable of loving a man who doesn't shower.
a real woman is capable of empowering a jobless bum.
a real woman is incapable of fear, inhibitions, excuses, and paranoia.
a real woman is capable of looking at me, and not capable of walking away.
a real woman would recognize her match.
a real woman wouldn't give a fuck about dollars and diamonds.

and she was so very real.

a real woman wouldn't only recognize her match... she'd balance it.
a real woman wouldn't like politics, because she'd be the solution to politics.
a real woman wouldn't cower from any opportunity.

does that answer your question yet?
do i know what i want in life?
do i understand this shit better than you?
can i speak for myself yet?
can i have my choice yet?
can you admit that i have a point yet?
can you touch me yet?
can we stop fighting yet?
cause i've actually won this argument many times, but she was too angry to realize that.
i don't blame her, i'm the loser in the relationship.

all the shit that i possess as a man, all the things i'm able to do for her...

does she realize, i'd trade it all just to be her.

i can't decide most the time, if i want to appreciate her from the outside, or be her.

i feel like this is what i was trying to start writing three years ago on facebook, just after my soulmate left. i had read the elliot rodger story, and posted a few things on facebook, like...

'four scores and twenty beers ago, you stumbled out of that cave in a black dress, and... we never looked back. thank you. we love you'.

shit like that. it was my poetic attempt to soothe the wounds.

when dollars no longer boast their importance... words will have value again.

'thomas tipp was right. people will read again!'.

when dollar bills no longer build thrones on your eyes, words will affect your heart.

if you could have seen the awkward stumbling of my special lady in that black dress with the low slung back, the black lace high heels, the black satin elbow gloves... if you had seen her stumble out of that cave... maybe you could feel the boner in my chest.

'my dick was hard enough to hunt with'... ron white.

she had that special recipe of smile and style, ass and class. i wrote a poem for her, called 'a smile worthwhile'. another poem called 'the suicide motel'. god, i miss that.

the jokes she'd make.
the squeals she'd give.

biggest smile on this planet.

i miss you, baby. when we end this war between love and love, i'm going to thank you, because it's all for you. we got separated so many miles back, but i believe the roads intersect again.

i still think of you whenever i play this song, and i dedicate this song to you...
it's called 'you always believed' by in this moment.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X7fr004sfUI

and i often cry to this song, because it punches my throat...
it's called 'love falls' by hellyeah.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iFdOAyyn76M

and i'll never forget... 'our songs'...
'beauty and the freak', by sonic syndicate
and...
'i would be your slave' by david bowie.

as well as the first song she heard, the first time she walked into my room...
'wild child' by enya.

we had those moments...

they're the most valuable things in my heart.

dragging a heart filled with picture frames through the streets like a concrete corpse...

all for her.

cause i still can't let go.

after she left, i saw the movie 'a case of you', and it hurt like a goddamn heart bullet.
also, the movie 'hit and run'. i wished she had seen those movies.

my heart aches for that life, because she had it.

and when i say 'life', i mean 'sprite', 'fire', 'power', 'uncompromising joy'.

in her quest to smile, she never even bent a knee.

all those douchebags that base success on money...
ask them one question...

what do they plan to spend that money on?

and i guarantee you, all answers lead back to the same synonym, the same purpose, the same goal, the same reward... if he's going for that promotion, ask him if he's married, because i guarantee you he's only getting that promotion for her. he can say what he wants to say, but that's the reason. inherent in every 'hmm' and 'haw', in the nervousness of his hands, in the boyish look on his face when you mention the word. the obvious signs of love that adults always tease teenagers for.

you know what i'm talking about. don't act like you don't.

and i honestly think... you ladies objectified yourselves. by being insulted by compliments while fucking rappers, that's exactly how you objectified yourselves. you're doing more drugs, you're fucking more methheads, you're being lazier and less responsible, you're bitching more and wanting more, deserving less, and giving less, loving the wrong people, and you take no fault, you accept no responsibility for your part in this disaster, but you're just as responsible as the men who start wars, and the less responsibility that you claim, the more i'll take from you.

you want to keep thinking i'm the asshole because of how i dress... no, you're the asshole for being so superficial and shallow that you have to judge me on my appearance rather than finding out what's on my mind, and that is your fault, no matter how much you blame me for it.

if the argument was 'which side do we take free will from: male or female?', i would assert that both sides would learn more from being enslaved. i don't have to justify my argument, you have to try and unjustify it. because it's already been etched in hearts all across this planet.

starting with mine.

go ahead, prove your point now.

that's my answer. take it or leave it. accept it as it is, or keep destroying it.

i won't change my answer. not for you. especially if you're not puttin' out.

you want to change my mind? first, you have to feel the way i do when i'm pushing someone else's cart up a hill. lots of sex is required for brain change, i believe timothy leary already proved that one. but hey, don't take my word for it. i haven't been laid in three years.

point is, if you ladies want minds changed, you have to work a lot harder for it. and i'll put it this way... the effort you have to put into that is going to make all that hard work in the brothel look like skinny dipping in a university pool. got it yet?

you can call yourselves feminists, but i can't consider myself the opposite?
begs the question: what am i allowed to do in your world, ladies?
go ahead, list it here, cause i'll knock the top half of the list off with my cock before it even balances.

shower? nope.
job? nope.
fat wallet? fuck no.

looks to me like you ladies are looking for love in all the wrong places, how ironic.

to support that which oppresses you, is to take love away from those who deserve you most.
and you can quote me on that. (just wait till i'm dead first, and only then, that's only if i end up killing myself... if i die any other way, those words die with me).

(now, how much do YOU want to bet, that all these people are going to have to say after this, is what they've already said repeatedly to me on places like fetlife and deviantart, like i haven't heard it before, or as if they're still justified, and i'm sure i could even go through previous posts and copy and paste their actual comments, just to compare how they plagiarize themselves worse than ivania trump, but i'll bet you, i'll fucking actually bet you a million fucking literal dollars, that their response will contain the word 'narcissist' somewhere in it, followed by an insult about how i wasn't loved enough as a child, which this society would have any control over in the first place, which is why it's such a relevant part of the argument, right? yeah, because i wasn't loved as a child, i grow up thinking this way, and the only way to fix that is to fuck me, so there's just no way to fix that, cause i ain't fuckin' that dude, he's too much like trump. fuckin' women).

you win.

but the request for more pussy is still on the table.

sure, you can take offense now, but you'll be drooling on it later.

