humaniated

i'm just gonna keep feeling humiliated and ashamed no matter what i try to do. yesterday sucked, so i thought i'd finish off the day by going to the nude beach by myself. what a miserable experience. i'm sitting there alone. people keep staring at me. there's barely anyone naked. i'm even feeling like a creep/pervert/criminal just for getting some air on my legs finally. this one biracial couple passes by me, and the black girl has to stop and look like she's creeped out, then the white guy has to say 'oh, what, double take?'. a few moments later, i'm trying to take a few quick pictures to put on instagram, and i overhear one of the girls... i only heard a couple words she said, i forget the first one, but the second was this whiny, sarcastic utterance of 'instagram', as if to say 'gotta post on instagram'. like making fun of me for having a phone, whether or not you know what the fuck i'm doing on it. excuse me for taking a few pictures, what, i'm not supposed to be a photographer while i'm homeless? i don't have the right to take pictures when i'm poorer than you? i'm not allowed to sit over by myself at a nude beach? it's too creepy for you to handle? you all look a lot more trendy than i am, and you're gonna give me shit for posting on instagram? right about then, i get a text. earlier yesterday, when i was still downtown, i asked jaymie if she'd go to the nude beach with me. the day before, bob told me they had broken up for good. so i figured it wouldn't hurt anything to ask jaymie to accompany me to the nude beach. but... obviously, a lesson i have yet to learn... if i figure it's not going to hurt anything... it's going to hurt everything, including me. there's too many people to bitch and complain. and not enough people to accept me as i am. and this is humanity. this is why i'm staying on this planet. hospitality here is top notch. so i get this text from bob, saying 'how dare you ask jaymie that, what a bunch of bullshit, dude'... uh... you were broken up! for the hundredth fucking time! what the fuck are you doing texting me when you're broken the fuck up, i'm sure she can take care of herself in that type of situation, it's just a fucking question! she can say yes or no, it's that fucking simple! but this is where i always get stuck with people. having to explain what it's like to be an adult... to children. children, who obviously don't understand this 'adult world' shit, so you have to explain to them, repeatedly, that this is acceptable for adults, this is how we naturally converse, and there's no reason to get bent out of shape over a question about nudity, not even involving actual nudity! and i shouldn't feel persecuted because of this? i shouldn't feel ashamed and humiliated over this? i already feel like i don't belong anywhere, but after something like this happens, it feels like i'm not allowed to feel the way i do, nor am i allowed to change my feeling in one direction or the other, i'm just stuck, prisoner to your erroneous assumptions of me, and hating myself more than you hate me. and can i explain any of this to anyone? fuck no! sympathy? compassion? fuck no! can i expect anything of this fucking species? fuck no! you were right, mom, you can't ask these children for fucking anything. loving this fucking life, lord! so fuck bob. i'm fucking done with bob and jaymie and their fucking drama. they break up every other week. is that normal for parents of a child? i know what i went through with the mother of my children, and there was no excuse for the part i played, but hey, at least i knew that. so what the fuck is bob doing texting me like that in defense of his special lady... every time i text them anything and ask them anything, they bitch back, like 'how dare i ask such a thing'. but they can keep asking me to fill their drives with movies they can't possibly download themselves. it's about time you dumb fucks learn to download shit yourselves, you're not children, whether you act like it or not. and stop calling me the child, i'm obviously more mature than the rest of you, because i have the fucking movies! i have the customized fucking desktop! the weird alien desktop that no one even fucking looks at, let alone can they formulate the question 'what is that', nor even the bravery to ask it, I HAVE THE FUCKING MOVIES! I'VE DONE TECH SUPPORT! I DON'T DO TECH SUPPORT ANYMORE, AND THERE'S A BIG FUCKING REASON FOR THAT! I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING 'PRESS THE SPACE BAR' TEACHER! I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING BRO! I DON'T DRINK COFFEE OR ALCOHOL! I DON'T SHAKE HANDS! HOW MANY FUCKING TIMES AM I GOING TO HAVE TO TELL PEOPLE THIS! WHO THE FUCK IS EVER GOING TO GET TO KNOW ME THAT WELL? WHO'S EVER GOING TO MAKE THE FUCKING EFFORT!

i fucking hate all caps. breathe. every day of my miserable, unknown life, i have to explain to people, over and over, repeatedly, how i don't like coffee, i don't shake hands, and stop fucking calling me bro! every fucking miserable day! every fucking breath is wasted educating someone how the fuck to treat me, cause it's such an alien concept to be treated any differently than any other human, why the fuck do you think that is?! couldn't possibly be because you're all fearful, paranoid clones, could it? you're scared of being unique, so you have to condemn those who are!

i fucking want to die. i'm seriously going to kill myself soon. i'm so tired of this fucking world. people still can't understand whether i'm trying to fit in, or what kind of friends i'm looking for, or why i'm only looking for certain ones, like that's an alien concept to them as well... here's a theory... don't you think it would be easier for me to communicate with other metalheads who also happen to be nudists, that way they won't have all the hangups and inhibitions that you morons do, that way... fuck it, why am i explaining this shit again? i swear to christ it's posted on my blog about fifty fucking times. but they won't read my blog. they just fucking refuse. but that's my laziness, cause i'm not trying hard enough to shove it down their gullets and feed them like birds.

i cannot stand this fucking species. i cannot fucking stand this planet. i can't even explain anymore what the fuck i'm looking for, or why, i've been through the words too many times. it's like my tongue isn't wanting to tie itself through infinite loops of lunacy that string back into the past anymore.

but if i say anything about 'getting to know me', the reaction i get is in the category of 'why can't you?'. 'why do we have to do it?'. these haunted house mirrors are fucking retarded. how stupid of me to assume there were actual brain cells in there making chemistry happen. but if i call them my delusions... they get angry. 'we exist here, too'. oh, but it's okay for you to claim that i don't, and act like i don't, and ignore me on the fucking streets? that's okay? why, cause you have more money? you think this planet you're on gives any shit about money? you think animals are checking their balance? you think you're so important, when everything in nature says you're not. you can crush any sea shell under your magnificent feet, but the fibonacci spiral is still inherent within it. you're not the end of that spiral, you're only a part of it, but let that bank account fool you. after all, he who dies with the most cash... is the biggest rip off.

i'm so sick of money determining everything in my life because no one else can get away from it.

you're all in the same delusion, and you ostracize me for not participating in your delusion.

can you not realize... can you seriously not realize... i pushed the eject button first.

i ejected myself from this delusion before you even noticed me.

but okay, take credit for kicking me out of here because you knew i didn't belong before your daddy was even a sperm yet, yeah, that's how falsely heroic this fictional land loves to act.

i keep thinking of gilbert gottfried and his part about the 'land of the three name people'

i also keep thinking about the line... 'in the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king'.

but it seems more like... 'in the land of the hypocritically blind, the one eyed man is a scapegoat'.

ostracized. teased. beaten. ridiculed. rejected.

'i'm the dog who gets beat, shove my nose in shit'.
'feed my eyes, can you sew them shut'.

the choice is theirs: deny your maker, or deny a fifth of your hand.
ice cream makes that choice a lot simpler.

satiation. distraction. complacence. docility. exclusion.

the line i love more, and always have... ever since i got that ten dollar bill from taco bell with this line written on the back...

'when there are no thrones, we can all live like kings'.

that line is on a throne in my heart. reigning over the kingdom of hopelessness.

poverty. degradation. isolation. devastation. competition.

but if the maker of them and their delusion is also a delusion, how do you convince them that they're just your delusions, and how do you unmake them?

how do you control an anthill?

you could remote control them, and take their free will away, but what would that teach them?

from the list of options they might learn, there's...

'this is the human way to do what we do'...
'this is miserable, i'd rather do what i do'...
'what was so wrong with the way i was doing it'...
or...
'does this idiot not understand the way we do things'.

how do you step out of a group?
how do you rise above a group?

how do you defy social gravity?

how do you move those feet from over your head, to underneath you?

and why the fuck would i want to anymore? what would i have to offer this anthill that might actually benefit them?

all i can picture is a forest full of naked metalheads on mushrooms. but asking humans directions to something that doesn't exist yet, is like asking ants what time it is.

they only know the language that their delusion supports.

the foundation of their establishment is the same earth.

so after i got that text from bob... i'm done with them and their drama, their weekly breakups... they're not bisexual or bipolar, they're not even bipedal, they're biweekly.

i should learn from my instincts; when i immediately regret saying something nice to someone... there's a reason for that, that won't be apparent till the future coalesces into the chaos of this existence. this miserable moment that lacks a steering wheel. and still, no one will understand.

i don't fucking belong here. but after i got that text from bob... i almost cried right there on the nude beach, except that i was too angry and seething with hatred. and hearing the trendy clones and 'fit in' people, desperate to justify themselves in a terminally teamed stance... when i heard the one girl say the word 'instagram' in that whiny, sarcastic tone... i felt what elliot rodger felt when the slushy hit him.

that's one of the few reasons i'm still alive, i didn't want to let what happened to him happen to me. i wanted to be stronger than that, but it just doesn't matter how strong you are, or how bravely you stand your ground against so many clones... they will always outnumber you. and when you have a pack of things that don't like to think apart from the pack, you lose. unless you're smoking the pack.

so i got the text from bob... sat there for a minute... looked at the water, the sky... i didn't feel anything... no urge to do one thing or another... to stay or leave... i took one more hit off my pipe, filled my pockets, rolled up the sleeping bag, and left. i filled my ears with metal all the way back to the teriyaki doorway, and fell right to sleep. i didn't exist until i woke up this morning, the sky barely light, dead silent. is it washed clean of the day before, or is that residue just another yesterday?

no one knows a fucking thing about me, so how can i expect them to know a fucking thing about the planet they live on, or the reality they think they perceive so well?

