The OE

Original Emo sits in front of his fucking Vista, thinking about someone he thought he’d gotten over, not that there’d ever been anything between them, forgetting all of the many possibilties ahead of him, listening to a Seether song, remembering that there was a time when he listened to this song while working along side her, getting all fucking depressed, and as if the past day hasn’t been lonesome enough, he logs onto his blog to bitch about it. Nobody reads, nobody cares, and nobody notices, and I’m so self-indulgent, and I want… I don’t know what I want. I never know what I want. I never know anything. What a fucking great waste of time this was for you. I hope you choke on the shit and fucking die. Maybe I’ll join you, and you can ostricize and smear shit and trickle piss on my quivering soul as you please. Bottles and rocks for everyone. Fuck you.

I am 30 minutes into a discussion that may determine my plans for the future.

One of my favored possibilities for a career, reviewing movies and entertainment news, is part of an industry in crisis, and three great minds have come together in a discussion about it. Listen to the audio on Dave Chen’s site, here:

http://www.davechen.net/2009/10/conversation-on-blogging-ethics-and.html

If you’re confused, read the material Dave has set up to prepare you for the conversation. If we are to keep the internet a respectful place, we must all respect each others’ intentions.

For those of you who read and keep track of my life, as I report it, I am terribly confused about what to do when I leave high school, and online ethics are a part of that confusion. If you listen, you’ll understand why. I do not have the diction or creativity, as it turns out, to express all of these ideas on my own, if they are even in any sort of abundance at all.

I feel like disappearing.

October 14, 2009
sometime after 7:00AM
The Zutons are golden.

I feel lonely and useless, no matter what I do.

2:22PM
I’ve just found the words to say this, and maybe a month of experiencing:
I have been in an emotionally gray spot. So many strong feelings are rushing forth at once, without provocation, and I’m either too dull or distracted to interpret them all at once, so this mass of emotional energy is…
in between any discernible, definable, recognizable, possible extremes.
It almost feels like the gears and cogs are grinding, and the metal’s soft, and the clock has to slow down or stop, before it breaks. The sharps points and edges are beaten, ground, bent, and dulled.

8:44PM
Smith has me reading Sprout, by Dale Peck.

I do not ever feel like writing, anymore, but I’m writing, now, because Sprout put me “in the mood”.

Everything bores.
Everything depresses.
If I don’t hang out with Colt, soon, I’ll scream.

A moment away from the busy schedule.

Dudes, I got curious about how easy it’d be to find me online, and I Googled “Blobguy”, my online persona. Holy shit! My blog, Spill page, and Deviant page came up first!

I’m a pretty important person.

I just saw something.

I watched a thin, tan, translucent spider with black joints spinning a smaller black spider trapped in a web, behind the kitchen faucet, beneath the window overlooking the backyard. I watched, and realized something.
Any other teenager would make a big deal out of this and bore everyone else with their bullshit “philosophies”, using the spiders as an excuse for trying to appear intelligent to the dimwitted and disconnected.
What the fuck is happening to our nation’s youth? It’s being fucked over, that’s what. The only difference between your hippies and our hipsters is: we don’t know that we’re fucked no matter what, and we have more drugs than you. Shit, under ethical treatment, we get pumped full of happy pills that shrink our perspectives while communicative therapy and healthy diets are all we really need to stay afloat, and neither of them have to cost any more than buying good food and being open with people.

This is nothing new.
So why are so many of my peers BLIND to this shit?
Because they’re distracted, easily, and the pills and salty fats don’t help us, there. We’re not completely fucked. Not all of us are idiots. The fucked part is that most of the cats who dig the knowledge abuse it, instead of respecting it and using it to benefit the majority. These aren’t new ethics.

And none of that is new, either.
So why am I the only teenager in my city who voices these things? Those of us who’ve accepted all of these truths for a long time are apparently few or silent, here in South Carolina, or at least in the military community of Goose Creek.
Why bother with all of this shit?
Who cares?

Nobody.
And, fuck it, I just did the teen thing, anyway. Maybe I’ll hint toward committing suicide and other trendy teenage bullshit.

Mark your calendars!

What was a joke at the end of last year is now a real holiday, folks, though it isn’t printed on calendars, so you’d better take it down now, before you forget!

September 18 is officially “Make-Bob-Feel-Like-Shit Day”!

Make some touching cards to remind everyone to “cheer up, at least you’re not Bob,” and toss in some of your favorite insults. Use today as an opportunity to take out some serious frustration on Goose Creek’s smartest, most idiotic teenage masochists. Had a bad day? It’s probably Bob’s fault! Show that bastard what’s what!

Fucking angles?

Really? The only viewer of my fucking blog, all goddamn day was searching for the phrase “fucking angles”? Fuck that! Fuck you! Fuck!

