good morning, bad night

i've finally gotten a few excellent pieces of advice lately. one lady named kena, this morning, told me about poor kids radio. i have to look them up when i get time. last night was extremely windy and cold, i woke up with a throat full of dirt, it hurts to swallow. i was in so much fucking pain last night, i thought i was losing my mind. good god, that's an ass. sorry, distractions. anyway.

near the end of every month, when i'm waiting for my disability check... every month now, for a year and a half, near the end of each month, i meet someone who says they'll help me. but when i get my disability check, it goes to them, and i'm left with nothing, and the money didn't even last till the fifth. i'm left starving, sober, and having to panhandle every fucking day. why does this keep happening, why can't i stop meeting people who demand my money, why can't i say no? because i fucking hate saying no, and i fucking hate money. exchanging money for a place to live, that concept is so fucking retarded to me, i'd honestly rather die. i'd rather just not be in your world, because i'm sick of having to pay for shit you shouldn't have to pay for. no one understands this, no one gives a shit, but anything you turn into ash or turds, or anything you sleep on or in, should not cost fucking money. that way everyone would have a fair shot at starting their fucking day, wouldn't you say? if everyone started off their day with about ten points, every day... if you did something nice for someone other than yourself, you get a point. seems simple enough to me. humanity could finally be free to unite, rather than letting their opinions and beliefs keep them divided. can this not fucking happen? ever? am i just never allowed to have money in my hand? to have the few reasonable things i need to live each day? and you excuse this world as fair? how can you possibly be that stupid?

i'm really hoping this month might be different, but from the looks of this city, i'm seriously doubting it. all people are simply out to fuck you, to steal from you, and to not care about you. making friends costs way too much money these days, and having friends is just... fucking stupid. constantly asking myself, waiting, wondering when they're going to give up, take my cash, and disappear. when they're going to treat me rudely. the first sign of them shaking their head no at me. that look in their eyes when they've made their choice, right before the mask changes. that moment when the disappointment transfers. i've seen it way too many times to give a shit anymore. you wonder why i fucking hate you all, why i won't even give you a chance. my trust has been buttfucked by too many assholes. twist that through the little black hole in your mind. humans make me fucking sick.

i thought about writing a poem called 'owning humans'. trying to remember strings of words that i have thought, is like digging up fossils, trying to extract their dreams in liquid form, and putting them in bottles for the rich to call 'perfume'. piecing together my thoughts is like building a puzzle, but rather than cut out pieces, it's pieces of broken mirror. anyone can appear broken in that moment.

i know other people have made it through this shit with their lives, but i don't yet understand how. i read marilyn manson's book. i have yet to read nikki sixx's book. i have heard the stories. i know this is possible. and it has to happen soon. will i ever get to tell my story. will anyone ever care. would i still give a shit anyway.

i picture the next time a girl tries to touch me, if i shudder at the touch, would it scare her and make her leave.

i actually can't picture the next time a girl might try to touch me. i honestly doubt it will ever happen again. i know exactly how invisible i am in your eyes. why do i feel so fucking insane. have i already lost too much. why is my heart, why does my heart feel like this, i've never felt this before, and i've been through some pretty horrid shit, but it feels like an eternal nightmare black hole of misery on one side, and agony on the other. but at the same time, i know you cheery happy fucks never like to hear that downer shit, so what's the point of telling the story. i don't have much faith in you anymore. if my story would reflect that, and explain that, would it matter. would anyone give half a flabby fuck.

coming from a life where you've never had any worthwhile friends. where you've wasted twenty years of your life doing what you never should have done. watching your dreams waste away on the back burner for twenty years. because people kept telling you there was other shit you needed to do.. for them. 'take me to work, get me food, i'm late for my appointment'. every moment, every question, every time i was asked, i knew, as hard as a rock in the center of my brain, trying to pull the light switch string, i knew harder than concrete that i was wasting that moment, that i was needed elsewhere, that i was supposed to be doing something else. this gravitational pull, tilting the earth, but never quite dropping me next to the right person. people don't fucking understand this, but it's not easy for me to make friends. i've been antisocial since birth. i come from a family where i was never allowed to speak, to be heard. i come from a family who was really really good at talking to people, but no fucking clue what they were saying, but they'd sure shove their opinion down your throat against your will. they were good at it.

she'll never look at me.
she'll never see me.
just stop fucking looking.
keep your eyes fucking closed.
metal in your ears, smoke in your lungs, misery in your pants.

and i should be wearing a skirt. i fucking hate these pants. who would put this uncomfortable shit on their skin, and then demand that everyone else do it as well. how far out of their minds were they?

i can still taste dirt on my tongue. woke up in a pile of leaves that resembled a park in new hampshire, even though i was laying on a concrete sidewalk in los angeles. apparently god felt the need to blow every piece of trash on this earth at me last night. i was screaming at people.

thought about doing this bit on stage.

i can prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt... i know you guys don't want to hear this, you'll do everything you can to deny it, i know, but i can prove that your god does not exist. i know, i know, relax, you're just my hallucinations anyway, we'll get through this. but come on, open your mind for just a second here. i can prove, i have proof, that your god never existed. and i feel if i say this, that we can finally let it go and move on. learn to love eachother again, instead of keeping excuses between us. we're all assholes right now, i get it, but i think we could all put down our swords if we realized we no longer had a reason to hold them. would you like to know how i can prove that your god never existed? because...

factoid number one: there are seven billion people on this planet.
factoid number two: one seventh of them are without a home.
factoid number three: ...the wind blows.

that right there is literally all you need to say to disprove the existence of a god.

i'm not apologizing for that one. there's no way i'd be sorry for that one. i don't feel bad, i feel fuckin' great. lighter, happier, and fuckin' free. infact, i could repeat that.

i've begged your god to stop the wind, to turn up the thermostat, to leave me the fuck alone.

when i was eight years old, i actually gave the one honest prayer of my entire life for my grandmother to stop screaming at my mother. i took an hour long walk around the block, and when i came back, i could still hear the screaming from the street. from the entrance to the apartments, i could hear my grandmother smashing dishes on the wall. just psychotic, and my mother still having to sit there and take that shit. as soon as i was old enough, and after that prayer opened my eyes to the truth, that i was all alone on this earth, i started defending my mother against my evil grandmother. i was lost in no fairytale, i saw it get about as real as it could. my mother never deserved that abuse. but she loved her mother. as a child, that broke my fucking heart. no matter what you do to help someone you love, they'll always choose someone else over you. always. if you had money, you could put money on it, and then you'd have more money. if i were smart enough, that's how i could have gotten rich. betting people that my grandmother would scream at my mother today, place your bets! fuck it, i win again!

i'll get you next time, gadget!

it was always my mother and i vs the world. and now she's dead.

my grandmother died in march of this year, at the age of eighty five. thirty years older than my mother.
my mother died at the end of may, this year, at the age of fifty five.

you tell me: was it worth it?

does life mean anything? does it matter at all? or is it simply matter?

i know one thing, your dollars don't mean shit in the scheme of things. ask carl sagan's ghost. i'm sure he's still counting galaxies. i can still hear his voice, saying 'billions and billions', and my mother laughing at it. echoes of sanity, once within the walls of delusion, now free to roam... and count.

yeah. life's never been fair, and it's not supposed to be. i should have killed myself years ago. how can i possibly dream of starting a metal band, if i'm never allowed to finish a fucking sentence?

that is not a hypothetical or rhetorical question. it's not a philosophical debate, and it doesn't have a fucking price tag.

if my dreams succeed, the last price tag you'll ever see is the one on your toe. hopefully, you'll thank me for that. but more than likely, you'll hate me thousands of years into the future. blaming me for the loss of... whatever. not caring what i've already lost. if i made it big, the person who would have been most proud of me, my only true lifelong friend... my mother... in my mind, i can see her back there in tucson, sitting in her bed, sun shining behind her, and she's sticking her fist in the air. 'that's my son!'.

how can i dream of starting a metal band, if i've never gotten to finish a sentence?
how can i dream of being heard, if i've never been heard enough to even get used to the concept?

my entire life, every fucking day of my life, people constantly talk over me. interrupting me. shaking their head no at me. telling me what i should be, how i should act, how i should dress, how to talk to people, what words to say...

saying things like this... infact, i wanted to do this bit on stage as well...

next time i mention to someone that i really need therapy, and before i can get the word therapy out, they've already started shaking their head no at me, and they tell me 'dude, you don't need therapy'... i'm going to calmly stab them in the throat with my pen, and when all the idiots get involved thinking it's their business... i can just show them this blog post. this blog post is my proof, my defense, and all the reason i need. and if the judge has an iq above the temperature of the room, i'm quite confident that he'll say 'yup, nope, he's right, let him go'.

lawyer gets a confused look on his face, and the judge says 'he warned the guy! i mean, technically, he warned the guy a thousand times, it's just too bad knowledge isn't cloned, too'.

truth.

like the paddles zapping you back to life.

frank zappa you back to life.

i miss my mama.

one christmas, my mother waited till midnight on christmas eve, outside a tree lot, to get a free christmas tree. just so i would wake up the next morning and see a christmas tree. decorated and everything. that was my mother.

god, i miss you, mama. i fuckin' don't know what to do without you.

people constantly have to talk over me. every fucking day, just talking over me. they let me get about five words out, and their mouths just open up and this loud gibberish starts pouring out like toxic turds, clearly not giving a fuck what i was saying, just telling me the words in their minds. incoherent, psychotic, deaf, dumb, and blind. no wonder, look at the drugs you're on. i could have told you that, but apparently you need an imaginary god to tell you. the only way you can be convinced of anything is by your own delusions. how fucking sad is that.

i can hear all your diagnoses spewing out of your mind toward me, though.

'he's justifying his reality'...
'he's making excuses'...
'he thinks he's better than me'...
'he actually thinks he's sane'...
'he doesn't understand that there are other people on this planet'...

buddy, i'm waiting for a doctor to truly analyze my brain, so he can tell you what's in it, and then i'll pay your god to back up that message, and then we can finally all smile when you've finally shut your fucking mouth.

my mama had a pin that said 'closed minds usually have open mouths'.

invisibility. in a plastic world full of porches and people with that look on their face. i don't think they realize that i know exactly what thought is in their minds at that point. i can read it on the surface of their eye like an acid trip caressing the tongue. i know exactly what you're thinking. this perfectly coiffed model idiot just walked past me in this starfucks for example, holding his latté... he gives this slow eyed look out the window, and then turns his head just like the models do in the movies, with that slow blink, half look, direction change, you think i don't know what that thought is? it's fucking obvious! it's uglier than i am! this is verbatim what's going through your mind at that moment...

