claudia, part one

okay, claudia. here's my reply to your first email, finally. sorry for the delay, i don't get much time to think these days. i'm sorry you tried this with another homeless guy, they aren't all nearly as coherent as i am, and i apologize for that. if there was one homeless person that it would be worth helping out, it would be me, and i can guarantee that. most homeless people are lowlifes you should be afraid of. i don't blame you for that, i feel the same way. and you're very welcome, i'm glad i could help you.

since we couldn't start early in the morning, i'll give you the beginning of my days here. i wake up off the concrete when the sun rises, sometimes before. i'm a morning person. i walk up to seven eleven, and beg someone for a hot chocolate. i don't do coffee. i sit and smoke and have my morning, try to piece some thoughts together for what i want to do that day. finding motivation for actual priorities is nearly impossible. especially lately, i seem to be thrown off track. when i'm done smoking, i usually sit in starbucks till the library opens.

i used to have a bit of a daily routine at least, which kept my mind functioning better. up in seattle, there was breakfast, lunch, and dinner under the bridge by sixth and columbia. eight am, one pm, eight pm. then, just up the street, every weekday at four pm, on ninth and columbia, at saint james cathedral, they would have a nice indoor dinner with deserts and milk. actual glass plates, metal forks, mugs, a tray. so i basically had four meals a day up there, all within one little area. between those, you could find me at the downtown library. being without a daily routine of at least more than one free meal has been destructive on my ability to focus and think.

the only free meal in this area is on sycamore and romaine after six pm, when it's already dark. it's easier at this point to just find a seven eleven and beg someone for cheap food. but honestly, i'm so sick of cheap food. i miss being able to eat and enjoy it. i miss quiznos. i haven't had a steak in years. i would give anything for a prescription for oatmeal at this point. and weed. i don't like going down to the sycamore and romaine meal, i don't like being around that many other homeless people, shuffled into a single file line, assimilated, told what to do, how to do it, who to be, what to act like, what laws i must obey, and given no options. i remember, working jobs, you used to be able to go into the human services department or whatever, and request what they call a 'reasonable accommodation', if you have some disability or some reason that limits your ability to work. for example if you need a pillow to sit on, and they don't allow pillows for whatever stupid childish reason. i find humanity whines too much, and always gets what they want, but neglects those like me, who need. we don't get wants. people with homes will never understand that, simply because they don't have to. their leaders made this world safe for them, but not us.

i wish i could convey to them what it feels like to be an outcast; cast out from a society we didn't want to participate in in the first place. fake plastic people with fake plastic masks, fake plastic smiles if ever, looking down their nose at you like they're better than you, when they're truly not. delusional humans that think themselves above another human. i've always been fascinated by that mentality, so much so that i truly want to study it, like freud would have, and come up with some sort of diagnosis, though they would never listen to it, simply because... they don't have to.

anyway, that's where i am now. in starbucks, which i prefer to call starfucks. it's seven:fifty am. i wish i could explain to the starbucks people why i don't want to buy their products. that i'm honestly just here for the 'free wifi'. i hate starbucks, i hate anything popular, that the masses shove down their gullets every day. i don't do coffee, only hot chocolate, and the hot chocolate at starbucks fucking sucks, it tastes powdery and nasty, and it's way too expensive for even a small. two fifty for a small, three fifty for a large, same at mcdonald's. why go there for crap ass powder water, when i can get a large hot chocolate from seven eleven for two bucks, it tastes better, it's creamy, and i can flavour it up with creamers, make it really nice. and an optional donut add on deal is only twenty more cents. i wish i could tell starbucks that. but they can't afford to listen, or it's 'against their policy', or whatever stupid excuse. ignoring the fact that i could have a policy all my own.

which is why i need to start my own religion, but we'll get to that later. if i could be completely honest with you, there are a few things i desperately need, that would make my life so much better right now, and i would actually feel capable of succeeding, pulling this off, following my dreams, accomplishing and achieving my goals from step one. i just need a little help with that first step, and i promise you, i can take it from there. i have begged so many people, since i started traveling.

i started traveling in june of twenty fourteen, i had finally gotten free of the vortex prison that was my hometown. i will never ever go back there. that place destroyed everything it could, more than just my life. it is the definition of death on this planet, to me. toxic central point of all the hatred and animosity in this world, a cancerous clusterfuck of misery. and they wallow in it. especially my family. when i escaped that hell, i got flown up to spokane, washington. i left tucson on may thirty first. my mother would pass away exactly one year later. to the day. june first, twenty fourteen, was my first full day in spokane washington. the reason i was flown up there only took nine days to fall apart, thanks to the mother of my children, though she would blame me as always. so on the morning of june tenth, after just having overcome homelessness twice on my own, i found myself homeless in spokane. one evening, around the end of july, i stood over the spokane river, watching a sunset, myself among nature and only nature, silence, and had a revelation that took about an hour to fully bloom. and i realized... i no longer have any hands hanging onto my feet anymore. i'm free to go wherever i want. be whoever i want. i'm free. finally fucking free. after thirtyfive years wasted on other ungrateful people, i finally only have me. i was very glad to be alone, for the first time in my life, truly alone. no one else to bitch at me and blame me for shit. i'm fucking free.

so, standing there watching the sunset that evening, facing west from spokane (eastern washington), i decided i would rebuild my life in the big city, and pursue my talents finally. the end result of all of this, will be to get myself away from all people. i want to live in the woods with my children, and be left alone. i've never liked people, i've always been very antisocial, but coming from a family who's really good at talking to people... i got this. so i went to seattle. i got there on greyhound on august seventh. it would have been august first, six years after i lost my cat sputnik, but my bank loves to delay things and fuck my life up as much as they can every month, knowing i'm on disability. i wish i could sue bank of america, but poor people just don't matter to banks, we're irrelevant.

i want to design a little comic thing, of a guy getting raped in the ass, in the middle of the street, infront of a bank of america. next picture shows the bank of america employee zipping up and walking back into the bank. third picture shows an old lady asking the guy in the street, 'aren't you going to do something about that?', and the guy simply says 'he works for the bank'.

anyway, i don't want to ramble on too much, i want to try and stay focused, cause i do talk too much, and i apologize for it constantly, but there's my mornings for the time being. i will send this just to let you know i'm ready for the day. i'm up at starbucks on sunset and la brea, my phone is charging as i write this, and... sorry, i was just distracted by things i don't like to look at. or, i should say, things i don't like to have to look at while i'm homeless. if i'm too poor to partake in these luxuries, i would like to not see them, but it's forced on me, i have no choice. i think that's wrong, and i'll try to go into that more.

so here's the first bit. i'll be sending more later. thank you again for choosing the right homeless person to do this with. personally, i would not have chosen any other, especially if i were actually intending to pick their lives up off the street and hit the restart button. which i wish i could do. i wish i had the money, to drive down a street, find a homeless person, pick them and all their shit up, pack them in the car, take them to a motel, pay for the motel, pay for food and clothing and most importantly, some education, and try my hardest to not let them destroy this rebuild. to get them as far away from the drugs and alcohol as i can using inspiration, because i know no other way. i've kept myself away from alcohol and alcoholics and drugs and drug addicts my whole life, i'm managed to do this well so far, and i never intend to become one of them. i never intentionally destroyed my own life, though that's what 'they' would have you believe at all cost. it's always just me, it's always my fault, whatever goes wrong, it's always my fault, i'm the world's scapegoat, shovel your shit on me...

people will never understand, and i can prove that on a fucking bar napkin. they will never care.

thank you again, claudia. can't wait to see you. smooches and hugs. thank you!

dear starbucks

here's a brilliant idea. everything i'd like to say to people. everything that needs to be explained for anyone to understand a fucking thing about me, and that i'm nothing like you, never gonna be. every idea i've had. every dream inspired by pain. every change i'd like to see in the world. every good thought i have every day. i'm gonna try my hardest to put it all here. i know there's already too much text on this site for any one human to read in a hundred year lifetime, but i don't give a shit, this shit still has to be read by someone. to whoever wants to be a scholar of mine, enjoy. get a good look inside this brain.

so here's my first attempt. it's what i'd like to say to starbucks. but i never get to, because money is too important.

next time i'm using their 'free wifi', and they ask me to buy something.

i'm honestly just here for your free wifi. i'm poor, i hate money, i'd like nothing more than to see the end of this machine. i do not like starbucks, i do not support you in any way, i hate your products, your hot chocolate sucks, it tastes like powder and it's way too expensive, and i fucking hate overpriced microwaved 'health' food. i think you people are fucking out of your minds, and because of that, this is what i dream of to replace you.

i'd like to have my own coffee house. but first of all, it would so not be a coffee house. coffee houses are for loner clones to feel accepted and appreciated among strangers to comfort them as they fear what they can't even think about, the fact that we're spinning on a planet, in darkness, not knowing a fucking thing about why, so their insecurities find them drinking horrible tasting shit out of a stylish mug that says some catchy catch phrase on it, thinking you're better than anyone else, and... yeah, do i have to say anymore? you're in a fucking coffee shop.

my coffee shop would only serve hot chocolate. and if you walk in with just one dollar to your name, you can have as much hot chocolate as you want. the restroom and wifi are free to use, no purchase necessary, and yes, there is a smoking section. in fact, ninety percent of the place is smoking, the tiny little nonsmoking section is next to the restroom, which is partially outdoors. why should smokers have to smoke in the wind. no, that's the wrong way around. nonsmokers. listen up. if you're not smoking, you belong in the wind. duh. you're idiots, that's just nature, which proves how unnatural you are, can't possibly smile and enjoy the moment now, which is why i fucking smoke. but incase you don't fully understand the physics of the deal, i'll explain it to you. you see, the wind is a smoker's enemy. it's not easy to light a cigarette or a bowl when the wind is blowing. also, if the wind is blowing, it burns your cigarette down too fast, and also wastes your bowl. no, see, smokers belong indoors. you're not smoking, thus you belong outdoors. you fucking imbecile.