'if your heart devours you... just burn a new one'.
-roberta daisy lowe, january twenty fifth, nineteen ninety two.

humaniated

i'm just gonna keep feeling humiliated and ashamed no matter what i try to do. yesterday sucked, so i thought i'd finish off the day by going to the nude beach by myself. what a miserable experience. i'm sitting there alone. people keep staring at me. there's barely anyone naked. i'm even feeling like a creep/pervert/criminal just for getting some air on my legs finally. this one biracial couple passes by me, and the black girl has to stop and look like she's creeped out, then the white guy has to say 'oh, what, double take?'. a few moments later, i'm trying to take a few quick pictures to put on instagram, and i overhear one of the girls... i only heard a couple words she said, i forget the first one, but the second was this whiny, sarcastic utterance of 'instagram', as if to say 'gotta post on instagram'. like making fun of me for having a phone, whether or not you know what the fuck i'm doing on it. excuse me for taking a few pictures, what, i'm not supposed to be a photographer while i'm homeless? i don't have the right to take pictures when i'm poorer than you? i'm not allowed to sit over by myself at a nude beach? it's too creepy for you to handle? you all look a lot more trendy than i am, and you're gonna give me shit for posting on instagram? right about then, i get a text. earlier yesterday, when i was still downtown, i asked jaymie if she'd go to the nude beach with me. the day before, bob told me they had broken up for good. so i figured it wouldn't hurt anything to ask jaymie to accompany me to the nude beach. but... obviously, a lesson i have yet to learn... if i figure it's not going to hurt anything... it's going to hurt everything, including me. there's too many people to bitch and complain. and not enough people to accept me as i am. and this is humanity. this is why i'm staying on this planet. hospitality here is top notch. so i get this text from bob, saying 'how dare you ask jaymie that, what a bunch of bullshit, dude'... uh... you were broken up! for the hundredth fucking time! what the fuck are you doing texting me when you're broken the fuck up, i'm sure she can take care of herself in that type of situation, it's just a fucking question! she can say yes or no, it's that fucking simple! but this is where i always get stuck with people. having to explain what it's like to be an adult... to children. children, who obviously don't understand this 'adult world' shit, so you have to explain to them, repeatedly, that this is acceptable for adults, this is how we naturally converse, and there's no reason to get bent out of shape over a question about nudity, not even involving actual nudity! and i shouldn't feel persecuted because of this? i shouldn't feel ashamed and humiliated over this? i already feel like i don't belong anywhere, but after something like this happens, it feels like i'm not allowed to feel the way i do, nor am i allowed to change my feeling in one direction or the other, i'm just stuck, prisoner to your erroneous assumptions of me, and hating myself more than you hate me. and can i explain any of this to anyone? fuck no! sympathy? compassion? fuck no! can i expect anything of this fucking species? fuck no! you were right, mom, you can't ask these children for fucking anything. loving this fucking life, lord! so fuck bob. i'm fucking done with bob and jaymie and their fucking drama. they break up every other week. is that normal for parents of a child? i know what i went through with the mother of my children, and there was no excuse for the part i played, but hey, at least i knew that. so what the fuck is bob doing texting me like that in defense of his special lady... every time i text them anything and ask them anything, they bitch back, like 'how dare i ask such a thing'. but they can keep asking me to fill their drives with movies they can't possibly download themselves. it's about time you dumb fucks learn to download shit yourselves, you're not children, whether you act like it or not. and stop calling me the child, i'm obviously more mature than the rest of you, because i have the fucking movies! i have the customized fucking desktop! the weird alien desktop that no one even fucking looks at, let alone can they formulate the question 'what is that', nor even the bravery to ask it, I HAVE THE FUCKING MOVIES! I'VE DONE TECH SUPPORT! I DON'T DO TECH SUPPORT ANYMORE, AND THERE'S A BIG FUCKING REASON FOR THAT! I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING 'PRESS THE SPACE BAR' TEACHER! I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING BRO! I DON'T DRINK COFFEE OR ALCOHOL! I DON'T SHAKE HANDS! HOW MANY FUCKING TIMES AM I GOING TO HAVE TO TELL PEOPLE THIS! WHO THE FUCK IS EVER GOING TO GET TO KNOW ME THAT WELL? WHO'S EVER GOING TO MAKE THE FUCKING EFFORT!

i fucking hate all caps. breathe. every day of my miserable, unknown life, i have to explain to people, over and over, repeatedly, how i don't like coffee, i don't shake hands, and stop fucking calling me bro! every fucking miserable day! every fucking breath is wasted educating someone how the fuck to treat me, cause it's such an alien concept to be treated any differently than any other human, why the fuck do you think that is?! couldn't possibly be because you're all fearful, paranoid clones, could it? you're scared of being unique, so you have to condemn those who are!

i fucking want to die. i'm seriously going to kill myself soon. i'm so tired of this fucking world. people still can't understand whether i'm trying to fit in, or what kind of friends i'm looking for, or why i'm only looking for certain ones, like that's an alien concept to them as well... here's a theory... don't you think it would be easier for me to communicate with other metalheads who also happen to be nudists, that way they won't have all the hangups and inhibitions that you morons do, that way... fuck it, why am i explaining this shit again? i swear to christ it's posted on my blog about fifty fucking times. but they won't read my blog. they just fucking refuse. but that's my laziness, cause i'm not trying hard enough to shove it down their gullets and feed them like birds.

i cannot stand this fucking species. i cannot fucking stand this planet. i can't even explain anymore what the fuck i'm looking for, or why, i've been through the words too many times. it's like my tongue isn't wanting to tie itself through infinite loops of lunacy that string back into the past anymore.

but if i say anything about 'getting to know me', the reaction i get is in the category of 'why can't you?'. 'why do we have to do it?'. these haunted house mirrors are fucking retarded. how stupid of me to assume there were actual brain cells in there making chemistry happen. but if i call them my delusions... they get angry. 'we exist here, too'. oh, but it's okay for you to claim that i don't, and act like i don't, and ignore me on the fucking streets? that's okay? why, cause you have more money? you think this planet you're on gives any shit about money? you think animals are checking their balance? you think you're so important, when everything in nature says you're not. you can crush any sea shell under your magnificent feet, but the fibonacci spiral is still inherent within it. you're not the end of that spiral, you're only a part of it, but let that bank account fool you. after all, he who dies with the most cash... is the biggest rip off.

i'm so sick of money determining everything in my life because no one else can get away from it.

you're all in the same delusion, and you ostracize me for not participating in your delusion.

can you not realize... can you seriously not realize... i pushed the eject button first.

i ejected myself from this delusion before you even noticed me.

but okay, take credit for kicking me out of here because you knew i didn't belong before your daddy was even a sperm yet, yeah, that's how falsely heroic this fictional land loves to act.

i keep thinking of gilbert gottfried and his part about the 'land of the three name people'

i also keep thinking about the line... 'in the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king'.

but it seems more like... 'in the land of the hypocritically blind, the one eyed man is a scapegoat'.

ostracized. teased. beaten. ridiculed. rejected.

'i'm the dog who gets beat, shove my nose in shit'.
'feed my eyes, can you sew them shut'.

the choice is theirs: deny your maker, or deny a fifth of your hand.
ice cream makes that choice a lot simpler.

satiation. distraction. complacence. docility. exclusion.

the line i love more, and always have... ever since i got that ten dollar bill from taco bell with this line written on the back...

'when there are no thrones, we can all live like kings'.

that line is on a throne in my heart. reigning over the kingdom of hopelessness.

poverty. degradation. isolation. devastation. competition.

but if the maker of them and their delusion is also a delusion, how do you convince them that they're just your delusions, and how do you unmake them?

how do you control an anthill?

you could remote control them, and take their free will away, but what would that teach them?

from the list of options they might learn, there's...