'i wonder who all is looking at me'.

you wanna know one difference between me and you?

i'll let you take a wild guess, but i'm sure you'll misunderstand the purpose, cause nineteen ninety nine really fucked you guys up, especially those of you who never studied your history, but come on, give it an honest try.

the black trench coat is a dead give away.

and if you say 'columbine' one more fucking time, i'm gonna stab you in the throat.

no, see, long before the matrix made a compromising superhero out of neo...
before two teenage idiots gave trench coats a bad name on cnn...
before michael moore made any fucking documentaries in bowling alleys...

trench coats existed.

if you watch the movie 'the crow', with brandon lee? trench coat. you'll notice at least one other connection, if you're paying attention, there. but that movie came out in nineteen ninety four.

back in nineteen ninety one, there was a comedian recording a comedy show called 'revelations' in london... he wore that trench coat best.

and that's the sign you need to look for. fuck those teenage columbine idiots, they were morons! this should be obvious to you, but since you flunked history, i'll give you a little catchup. not the condiment, you idiot. pay attention.

rewinding back through history. whether it be history channel, discovery channel, the show cops, or old westerns, whenever you see a trench coat show up... you idiots are looking for the wrong shit under that coat.

you shouldn't be looking for weapons of violence, and shotguns, and crap like that.

you should be looking for a certain... i don't know... i would use the word 'swagger', except that some idiot named ice cube eternally fucked that one up. now that word is dripping with oil. but you look for a certain attitude. you look for that symbol, that sign, that eye. almost like he's dancing within the coat. can you see it yet?

when he's the man who wears it best... that's all you need to know. so everything that happened after nineteen ninety nine... you can just let that shit go now. agreed?

okay, so... the difference between me and mister model douchebag looking out the window?

i'm obviously not wondering who's looking at me, without acknowledging that they are, just feeling those eyes on your skin, knowing that they're there, wanting it, needing it, never deserving it. i know everything behind it. you can debate that all you want, but you're only wasting your own time. why would you give a fuck about what i see anyway. exactly, you don't. i don't give a fuck who's looking at me in that way, i don't give a fuck who thinks who is better than who, and i certainly don't give a fuck about people like you. whenever i do look at a woman, i see their eyes never even contemplating to move in my direction, cause they're too concerned with whoever they think is better than me. that's exactly how retarded your society is. i'm not just antisocial. i'm the enemy of your society. i'm only here to end it, so we can move on.

your eyes are the most dishonest part of you. the more plastic your skin, the more revealing your eyes. cause there's less and less in there to see. i know what's in your mind. and i know what goes through your mind when you actually do lay eyes on me. cause it's only for a split second before they gracefully raise to go out the door. tell me this isn't your exact thought... even if it's in less words with less effort than this (forgive me, i'm a writer, after all).

'he's ugly trash'...
'he's not worth my glimpse/glance'...
'i shouldn't be looking at that'...
'why do those losers look at me'...
'what's with the columbine getup'...
'does he have a twelve gauge under there'...
'should i be worried'...
'don't even look at me'...
'i'm beautiful, you're so not'...

before you debate that, get a lawyer and a psychiatrist to analyze that, and then get them to analyze how honest you are with yourself about the world you live in. i'm sure an iq check wouldn't hurt.

anyway. that's my morning. trying to stay out of the freezing wind. out of your god's wrath on homeless people.

it's you who says we have to sleep outside, while you're in your comfortable house, watching people play poker on television, not even giving one honest thought toward the fact that because of you, there is an entire seventh of this human race, who are sleeping outside. one billion people, out of seven billion people... sorry, your calculator is outdated, let's put it this way. there are seven people standing on this tiny little planet. five of them are happily watching espn on their big screen television. one of them is responsible for keeping this money shit going, so they're actually in some dark satanic dungeon right now, chanting rituals and drinking goat blood, so we're not going to worry about him for the time being. anyway. out of seven people standing on this tiny little earth, five of them are actually sitting on a comfy, warm couch, being lazy, and thinking they've earned it, that they deserve it.

one of those people is sitting outside, starving, freezing his ass off, and the only thought you can fart in his direction, is that he should get a job like the rest of you, so he can afford his own life. you're unaware of the fact that we're fed up with this money horse shit, we don't want a boss poking their fingers in our chest constantly, we're tired of being told what to do, and having no real answer as to what is acceptable on this earth. no living standards, half of you are on the wrong drugs, lost in a haze of confusion with a lack of logic or education. all you can think, is that the homeless dude should get a job. but he's going to have to work for guy number four, and guy number four is an asshole with anger issues who works in a slaughter house because he likes killing things to take his anger out, but he gets bored with being stuck in the same life every day, so that extra added anger he has to take out on you, aka the homeless dude trying to get a job. just to afford a warm bed to sleep on every night, and something to eat when they wake up the next morning. and you justify that with excuses, calling it fair, and not realizing how wrong you are. did you not hear me say that we're fed up with this horse shit, the fact that our only option in life is to get a job working for some asshole who treats us like shit, for a minimal wage that only usually barely affords the rent for an apartment, meanwhile we're starving every day, we spend most of our day slaving away in a seven eleven, so we don't even get to enjoy sitting in our home... what the fuck is the point, why do you think that's so great, and why can't some of us have another option in life? those are not rhetorical questions, and if you don't have the answers, i'll fuckin' think them up, publish them, copyright them, and charge you every dollar you have to read them. because i fucking hate you, and i want you to know that. you haven't deserved that comfy couch and television combo this whole time, simply because one out of those seven people is not enjoying their time on this planet. you're ignoring that, which makes you the problem. you stand between us on the street, and the dude in the dungeon who's controlling how hard the wind blows on us. there is no god, i already proved that. so the only one to blame... is not me, for not getting a job... it's you, for having a job. for supporting this system one day too many. actually, several decades too many, but who's counting. i've never given much of a shit about the past, i'm much more concerned with what comes next, cause i haven't had fun yet. i haven't had one good day doing what i was supposed to do yet. especially if i'm considering doing it with the people i'm supposed to do it with, cause having fun and being social are two different things for me. you'll never understand that. and you'll just continue to call me the lazy one. may i remind you, i have no couch, asshole. i have no television. and i'm in so much pain, it hurts to even sit down, because all i can sit on is concrete and cold hatred. you trash, your lies, your alcohol, your fears, your hypocrisy. and i know you still don't know what that word means, but you sure get furious everytime you hear it.

i gotta go, i've got a bowl to smoke thanks to kena, and i've got a tooth falling out, and dirt to cough out of my throat. at least it's not as bad as when i saw rage against the machine in phoenix. our snot was brown. piles of kleenex with what looked like worm turds in them. that was a good night. at least i still had four walls to go home to. hopefully the wind has died down, and the temperature has risen a little, and i can actually light the bowl.

this is me. clearly, i'm not you.

oh, yeah, and the dude in the dungeon? well... just watch 'truman show' and get back to me after you actually read this, cause if you can't at least be not lazy enough to read my blog, why should i be not lazy enough to work for you selling starfucks products. think about it, asshole. phil collins already wrote that fuckin' song, you just haven't heard it yet, but you'll blame that on me, it's all my fault. that's called a scapegoat, and you need to stop that one, too. it's your god who's telling you to act this way toward other people. fellow humans sharing this planet with you. greed, selfishness, beliefs, they all need to go. you're to blame, good god that's an ass, jesus lady, what do you feed that thing? sorry. why the fuck did i come to cancer city. plastic central. hateville, usa. why, lord, why.

you'll never realize...
your god makes you superstitious.
your god leaves you buried in tradition out of fear.
your god makes you blame me for all your problems, thus making me your scapegoat, your slave, your puppet for abuse.
your god makes you lie, spewing illogical nonsense, but not responsible enough to practice what you preach, which makes you a hypocrite.
your god tells you to trust your government, thus we're all trapped in this never ending slavery machine, spinning away, spewing out blood and bones with every turn, no dollar ever trickling its way down to those of us who need it most, but want it least. and you'll never understand this enough to give us another option. that's why i'm here.

that's just one of the numerous reasons i hate you. whether you deny it or not, my hatred is justified. more so than your excuses in support of a monetary society. basically, on the scale of things, i'm trying to say you need to stop being so stupid and blind. before long, you won't have a choice. you'll have to leave your comfy home behind and learn how to live life like we have. because that's what you deserve. judgement day is coming. but i'm not so sure your god's going to be on your side, and i'm not so sure it's going to be god. the fact that money is the root of all evil, but you guys never took that thought far enough to see the source of it, the fact that money says 'in god we trust' on it, but there's a 'separation' between church and state for whatever reason... it needs to be said, but church is state, and you're in denial. the writers of your bible were nothing more than capitalists. it was a scam. you bought a lie, and you're drowning in shame. i'm sorry, but it's not my fault. that was your choice. and whether you like it or not, your bad choice was responsible for my existence. simply because i never liked authorities poking their fingers in my chest. i'll be holding my breath till you understand that. if money is the root of all evil, and if money buys you god, then there is no god. you bought a product from the wrong salesman. who, like my drug addict uncle, just so happened to be the best salesman out of the two. he's been trying harder, for longer, and you didn't catch that. didn't they even put that in a movie? let me guess, you didn't see that one, did you? yeah... choice. free will.

the demise of unity.
the death of connection.

what a fucking joke. the american dream, 'yeah, come over here, get a job, and live your dreams'...

said by a dude with fresh native american blood on his hands. you don't even wonder why we call them 'native americans'. what the fuck that term really means. indians, and the confusion of the two. god, you're stupid. you're twentieth generation stupid. so you're twentieth generation to blame. the longer you support this system, the more wrong you are. after humanity finally unites, and just before i die... all i want is to take a breath.

kinda like that boondock saints joke. genie grants three wishes, black man asks for all his people to be back in africa and happy, mexican asks for all his people to be back in mexico and happy, white dude asks for a coke.

your mistake. and a big one at that. not that you'd ever claim responsibility. figure that, terrorists are actually more responsible than you. they claim responsibility for their attacks. but you on the other hand. god, that delusion must be thick.

i want off this fucking planet so goddamn bad, i can taste the storms on jupiter.

will you ever learn. will you ever care. will you ever let that credit card fall to the ground. and embrace your fellow human. it's been two thousand years, what do you say? hugging time? forgiveness? my head keeps feeling like it's going black. my tooth is falling out. so loose i can feel air going through it whenever i move my tongue.

i miss my mama. i could tell her about my tooth, and she would care. whether just the look in her eye, i knew. she cared. she was the only person i could ever tell half this shit to. i miss you, mama. i can't drive fifty five.

but apparently you did.

enough rambling. time to dig dirt out of my eyeballs, wipe the tears and snot, and dream of a restroom of my own.

back when the idea of a monetary society was first suggested, i wish i had been there to say 'what a fucking joke!'. yeah, make people hate and fear eachother through generations of plastic... the falsening of our very flesh.

genetically modified foods for genetically modified people who look more like the mannequins than the mannequins look like us. which came first, the human or the mannequin? hmm...

i didn't need to be genetically modified. i've mutated. evolved.

apologize for what? tell you what, this is your new job, your duty in life, so says god himself...

you're responsible for the apologies from now on. get to work.