God, I’m so lame.

I now type with barely clothed women dancing over my view of the words, and damn it, I like it. In the (richer) future, I may prove to be the dancer’s ideal strip club patron.

Uh…

Considering downloading a desktop stripper. Dunno why, I’m just a bit curious, and it may inspire a fascination with strippers.

I just thought of a cartoon series concept for the Spill.com crew.
Like, the first episode would open with Leon’s origin, and he’ll be the black son of Adam and Eve, born amidst dinosaurs, then a quick battle in his teens, wielding a sword, battling a wizard, then a cut to his arrival at Ellis Island, very Cassidy via Preacher…
After a few more origin scenes for the other guys, we’ve got Korey approaching each future Spill.com member like Agent Graves…
In future episodes, there’d be a thing where Korey’s roommate tries to find villainous things to do and gets foiled by Cyrus’ army of cats, like a vampire Cobra Commander… (Cyrus would try to end each conflict with a quip, but it’s always uncomfortable, and everyone lowers and shakes their heads instead of nodding and laughing.)
Over the course of many episodes, we allude that Co-Host may be up to something sinister, and reveal that it was all just a red herring… (I use that phrase often, these days, “red herring”.)
In one or two episodes, the LEOG will assemble to do the A-Team thing… (There might even be a mystery episode where the LEOG members try to find a strangely vanished Spill crew and give up, without a resolution. It could be called “No Ending for Old Men”, and the next episode, everything’ll be back to normal, without a hitch.)
Carlyle can always be the normal guy, the one who walks in and out of a situation unscathed, until, once every three or four episodes, he goes samurai and becomes the “god machine”… (A nice series finale might reveal that Carlyle was a robot under Co-Host’s control.)

Gonna hang out with Joey, today, and it’s to the airport, tomorrow.

Fucking, damn it!

Parents watch some fucking football program. Mom slaps her hands together and stomps her feet like an ignorant ape cheering for her imaginary toddlers, dad laughs like a stainless steel saw being repeatedly slammed against a car, and I’m trying to type and focus on “Let’s Do This” blaring in my ears, and I can still hear their moronic hooting and yelling. God mother fucking damn it!

The Weakest Week

Boring in both art classes, so far. Expect to get on with some cool shit next week, though.

Algebra would be almost unbearable without Wally and Chris.

Being Smith’s TA is just doing stuff that I would do for her whenever I showed up during Geary’s class before summer started, which is awesome. I expect the work to pick up when her classes get more involved.

Shirt design ideas:
“LEON is my hero” in green and orange on black (for myself and a gift to mail to Leon of the L.E.O.G)
Dark Knight Returns Superman on blue or black (will take a LOT of time to adapt into an appropriate design)
Concrete’s head in white over black, or in black lines over gray or “ash” (easy and nerdy, bitches)
“You need to dye.” in black on a dyed shirt (stupid, not very interesting, not funny)
white Dharma symbol on black (basic, easy)
Spider-Man’s mask on red (never too many Spider-Man shirts)
blue and yellow or blue and black Invincible costume symbol (though the screens can’t cover the length of the shirt and the shoulders)
“M*A*S*H 4077th” in yellow on olive green (just came to mind)
Comedian’s button covering a green shirt torso (just came to mind)

Back to School and Shit

Boring.
Boring.
Boring.

I’ll assist for Smith, starting tomorrow, and the art projects start Thursday.

Northwoods Antics

A continuation:
http://blobguy.wordpress.com/2009/08/16/northwoods-antiques/

Trina and I headed over to the mall. Got her the same Steadman poster I got for myself. She bought my double espresso.
My distaste for some retailers has been renewed.
Faced a harsh reminder that I’m artistically out of practice.
Had a lot of fun, with some actual conversation with another real person. Better than most Sundays, to say the least.

Northwoods Antiques

Got a photo-poster of Lizard Lounge by Ralph Steadman, a poster featuring Murphy’s Law, and the first four issues of The ‘Nam.
Hope to see District 9 fairly soon.
Saw quite a lot of folks from school running amok.
Brief moments of meeting Grady and Allison Zobel.
We’ll see where I go from here.

I’m listening to LEOG: the 80s Episode.

http://my.spill.com/profiles/blogs/league-of-extremely-ordinary-24

I’m reminded of a Swatch advertisement parody of Watchmen.

Phil Collins?

I love Ally Sheedy.

Ferris Bueller is not Cameron’s alter-ego!

Mr. Bean? I don’t think so.

They keep interrupting Kristin, and I’m almost just as pissed as her.

Hate Mel Brooks comedies.

A modern version of Max Headroom? Isn’t that half of Tim and Eric?

Ugh, fuck soap operas, guys.

