more shit outta my head

i just took a trip up to capitol hill to get smokes and chocolate milk. on the way back... i had my music down low in my headphones, i didn't feel like having it too loud... this lady got on the train and sat close to me... which... first of all, they never do that... she answered a phone call, and i could hear just... no words, but i could hear her voice... then, the one sentence she said loud enough that i actually heard... she said 'yeah, he forced me to have sex with him'... i'm so thankful i managed to turn my volume up right then. i did not want to hear one more word...

women get too much sex, while men don't get enough.
women are tormented by sex, while i'm tormented by a lack of it.

when do these feelings stop. when does this loneliness end. it's so heavy i can't even think through it, and any motivation i build to reach out leaves me way too soon. i don't know what to do with this weight. but no one will reach out to me, it's always been up to me alone to reach out, why. why can't anyone even answer that.

at least i'm writing again, getting this shit out of my head. venting.

i hate this heavy conscience, i hate always feeling like when i'm the most honest, that's when people are the most offended no matter what it is i'm saying. whether it's about women, or the shape of the fuckin earth.

no wonder i can't find a women who can develop any curiosity about me, all the women are living on a flat planet where curiosity is outlawed, while i'm living on a round planet where my curiosity is so vital it's like a lion that can't be tamed, that must be it.

i can't help these thoughts, i can't help what i'm sick of seeing too much of. every woman clicking away on her smartphone instead of looking up. wearing the skin tight pants you can't touch, the fancy and luxurious crap to advertise how untouchable and unattainable they are.

i sat thinking this morning about trying to write something about all my...

now i can't even think of the stupid fuckin words, this goddamn defective brain...

...unreachable, unattainable dreams? i guess... (i even hate seeing my own typos, the fact that i'm making any alone is just sad, that's when i actually go back and read over my own crap, after i send an email, i regret sending it cause i can't remember what i said or if it would offend anyone, then i rarely get responses, so i assume people got offended... fucking mindfuck...)

okay, shut the fuck up, brain. i'm thinking right now.

i thought about using the word unattainable...

wanting to start my own church, religion, restaurant, sovereign nation, city, metal band, movie studio, recording studio, harem, computer company, school, "village" (to raise children)... invent my own everything since everything else sucks.

i don't know if i have the strength left.

the list has gotten too long, i can't even remember it all each time i try.

for twenty years, i've imagined giving lectures on how different this shit could be, to a fuckin... abandoned library full of dead crickets. i don't know why the fuck i speak anymore. i don't know why the fuck i ever spoke. i really regret not taking my mother's advice seriously.

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

yeah, thanks mom, but there's only one big problem with that.

the world doesn't change with a bunch of closed mouths.

or... at least... if those who have a clue remain silent, and those who have no clue are the ones doing all the talking...

am i a decent example of how miserable life can get?

how alone you can feel on an overpopulated and misled planet.

imagine if our history has been erased, if a highly advanced civilization was actually wiped out by an asteroid thousands of years ago, just stretch your fucking brain vagina for one fucking impossible minute here, please, for the love of round fucking planets, please...

first of all, why was it erased, kept from us?

and secondly... i can't put it into words...

but why can my mind touch that easier than i can touch a woman?

why do i hate mark fuckin twain so much? and fuckin' shakespear.

and a bunch of those historically overquoted losers.

i can't even watch movies anymore. it seems like every fuckin movie i try to watch starts off with a fuckin mark twain quote and a fuckin rap song. and just talks about rich dog walking god fearing coffee drinking fuckin...

sometimes i think i hold back too much, other times i feel like the biggest prick on the planet.

like i make trump, andrew dice clay, and charlie sheen look like adorable little minions.

there has to be some way out of this endless nightmare hell. this suffocating, debilitating pit of loneliness, hopelessness, despair. i don't see anything changing.

i wonder how disconnected from the world i've gotten.

but it took this long to find someone with a heart. and i still can't believe that actually happened. still wondering if i deserve it, or if i'm the only one who thinks so, or questions it.

trying to piece together a mind that no one else understood, trying to remember everything, from having to repeat it over and over...

imagine if your entire life were video recorded.

would you ever have to repeat yourself?
would you ever have to introduce yourself?
would you ever have to explain anything?
would there be any liars? or crimes? or lack of evidence?
what other kinds of 'proof' or 'pleasure' or 'convenience' could you imagine?

do you think humanity would get lazy, or find something better to do?

at this point, i feel like... if you can't see the future... to the point where you panic over the slightest thing, and constantly think armageddon is just around the corner, one television commercial away...

if you seriously can't deduce what's coming next, to the point where you can't create your way out of it with a mature, collective focus...

am i seriously even saying this, why the fuck am i talking.

i'm glad it's not actually out loud. think i'm even sick of doing youtoob videos. i feel like more of a douchebag there than i do here. but it's easier to babble to a video. and smoke.

have i lost my path?

do my wants and needs still matter to me? should they?

i keep wanting to poll a bunch of women and ask them questions like 'what type of man do you find completely repulsive on sight alone?', or 'are you completely disgusted by the male body?', (and i'm even tempted to finish that question by adding on 'unless it's thor with a fuckin job').

this goddamn neck. like a stone easter island head misaligned to a stone body.

the tiny bit of brain left in this dense skull of impeding pain, barely attached to the miserable heavy shoulders it fuckin rests on, while the pain builds up like frozen slime between the cracks of the rocks, and the head stone just has to fuckin move, but the slime just readjusts, it never falls off... the tiny bit of mind left in there just questions everything in a miserable disagreement and disbelief that this is what it's actually seeing... kinda like... if a snail crawled over one of those hallucinogenic frogs, and started feeling extremely alien in its own shell, as its skin starts 'seeing' the inside of the shell on a microscopic level, and feeling the colours, and smelling the sounds...