yes, i also know how to spell connoisseur without spellcheck. can we focus please?

i might have to explain it in even simpler terms for you, i know how hard it is to cram a new idea into that locked box of yours. like a treasure chest filled with dinosaur fossils and bad dreams. eugh.

anyway. picture this. you're standing outside. it's a windy day. and you're trying to light a cigarette. the reason you're lighting the cigarette is to relieve the stress of the asshole in the store you just came out of, who wouldn't let you buy your hot chocolate, and just wanted to be a childish prick this morning. so you step outside and try to light a cigarette to relieve that stress, but the wind won't let you light it. yeah, see? more stress, right? there you go, i feel the blood working its way through your capillaries. this is good, now pour some wheaties in your bowl, and we'll move on to part two of this little explanation.

okay, now. picture this. a smoker is sitting inside his comfy, cozy apartment, smoking a cigarette, and a bowl. you're standing outside in the wind, waiting for a bus, and the wind is blowing your hair. is that causing you any stress? yeah, fuck no it's not, shut up and quit your bitchin', you've gotten to whine and bitch and moan and complain for too fucking long, you stupid weakling little pussy, it's time you get fucked out into the cold. fuck you. here's a pack of smokes, go fuck yourself, and enjoy the fucking concrete, you turdfuck. spoiled little whiny bitch. 'officer, he's smoking', god, you should have been shot right then, you should have been an abortion, no, even better, you should have been a fucking miscarriage, to weak to be born, you fucking puss. god, bitching about smoke, what the fuck is wrong with you, are you that spoiled and pampered that an earthquake would really just rock your fuckin' world, wouldn't it? how much could you bitch about then, i wonder? 'sir, the earth just swallowed my purse, and i don't know how much to pay to get it back!', you fucking repulsive moron. fuck you and your coffee shop. you make me sick. you make me more sick than my smoke makes you, is that a fair enough fucking statement yet? can you shut your weakling little fuckin' mouth, get that faggy high pitched voice back in idiocracy where it belongs? you bitched and got your way. you got the whole fuckin' restaurant, you got the whole fuckin' plane, and you don't even smoke! if you smoked, you'd probly have less to complain about, you fucking puss! come stand infront of my bulldozer, please.

see, you belong outside. because you don't smoke, and you're a weakling who needs some road miles, some smoke in your lungs, some cancer in your balls, then you can come back inside. i wish i could find better words to say that. i honestly do, because i know you'll resist understanding it, you'll deny it till your face looks like a smoker! you'll do anything to refuse that knowledge. to keep your weak little self safe from anything that may turn you into an adult, grow hair on your balls, or put a pulse in your fuckin' useless vein. how did you end up on this planet, it's not ready for weaklings and fragile bitches yet, give it another two million years, asshole. looks like you're ahead of your time. me on the other hand, pall mall just went on sale, looks like i'm right on time. get the fuck lost.

so, to summarize. i want to make sure you truly understand this before i go. i want to cram this into your head against your will. rape it into your fucking brain. because i believe this information is mandatory for our survival. for us to survive a weak little experiment like you. you don't get to bitch about smoke anymore. you don't get the comfy cozy indoors, when you're not using it to block the wind from your cigarette. back in the dawn of time. man invented fire. then he discovered tobacco and weed, and tried to smoke them. but it was windy, so he built a house. poof, there you have it, the dawn of civilization and its true purpose. fuck you. you think you know everything. cavemen were smokers. those weren't aliens on the cave walls, those were cigarette burns. if they were aliens, they would have shown up by now, and believe me, they would be smokers, too. why do you think they built a space ship? to block the fucking wind! you fucking mormon!

here's a catchphrase. you're dumber than a scientologist. they're such wannabe scientists, they couldn't even spell the word right. put that on fuckin' twitter. what, are you trying to be a scientist and a psychologist at the same time, and call it a religion? you fuckin' bloated goat.

so, you see, smokers need walls, because wind is not smoker friendly. you are also not smoker friendly. this is my fuckin' coffee shack. if you don't smoke, you sit outside. you freeze your ass off. if you want to get warm, you light a fuckin' cigarette like a man. and if you bitch about one fuckin' thing, you're banished. vanished. exiled.

why can't we embarrass a weakling like you? do you have too much money? well, i'll take care of that. i won't take your money from you. i won't need to once i take the importance away from money. all i have to do is offer another option. you weren't even a good gambler. you didn't bet on me. fuckin' loser.

so, do you get it yet? buildings are for blocking wind. for smokers. we built the fuckin' things. construction workers are smokers. dickweed. do your research. buildings block wind. they're obviously designed for smokers, built by smokers, you get the fuck out. better hurry, i'm lightin' up. get the fuck out. don't let the revolving door hit you in the ass repeatedly on the way out, cause ted here might film it and stick it on youtube. fuck off now.

you're the weakling. you're the whiny little bitch. you're the pussy. and i just fuckin' proved it.

i also simultaneously destroyed starbucks and all their clones and plastic steeple filling people. i feel like a suckin' down a boston creme donut. i also offered a better idea than starbucks. and told nonsmokers what they really are, all in one blog. i'd say that's a success for my first overdue heart chunk release. blog style.

plastic ass implants

fragment thoughts (part of an email i sent to sandra)... i really should unplug and pack up and go get something to eat, get another pack of smokes, and more weed.

i'm sick of sitting in this starfucks, seeing women walk in here, and i swear to logic, that they have butt cheek implants.

i'll repeat that. these women in los angeles are getting butt cheek implants. that should be illegal. fuck all men, and fuck monogamy, i just want to touch. you fake creatures concerned with perfection make me feel like a criminal. butt cheek implants?

then, i walked out of the starfucks to have a cigarette, and saw this girl getting into her car. way too perfect of an ass, and i seriously, honestly, just wanted to say, 'is that thing real', but i have no confidence. i fear that i'll get the same reaction out of every clone. fear. i want to wear a tshirt that says 'i like to be sexually harassed'.

i had an idea i posted on fetlife, i started a group on there called 'the green ribbon society', that if people were okay with being touched by random strangers, they could wear a green ribbon on their clothes, on the part of the body they wanted to be touched on. no one joined the group. i have zero friends on fetlife. i had more friends on facebook than i had on fetlife.

i know nerds to exist in this world. where the fuck do i find them?
i know metalheads exist in this world. where the fuck do i find them?
i know openminded people live in this world. where the fuck are they?

what social network. what website. what forum. what social meeting area. where can i post an ad saying i'm looking for unemployed people because they're actually fun and worth spending time with? do single women still exist? is there one woman on this planet who's still single, or have you all chosen the wrong cloned ken doll?

i would love to find the one single woman in this town... who i could bet money... that she WOULDN'T fuck the big black guy before she'd fuck me. that girl. where is she.

if i see one more woman walk into this starfucks with butt implants...
if i see one more petite white woman holding hands with a big black homie asshole...
if i see one more girl strung out on meth because it's what her boyfriend's doing...
if i hear one more lady say 'i have to ask my boyfriend'...

am i doomed to be this alone in such an agonizing... jesus... i just lost that thought. why is that shit legal!

it's like you're wearing fish hooks and snagging every eyeball you walk past. and it's legal. weed is demonized, meth is rampant, and butt cheek implants...!

fake tits weren't bad enough? we can't learn from dolly parton's mistake? is that dolly parton, or a fuckin' blow up doll! they replaced dolly parton with that advertisement thing from the mall, what the fuck is going on here, is that really just the spirit of jerry springer stuffed into another corpse? i guarantee you, if you let me close enough to smell it, i can give you your answer. but then i'm stuck wasting my time sniffing jerry springer instead of touching those curves that i've never gotten to feel in thirty seven years of your excuse for my life. all i've ever wanted to do was touch. because men before me have fucked that up and caused women's paranoia to fly out of control... i can't just touch.

i watch naked news, and hear them talking about 'going down to hedonism ii'. boy, i'd love to be there, i'd rock that place.

then, i get there, and i don't rock that place. i find out i'm actually boring and vanilla compared to all these ultrasluts who have enjoyed a much more experienced life than i have. but if you paid money for all that sex, i don't consider it authentic, genuine experience, i consider it nothing more than a product in your bellies, but since i'm not the majority, and i have no one backing me up on this theory... you're right, i don't rock. i'll be over here in this corner, since it's reminiscent of the last corner. enjoy being 'in'.

those people need to go. i know i'm not the only one who thinks so, i've seen so many movies where those 'top shelf rich people' are made to look like fake plastic halloween creatures lost in a masquerade of mirrors and lies. my friend who works at this seven eleven, jesse, was telling me just last night, about how he and his lady were invited to a party at someone's house up in the hills, and they're all sitting around... someone gets this question going, saying 'who's the first person in this world you would shit on', and people answer in a circle, and jesse and his lady are sitting there at this dinner table, being a part of this event, and he said that he couldn't stop thinking in his head, 'fake, fake, fake, fake, fake, fake, fake, fake, fake, fake, fake, fake, fake, fake...'. the laughter. the masks. the smell of plastic. who are those people, and why must they act that way. what are they getting out of this experience. would i be too analytic in that moment, is that why they won't let me in? as if i wanted to go in there.

your alcohol.
your leashed dogs.
your credit cards.

god, i hate it all.

is it really that bad to want to touch?

i just want to let my fingertips study the curvature, the texture, the squeeze, something i've been curious about since i could remember, and i've gone through thirty seven years of 'i know i'm not going to be able to touch that, so i won't even ask'. finding out that the right people do exist out there, but they're all on some fuckin' island in the bermudas fucking the snot out of eachother, and paying no mind to those who can't be there. dear lord, have i ever been that selfish?

i can't even answer my own questions anymore. i know my mind is slipping. why can't i tell someone about it? why is there no one to tell? out of seven billion of you, not a single one of you can care about this, to step away from the herd, and say 'there's something that needs my attention, my care'. there's a herd of horses, galloping down a path, people riding them, a massive amount of migrating people, an entire community of families migrating by horse to a new location... along their path, there's a guy... waste deep in quick sand... how many times has our collective eye seen this scenerio? can we inquire back that far? can we count the times?