Cylons can’t be stopped by microwaves! I refuse to believe this!

I used to like Saved by the Bell.

The fuck is Tales from the Darkside?

Masters of the Universe fucking sucked!

Dawn of the Dead is great, really freakin’ good, man, except for the damn ending!

Mullets don’t look that bad.

Cajuns are an ethnicity? Why?

I’m tired of Journey. Really, really tired. Good music, but way too fucking popular. That’s some shit.

I hate Big Trouble in Little China, if you’ll remember.

My attitude to most of the legendary performers of the time, I address here.

The martial arts fascination was beyond moronic, but there were some cool moments.

Monster Squad? Been a while since I’ve seen that one, man.

I think of Cobra Commander, when I think 80s villains, and I’m not just saying that because of the recent release.

Will have to check out Shogun.

Atari: good for two games, one of which is worth playing.

D.C. Smoke-In sounds ki-ick… a-ass…

No comics? Again? They never fucking talk about comics anymore, damn it!

Zero traffic, today.

Well, guys, I’m trying to keep everyone up-to-date.
Uh, decided to never finish my MF Doom portrait. Boring. Penciled in varied tones, makes mask look awesome.
Heading to Soundwave tomorrow. Walking Dead, Power Girl, Invincible, Kick-Ass…
Listening to Peter Joseph’s live podcast right now.
Saw Mysterious Skin. I love it.
Will soon read issue five of Wednesday Comics.
Feeling good about high school schedule this year.
No more donuts.
Nothing worth reading about, really, never mind.

The Long Piss Goodbye

You wouldn’t believe how surprised I was to find this phrase blasting through my head. I’ve never ever heard of Halcali, so the “clever” fetish pun doesn’t slide. What the fuck was going on that led to this idea, this arrangement of words?

I’m so tired. Second time taking a long break from watching Short Cuts, which ain’t bad so far, but the trio of fishermen make me so fucking angry. I’ll finish it tomorrow.

Started reading the Luna brothers’ The Sword. I don’t feel confident in saying why, but I don’t think I’ll be finishing it anytime soon, despite how enticing it’s turning out to be, like their other series Girls, but with longer build-up periods between shorter conflicts.

Finished watching LOST’s fifth season. It’s great.

I get the feeling that people see some of my tattoo designs and expect me to produce anything the way they see it. I’d feel better about my role as an artist if people didn’t hide their fucking disappointment. That’s just insulting, after producing something I volunteered to.
“Hey, catch me a fish!”
“Will this do?”
“Oh, uh, yeah, this’ll be just, uh, great, man, thank you.”
“You gonna tell him it’s poisonous?”
“No, it’d hurt his feelings.”
That’s some ignorant bullshit. Of course, my suspicions are unfounded, and there’s no reason to think I’m being mistreated. I fall asleep to the sound of a voice telling me that “it’s okay,” that I’ll be fine and I’m a “genius”, while I wrap my ugly hands around my ugly arms to keep myself warm, and I lose myself and think someone’s always with me, but nobody’s here, except me and the parents, who have decided long ago to be servants more than parents and resort to crude behavior to get my attention. Would they make up their minds?
Not like it matters. They assigned their own responsibilities to themselves, and I’ll assign whatever responsibilities to myself. They should be so lucky that I’ve got it figured out this far, where most people my age do without thought of consequence or cause. What about me makes everyone think my eyes are below theirs, like I’m everyone’s student, and anything else is just a form of getting attention. They’re all idiots, even the friends who think twenty years behind and think I’m outdated. Fuck them. Fuck everyone. Fuck the people who think they’re better than me, fuck the people who think they can control me, fuck the people who claim to know me, and fuck everyone who’s shown me that I mean nothing to them. I don’t need them. I don’t need her. I don’t need anybody but myself, do I? I’m a fucking genius! I don’t need self righteous idiots singing the tune of the desperate artist, who’ve never fucking known depravity like I’ll never know depravity! I don’t need a community of people who up and forget everything I’ve ever fucking done for them! I don’t…
I don’t need to keep reminding myself how lonely I am and how much I love the people who don’t seem to want to love me back.