'you're expecting too much from people'... thanks, mom.

you're dead, and you still have to keep reminding me.

so next text i get from bob, i'm just blocking him, not even replying. both of them, i'm done. i'm sick of being talked to like that. like a child, should i ask the wrong question.

next time someone tells me, 'there's no such thing as a stupid question', yeah, BULL FUCKIN' SHIT!!! BULL FUCKIN' SHIT! READ MY FUCKING BLOG AND TELL ME THAT!!!

for any argument, you don't just need your proof, you need to consider their antiproof. and if you don't know how to properly execute an argument... you're a child.

but see, the key to this is... no one will ever agree on that fact right there, so where's the progress? what step is being taken in any good direction? you think we're not too divided to unite? well then consider my evidence? or is that too much for you to handle? and you're the more mature, responsible party here? where's your proof?

and, on a different note... i had such high hopes for the new life of agony album. i wanted another ugly, not another broken valley. i'll have to record the followups to all the albums i liked most. starting with sabotage, and all the way up to the last good album i know of... city.

i'm still asking myself, was that the golden age of metal, even though it's been twenty years, and i should know that answer, and i should be phrasing it as 'that was the golden age of metal'. i guess i refuse to believe it. as with every other delusion in this world. i refuse to believe it.

suspension of disbelief is not refusal to believe... this world needs to figure out, those are opposites.

i did end up at least seeing a couple naked girls while i was on the beach. they were cute, playful, probably lesbian. i felt a little joy in seeing them, i smiled and waved, as awkward as i always am. but at the same time, i felt repulsed and disgusted with myself, i felt like the eyes of society were thinking that i'm just a creeper, trying to see naked girls, a pervert, a criminal, and i couldn't shake the thick residue of that feeling. like it's such a bad thing wanting to catch a glimpse of a couple naked girls... i felt like asking the founding fathers of this country... was that not the purpose of life? or asking people now, is that not the purpose of life? you act like it's okay for all of you, but as soon as i want to join the party, everything i do is wrong. and you don't understand how people can feel cast out by your society. rejected by the pack, thus not participating in your pack rituals. that still doesn't fit in their brains. so i have to walk around with this creepy dark residue of their assumptions and accusations coating my skin, making me feel filthy the way a girl feels in a shower after being raped. and just let some retard try and comment on that, not knowing that i've been raped, too.

raped by a gay dude. no one ever digs deep enough into me to find that out. most of my past is gone just because it would take too long to explain to anyone else. they love the short stories, they don't have time for the long ones. i honestly feel like i'm standing just outside this forest, waiting for people to come out of the woods... once in a while a guy comes out, breathing heavy, as if for a breath of fresh air. we converse for a bit, i gain no new knowledge, and they express no fascination over my knowledge of the world outside the forest... and then they go back into the forest, cause they have to get back to their little money sucking circle jerk of pointlessness and self worship, then, for dessert, they throw insults around like monkeys throwing shit, and somehow, on the outside of this forest, i still seem to get hit with turds during this part of the ritual. but i have to support their delusion that they're actually in a city of their own creation, and not a jungle, because if one leg doesn't support their delusion, they get angry. like toddlers in a playpen realizing that the fourth wall is actually a camera, and the volume of cries is equal to the sound an avalanche makes before the sound arrives at your brain's audio sensory laboratory for the autopsy.

and i'm still talking.

how can i tell the difference anymore, between the momentary feelings of joy i get, from seeing a couple naked lesbians bouncing toward water, or the filthiness that's imposed on me by society's eyes? how can i hear their most negative thoughts, and still feel so negative myself? like it really is all my fault, everything that's wrong with their society, or even just their day, has to be blamed on me, because i'm the outcast, i must be responsible for the batman like mischief? i feel so humiliated and ashamed already, but it has to keep deepening when i'm seen by other eyes. because i can hear their thoughts, 'you should be ashamed of yourself, why are you such a creepy weirdo?'. 'why do you have to be so angry all the time?'.

because there's no one making me happy.

'oh, so it's our job to make you happy?'.

well, it's certainly not very fun being the boss of happyland with no employees.

'oh, so you're the boss and we have to smile because you tell us to?'.

boy, there's no winning arguments with toddlers, that comedian was right. facts don't matter to a toddler, and no matter what how you justify what you say, if they feel nearly as persecuted as you ever do, they have more reason to bitch than you do. they have every right on the planet, and dare you try and speak your mind, you're just taking away from their rights. this is your world, isn't it?

'this land is your land, this land is my land'... well, look at that, you were the first one to lie!

did i predict that, or can i remember that far back? maybe i should read nostradamus again, see if i left myself a little clue...

nostril dammers. nose beavers. hmm...

anyway. so. i'm completely humiliated and ashamed of being me today. not proud to be on this planet. never going to another nude beach again. certainly never asking anyone ever again, nor am i texting anyone ever again for any reason... just asking someone to go to a nude beach with you is apparently a felony offense of terrorist proportions that can get you hanged before you have the right to be aborted. this is how much these children bitch about shit! does this bother anyone else?

public nudity is legal in seattle, you have nude beaches, but i can't ask anyone?!

without being degraded to such an extent that...

honestly, i feel like i've been degraded by society to such an extent, that if a woman were to ever bitch to me about being degraded, i could legally get away with raping her right at that moment, in the middle of the street, in broad daylight, and not even be arrested for it in the first place, let alone have to defend myself in court. i'd walk away free, and she'd probably go to jail. is that justice yet? have we invented justice yet? is this the moment we can all finally fuck in the streets and celebrate something worth celebrating as a united species? is this that moment?

i'll say that again in case any children are wanting to misunderstand me.

i honestly feel like i've been degraded by society to such an extent, that if a woman were to whine to me about being degraded... i could get away with rape.

it's kinda like chris rock's rule about calling someone a nigger on christmas eve.

you want to talk about being degraded? well here, check this out...

now how do you feel? you just got violated by someone more degraded than you, that's gotta suck. i bet that feels wonderful. you just got violated by someone so hideous, they don't even really exist. someone so ignored and unwanted, you can't even complain about them without holding a gun to your own head, how does that feel? it's a good thing this is theoretical, cause you'd be bitching and crying up a storm right about now. whining like a baby over a teething toy. bet you feel so much better about yourself now, yes. need a tidy wipe? and hey, if you get pregnant, you pay for the abortion. fair enough?

am i the asshole?
am i the asshole here?
am i wrong?

you ladies want to talk about being degraded, then get eachother out of porn first.

every young girl in a domestic violence shelter, you go out and give them a home and a heart to live in first, and then you can bitch about your persecution.

you pick yourselves off the fucking streets first, then you can bitch.

if every female on this planet actually strived to have a higher iq than i have... would we have anything to bitch and argue about?

i'll ask that again. if every female on this planet strived to have a higher iq than i have...

would we have anything to bitch about then?
would we have anything to argue about after that?

that's not a rhetorical question, ladies. speak up.

watch secretary, and realize that you can get more of a voice out of that gorgeous throat of yours, here, let's give it some practice, work that throat, get some singing lessons, some blowjob lessons, now give it a try. because i'd pay you more for that answer, than i would for sex.

your pussy ain't worth that much to me.

men want pussy, not the opinions attached to it.

so the more women bitch, the less you have to bitch about, because i've been single and rejected for three years straight. until you've been through that hell, you have no right.

but you have all the rights, and i have none.

it's that childish mentality and spoiled way of thinking that gets us here in the first place.

it's you, ladies. it's your fault. you think men own everything? you think men get everything they want? you get to choose us...

i'll repeat that...

you get to choose us!

do we get to choose you?

let me spell it out for you...

y o u... g e t... t o... c h o o s e... u s...!!!

short skirts...
skintight pants...
lipstick...
shiny shit...

and we can't even touch... you say no to sex more than we do, so you want to be equal, you've got some balancing to do, you've got a lot of catching up to do in the 'yes' category.

as well as the murder and rape category...
don't forget the greed category.

start crankin' those numbers up, ladies, and then we'll let you drive.

love needs to spread around.

who's job is that?

men?

or women?

after that beach experience, now that i'm thoroughly ashamed and humiliated with myself...
after the wonderful text from such a good, supportive friend...
after being condemned and persecuted by so called friends...
after being teased by strangers who have more right to be naked than my ugly ass...
after weak women use every excuse to overpower me just like every other male...
after going to jail for sleeping in the wrong spot...
after being this rejected...

ffffffffffffffff

i really don't know why the fuck i'm still alive. why the fuck do i keep living. i fucking want to die. this shit will never get any better. i really don't know why i keep trying. i just want to die. i want this to be over. you all get to fit into this world. i don't. i have tried. you think i haven't, but i have. just because i refuse to try what you tell me, doesn't mean i haven't tried everything i could think of. i truly do not fucking belong here.

blah fuckin' blah

i fucking hate my life so much. so goddamn much. i fucking hate this life. i cannot fucking wait to die. i want that release, i want the end of this nightmare, this misery, i fucking want to die. why the fuck should your death be someone else's choice? no one's ever answered that, through history. what, you're not brave enough to tackle that topic? cause the ones who were brave enough... succeeded! they defied your orders! they left your stupid fucking playpen world! ha!

everytime someone commits suicide, the joke is on you. they left your world, telling you, undoubtedly, your world that you think is so awesome and so beautiful and so special... fucking sucks! this world fucking sucks! they're basically throwing a bomb at you, a big fucking turd bomb, and when it explodes all over your house, the shit sprays into writing that says 'your world fucking sucks, and so do you'. whoever's 'in charge' of this stupid fucking world, those suicides are on you. blood on your hands for what you're doing wrong, which is 'not caring for each and every person'. if you put yourself in a role of leadership, if you're claiming that much fucking responsibility, over everyone... first of all, you're already that fucking stupid, because we'd do better without a leader, but secondly, if you're not doing what needs to be done to balance and equalize everything for everyone, so that every person is having a good time on 'your' planet... then the people who give up and end their lives, and leave your world... their deaths are on you, because it's their way of telling you, you've failed. you've failed, you've let too many of us down.

that's why i say, the first requirement for being a leader, is you have to actually give a genuine fuck about every person on this planet, not just say you do, and only keep the richest people close to you, while the poor suffer in the streets. if we had a leader who actually understood what it means to be a leader of other people, then we all would be equal. there would be no poor people. wouldn't that be magic, or just something else you'd disagree with, and try to debunk, debate, or disprove? are you smart enough to consider it? do you have enough of a human heart to not just dismiss it?

cause i had an idea i thought was valid, but no one wanted to hear it. this is before a cop told me my ideas aren't valid, this is before a guy who serves food to homeless people told me i have no standards. i had an idea, that no one wants to even consider, they don't want to hear it, because change would be bad for them, thus they fear it. but my idea was, each person on this planet, at the beginning of each year, they get three million dollars. you can legally have no more than that. if what you need for that year doesn't fit into that budget, make friends. here was another idea no one wants to hear, but i think it's valid. what a fuckin' fool i am, right? but what if we got rid of money completely, and formed a monetary system where, each morning when you wake up, you wake up with six points. no matter what happened the night before, no matter how broke you were when you passed out, when you wake up the next morning, six points. whatever you turn into turd, ash, or pillow, doesn't cost. meaning, where you sleep, what you smoke, and what you eat, i.e. food, cigarettes, weed, drinks, beds, bedrooms, pillows, blankets... those things do not cost you anything, they are just standard possessions for every human, every day, every night. there aren't many ways to spend your points, but every time you help someone else, you get a point. or, there's my high tech portable bum home theater idea. those luggage cases you see people dragging around? make those high tech. you press a button, they extend out into a bed, you press a button, it folds up into the luggage case, and follows you around via bluetooth and solar power. it locks itself to your fingerprints, and hey, you can watch a movie every night. and i'll give those away to all the homeless people for free. you can pick the two person model, or the single person model.