the herd runs past. you hear the clop clop of the horse hooves. there's always one magical lady in the group. her eye has seen this before it happened. she recognizes out of familiarity. they come around the corner, past the bushes. she stops, reaches down, pulls the man out of the muck, throws a blanket around him, gets him up onto the horse, and catches up to the pack.

is this herd really stupid enough, that they won't see me, that they'll leave me here, that they don't have that magic woman?

my mind keeps going back to that room that jesse described. the party. the fake plastic people, trying to be a part of this ancient dark moment in humanity, trying to relive it at all cost, trying to keep it going, as if it's still fun. no, i can tell you exactly what it was. i was there. a bunch of drunken buffoons around a campfire one night were joking about how stupid this shit was, and you saw it from afar, and misunderstood, and thought they were having fun that way, and in the darkness, there was no one to tell you...

fucking butt implants! goddamnit, i can't fucking think with that shit! it's worse than mister boom boom driving by every five minutes, god fuck!

i could put a porno on my computer screen, and still not be able to keep my eyes glued to it for more than two minutes, this is just stupid. why do you women have to do that shit! why do you need a fake ass? what man are you trying to attract? i can tell you right now, just tell me the position you want to be fucked in, select your speed, and i can get the job done a lot better than mister plastic ken. no credit card involved, no diamond ring necessary, no fuckin' batteries required, get on about your day.

denying men the one thing we were ever good at, and instead putting a hammer in our hands and expecting us to hit nails with it... god, was that our stupidity, or yours? which one of us should be blamed for that one?

i'm tired of feeling nothing but plastic all around me. where are the fucking hearts! i know they're here, that's why i came to cancer city, could someone please get all these clones out of my fucking way so i could see the hearts! please, is there a god there, who might have a big broom...? is there an alien race who might have a ray gun? a bug zapper? a flyswatter? anything?

why does this planet need this many fake, empty, plastic clones, and why do so many of them need fucking butt implants! hunny, i assure you, your ass was just fine before you made it look like a fucking cartoon, is that really what men are fucking these days? cartoon women? designed by a fuckin' factory assembly line? what guy would... i can't figure this out. what guy... that ass exists. so that must mean that some guy is fucking it, and i'm betting that he's hogging that ass to himself, instead of going around and saying 'guys, you gotta see this thing, look what i got!'. that's how i know, for a fact, that sharing doesn't exist anymore. sharing. no one has any idea what sharing is anymore. no, it's not ozzy osbourne's fuckin' wife. sharing. sharing. fucking sharing.

sorry, this email is probly offending the crap out of you at this point. i know this is crude shit, but it needs to be figured out by someone, so we can think of something better. i'm sick of sitting alone on the opposite end of the spectrum from that plastic ass that looks like something elmer fudd should shoot at. this is stupid.

fucking ass implants!

could we get anymore fake? plastic? is this really necessary? how invisible do i have to get in this sea of plastic before something changes?

unfortunately for you... i studied my history. and i think marilyn monroe was more beautiful than paris fuckin' hilton. betty page had more talent than mrs. butterworth.

i melted plastic once when i was a kid. in the back yard with a cigarette lighter. i couldn't find any ants, and my grandmother's magnifying glass was too small.
i melted plastic once when i was a kid. something tells me, i'm going to get to see that again, on a much grander scale, very soon. a sea of burning plastic.

i can already smell it.

i'm really going to try and gather some motivation this next week. i should have learned as a boy, i can never rely on anyone else. my family was right. to ask others for inspiration is to show your weakness.

if the world i see is so much stronger than this world now, if people need strength, then the strength coming from me... i've underestimated a lot.

fuck it, i need to eat.

god, get me out of this plastic kiddie pool. please. sometime soon. if i see one more fake ass, i'm gonna deflate the fuckin' thing.

​​'why's your ass draggin' on the ground, sweetie?'

'i don't know, but that guy's finally smiling, and the idiot on the corner finally pulled his pants up, so i guess i did something right!'.

maybe the planets have aligned again...
maybe carl sagan's coming back...
maybe we're balanced again, and everything will be okay...

this stuff was made in new york city?! get a rope!

email to sandra

well... we're off to a bad start. i'm sorry, give me a second to think where to start. my morning was ruined, i wanted to sit outside the starbucks like i usually do, this morning to enjoy my hot chocolate and a cigarette, and try to slowly enjoy my morning and worm my way out of pain a little, but i had to immediately come into starbucks to start typing this up, hot chocolate is still full, it'll be cold if i write too much. i'm sick of people tearing down my fucking dreams like those dreams are theirs to tear down, why the fuck does everyone have to stomp on my fucking dreams before they've even gotten off the fucking ground, why!

woke up this morning next to the cool black rocker dude, d-rock (i hate names with hyphens... i'm like gilbert gottfried when it comes to names). and i start telling him just a couple of things about what i want to do, and he immediately just starts cutting me off, talking too much, talking over me, dominating me and trying to educate me like every other fucking dick hanging male i encounter, and trying to destroy my fucking dreams, i cannot fucking stand that. every 'professional' in the music industry tries to tell me 'the way it has to be done, the way it's supposed to be done, the only way you can do it', and no one realizes...

i'm not doing this to appease or appeal to you, i'm not doing this to get popular, i'm not in it for the money, i'm doing this to destroy your world. thus i'm not going to follow any of your rules, i'm deliberately going to break every fucking rule, just to show most of you idiots, not only can it be done, but you should have already had the balls to do it before i got here, and since you left it up to me, i'm doing it the best way possible, destroy it all in one big fuckin' shot, and i will succeed, i have to. everything i've ever done was and is specifically geared toward taking it down. that's why my first album is full of attention grabbing hits, and the second album, metamorphosis, is probly the most antisocial album you'll ever hear. music that's made to be listened to by your fucking self, in headphones, eyes closed, away from people... this world sorely needs an album like that. my music is not yours to control, and that's the whole fucking point it's getting out there. i am not yours to own, i am not your fucking slave, i don't have to do what you fucking tell me. no one is capable of understanding that, so all they can spit out is 'you're gonna fail'.

then he tried saying that he's asked several people around this area what they think about how i dress, and he says that they've all said that the way i dress scares them, and that it looks too much like the columbine shit.

so i need your help today, and i need jesse's help today. i'm going to make a sign that says...

'the way i dress shouldn't say 'columbine' to you, it should say 'outlaw/rockstar', and those of you who think i'm not a rockstar yet? shows how much you know'.

if you're going to be a rockstar, you need to think yourself a rockstar your whole life, otherwise you're not a real fuckin' rockstar.

don't blame me because you've been on the road and learned so much already, don't take it out on me if they crushed your dreams of making it out of this delusion because you were too weak. and don't tell me a fucking thing about how i dress, i'm not me to appeal to you, to appease you, i'm not doing this for you, i'm not a shiny product that's going to step on stage and put on a little tap and dance show and do what you tell me to do. i'm not doing what you want to see, i'm doing what i've always wanted to see, and my heroes have let me down by not doing it yet. which is why i'm fucking doing it. can you fucking understand that! that's all anyone can ever tell me, is how i'm doing it wrong. i don't have to do it your way, because your way has failed for so many decades now, it doesn't work, because we're fucking homeless!

i fucking hate people. i'm not doing this to get popular, i'm doing this to destroy your popular, and be left the fuck alone!

these minds that are so soaked into the concrete are incapable of understanding that, because that concept cannot absorb into that concrete, hence why i don't fit into your mold. your mold has gotten moldy, and needs to be taken out to the trash. you are not understanding this shit, and there's a reason for that. i'm sick of people telling me 'doing something new has already been done, being original has already been done', why are you telling me that, what's left, if being original has already been done, are you telling me that so i'll have more of a reason to be a clone and do what's already been done before the original shit came into play?

think about it, you dumb fuck! think about that. i'm intentionally not doing what you want, because you need to someday understand the reason behind it. i fucking hate all of you, and i never want to encounter another male as long as i fucking live, i hate you scumfucks, i hate the fact that you have a dick wanging between your legs, it's disgusting on so many levels, and the fact that you can't stop waving that thing in my face trying to dominate me, makes me want to castrate every male on this fucking planet, and put you in a pen on the other side of the earth from the females. you need to be bred out of the human race. you need to be left in the dust of the past. you need to not even be seen on the history channel, i don't want my kids knowing that you were ever around. are you getting this yet? are you fucking understanding any of this yet. i don't have to be you, that's why i'm being me. that's why i dress the way i do. i was wearing trench coats long before those columbine douchebags, and just because they were idiots, does not mean you and all of society should fearfully change your opinion of the outlaw who has always been this way throughout history and all of time. whenever the outlaw shows up, it's because you fucked up. it's not my fault you don't study your history, thus history repeats itself, i'm here to cut us out of that loop so we can move forward. that's physics, something else you should have studied before thinking yourself smarter than me or better than me. you fucking mortard.

what the fuck is wrong with people! do i have to educate you on this fact over and over again, cause i'm getting sick of it, get the fuck off me! let me fucking breathe just once, whaddayasay? you fucking imbecilic cretin. i can't find words that are good enough, and that doesn't happen often. you're scum, you need to be taught that you are not the be all end all to human excellence, i'm an evolutionist, which means my buddy that shows up three thousand years from now, is alot more advanced than you or me... fucking duh! you dumb scrotal fuck! get the fuck off me! get your chains out of my fucking throat, i speak because compared to all of you, i dominate that.

god, i shouldn't have to say this shit, i so should not have to say this shit, especially repeatedly. i fucking hate you! all of you! (present company excluded, wink wink hug hug).

i'm fucking sick of idiots trying to cram me into their mold. will it ever stop happening to me. i can't breathe in your stagnant miserable little reality. thus i'm creating a new one. because i'm ahead of my time, so i have to try and bring the future closer to now than you have ever done. is that making sense to you yet?

i picture the kid in the movie 'jumper', jamie bell, when he's beating the shit out of the other jumper kid, and says the words 'am i gettin' the message through to ya?'

but he says it between punches, so it's paused, and it's in his wonderful irish accent, which makes the scene perfect, and sticks in my memory like a flash drive, i see it every time.