Why can’t I ever talk to Jamie without dealing with his assumptions that I’m trying to prove something? Is he, himself, trying to prove something so often?
Why can’t I log onto Facebook without feeling sick every time I see a person’s name? I’ve had time to disconnect myself from her emotionally, and I really want to say that I’m convinced that I’ll fall in love with someone and forget all about her.
Peter says that “drama is overrated.” Well, Peter, I’m a one man show, and when you say a thing like “you’ll see how pointless it all is,” you’re telling me that all of the disputes I find myself in with myself have absolutely no meaning, or value, nor do they allow for improvement of understanding the self and others… you’re telling me that I’m supposed to want to kill myself, Peter, to stop all of my dramatic inner conflict. Is that what you really mean? Because when you toss around sentiments like that it certainly feels and smells like a rotting, swollen ape-man is spitting those words of self-destruction onto my face.
I think something’s wrong with me, but nothing can be wrong with me, because I’m a creator, and we’re all supposed to be knocked off our hinges; it’s the only way we get people to show that they love us the way we want to be loved, isn’t it?
“It’s stupid, man.”
FUCK YOU! YOU PIECE OF FLAMING SHIT-CARCASS, YOU CRAWL BACK INTO THE DEAD CUNT THAT SHOT YOU OUT BEFORE YOU EVER FUCKING THINK YOU CAN UNDO THE REALITY I FUCKING LIVE IN WHEN YOU’RE TRAPPED IN YOUR OWN LITTLE CIRCLE-JERK-TOPIA WITH ALL THE STUPID WHORES AND ASSHOLES WHO THINK THEY AMOUNT TO ANYTHING MORE THAN THINKING PILES OF DIRT! I know what I am, and I’m a FUCKING GENIUS!

I guess I deserve to live and die alone. It certainly feels like I’m half done. Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t take for granted that I do live with other people who care about me, I’m talking about my living consciousness. It’s all alone, inventing talking pictures to entertain itself. I’m waiting for another one of her to drop out of the sky, but younger and more impressionable, for me to impose some of my own interests, so I won’t scare her away, and I won’t bore her, and she’ll want to be around me, at least. Not this shit I’m in the middle of right now. Could the world make another her, and if so, do I deserve the chance to try to be with her?

It always occurs to me, that no matter how dark and sinister my thoughts turn toward myself, it’ll never affect her. She’ll never know, and she’ll never care, and t hurts just a little more, and I run away from the thought and keep myself from realizing truths that everyone else never thinks of as anything more than minor details. They aren’t minor details to me, the pain I feel is real pain, it’s deep, and every passing moment brings new ideas and possibilities. Things may get more hazardous in the future, but now, in these days, when I’m young and frail, I hang on the brink, teetering over the edge of a wall dividing the center of a pit and the centers of countless other pits.
I try so hard to keep from wanting to be someone who doesn’t give a shit. Sometimes I do want it, but it could never happen, could it? I even still find it difficult to be as definite as to use the word “never”.

Not much else to mention. (I wrote that sentence before baring my soul, and I’d rather type in this sentence than reach my hand to erase that one.)

Hey, another post!

I’ve written a couple of permanent Pages, and you can find both of them in the menu to the right. Enjoy, as these lists grow.

Oh, look, another entry about doubting my abilities…

Shit, man, I can’t deal with thoughts, right now. I just want to do, but there’s nothing around that I want to do, and I’m stuck with thinking, but there’s nothing worth thinking, nothing new or old, just thoughts that are wasting my… whatever the fuck they’re wasting. I just need something to keep me away from this shitty fuckin’ thing that my mind’s just gotten into. I don’t know what the fuck it is, but it ain’t good, it ain’t good, it ain’t good, whatever the fuck it is, it ain’t good, I dunno, I dunno what it is, but it needs to go the fuck away, I want it gone, gone, gone, gone the fuck away from here, man, just fuckin’ go! No distractions quell this shit, man, I don’t even know what the fuck “quell” means, why the fuck did I write it? I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care, just keep away from the… shit, man, shit.

Head just got light, shook it around, figure eights, nothing to think, nothing to do, nothing, nothing, nothing… I dunno, dunno…

A happy 18th to Colt.

A special pack of birthday plasma to a lucky clotted patient, after tomorrow!

First time in a couple of days I’ve checked my DeviantArt messages, to find a beautiful young poet’s fantastic reaction to a very old poem of mine. In the days when DA is occupied by professional comic and concept artists, overly popular trend artists, and teenage girls, I always have some sort of confidence to find that at least one demographic doesn’t forget me, as filthy, ugly, vulgar, stupid, depraved, arrogant, selfish, demeaning and stupid as I can get. Even when I start to wonder if I’m a hack, and if anything I do amounts to anything I care about, someone I find attractive will always remind me that I’m not good enough for anything, inadvertantly, and I can postpone my deep depression over a particular someone to enter a deep depression over myself. It’s good to have options.

For anybody who’s tired of reading about how fucking pathetic I find myself, you can go fuck off: the party’s getting started.