'this is the human way to do what we do'...
'this is miserable, i'd rather do what i do'...
'what was so wrong with the way i was doing it'...
or...
'does this idiot not understand the way we do things'.

how do you step out of a group?
how do you rise above a group?

how do you defy social gravity?

how do you move those feet from over your head, to underneath you?

and why the fuck would i want to anymore? what would i have to offer this anthill that might actually benefit them?

all i can picture is a forest full of naked metalheads on mushrooms. but asking humans directions to something that doesn't exist yet, is like asking ants what time it is.

they only know the language that their delusion supports.

the foundation of their establishment is the same earth.

so after i got that text from bob... i'm done with them and their drama, their weekly breakups... they're not bisexual or bipolar, they're not even bipedal, they're biweekly.

i should learn from my instincts; when i immediately regret saying something nice to someone... there's a reason for that, that won't be apparent till the future coalesces into the chaos of this existence. this miserable moment that lacks a steering wheel. and still, no one will understand.

i don't fucking belong here. but after i got that text from bob... i almost cried right there on the nude beach, except that i was too angry and seething with hatred. and hearing the trendy clones and 'fit in' people, desperate to justify themselves in a terminally teamed stance... when i heard the one girl say the word 'instagram' in that whiny, sarcastic tone... i felt what elliot rodger felt when the slushy hit him.

that's one of the few reasons i'm still alive, i didn't want to let what happened to him happen to me. i wanted to be stronger than that, but it just doesn't matter how strong you are, or how bravely you stand your ground against so many clones... they will always outnumber you. and when you have a pack of things that don't like to think apart from the pack, you lose. unless you're smoking the pack.

so i got the text from bob... sat there for a minute... looked at the water, the sky... i didn't feel anything... no urge to do one thing or another... to stay or leave... i took one more hit off my pipe, filled my pockets, rolled up the sleeping bag, and left. i filled my ears with metal all the way back to the teriyaki doorway, and fell right to sleep. i didn't exist until i woke up this morning, the sky barely light, dead silent. is it washed clean of the day before, or is that residue just another yesterday?

no one knows a fucking thing about me, so how can i expect them to know a fucking thing about the planet they live on, or the reality they think they perceive so well?

'you're expecting too much from people'... thanks, mom.

you're dead, and you still have to keep reminding me.

so next text i get from bob, i'm just blocking him, not even replying. both of them, i'm done. i'm sick of being talked to like that. like a child, should i ask the wrong question.

next time someone tells me, 'there's no such thing as a stupid question', yeah, BULL FUCKIN' SHIT!!! BULL FUCKIN' SHIT! READ MY FUCKING BLOG AND TELL ME THAT!!!

for any argument, you don't just need your proof, you need to consider their antiproof. and if you don't know how to properly execute an argument... you're a child.

but see, the key to this is... no one will ever agree on that fact right there, so where's the progress? what step is being taken in any good direction? you think we're not too divided to unite? well then consider my evidence? or is that too much for you to handle? and you're the more mature, responsible party here? where's your proof?

and, on a different note... i had such high hopes for the new life of agony album. i wanted another ugly, not another broken valley. i'll have to record the followups to all the albums i liked most. starting with sabotage, and all the way up to the last good album i know of... city.

i'm still asking myself, was that the golden age of metal, even though it's been twenty years, and i should know that answer, and i should be phrasing it as 'that was the golden age of metal'. i guess i refuse to believe it. as with every other delusion in this world. i refuse to believe it.

suspension of disbelief is not refusal to believe... this world needs to figure out, those are opposites.

i did end up at least seeing a couple naked girls while i was on the beach. they were cute, playful, probably lesbian. i felt a little joy in seeing them, i smiled and waved, as awkward as i always am. but at the same time, i felt repulsed and disgusted with myself, i felt like the eyes of society were thinking that i'm just a creeper, trying to see naked girls, a pervert, a criminal, and i couldn't shake the thick residue of that feeling. like it's such a bad thing wanting to catch a glimpse of a couple naked girls... i felt like asking the founding fathers of this country... was that not the purpose of life? or asking people now, is that not the purpose of life? you act like it's okay for all of you, but as soon as i want to join the party, everything i do is wrong. and you don't understand how people can feel cast out by your society. rejected by the pack, thus not participating in your pack rituals. that still doesn't fit in their brains. so i have to walk around with this creepy dark residue of their assumptions and accusations coating my skin, making me feel filthy the way a girl feels in a shower after being raped. and just let some retard try and comment on that, not knowing that i've been raped, too.

raped by a gay dude. no one ever digs deep enough into me to find that out. most of my past is gone just because it would take too long to explain to anyone else. they love the short stories, they don't have time for the long ones. i honestly feel like i'm standing just outside this forest, waiting for people to come out of the woods... once in a while a guy comes out, breathing heavy, as if for a breath of fresh air. we converse for a bit, i gain no new knowledge, and they express no fascination over my knowledge of the world outside the forest... and then they go back into the forest, cause they have to get back to their little money sucking circle jerk of pointlessness and self worship, then, for dessert, they throw insults around like monkeys throwing shit, and somehow, on the outside of this forest, i still seem to get hit with turds during this part of the ritual. but i have to support their delusion that they're actually in a city of their own creation, and not a jungle, because if one leg doesn't support their delusion, they get angry. like toddlers in a playpen realizing that the fourth wall is actually a camera, and the volume of cries is equal to the sound an avalanche makes before the sound arrives at your brain's audio sensory laboratory for the autopsy.

and i'm still talking.

how can i tell the difference anymore, between the momentary feelings of joy i get, from seeing a couple naked lesbians bouncing toward water, or the filthiness that's imposed on me by society's eyes? how can i hear their most negative thoughts, and still feel so negative myself? like it really is all my fault, everything that's wrong with their society, or even just their day, has to be blamed on me, because i'm the outcast, i must be responsible for the batman like mischief? i feel so humiliated and ashamed already, but it has to keep deepening when i'm seen by other eyes. because i can hear their thoughts, 'you should be ashamed of yourself, why are you such a creepy weirdo?'. 'why do you have to be so angry all the time?'.

because there's no one making me happy.

'oh, so it's our job to make you happy?'.

well, it's certainly not very fun being the boss of happyland with no employees.

'oh, so you're the boss and we have to smile because you tell us to?'.

boy, there's no winning arguments with toddlers, that comedian was right. facts don't matter to a toddler, and no matter what how you justify what you say, if they feel nearly as persecuted as you ever do, they have more reason to bitch than you do. they have every right on the planet, and dare you try and speak your mind, you're just taking away from their rights. this is your world, isn't it?