'am i gettin'... the message... through to ya'.

i feel that energy in my arms, and i've never liked that feeling. my hot chocolate is getting cold, so i have to go for now, but i fucking cannot stand having my morning destroyed by dominant male monkey mutherfuckers that think i have to fit into their mold for the simple excuse that it's how it's always been done. mutherfucker, haven't you seen 'the croods'? watch the fuckin' history channel, you have failed. which means someone needs to succeed past you.

it's not my fucking fault if you can't understand that. but thanks for crushing my fucking dreams. i fucking hate you. cramming your shit into my ear, raping your shit into my ear against my will, you scrumfuck goatscrunt scrotalroach festering piece of fucking... you're pond scum! i wish that was more offensive than it is.

on my deviant art page, it says 'personal quote:', and i put 'i'm sure i can think of something offensive'... that right there. that's the guy you're dealing with. the more you study your history, the better you'll understand me. as well as my purpose here. it's not to follow your rules, it's to break them all. to destroy the establishment on which they were built. the foundation must go, so you can build a new one. you dumb fuck.

not everyone has to make your music. not every rockstar has to do what you say. i shouldn't have to tell you that. get a fucking clue. you make me fucking sick. i'm glad i'm not you, i never fucking will be. and you cannot crush these dreams, mutherfucker, because my dreams are finely ingrained into the same blood stream that machine head came from. that's fucking backbone. that's balls. do your fucking research.

gotta go for now.

love.

p.s... i really hope someone actually reads this fucking blog soon, so at least one other human mind can understand who i am and what the fuck i'm saying for once. just to have that compassion would make this so much easier to handle. i fucking hate you people, i'm not supposed to be you, get it through your thick fucking... goddamnit. someone, please, read this fucking blog, understand what the fuck i'm saying, who i am, what i mean to do, fill your fucking brain with it, i would pay billions to have a scholar at this point, i've always wanted someone who understands me, who makes it their mission in life to understand me better than anyone else. that's a vital weapon missing from my glorious arsenal, get the fuck in there already, back me up, cause this shit's about to start. you can tell by what the people say to me, it's getting much closer. i can see it. i've given my links out to so many countless people over my travels, seattle, portland, san francisco, now los angeles, the central point of all disaster and concrete cancer hatred, yes, i know where the fuck i am, i do not need to 'go home', you're not the first assmaggot to come along and tell me 'go back to arizona', which, ironically, two of the people who have, have been black. i find that hilarious. one, a security guard in spokane washington, where i started off traveling, told me 'go back to arizona', i felt like asking him, 'is it legal for you to say that'. 'should you be saying that to me'. 'has it been thirty five point two years yet? or whatever the fuck south park says right before they lynch jared the subway douchebag. what the fuck is going on here, two black people now have told me to go back to arifuckingzona??? am i the only one seeing this, should i post it on youtube? is anyone else doing the math on that? two black dudes, one a security guard, the other a homeless rockstar that thinks himself more of a rockstar than me... what the fuck is going on here, yeah, it's obviously time for me to happen, cause y'all are doin' such a bangup fuckin' job here of telling everyone else how to live your life, you must be proud of all your little minion clones, you know they made a movie about you, and it was ANIMATED!!! hahahahaha! well, yeah, i'm animatrinity, which even facebook won't allow, so... yeah. just proves how fuckin' dumb you really are, and how little you know about me. go fuck yourselfies. i'm an evolutionist. i'm an anarchist. and you're officially fuckin' with the wrong man. you better pray, hope, and fear, that i don't become one of those self made men you occasionally hear about. would someone read this fucking blog already! goddamnit! i've only been asking for fifteen fucking years now! no one reads anymore? what happened to reading rainbow, did they fail too? someone needs to understand, you don't own me, so you need to stop telling me how the fuck to be a you clone, i'm never going to be, and i'm going to refuse, rebel, and resist more than sepultura and otep combined! listen to the song by machine head called imperium. better yet, listen to the live version on the machine fucking head live album, and when you get to the end of the song, you tell me if you think i'm gonna lose. go ahead.

you cheap plastic product fuck. i wish someone would read through my blogs and shit, and tell me the exact number of times i've said this before. that piece of information, i would pay to know. who's up for a little challenge this morning with your scrotal goat fucking frappé latté fuckin' queerfest. stop telling me to 'man up', this is me telling you fuckers to 'man up', or you sometimes use the term 'sack up', well, the sack only holds the balls, so i'll prefer for now to say 'ball up', even though it doesn't sound quite right, i like it because it doesn't sound like you.

fuck yourself.

eyecandy addiction distractions

sitting in starfucks, there was this absolutely gorgeous brunette, thick wavy long hair, absolutely gorgeous face, incredible body, old west style jeans, little vest, cute little orange imac. overheard her on the phone with someone saying she wrote two new songs yesterday. but she listens to the wrong type of music. pop, i assume by her neck movements, although it was cute. but she was one of those, that when a particular type of guy sees her, she's not just a ten, she's the one. guys know, when you see her, your heart leaps out of your chest in her direction, and you have to hold it back, which of course starts leading other things in that direction. but one of those top of the line, high class ladies, that you can't take your eyes off of, and watching her walk away is... just as heartbreaking the first time as it is the last time.

i picture my wife in her little pink heartbreaker panties.

anyway, i wanted to play it smooth, and write something on a piece of paper, and leave it for her just before walking out the door for a smoke... i didn't get the chance, i hesitate too long, and she got up and left before i could muster the courage. but this is what i wanted to write. since i didn't get to give it to her, i figured i'd post it here. for myself. (like anyone else would care, not even other men can be honest about their feelings anymore, they've been so bred out of us, as we've been conditioned to think rather morbidly about... well... shut up, mouth.

i wanted to write down...

you are absolutely, ridiculously, stunningly gorgeous.
like in a way that shouldn't be legal.
you're so far out of my league, that i'm ahead of my time.
but i'd still love to write some music with you sometime.

and then leave my email, incase she was brave enough to not be a total snob. but judging by her hair alone...

i don't think she even used pantene or any of the store shit, i bet she used horse shampoo or some shit.

i miss my hair.

...
anyway, i'm watching 'a million ways to die in the west', and i love that doc brown makes a cameo.

i've started writing sandra on a daily basis, just to have someone to write on a daily basis, which has been much needed for too long now. writing to myself just doesn't do it. i've been begging people this whole traveling year, and even traveling, you'd think i could at least develop a long distance pen pal or something, but fucking no one gives a shit, no one cares. i also love watching neil patrick harris shit into a hat. but aside from that. i've handed my email address out to so many people on this trip. i've met so many people, shared my story with them.

only to attract zero hearts. not even half an eye. this is too sad, why does this world have to be this shitty before i make any changes, and i have to make them all myself before anything gets any better. i'm forced to keep watching these dumb, bald, scumfuck doofus goober loser moron guys with your hot little side sluts on your arms with zero chance of... i miss the days of bull vs bull. the dual to the death for the lady. i actually miss when it wasn't violence, but a guy could just walk up to a lady, speak a little poetry, and win her away from the cornhole she's standing with, did that ever actually exist, or was that just on my planet. when did actual chivalry exist on this planet, if ever. cause all you douchebags that looked more like neil patrick harris in 'a million ways to die in the west', and not the fella who's ahead of his time, good god...

i can't sit in this starfucks anymore, i can't even focus with these women around me, they're too fucking hot. everytime one walks out the door, another walks in, i can't fucking think. i can't touch a single one of them. i fucking hate this planet. i hate those bumperstickers that say 'i'd rather be surfing' or whatever. i'd rather be on the digital purple beaches of arcturus, why couldn't i have been born there. i love this fuckin' movie.

what the fuck was i saying. god, you're a douchebag. if i could unload and speak my mind freely to every person i see... i would be free. and you would be educated. that'll never happen. anyway. but all you fuckin' mustache havin' douchebags, prancing around showing off your wallets like it makes you better than me, you ruined it for the last six thousand years, i'm not even counting your whole bible catastrophe for the last two thousand, you fucks really fucked everything up good, i wish i could tell you that your mamas ain't proud of you, but most of you are long dead. thanks for fucking up future generations. not only do i wish i could throw my voice into the future, i wish i could throw it back into the past and tell you fucks how bad you fucked up, show you what the fuck you did wrong.

my voice isn't even that godly, i'd rather hear michio kaku say it. i would pick george carlin, but he's dead, too. hopefully, when anything finally happens, michio will still be alive by then, and won't have blown himself up in a chemistry experiment, or shot dark matter at himself in sweden, at that collider thing. wherever the fuck he is.

anyway. i guess that's all i had to say for now, i can't keep my mind... there it goes again. and ho! there's another one. time to shut the mouth. jesus lord, hunny, that thing ain't street legal, come on, you're torturing me, cover yourself in a blanket or get the fuck out of here, goddamn. you could drive a matchbox car around that track. fuck, my brain is sliced like a bundt cake. what are you making these fuckin' things out of, man? are you factory producing these women with old marilyn monroe dna or what. this ain't right, there's gotta be a machine to blame behind those curtains.

greed

i'd also like to post here, just for my own future knowledge, that i'm completely unmotivated to deal with bank of america this month. so i'm just leaving my account alone, i'm not even going to look at it till next month.