...
and one more thing, on a side note... this is seeming like a very weird day. after yesterday when i met the singer of la guns, and then that brutally cold and windy night last night... it seems like i'm seeing more famous people today. before that, i had this veil over my eyes, and i wasn't recognizing anyone. it also seems like more people are watching me for some reason. looking at me more than usual. i know how invisible i usually am.

how do i meet the people i need to meet? such an alien concept to me. would i even recognize them?

otep shamaya. maria brink. brian posehn. i know they all live here, but i think the only one i'd actually recognize is brian posehn. i already recognized andy dick, but then again that dimple chin is pretty fucking obvious. who on this earth can't recognize andy dick? see, that's not saying much. okay, brain, shut the fuck up now. publish, post, close, shut down, pack up, walk out, smoke. now!

starting line

a few things have occurred to me this morning. and last night. i don't have much time this morning, which is perfect, because i need to make this quick. so instead of emails and shit, i'm just putting everything here.

number one. for people i'm meeting, or about to meet. i realize it can be easy to get lost in my blog. i write too much because i never get to speak. it's not easy to explain. so i'm putting a quick introduction/explanation here, to let you know who i am. i'm ozzy draven. i'm thirty seven, father of two, i've been traveling for the past year and a half because my life was destroyed during twenty thirteen. i'm glad it was, it was a crap life, i knew every day, that whole time, that i was wasting my life in the wrong town, with the wrong people, and not pursuing my dreams and talents. so that's why i've come to los angeles. in the past year and a half, i've been through seattle, portland, san francisco, hitchhiked up the coast of california, it's been fun. my main talent has always been that i'm a writer. my mother was an intelligent woman, she recently passed away at fifty five, which will always remind me of sammy hagar, but she taught me a lot. i miss her dearly, because i knew she would have been the most proud of me. it was always her and i vs the world. because of that, i'm a writer. but i find that people don't read anymore. since the internet was born, no one has read my blog. which makes me wonder why blogs exist, it's a dumb word anyway, it's my fuckin' journal, or am i the only person online... well... i'm rambling and almost out of time. when i finally get to speak, i can't truncate anything, cause my tongue has been so severed, i'm surprised i know who i am. i've been told who to be so many times in my life, why should i remember myself, my life was destroyed.

anyway. to put it simply. if you're just meeting me, and i get pissed off, or bow my head... i cannot help that. you are triggering the fuck out of my complex ptsd, you need to understand what that is, it's nothing to be fucked with, if you see me getting agitated, starting to shake, or i start yelling, i apologize, i don't mean to do that, but i'm being triggered, and i cannot help that. my entire life, people have talked over me, told me i'm wrong before i even finished the sentence, start shaking their heads at me about three words in, and me being so intelligent, and reading a fuck of a lot more than they realize... my mother even tried explaining to teachers when i was a kid, but they almost refused to understand. but she knew. i take in everything. people have used the term 'hyperaware', but i'm not sure anyone really understands it but me. to understand me, you really, honestly have to watch the xmen movies. not only am i an evolutionist for a reason, but i have actually mutated. evolved. picture charles xavier in xmen first class. that's me. i could tell you stories from my childhood, but i'm out of time. nice to meet you, i'm not a lunatic, but i do have psychological damage i need help with, yes, i am admitting that myself, no i am not stupid, people love to assume i'm stupid, but i'm truly not, but how would anyone know if i never get to finish a sentence in a society that speaks at five second intervals between videogame consumption burps.

yeah, this is me. nice to meet you, sorry i couldn't say what i wanted to say, but that's why i have this fucking blog in the first place. thanks. time to go. your life is more important than mine. i submit.

talking to myself

'tears falling from the sky
words from a lullaby
everything beautiful dies'... tristania.

i feel so alone. i've truly got no one to talk to. i hate this world in such an unhealthy way, and i've got no one i can tell. whenever i get a moment to relax and sit on my computer, i have to get right back up again. whenever i get a chance to use a restroom, they come banging on the door. everytime i get sat somewhere, some jackass tells me i can't be there, like i'm some piece of trash he can just kick further down the road. whenever i get a chance to sit and smoke, i immediately have to get back up again, cause this stupid body won't leave me alone. i haven't gotten a moment of pleasure out of this life yet. i've got to battle seven billion idiots before i can. if it's not my nose running, it's my burps. if it's not my burps, it's my neck having to pop. if it's not that, it's the fucking wind blowing.

i wish there were a god i could kill to get that wind to stop blowing.
i really never thought i would grow to hate nature this much.

it seems like my music isn't heavy enough for me anymore. i'm still not willing to dive down to death metal, but i used to have a massive collection of some heavy fucking records. bands that no one else has ever heard of. i used to be so proud of that shit. i remember playing a mix cd for andy, trying to impress him (like that would ever happen), and i remember playing 'only inhuman' by sonic syndicate, to see if he would be impressed by that tricky drum part near the end. nope. fuck no. what a fool i was to think i had an actual friend. or someone who shared a similar taste in music.

it's becoming apparent to me that i'm just never supposed to have any fuckin' friends in this world, i stick out so much, no one wants to be daring enough... i fucking hate you people. all of you. lost in a world of opinions and paranoia. you sicken me.

some douchebag threw my sleeping bag in a trash can this morning, so now it smells like beer and shit, so naturally i reek now, too. i can't get the smell out of my nose, i can still taste it, and i honestly think i got a cold. i fucking hate people. i fucking hate people. you people don't hear me saying that every morning when i have to wake up off this concrete of yours, and go walking toward the seven eleven for my hot chocolate, but yeah, i sound completely fucking insane, ranting through the streets about 'why, god, why can't we have a superhero who kills drug addicts, why, lord, why!'. and between that, this heavy breathing utterance of 'i fucking hate you, i fucking hate you', i sound like the song 'syl' by strapping young lad. which, i call that song 'dawning'. but i've always liked sunrises. you'd have no fuckin' clue about why. and why would i expect you to. i fucking hate you people.

i see all these people living around me. spending money. it's painfully obvious to me, every minute i notice, that none of these people are ever going to want to touch me, or talk to me. i already know they're just there to fuck me over, that's their only purpose in life. how immune do i have to be for this. cause i'm about ready to give up.

if i have to pry my head through this ceiling of concrete and retardation and reality television, just to succeed in getting the fuck away from you permanently, to where i get no more junk mail, no more advertisements, no more authorities poking their fingers in my chest... what the fuck is the point. you all can tell me your opinion of the point, but you're fucking wrong, and the more insistent you are, the dumber you look. this is a game of who can be more stubborn, you idiot.

i fucking hate you people. all of you. there is no way out of this. this sickening excuse for a world you've created, where everyone has to 'fit in', and no one can 'fit out', because there's not even a fucking term for it! stick out, stand out, fit out? i'm a fucking thumb, fuck your phrases! see me as what the fuck i am, i am here to oppose you, thus i'm the thumb, the evolution of an opposable digit, so it can smack the rest of the fingers upside the nails, and tell you you're fucking wrong!

but i need to get that out of my head. it doesn't matter that you're wrong. it just matters that you no longer have control over everyone. those of us who want nothing to do with you and your dollar derby frenzy, should be allowed to walk the fuck away, live in the woods, and... you get the idea.

i sound so sick, so mental, walking through the streets every morning, every night, growling to myself, 'i hate you all, i fucking hate you all', i sound worse than my hateful grandmother ever did, and i know for a fact that none of you give a shit about how much that sickens me. no one cares enough to know the story anymore, even though i've told it a billion fucking times, but my grandmother was a hateful piece of shit. her entire life, hateful, angry, evil. with no good enough excuse as to why, other than her mother was evil. so that gives you an excuse NOT to change. fucking moron.

i'm sick of talking about my past, coming from stupid people, only to encounter more stupid people, i'm so fucking sick of stupid people, why can't i meet anyone with a fucking brain! this is fucking sad, do you not care! you're fucking stupid, stupidity is the norm, and you're too stupid to care! and you don't see anything wrong with that!

i had started saying for a while, that 'i'm allergic to ignorance', but i felt like that didn't have the punch it needed. it wasn't offensive enough to make me smile. because i smile more when someone's face sours, getting that look of being offended all over it. none of you realize yet who the fuck i am, but that's a key part of it.

please allow me to introduce myself, i'm a man of... class, and taste.

subtleties and subtitles.

when i offend someone, it puts this little dose of joy in my heart. it doesn't happen often enough anymore, cause these monster truck idiots are so desensitized to anything and everything with passion except hostility. and they don't see anything wrong with that! god, are you there, can you smack the shit out of your people, please? they're too dumb to learn anything, didn't it say in the rule book, that if they're too dumb to learn, that you should pull the plug? is there a magic potion you can toss down here?

i don't even have a god i can talk to. no imaginary friends, no real friends, no methhead sideslut girlfriend... cause they're all on fucking meth. which sickens me in such a dark, evil way. so many women... so many women... drugged out of their minds on meth... so many women... do you really need that many! why do all you fucking women have to do that shit! so fucking many of you! i can't find a single one of you who only smokes weed, why the fuck did every single one of you have to get caught up on that shit, and date the guy who got you started on it, while he's dragging his pants on the fucking ground, what the fuck is wrong with you!!! i can't even begin to tell you how much that sickens me, and i'm a fucking poet, i'm a writer, i do this shit for a living! you can't even care enough to know how fucked that is! and that's even more fucked! why can't i find one fucking woman who's not on meth!!! what the fuck is wrong with you! god, i fucking hate you all! so goddamn much, it's unhealthy! i hate you more than your god could ever know. i fucking hate you! get off the fucking drugs, or kill yourselves, you fucking losers!

it's sickening, that i can't find one pothead girl to be my friend, but every crackroach scumfuck in the world has a little sideslut hanging off his fucking arm! yeah, that's fair, god. yeah, really? seriously?

i wish i had a god to talk to. i wish i had a therapist to talk to. i wish i had a friend to talk to.

i'll never have anyone. ever again. no one will find me interesting. if they do, it will only be for five minutes until the star of the party steals the spotlight from me. that always fucking happens. as soon as i get anyone's attention, it's taken away from me by some loudmouth piece of monkey shit. usually black, sideways hat, dragging pants, obnoxious, belligerent...