why do i imagine such a different, better world?
why am i so displeased with this one?
and why am i so alone in that?

i can't decide which is more painful...
living in this world...
or carrying the vision of a better one in my head every day.

i don't know which i smoke more, cigarettes or weed.

i don't know which i hate more, men or women.

you even misunderstand why i hate you.

so i'll say it as simply as i can.

i hate you because you ignore me.

i hate you for what you have that i do not.

i hate you for the crap you want that i do not.

does that make sense to you yet?

i also hate you for how you misunderstand me.
how you make no effort to understand me.

i really wish that all the super hot women could move to jamaica. either that, or let all the people like me take over ireland, where we can be ugly and lonely without having to look at your plastic perfect ass on display!

do you really have to be that perfect?
why do you have to be so fucking perfect!

and why the fuck can't you look at me!

you're not delivering a good message to the youth... for starters.

the reasons you should be ashamed of yourself are adding up like miles in a road trip, but you're still so proud of yourself. you think pigeons walk around thinking 'i'm so beautiful, i'm so proud of myself, i have such excellent colouring'.

or do you think the pigeons are thinking 'why do those crows have to be so fucking pretty, why do they have to strut around like that, flaunting their wealth'.

'thinking themselves so high and mighty over us'...

women don't want to be seen as sex objects...

fucking women...

have you ever even considered in your empty, heartless, apathetic fucking heads...

i'd love to be treated as a sex object.
i may or may not have wanted to be molested as a child.
go ahead and be as disturbed as you want by that, i don't give a fuck.

i think you're all wacked for not wanting to be touched.
i think you're all morbidly insane for not wanting sex.

but the rich only fuck eachother, the beautiful only fuck eachother...

and the ugly are left to flood walmarts together. and you think that's an okay world.

what the fuck is wrong with you? seriously? how fucking sick and insane are you?

love is not a bad thing.
sex is not a bad thing.
flesh is not a bad thing.
and my body is not a crime.
no matter what the fuck you say.
get that through your thick, heartless fucking skulls.

you are against humanity, but you accuse me of that.

the historic definition of scapegoat.
the human definition of hypocrisy.
the legendary definition of evil.

and my words are but mashed potatoes in your head.

visualize whirled peas?

why do you fear so much?
why is sex a bad thing to you?
why is love taboo to you?
why is homelessness so disgusting to you, when you created it?

i mean, i could see how a creation of yours would appear disgusting to you...

maybe you shit all over your stove once, by accident... you know, you bent over to put the turkey on the table, and sneezed, and shot shit all over the stove...

who knows. i don't mean to speculate.

but say you were getting out of your car one day, went to get out of your car to walk into work, and you had the runs, and when you pushed to get out of the car, you shit all over your driver seat.

i know embarrassing things like that happen all the time, even to the best of us. jim's dad from american pie would tell you the same thing. wouldn't he?

anyway. maybe it was a little too disgusting to clean up, so you just trashed everything, threw the stove in the back yard, and bought a new one... sold the car and bought a new one... whatever. i understand how a creation of yours could repulse you enough to make you claim no responsibility for it, but that doesn't mean you can ignore homeless people.

especially if we have a sign out asking for change.

why do you ignore that?

i felt like making a sign that says 'only cowards ignore me', but then i can't decide between the words 'cowards', 'consumers', and 'clones', because i wish those words were more synonymous in other people's heads as they are in mine, which is what gives me some of my confusion issues with words lately, all the synonyms try to exit my mouth at the same time, and i can't decide on one. for almost every word i say. every time i speak. every time i open my mouth, talking to anyone else, it's always too rushed, they never have enough time to listen to me. so i have to speak too quickly, stumbling over words anyway, and only getting to say half the things in my head, it feels like... instead of just shooting the bullets out of the barrel in an already predetermined order, so they come out fluidly and quickly... it feels like i'm having to sit in the barrel of my own verbal gun, and carefully choose each verbal bullet to be fired, sifting through a bucket of bullets, trying to find the red one with the 'w' on it. you ever have that problem?

no?

then who the fuck are you to judge me and ignore me based on image alone.

when it comes to judging books by their covers, i'm a fucking professional, whereas you're just a hobbyist. a fucking boring weekend with a literary bonfire barbecue.

yes, i judge you.

i judge you more than you judge me.

i just want you to know that.

because when you're walking past me, ignoring me... i'm repulsed by you. disgusted. everything about you, from your clothing to your beliefs, your bank account to your closetful of secrets.

i want to be touched.

you can see me as a sex object, rape me, fuck me, and you don't even have to pay me.

what a deal, right?

but only women. only females. i'm sick of being violently overpowered and violated by males. you guys fucking ruined it. i wasn't attracted to you in the first place, but now i'm just one hundred percent repulsed by you. offended. disturbed. you're sick.

i want to be touched.
i want to be fondled by people who don't know my name.
i want to be harassed and sexually assaulted.
i want to be groped in public.
i want to be molested...

if it involves physical contact with a female's flesh...

no, you don't even need my permission.
you don't need to know my name or how rich i'm not.
you don't need to pay me.
you don't need to call the cops.
you don't need to fear me.
you don't need to use any excuses.
you don't need to regret it.

is that fucking clear enough yet?

if you ladies don't want to be seen as sex objects, fucking redirect the fingers toward me! make me the fucking sex object you don't want to be! what the fuck is wrong with you! how fucking stupid are you, to still not understand that men like sex! we like you! we want you! we need you!

and please, stop using that phrase, 'they just wanna get in your pants'.

that's so extremely offensive to us. do we ever say anything like that to you?

that's extremely offensive to me, and i'm sick of hearing it.

'why are you wearing a skirt?', cause she's wearing pants and he's dragging his on the ground.

most of you ladies are wearing pants, when you're the ladies!

that's why i'm wearing a fucking skirt! that's just one reason! easy access! sarcasm! offensiveness! and to not be you!

'they just wanna get in your pants'.

okay, so how about this, ladies who want anonymous sex... wear skirts.
ladies who are offended by the very thought of sex... wear pants.

THAT WAY WE CAN FUCKING TELL YOU APART, AS WELL AS YOUR INTENTIONS!

like the stupid slutty bitch in the bars, with the short skirts, and you walk up to them, and they get offended, walk away, and then call the cops on you, and you get taken to jail, for being stupid enough to walk up to the biggest slut in the bar, and finding out that it was a scam, a fucking sitting duck, probly an undercover fbi agent in disguise, just trying to take those disgusting guys who need sex to jail...

yeah. i'm going to avoid an aneurysm, and stop now.

if you want sex, make it obvious.
if you don't want sex, make that obvious.
that way we can fucking tell you apart.

i also thought of starting the 'green ribbon society'... people who are okay with anonymous encounters, touching strangers or being touched by strangers... wear a green ribbon.

that way we know.

duh.

different approaches?

people keep misunderstanding me. people keep assuming that i don't try hard enough. people think they can do better. if you think you can do better, why don't you lose your home, lose all money, friends, family, connections, phone numbers, and most of your knowledge, and then get a fragmented, shattered, traumatized mind, get the shit beat out of you a few times, and a measurable amount of physical pain, not to mention the emotional pain of being rejected for three years straight, and don't just put yourself in my shoes, but do what i'm doing, get yourself a laptop, try not to get kicked out of a starfucks, or hell, you can be brave enough to give me the advantage, and use less efficient approaches, get hooked on drugs, don't even have a phone, holes in your shoes, blisters on your feet, and hell, cut a finger off, and see if you can do this. challenge yourself like i'm doing. see how much you can accomplish without your home. because i assume someone would like to cheat at this challenge, and step onto the street with nothing, and then just to look like a showoff, call some talent agent, and get shit started in a month. the shame that clouds over you is all too visible to everyone underneath you. shine a light on the fact that no one should be underneath you. and then ask yourself if you deserve to be above those people.

because i'm really going to try some different approaches. no matter how much it hurts me. no matter how fake the happiness feels to me, no matter how brutally the hatred burns and churns inside me... it's come to my attention that i have to just fake the smile. this stupid, weak society just cannot handle my anger, with or without the explanations. they are seriously that weak and fragile. but if you say that to them, they get defensive. angry. which says they think their anger is justified, but mine is not. their anger is justified because they're a part of society, they fit into this society, thus they're backed and supported by society, and they feel more secure with the fact that they can have an angry reaction, but for me, being homeless isn't a good enough reason to be angry. having my life destroyed and then blamed on me, isn't a good enough reason to be angry. going up against a tyrannical system just to get my kids back, not even that is a good enough reason for me to be angry at society. let alone being rejected for three years.

oh, so you don't think i've been rejected that much?
the numbers don't add up, the chances baffle you?

okay, how many times do you think i've asked in the last three years?
how many women do you think i've asked in the last three years?
and how many of them do you think said 'no'?

around a hundred?
between one hundred and five hundred?
between five hundred and a thousand?
somewhere between one thousand and five thousand?

that's even a multiple choice question, so you can feel right no matter what.

those aren't good enough reasons to be pissed off? then what is, in your book?

i wrote a journal once, about hatred, anger, and my favourite quotes surrounding the topics, plus as much verbal proof as i could provide supporting my theory. but to me, it's a fact. i obviously gives no fucks about what society thinks about anger, because i know what you think about anger is precisely wrong. wrong. w r o n g. fucking wrong. dead wrong. directly wrong. in opposition to the truth. dangerously wrong. disturbingly, disgustingly wrong. just fucking evil.

now... do you have my point sautee'd in your head yet? fillet'd, dissected, seasoned?

because the fact that you think my anger isn't justified, to me, it's too evil to have a word attached to it. disgusting is an understatement. disturbing is an understatement. vile doesn't even reach.

i could flip through thesauruses, i could play scrabble with the letters, i'll never get a yahtzee.

and i know i've already lost my two potential readers. hell, i've lost my own focus.

that's when i just keep writing till i manage to get back around to the original topic. try having that shit in your brain, and see if you can sound as genius as i do.

hell, just try to determine who the majority of that sarcasm is aimed at; you or me.

you think i don't have a good enough understanding of myself.
but that's because your understanding of me lacks in vital ways.