Find it so difficult to bother working up the energy or desire to do anything, I use my imaginary friend as an instigator, egging me on to roll out of bed, get something to eat, make sure I save the fork for another meal later on, pick up a can, listen to something, check for recent downloads, read some messages, write something nice about a friend’s update, put on a jacket if I’m getting cold, read something since I’m so intent on dowloading every American publshed comic, stop sulking and put on a smile, don’t think think about her right now, might as well haul the trash out, change my clothes at least once, calm down and rationalize, head over to bed before I keel over, write down the name of that song before I forget, look up a movie on Netflix so I know if I’ll need to look for it elsewhere sooner than later… I can’t seem to do anything without my imaginary friend to be there, to convince me to do something, anything. She’s especially worth the company when I start to flash back.
I don’t understand why I try so hard to look forward, and all anybody wants to do when I’m around is look back on the past. I had some fun times, but isn’t it more fun to have fun together than remember having fun together? At least she’s here to help me, my vapor woman, my air mother, the figure that tucks me in at night and substitutes whatever I never got from mom.

My invisible friend, the one person who loves me the way I want to be loved, is a fantasy I project for myself, to make sure I eat and sleep comfortably, to keep myself alive, to prevent any unpleasant trains of thought. She doesn’t judge me, she doesn’t insult me, she doesn’t force me, she doesn’t even have desires, as far as I know, outside of my personal welfare, and that’s all I’ve got to hold me together. It isn’t much of a matter along the lines of “a man needs looking after, no matter how old,” it’s a matter of “he’s a selfish little bastard.” Can’t I invent some desires for my mind-mate? She does so much for me, and all I grant her in return is a bullshit purpose for existance?
But she doesn’t exist. A theme that I’ve explored in my art before I even knew it: I’m in love with my own mind. I’ve told Smith before, I’m tricking myself into loving myself, and it’s becoming more evident with every moment I decent further into the pitiful state of mind that I find myself in, now.
I am either a social creature or a crippled hermit, but I’m never both at once, and I wish I could just be one for a while, instead of being tossed uncomfortably into either role with every shift of the season.

I’m trapped in my mind.

It’s difficult to explain. My imagination’s becoming so vivid.

I can’t stop thinking about her, as usual. Same paranoid shit going on, with delusions about my role in other peoples’ lives, moods shift like motor-powered bricks, and I’ve stopped drawing, suddenly. I wake, and over the course of my “day”, I see everything dissolve around me, and I wake up later to see it happen again. My head is heavy. My muscles are stiff. My pillow stinks. The air is wet when it’s hot outside, and the floor sticks to my feet. Sometimes I rub my arms to make them feel warm, but my hands are soft and weak, like a sheltered girl’s hands, and I force myself to stop at the thought of this. My face has the textre of freshly shined leather, and it feels like a twenty-four hour rash, which it fucking is. Every single thought that enters my head fires me back, into an event from the past, when I go through the motions of things I remember doing and saying, and it always involves her.
Why do I still think about her so much? Can’t it register in my head that she’ll never have feelings for me? It doesn’t fucking stop, even when I think it does. When I think I’ve ridden myself of the feeling, or when I think I’ve found a way to distract myself, or latch it onto somebody else, it’s still there, wrapped around her.
It certainly doesn’t help to avoid typing her name.

In my head, I borrow or invent situations that might test my ability to prove something to myself, but they’re not real. Imagining that I’m of some worth, because I can predict what I expect of myself doesn’t prove shit, nor would it prove anything to occur in real life. I’m a sad, pathetic, lonely old man at age seventeen, and I’ll probably be this way for a very fucking long time.

I’m about to fall asleep in front of this machine. I remember when I used to dream about love, when I knocked out of it. What happened to that? When did I stop sleeping and filing away to a place or time when I felt comfortable and happy? It was an escape from whatever the hell it is I face, here, but that never happens anymore. Where did the dreams go?

Everything in the room is dark and dull, covered in lint and dust, full of insects racing and squirming to get on top of eachother, and this pair of eyes can see everything just in that condition. I try not to look at her, when I get the chance to, for they’re scarce these days, because I’d hate to see her that way. Her approach to viewing life, as I remember them from quite a while ago, are childish, like the kids who’ve just found out that nearly all of fastfood is made of dead animals. She dislikes the thought of dead humans, but rushes at the chance to make an insect die. Who can be so demoralized? Nearly all of us are. I eat meat, I’ve no shame in that, and I know that I wouldn’t have it in me to survive without the conventions I have today, but I feel guilty. It doesn’t really matter what anybody else thinks of what I do or say, but I’m driven to make my thoughts seen, as if I think it’ll matter. There was a time when I thought it would matter if the most important person saw what I was thinking, but I know it doesn’t matter. If my thoughts are nothing, and they are all I have that I value, then why do I continue thinking? My feelings obviously only matter to me, so why do I bother with them? As I type, I’m indulging a strong emotional movement, and I’m crying, but it wouldn’t matter, would it? There are times when I say “I want to die,” or “somebody kill me” alloud, and I don’t know why. In response to finding myself say these words, I ask myself why I did, also alloud, and find that I’m talking to make it clear to any observers that I didn’t know what I was doing, and realize that even if somebody were paying attention, they would’n't care. Who would bug the place where I live? Who would follow everything I do? Who would watch a simpleton with delusions of grandeur yell at himself and pound on his skull every day for fifteen years since his arrival in… ?