this month was fucked. last month, september, when i got my disability money, i got myself a laptop, and tried to get my medical weed card so it could at least be easier for me to find weed. but the day i got my weed card, i lost my arizona driver license. i had held onto that for years, all through this homelessness. just when i get the weed card, i lose my id, making the weed card useless. keep in mind, i rarely lose shit, i think the prick at the weed store kept my id, just for the purpose of making the weed card useless. seventy bucks wasted on that. and this laptop. i bought an i5, and it's still slower than my grandmother. i should have bought the i7, but then i would have been sober that month. and being sober for my birth month is a bad idea. needless to say, i had to panhandle alot that month. so when october came around, all i needed to do was get my id replaced. but when i walked to the bank to get my october money, i didn't have my id. so i had to verify that i was me, and could only get five hundred. leaving two hundred in my bank. that whole fiasco stole the motivation to get the id, so now i'm fucked for next month as well, the only way i can get any of my money now, is if i motivate myself to panhandle enough money for a new id before i can even think about getting my money out of the bank. the problem is, i'm really not motivated to panhandle for that, so i doubt that i'm going to get my id and see next month's money.

so, when the motivation for my id was stolen by all that horseshit chaos, i made it to about the eighth before i ran out of money. in fact, i remember. october sixth, the shoulder strap to my laptop case broke. since i hated carrying around a heavy laptop with one hand, instead of having my hands free, i had to spend my last bit of money on a new laptop case. the first one, i got from the pawn shop for free. this one cost me forty fucking bucks. but i walked up and took forty bucks out of the atm, so i could buy more weed. then i walked to the target to buy the laptop case. when i tried to buy it, it didn't take my card. i checked my card, which i seriously dread doing, right there in the store, and it showed that i only had ten bucks left on my card. so to pay for the laptop case, i handed over the cash. the next morning, october seventh, i woke up expecting to have ten bucks on my card still. i walked to the seven eleven to get my hot chocolate, and it wouldn't take my card. so i checked my account again.

bank of america loves to charge poor people a 'monthly maintenance fee', of twelve dollars every month. to maintain what, i wonder. it doesn't cost every person twelve bucks for them to perform maintenance on a website, nor a bank account. i only get seven hundred a month, but they feel that a twelve dollar chuck of that, aka a day's meal, should be theirs. every month. so, when i thought i should have ten bucks left on my card, and walked up to seven eleven to get a hot chocolate, and already made that hot chocolate, only to find out the hard way that my last ten bucks was no longer on my card... yeah. couldn't even get a two dollar hot chocolate because my bank has to be greedy little pricks. ten bucks left on my card, so they took twelve, leaving me in the hole, which will incur overdraft fees, leaving me fucked in the hole this month, so when i get next month's money, that extra two hundred dollars that i saved and held back? it's already gone. they charge overdraft fees for the overdraft fees, did you know that? if you have an overdraft fee, and you don't pay it, they'll charge another overdraft fee. each overdraft fee is thirty five dollars. so for each little one dollar purchase that sends you over, that's at least seventy dollars they can charge you, and the longer it sits that way through the month, the more they charge you.

perfect practice for a disability account, right?

so, i'm just purposely going to let that one dollar turn into overdraft fees, because a: i seriously don't feel like dealing with this bank anymore, i'm fucking fed up with their horseshit, and i'm just waiting to sue them, and b: well, i talk too much to remember b. but yeah, i seriously refuse to deal with that bank this month, so i'm just going to fuck them off, and i can deal with it when i sue them later. i'm sick of this shit, you fucking rich people, how many of our dollars do you think belong to you? and you don't even ask anymore, you just take and take and take. cause that's your policy.

my last ten bucks. but they wanted twelve.

but i am going to draw a little comic of a dude getting raped in the ass in the middle of the street by a bank of america employee, and an old lady asking the dude, 'aren't you going to do anything about that', and the dude just says 'he works for the bank'.

i'm gonna get fuckin' rich off that. because that last ten bucks of mine that they took from me... i had some lady hand me ten bucks down by pink taco just after that, so... looks like their attempts to keep me beneath them are still proving fruitless, but you'd think there would be any convincing them.

i fucking hate you people. the more dollars you spend, the longer you perpetuate this delusion.

and the longer you delay a better life.

i'm getting serious shocks of pain in my right leg today. after each one, my eyesight goes black, and i have to fade back in to my head. that can't be good, but you think anyone would give a good lickin' load of lizard shit? fuck no.

point being. that was my last fucking ten bucks. a day of food for me, but a 'monthly maintenance fee' to you. what are you maintaining on my account, that i have to pay you twelve bucks a month, i'd really like to know.

i asked them that, they just shuffled it off quickly, saying it's standard something something.

i don't give a shit. i'm sick of your money.

you know how many of your dollars i have proudly defaced, writing 'i am bill hicks' on them?

so fuck your ten bucks, fuck your month, fuck it all, i'm not dealing with a fucking bit of it till november, and that's even if i feel motivated enough to get my id, which i didn't even go into all that. i lost my arizona driver license, something rather special to me. i do not want to get a california id, i'd much rather go back up to seattle at this point, and get a washington id, especially considering that i have also lost the weed card, and how worthless it was anyway, and it was easier to get weed in seattle anyway. fuck this shit, i'm hating california. too many rich, greedy scumfucks here. too many sports cars, too many dogs on leashes, too many fucking muscle puffed walking steroids holding hands, i'm so sick of seeing that. these fucking overbuilt doofuses, building all that muscle to do absolutely nothing with it, like driving a truck and never putting anything in the truck bed, which i've seen people do, i'm so sick of seeing that, do you really have to build all that muscle to do nothing good with it other than using it for appearance, especially when you don't even have to look in a mirror to appreciate it, because your boyfriend is just as built... what the fuck is wrong with you people, you've taken this gay thing way too far, which means it's gone into the territory of queer and fag and all that shit, which means i don't have to be respectful to you, cause when the fuck have you been respectful to me, other than ignoring me. i don't get that, really, it's too stupid and childish and immature to understand. you build your muscles not to help others, but to attract a man that looks just like you, so you can hold hands and walk down the street together... you know, when our future selves look back on us right now at this point in our development, they're going to be pretty fucking ashamed at how far you let yourself fall into this weakness. i think even the women are starting to wonder what the fuck we're thinking.

one man questioning his sexuality, is an issue, and needs to be looked at by an openminded family and a therapist.
a bunch of men questioning their sexuality, is a media circus, but can still be handled responsibly by family.

but this many men, the world over, that are so comfortably feeling like they need another man's presence...

i don't care how many steroids you've swallowed, you're weak. and that weakness can be seen by the future, and the eyes of women. so go ahead and keep fucking eachother in the asses, and you can even blame me for being 'homophobic' and insulting you if it makes you feel better. attacked, victimized, scared. sure, wallow in it.

i don't give a fuck about my sexuality, especially when it comes to defining it to any of you. it's my fucking business, and just because i fuck a guy doesn't mean i should publicly call myself gay from that point forward. who gives a shit who you're fucking, i'm much more concerned with what your fucking iq is, because that's the requirement that qualifies you in the eyes of the future. and by future, i only mean the day when you do not exist. because all we have is this moment, and you have put us in this linear prison with dollar bills and concrete and rules, but no, the truth is, we are in this moment, and you just need to not be here. is that clear enough?

that being said...

i am, seriously, very sick of seeing so many muscle crusted men holding hands with eachother, that makes me fucking sick. but i also hate seeing the hot women and the backs of their heads. i know they're never going to see me, so that's why i hate it so much. in fact, ninety nine percent of all men and women sicken the fuck out of me. i don't mean that to offend you, i mean it to inform you. but i know it will just offend you. so go ahead, misunderstand it, call me whatever you want, diagnose me, tell me i'm wrong and call me an asshole, i don't care.

i'm just as sick of seeing that as i am your leashed dogs, so what, are you gonna call me an animal hater now, too? for your information, i'm cat people, but... not like you'd ever be 'informed'.

you don't realize what a waste you are, do you?

we need seven billion 'unique' clones, some driving mercedes, some holding hands, some spending credit cards on expensive food for their families... you know what? when it all comes down to it, this is probably what i hate the most about your 'family unit' mentality.

the fact that you're so possessive, but you tell me i'm possessive if i try to get my hands on one fuckin' thing.

you covet your families in secrecy, fear, and privacy, you shroud your lives in walls of defense.

so when i see your two asian daughters dressed like sluts, walking down the street holding hands with their two asian boyfriends, walking into a starbucks...

i get sick.

i should be able to walk up to any girl, and offer her a compliment, and possibly a touch, and even have the chance of convincing her to walk my way. that's called chivalry. it makes life fair. but you just pass me off as possessive, and allow yourselves to keep living such greedy, selfish lives. no, you're wrong, and your first mistake, was a psychological issue called 'projection', which i know a lot about, i came from a family that imprinted me with all their flaws, i should know. see, i'm not being possessive, i have nothing in my hands, and really need nothing in my hands. infact, i wrote the song about that, but we'll get to that later.

you are possessive, and i can prove it.
wallet. password on your cellphone. pants. dress shoes. car keys. and your daughter dates guys you approve of, which are usually weak, ignorant losers, which makes you feel more manly. you like owning everything.

therefore, you are possessive.

do i need to repeat that?
must i explain that to you again?
shall i walk you through it again?

i'm standing in a black room, talking into a mirror.
that reflection constantly blames me, tells me i'm wrong.
is that because i'm saying the same things to it first?
i honestly feel like i'm trying to educate this mirror, and it's just throwing mud at me.

i wish i could tell a psychologist that, but they don't give a shit.
my mother could analyze it and explain it to you. if she were here.

i'd love to hear carl jung's take on that.

so to all the hippies who blame me for being too filled with hatred, too negative...
to all the facebook clones that purposely misunderstood me and blamed me...

i'm trying to love a mirror, trying to sympathize, educate.
it's hating me, which is filling me with hate.

how do you explain that. it's not my fault the mirror is retarded and doesn't understand how wrong it is. but it could at least stop blaming me for all its problems and accusing me of doing the same thing.

i've explained that so many times, i can't count them all.

one of these days, one of you fuckers is going to finally understand this, and i expect sympathy for me having to stand alone on this ledge all this time. butting my head against every hateful force in our mind, just trying to get to a better day than today. forgive me for calling it the future, i just need a word to look forward to.