'this bog is thick, and easy to get lost in, cause you're a dumbass, belligerent fucker'... tool.

but for a while there, i was saying that i'm allergic to stupidity. that doesn't cut it. and no one understands the new term, even though it's perfectly worded.

i'm an intellectual supremacist.

i want to draw this little comic of a zombie walking up to another zombie on the street, one says 'got any meth', and the other replies, 'got any brains'. and the zombie keeps walking, and comes up on the next zombie, and asks 'got any meth, to which the other zombie replies 'got any brains'. he keeps walking, in this incoherent haze, and finally comes up to me in a trench coat. he asks 'got any meth', and i reply 'got any intellect?'.

by the way, i'm not sure how many people are aware of this factoid here, but i get asked for meth twenty times a fucking day. now, i know how stupid you are, and i know you need a calculator just to figure out how old you are, let alone what an intelligence quotient is, so i'll make this really easy for you to understand here.

that's twenty different people a day, because if it were the same people, you'd think they'd eventually get the hint, so no, it has to be twenty different people a day.

that means when i wake up, and get my hot chocolate, and i'm sitting by the seven eleven panhandling, smoking, and enjoying my morning, conceiving big ideas, there's going to be some walking dead fucking zombie walking up to me before eight am, to ask me for meth. then, around ten am, i'll see another one. then, around noon, i'll see two or three more. then, between one and two pm, i'll see four more. from two pm to five pm or sunset, there's at least eight more. after the sun sets, i'll get at least ten more.

i don't know if anyone's paying attention here, but if this is such a popular drug, and everyone's on it... don't you think it would be a little easier to find? why should they all have to ask me? i remember back in the day, when i was a pothead and had a couple pothead friends, i remember if i wanted weed, i could call a pothead friend, and get my weed with minimal hassle. now, it's impossible to find weed, even though weed is supposedly legal, and there are even apps, like 'leafly', that help you find weed stores, but it's still impossible to find weed... but at the same time, i'm getting twenty people a fucking day...

i don't think you're paying attention here...

TWENTY PEOPLE A FUCKING DAY!!! TWENTY FUCKING PEOPLE!!! TWENTY PEOPLE WHO DO NOT KNOW ME AND ARE NOT MY FUCKING FRIENDS, ACTING LIKE I'M THEIR FUCKING FRIEND, AND ASKING ME FOR THE MOST SICKENING SUBSTANCE ON THE FUCKING PLANET, LIKE I'M IN THAT FUCKING GUTTER WITH YOU! LIKE I'VE MADE THE SAME BAD CHOICES IN LIFE!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!!! IS THAT HOW STUPID YOU ARE, AND DOES THAT EXPLAIN WHY THERE ARE SO FUCKING MANY OF YOU!!!

people can't stop telling me, 'this is los angeles, if you don't like meth, you shouldn't have come here'.

i don't think anyone's understanding a fucking thing here. i have to explain it like i'm running a fucking day care center, but i really wish anyone could try to understand how fucked this is. i need to explain this to you. i shouldn't have to, but i need to explain this to you, you need to know this. try to understand...

los angeles is where talented people go to get famous.
spokane washington is where drug addicts go to be sad and die.

there's already a big difference right there, but incase you need it enlightened more...

i have talent. i came here to pursue my talents, not waste my life away on bad choices and bad drugs and sadness and 'poor me, no one likes me, so i'm just gonna drown in drugs for the rest of my pathetic life'.

yeah, i really have an urge to be you.

but anyway, let me say this part again...

i came to los angeles to pursue my talents. if you want to get strung out on drugs, you should go to spokane. that's where all the losers live. talented people should live in los angeles, and should be ashamed to be this close to this cancerous deathfest. am i the only one who thinks that? then i'm the only human on this planet. go ahead, debate that, i'm sure the crickets would love to hear you.

i'm so sickened. and i've got no one to tell. i'm truly alone. i've always known this, that i'm truly the most alone person on this sad little planet, that old soul rogue rebel who always walks alone, but when no one recognizes you, it can get a little too dark on this road. these children didn't study their history, so no one was expecting me. i sure thought the trench coat would be a dead giveaway, but these people can't remember anything past nineteen ninety nine. which befuddles the fuck out of me, cause i was born in nineteen seventy eight, and i remember that before we had bowling for columbine, and the trench coat mafia wannabes, and neo the compromising superhero, back before those losers existed... trench coats were considered cool. the more rare they were, the cooler they were, because only a certain number of people wear that skin properly. the oldest of us.

i can feel half of you thinking i'm delusional right now, but i've been trying to tell you for years, i don't give a frog floggin' fuck what you think, and you still seem to think i do, which tells me you haven't been listening, but we'll get to that later when your finally shows up for the armageddon show, but you know...

i wear it best.

yet all people can seem to do, is criticize me for the way i dress and the music i listen to. i've never been one to point fingers, cause my mama taught me that pointing was rude, as is staring, but apparently she didn't teach the rest of you... but... let's just say it's raining cats and thumbs on this seven eleven loser named jesse right now. god, how i've hated that name. one of the gayest male names there could ever be. 'i'm gonna be halfway girly, but still start with a 'j'.'. can i suck your cock right now, i really need to get this cancerous lump of horse shit out of my throat before it grows a name. it's already got thumbs, hurry up.

i will never hear voices laughing at me again. whether they think it's 'at me', or 'with me', doesn't matter, no one fucking laughs anymore. which depresses the fuck out of me even more since i defeated my depression.

people have tried to tell me, that it's not possible to 'defeat your depression'.
people have tried to tell me, that once you go insane, there's no coming back.
people have tried to stuff me into their fearful little mold a lot.

but once in a while, some freud brained antizombie bad ass trench coat mutherfucker comes along and teaches us the truth. those of you who have forgotten that, should go back to school, because you don't deserve to be here if you don't know who the fuck john lennon was.

people have tried to tell me that sanity is so limited, that intellect has only been defined so far, so that's only as far as the light shines, people have tried to fill my head with a lot of retarded limitation crap. for how many years now? i could ask you if any of you were responsible and accountable. and if you claim to be, i just proved you wrong, but we'll get back to that.

people have tried to fill my head with so much, so many of their own fears, their limited knowledge...

they're not realizing. i'm the guy who comes along every so often to set shit straight.

i'm here to show you that it is possible to defeat your depression. it is possible to lose your mind twice in your life and still come back. it is possible to not fear anything, it is possible to train your third eye to see the future...

and all you dumb little scruntroaches who think it's not, like you know everything there is to know on the topic, and there will never be any new information, no new discoveries, no new journeys, and that freud only lives once...

god, how can i put this simply...

on the spectrum of our history...
in the eyes of evolution...
from the perspective of charles darwin...

if you put a little dot on the history map where charles darwin is petting a neanderthal on the head, and then rewind back about twenty thousand years, and put another little dot on that part of the history map...

this is linear, of course... pay attention...

before charles darwin discovered evolution...
before the neanderthal got violent with his nerdy tech support buddy...
before the monkey ever picked up the gun and the credit card...

leave it to the retard to be proud of 'i was here first'.
leave it to the outlaw to be proud of 'i was here last'.

what i would give to be the last man standing on this silent planet.

on the linear, historic timeline, there's a dot where charles darwin was born. then, twenty thousand years before that, there's a little dot where you took a shit on a log that you were proud of...

now, try to look at those two little dots through the perspective of sigmund fuckin' freud.

these glasses might help...

yeah, there you go. nice and clear. see, you're a loser, thus you already lost thousands of years ago. you call this twenty fifteen. i call this three years away from the deadline. it is you who should not be here.

i think i actually got a cold from that dirty sleeping bag.

but anyway. i have to get these clustered thoughts out of my brain before they fucking choke me and i have an aneurysm. i never get to speak to anyone. as soon as i open my mouth, they open theirs. i cannot finish a sentence, i haven't finished a sentence in years. if i get to speak at all, it's for no more than five seconds at a time, and apparently, that's what humans think is a sufficient conversation, an efficient way to communicate and relay messages and information.

there's another comic drawing. if only i could draw.

guy number one talks for five seconds...
guy number two talks for five seconds...
guy number one talks for five more seconds...
guy number two talks for five more seconds...

and that's how a company functions, children!

now onto our next lesson, how to get rich without lifting a finger.
rule number one: whips and chains excite me.
rule number two: sticks and stones do break bones.
rule number three: you own the words to do the rest.

every time i try to pop my neck, it really feels like my head's going black, and that i'm about to be evicted from my own skull house. i've got constant eyelashes on annoying me, snot, my throat, my neck, my back, my legs, my knees, my ankles, my knuckles, nothing will stop annoying me. if anyone was paying attention for the last ten years, they could at least remember that part of my story, that that's how the mother of my children 'fell in love' with me, was because i was ranting about my nose and how it won't leave me alone and won't give me a minute of enjoyment out of this life, it's constant snot, and if i try to pick this nostril with a kleenex, i can only do it once, because the other nostril won't stop whining, and needs to be wiped now, and it can only be done once, cause i have to go back to the first one, and the eyelash in my eye can't wait, and itching on my shoulder can't wait, the fart bubbling around in my belly won't wait, the back pain won't let me think, my neck needs to be popped, oh, but wait, i'm still just cleaning my fucking nose, i've got the nose of a two year old, oh, but wait, i have to burp first, cause that one really won't wait, oh, now i have to run to the restroom cause that won't wait, i was just trying to smoke a bowl, but now that whole shitfest has gotten worse, because now if i need to get up and run to the restroom, i have to pick up my laptop, put it in the case, zip it up, fold up my bedding, walk two or three blocks to a restroom, be told that i can't use it unless i'm a customer, so i have to walk another block to another restroom, and i only get two minutes in there before some overauthoritative jackass has to come banging on the door, no matter what fucking time of day it is, there's always someone more important than me, so that just adds to the stress i have to deal with just trying to get this body to shut up long enough to let me fucking breathe and hit this fucking bowl, and if i could hit the bowl enough, it actually works, and this body shuts up, and i can sit there and breathe, and enjoy a movie for once, but you know me so much better than i know myself, so go ahead, why don't you tell me how the fuck i'm supposed to live my life, as if i haven't been told yet. let me see if i can recite it verbatim from yesterday's forced conversion attempt. let's see, you think i should stop smoking weed, dress better, get a job, listen to more popular music, and try to be the clone on that side of the street. is that about right? oh, yeah, i forgot... bibles. yes, i know, your god is lonely with seven billion empty heads, that's why he's still sending you after me after all these years, he wants to infiltrate the only living brain on this planet, yeah, i get it.

i can't wait to start passing out my pamphlets. converting people to my religion. i cannot fucking wait.

first of all, god forbid we finally create a religion based on truth, or at least the search for it.
and secondly... god fucking forbid! god fucking forbid we finally have a religion designed the right way.

you all can have your lunacy and as much hypocrisy as you want, and enjoy looking stupid for as long as you're comfortable, with your scientology and mormonism and some truly fucked up, insane religions based on superstition, delusion, and nothing anywhere near truth...

and then we'll do things our way. who are you to tell us we can't? god?

fuck no, you're not. especially if we're designing our own god, we don't have to listen to yours anymore, but i'm sure you'll persist anyway. you stubborn, closedminded, pathetic piece of suffocating sloth shit!

my throat's really starting to hurt. i fucking cannot stand people. i fucking hate you all so much, you disgust me. always trying to tell me how to live your life, and not realizing that it's wrong. no wonder god's not still here, if he was, the sky would be raining flyswatters and thumbs.

sorry, i guess that visual analogy is too big for your box. where's larry the cable guy when you need him?