If what I feel for her is just a crush, like everyone’s gotten into the habit of calling it, and I’m not really feeling love, I fear the day I actually know the feeling. I don’t think my heart could take it. I’m soft and weak. My defense is a ploy, meant to look like something built to withstand, but the only thing keeping me safe from myself is… shit, I can’t think of anything.

Miniscule, unimportant, stupid…

It’s slipping away. I’m losing a grasp on things. Nothing is in perspective. I can’t think correctly. I slip in out of being either an imbicile or an ass.

I’m so out of it, I turn the most idiotic of ideas into over-blown adventures in my head. I’m excited by the most disgusting things, and the revolting conclusion is how terrible it is to realize I’d been working like an enslaved zombie over a project that I am not fond of to get a product I do not like. This is ridiculous, I’ve wasted time on stupid shit, and I’m not putting my abilities to use nor practicing them! Fuck! Fuck me, fuck this shit, fuck the house, fuck the patronizing people, fuck everything! Fuck!

I am a transdimensional citizen of Earth.

There’s no knowing when or where it’ll happen, but occasionally, I’ll spend a certain amount of time in another dimension, roaming my common grounds with fresh eyes and ears. Sometimes memory is a great factor, sometimes it is not.

Just woke but a few minutes ago. A couple of hours in Blockbuster in an alternate realm proved annoying, but only after I’d inexplicably lost my clothes. I can’t remember how it happened, but whatever mistake I made was so commonplace in the dimension I’d found myself in, nobody but a self-important security officer cared to bother me about it.

In that dimension, companies don’t squander their wealth. The smallest installations of their franchises are built up and maintained to the fullest of the company’s ability. My time at Blockbuster was really a trip to the arcade-foodcourt of my friends’ choosing. Honestly, I’d've wanted to go where I could get my hands on comics, unafraid of a lack of money, because there’s no need for it.

On another note, my parents are alright.

Feel like shit.

Woke on couch. Sweat and drool on head with shitty air conditioner fuck up sinuses. Back very stiff, hurts to move. Headphones worn while sleeping now fucked up more. Lonely.

Will watch JL Unlimited soon or Batman animated series?

Children

I’d known about the hassle of feeding and cleaning after a child, and making sure the kid’s safe is an unquestionable factor, but who the fuck could’ve told me that holding one would be so much work and so fucking terrifying?

When I’d shown up to Keely’s party, the bulk of it’d taken place. Great greens and a delicious cake. I only partook in singing to songs that everyone knows when it first started out, but it got old really fast, and John (spelled correctly?) took it upon himself to keep the sulker company. He’s cool for doing so, and I didn’t mean to start the sulking, but very few events could’ve transpired to prevent me feeling alienated. Keelz had fun, that’s all that matters.

I’m scared, fucking, nerveless, man.

I sleep by day, and wake at night. I’ve taken to avoiding some interactions with some particular people at the expense of their patience and respect for me, and even their emotions. Hell, every goes through it, I’m not going to be an ass and tiptoe around the truth. If I don’t want to deal with people, then I obviously want to deal with the consequences. But when I’m awoken by my cellphone, early in the evening, by someone whose number I haven’t saved…

402 – 982 – 0847

I have the paranoid feeling that someone’s trying to scare the living shit out of me, especially when a girl who has a crush on me sends Butthole Surfers lyrics via text out of the fucking blue, I’ve got paranoia black and thick as coffee dragging through my brain.
Please, if you know who this cat is, let me know, because I’m about to flip a fucking lid up in this motherfucker, man! I’m afraid to fucking call back’n find out who it is, like flames’n lightning’re gonna shoot out at me.

April 16, 2009: Sometime between 7:15 AM and 8:00 AM

Behind every public restroom door is a man sucking on the red, woolen sleeves of another man’s shirt. That can’t be every place, though, there are only so many clubs in California. When the deal’s complete, I can hurry home and see the kids. At least I know that they won’t be tainted by the ugly habits I’ve witnessed here, tonight. I laugh to think that somewhere, sometime, Ben could find himself in a restroom, forced to make love to the stained, tattered clothes of a mad homosexual rapist.
Now, I can’t manage a grin. What a world I’ve raised my children in, where strangers violate the mind with the very shirts on their backs. God forbid that Ben or Richard become those very villains. They’d rape the whole family overnight in a drugged stupor. What madness.