if i tell you to think of me as an alien, that doesn't even convey.
you start picturing fictional aliens, and stephen spielberg costumes.
things that make sense in your head, things that fit in your head.

whatever screen filter you can look at me through, instead of just human eye touching inner skin.

nudity. nakedness. vulnerability. and physical contact. alien terms to you. possibly offensive.

for me, the word 'nudity' is a permanent patch of skin on my tongue. a layer of self skin that speaks its own language without words. the innermost layer of honesty. and the outward most representation of it. a communication to kindred spirits.

are you understanding any of that, or is it too poetic for you?

understand me yet? cause that's the way i speak.
passion. poetry. vision. perspective. direction.
cocooned in languages of perfection and protection.
and self strengthened (cause i can't depend on others for that).

all i've been wanting for the last twenty years of my life is a little recognition of my talents.

but that was too much to ask. obviously.

so... what... humanity only accepts a challenge if it gets them on teevee?

why. why am i advertising myself for your attention?
why am i selling myself to the wrong consumers?
why do i put my ass on display when no one wants to see it?
i don't want to be bought or sold, and i don't want to compromise.
but to get anywhere past you, i have to compromise, you remove that choice.
and then i need to be bought or sold, i need to let you own me and handle me.

why?

what are you offering that's so great, i need to give up my life cause i'd rather live yours?

is any of this shit making sense to you yet?
cause i feel like i've repeated this a thousand times.

at this point, i'm just walking beaten trails in my mind, sweeping the thoughts and leaves to the side ears...

sorry... distracted. this stupid ditzy blonde bitch in a pink sleeveless sports top and skin tight black pants has to stand infront of me, at the starbucks 'pick up here' line, waiting for her fuckin' latte, and thinking she's so special, looking around to see who's looking at her. and just about the dumbest face i've ever seen on a yeti. or was that a warthog? fuck it, i'll just ask richard dawkins' wife.

oh, don't worry, i know you won't get that reference, so i'm not even going to explain it.

at this point, me explaining things for you is something you should pay me for.

seriously. you think i'm joking, you think you couldn't possibly be that stupid, but you're not even smart enough to understand my evidence, let alone force your mind open wide enough to accept it. i've joked about the jaws of life related to craniums so many times, it's just not funny anymore. that joke is a fossil in my mental thought path, the most beaten and flattened part of it. and i can't even get a psychiatrist to read any of this shit, so... you know... what the fuck am i trying to prove to you, and more importantly... fuckin' why? i've made it so glaringly clear that i'm looking for my people, not you. but after hearing an argument between alex jones and peter joseph this morning, now i'm even less confident about any connection, and even more astonished at the division between every human and every other human, except the plastic mannequin clones that group together like the robots in 'i, robot'. umbrella choices house too many people, yet not enough people. and keep us safe from what rain? we perceive a fraction of what's right beyond our senses, yet we think we're seeing it all.

then, a man comes along trying to convince you otherwise.

eighty generations of trial and error...

how come i can picture... eighty billion years in our future? how come i can see that?

are you on the same channel i am? did the string between our cans break?

it's like playing a game of 'musical umbrella choices', trying to find the umbrella choice that houses us all comfortably, where we can agree on something, but until we do, we have to fight over umbrellas, and destroy everything in pursuit of better options.

rather than learning from what's infront of us.

like a mental test, where you have to pass the current level to get the necessary information about the next level...

there are many ways i could think of this. many lights, many angles.

but there's this unwanted voice in my head.

i know this is gonna sound crazy, but don't run just yet.

i have my voice in my mind. when i think something, i've always wanted some response.

that's what a conversation is, is it not?

but there's this defective data bank that's collected imprints of all the responses i've ever gotten from society...

yeah. startin' to see where that's headed?

so when i think something in my head, the response is always this siren alarm from the naysayer farm. this almost incoherent, negative projectile regurgitation of fire retardant chemical foam.

the cult of refusal to open your mind.

and it's permanently locked in a cage in my head. but the cage isn't soundproof.

and how i wish it was.

it's me telling my grandmother to shut the fuck up for eighty billion years.
it's an eternity in her hell, trying to tape her mouth shut.
begging her to stop shoving her religion down my throat.
begging her god to control the marionette strings better.

so anything i think... before you can say no, your clone voice in my head has already said no.

that's why i walk away so quick before even hearing your answer.
that's when you have to understand; i've already given up a thousand times.

...right where you stand.

i like being the first to walk away. it's the only success i can carry.

dana keeps trying to tell me this story about two wolves in the heart. first of all, i've never had that much of a fondness for wolves or dolphins or unicorns, or other creatures you see lining the walls of a teenage girl's room. yes, i'm aware that animals exist on this planet.

i'm also aware of this...

'in death, not only are the mightiest and the most humble brought down to the same level, but we're not different from any other organism'...

a little sound bite from a record called ocean machine.

i'm a collector, a connoisseur of one liner lessons and life truths.

the ones my mother taught me, i'd love to put in a children's book someday.

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

god, i fucking hate perfect women. i hate hot women.
the fact that they refuse to look at me... is all i need to know.
and then to have you doubt me at every step.
it's all being collected like rain water in that naysayer farm in my head.

anyway... and lessons like 'don't just learn from your own mistakes, watch the show cops'.

i credit my mother with that, but honestly, my mind's so traumatized and fragmented and shattered at this point, i'm not entirely confident it was her who said it, it might have been me. her and i had a shitload of deep conversations, and now her voice, her input... is gone.

no longer part of the conversation.

it's too obvious what my hurdles are. i'm all too aware.

it's the source of most of my hopelessness. the reason my heart plummets.

like a backpacker hiking up a mountain alone.

that silence resonates in my heart like an old familiar ancestor.
that air carries my dreams like a floating blanket of cloud.

oddly enough, i feel more connected with that earth, than anything within a thousand miles of a credit card. i can hear her talk to me there. anyone else would say, 'there's a difference between thinking you're there, and being there'. if you understood me as well as i know myself, you'd see that point dulled like a toothpick on concrete. my connection with this earth has always defied you.

visions through the sunrises, storms on my skin...

the synaesthetic taste of the storm's mood.
and the ancient connection to it's ancestor storms.
among the sea of purposes.

anyway. last night, i watched a video.

about 'the red pill'.

about feminism and men's rights activists.

about 'woman haters'.

well, fuck it, i think i've finally found my home. that's where i belong. obviously.

certainly not starfucks, looking at a sea of plastic mannequin ass.

a society obsessed with ass.

but how come their faces still look like the mannequins in the store windows?

why do they obsess over their asses, but not their faces?

is there some sort of humour in that, that i'm apparently missing?

and those skin tight pants... why, ladies. every goddamned one of you? seriously?

why? what's the purpose? you don't want to blend in too much, but you don't want to stand out too much either? what is it? do you even know? did you consider that when you got dressed this morning? did you consider that when you stepped out of the shower? did you consider that when you stepped out of your front door into the world?

do you ever fear, 'what mannequin am i going to look like today'?.

cause i fuckin' don't. but then again, i'm comfortable with myself.

i know there are no mannequins or clones out there wanting to be me.

all the 'security' they advertise and try to sell you on teevee...
the security i get from that fact is worth trillions more.

stupid fucking perfect blondes in starfucks. how unique do you think you are.

i bet i could google map another starfucks, right now, zoom in with the street view, and find a starfucks in new york city, where there's a blonde that looks exactly like you, dressed just like you, and ordering the exact same thing you're ordering this very morning, i'll bet you a billion bucks.

down to the apps on your fuckin' phone.

you're a fuckin' clone.

convinced that you're unique. to justify your belief that you're better than me.

so when snobby women refuse to look at me... tell me i don't know exactly what's in your head.

go ahead, tell me. i want to hear it in your voice. because it's hotter that way.

that's now officially a turn on for me. yeah, boioioioioioing. go on wit your bad self, beavis.

you're goddamn right.

'i know what a lot of you are thinking right now. you're thinking, hey man, this guy... is it. well you're right. i am it, i've always been it, even in elementary school when the other kids would play tag...

kid would come up, tap me on the shoulder and say 'you're it', you're goddamn right, buddy'.

praise the lowered for jimmy pineapple.

but, whatever all this says so far, doesn't say shit, because i still haven't gotten anywhere beyond where i've been. my attempts have failed. all the different approaches have failed.

collecting their perspectives has failed.
appealing to their joys has failed.
using car jacks on the sides of their lips has failed.

yet they still seem like sarcastic, hateful mirror reflections of my inner self that hates me the most.

the failure surrounding the success.

the gold bar drowning in a pile of patriotic shit.

the nutritional sustenance of internet rants.

the educational value of a cereal box.

so i'm being forced, once again, by my own self, to compromise further, and beg for their smiles, pay for their smiles, appeal to their smiles, because the lesson i've learned, is that frowns walk away from frowns like magnets reversed. we're made to oppose eachother like a handful of thumbs.

'this isn't music, and we're not a band, we're five middle fingers on a mutherfuckin' hand'.

thank god for satan.

if only hitler hadn't killed the wrong people.

that television should have been a sunclad memorial. solar powered.

with a snack machine.

so... compromise. again.

having to bury the misery, agony, hatred, and anger within me even deeper...
having to fake the smile that society wants from me before i can pass to step two...
selling my mutherfucking soul.

trading it for a fuckin' cheeseburger.

all the strong ones say 'don't compromise yourself to get here'.

what's my other option?

i get rejected more than donald trump.
i get rejected more than bill cosby.
i get rejected more than that methhead bum in the alley.

and get your stupid fucking kids away from me! clean their fucking faces!

i swear to christ, if my daughter has food caked on her face like that, i'm driving this planet into the fucking sun. i swear on my mother's tears.

fucking distractions.

they have their own concessions.

surrounding the baseball game of human humiliation television stations.

i get rejected more than your credit card.
i get rejected more than your ugly cousin.
i get rejected more than condoms and birth control pills combined.
i get rejected more than aspiring writers.
i get rejected more than all the students aiming for harvard.

i get rejected more than you.
i'd bet money on it.
i'd bet my whole disability check, and my left nut.
i'd bet my daughter's pigtails. (i never wanted her hair like that).

but it doesn't matter what i want.
it doesn't matter what i've done.

success is only measured in billions.

i'm not trying to get everyone's attention.
i'm just trying to find my people.

it's not my fault your world has made it virtually impossible from ground level.

i still have the confidence that i can outthink you, but as far as fuel... you're still the only gas station for miles, and you can't even afford a 'last gas for x miles' sign, or perhaps you don't have room for it between all the other 'don't do this' signs.

desolation.

desperation.

violation.

hopelessness.