'this land is your land, this land is my land'... well, look at that, you were the first one to lie!

did i predict that, or can i remember that far back? maybe i should read nostradamus again, see if i left myself a little clue...

nostril dammers. nose beavers. hmm...

anyway. so. i'm completely humiliated and ashamed of being me today. not proud to be on this planet. never going to another nude beach again. certainly never asking anyone ever again, nor am i texting anyone ever again for any reason... just asking someone to go to a nude beach with you is apparently a felony offense of terrorist proportions that can get you hanged before you have the right to be aborted. this is how much these children bitch about shit! does this bother anyone else?

public nudity is legal in seattle, you have nude beaches, but i can't ask anyone?!

without being degraded to such an extent that...

honestly, i feel like i've been degraded by society to such an extent, that if a woman were to ever bitch to me about being degraded, i could legally get away with raping her right at that moment, in the middle of the street, in broad daylight, and not even be arrested for it in the first place, let alone have to defend myself in court. i'd walk away free, and she'd probably go to jail. is that justice yet? have we invented justice yet? is this the moment we can all finally fuck in the streets and celebrate something worth celebrating as a united species? is this that moment?

i'll say that again in case any children are wanting to misunderstand me.

i honestly feel like i've been degraded by society to such an extent, that if a woman were to whine to me about being degraded... i could get away with rape.

it's kinda like chris rock's rule about calling someone a nigger on christmas eve.

you want to talk about being degraded? well here, check this out...

now how do you feel? you just got violated by someone more degraded than you, that's gotta suck. i bet that feels wonderful. you just got violated by someone so hideous, they don't even really exist. someone so ignored and unwanted, you can't even complain about them without holding a gun to your own head, how does that feel? it's a good thing this is theoretical, cause you'd be bitching and crying up a storm right about now. whining like a baby over a teething toy. bet you feel so much better about yourself now, yes. need a tidy wipe? and hey, if you get pregnant, you pay for the abortion. fair enough?

am i the asshole?
am i the asshole here?
am i wrong?

you ladies want to talk about being degraded, then get eachother out of porn first.

every young girl in a domestic violence shelter, you go out and give them a home and a heart to live in first, and then you can bitch about your persecution.

you pick yourselves off the fucking streets first, then you can bitch.

if every female on this planet actually strived to have a higher iq than i have... would we have anything to bitch and argue about?

i'll ask that again. if every female on this planet strived to have a higher iq than i have...

would we have anything to bitch about then?
would we have anything to argue about after that?

that's not a rhetorical question, ladies. speak up.

watch secretary, and realize that you can get more of a voice out of that gorgeous throat of yours, here, let's give it some practice, work that throat, get some singing lessons, some blowjob lessons, now give it a try. because i'd pay you more for that answer, than i would for sex.

your pussy ain't worth that much to me.

men want pussy, not the opinions attached to it.

so the more women bitch, the less you have to bitch about, because i've been single and rejected for three years straight. until you've been through that hell, you have no right.

but you have all the rights, and i have none.

it's that childish mentality and spoiled way of thinking that gets us here in the first place.

it's you, ladies. it's your fault. you think men own everything? you think men get everything they want? you get to choose us...

i'll repeat that...

you get to choose us!

do we get to choose you?

let me spell it out for you...

y o u... g e t... t o... c h o o s e... u s...!!!

short skirts...
skintight pants...
lipstick...
shiny shit...

and we can't even touch... you say no to sex more than we do, so you want to be equal, you've got some balancing to do, you've got a lot of catching up to do in the 'yes' category.

as well as the murder and rape category...
don't forget the greed category.

start crankin' those numbers up, ladies, and then we'll let you drive.

love needs to spread around.

who's job is that?

men?

or women?

after that beach experience, now that i'm thoroughly ashamed and humiliated with myself...
after the wonderful text from such a good, supportive friend...
after being condemned and persecuted by so called friends...
after being teased by strangers who have more right to be naked than my ugly ass...
after weak women use every excuse to overpower me just like every other male...
after going to jail for sleeping in the wrong spot...
after being this rejected...

ffffffffffffffff

i really don't know why the fuck i'm still alive. why the fuck do i keep living. i fucking want to die. this shit will never get any better. i really don't know why i keep trying. i just want to die. i want this to be over. you all get to fit into this world. i don't. i have tried. you think i haven't, but i have. just because i refuse to try what you tell me, doesn't mean i haven't tried everything i could think of. i truly do not fucking belong here.

blah fuckin' blah

i fucking hate my life so much. so goddamn much. i fucking hate this life. i cannot fucking wait to die. i want that release, i want the end of this nightmare, this misery, i fucking want to die. why the fuck should your death be someone else's choice? no one's ever answered that, through history. what, you're not brave enough to tackle that topic? cause the ones who were brave enough... succeeded! they defied your orders! they left your stupid fucking playpen world! ha!

everytime someone commits suicide, the joke is on you. they left your world, telling you, undoubtedly, your world that you think is so awesome and so beautiful and so special... fucking sucks! this world fucking sucks! they're basically throwing a bomb at you, a big fucking turd bomb, and when it explodes all over your house, the shit sprays into writing that says 'your world fucking sucks, and so do you'. whoever's 'in charge' of this stupid fucking world, those suicides are on you. blood on your hands for what you're doing wrong, which is 'not caring for each and every person'. if you put yourself in a role of leadership, if you're claiming that much fucking responsibility, over everyone... first of all, you're already that fucking stupid, because we'd do better without a leader, but secondly, if you're not doing what needs to be done to balance and equalize everything for everyone, so that every person is having a good time on 'your' planet... then the people who give up and end their lives, and leave your world... their deaths are on you, because it's their way of telling you, you've failed. you've failed, you've let too many of us down.

that's why i say, the first requirement for being a leader, is you have to actually give a genuine fuck about every person on this planet, not just say you do, and only keep the richest people close to you, while the poor suffer in the streets. if we had a leader who actually understood what it means to be a leader of other people, then we all would be equal. there would be no poor people. wouldn't that be magic, or just something else you'd disagree with, and try to debunk, debate, or disprove? are you smart enough to consider it? do you have enough of a human heart to not just dismiss it?

cause i had an idea i thought was valid, but no one wanted to hear it. this is before a cop told me my ideas aren't valid, this is before a guy who serves food to homeless people told me i have no standards. i had an idea, that no one wants to even consider, they don't want to hear it, because change would be bad for them, thus they fear it. but my idea was, each person on this planet, at the beginning of each year, they get three million dollars. you can legally have no more than that. if what you need for that year doesn't fit into that budget, make friends. here was another idea no one wants to hear, but i think it's valid. what a fuckin' fool i am, right? but what if we got rid of money completely, and formed a monetary system where, each morning when you wake up, you wake up with six points. no matter what happened the night before, no matter how broke you were when you passed out, when you wake up the next morning, six points. whatever you turn into turd, ash, or pillow, doesn't cost. meaning, where you sleep, what you smoke, and what you eat, i.e. food, cigarettes, weed, drinks, beds, bedrooms, pillows, blankets... those things do not cost you anything, they are just standard possessions for every human, every day, every night. there aren't many ways to spend your points, but every time you help someone else, you get a point. or, there's my high tech portable bum home theater idea. those luggage cases you see people dragging around? make those high tech. you press a button, they extend out into a bed, you press a button, it folds up into the luggage case, and follows you around via bluetooth and solar power. it locks itself to your fingerprints, and hey, you can watch a movie every night. and i'll give those away to all the homeless people for free. you can pick the two person model, or the single person model.

why do i imagine such a different, better world?
why am i so displeased with this one?
and why am i so alone in that?

i can't decide which is more painful...
living in this world...
or carrying the vision of a better one in my head every day.

i don't know which i smoke more, cigarettes or weed.

i don't know which i hate more, men or women.

you even misunderstand why i hate you.

so i'll say it as simply as i can.

i hate you because you ignore me.

i hate you for what you have that i do not.

i hate you for the crap you want that i do not.

does that make sense to you yet?

i also hate you for how you misunderstand me.
how you make no effort to understand me.

i really wish that all the super hot women could move to jamaica. either that, or let all the people like me take over ireland, where we can be ugly and lonely without having to look at your plastic perfect ass on display!

do you really have to be that perfect?
why do you have to be so fucking perfect!

and why the fuck can't you look at me!

you're not delivering a good message to the youth... for starters.

the reasons you should be ashamed of yourself are adding up like miles in a road trip, but you're still so proud of yourself. you think pigeons walk around thinking 'i'm so beautiful, i'm so proud of myself, i have such excellent colouring'.

or do you think the pigeons are thinking 'why do those crows have to be so fucking pretty, why do they have to strut around like that, flaunting their wealth'.