a definition to use.

every fat man i see wearing khaki shorts and sandles, pulling a fat wallet out of his pocket, to buy something for someone only he knows, if not himself...

i hate you.
i know you don't deserve that.
and i know you won't be around much longer.
i pray for the end of you.
and all your clones, all your concrete and plastic and hatred. stench.

gone.

the earth is waiting for that, too.

stop deciding if you believe in god, or if you're 'in league with satan', or trying to convey one image while actually practicing the other... it doesn't matter anymore.

i'm on the side of the earth. i hear the voice of the earth. you want to debate me, you're gonna lose.

nature wins. every time. so says evolution. figure that out.

you hot girls, your pink half shirts hanging so loosely off your perfect tits, and the fact that i can't touch...
you don't deserve to exist either. i know you may gasp and get offended, but it's the opinion i'm entitled to.

when it comes down to how close our opinions are to those of nature... don't blame me for being closer to earth than you. you were listening to god, i chose to listen to a voice that was actually talking to me. that's not my fault.

so... when are we going to stop blaming, and start agreeing. hmm?

friday

i know it's going to be any day now when i get that first big phone call, or whatever form it comes in, when i can finally get someone's attention, and get to the right ears, but i really cannot figure out, why can i never get anyone to respond to me or contact me. i'm sick of this shit, i'm sick of these lazy fucking people that say they're going to call you for whatever reason, and never do. you fucks destroy dreams and you know it. you're just getting a tiny chew out of me, like fish food, and then spitting me back out, and i'm sick of encountering so many of you, and wasting my time when i could be talking to actual relevant people and getting something accomplished. you stand in the way of all creativity. you're like disconnected neurons firing in the wrong directions, and breaking vital connections in the consciousness, which i can see with my third eye. go ahead and debate that, i can't wait to make you look like a moron, too. whenever there is a connection to be made, a certain set of words to hit a certain set of ears to accomplish this, whenever there is an idea to be born...

you fuckers standing in my way make everything so impossible, you make everything take longer than it should, and you make every effort a disastrous television commercial like the ones where they lady in the kitchen can't figure out how to use a knife the right way. shit like that used to piss my mother and i off. you do not realize what you're destroying, and how much time and effort you're wasting. you really need to get your fat, lazy ass the fuck out of my way, and let me accomplish a dream. you are the waste. you are the trash. you think yourselves so important, so vital to the human race, the be all end all to human development. you couldn't be more wrong, and the fact that you refuse to realize that only shows the exact size of your ego over the soul. like a shadow pulling a cart that's dragging the dead horses behind it, which you beat and throw to the bushes daily.

that's what your beliefs look like.

if your belief structure could be painted by a psychedelic artist, i'm sure it would look like a prison.

concrete, flat, grey...

bright, hot, stagnant...

i've been there. i've seen it. you're not even wondering where i've been since then. i've seen aeons of evolution since leaving that building, and you think yourself ahead of me. god, can you give me more powerful words, more convincing words, to prove to these people how stupid they look, so they could change their minds without being forced. does it take the criminal seeing their wrongs to make them right, or does that even work.

is it a waste of time.

if only their god could answer this question, we'd know what to do with them. but he's hiding. he can't give away the secret.

what a sad excuse. i even thought so when i was a kid. staring up at the night sky, eight years old, trying to see a god that might stop my grandmother from screaming at my mother.

no one knew. know one even knows that story. everyone who did, either didn't care, or is dead.

my past really deleted itself, didn't it. i guess that's a good thing, it was trash anyway. but when is the new life going to start. it's waiting too long, and this concrete is still revolving around me.

if you wake up every day on the same concrete... is it the same day? could i ask bill murray? could his fictional character answer a theoretical, hypothetical question anyway. do other people have their eyes to the same future, or do i doubt it for a reason.

you'll never understand how much you destroy. clearly. you are incapable of comprehending even the slightest inkling of change in your own perspective. you're perfect, and there is none better.

in the eyes of evolution, we're all waiting for the door to hit you in your ass on your way gone. we're staring at the history books, waiting to see your image smoke itself into the page. we know you don't give half a fuck.

i wish...
i wish...
i wish...

battling your brain is like smashing a brick wall up against a steel... wall.

it's like throwing bananas through a bulletproof window.

but i cannot understand why i keep encountering these waste of time people, that look at me like a fish on their hook, dangling for their attention, trying to show my shiniest side to appeal to their dull eye, for what reason...

and then they just throw me back to the concrete. no interest. my fortune cookie eyes don't appeal to their future.

or what material things they might accumulate.

god, you're...

primitive?
neanderthalic? is that a word? google says it's not.
unevolved?

i get nothing but automated emails, and each living creature i meet on the street that says they'll call me or help me...

maybe i need to repeat myself, since you clearly didn't catch that. that's how i phrase my sentences, i put the proof before the point, so you don't need a fact proven to you repeatedly, i'm making less work for your brain, but you don't understand that, so your brain just shuts down and won't think past it.

i get nothing but automated emails.

which means all those phone numbers and email addresses and links i've handed out...? zero responses. zero looks. zero sign of life. zero fishtooth snags. zero hooks. one hundred percent apathy.

and you excuse that by thinking it's okay.

i'm tired of waiting. you've wasted too much of my time anyway, now i'm walking on concrete day after day with no eye to the next day, no clue what to do each moment, each street, each block, each building.

you fucks that just pick up the fish, give him the evil eye, and throw him back on the concrete, you don't realize, you can't realize, you waste more time and take up more space then could be shown to you on a calculator.

but thankfully, i'm sure someone, someday, will convince you that you're wrong.

and then we can all move on, and enjoy something.

we're living organisms sharing the skin of one big living organism.

what more do i need to repeat to you? we've already been over this, it's your responsibility to catch up. i'm not going to spend the rest of my life in third grade, that's the teacher's job. i'm just the bullet someone fired toward the future. don't try stopping me, you'll get hurt. forgive me for stating the obvious, but i find that necessary, even crucial lately.

that reminds me of my old school idea... citizens offering crucial knowledge... c.o.c.k. i loved that.

people really like to think they own you, don't they? can you see the reflection in their eyes, that they are unaware of how wrong they are? can you see a particular emptiness in their eyes, a certain cluelessness about them, can you sense that the vital concept of equality is not inhabiting their perspective. does it matter.

the more i try to jump to the future, the more i find i'm being held back by that third grade class. right when i'm about ready to say 'okay, let's leap to the future', someone sounding like my grandmother says 'wait, i don't understand' something, and i need to explain it again. that's not my job, you fuckers sit here festering in your third grade class listening to the ghost of your teacher, i've got faster things to rush past my eye. we don't have to keep waiting and hiding in the comfort of this classroom, tomorrow was waiting for us yesterday, how long do you think you can hold the clock's hands back before it gets angry at you. you resist the truth, you resist the future, and blame us and condemn us for resisting you and your fears. you can't even see how illogical that is. and we're wasting our time trying to bring you up to speed, when every night, your fears and blankets comfort you back down to your slow pace, so the next morning is just a repeat of the progress made yesterday, and you're not understanding how you're holding us all back. i don't know why we need you to come out of the classroom with us, i don't know why we can't just leave the room and head fearlessly forward, not worrying about how scared you are back in that room, maybe it's the parent in us that wants to see their offspring succeed, but i'm really weighing on it not mattering, because i'd really like to get these legs running, and not have to worry about who i'm leaving behind.

that being said, i'm pursuing the future for me. not the rest of you. you can think me selfish, but i have plenty of reason to hate you, after all the times you've ignored me alone, look in my arsenal, you might recognize the ammunition, it has your name all over it. i'm just using it to prove a point to a wall for my own edification. why would you be concerned with that, you've got dollars in your wallet to worry about, nothing to see here, move along.

my feet are free. no hands on my feet any longer. so why i'm still waiting around for you and your approval that i fly toward the future without you, is a mystery to me. i'm well aware of the fact that i do not need you. i do not need your dollars, i do not need your health insurance, your ambulances, your cop cars, your jobs and bosses, i do not need any of that shit, because where we're going, we don't need the dust of past memories weighing us down. to paraphrase doc brown. so why am i waiting for your approval. i could be off breaking my own theories, proving that this concrete isn't really here, and neither are you, and the future is right in front of me next to that tree, but i have to sit here. why. did you tell me to? did i not tell you you're wrong? what time is being wasted and for what reason. why can you not get the fuck out of my way and let me reach the big ears so i can do what needs to be done. why are there so many of you clones clogging the tube. stop wasting my time please. if you're going to help, fucking help already. if you're going to chew me up and spit me out like everyone else, you don't need a taste of me, you can get any other clone on this planet, why are you so minimally curious about me, but just enough to waste my time. why does everyone need this minimal taste of me, why can't you just look the other way, look at someone else, leave me alone. i'm trying to do something big here, that will benefit everyone, especially those openminded and looking to the future like it still means something, simply because now sucks thanks to you.

did i phrase that right? can you understand that? do you need me to repeat it? rephrase it? what?

the world is about to change for the better, and instead, you're wasting time getting my phone number on the street, just so you can not call me, and get my hopes up, and ruin my fucking day, and waste another day.

i only have so many moments in each day. not like you. i only get one priority a day. usually, it's relaxing and working on my sanity. which, when i see you people saying you're doing the same thing, i see you playing videogames. you tell me it's to help you relax. maybe we have the wrong definition of relax.

when i'm sorting through mp3s, reading wikipedia, and scraping a bowl of resin, that's meditation for me. when my mind is activated, and i'm thinking, that's relaxing to me. when i play a videogame and feel stupid, and dumber, and like my brain is numb, that's very stressful for me, and makes my body shake like i'm hungry.

so clearly we have different ideas of relaxation. for you to relax, you need to deactivate your mind with a stupid videogame. for me to relax, i need... pretty much the opposite. i like intellectual stimulation. something else i find relaxing, putting on terence mckenna videos on youtube on my computer, leaving them playing in the background, while my massive music collection also plays on my computer, while i'm also watching limitless on my television... that's relaxing for me, that's soothing, comforting, like being enveloped in a soft cloudy womb pillow.

