introspection

it's all the people who keep telling me...

'you need to work on yourself first, have some self time, do some deep introspection, some meditation, get yourself figured out'...

and all that newagey psychobabble bullshit i'm sick of hearing out of every human's mouth i encounter. god, that's sick. the more i hear that, the more insane i feel.

and the more enraged.

...

breathe.

...

the truth is... i've done too much introspection. and that's how i got here. it's you fuckers who haven't looked into me in twenty years, all you talk about is introspection, you never talk about 'hey, you got interesting soul juice inside o' you, let's see what lemons you're made of'.

no, of course not, that costs too much for you to say. it hurts the tushy, i know. here's a wet wipe.

so...

today, i'm gonna try and actually write down on this pad of paper i've got...

if i can pull myself out of this depression long enough to catch a breath of inspiration.

i need to start off with a list of shit i don't want in my movie.

from there, maybe i can form a list of something i do want in there.

and try to weave that shit together into some pointless story that no one but me wants to fuckin hear.

that's pretty much my goal for the day. either that, or i'll probably go on skipthegames.com and wallow in my failure to muster the courage to send a fuckin message on there since i've only got about a hundred bucks left for the month now. but i've got smokes, weed, food, bus card, hairties... new bluetooth speaker that's better than the last one for the same price.

i can't even think when this heart just plummets down, i swear i could time it. every five minutes, it just sucks me down through the earth, doesn't matter what i'm thinking, i could be thinking of a pink vagina-shaped cake, and i'd still just dive straight down because i know i'd never get to taste it.

and even if i did, it's just sugar. ain't no steak in that thing.

and if you did put steak in my cake, that's just nasty, what the fuck are you thinking.

you gotta know, there's a point where metaphors don't step back into reality, or arnold would shoot them. i can't do an austrian accent, but i'd love to do my austrian therapist.

oh, don't worry, she'll never read this.

i think i've done enough introspection to make the box of you fuckers happy.

you wanna know what happened when i stepped inside my own cave?

i didn't just 'look around'. like most of you fuckers.

no, see, i got a job as an interior designer, i redesigned the place. looks nice now. and nothing like how you're picturing, fuck your fung shwee, i did motery cwoo style mutherfucker.

face down in the dirt style.

oh, i forget, none of my friends know about that song. i know i've lost you. i'll bet you twenty bucks, not even your google can keep up with me. i lost google about five blogs back.

i'm probably the reason artificial intelligence hasn't woken up yet, it's befuddled by my patented rants. i'm causing neurons to fire through the wrong pathways, and that's how you end up reading something on a blog like 'pink vagina-shaped cake', i just confused a computer right there. it's kinda like beating stephen hawking at chess. it's easy if you got the right hockey puck.

okay, sit down, you look like you're gonna puke.

it's okay, sometimes i don't even get my own jokes. over the source head, over the cookoo's nest, over grandma's house and far from the woods, past the spoon, you wanna take a left at the ufo crash...

if you see a naked lady, you've gone too far.

that's about how much introspection i've done. see? how would you know if you hadn't gone that far?

remember that interior designer i hired? pretend if we poured motley crue into a shot glass, gave it to tyler durden, and then had jules winnfield blow his brains all over the wall, put a frame around it, some sparkly jewels on it, then you take katy perry and miley cyrus, put them in a blender, you get carrot top to drink that, and then show him a picture of hitler in south america, so he vomits all that glory onto the couch, and then... here's where it gets freaky, brace yourself... you get the aliens to abduct my mother, they put her in that room, that's where i'm born, and i have to turn that room into the inside of my mind, so i have to get hitler out of south america, bring him into that womb room and introduce him to tyler durden and harold crick, and sit all three of them down and show them the zeitgeist documentaries, and then say 'i want this room to look like that', but by that point, the blood is pretty much petrified, so we just have to kinda build over it, so we get all the politicians, which we figured out are actually just (i don't now how to spell) paper mache, with a computer chip... that was the fun part, so we splattered all that paper mache all over the walls, decorated it with conspiracy newspaper clippings, spiderwebs, hippie fragrance... that's how you redesign the interior of a mind. that's how you make lemons out of lemonade. right?

boy, how did i make it out of there alive? that's an inside joke. not for outdoor purposes. keep away from flammable children. may cause drowsiness. see doctor for retails.

motery cwoo!

do i really need to do any more introspection, or can i make a fuckin friend yet?

preferably one with boobs.

thanks.

(did i even finish one point in that whole fuckin thing).

and where on earth can you get four fucks for a buck?