'thinking themselves so high and mighty over us'...

women don't want to be seen as sex objects...

fucking women...

have you ever even considered in your empty, heartless, apathetic fucking heads...

i'd love to be treated as a sex object.
i may or may not have wanted to be molested as a child.
go ahead and be as disturbed as you want by that, i don't give a fuck.

i think you're all wacked for not wanting to be touched.
i think you're all morbidly insane for not wanting sex.

but the rich only fuck eachother, the beautiful only fuck eachother...

and the ugly are left to flood walmarts together. and you think that's an okay world.

what the fuck is wrong with you? seriously? how fucking sick and insane are you?

love is not a bad thing.
sex is not a bad thing.
flesh is not a bad thing.
and my body is not a crime.
no matter what the fuck you say.
get that through your thick, heartless fucking skulls.

you are against humanity, but you accuse me of that.

the historic definition of scapegoat.
the human definition of hypocrisy.
the legendary definition of evil.

and my words are but mashed potatoes in your head.

visualize whirled peas?

why do you fear so much?
why is sex a bad thing to you?
why is love taboo to you?
why is homelessness so disgusting to you, when you created it?

i mean, i could see how a creation of yours would appear disgusting to you...

maybe you shit all over your stove once, by accident... you know, you bent over to put the turkey on the table, and sneezed, and shot shit all over the stove...

who knows. i don't mean to speculate.

but say you were getting out of your car one day, went to get out of your car to walk into work, and you had the runs, and when you pushed to get out of the car, you shit all over your driver seat.

i know embarrassing things like that happen all the time, even to the best of us. jim's dad from american pie would tell you the same thing. wouldn't he?

anyway. maybe it was a little too disgusting to clean up, so you just trashed everything, threw the stove in the back yard, and bought a new one... sold the car and bought a new one... whatever. i understand how a creation of yours could repulse you enough to make you claim no responsibility for it, but that doesn't mean you can ignore homeless people.

especially if we have a sign out asking for change.

why do you ignore that?

i felt like making a sign that says 'only cowards ignore me', but then i can't decide between the words 'cowards', 'consumers', and 'clones', because i wish those words were more synonymous in other people's heads as they are in mine, which is what gives me some of my confusion issues with words lately, all the synonyms try to exit my mouth at the same time, and i can't decide on one. for almost every word i say. every time i speak. every time i open my mouth, talking to anyone else, it's always too rushed, they never have enough time to listen to me. so i have to speak too quickly, stumbling over words anyway, and only getting to say half the things in my head, it feels like... instead of just shooting the bullets out of the barrel in an already predetermined order, so they come out fluidly and quickly... it feels like i'm having to sit in the barrel of my own verbal gun, and carefully choose each verbal bullet to be fired, sifting through a bucket of bullets, trying to find the red one with the 'w' on it. you ever have that problem?

no?

then who the fuck are you to judge me and ignore me based on image alone.

when it comes to judging books by their covers, i'm a fucking professional, whereas you're just a hobbyist. a fucking boring weekend with a literary bonfire barbecue.

yes, i judge you.

i judge you more than you judge me.

i just want you to know that.

because when you're walking past me, ignoring me... i'm repulsed by you. disgusted. everything about you, from your clothing to your beliefs, your bank account to your closetful of secrets.

i want to be touched.

you can see me as a sex object, rape me, fuck me, and you don't even have to pay me.

what a deal, right?

but only women. only females. i'm sick of being violently overpowered and violated by males. you guys fucking ruined it. i wasn't attracted to you in the first place, but now i'm just one hundred percent repulsed by you. offended. disturbed. you're sick.

i want to be touched.
i want to be fondled by people who don't know my name.
i want to be harassed and sexually assaulted.
i want to be groped in public.
i want to be molested...

if it involves physical contact with a female's flesh...

no, you don't even need my permission.
you don't need to know my name or how rich i'm not.
you don't need to pay me.
you don't need to call the cops.
you don't need to fear me.
you don't need to use any excuses.
you don't need to regret it.

is that fucking clear enough yet?

if you ladies don't want to be seen as sex objects, fucking redirect the fingers toward me! make me the fucking sex object you don't want to be! what the fuck is wrong with you! how fucking stupid are you, to still not understand that men like sex! we like you! we want you! we need you!

and please, stop using that phrase, 'they just wanna get in your pants'.

that's so extremely offensive to us. do we ever say anything like that to you?

that's extremely offensive to me, and i'm sick of hearing it.

'why are you wearing a skirt?', cause she's wearing pants and he's dragging his on the ground.

most of you ladies are wearing pants, when you're the ladies!

that's why i'm wearing a fucking skirt! that's just one reason! easy access! sarcasm! offensiveness! and to not be you!

'they just wanna get in your pants'.

okay, so how about this, ladies who want anonymous sex... wear skirts.
ladies who are offended by the very thought of sex... wear pants.

THAT WAY WE CAN FUCKING TELL YOU APART, AS WELL AS YOUR INTENTIONS!

like the stupid slutty bitch in the bars, with the short skirts, and you walk up to them, and they get offended, walk away, and then call the cops on you, and you get taken to jail, for being stupid enough to walk up to the biggest slut in the bar, and finding out that it was a scam, a fucking sitting duck, probly an undercover fbi agent in disguise, just trying to take those disgusting guys who need sex to jail...

yeah. i'm going to avoid an aneurysm, and stop now.

if you want sex, make it obvious.
if you don't want sex, make that obvious.
that way we can fucking tell you apart.

i also thought of starting the 'green ribbon society'... people who are okay with anonymous encounters, touching strangers or being touched by strangers... wear a green ribbon.

that way we know.

duh.

different approaches?

people keep misunderstanding me. people keep assuming that i don't try hard enough. people think they can do better. if you think you can do better, why don't you lose your home, lose all money, friends, family, connections, phone numbers, and most of your knowledge, and then get a fragmented, shattered, traumatized mind, get the shit beat out of you a few times, and a measurable amount of physical pain, not to mention the emotional pain of being rejected for three years straight, and don't just put yourself in my shoes, but do what i'm doing, get yourself a laptop, try not to get kicked out of a starfucks, or hell, you can be brave enough to give me the advantage, and use less efficient approaches, get hooked on drugs, don't even have a phone, holes in your shoes, blisters on your feet, and hell, cut a finger off, and see if you can do this. challenge yourself like i'm doing. see how much you can accomplish without your home. because i assume someone would like to cheat at this challenge, and step onto the street with nothing, and then just to look like a showoff, call some talent agent, and get shit started in a month. the shame that clouds over you is all too visible to everyone underneath you. shine a light on the fact that no one should be underneath you. and then ask yourself if you deserve to be above those people.