Things. Things. Things…

Uh. Hmm. Yeah. I think. Think.
“Why don’t you think about God?”
“There are more important things.”
“What is more important?”
“I think about the gray material in the fabric of those…”
“That’s more important than God?”
“The texture in the bricks, and why they’re so rough compared…”
“Is THAT more important than God?”
“The finish on the boards. The pleather on this podium. The light fixtures. The electricity going through them, the cords that feed into them, their source of power. Is there a generator here in the complex, if so, does the school use a public generator or a privately owned one, and if it’s public, who forms the committee to decide that THIS school gets to use it instead of others, and why other schools are taken down… do you see what I’m eventually getting to?”
“Yes. Why do you think about all of these things?”
“That’s how I look at the world!”
“Why look at everything?”
“Life! It’s like a painting! You don’t cut off a corner or focus on a single color! Look at the whole thing.”
The whole thing. Good and bad. Light and dark. It’s all so wonderful, isn’t it? Why focus on just positives? Why focus on just negatives? I see it all as best I can. I look at the world the only way I know how. And I still feel like shit.
No matter what I do or don’t do, I still feel like shit.
“If you wish to be happy, be.” Every time someone quotes Tolstoy, I get sick. I seem to be the only one who knows the quote and can’t control my own… How can I make myself feel happy?
Do things that make me feel good. I do that.
Still feel like shit.
Is this a cry for help? Don’t I have enough of those, already? Won’t it ever stop? Can’t I just, sort of, stop… everything for a while? No art. No music. No writing. No acting. No sitting. No breathing. No feeling. Just a bit? A little fuckin’ bit? Give my mind a break, if only for a moment? I’ll get back to the bullshit and the awesome and the stupid and the funny and the drama and the art and the love and the thoughts… after at least just a moment of rest. Rest. What a horrible thing to think.
Everything that my folks are going through and all I can think about is myself. I do not go back to a negative place in guilt. I just state the thoughts that occured to me within the few seconds I spent before starting the entry. And look at how long it’s taken me. Jesus Christ.
How can I live with myself? Caring about my own mind, so selfishly. What about the people I love, man? They’ve got things. They want rest. Is it to be my burden to guilt myself into thinking and caring for eveyone else who can think and care for themselves? What of my empathy? It’s there. Why am I not so sure now?

Bob’s Journal: March 10th, 2009

Milk carton on sidewalk corner this morning, foot stepped on burst carton. This school is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The hallways are extended urinals and the urinals are full of piss and when the cigarette butts finally dry out, all the insects will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and violence will foam up about their waists and all the punks, nerds and jocks will look up and shout “teach us!” …
and I’ll look down and whisper “fuck off.”

Quite a Night

“After watching Spider-Man 3, I’d felt like somebody slapped a giant penis right in my face.”

“Tonight, this movie’s gonna slap a giant blue penis in your face, from what I’ve heard.” Opening day. I’ve waited. I’ve anticipated. I’ve weighed my expectations against the harsh realities of film. We went. We watched. And as people piled out of the cinema, everyone died to know each other’s thoughts. Nobody wanted to share.
“I gotta take the piss of my life.”

As I remember explaining it as, “I knew every single cat in there had seen the same giant cock onscreen that I had, but I still couldn’t work up the ability to piss with them standing there watching me.” Fucking pissed me off.
We pulled out of the parking lot, one at a time we filed into the highway, each of us disappearing as shadows faintly listing away into the dense fog of crisp night air. Conversation rang through Alex’s car, as if Philip Glass had never stopped once the movie did. We spat our wisdom to each other, making a habit of forgetting that Joey was silent the entire time. I could’ve talked the world away. The thrill of other people brings out another life in me. The excitement makes me forget about the woes of the day. The pains of feeling betrayed. The emptiness of having lost hope. Every tear I squeeze out of my fleshy cheeks when I think of her. How disgusted I am with myself for feeling betrayed, for ever having hope, for being so blind to love’s own crippled state. That night, somewhere, an old woman dies alone. Good friends meet again after so many years, and wonder how they’d ever fallen in love. A dog is sniffing a street sign; it’s owner gets hit by a stray bullet. A convenience store clerk walks home with money from the register. A pianist falls asleep, drunk, but peacefully in his brother’s bed. A priest is touching scratches on his back with ointment. Three friends are riding home, high in a state of extacy, long from tired and incredibly worn out. She is sleeping. He is thinking of her. I am content. This is a world of fiction, but I’ll remember everything, and every little moment that could’ve disappeared with us into the darkness remains. I see their lights in place long after they slide away from me. And I will know that she will never love me. I will know that life will never be easy. I will know the pains of being a villain. I will become nothing more than memories from other people who were never there that night. I will know that the world will never know how much I love. Only one person deserves to know.