they made that movie, 'the pursuit of happyness'...

they didn't make the sequel, 'the pursuit of hopelessness'.

i'd bet you a trillion dollars, none of my thoughts add up to even one number in your head.

and the poetry just eats away at the number like light bullets eat centipede mushrooms.

there simply is no way i can stick a new vision into an old head.

it's not just 'you can't teach an old dog new tricks' anymore. the old dogs own your voice.

no one looks like me in this part of town.
no one looks at me in this part of town.

you would think that another black trench coat might pass by and say 'hey, cool'...

or might let that give them a reason to stick around for a moment...

to ask some questions, laugh at some answers...

so ask yourself, how fake is this part of town?

how hateful?
how disconnected?
how divided?

if your goal was 'divide and conquer', how do you think you'd accomplish that?

have you ever asked yourself that question?

so... i have to try something different. to fake a smile. to appeal to the wrong people. because the right people are walls behind walls, doors beyond doors, lies over lies.

the chalk on the street may tell you that jesus saves...

but jesus lies.

no saviour of mine would ever weep. he'd just turn into a nihilist.

what, you don't think god would have a reset button? this is an experiment after all, is it not?

god, how confident in yourself are you?

what is the value of truth when surrounded by lies?

and in a chaotic sea of foggy thoughts, how can you hear yourself? how can you comfort yourself? how can you know yourself? how can you remember yourself? how can you strengthen yourself?

on desert plains...
no ear within a thousand miles...
only two hands...
only two feet...
and one useless cock.

and a heart you cannot silence.
a heart that fights against your every thought, regardless of direction or intention.

like a bag of magnets in the hand of an undisciplined child.

out of this chaos, which direction do you step to find your own answer?

did timothy leary even know that? did any of his trips reach it?

that top back corner shelf in the darkness of your unknown mind...
covered in spiderwebs and dust...

is it still even there?

i wanted to send something to the site... well, i guess i skipped this part...

that video i watched last night. mentioned a site for 'woman haters' called 'a voice for men'.

i went to it, but it was too confusing to understand or navigate. but i wanted to send something of mine to them, or post something on their site, but...

i think anyone on this planet right now could be all too capable of underestimating my lack of confidence in any of these situations. meaning, my confidence is literally nonexistent. especially around all these clones and starfucks mannequins. i know i'm in the wrong place. i can't even ask these people where the right place is. they couldn't point a finger.

'hey, you're not my people, you're nothing like me, so where are my people?'.

i bet you twenty bucks, right now... they'd point up.

or, actually, how much you wanna bet my luck would stab my ass right then, and they would actually point down, showing me how wrong people's assumptions of me truly are.

so you think i came from magma rather than arcturus? hmm... enlightening. informative.

thanks.

but anyway. perhaps i've finally found a platform for my voice?

a place where i might actually... not only belong, but be useful? wanted?

granted it's a sausage party, not one female would be brave enough, but hey...

i can't decide which i hate more lately, men or women, so might as well rape myself for comic relief, right? just completely violate myself, compromise myself, humiliate myself...

walk in there as just a pair of shoes.

it's june.

it's been four years.

my mother once told me on a birthday card, 'don't shoes on your puke'.

well, mama, i shoes'd on my puke.

long story, but i got out of jail, my body was in shock, and i puked all over myself. i wasn't even in my head enough to aim anything. but i was in a subway being stared at by mannequins who are bothered and disturbed by the slightest thing that's out of their ordinary little television world of repetition and security and nothing unknown... that stagnant plastic mold they live in.

you've smelled that before, haven't you? you know that smell, don't you?

tell me you know that smell. come on. i know you know it. you can remember the assembly line, think back. that plastic smell. pencil shavings. first grade classroom colouring books. playdoh and rubber cement. the air smells like construction paper, but the walls smell like sawdust.

synaesthesia.

conspiracineous. copernikus, cornelius, and isaac fuckin' newton.

smells, you moron. olfactory flags of memory.

do you have any fucking clue what i'm talking about?
keep your receipt, take the clue back, and get another one, just to make sure it's not defective, detective!

fuck!

i mean i could laugh right now, but i'd almost be insulting myself.
i'm the wrong writing this, remember?

look who i'm arguing with, though. the naysayer farm.

but i know you can smell that plastic.

it's june. it's been four years. my mother's dead.

the path infront of me is begging... pleading... yearning... reaching...

sucking... attracting... smiling... playing nice...

the tape is peeling off the mask, though...

memory flashes of that 'beware' sign...

the introductory story from nancy privett's 'stepping into the aquarian age'.

to ask yourself before you go hiking and camping; 'what don't i need?'.

i wish i could leave all my negative energy in a ditch and walk away from it.

but if i like it more than i like you, why does that answer disappoint you so much?

so i don't want to live your life, so fuckin' what? big loss, man, move on!

why do you want me living your life? what, you don't like the skirt? you don't get the statement? you don't understand the purpose? the fact that i refuse to look or act like any other male on this planet, just so i can be rejected by every female on this planet, just to watch her go fuck the next douchebag in shorts and flipflops? reminding myself that i know exactly what you ladies are looking for?

keep proving me right, ladies. don't even try to prove me wrong.

and by all means, be proud of yourselves. you deserve it.

my thoughts will never be worth one dollar on your planet. i get that.

but on my planet, delusions of grandeur are more valuable than truth. cause we have plenty of truth.

you never consider what's beyond the last step you ever take.

all that's relevant to you, are your steps in the sand.

but the universe is telling you... perfection isn't something you possess.

perfection is simply one of evolution's traits.

and seeing as how you don't even understand evolution, why do you claim that?

you've made a whole life out of being you.

i'm trying to make a career out of being a portion of me that's acceptable to you.

the necessary compromise is still on your side.

because if i compromise any more, i will literally be eating my own head. from behind. just to sell a product to the wrong consumer. because it's the only chance i get.

trying to shoot a carrot down moving rows of wooden trays, like a carnival game.

chinese puzzle boxes.
stereograms.
that spirograph thing.
legos.

think you understand my mind any better yet?
my intention?
my perspective?
my desires?

i'd love to hear your version of me.
i promise you, i won't be insulted.

you can't insult me any worse than i've already insulted myself. go ahead, try.

since this game's all about damage points, not repair.

i wish i could reverse reality in my own mind enough to change something in the air, and make someone finally walk up to me today, but today is not today, today is just an illusion outside of my head that i have no control over, contrary to what those stupid facebook memes will force you to believe. 'listen to the universe', yeah, no, i'm done listening to the universe tell me to shut up! your universe doesn't like me, it tells me i don't belong here, and there's nothing i can say to convey that to you, so what the fuck is the point? why is your argument always so much more valid than mine? what fucking contest are you trying to win here? i initiated the point, didn't i? but go ahead, win anyway, you competitive cunt. monopoly demon. i still own your end. i am your omega. deny me all you want. you'll find me someday, a little plastic package in the bottom of your cereal box labeled 'rapture'.

no better day than today.

my wife used to say, 'don't make fun of yourself', i said 'hunny, if you can't make fun of yourself, who can you make fun of?'.

you'd certainly have no advantage over these clones. that's truth you can find in stone.

you still think i'm precisely this stupid.

does your comprehension feel:

full?

or...

a high breeze? (hint: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A38YO3f2Bv4)

i just checked all my messages and sites and stuff. still not one response from another human.

still no responses.
still no comments.
still no emails.
still no texts.

whether you like it or not...
whether you justify it or not...
whether you understand it or not...
whether you agree or not...
whether you care or not...

i have my answer.

when you fuck a woman, a kid comes out.
when you traumatize a mind, this is what comes out.
when you eat a burger, a turd comes out.

chemical reactions. that's all this is.

my hatred for you has its own area code, zip code, mailbox, phone number, and tech support.
hell, we have our own costco.

you perfect fuck.
you flawless vagina.
you wealthy cunt.

you're all still failing to see the true enemy here.
if money is the root of all evil, then the wielder of that weapon... should be fired.

don't you think?

nevers and severs

no matter how intelligent i try to sound, i will never stop feeling like such a fucking loser!

supposed to think of shit. i forget what already. just talked to ben. i'm not worth his time.

i feel like i'll never be worthy of anyone's time. i feel like the trauma in my mind is keeping me from being me. and no one even understands it. i feel so dirty. so ugly.

the facts stand.

you ladies never approached me.

you ladies never said yes to me.

you ladies never initiated a conversation with me.

you ladies never took it any further.

you ladies never started anything.

for three years.

you were too scared to walk up to me.

you were too scared to talk to me.

you were too scared to touch me.

for three years.

there is no undoing that.

there is no healing that.

there is no excusing that.

there is no repairing that.

there is no disproving that.

it just is what it is. and it will never change.

this is what i deserved, apparently, from you ladies, who 'claim' to not be after just money, but to look for something else, but no, i'm officially calling bullshit.

you couldn't prove it to me, so your loss.

the facts speak for themselves. all you women want is money.

you should be ashamed of yourselves, but instead you walk around wearing shirts that say 'wild feminist', with your ass hanging out of trendy skintight pants, thinking you're special, thinking you're better than me, and having every excuse in the book...

once in a while, we get one of those people, who speak the truth so loudly, so bluntly, that society comments on it, by saying things like 'he tells it like it is', and 'he holds nothing back', and 'he hits you with the truth you're not willing to admit, and no one else is brave enough to say'. shit like that. well, benjamin franklin also said, 'god forbid this country go twenty years without a revolution.

seems to me like we need more than one revolution.

we need multiple simultaneous revolutions, so that even if one fails, the others succeed at taking up the airwaves too much for anyone to know that one failed, so it can still succeed... get it?

we need a revolution against millennials. fuck you, and fuck your term. you don't even deserve your own generation yet, you're too fuckin' lazy and spoiled by rich parents, how the fuck do you get your own generation name before 'nu-metal' even gets labeled properly? how the fuck is that right?

yeah, no, you've gotten to whine and have it your way too fuckin' long now.

start a revolution against millennials. start a revolution against feminists. start a revolution against all women. start a revolution against those douchebag guys that wear flipflops and shorts. start a revolution against those douchebags who spend more than a hundred bucks on a haircut when their hair is shorter than mine. start a revolution against every male wearing pants. every dominant alphamale monkey mutherfucker with a badge. every bald white asshole. and everyone who's into 'popular' music. fuck you all. grow some balls. pussies.

i'm a mutherfuckin' metalhead. and you think you're better than me because you're too weak to even listen to it! fucking celebrate yourselves! let's get the fucking party started!

start a revolution against the masses. and start a war against the rich.

interview everyone, ask them two questions:

a: what do you know about homelessness?

b: why do you think we should start a war against the rich?

bonus question: do you think you're in denial?

song just came on... machine head, kick you when you're down.

kick you when you're down.

and you women.

you women who won't even look at me.

you cowards who won't stop and say hello.

i am better than you.

it is not you who are out of my league, but i who am out of your league.

i'm literally too intelligent to legally date you.

i'm too brave and you're too much of a coward.

i'm too much of a metalhead, and you can't even handle... fuckin' hanson is too heavy for you!

mmmbop my cock, sweetheart, let's see how brave you are right now.

i didn't want excuses, i wanted a fucking blowjob!

you act like they're still taboo.

no, hunny, you're taboo.

and your fears are just humiliating.

this human virus on the surface of this neuron.

like a delusion on the surface of your eye.

you want to keep bitching about how men demean you...

then i ask, does rap music demean you?

and do you demean yourselves with fears, excuses, and inhibitions more than rap music does?

oh, sorry, sweetie, the correct answer was yes. and yes.

see, you're perpetuating 'no' and 'fuck no', but i'm fighting back with positivity.

hence the yes...

and my lack of fear to say it.

which proves i'm better than you.

i'm out of your league.

you selfish spoiled selfjustifying cuntcracks.

anything to justify yourself.

anything to deny me.

anything to stay in your comfortable world.