because i'm really going to try some different approaches. no matter how much it hurts me. no matter how fake the happiness feels to me, no matter how brutally the hatred burns and churns inside me... it's come to my attention that i have to just fake the smile. this stupid, weak society just cannot handle my anger, with or without the explanations. they are seriously that weak and fragile. but if you say that to them, they get defensive. angry. which says they think their anger is justified, but mine is not. their anger is justified because they're a part of society, they fit into this society, thus they're backed and supported by society, and they feel more secure with the fact that they can have an angry reaction, but for me, being homeless isn't a good enough reason to be angry. having my life destroyed and then blamed on me, isn't a good enough reason to be angry. going up against a tyrannical system just to get my kids back, not even that is a good enough reason for me to be angry at society. let alone being rejected for three years.

oh, so you don't think i've been rejected that much?
the numbers don't add up, the chances baffle you?

okay, how many times do you think i've asked in the last three years?
how many women do you think i've asked in the last three years?
and how many of them do you think said 'no'?

around a hundred?
between one hundred and five hundred?
between five hundred and a thousand?
somewhere between one thousand and five thousand?

that's even a multiple choice question, so you can feel right no matter what.

those aren't good enough reasons to be pissed off? then what is, in your book?

i wrote a journal once, about hatred, anger, and my favourite quotes surrounding the topics, plus as much verbal proof as i could provide supporting my theory. but to me, it's a fact. i obviously gives no fucks about what society thinks about anger, because i know what you think about anger is precisely wrong. wrong. w r o n g. fucking wrong. dead wrong. directly wrong. in opposition to the truth. dangerously wrong. disturbingly, disgustingly wrong. just fucking evil.

now... do you have my point sautee'd in your head yet? fillet'd, dissected, seasoned?

because the fact that you think my anger isn't justified, to me, it's too evil to have a word attached to it. disgusting is an understatement. disturbing is an understatement. vile doesn't even reach.

i could flip through thesauruses, i could play scrabble with the letters, i'll never get a yahtzee.

and i know i've already lost my two potential readers. hell, i've lost my own focus.

that's when i just keep writing till i manage to get back around to the original topic. try having that shit in your brain, and see if you can sound as genius as i do.

hell, just try to determine who the majority of that sarcasm is aimed at; you or me.

you think i don't have a good enough understanding of myself.
but that's because your understanding of me lacks in vital ways.

if i tell you to think of me as an alien, that doesn't even convey.
you start picturing fictional aliens, and stephen spielberg costumes.
things that make sense in your head, things that fit in your head.

whatever screen filter you can look at me through, instead of just human eye touching inner skin.

nudity. nakedness. vulnerability. and physical contact. alien terms to you. possibly offensive.

for me, the word 'nudity' is a permanent patch of skin on my tongue. a layer of self skin that speaks its own language without words. the innermost layer of honesty. and the outward most representation of it. a communication to kindred spirits.

are you understanding any of that, or is it too poetic for you?

understand me yet? cause that's the way i speak.
passion. poetry. vision. perspective. direction.
cocooned in languages of perfection and protection.
and self strengthened (cause i can't depend on others for that).

all i've been wanting for the last twenty years of my life is a little recognition of my talents.

but that was too much to ask. obviously.

so... what... humanity only accepts a challenge if it gets them on teevee?

why. why am i advertising myself for your attention?
why am i selling myself to the wrong consumers?
why do i put my ass on display when no one wants to see it?
i don't want to be bought or sold, and i don't want to compromise.
but to get anywhere past you, i have to compromise, you remove that choice.
and then i need to be bought or sold, i need to let you own me and handle me.

why?

what are you offering that's so great, i need to give up my life cause i'd rather live yours?

is any of this shit making sense to you yet?
cause i feel like i've repeated this a thousand times.

at this point, i'm just walking beaten trails in my mind, sweeping the thoughts and leaves to the side ears...

sorry... distracted. this stupid ditzy blonde bitch in a pink sleeveless sports top and skin tight black pants has to stand infront of me, at the starbucks 'pick up here' line, waiting for her fuckin' latte, and thinking she's so special, looking around to see who's looking at her. and just about the dumbest face i've ever seen on a yeti. or was that a warthog? fuck it, i'll just ask richard dawkins' wife.

oh, don't worry, i know you won't get that reference, so i'm not even going to explain it.

at this point, me explaining things for you is something you should pay me for.

seriously. you think i'm joking, you think you couldn't possibly be that stupid, but you're not even smart enough to understand my evidence, let alone force your mind open wide enough to accept it. i've joked about the jaws of life related to craniums so many times, it's just not funny anymore. that joke is a fossil in my mental thought path, the most beaten and flattened part of it. and i can't even get a psychiatrist to read any of this shit, so... you know... what the fuck am i trying to prove to you, and more importantly... fuckin' why? i've made it so glaringly clear that i'm looking for my people, not you. but after hearing an argument between alex jones and peter joseph this morning, now i'm even less confident about any connection, and even more astonished at the division between every human and every other human, except the plastic mannequin clones that group together like the robots in 'i, robot'. umbrella choices house too many people, yet not enough people. and keep us safe from what rain? we perceive a fraction of what's right beyond our senses, yet we think we're seeing it all.

then, a man comes along trying to convince you otherwise.

eighty generations of trial and error...

how come i can picture... eighty billion years in our future? how come i can see that?

are you on the same channel i am? did the string between our cans break?

it's like playing a game of 'musical umbrella choices', trying to find the umbrella choice that houses us all comfortably, where we can agree on something, but until we do, we have to fight over umbrellas, and destroy everything in pursuit of better options.

rather than learning from what's infront of us.

like a mental test, where you have to pass the current level to get the necessary information about the next level...

there are many ways i could think of this. many lights, many angles.

but there's this unwanted voice in my head.

i know this is gonna sound crazy, but don't run just yet.

i have my voice in my mind. when i think something, i've always wanted some response.

that's what a conversation is, is it not?

but there's this defective data bank that's collected imprints of all the responses i've ever gotten from society...

yeah. startin' to see where that's headed?

so when i think something in my head, the response is always this siren alarm from the naysayer farm. this almost incoherent, negative projectile regurgitation of fire retardant chemical foam.

the cult of refusal to open your mind.

and it's permanently locked in a cage in my head. but the cage isn't soundproof.

and how i wish it was.

it's me telling my grandmother to shut the fuck up for eighty billion years.
it's an eternity in her hell, trying to tape her mouth shut.
begging her to stop shoving her religion down my throat.
begging her god to control the marionette strings better.

so anything i think... before you can say no, your clone voice in my head has already said no.

that's why i walk away so quick before even hearing your answer.
that's when you have to understand; i've already given up a thousand times.