i've had people tell me that they can't listen to my music and watch my movies at the same time, because it's too much, it's too distracting... what, your mind can't focus on three things at once?

you know those three dee stereogram pictures where you had to relax your eyes and unfocus past the picture to see the three dee image? that's kind of what my mind does, or needs to do.

i guess you forget that i'm working with three eyes, not just two. so when i'm hyperconscious and overstimulated from focusing too much on too many small things crying out for my attention like a wackamole game short circuiting... that's when i need to unfocus my three eyes, and fill each of them with a bigger stream of ideas. that comforts me, and soothes me, and calms me down. weed helps, too. i can skip hours just by unfocusing my three eyes.

bombarding my eyes with bullshit, and tiny ideas, and television shows, and advertisements, and commercials, and pop songs... that numbs my eye and makes it harder to think, which i can see is clearly the popular purpose, like a bad drug. but when i fill my ears with metal, put on terence mckenna or robert anton wilson, when i have more than one conscious thing to focus on, my mind actually takes in alot more.

they used to get pissed at me in school, because the teacher would ask me a question, and i'd have to pop my head up out of a dream to answer it, and the other students would get pissed at me, not realizing that the answer was written on the board behind the teacher, and they would ask, 'how is he learning that, he was sleeping', and my mother tried telling them that i'm very observant, and that i am always learning, but they couldn't understand that, their small, feeble minds were incapable of fitting that concept into their heads, meanwhile i'm expected to fit perfectly into their mold like every factory model human before me, and they can't even see that i'm nowhere near their mold, i'm floating out in the universe swallowing galaxies for the knowledge and experience.

you guys are playing videogames. how boring. can't you get off your couch and stop telling me to live your dumb, tiny little life? maybe what's comforting to you isn't comforting to me. can you conceive that?

i don't know yet how to explain that to a doctor or psychiatrist, to have them understand enough to spit back some worthwhile response either defining or diagnosing, or at least recognizing my difference, but when i figure out how to word that... well... in your world, it would take thirty more years just to track down a good enough doctor and show it to him. your concrete's watch battery is dead, and i can prove it. why would you care.

i observe. i learn. i take in more than you. therefore, filling my brain with your mindnumbing horseshit is not good for me, i can't do what you do, i can't numb my brain with videogames and bad drugs and religion and superstition and tradition and fear and stagnant comfort due to material objects soaked in your stench. my home is not your home, your home is not my home. shut up, get out of my way, and give me my own home. that really involves you shutting your fucking mouth, i have to emphasize and stress that you must leave me alone once i get away from you, i do not want your credit cards, your unsolicited mail, your commercials, your facebook ads telling me to listen to your taste in music, and the plastic products your ass produces, you're going to have to keep those the fuck away from me. are you going to understand that when the time comes? i doubt it, i know your mind cannot stretch there. it will never reach that concept, so you'll keep showing up at my door with lawyers and ad execs and whatever else you want to sell me, because all those dollars you do get don't matter compared to the ones you have to work for.

i'm leading your concept back to its own primitive cranial cave, for burial. and you'll never be aware of that.

that's like dragging the dragon back into the cave without worrying about him waking up.

maybe only i get that joke, but who cares. it's a 'really inside joke', as my wife would say.

stop flooding my mind with your stream of thoughts, and demanding that i participate in your spiraling hatred product orgy. i see those souls hanging off the bloody dollar bills on your hooks reaching into the sky, and i can see the pyramid you're fishing from. only the most fearful feet will reach the top. trust me, i know, i have skin issues with moisture.

i see your eyes. i'm just never ever going to be noticed by you. day after day, you look away.

god, i wish i could tell you.

your television was never soothing to me.
i could burn your videogames and never blink. for the reason you'd never know.

i'm tired of people asking me if i'm a gamer, or if i like popular music, i'm tired of having to explain to people, no, i don't play your games, i don't listen to your music, i don't do your drugs, i don't watch your television shows, i don't spend your dollars, i don't have your credit cards, i don't want your bosses...

can you really not understand...
how loud do i need to shout this...
how many times do i have to repeat this...

i want something more.

your world of plastic products does not satiate me, nor does it even entertain me... can you understand yet. it's like trying to explain the theory of strings to a toddler using the cereal in their bowl. boogers hanging, milk dripping, nipples bleeding.

i am not comforted my your numbing superstitions buried in tradition. you can't have your feet in the past and your eyes in the future, it doesn't work that way. you have to choose one or the other.

knowledge was never evil. you, the speaker of that horrid line... you are evil. i guess you can't expect the devil to apologize... to acknowledge his mistakes... which confuses me, because the mind does expand, does it not? things do evolve, so why don't you? are you that evil that you can't evolve? if that's the case, then i have better hopes for the future, it will be less possible for you to be around there. that's comforting to me.

i still refuse to believe that making money in order to consume products is our sole purpose on this planet.

you are not the be all end all to human development. i'm proud to tell you that. even though, i know you're not listening. i'm confident someone will hear that someday, and appreciate it for what it's worth.

when you tell someone they're wrong...

if their response is 'oh, okay, what's the right way to do it'... they're a slave.
if their response is 'no, i'm not wrong'... they're an idiot.
if their response is 'thank you'... that's a person you can trust.

not that trust is going to be necessary much longer either.

i don't think we fully realize what all we're going to have to let go of, in order to step forward.

if your life is completely rooted in the past, you have to let go of the past. you have to let go of your entire life.

it's less painful to start making choices in a forward direction. you don't have to shed all your layers of skin at once. that's kinda the stupid way to do it. and you tell me i watch too many movies.

in my apartment, i rarely got lonely. being around people twenty four seven, and being ignored by every single one of them, sometimes makes me feel lonely, but most the time it makes me feel hateful. the times that it makes me feel lonely, i just have to remind myself how much i hate people because of this feeling, and it goes away.

if you want to understand me better, you'll have to look at that under a psychologists' microscope.

i hope to not have to repeat this. i hope something happens soon. i hope someone notices me and actually helps me.

friday, october sixteenth, twenty fifteen, four pm. my mother never got to see her fifty sixth birthday.

that was always very special to us.
my birthday was september twenty six.
her birthday was october eight.

this is a very empty day now, without her eyes. her seal of approval was necessary. i miss you, mama.

by the way, just a little piece of data for you to chew on. i get about fifty automated messages a day. do you think that's a little ridiculous when i get zero human responses each day. i've sent out so many emails that have never been replied to, i have handed out my email address and web links to so many people, given my phone number, only to have this massive total of people tell me that i'm of no interest to them, which i already knew, that's why i was trying to get to the bigger brains on this planet. people who are used to plastic products are not going to find me very interesting, i'm already aware of that. how the fuck do i get past it. how do i get around you people. there are so many of you, does there really have to be that many of you, you're really clogging this fucking world. the flow of blood must be unrestricted.

squirrel.

i miss my mama.

please, stop wasting my days, and let me get to the big brains already. i wish i could beg your god, but i'm only proving his nonexistence. unless you have some excuse for why he only ignores me. he only answers the prayers that are paid for with a gold card, is that it? those fuckers seem to get all their prayers answered.

luck is based in superstition and tradition, just like you, so i'm hoping, really really hoping, that luck itself is about to turn. you'll see this a whole new way, or you won't see it at all. either way, it's not my worry.

look up 'denial' in the dictionary. you put it there.

have a nice day.

a fuckin' sunday

just writing to write. have to waste time. waiting for the sun to set, so i can panhandle. i'm in starbucks on sunset and la brea, downloading. it's five pm on a sunday. i'm sober. the other day, someone stole my cart with my sleeping bag, pillows, panhandling sign, and old laptop bag in it. luckily the bag didn't have anything valuable in it, other than my nail clippers and tweezers. heartburn pills, my other sharpie, cheap shit. listening to birthday massacre right now. i still don't know what to think or what to do. the best i can think, is find places around this city where there are seven elevens close to libraries, and see how many metal people i meet. i still can't attract a female's eye. they are trained so well to not see trench coats. although, i'm getting a bit of an upskirt right now in the starbucks, i'll still never get to see a skirt flip up, or a tit hang out, or anything. until i start my own community, i will remain completely invisible. i can't attract my type of people, and i still don't know where to find them, and no one wants to help. not one human on this planet wants to have anything to do with me. that's so nice to know, cause i can't wait to use that as a weapon later. but that's all i can think of, is keep moving around, which i hate doing, but i have to find what part of this town has a good library next to a seven eleven, no bugs, no wind, some shade, no drug addicts, is that too much to ask? maybe some metal people, or god forbid some fuckin' females. yeah, i know that's too much to ask, but what does that say about who i'm asking.

after i figure out this town a little more... give it to the end of this month, october... when i get november's money, i'm seriously thinking about going back up to seattle. there's nothing here for me, no metal, no hippies, nothing. no love in any form. just products, clones, and credit cards. when am i finally going to meet a real human who notices me, and doesn't run away in fear. are you people that weak.

that's all i see around me are weaklings, people who wouldn't survive a fuckin' breeze. you have to stay safe in the safety of your car till you get to the safety of your home cause god forbid a wind come blowing along and fuck up your five hundred dollar hair style, it would ruin your day!

i don't know what else to write, that's just a little update for now. tried asking lai for help, sent her an email, haven't heard back. got an email from sandra i have to reply to. i also need to email cecilie and greg, and need to ask max for his email so i can email him, cause i wanted to email all four of them at once, asking them advice on what the fuck i should do. i'm not liking the people or the weather or the concrete here in cancer city, i'm really wanting to go back up to seattle where i know where everything is, it's not too far away, there's not that many drug addicts, there's more women... i don't know. i'm so sick of this world. nothing good ever happens, and it's because of you, and how fucking boring you all are. you and your leaders really went to sleep on this thing, didn't you. especially wherever the heart dare be involved. if you were going for apathy, you certainly succeeded.