'this guy wants to end the way we live, oh my lord!'.

you think god would be that fond of that little statement of yours?

you think people who hate you and don't agree that you should have all this luxury to yourselves, do you think they might hate the weakness in that statement of yours?

you think they might detest you?

might they have a reason to?

you think they might be disturbed by you?

see, that's the thing about you. that's exactly the thing about you.

the reason you don't belong here.

and it's as simple as this. so pay attention.

if someone has every reason to hate you...

and they tell you those reasons...

and you remain in denial...

thinking you're perfect...

don't you think those reasons to hate you would get heavier?

don't you think those reasons to hate you would be more justified?

no.

see, you can't afford to think that way, which is why your society should be destroyed.

that's exactly why you should be destroyed.

because you think you belong here more than us.

while you've walked on us for so long...

we've lined your streets with our golden bones for too long...

we've pampered you, babied you, changed your diapers...

fed you, clothed you, housed you, driven you...

sacrificed ourselves for you...

fought your wars...

won your land...

traded our blood for your dollars...

bathed in your lies...

soaked in our tears...

slept in our dreams...

and still you stand.

but so do the facts.

like the fact that you went three years without noticing me.

while i tapped and danced on street corners for your attention.

you ignored me, rejected me, alienated me...

and you think that's okay.

you can't even contemplate the consequences.

and you're secure that you have enough money to buy your way out of it.

you disgust me.

i never want to be you.

i just want to see the end of you.

a day without you.

a party without your excuses.

a gathering without your fears.

a celebration without your alcohol.

an orgy without your clothing.

a forest without your concrete.

an existence without your credit card.

right now, there are these two girls sitting infront of me, talking about girl shit, in starfucks, with their drinks, and trying eachother's drinks, and giggling about shit.

'you expect us to just look at you without you even making an attempt to get our attention?'

gee, what would life be like if you expected the same thing, cause i actually did it.

what would life be like without any double standards?

what would life be like if females didn't have mouths?

what would life be like, if all a woman could do to express any interest in you, is fucking look at you, without a storefront of excuses between their eyes and yours.

what would life be like, if clothing didn't exist?

what chemical mixture is necessary in this human consciousness to get females to approach males?

what change is necessary for women to take the lead toward spreading love?

what would we have to change for females to be more brave than males?

what would have to be changed, for ninety percent of humans to mature, to grow the fuck up, to stop insisting that they're grown enough, and more mature than me, but to just admit it, accept it, and grow the fuck up, without any whining and complaints and bitching and crying.

ladies, what price could we pay you...

what could we build for you that we haven't already...

what would we have to do for you...

to inspire you to just pick up your fucking balls, grow the fuck up, and stop bitching!

what would we have to do, to make you the more mature sex?

what the fuck would we have to do to put the word sex back into your vocabulary?

you say you like sex...

but then i hear the way you describe men...

and the men you're describing...

and i wonder if you can see the oxymoron between the two.

you'd pick mister wallet before you'd pick me.

you'd pick mister shorts and flipflops before you'd pick me.

and you fucking know it.

so... what makes you better than me?

what was it again, that made you better than me?

can you intelligebize an answer?

or just cough up and regurgitate more excuses?

fuck feminists.

like you need any more excuses to keep whining about shit...

like you need anything more to whine about.

you could have changed something. but all you do is bitch about an equality you know nothing of.

you want equality with a creature that rapes, kills, eats, and shits.

what does that say about you.

you should be bravely being the exact opposite, and instead of bitching about 'he raped me', stab the fucker yourself, so you can't use that excuse on the next guy.

you want to keep bitching about all the damage we've done to you...

well...

what about all the damage you ladies have done to us men?

hmm?

come on ladies, don't go silent on me now, i know there's no cock in your mouth.

be brave. speak. and say something before all the men jump in.

cause i know, i see the heartbroken men on the sidelines, waiting to throw the biggest balls.

this is a cute little game of dodgeball we're playing here, you get the sparkly shoes.

but you better start spitting out some answers before those dudes toss some balls at you.

what, you don't see the pool of tears they're standing in?

you can't see the blood dripping from their hearts?

oh, i've got a personal damage list all my own.

see, three years of rejection, and if you look back just a bit, you can see, mother of my children sold my kids to cps like a back alley drug deal... see all that?

it's time the feminist terrorist organization... and peta... take responsibility for their terrorist attacks.

don't you, guys?

oh, i forgot, those guys don't have the balls to agree with me, cause you ladies had spaghetti the other night, oops.

oh, and that's another thing, ladies. i'm fuckin' sick of spaghetti.

oh, and i just remembered one other thing.

no one's ever going to fucking read this!

no one's ever going to fucking give a shit!

you're all too good for this!

i hope you get shaved off the earth like a handlebar mustache in a schick razor commercial.

hey man, i'm gonna fuck this shit up

no fear, no compromise, i want it all

i will never be afraid, i'll die for what i believe

all of you assholes can stay rotting here

i do not care, i will not be there

i have got to save myself, don't tell me there's no one else

and all you are is all you are

i'm so sorry for you, so sorry

so all hail the new flesh

because it suits me fine.

...

and that's a bonus little factoid about me for people who ever want to know the real me...

if you don't know what the fuel is, to get me, your friend, turned on and into action mode...

if you need to know what my fuel is, so you can get the party started...

if you've got a spotlight on me, but you're hearing crickets, and you can't shout 'action'...

if you don't yet know what my fuel is, and you need to figure it out quick...

if you have the time to read my blog, and make the effort to be my friend...

if you can find this particular post, and scroll all the way down to the bottom...

then you'll see, that the only fuel you'll ever need to spark me up, turn me on, tune me in...

it's going to astonish you how simple this is, and that you couldn't think of it.

but here it is... ready? you ready to know what my fuel is?

are you? are you seriously?

cause i know i'm just talking to a one way blog...

do you really want to know what my fuel is?

okay, drumroll...

strapping young lad. city. nineteen ninety seven.

that's all you need to know.

i'll say that one more time, incase you missed it...

if the show's about to start, but you can't find the star...

as soon as i hear that alarm clock...

you dig?

now, once you've grown the balls required to stick that in your own ear...

then we can have an actual party.

till then, put out or get out.

yes, i'm this much of an asshole.

the feminists need something to balance the equation.

and the women who will never look at me...

'zero fucks given'... otep.

the more you justify yourselves, the more i say 'fuck you'.

the more you justify yourselves, the bigger an asshole i become.

you're the one who said 'gross' when we showed you our cocks, sweetheart.

we called your bodies art.

you called our bodies crime.

that's why i'm starting 'citizens offering crucial knowledge'.

you'll get it. eventually.

though i have no faith.

this goody twoshoes prissy little fuckin' twat just walked past me.

you're my biggest enemy. i hope you all die, i seriously do. i hate you more than rap.

you're so perfect.
you're so beautiful.
the perfect clothes.
the perfect hair.
the perfect skin.

and never looking in my hideous direction.

you deserve to die. that's all you deserve.
i hope you die before all the cops do.
i hope there's a list, and you all go in the order you hurt us.
like animals getting on an ark.

acts of random kindness.

get all the cancers and viruses into that volcano, and don't forget to flush.

oh, i keep forgetting, you can't understand what a nihilist thinks. ha! well shit.

i have to remind myself, you love this world so much, you couldn't possibly see why it should be swallowed by a black hole. you think the black hole is just as sentimental as you?

yeah, thanks ladies, for such a wonderful night!

i hope you're worth every dime.

those fuckin' females...
the pampered kind...
the perfect kind...

how the fuck do you exist?

i hope homeless men puke on you frequently. i truly do.

eat another heart, you demon cunt.

oh, yeah, that was the thing i thought of after jail.

a band name.

demonicunt trolls.

haha. that's a fuckin' good metal band name if i ever heard one.

on my list of favourites, it's right up there next to strapping young lad and meshuggah.

oh, i have to keep reminding myself... NO ONE FUCKING KNOWS ANYTHING ABOUT ME!!! HAHAHAHA!!! HOW COULD I FORGET THAT!!! THEY CALL ME LAZY, BUT THEY WON'T MAKE THE EFFORT TO GET TO KNOW ME, EVEN IF IT MEANS READING MY FUCKING BLOG, NO, THEY'D RATHER HAVE ME REPEAT MYSELF DAILY, AND THEN TELL ME I'M NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! GOD'S WORST JOKE!!!

so, yeah, you know... irony has a bank account.

fuck yourselves.

the prettier you are, the weaker you are, and the sooner you die.

fuckin' females.

cowards.
pussies.

you know the vagina is intended for reproduction, right?
not as a reward for wearing the right suit...
not as a bank plecostomus...

a virus that thinks itself more than a virus... hmm...
if anyone has delusions of grandeur, it's you.

i'm the grandeur, you're the delusion.

go figure.