...right where you stand.

i like being the first to walk away. it's the only success i can carry.

dana keeps trying to tell me this story about two wolves in the heart. first of all, i've never had that much of a fondness for wolves or dolphins or unicorns, or other creatures you see lining the walls of a teenage girl's room. yes, i'm aware that animals exist on this planet.

i'm also aware of this...

'in death, not only are the mightiest and the most humble brought down to the same level, but we're not different from any other organism'...

a little sound bite from a record called ocean machine.

i'm a collector, a connoisseur of one liner lessons and life truths.

the ones my mother taught me, i'd love to put in a children's book someday.

lessons like 'it's better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you're stupid, rather than open it and prove it'.

god, i fucking hate perfect women. i hate hot women.
the fact that they refuse to look at me... is all i need to know.
and then to have you doubt me at every step.
it's all being collected like rain water in that naysayer farm in my head.

anyway... and lessons like 'don't just learn from your own mistakes, watch the show cops'.

i credit my mother with that, but honestly, my mind's so traumatized and fragmented and shattered at this point, i'm not entirely confident it was her who said it, it might have been me. her and i had a shitload of deep conversations, and now her voice, her input... is gone.

no longer part of the conversation.

it's too obvious what my hurdles are. i'm all too aware.

it's the source of most of my hopelessness. the reason my heart plummets.

like a backpacker hiking up a mountain alone.

that silence resonates in my heart like an old familiar ancestor.
that air carries my dreams like a floating blanket of cloud.

oddly enough, i feel more connected with that earth, than anything within a thousand miles of a credit card. i can hear her talk to me there. anyone else would say, 'there's a difference between thinking you're there, and being there'. if you understood me as well as i know myself, you'd see that point dulled like a toothpick on concrete. my connection with this earth has always defied you.

visions through the sunrises, storms on my skin...

the synaesthetic taste of the storm's mood.
and the ancient connection to it's ancestor storms.
among the sea of purposes.

anyway. last night, i watched a video.

about 'the red pill'.

about feminism and men's rights activists.

about 'woman haters'.

well, fuck it, i think i've finally found my home. that's where i belong. obviously.

certainly not starfucks, looking at a sea of plastic mannequin ass.

a society obsessed with ass.

but how come their faces still look like the mannequins in the store windows?

why do they obsess over their asses, but not their faces?

is there some sort of humour in that, that i'm apparently missing?

and those skin tight pants... why, ladies. every goddamned one of you? seriously?

why? what's the purpose? you don't want to blend in too much, but you don't want to stand out too much either? what is it? do you even know? did you consider that when you got dressed this morning? did you consider that when you stepped out of the shower? did you consider that when you stepped out of your front door into the world?

do you ever fear, 'what mannequin am i going to look like today'?.

cause i fuckin' don't. but then again, i'm comfortable with myself.

i know there are no mannequins or clones out there wanting to be me.

all the 'security' they advertise and try to sell you on teevee...
the security i get from that fact is worth trillions more.

stupid fucking perfect blondes in starfucks. how unique do you think you are.

i bet i could google map another starfucks, right now, zoom in with the street view, and find a starfucks in new york city, where there's a blonde that looks exactly like you, dressed just like you, and ordering the exact same thing you're ordering this very morning, i'll bet you a billion bucks.

down to the apps on your fuckin' phone.

you're a fuckin' clone.

convinced that you're unique. to justify your belief that you're better than me.

so when snobby women refuse to look at me... tell me i don't know exactly what's in your head.

go ahead, tell me. i want to hear it in your voice. because it's hotter that way.

that's now officially a turn on for me. yeah, boioioioioioing. go on wit your bad self, beavis.

you're goddamn right.

'i know what a lot of you are thinking right now. you're thinking, hey man, this guy... is it. well you're right. i am it, i've always been it, even in elementary school when the other kids would play tag...

kid would come up, tap me on the shoulder and say 'you're it', you're goddamn right, buddy'.

praise the lowered for jimmy pineapple.

but, whatever all this says so far, doesn't say shit, because i still haven't gotten anywhere beyond where i've been. my attempts have failed. all the different approaches have failed.

collecting their perspectives has failed.
appealing to their joys has failed.
using car jacks on the sides of their lips has failed.

yet they still seem like sarcastic, hateful mirror reflections of my inner self that hates me the most.

the failure surrounding the success.

the gold bar drowning in a pile of patriotic shit.

the nutritional sustenance of internet rants.

the educational value of a cereal box.

so i'm being forced, once again, by my own self, to compromise further, and beg for their smiles, pay for their smiles, appeal to their smiles, because the lesson i've learned, is that frowns walk away from frowns like magnets reversed. we're made to oppose eachother like a handful of thumbs.

'this isn't music, and we're not a band, we're five middle fingers on a mutherfuckin' hand'.

thank god for satan.

if only hitler hadn't killed the wrong people.

that television should have been a sunclad memorial. solar powered.

with a snack machine.

so... compromise. again.

having to bury the misery, agony, hatred, and anger within me even deeper...
having to fake the smile that society wants from me before i can pass to step two...
selling my mutherfucking soul.

trading it for a fuckin' cheeseburger.

all the strong ones say 'don't compromise yourself to get here'.

what's my other option?

i get rejected more than donald trump.
i get rejected more than bill cosby.
i get rejected more than that methhead bum in the alley.

and get your stupid fucking kids away from me! clean their fucking faces!

i swear to christ, if my daughter has food caked on her face like that, i'm driving this planet into the fucking sun. i swear on my mother's tears.

fucking distractions.

they have their own concessions.

surrounding the baseball game of human humiliation television stations.

i get rejected more than your credit card.
i get rejected more than your ugly cousin.
i get rejected more than condoms and birth control pills combined.
i get rejected more than aspiring writers.
i get rejected more than all the students aiming for harvard.

i get rejected more than you.
i'd bet money on it.
i'd bet my whole disability check, and my left nut.
i'd bet my daughter's pigtails. (i never wanted her hair like that).

but it doesn't matter what i want.
it doesn't matter what i've done.

success is only measured in billions.

i'm not trying to get everyone's attention.
i'm just trying to find my people.

it's not my fault your world has made it virtually impossible from ground level.

i still have the confidence that i can outthink you, but as far as fuel... you're still the only gas station for miles, and you can't even afford a 'last gas for x miles' sign, or perhaps you don't have room for it between all the other 'don't do this' signs.

desolation.

desperation.

violation.

hopelessness.

they made that movie, 'the pursuit of happyness'...

they didn't make the sequel, 'the pursuit of hopelessness'.

i'd bet you a trillion dollars, none of my thoughts add up to even one number in your head.

and the poetry just eats away at the number like light bullets eat centipede mushrooms.

there simply is no way i can stick a new vision into an old head.

it's not just 'you can't teach an old dog new tricks' anymore. the old dogs own your voice.

no one looks like me in this part of town.
no one looks at me in this part of town.

you would think that another black trench coat might pass by and say 'hey, cool'...

or might let that give them a reason to stick around for a moment...

to ask some questions, laugh at some answers...

so ask yourself, how fake is this part of town?

how hateful?
how disconnected?
how divided?

if your goal was 'divide and conquer', how do you think you'd accomplish that?

have you ever asked yourself that question?