i feel so sick.

you're broken

great, now i can't access my wordpress blog either. what the fuck is going on, is anyone else noticing that our electronics are working less and less, and being less and less reliable and dependable, and less and less functional, making us less and less functional. am i the only fucking one! i refuse to believe that! i can't get onto my fucking wordpress blog, i'm losing every writing outlet i have. there's no one i can fucking call. god, i fucking hate you.

september nineteen

here's my morning. again. walk to the mcdonald's to take a shit. now, i have to wait about five minutes. i finally go in, and the whole world of idiots and selfish, impatient, greedy fucks walk in and start bitching. did i go in and bitch at the last guy? no. i finally get in there, i get one minute. some guy walks in, asks me, i say 'i just got in here, but i'll try to hurry'. he walks out, some other idiot walks in asking, i say again, 'i just got in here, but i'll try to hurry'. he mumbles something untranslatable about waiting, i said i had to wait, too. he didn't care. some other guy walks in, apparently works here, asks the guy waiting how long he's been waiting, he says about seven minutes. i said bullshit, he's only been in here for less than a minute, there's no need to lie. the employee stands there, and says 'no, everyone has a right to take a shit'. proper lingo for a mcdonald's employee. what, was he quoting earnest hemmingway? douchebag. after saying that, the employee stands there, and gives me... literally, i shit you not, pardon the pun... one more minute... i could have timed it on my phone, one more minute, and then bangs on the door, starts pounding frantically on the door, saying, 'okay, your time's up, get the fuck out'. uh... i could have him fired for that, i'm sure. i've never known another human who can drop a turd in one minute flat, and walk out the door, what the fuck is wrong with you robotic heartless clones. is your hardware designed to drop turds that quick? i'm a human. i should rephrase that. unlike you, i'm a human. i walk out of the stall, and there are three guys all crammed in that one tiny bathroom, waiting, and socializing. top marks, gentlemen. bravo. hope someone does that to you... or is that why you treat me that way. is that courtesy these days. is that your standard, your norm, you all treat everyone like shit, and expect to go on walking. because you're all just minute turds, shitting out little beibers, cloning eachother every minute. eat mcdonald's, shit where you eat, and get on with your credit card. no idea why i fucking hate you.

then, i sit here on my laptop, get on the wifi, and i go to meetup.com, since i can't do facebook anymore. and i type in words to search for groups of people like me, so i type in consciousness, all it brings up is stupid looking meditation groups. i type in evolution, all it brings up is atheists and skeptics. i type in intellect, all it brings up is yoga. i type in mensa, it only brings up three groups, one of them is 'i'm a cool nerd'. obviously it's not in style to have a massive brain these days. you'll never figure out who i am and why i hate you. but i panhandled thirty six bucks last night. then i bought a hot chocolate and a couple bowls of cereal, which cost me eight bucks, leaving me with twenty four, so i'll try to use that today, and my two bus tokens, to get down to santa monica, which i really didn't want to do, from the looks of google maps, there's only the one library, it's not close enough to venice beach and the hippies to get weed, and the venice library close to the hippies, once you walk past that library back toward los angeles, there's nothing for miles, no stores, no restrooms, nothing. so if i go to santa monica, i'm basically fucked. i need to find the free meals in that area, the shelters, the areas to hang around, where the hippies are... but i only need weed from that, what i'm really trying to do right now, is find metal people with metal balls to start a metal band. i have yet to build up the motivation to do the open mic, and can't find anyone to help me with that, so fuck you all. you don't want me to get on stage, i won't get on stage, and maybe someday you'll never get to see all the shit in my head, and then hopefully, i'll die... which i'm hoping for soon, cause i can't take this shit any longer, i refuse to live on a planet overrun with this much meth and idiots, hell, i refuse to have anything to do with a world that ever had anything to do with drugs like that. when are you going to figure that out, you human fucking turds. turds with legs, born in under a minute, cloned freshly each morning by your favourite local cancer burger chain, then they'll charge you eight bucks for whatever tiny little thing you eat. that's the single serving life and what it's become. now you have to fit into their robotic single serving limitations and restrictions, and if the packaging is too small for you, you're fucked. your time's up, get the fuck out of the restroom.

i've heard of 'shit or get off the pot', but that's just fucking childish. there's no excuse for you.

last night, i watched some guy get kicked in the head once, and it knocked him out.
about a month ago, i got kicked in the head twice, it didn't even pop my neck.

pussy.

dinner thoughts

all i can do is write. i think skynyrd said that once. i can't stand this anymore. i don't know what to do, or who to talk to, or where to go. i can't find any potheads that know how to share. i can't get a second to think. i can't find anyone with a heart, and i honestly don't know why i'm still looking, i should have given up by now. i know i'll never find what i need. there's no point.

but i have to think anyway. where do i go. i need a place where there are three free meals a day, possible housing, and most importantly, a good ratio of potheads who know how to share, versus any risk of death. i'm trying to stay away from downtown. if someone could just take me away from here, there's nothing here for me, i'm not accomplishing anything.

fuck it, finally stoned.

goddamnit.

what do i want to do.

i picture myself standing on a stage. i've just shocked the audience by telling them i'm bill hicks, and i reach back to the wall behind me, and hit the wall, and just appears on the wall,

© 1995 Bill Hicks

i know what i need to make that happen. how do i meet my heroes. the still living ones.

that right there is a magic trick. for that, i need penn and teller. they're in vegas.

why can you not contact any of these people online, what good is the internet.

who all is in los angeles that i know of. otep shamaya, at least. i know maria brink and in this moment are here. that's her band, for the idiots reading this. who else. los angeles metal bands, i'd have to look them up on wikipedia, i can't remember them all.

this is what i know metal band wise. swedish bands: soilwork, sonic syndicate, in flames, meshuggah, scar symmetry... italian bands: disarmonia mundi, lacuna coil, raintime (split). canadian bands: devin townsend, the birthday massacre, the agonist... i used to know so much more. i know machine head is in oakland, i went there and there was nothing. fear factory, i forget where they are, possibly here. they just released a new album, they're on tour. who else. metal bands, come on, i impressed my wife with this knowledge. sixty thousand albums i had. i know i know them, but i can never list them all at once. when i hear the band name, i know everything about them... or i knew.

comedians... i don't know where most of them are from. they all constantly tour cause there's no guitars for them to track.

scientists, i have no clue where any of them are, for all i know, they're all in sveeden fuckin' with that neutron collider thing, whatever the fuck, i don't keep up on much science, cause what's there to keep up on, i studied history, and that's all they're diggin' in anyway, they still don't know what the fuck forward is, all they see is robots. they work with too many chemicals. that's why they need psychedelic. so before i can even translate to a scientist, i need to start my religion.

what the fuck do i do first? i just need to get attention, and enough money to start something.

easiest ways to get attention quick, open mic at laugh factory, or metal band, that's all i've come up with so far, people don't read. and i don't have enough money yet to record any video or find a book publisher. i don't know where to go to start my own religion, and i still haven't found any computer programmers who give a shit about my ozztek idea, they all think they're smarter than me, and tell me it can't be done. fuck you, anything can be done, i know this can be designed, i see it in my head, i know what it is, i know how to use it, how it works... you fuckin' design the thing, you speak its language, although, essentially, it needs to be built on its own new language, that we also speak, that's my vision. my vision is every step past the first one, i've never been able to see the first step. all i can come up with is open mic. but damned if i can find the motivation to do that one, with their fucking 'sign up next week' shit, the most discouraging idea possible. wait in line all day twosday to sign up, then come back next week to see if you're on the list yet. the fuck you, man, goddamnit, what asshole came up with that. no, if you're there, you go on stage. that's fuckin' just duh law. jesus. open the fucking mic, that's what it's fucking called. do i have to find a smaller club, that does more poetry and shit. i'll google the other comedy places here, and try going to them, but i cannot walk that far. i need more opportunity to work on the shit, and ask someone before making a fool of myself that way. there are too many other ideas at stake here to fuck up on that one first.

ideas... metal band, books, movies of all sorts and lengths... even just my albums are different concepts and different lengths and things, and they grow and evolve, like metamorphosis, someday i want to play that album in this big natural setting with big fucking speakers coming out of the earth, that really pound the shit out of you, and metamorphosis turns into this trippy day long psychedelic metal musical thing... well... fuck it, why go off on that one, no one gives a shit.

fuck it, ideas in order of what i can do first, at least...

open mic.
metal band. first album, first shows.
then get a book out. at least one, if i can have someone just start recording me, and publish some of the shit in some sensible order. cause it's all coming out of me in fragments and shit.

then what. then, i have to be fucking quick, actually, no, immediately when the metal band starts making enough money, i need to hire people and start working on creating ozztek industries.

and while doing that, i need to simultaneously get working on the religion deal, i know i need to do those two ideas at the same time. that's the vision, they're two things... well...

the religion, i need to publish a book about it, with all the information in some good order. it needs to state that i am the dividing line between psychedelic and psychotic states of mind. i am drawing the line where i think it should be drawn, where it needs to be drawn. once i do that, i can start building the community, and attract all the homeless people there, and get them away from psychotic, which will be hard with so many psychotic idiots hating me, to keep them away from the central core of strictly psychedelic... using no weapons. yeah, figure that one out.

i have. it's all in my visions, i've seen basically every possible outcome, all the fragment possibilities, any little thing that could possibly go wrong at any moment, i've not only seen the entire fractal, i've spent my life studying it. i know it well, except for that first step for me. i don't know what happens, what's the first thing to get me onto the path, it's eluded me for too many years, i should have hit something when i was eighteen or twenty. no one knows anymore, but that's why twenty three was so hard to handle, i was lost. banging into this head, chiseling away, and finding nothing but concrete, where is the brain. how do i strike that gold.

i cannot get anyone's attention. they're all numb, controlled, zombies with opinions, not hearts.

i don't know what else to say. i'm hungry.