the truth is, i know who you are, and i don't need you to convince me otherwise, though you try like satan himself, behind that watery, shapeshifting mask of lies, lizard tongues, and secrecy.

you figure that's the way it would happen, right? if god were to find satan to finally end him... don't you think the comic book version would go a little like this...

god: you're satan, i've got my eye on you.
satan: no, i'm not satan, truly i'm not, i'm stan, they just spelled the name tag wrong.
god: no, you're satan, you can't fool me.
satan: no, really, i'm just the tech support guy, really.
god: are you actually trying to convince me that you're not satan? i can see you hiding under black darkness and fear.
satan: dude, i'm totally not satan, i'm stan, i'm here to install your cable.

don't you think, based on intellect alone, that's how it would happen? basically? i mean that's how i see it. that's how i've always seen it. if you're defined as being a coward... how the fuck are you going to act like anything but?

you can have all the knowledge in the world, it doesn't make you a better person, it just makes you harder to track down.

a human vaginal wart named vasego taught me that.

i should have known, coming from an idiot with 'ego' in his name. i don't even think he knew... well... i guess that doesn't matter, but... people truly never don't underestimate how observant i am. how many negatives is that?

i never don't not do that.

i'm sure i could find some way to cancel out all the evil in this world. for a while, i thought it was if i could prove that i am actually the reincarnation of bill hicks, but on second look at that courtroom... yeah, maybe i'll backburner that one for a while. the way this bulldozer is running out of gas and spirit, i don't think we're going much further. it's like when mom's clutch died on the way back from ozzfest in phoenix. eight kids and a fat mother crammed into the cab of a tow truck. yup. thems was the good times.

but mom's dead.
life doesn't matter.
in the eyes of death, it never will.
time still scrolls on.

in fact, black sabbath said it better.

so i vowed that life is just a burden.
cause you know there's never been a winner.
try your hardest, you'll still be a loser.
the world will still be turning when you're gone.

there's also a little sound clip in devin townsend's 'life'.

'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'.

and of course i'm loving the new sirenia album. five bucks to the first non drug addict to guess why.

god, where are all my brains. i miss you guys so much. being here alone is too dark.

all the brains that i've written about. like in my song 'i'm bringing thinking back'...

all the greatest minds of the world
looking out through the glass in a museum
like a memory covered in the dust of brain cells
get ready, cause i'm bringing them all back
it's time to get the fucking blood pumping...

where are you. it's so dark here, where are your minds, those bright lights i've seen on the hill at night, they have followed me young and into tomorrow...

where are you...?

from galileo, to isaac newton, einstein, charles darwin, bill hicks, timothy leary, terence mckenna, robert anton wilson, john lennon, ganghi, they're all fucking dead!

i know reincarnation still flows through these veins. you can't convince me otherwise.

seems like talking to myself, i actually feel more sympathy and compassion than from anyone else.

how fucking sad is that.

goodnight, loneliness...

maybe you'll be less invisible tomorrow.

at least you're not as sad as brian posehn's fat feelings. i'm still too metal for you, though.

I hate weekends

Sunday morning. I'm already so hateful, I could vomit fresh coffee. Whenever other people are around, I cannot think. People suffocate my brain, there's an actual problem going on here. I need therapy. Badly. I need someone to talk to about this. To learn more about why I'm so hateful.

Just this morning so far. Had to smoke an unnecessary bowl with someone, people keep asking me for shit, never giving. After the bowl was wasted, I meant to share a cigarette with him, but got to talking, and smoked the whole thing, not even enjoying it myself. Then I try to go in the starfucks, but my bed isn't small enough, so I'm sitting outside panhandling... I fucking hate people! Just because I don't have a door, doesn't mean you can just walk right in! Leave me the fuck alone!

Goddamnit!

Why am I the only one who can see such a brighter future, that I'm ashamed to have to rant about this shit? Why does that phrasing not make sense to anyone else? What the fuck am I doing in this world?

And what the fuck do I do with the rest of my morning now, besides sleep it off. Just hi back to sleep. It's Sunday. No one does shit on Sunday, there's nothing to do on a Sunday, and I fucking hate... Everything. Doc, could you tell me why? Without charging me slave chains for truth? Just act human and spit it out? Please?

another turd day

god, i am so fucking hateful it's unhealthy.

i don't even know what to write.

fucked.

fucked, fucked, fucked.

there's no way out of this stupidity. i'm just not allowed to have money. i should have just gotten a greyhound back to seattle. or some small town close to it. cheap apartment. i could be out of here right now.

to find out that before i can get my id here, i need to show them a birth certificate to prove who i am, and not even that will work for me, because i legally changed my name. i'm fucked. no matter what i do, i can't do anything. and now, as i write this, i've got the morning sun glaring in my eyes, while i sit in starbucks, trying to be invisible, cause i can't afford to buy anything even if i wanted to, which i don't. i can't stand any starfucks products, even their hot chocolate tastes like shit. so... what the fuck do i do now.

i need to get out of this area, that's for sure, i hate this area, and the people here. i had one guy tell me 'the valley', meaning north hollywood, and a little west of that, or whatever the fuck, people can't use decipherable terms anymore, it's all just incoherent babble, fast talking, low volume, unintelligibullshit. but another guy told me about the 'inland empire', meaning everything east of here gets cheaper, and a few people have 'sort of' confirmed that. and that's also where i found a cheap motel, somewhere in rosemead, i think. actually, hell, that's a good idea.

https://goo.gl/maps/ccanUaWxihz

so i think i'll go there, there's a walmart, seven elevens, libraries. all i need is muss bunny. i mean bus money. i'll make up a few good signs, panhandle by the walmart, try to pay for that motel... i'll be okay. so yeah. that's what i'll do for now at least. library opens at nine:thirty, i'll panhandle till then, see what i can get. i've got weed for now, and a pack of smokes. i'll try to get free food, and whatever money i get, i'll try to get out to rosemead. hopefully there are some potheads around there. i had a good idea for that, hang around the smoke shops, especially the more hippie lookin' ones, and find potheads. my neck really hurts. and i still wish i could mean one single strictly pothead girl that doesn't have some douchebag dragging his pants on the ground next to her.

but anyway. so that's my morning. woke up fucked, but still trying... something. i don't know. i just need some indoor time with my laptop so i can relax and clear my mind. i need to write a lot to get this shit out of my head, try to get it published in some money making way. once i get enough ideas out of my head, i think then i can focus on recording some music, but i figure at this point, i just want to do it alone. after seeing what people are like here, i don't think i'll ever get anyone to listen to me, and be dedicated enough to do what i say, i'll always have assholes telling me what they think i should do, so i just have to do it all myself. i can try to still hire an assistant to help me with things, or have a small army of slaves someday, but... i picture having my own studio set up, with the instruments set up my way and locked in their playing positions (guitars on mounts), and my own drum cage set up, ready to record, and if there's a part i can't do, i'll hire some local dude to come in and do it for however much money and some lunch. i might make a few friends that way. i thought for sure i'd meet some homeless musicians who were honestly trying to get something cool accomplished, but everyone's so lost and aimless, on the wrong drugs, there's really nothing going on, no inspiration, no anticipation, no excitement, the only thing i've been excited over in years is the marvel movies. just watched antman, love paul rudd.

but i fucking hate people. i fucking hate you people. i do not claim to be a part of the human race, i'm ashamed to be on this planet, because i wish this were a world that, if i can't be heard, let me disappear, but no, i have to come to the center of insanity first, so either way, i lose. i fucking hate you. every person that supports this delusion.

all things are too good to be true.
most of them suck so much, that's how true they are.
as regretfully true as concrete.

keep your fuckin' receipt.

i think your world sucks.
if i had a better world, would you like it?
would you let me live in it?
i know i'll never get an answer.

sa.turd.ay

just say turd. well, thursday got blown to shit. didn't get to the dinner, cause when i left the starfucks, and looked at the paper... i left starfucks around one. sat by the seven eleven and looked at the paper, says it's over at two:thirty. what the fuck thanksgiving dinner ends at two fucking thirty? how early are these people passing out? i know they aren't morning people like i am.

finally got a new sleeping bag. there are things i should be doing today, but honestly, i'm still too tired, exhausted, sleepy. brett might call today. can't find anyone with weed. these are the saddest homeless people i've ever seen. at least homeless people in san francisco had a little drive behind it. i'm not sure what else to do.

carol and brett both gave me a lot to think about. i need to email carol and explain that i've never been able to meditate, don't even have much interest in it honestly, but i have seen a bright light in my crown chakra (top of my head) that's part of a long story i can't write yet, but i need to get my neck to stop hurting and having to pop constantly. but hopefully when i get the motel on december third, that might help. which, i also need to do that soon, too. but i have till thursday, can't do shit on weekends, so i'm just gonna panhandle for the weekend, and then on monday start trying to find a motel. jesse got fired from seven eleven, so i've got no reason to stay around that corner anymore. not that i had one in the first place, i just got stuck there. but i should go elsewhere by now, i need to find a better corner. it needs to have a place to sleep that's a dark, quiet corner. a possible stash spot. a seven eleven, a panhandling spot close to the seven eleven, a starbucks, a library... a restroom... if i can get ahold of monique from wings of laughter, then i don't need to stay around rockpaper on sunset for open mic. if brett can help, then... well, we'll see where that goes first. cause he talks too fast and too quiet for me to really understand.

why am i the most coherent, intelligible person i've ever known... besides my mother? or is it the least opinionated? am i openminded on the scale of closedmindedness? what is it? i know part of it is that i don't like religion, superstition, tradition, shit like that, cause i'm not those people, but what else separates me from everyone else, cause i know it's a thick fuckin' wall, but how do i define it, or figure out what texture it is at least. if and when i do meet other big brains, are they going to reject me the same way the small minds do? cause that's what i already assume, the way this society functions on obsessions with money, which made everyone apathetic.

panhandling gives you a very fucked up view of this world. i don't think anyone else even cares to see it.

fuck it, i'm gonna go eat something cheap and lay down for a while longer. hopefully not get arrested this time.