so... i have to try something different. to fake a smile. to appeal to the wrong people. because the right people are walls behind walls, doors beyond doors, lies over lies.

the chalk on the street may tell you that jesus saves...

but jesus lies.

no saviour of mine would ever weep. he'd just turn into a nihilist.

what, you don't think god would have a reset button? this is an experiment after all, is it not?

god, how confident in yourself are you?

what is the value of truth when surrounded by lies?

and in a chaotic sea of foggy thoughts, how can you hear yourself? how can you comfort yourself? how can you know yourself? how can you remember yourself? how can you strengthen yourself?

on desert plains...
no ear within a thousand miles...
only two hands...
only two feet...
and one useless cock.

and a heart you cannot silence.
a heart that fights against your every thought, regardless of direction or intention.

like a bag of magnets in the hand of an undisciplined child.

out of this chaos, which direction do you step to find your own answer?

did timothy leary even know that? did any of his trips reach it?

that top back corner shelf in the darkness of your unknown mind...
covered in spiderwebs and dust...

is it still even there?

i wanted to send something to the site... well, i guess i skipped this part...

that video i watched last night. mentioned a site for 'woman haters' called 'a voice for men'.

i went to it, but it was too confusing to understand or navigate. but i wanted to send something of mine to them, or post something on their site, but...

i think anyone on this planet right now could be all too capable of underestimating my lack of confidence in any of these situations. meaning, my confidence is literally nonexistent. especially around all these clones and starfucks mannequins. i know i'm in the wrong place. i can't even ask these people where the right place is. they couldn't point a finger.

'hey, you're not my people, you're nothing like me, so where are my people?'.

i bet you twenty bucks, right now... they'd point up.

or, actually, how much you wanna bet my luck would stab my ass right then, and they would actually point down, showing me how wrong people's assumptions of me truly are.

so you think i came from magma rather than arcturus? hmm... enlightening. informative.

thanks.

but anyway. perhaps i've finally found a platform for my voice?

a place where i might actually... not only belong, but be useful? wanted?

granted it's a sausage party, not one female would be brave enough, but hey...

i can't decide which i hate more lately, men or women, so might as well rape myself for comic relief, right? just completely violate myself, compromise myself, humiliate myself...

walk in there as just a pair of shoes.

it's june.

it's been four years.

my mother once told me on a birthday card, 'don't shoes on your puke'.

well, mama, i shoes'd on my puke.

long story, but i got out of jail, my body was in shock, and i puked all over myself. i wasn't even in my head enough to aim anything. but i was in a subway being stared at by mannequins who are bothered and disturbed by the slightest thing that's out of their ordinary little television world of repetition and security and nothing unknown... that stagnant plastic mold they live in.

you've smelled that before, haven't you? you know that smell, don't you?

tell me you know that smell. come on. i know you know it. you can remember the assembly line, think back. that plastic smell. pencil shavings. first grade classroom colouring books. playdoh and rubber cement. the air smells like construction paper, but the walls smell like sawdust.

synaesthesia.

conspiracineous. copernikus, cornelius, and isaac fuckin' newton.

smells, you moron. olfactory flags of memory.

do you have any fucking clue what i'm talking about?
keep your receipt, take the clue back, and get another one, just to make sure it's not defective, detective!

fuck!

i mean i could laugh right now, but i'd almost be insulting myself.
i'm the wrong writing this, remember?

look who i'm arguing with, though. the naysayer farm.

but i know you can smell that plastic.

it's june. it's been four years. my mother's dead.

the path infront of me is begging... pleading... yearning... reaching...

sucking... attracting... smiling... playing nice...

the tape is peeling off the mask, though...

memory flashes of that 'beware' sign...

the introductory story from nancy privett's 'stepping into the aquarian age'.

to ask yourself before you go hiking and camping; 'what don't i need?'.

i wish i could leave all my negative energy in a ditch and walk away from it.

but if i like it more than i like you, why does that answer disappoint you so much?

so i don't want to live your life, so fuckin' what? big loss, man, move on!

why do you want me living your life? what, you don't like the skirt? you don't get the statement? you don't understand the purpose? the fact that i refuse to look or act like any other male on this planet, just so i can be rejected by every female on this planet, just to watch her go fuck the next douchebag in shorts and flipflops? reminding myself that i know exactly what you ladies are looking for?

keep proving me right, ladies. don't even try to prove me wrong.

and by all means, be proud of yourselves. you deserve it.

my thoughts will never be worth one dollar on your planet. i get that.

but on my planet, delusions of grandeur are more valuable than truth. cause we have plenty of truth.

you never consider what's beyond the last step you ever take.

all that's relevant to you, are your steps in the sand.

but the universe is telling you... perfection isn't something you possess.

perfection is simply one of evolution's traits.

and seeing as how you don't even understand evolution, why do you claim that?

you've made a whole life out of being you.

i'm trying to make a career out of being a portion of me that's acceptable to you.

the necessary compromise is still on your side.

because if i compromise any more, i will literally be eating my own head. from behind. just to sell a product to the wrong consumer. because it's the only chance i get.

trying to shoot a carrot down moving rows of wooden trays, like a carnival game.

chinese puzzle boxes.
stereograms.
that spirograph thing.
legos.

think you understand my mind any better yet?
my intention?
my perspective?
my desires?

i'd love to hear your version of me.
i promise you, i won't be insulted.

you can't insult me any worse than i've already insulted myself. go ahead, try.

since this game's all about damage points, not repair.

i wish i could reverse reality in my own mind enough to change something in the air, and make someone finally walk up to me today, but today is not today, today is just an illusion outside of my head that i have no control over, contrary to what those stupid facebook memes will force you to believe. 'listen to the universe', yeah, no, i'm done listening to the universe tell me to shut up! your universe doesn't like me, it tells me i don't belong here, and there's nothing i can say to convey that to you, so what the fuck is the point? why is your argument always so much more valid than mine? what fucking contest are you trying to win here? i initiated the point, didn't i? but go ahead, win anyway, you competitive cunt. monopoly demon. i still own your end. i am your omega. deny me all you want. you'll find me someday, a little plastic package in the bottom of your cereal box labeled 'rapture'.

no better day than today.

my wife used to say, 'don't make fun of yourself', i said 'hunny, if you can't make fun of yourself, who can you make fun of?'.

you'd certainly have no advantage over these clones. that's truth you can find in stone.

you still think i'm precisely this stupid.

does your comprehension feel:

full?

or...

a high breeze? (hint: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A38YO3f2Bv4)

i just checked all my messages and sites and stuff. still not one response from another human.

still no responses.
still no comments.
still no emails.
still no texts.

whether you like it or not...
whether you justify it or not...
whether you understand it or not...
whether you agree or not...
whether you care or not...

i have my answer.

when you fuck a woman, a kid comes out.
when you traumatize a mind, this is what comes out.
when you eat a burger, a turd comes out.

chemical reactions. that's all this is.

my hatred for you has its own area code, zip code, mailbox, phone number, and tech support.
hell, we have our own costco.

you perfect fuck.
you flawless vagina.
you wealthy cunt.

you're all still failing to see the true enemy here.
if money is the root of all evil, then the wielder of that weapon... should be fired.

don't you think?