...
well, it's five forty. i was done writing, about to shut down, but looked outside, it's still raining like the future of grass depends on it.

i fucking hate this planet.
i fucking hate this life.

so, how can i fill up another hour when there's absolutely nothing i want to do.

i've got a knife, and no kevlar over my heart.
i've got shit to smoke, but can't smoke in the rain.
i've got an umbrella, but it won't behave like an umbrella should.
i've got fingers, but that's about as useless as having a stump dick on a string pulling minions out of a claw machine...

i want to die.
i just want to fucking die.
i do not want to live this life anymore.
i'm more done with it than it is with me.
i give up every night.
i lose all hope.
i can't even cry anymore.
my heart just caves in.
dives into the concrete.
plummets like it's escaping to japan.

no time for you.
time alone.
this time i think i've found it.
goodbye, my love.
it came for me.
i'm going back to japan.

take your worthless, loveless, coward vaginas the fuck away from me.
you cover them with fears, and stuff them full of inhibitions like turkeys on thanksgiving.

but there's no thanks to be given.

you gave no fuck...
we gives no thanks.

fuck you, ladies.

what my cock is worth, your pussy owes, thus you're the debt, and i'm the surplus.

get it?

boy, nothin' i say is making sex more of a possibility in your mind, is it?

that's what we call a stalemate.

all puns intended. all double meanings, all double entendres, all double sided dildos, all double standards, all double negatives, and every other aspect of satire.

your mold is stale.

ever hear of a douche?

and hey, it's summer! it's effectively mating season! haha!

eat yourselves, you cunts!

it's almost six pm. still raining. i might as well just go out and smoke and get soaked. at this point, it would be better than sitting in starfucks past my cooking alarm.

film trendy millennial people walking into starfucks, and have soggy noodles walk out.

don't forget the straws in their mouths.

and cut.

you define this

just went out to try to smoke. it's raining. got kicked out of two doorways. had some other homeless guy ask me for weed. another one sold me a dollar joint. seems like they could have made great friends without me. so i had to sit in the park and try to finish smoking. almost broke my pipe, lost a bowl of weed, got soaked. and it's too much to ask for my umbrella to stay still while i try to smoke! it's too much to ask for a fucking friend! i'm not allowed to have a reliable fucking friend. i don't deserve any fucking friends! i'm not allowed to have a good time on this pathetic fucking planet, while you all have a wonderful time, i'm sure it was agreed upon before i was born, 'let's all have a great fucking time, but not that guy. don't let that guy relax for one minute'. while your whiny children get all the relaxation they desire. you're all spoiled, you're wearing the wrong fucking clothing, filling your heads with the wrong fucking beliefs, and molding it in concrete with the wrong fucking drugs! and i wonder why i can't find a fucking friend! why the fuck did i just spend an hour and a half outside trying to smoke a fucking bowl! why! why do i fucking talk to people! i should have put a knife through my fucking heart by now! my mind fucking hates me! and no one understands me! they can't even make the fucking effort! a whole fucking society of clones who are too scared of me to buy what i'm selling, and little would they ever know, i'm not fucking selling anything! wake the fuck up! i should not have been born for another thousand fucking years! i fucking hate you all! you're all wastes of life! it's like i'm seeing my dead ancestors stumble through their haze days. why celebrate yourselves? you're just preempting something better.

you kick homeless people when they're down.

i hate this fucking life

monday morning. woke up hateful, having to deal with this stupid body whining. i tried to smoke, but couldn't because my stupid body wouldn't leave me alone, so i tried to get a small seven eleven breakfast. chocolate milk and an apple danish. couldn't even stomach that. even my hair is being fucking retarded today. sat in the park by safeway and ate the breakfast. came up to starfucks and used their restroom, then finished my cigarette. then came back in and plugged in. they were playing billy jean. i can't even fucking type today, my stupid fingers keep missing letters. and the period. even when i was trying to handwrite in jail, my stupid brain keeps missing letters in the middle of words. my neck won't stop hurting and needing to pop, it's just getting worse, and no one gives a fuck. always expecting more lively and enthusiastic reactions from people, all i can hear is my mom saying 'you're asking too much from people, you're expecting too much', and 'you'll never have anyone to rely on or depend on'. thanks, mom. even dying doesn't make you wrong. but anyway, they were playing billy jean, which of course made me think of sean strip dancing to billy jean. which... i'm the only fucking person that remembers that anymore. all the rest of my highschool friends that were there, now they're too fuckin' stupid to care. they always were too fucking stupid. i still ask myself, constantly, why the fuck did i waste so many years with the wrong fucking people. the wrong fucking people. the most wrong fucking people on this planet, they had to be my highschool friends, why! no, mom, i'm not lowering my standards, there should be standards for how friends treat eachother. i fucking hate this life. being so goddamned alone. why is it that not one woman on this pathetic fucking planet can take the time out of their busy selfish day to get to know me. why can't anyone give a fuck. saturday night, klarity was supposed to come by, and of course, never showed up. if i had someone to bet when i felt like someone was going to show or not, i would be fucking rich. 'bet you twenty bucks they're not gonna show'. but no one's ever there in the first fucking place. but saturday night, both klarity and mike were supposed to come by, and neither ever showed. i fucking hate myself. so... breakfast, restroom, billy jean... i hate my fucking life. this constant chest pain, stomach pain, back pain, neck pain, why must i always be in this much fucking pain, and can't even get a doctor to give a fuck. god, i fucking hate this life so much. it will never get any better. no one will ever give a fuck about me. and goddamnit, fingers, stop fucking missing fucking letters! act like you've done this shit before! goddamnit! it's too much to ask! if i'm pulling a thread off my glove, it's too much to ask for the thread to eventually shorten, it'll just keep pulling! and if i'm expecting the fold of toilet paper to stay on my knee while i'm doing this, that's asking too fucking much from physics, i'm expecting too much, i'm expecting the world to accommodate me while i whine like they do, or at least that's what they all have to tell me daily as if i've forgotten it, or haven't thought of it yet. it's society's policy that i have to be just as stupid as the rest of you, but if i call you uneducated, you're insulted, and then you start throwing insults like we just reached that part of the reality show game... could anyone grow the fuck up please. what part of 'i'm trying to accomplish something' do you fail to understand. consistently. like it's fun. i don't know what to do on my computer anymore. cause there's fucking no one to do it with. i can't even listen to my music anymore. it's fucking boring without anyone to play it for, and the fact that there haven't been any good new albums for about five years now... not a fucking one of my metal bands has released a good album in five years at least. machine head, in this moment, deftones, soilwork, in flames, within temptation... why are all of you sucking so much! trump's in office, we should be having the best metal records in thirty years, the best time to write, the most inspiration and anger to be grasped and morphed into art, what the fuck are you doing? despite the fact that music has never really gone the way i wanted it to. i kept wanting more records like deep purple's machine head, or black sabbath's sabotage, i've been waiting forty fuckin' years now, and i still haven't gotten anything like that. you're all still trying to hard to get on the radio, to be played on radio stations, to get radio air play... why! need i remind you, we're metal! we don't cower to the radio, we don't praise the radio, we don't bow to the radio... am i the only human alive who thinks metalheads should never say 'yes sir'? what the fuck is going on here? and the fact that you all ignore me! this is a wonderful fucking world! it's owned by you!

goddamnit... sorry... trying to start that over. starfucks... i'm sick of being so fucking lonely, so ignored by everyone. who the fuck else can i email for help? i swear to christ, i've already emailed seven billion people.

i just wanted a fuckin' friend.

more than that, i just wanted to pursue a fuckin' dream.

but i was never allowed.

i'm not worth your time.

..............................................................

fuck it.

Relectioneering

What i think we should do from now on as far as electing presidents goes.

We make a reality show out of it.

Get three candidates, one representing each party.

Each candidate gets a one month trial run, with full control as president. They get to write out their plans and pick their staff, and have everything ready for their month.

Whatever things you're able to change, whatever funding or contributions are sent into your campaign box, whether digitally or physically, and however happy you make the country, both the party you represent, and the others, digitally track and count how many votes you get at the end, and see more publicly who wins.

Voters can either lock in an early vote, or have a "leaning choice", or even a "sway choice", or just wait till the very end to vote, but to count as an official vote, you need to identify yourself in some way that's verified publicly. Like video or something.

A leaning choice means you've most likely made your choice, but still observing the race, thinking you might lean another way from the performances.

A sway choice is more like standing individually, rather than leaning toward one candidate. You've made much less of a choice, and you're waiting to see the performances. Meaning, depending on how the race goes, you could sway one way or another. But as far as a starting choice to empower your political party, you can stand with your group, i.e. affiliate yourself with your party, but not the candidate.

The screens during the show, display all the information, results, and voters, as well as statistics, graphs, and live updates on their campaign achievements. If problems are being fixed locally, and the people in your country are happy, that's one category of success. If you're not causing chaos and destruction around the world, that's success in another category. If chaos and destruction are happening in your country because of people from elsewhere, and you're defending us like a videogame superhero, that's success in a third category.

Your goal locally, is to keep us safe, happy, equal enough to keep tantrums to a minimum, and educated.

As far as negativity goes locally, you need to figure out what people are pissed off about, why they're choosing to behave that way, what's causing this reaction, which isn't hard to do in a month if you make all the people in the jails and legal system do their jobs like it's a contest. You figure out what the cause of the negativity is, and you make your best attempt to to improve it.

You shouldn't base more relevance on a voter's choice because of financial status, or anything else really, but if you do, it should really only be their intellectual value.

You shouldn't base more relevance on a candidate's performance because of financial status, or anything else, except the success of how happy the majority of your country is. If everyone is fed, educated, smiling, satisfied, satiated, and not complaining... You win.

But the graphs... You cannot let one of the categories lack. You can't have rich stupid people.

Education is just as important as economic balance, and both of them are just as important as nutrition and all other factors leading to overall individual and collective happiness. If someone's personal goals in life are to hate people, walk around naked, and beg for food, let them be. However, if that same person is physically harming anyone or stealing, or being completely insane and hateful while inhabiting a political position, or shit that affects others badly... Make better decisions!