FOR LAYING ON A FUCKING SIDEWALK!!!

jesus, what a crime! fuckin' nuke me.

i need to just write

i need to write as much as possible. especially today.

here's a line i'm thinking of saying to people today.
i'll bet you twenty bucks i won't find a single pothead in this city today.

here's a topic i want to make a full book out of, just to describe my feelings on this particular matter.

i am so alone. i get so lonely, and i see that no one cares. i'm plagued with constant fantasies about being seen by someone, being noticed, being touched, being appreciated, someone finding me interesting enough to sit and talk to for a while. random encounters with pleasant strangers who aren't just looking for the own pleasure. but i live day after boring fucking day, lonely, invisible to the female eye. the only people who seem to find me attractive lately are guys who don't even have the balls to be a guy, but they don't have the balls to lose their balls either, and i just can't be around those people, they are way to weak for me, they're like little lettuce plants under my bulldozer, i won't even feel a bump. why can't any women look at me anymore. how ugly have i become? i've been through all sorts of hell, i've lost a hundred pounds, i'm a father of two... and i'll never be seen again. i've pretty much given up on ever being touched by a random stranger. it's just not going to happen. even other crazy homeless people who might be 'out of it' enough to not care... they're all on the wrong drugs. i have posted messages all over the internet, trying to find unemployed, possibly homeless, single ladies, who are strictly pothead, don't do bad drugs, don't have guys drooling all over them. i know they exist out there. the type of woman who's damaged, submissive, because of being mistreated by men. the type of woman who would sit and listen to me for hours, and then finally say 'that is so awesome, of course i support that, i'll help in any way i can'. for someone to be inspired by me again. should i have a sticker or a tshirt that says 'i cannot inspire zombies'. i'm really confused with this whole issue. every other man on this planet has turned what could be a simple process centered around... not 'making friends', or 'making love', but a combination i consider 'making loves'. why do we limit ourselves so much, that when i get here and need a little affection, i can't find it even from crazy people on the street. not a five minute encounter involving the slightest bit of nudity. that's wrong in everyone's eyes, so i just shouldn't exist, and i'm never allowed to get any pleasure out of life, because you've enveloped yourself in a prison of 'keep it in your pants'. no one will ever know how invisible i feel. and if they think they know, and try to tell me in their own words... if they get close, they get a point. if they don't know how invisible i feel... well... yeah, what's the point of that, it'll never fucking happen. how invisible do i have to feel before anything fun happens. how ugly do i have to feel before i'm noticed again. what has happened to all those 'anonymous encounters' they talked about on fetlife and in those rumoured kinky movies. i wish i could make my own erotic videos if only to show people how different this could be. i'm so sick of living in this same mold of misery because of you and your fears. your unexplained paranoia about physical contact. the things you shove into the 'taboo' category without my permission. without any discussion whatsoever. you've shoved too much into that category. too much of my life. too much of my heart. and it will never matter to you. to undo all this damage, i have to untangle a lifetime worth of cords. and no one cares. i will never be touched again. i will never find another pothead who's caring enough to be a friend. why does you world have to be so fucking depressing, why are you so proud of it, so comfortable with it, so fearful of anything better, why do you impose your alienation onto me with a prison of excuses to never change. why. why must i live in your prison. i'm so sick of this shit.

i could pray to be seen today, to be noticed, to be touched by someone, to have a feminine presence notice me, to reflect in their eyes, to feel like more than just a two dimensional image. it's too much to ever ask. i have flesh. it hasn't been seen in two years. and no one's curious enough to come along and say 'hey, can i see... what you look like... under all that black?'. that will never happen. meanwhile, i walk past all these women, dying to be brave enough to whisper 'i'd give anything just to touch'. you won't stop seeing that as a felony, a criminal act, something to plaster across cnn, 'today some desperate man was trying to be seen by a woman out of his league/price range/pay grade/status bracket, so let's make fun of this loser and make him feel humiliated for being more human than us'.

i have this big hard rock pain in my stomach. it won't go away, it only gets worse. i figure it's from not getting to use a restroom often enough. i try to tell doctors, i've got a three month long snake in my ribs. they don't speak poetry, and i refuse to say their clinical, sterile, lifeless word. i have no one i can talk to. i never will.

not even the entire sexual topic i want to explore, i want to publish an entire book just on that aspect alone. how lonely i feel. i see sex happening all around me, i see it cheapened with products and purchases all day every day, i see sluts taking two guys into their motel rooms, and you think i don't know what you're doing. i'm sickened. i cringe with vile hatred, i shake, and i have to close my eyes. but i'm not even allowed to ask. forever peasant.

never pleasant.

what will become of this. what words might ever be written to correct this. how much effort will it take. will anyone change. will i be heard before i die. how soon will this pain in my stomach kill me. how much time do i have left. is this all pointless. should i have killed myself when i was twenty three, like i knew i should have. i've been denying it for so many years, but that pain in the back of my mind, direct connection to my heart, tells me the inevitable truth. yes. i should have left this world when i saw how sad it was. there's nothing i can do to fix it. i wonder every day, what will it take. i try to translate it in a new way to match the sunrise. i'm lost. i don't know what else to do.

is it really this sad. is there no end.

eternally the ugliest peasant.
never deserving of human eyes.
chained down by a million lies.

i've tried for years to think my way out of your prison. i'm in the land of attention central, and i'm still unseen.

sandra laughed at one of my lines in an email, and replied, 'you're in hotness central, revel in it'.

i'm sorry. i can't. i'm almost offended by that. does it not occur to you how much this could hurt. how much damage i've been through. i picture the next girl i'm with, has to come prepackaged with a chisel, and she'll always wonder why i shiver whenever she touches me. 'how bad have you been hurt', she asks. hunny, i can't even tell you. it's been too long, the story has been locked away for too long now, it's soaked in tears, i don't think you'll ever pull it out of there. don't even try, the past doesn't matter, all i can think about is a better future, but thanks to this stagnant world, it never fucking comes. i'm not even saving up for mine like you are.

all of you.
not a one of you can stand out from the rest.
none of you brave enough.
but you look down at me.
you frown at me.

none of you have even listened to the life of agony album, 'ugly'.

here's just a tiny glimpse of how close that album is to my heart. not that you'll ever care.

that album was released in nineteen ninety five. around the time i was twenty two, because i remember getting to listen to track two when i was around that age. yeah, i'm not giving it all to you, you can do your own research.

that album has twelve tracks. the last track is a cover song.

my wife left me just before her twenty second birthday.

my favourite songs are tracks one, two, four, six, and eleven. i.e.: seasons, lost at twenty two, other side of the river, the title track, and a short little song called 'fears', that's pretty much a screenshot of my life in your eyes. your tiny perspective of my invisible little world. and how little it matters to you.

'all i have are these clothes on my back, and this song'.

the two verses in the title track hit my heart the hardest. i see half my life in those lyrics. under a sea of tears.

here's my favourite little factoid about that album. the singer on that album, that incredibly sad voice you hear, that pummels into your heard, pestles a bed like a cat, and lays down to cry itself to sleep, that brutally beautiful voice, all the misery and tears in the world choking and stroking the words from that throat, that voice...

is now a woman.

that's right.

how's that for balls?

his name on that album was keith caputo, from brooklyn. now, she's mina caputo. she once covered the song 'why', by annie lennox. that song was also featured in the movie 'exit to eden'.

are you even beginning to see the pain yet? or will you forever remain blind to it?

you don't belong in my heart.

next to the life of agony shrine, and the machine head vault... there's just no room. i'm sorry, you'll have to sleep in the shed, and think of a reason i should let you stay.

the only people i can seem to find that i can ask for weed, are the people dragging their pants on the ground.

just to clue you in, here... those are my enemies. would you ever want to ask your enemies to borrow a coffee filter? a creature that repulses and disgusts you so much, you can't stand to look, and want to sew your eyes shut?

they're not the only reason i want to sew my eyes shut. all the soft, curvy flesh i'll never get to touch.

all those nights, through seattle, portland, san francisco... unsatisfying and pointless.

take one step into my misery, i'd like to see how fruitful your eyes become.

i cannot penetrate anyone's heart. no word will break that lock.

a man who died thousands of years ago, is still asking why. you won't even stop and listen for the faint echo of the voice. you've got more important things to do in your life. and how dare anyone call you selfish. why should you care.

the bulldozer should care about the obstacles. only the real bulldozer has the true heart.

but go ahead and keep thinking what you're thinking, cause you're right. you're always right. you own right, and we have to pay you for samples of it. you'll never know how wrong that is. your conscience is death.

you're just a messenger for misery. from whose mouth, i wonder.

do you feel as ugly as i do?

yeah, fuck no, you don't.

why don't you read my poem 'wristblood', and come back when it sparks a little passion in your heart.

some asshole just blinded me with his phone and the reflection of the sun, while dragging his fucking pants on the ground!!! when is that shit going to stop!!! when are you boys going to grow the fuck up and pull your fucking pants up!!! when are you going to realize how fucking stupid that looks!!! goddamnit!!!

i feel so ugly.

...
well, i was bound to have a nervous breakdown, should've seen it coming from miles away
packed my bags and started running, brain's been shaking since yesterday
there's only so far that you can run, boy, there's only so far to leave your problems behind
cause when your problem's yourself, you start thinking, no matter how far, you'll never leave it behind

now i'm twenty two with still no clue, of who i am, who i'm supposed to be
know that to you, it sounds funny, you've got it worked out like it's a fucking disease
started asking myself, do i fit in, where i belong, could this really be me?
been feelin' downright ugly, tell me, is this the way it's supposed to be?

can i get anyone's help

i get so fucking hopeless.

i can't think. i don't know what to do anymore. i have no motivation. i have no one to talk to about it. no one who cares enough to help. i've told so many people my ideas, and no one finds them interesting enough.

nothing can ever be easy for me. every effort has to be so frustratingly difficult. every action has to be so fucking impossible. and all anyone can do is tell me what to do as if i'm living my life wrong.

just sitting on my laptop has become... i have movies to watch, music to sort through, emails to send, homeless resources to find... i can't figure out why i can't muster the motivation to do it. all i can think is that doing it alone seems so fucking pointless, why do it? if so many people on the street can tell me 'get a job', and this entire world is this apathetic and fearful... what the fuck am i supposed to be doing? cause i'm definitely not doing what you tell me. i refuse to stay in your boxed little world. is no one allowed to come up with a solution? is no one going to listen to that solution, and find it interesting enough, and have enough compassion to help. i'm fucking sick of asking these questions. i'm sure, if i had the time or inspiration, i could track back through my blog posts and da journals and find where i've said that shit before, and how many times i've said it, but i'd rather just employ someone to do that, or find people that are dedicated enough to good ideas, that they would just do that for their own entertainment, from their own inspiration and curiosity, but those people don't fucking exist anymore!

does anyone have any idea how many people i've told to read my blog since i've been traveling? out of those, how many said they would? out of those, how many actually have? and out of those, how many have responded and kept in touch? yeah, we're burnin' air at this point. and no one thinks that's sad. no one can send me a message saying, 'dude, i'm sorry you're so invisible and ignored, you really should be understood, i've read a lot of your stuff, big fan'.

will that ever fucking happen?

or will i just get the pseudo wannabe psychobabble analyst moron clones who can only say shit like 'he just wants attention', or 'he just wants to be surrounded by ass kissers', and moronic shit like that. trying to diagnose me.

you fuckers know how stupid you look? wanna take a glimpse? here, look in this mirror right quick...

those people who 'just want attention', and 'want to be surrounded by ass kissers'...

that's the plastic world i see around me. and you, a replica of a clone of a plastic mannequin with the iq of a french fry, you're trying to compare me to them, by telling me i'm... exactly the definition you should put on them, but you're telling me in a way that makes the concept seem like a new thing, like freud hasn't pondered it yet.