it's just a tiny little pond of confusion and questions and an overwhelming sense of disconnection in the center of that fuckin earthquake ridden land of turmoil...

i've already used so many words and repeated this shit so many times...

i used to list a whole bunch of synonymous words like alienation, isolation, and then just joke about throwing a thesaurus at someone's head, but now... i get two words in, and i feel my heart plummet through the earth, and my mind just cuts off, the words just disappear.

i've said it too many fuckin times.

my mind is trapped in a cycle of repetition...

and somehow, that's what makes me unattractive...

i've never gotten that logic. seriously.

society stomps you into the quicksand, claims no accountability, blames it on you, refuses to acknowledge you or pull you out, and once you get yourself out, you're still covered in quicksand shit and mud, and they look at you like 'why can't you clean yourself off?'. uh...

boy, i can't help but thinking, what if you were the one crawling out of the quicksand?

they all act like this is the first time anything like this has happened.

uh... no... this quicksand has been here, consuming people for quite some time, actually.

you'd know that if your news source wasn't absurdly fraudulent.

or... if we even had a fuckin news source.

i think that's what the cia actually covered up, the killed all the reporters, and put a bunch of androids on cnn. the news is the worst reality show, the kardashians is more informative.

i could find more truth on a fuckin barney episode. or gilligan. or lucy.

fuck this, what was that show... laverne and sherley, yeah, give me a couple hours of that, i'll come back with a fuckin thesis on the difference between bullshit and truth.

there, did that quite say it yet?

because i still don't see anything or anyone else changing.

i still don't have a lady next to me.

i'm still disturbed my everything i see, it still seems so morbidly backward to me.

a reverse image of what reality should be, but every time i try to define it, my mind tells me it requires too many words for one brain to conceive alone to explain how i see this world, and how...

well...

what these two eyes see is backward...

when i close these two eyes, what i see then, is... much better.

and trying to describe, and convey what that vision is...

so far, has proven virtually impossible, or at least, extremely difficult.

but i know that people are naked. they touch just to greet eachother. there is no money anywhere, no need for it. there are really no complaints, nothing to complain about.

there's heavy metal music, but it's very very evolved, to where it's not even really heavy metal music, because we have no need to be offensive and harsh anymore, but we're not gonna be the happy sappy poppy crap like taylor fuckin swift or katy fuckin perry, that plastic radio horseshit...

trying to advertise yourself, trying to get popular attention, what the fuck are you?

why do i see a warehouse full of mannequins with barcodes and record contracts.

why, lord, why do i see that. please remove that image from my mind.

the god within me says 'no, you have to see that, it's truth'. fuck you, lord.

why can't i be the truth?

why didn't you pack that luggage in this particular brain compartment? fuckin ass omelet.

fillet o' turd.

if there actually was a god... all i can say is, he's got a lot of beatin' comin'.

i couldn't disagree with that fucker more if this were a contest on a reality show.

and yes, that's my final fuckin answer. ask me again, i'll stuff it in your ear.

sick of being the only freak in this circus.

close the eyes, stupid.

there's evolved music where people still beat the shit out of actual instruments, but have a more passionate and uplifting reason to do so, still plenty of anger to get out in a healthy artistic way, we're still making points and valid statements and educating eachother...

nothing has to be advertised. there are no 'products'. no 'shopping malls'.

no ads. anywhere. no price tags.

just flesh. music. evolved visual reciprocal hands-on education, love...

no fear, no monogamy, no stupid pathetic superstition or tradition...

no illogical indoctrination, no one making you feel ashamed or cutting you down...

you may think, 'well, if we're no longer being degraded, what's inspiring us to improve ourselves?'

that fuckin argument.

as if yin and yang can never just shake hands. smoke a bowl together. take a break.

i understand that friction is necessary to avoid stagnance, but at the same time, how can you tell me that this isn't stagnance? take a good look at what's around me.

the only friction i feel is two rocks grinding me between them.

and an anvil on my fuckin heart, but technically that's pressure, not friction.

you took physics, i didn't.

i feel like my ghost is just trying to shut me up now.

i'm gonna make a sammich and smoke for a while. i can't fuckin think anymore.

i don't... i don't even feel like...

this fuckin heart.

i don't even feel like i've had a joke of mine be laughed at in years.

i can't remember the last time someone thought i was funny. i certainly don't fuckin feel funny anymore. i feel like what i look like: angry. disappointed.

outcast. rogue.

honestly, i think there are too many fuckin words, and i wish i could just find a good one and stick on it.

but it seems like every person i talk to requires a slightly different definition of me.

hence the repeating being slightly different every time... i once thought that was my need for uniqueness, or my distaste for repetition, but...

i'm really starting to think this world has controlled me and deceived me a lot more than i've been able to control or even change any part of it.

i am molded by this world. not the other way around.

if these were my delusions, they're more real than i am.

and more... influential.

imprinted by a false texture, the reflection of a fraud.

no wonder i can't remember myself.

whatever i wanted to be...

...if it were ever relevant...

if i'm even displeased with the shit that comes out of me...

i don't think i've said anything that i've enjoyed saying for a while...

how can people expect a smile out of me when... all they're actually pulling out of me is...

solid gold high priced snobby hobby walrus shit.

on a fuckin turntable.

covered in five week old mcdonald's fries.

and splattered with a hunny mustard packet.

that's art.

if brian posehn is the fartist, i'm the shartist. eat that, turdbundle.