There is a massive universe of difference between a rich white guy shooting a poor person, and a poor black dude shooting a rich white lady. Just like there's an equally massive universe of difference between a grown woman seeing a naked man in public and calling the cops on that crime, and naked feminists being seen as art, and a rich rapist that gets away with his crimes because he knows people, and inherently bad people physically harming disabled people... Do you see what i'm saying there? Crimes that physically harm people are drastically different from crimes involving nudity. Nudity is not a crime. Dragging your pants on the ground should be. Around your ankles around your knees, either pull them up or take them off. It's bad enough i have to hear your music constantly.

confusion intrusion

well... today was friday. all i had to do was talk to my lawyer. i woke up and ate breakfast. cereal. used the safeway restroom. talked to klarity before getting on the bus. i assumed she was bothered by the fact that i tried to pressure her into smoking weed, which made me feel like some drug addict loser. or that it could have been that she's still hung up on her idiot boyfriend and scared to change anything or take a chance on someone better, which makes me feel inferior. but she said she wasn't bothered by any of that. she said the thing that bothered her most, was when she walked away, that's when i looked the most sad. i always look sad and feel disappointed when women leave. so she says 'so i guess it is just a guy thing, then'. i felt like saying, if you're going to think it's 'just a guy thing', then please don't consider me a guy. i claim no allegiance to either side of the room, and i wish someone could understand that about me. i'm not like those other douchebags you ladies date. i try to make that as obvious as possible, but you ladies are just gonna have to figure that out, get a clue.

they keep making me feel like, since i don't agree with society, then i must only be thinking of myself, and being a selfish person who doesn't pay taxes or do for others isn't wanted on this planet, and... if that's the case... in my perspective, i should be the only human allowed here! would the people who are most selfish and greedy please stop accusing me of being selfish just because i don't agree with your society! i'm sick of pointing fingers, leave me the fuck alone already! stop actively rejecting me, and fuck off already! you still think i don't get it, but it's you who's not getting it!

i'm fed up with society and their cloning policy.
i'm fed up with females and their paranoid excuses.
i'm fed up with males and their phallic steroid rage.
i seriously don't fucking belong here.

if you really think that i'm only thinking of myself, and completely detached from society, then ask yourself, who else is trying to solve homelessness?

or am i not allowed to be that person?

if you won't allow anyone to work that job, then... you just get to keep stomping on bums?

so i get on the bus. i held back saying something when i walked away from klarity. i wanted to say 'i'd rather be alone, than keep being rejected and hurt', but i realized they were basically the same thing. one just means trying less. giving up.

you ladies wonder why i'm so negative, and you see it backward, you love to see the cart before the horse, the egg before the chicken, the insanity before the logic... you see it as 'because i'm so negative, that's why ladies don't stick around'... but i've been trying to tell you, it's because ladies don't stick around, that i'm so negative. one is influencing the other, and you're seeing it backward. it's not my fault you have fears and excuses. it's not my fault you have inhibitions and restrictions. it's not my fault you all date douchebags and think that's what a man should be. it's not my fault men have listened to you, and that's why they're walking around in shorts and flipflops, walking dogs on leashes, with expensive haircuts that look like something you'd pull out of a cereal box. empty brain accessories to match the stupid clothing that cover the layers of fear...

ladies, it's not my fault you fear me.

if only you could understand, i do not possess the same fears.

this is what happens when a guy gets rejected every day for three years straight.

i'll repeat that, in case you don't feel the weight of that statement.

this is what happens when a guy gets rejected every day for three years straight.

i'm never going to be one of society's prized shiny happy people. not for you. not for anyone.

the way i see it, there's nothing to celebrate. not even myself. there's too much work to be done.

there's too much to be disappointed in.

so if it bothers you that i look disappointed when you walk away from me... i'll give you three guesses what the solution is for that. door number one, door number two, door number three.

door number one involves nudity. door number two leads right back here. and door number three has a puppy, a credit card, and car keys. hmm...

anyway. i got on the bus, got downtown three hours early. appointment wasn't till eleven, i got there around eight. so i walked up and got weed, sat for a while, watched a tool concert on my phone.

talking to my lawyer about the intellectually suffocating legal system... made me feel even more like a useless alien than i usually do. that i really have nothing to offer this world. they want what they want, and they certainly do not want me.

so... after i left, i took the bus back to capitol hill, and talked to dana for a bit. told her how i was feeling after that encounter. they never seem to have any answer or solution, even though all it would take, is rendering less space between the flesh around you, and the flesh around me, but we just can't get over the fears and excuses, and let go of ourselves enough. so i left there, went to seven eleven, got a sandwich and chocolate milk, ate it on the way to starfucks, thinking about shit that started on the bus ride back to capitol hill. and i had two distinct thoughts.

one was, i could write a song... verse one, a comparison of you and me. verse two describes the state of the world around us. verse three states all the reasons we fear change. and the choruses just say in different ways, 'we don't have to be this way, we don't have to act this way, we don't have to live out these roles, we can live a different us every day of our lives', and have every repeat of that chorus part be in a different genre of music, sang in a different style. a rapper sings one chorus, a popstar sings another, a country singer does another, a bluegrass singer, jazz, blues, until every genre of music has been played, and then, by the end of the song, say more like 'all these layers of pride we hold up, all the 'this is who i am' excuses, living the same life every day', and finally end it by saying a lot clearer, with a more human voice, less singsong, say 'because i don't even have to be me'.

but by the time i got to the starfucks and got sat down, both ideas left my head, and so did the motivation to write them.

the other idea, was pretty much this, but it made more sense, and not so fragmented and confused. it consisted partially of the explanation i have to offer too many people, about how i'm never going to be one of those constantly shiny happy people they're wanting.

i'm sick of small talk.
i'm sick of being asked how i'm doing.
i'm sick of repeating myself.
i'm sick of never being heard.
i'm sick of women saying no.

if you saw me in a magazine like playgirl...
my wrinkly little body in the centerfold...
if you looked at the back of that page, where it lists my turn ons and turn offs...
turn ons: utopia, fearlessness, psychedelics, intellect, fascination, passion, emotion, talking about the future, and a spectacular lack of excuses.

and the first turn off listed would be...

turn offs: women saying no, fears, excuses, inhibitions, boring legal talk, religion, superstitions, traditions, paranoias, and people who say 'i'm proud of my heritage', patriotism, money, greed, selfishness, coffee drinkers and dog walkers, consumers, capitalists, fascists, clones, cops, concrete, credit cards, construction workers... do i have to go on?

is anyone starting to see the world i'm picturing yet?

does anyone give a shit?

am i completely unnecessary on this planet at this time?

because if so, i have no problem coming back in a thousand years, when you get your shit together.

if you don't want my help, just say so. grow some balls, spit it out, overnight the nuclear insults...

and you can enjoy your world without me.

the second idea, was intended to very simply describe utopia. to clearly state that i would rather evolve than me chained down by your excuses...

every sentence i try to force out of my mouth anymore... i've got twenty different ways i could be phrasing it, all trying to come out at once. every word has a stack of synonyms behind it, all trying to stumble out on top of it. and i've also got twenty other unrelated things i could be saying at that moment. i've got twenty other versions of me i could be at any moment. but i look around me, and all i see is clone number one trying to act like clone number two, and clone number two trying to dress like clone number three, and clone number three trying to talk like clone number one, because clone number one is fresh off the assembly line, clone number two has the latest fashion sense, and clone number three has a drug problem, but all three of them, i can see the barcode where their soul should be, and i can't communicate that to anyone. it just doesn't convey.

so what are they thinking in their heads?

that i'm completely detached, and don't know what i'm talking about?
that their society is completely justified and incapable of being corrupt?
that i'm really not necessary here?

where would i belong more? sweden? amsterdam? norway?

i've had enough friends walk away to learn my lesson.

if you can't accept me as i am, it's you who's losing me, not the other way around.

you can debate that all you want, but you won't change my truth.

you can think that i have nothing to offer my fellow humans.
you can think that i hate everyone.
you can go on thinking you're better than me.

it will never compromise my perspective against you.

there are so many reasons i stand against you.
the fact that you can't figure out why i oppose you, is one of them.

get a clue.
they're not expensive.

dial one eight hundred get a clue. get a clue dot com.
order now and get two for the price of one.
sale ends on national rapture day.

is this not hell?

at two am, on april twenty seventh, i was woken up by a security guard banging his stick on the pole next to my head. so, to get him to shut up and fuck off, i threatened to kill him. i picked up my shit, and started walking up the hill. the night before, everything was telling me not to be downtown again. the cops took me to jail, where they kept me in hell for a month. they let me out thursday at five pm, so i couldn't get the rest of my stuff. i had to change outside the jail back into my clothes, and it was like this transformation, i didn't feel like myself for about ten minutes after. but i had my phone with no charge on it, and my wallet. i went to the smoke shop on first, then seven eleven where i got a sandwich, water, and chocolate milk, then to the weed store in belltown... when they let me out, they gave me both coats from when they took me a month before, so i was already overheating by the time i got to belltown. but i got weed, then walked back downtown trying to think of what to do next. i puked up the sandwich and chocolate milk, got an extreme full body cramp, had to sit on a corner for half an hour trying to relax my legs enough to stand, couldn't find anyone, or anywhere to charge, had to buy a cheap seven eleven charging base, but everywhere was closing, so i used the one bus ticket in my wallet to take the eight up toward capitol hill, but couldn't even keep sitting on the bus because i was so nauseous, so i got off around broadway, where there's a starbucks and a little alteration shop, sat there for about an hour, could barely walk into the starbucks, got a hot chocolate, and walked the rest of the way up the hill to fifteenth, walked around all night till i ran into mike finally, but he's not much support, bought him a cheap phone the next morning, we took the bus down to get my stuff, since then, i haven't seen him much. i got him the phone so i could get ahold of him, so he could help me, because i haven't learned from that mistake enough times yet.

that weekend, i don't even remember what i did. but i know it was miserable. all three days of it. twosday was hell... whensday, the second anniversary of my mother's death. may thirty first. timothy leary died on the same day, in nineteen ninety six. i left hell and started traveling on that day in twenty fourteen. on may sixth, twenty sixteen, i got back to seattle from los angeles. the hell i had been through in that amount of time is nothing... wasn't even preparation for spending a month in jail, alone, no one giving a fuck about you, and wondering when you get out if there might be any messages on your phone, only to find, in fact, there aren't. of course there weren't. you knew there wouldn't be. no one gives a fluffy rainbow fuck about you. but... whensday, i went and found joe. i got a new case from goodwill, for seven bucks. packed my shit into it, left the big brown one, got back to capitol hill that night, and slept in the teriyaki doorway. woke up that morning, and something told me, the second i became conscious, look at the case. of course, it wasn't there. a week after getting out of jail, half my shit gets stolen. my bluetooth speaker... again... the carton of smokes i just bought, and my other coat. the fur coat. papers. beanies. so i woke up friday morning with just my sleeping bag and laptop bag. i went to reach and got my packages, went to target, bought a new speaker, and got a bus to a motel, where i've spent the last three nights. it's nine forty seven am, sunday morning, and i'm about to leave, and i don't even know where to go. my neck hurts so bad, that making decisions is hopeless.

i need to find somewhere new to sleep. and i need... i'm sick of asking for help.

just enjoy being by yourself.

enjoy it. do your own thing, and fuck everyone else.

they were never going to be there for you.

you've got bus money. you've lightened your load. you remember what jail told you.

don't rely on anyone else. can't depend on anyone else.

monday, between the required shit, find writers. ask questions.

fuck the life you wanted.