can you see that? you realize you said that to an evolutionist, who's so far ahead of his time, he doesn't even have a formed religion of his own yet? and look at it this way, if we're not going to be friends and know eachother for the next twenty years... then what was the point of our little interaction and your diagnosis of me and my world? do you think your input is going to affect me, and i'm just going to run back home to mommy and say 'the boys picked on me, so i've permanently lost all hope, and i'll just disappear into an imaginary hole until i figure out a way to slit my wrists and actually end this delusion'. do you really think you can make any sort of impression on me whatsoever? apparently you haven't read my 'impress me' blog post. yup, that one's been online for a few years now. think it's had any readers? i still see no gauges moving on this thing, you sure it's working, god?

cause i'm about to set the controls for the heart of the sun, buddy.

so i've figured out, i must have intellectophobia locational detection disorder, also known as 'i can't find smart people'. it has factors of 'i'm invisible to smart people' as well, which is due to the fact that most smart people are still living in a world where money dictates how well people are heard. just because you haven't heard my voice doesn't mean i don't have one, it means you aren't listening. fuckin', i wrote that so far back, i think aristotle fuckin' said it. but it's got my copyright seal of approval on it.

my head is so clusterfucked with blood clot thoughts, years overdue, i'm starting to wonder if that's unhealthy. i mean i know it is, but i have no psychiatrist to ask, and doctor bupp hasn't answered my emails.

i'm so lost. so confused.

everytime i get a little glimpse of where i was headed, some asshole comes along and says 'no, you gotta dress this way', and then a couple morbidly hot women distract the fuck out of me and the compass in my head, and...

i just can't fuckin' think. i have no one to talk to. no one who is capable of sympathizing. i feel like i'm standing alone in a foggy field back in the early eighteen hundreds wondering where the fuck humanity went. and i could bet god fifty grand that no one will ever respond to this, but i know he's not up there, cause he hasn't returned the first eighty billion calls. but if you tell the people whose phones are 'working' that they're delusional and insane, they get really angry at you, and start asserting their authority over you, and their dominance gets a hard on, and your day is pretty much fucked. how are they still allowed to do that and get away with it?

because i haven't created my church yet.

that's the only answer i've ever been able to see. these people lack guidance.

since i was a child, wondering 'who's in charge of this horse shit?', and people would sometimes point in random aimless directions along with their gibberish, but... i don't fuckin' see him. this argument can't be had yet. because the little weasel in charge is hiding from logic, buried under a rock of security guard paranoia.

but i've pictured it for so many years. the man who comes along claiming that logic is his god, his direction is fearlessly forward, and declaring money a psychotic state of mind... seems to me like that guy would have a few friends. perhaps a couple life long friends that have always been there.

my friends were lazy, worthless shits. none of them made it out of that toilet of a town. most of them got flushed.

i hate so much.
i hate people.
i wish i could meet people who felt like me, so we could figure out a way to get away from people we hate. i mean, i've done most of the thinking most my life, but the translation into their legal terms for them to understand, i.e. the retardation and complication of something simple for idiots to comprehend through small filters...

yeah, i know i'm rambling senselessly about nonsense at this point. i'm trying to figure out in my own head, since i don't belong in anyone else's thoughts... what the fuck i want to do today. i know i need to answer a voice mail from sarah who's trying to help me, but i can't even find the motivation for that. my brain can't think and i can't find the time to sit and listen to the voice mail and call her back. if i walk outside, it's for a smoke break, but then it's too windy and cold, and there's too many assholes everywhere, and i encounter some of them, and what was intended to be a sitting break to relax long enough to hear a voice mail, turns into a three mile long confused and angry walk trying to figure out where the fuck i can go to either get away from these people, or get around enough of them that they might hand me money thinking i'm actually worth a shit, and then i get torn between those two options the more sober i get, and can't decide which way or the other, and by that point i'm too hungry to think...

instead, if the things you turn into ash, and the things you turn into shit, didn't cost you anything... and whatever you sleep on and in didn't cost such a retardedly high fucking price... every person who has a job, their paychecks barely cover rent, so they're left starving and sober with no stress relief, no entertainment for sanity, no relaxation, either mentally or physically, and expected to be robotic under those conditions because the boss wants it, and some people completely slave themselves to it, and still never get anything better than cheap food at the end of a week, because so much of their time was wasted simply on a place to sleep. and no one understands that i've never understood that concept. do you not understand that there's something seriously wrong with that? can you not conceive that the eyes of evolution might see that as absurd?

how's this for a theory. see if you can fit this into your tiny little box brain.

people who don't want to work, for whatever the reason, are still able to live and function normally, without having to worry about death constantly.

i know, it's impossible, but hang on, i'm not done yet...

see, this is the way i picture it. first of all, the knowledge of house building is passed down from every parent to every child, along with a built house to live in. now, i know it's a hard concept to... yes, i get it, it's already not fitting in there, just hang on, relax, i'll get a shoe horn, just breathe...

parents in this plastic world, they hold the reigns of their children until eighteen, and then boot them out the door, sometimes harshly, cruelly. some parents aren't even functional enough to do that, keep that in mind. but most the functional ones are operating under this conditioning, and they all feel like they have to do the same thing out of fear of doing anything different and fucking up some sort of equilibrium that can't fluctuate for whatever paranoid reason... okay, i'm saying too much, i know, i get it. the words just pour out of my mouth, i can't stop them, i'm sorry.

but they all do the same thing. you raise your children... what's the word... they call them children of privilege, and all sorts of shit like that, but no, there's an actual true way to look at it, and i can't remember the word.

sheltered. that's almost it. they raise their children in these sheltered environments. but they immediately break those rules, because both parents have to have jobs, the kid has to go to school and be raised half of their days by teachers, in rooms full of other kids... yeah, that's wrong right there. did you not read the nature handbook that god etched into that tree? oh, your boss cut the tree down, well good going, captain!

here's how it should have gone. i know it's hard to comprehend, but i'm just gonna try to say it as simply as possible. which is not easy for me.

two people meet. they fall in love. years into a comfortable relationship, they decide to have a child or two. not twenty. they live in a house... now, see, i can feel your mind already closing in and getting small, come on.

parents and children do not always have to live together. i wish chef from south park could lay some of this groundwork for me, but he's a scientologist. yeah, i could have told you that one, dude.

i picture it this way. come on, keep up. there's a house. it's got a couple living in it. when they start having kids, they start building a new house next to their house. small, you don't need a whole shitload of nothing to yourself.

they build one little house for each child. you teach the child every step of the way, not just doing for them, but having them help, so they can learn.

so, when this couple meets, they already have a house to live in. they have a child, so they start building a new little house close to theirs. they don't have to worry about jobs and bosses, so they can spend whatever time they want on that house. not just sundays and the occasional holiday. they can actually dedicate themselves to developing it during the child's youth, instead of 'i have to work, buddy, sorry'.

now, whenever that child is comfortable leaving the house, he is free to explore the world, but can always come back to that house and live there. that's his house, always close to dad incase he needs anything. their family houses are surrounded by family farmland, which is how they feed themselves, also taught throughout childhood. whatever talents the child wants to pursue, they are free to pursue wherever they want in the world, for as long as they want, but they always have their house to come home to whenever they want.

no, this does not mean the world will be flooded with houses. besides, you don't think the world is already flooded with enough houses that this could be a reality tomorrow? let me dip some chips into that head of yours.

now, okay. now, with the whole 'housing' issue out of the way, and also the 'eating' issue for the most part, let's focus on the cycle of parenting through generations. cause if you start instilling habits like these, within a few generations you'll have a completely self sufficient species... but okay, i understand that we can't get to that just yet.

so, we have a piece of land with a family on it. it's got a few little houses, so they don't have to live together to the point of arguing, but they can all share in the farming of their foods and smokable things. which should all be considered in the food group, really. you've categorized things in such a fucked up way, to untangle them takes a shitload of thought, i'd imagine it would even confuse the fuck out of medusa, her snakes would explode. this is literally what a mental clusterfuck you've gotten the human species into, and you will never understand this, you'll just die off without realizing what the fuck you did wrong, so history still has a chance of repeating itself again.

but i believe that before you and your bible wallet combo kit came along, people knew how to live collectively. as a small community, not an overpopulated, selfish... goddamnit, i cannot focus. i cannot keep a sentence or idea going in one direction, what the fuck happened to my mind? and listening to the idiot next to me, seriously. i miss my dual monitor computer with windows xp and skinned exclusively by wb skinner. what a healthy thinking environment. at least i could decide what movie to watch then.

but okay. back to the point. food and smoke is taken care of through a family, and shared in a small community. no need for a fuckin' starbucks, if you want a hot chocolate, there's plenty in the community kitchen that we're all so used to by now that we just call it the kitchen... see the elevator ride i have to go through just to think on your level? anyway. i know native americans were doing shit like this before you came over here and set up your fucking syndicated starfucks franchise clones... and i picture this shit functioning much better than you and your security guards. it sickens me how paranoid you are. and that your paranoia is regulation strength. this is fucked.

anyway, trying to stay focused. tobacco and weed are just crops, just like food and house fillings and burrito coverings. and clothing, if necessary. see, clothing should only be necessary if it's cold. if it's warm outside, mister tree doesn't have a badge, so i say we're good, go pick me some naked tomatoes, hunny. boy, what a concept, i know, but hang on, it's about to get cool for people with short attention spans finally. see, when it's finally made into a movie, we can just montage all this shit, and add a bunch of special effects to make it look like you're actually having this revelation... don't worry, they call that post production, the interview is always the boring part, and yes, you look awkward in your tie, moving on.

now. okay. food, smoke, wood. throw a few cows in there, a couple chickens, have mark fuckyerbook hanging from your tree, and you're good to go. kids are fed, clothed, medicated properly by nature, no prescription required, no one to tell you 'use only as prescribed by doctor', cause weed's not that dangerous, duh. okay, see? simple? yes?

okay, now, once your children and your necessities are taken care of for generations, what else do you need?

okay, sure, say you have a talented kid you want to send to los angeles to get famous and make a movie. fair enough, good question. thanks to the industrial revolution, or what's left of it at this point, it is still possible to take a plane to cancer city and put on a little tap and dance show for the city lights people. when you're done, you can come back to your home and not have to worry about a homeless drug addict sleeping on your couch.

say the kid brings back a bunch of money, or whatever is actually valuable at that point in our evolution. say he brings home three more cows, another chicken, and a bunch of pot seeds.

and here's one more thing. imagine that when you send your kid to los angeles to get famous and bring back the next three years of worry free life... try to imagine this... when he gets there... the asshole in the suit and tie isn't there. that's right, the douchebag that has to dictate every step against your will... yeah, that guys just no longer around. i don't know, maybe the factory stopped cranking out his model number, but he's just gone. when you get there, there are alot of other talented artists that will collectively guide you on your process of producing and releasing your art, whatever format it may come in, because there's no boss to fuck everything up. you don't have to drive for miles to get to each different place to get this accomplished, no, you can do it all right in one small little area where all these people congregate, and all the tools are at their disposal right there...

