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?