this becomes a really large planet when you start seeing it that way, doesn't it?

each part of this earth has its own unique function, so you only have to go there once to accomplish something, and then relax at home and be free to raise your children... wouldn't it be alot cooler when people get famous at that point? you'd never know what you're getting, that would be exciting. not just opening another plastic box with another plastic barbie doll in it, this would be... well... i'm still getting ahead of myself.

anyway. so that's daily life. you wake up, make food, smoke something, send an email or two, download the wallpaper of the day, then you go out and do some farming, your wife drives to the store and gets the necessary things, you teach your kid how to ride the tractor, so now while you're trimming the weed, your kid can be out driving through the crops of corn or whatever the fuck. i never cared much for corn. or the band.

so, now what other needs are there. oh, yeah, social shit and dating and sex and mingling and singling and shit like that. first of all, as far as this goes, get the idea of alcohol the fuck out of your head, and this will be alot easier to understand. that's step one. we'll take a minute so you can actually do what i'm telling you. go ahead, get the images of beer bottles and wine and all that horse shit, get a broom, and sweep it all the fuck out your ear, and we'll move on when i see the last flake fall. i'm waiting. get the fuckin' broom.

you missed a spot.

don't think i don't see your secret stash of bottles in the cellar. you think i'm joking.

okay, now, socializing and sex. oh, yeah, and forget about monogamy, too. you're gonna need to relax on that a lot.

in the community that consists of... say... thirty families. they've all been raised together for generations, they trust eachother, and they've intermingled with other communities around the world every five or so years, so they're good on the whole 'stranger danger' issue you seem to love to cry about so much. getting the picture here? okay, so... this community has maybe three hundred people in it, give or take. they're capable of anything and everything. if suzie wants to record an album, go to phil's house. if jimmy wants to make a movie, he can do it himself, or go to bob's house for a little help. or he can fly in speed from sweden, and lay down some really bad ass tracks. hell, if he wanted, he could sell those just as bonus tracks, or alternate versions of the album... who said guns n' roses was the only band that could make an alternate lyrical version of 'don't cry'? who said pink floyd was the only band that could make a double album? i'll tell you who. record execs. suits and ties. they hold no guitars, they hold pens and credit cards, and that's all they're good for, but when you take that out of the picture, they become useless, worthless, of no value. you see them for what they truly are. a thorn in what should otherwise be a smooth rose stem. if they can genetically modify oranges, and if i'm smoking hydroponic weed, then you can figure out how to grow roses without thorns, thus proving poison wrong, which would reverse the eighties from ever having happened, porn stars never took over the banks and never flooded this neuron with cocaine, and hey, we're back to normal. right?

yeah, fuck no. i know your responses by now, i'm not as stupid as you always think.

but this concept sits very comfortably in my mind. it screams the word 'nature' to me. i guess to me it would sound like whispers, to you it might sound like actual screams, but i use that word poetically, which you have no idea what i'm talking about at this point, which is exactly my fucking point. your perception is fucked, so how you could ever understand me is beyond me. does that make any sense at all to you?

yeah, okay, how about this. if a child ends up really hating their parents, they are free to move and build their own house wherever they want, whenever they want. if the child decides this when they're seventeen, they might actually come back home before the parent dies. that's a good thing. if the child decides this when they're thirty, they have a chance of not making it home before the parent dies, but that's okay, too. it shouldn't matter when the child decides to move away, as long as it's comfortable between the parent and the child. no judge required.

'hey, mom, i'm sixteen, i'm tired of your shit, you suffocate me too much, so i'm gonna move to germany for a few years, get ahold of myself, and i might see you again before you're gone'.

or...

'hey, mom, i'm twenty five, you raised me well, i'm going to go off and use my talents, and i'll send video postcards and recordings of our concerts, and i'll see you in a few years'.

or...

'hey, dad, i'm gonna go sell my pussy for six cows, i'll be back on twosday'.

to me, that seems so much better than stuffy houses in clustered suburban neighborhoods not letting their daughters see the light of day until the clock says midnight for exactly eighteen years, and then booting them out the door with demands of bringing back paychecks to help with the mortgage... yeah.

i'll be right back, i'm gonna go puke, smoke, shit, and shoot someone. mind watching my computer?

okay, that required two cigarettes, but we're good to go.

you're literally that retarded. in the eyes of evolution, you are neanderthal, you are still pond scum.

you can't keep burning what you fear. simple as that. you can't keep poking your fingers in my chest through the badge of a security guard, and using words like 'policy'.

to me, 'policy' is just another word for 'unnatural'. if it has to be dictated by a stupid man, then it's not of natural law, therefore makes no sense, thus is not of logic, and logic is my god, so you're full of shit, get the fuck away.

you can't tell them that. not until you sign a bunch of papers. can you fathom how many papers i'm going to have to sign?

to start my own religion?
to start my own community?
just to purchase the land?
to declare sovereignty?
i'm sure there will even be papers to sign after that point.

you're aware of the fact that... there shouldn't be... right?

after you have started your own religion, your own church, your own community, on your own land, and declared sovereignty to completely tie off... you get that, right? there's supposed to be no more paperwork after that.

am i the only one that sees this?

i know no one else has thought up the whole 'create your own religion' thing yet, cause timothy leary is dead, and we only have scientology and mormonism to count so far. and boy did they go in the wrong directions.

if someone gets the idea into their head, to create their own religion, for whatever purpose or to break away from prior religious foundations, for whatever reason, if someone decides 'i'm starting my own religion'... why is it that none of those idiots could point forward?

joseph smith, the guy who created mormonism.
l. ron hubbard, the goatroach that created scientology.
anton szandor lavey, the dude who created laveyan satanism.
aleister crowley, hp lovecraft, any of these fucks...

you're telling me that out of all those brains, no one could see what was next?

if their brains were freight trains, i picture their headlights gunked up with mud, and pointing off into the darkness.

we have michio kaku, he's still alive. richard dawkins, alex jones, they're still alive.

why, god, why was it my brain and only my brain that had to see this road, and why is no one else on it, why did you put me here two hundred years before anyone else would show up, why, god, why! why did you put this image in my mind, and not syndicate it before i got here! why, god, why! why can't you even answer me!

i mean it's obvious i'm here for a reason, but the fact that you can't even confirm that, leaves me with what?

for evidence, for an answer, for proof, for a direction or a lack of hope, anything! why!

synchronicity, my ass, the islands of monkeys are all dead. you put me here at the wrong fucking time!

at a time when you're not even there. the bible points upward. but the voice lies within.

left is right, right is wrong, up is down, and backward is the norm. black is truly white. i see no grey.

my therapist tried telling me once to not see things so black and white.
i told her, it's hard to see colour in a black and white world.

especially when you are the colour.

imagine how the first colour television felt.

among that sea of black and white neanderthals. all staring at him, like an abomination.

you'll never understand me. i see out through my eyes. you never will.

is it all because you never walked down grant road in tucson arizona?
is it because i never fell for your seductive mind games?

for now, all we know is that we oppose. visions clashing. the future of this world, prisoner in my mind. suffocated by the dust of the past.

for years now, my third eye has been seeing my daughter running infront of me on the porch, to bring something to the house for dinner... sun setting over the trees... just trees around us... surrounded by trees... no cops. no security guards. no social security office surrounded by homeless people. no big noisy downtown with a cnn building glowing. just a couple cows. maybe one of them could moo on queue. little swish of the tail.

a dog that doesn't bark much. a couple cats sitting on the porch, keeping watch.

we have technology now. we understand farming better. is it not easy enough to cut out all the industrial concrete cancer? we no longer need disposable coffee cups every morning, it's safe to use a mug, no one's gotten sick from germs in the last fifty years, unless the germs were put there by some government employed cia scientist, so what do you say we just relax. all the laws that have been written because some moron shit his pants in a grocery store eighty years ago, if we could let those go, and stop being suffocated by them, restricted at every turn by the past eighty years of 'don't do this because some moron did it once and we've been scared shitless ever since'... can we let that shit go yet?

we don't need all this concrete. we don't need seven billion people here. we don't need radio stations syndicated in every major city. new york doesn't always need to know what los angeles is doing. it was fun for a while, and we really enjoyed the video chat, but i'd like to be left alone now, and i think the earth would, too.

sorry, but i think i can hear her voice better than you, so unless you want to debate me on that too, shut the fuck up and leave me alone.

it's because of you that i had to get famous before achieving this. i wish i could have been born into the world where i could have had less trouble finding a soulmate, having children, and not having my children taken from me, and having my life destroyed by senseless chaos and irresponsibility of people claiming responsibility, just so i'd have to come to fame central and do the same fuckin' thing janis joplin did in the sixties, to find out that a: it hasn't gotten any easier yet, and b: people are even more greedy and apathetic now... all that just to get my kids back out of your hands, when you wouldn't just listen to me in the first place, i had to put millions of dollars behind my voice to boost it up loud enough for you to hear, must mean you were never intending to listen, and if that's the case, you shouldn't be in charge of anything, because in the community i just described, you would be the crappiest parent in the village. so... take that however you want it, i gotta get to dinner.

at least i got that out of my head so it won't cause a brain tumor now. i swear half of these blog posts lately are just three year old blood clots or some shit. maybe once i get enough of these out, i'll be able to think again.

Sunday

Well, I don't know what to do. I had a small shopping list this morning, I got that done by one. Smokes, weed, food, socks, qtips, batteries, still need a new sharpie. Spent a couple hours in Starbucks, then came out before four to catch Jesse going into work, but didn't see him. Even texted him. Texted Claudia for the open mic, no reply. Missed the thing at three to get a free sleeping bag. Now I'm just kind of lost and don't know what to do. I'm sitting here with two bags of food, a dollar left in my pocket. I don't know if I even feel like watching a movie just yet, it's four thirty, and not quite dark enough to end my day, but I don't want to go back into Starbucks, dinner's not till six, which is past my bedtime, and too far of a walk, especially when I have food. What the fuck do I do? Sixty percent charge in the phone for music, eighty percent on the laptop for movies. Fuck it, hurry up and set, sun.

crusader

dear lord, i'm gonna start killin' me some methheads today, lord. if you can't keep these immature, ignorant, bad decision making scumfucks away from me, i'm gonna start killin' them all, lord. there's no excuse for this shit. if you can't do your fucking job, and keep them away from me, then i'm taking your sword in my fucking hands, and i'm gonna fuckin' kill them all. you just won't get paid for it. i'mma start killin' me some methheads, lord. ever since i was a kid, i always wanted to be some vigilante scumkiller, and it looks like i should have been, cause you couldn't do your fucking job. your cops can't keep these scruntfucks away from me, you certainly can't do it, so i'm gonna start killin' them all, lord. i'mma sling blade the fuck out of this scourge. it's time we had a conqueror. call me vigilante, call me crusader, call me whatever you want. call me disillusionment, i don't care. just call me evolution.