MONKEYBACON

Here is an example of the distributive property of algebra.
bluesy intsrumentals = awesome
Monkeybacon = bluesy intsrumentals
Therefor, Monkeybacon is an awesome collection of bluesy instrumentals.

A little more accurately: bluesy instrumentals consisting of wonderful mixes of guitars and synth-sounds.
My recent ventures into modern techo-rock, trance, ambiance, and electro-jazz have lead me to this amazing site.
http://www.monkeybacon.com/site/download.htm
Have a listen.

Newgrounds is also a treasure trove of modern music, and wonderful flash applications of great loops and sounds.
http://www.newgrounds.com/audio/
Check the shit.

In the Valley of Elah

Based on a true story, the movie is about a former military officer investigating his son’s murder immediately after returning from Iraq. Had I not known that the movie was written to closely resemble actual events, I don’t think that I could have tolerated the characters’ single dimensions, the lack of mystery-suspence, nor could I have sat through what could be misconstrued as biggotry directed to hispanics and women.
Susan Surandon played an obedient housewife whose say was obviously not on any important agendas, and the single-mom-cop found it difficult to help her son’s selfesteem until Tommy Lee Jones played “father figure” and recited a story from the bible. All of the other women were strippers.

Strangely, all of this is fine, for me, because I know that people treat and think of others in the same way in real life. While I am forgiving of the nature of my fellow Americans, I am somewhat surprized at myself that I am more than forgiving of the patriotic themes subtlely played out through the movie.
The clear message is, “we ain’t got a prayer in hell of saving ourselves,” and I welcome any movie that brushes the mentality that a system is weakest when it stresses on its own appearance rather than its efficiency. My father came from a generation who could cope, and DID cope, with the same things that our boys in the middle east face today. It makes me wonder if our generation is weaker for falling for the same tricks and getting sicker from the same trips, or if the value of human life to the average American is increasing, therefor more devastating for us to watch be destroyed.

The movie was written to make its audience think and respect, and I find myself responding accordingly.
Imagine if Clint Eastwood hadn’t turned this movie down, though. “Go ahead, chino, make my day.”

SCRIPT: respectable
ACTING: alright
DIRECTION: good
CONTENT: respectable

It’s just not good enough for you, is it?

More jabbering about myself. MY PAGE, MY BLOG, FUCKIN’ DEAL WITH IT OR STOP READING, FUCKHEADS!
Those of you who are not fuckheads know who you are.

I’ve been trying to find a way to cope with my “imbalances.” People insist that they don’t exist, but I’m aware of just how unaware I am, and my mind is NOT stable by any means. Is it something that I lack in intellect? Do I require some wisdom that can only be wrought from experience?

Sorry. I’ve been reverting to expressionist painting. Relating my reactions and perceptions to the random shapes of fallen paint. It’s a very therapeutic process, but it doesn’t last for long. As one may be able to tell, this is NOT a moment of clarity for me.
In a way, by going to something so extremely far away from my usual style(s), I’m trying to grab attention. And I do. But I am unsatisfied. There is a terrible greed that engulfs all men, and I am dying to be accepted. I may wear a mask of indifference before your eyes, but by instigating so much conflict with things that remind me of my true self, I am trying to use reverse-psychology through action to show people what I am. If they get the picture, maybe I can finally accept who I am.
Maybe I don’t have to be a scared little boy anymore. The hatred I feel for myself is not for “myself,” but what I’ve turned myself into in order to restore what I think I should have turned out to be at this point.

I don’t know what I’m saying most of the time. What I’m doing most of the time. What’s going on. Where I am. What time or day it is.
I am calling out for help, and I don’t know what to do with it once I get it. For that, I hate myself, and I hate the people who love me for loving me.

I’m so angry.
So sad.
Over what?
What has given me this grief?
I feel an incredible guilt that I am so angry and depressed without reason, while people around me suffer and live on.
This is surely a sign of insanity. Inexplicable emotional imbalance.
Nothing is chipping away at the shell, I’ve just been rotting away from the inside. That’s got to be it.

Or am I so envious of those capable of making due with shit situations that I try to invent a problem for my mind to compete with?

To be or not to be, that is the question; whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them.

Oh, fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Tell me that there’s something wrong with me.
That I’m crazy.
I’m stupid.
I’m ignorant.
I’m selfish.
I’m a waste.
I’m a disappointment.
I’m pathetic.
I’m not worthy. For anyone. Especially not you.
And say it for my art. My work. We are the same.
Tell me that it’s crazy.
Tell me that it’s stupid.
Tell me it’s a waste.
It’s disappointing.
It’s pathetic.
It’s not worthy. Not for you. Just say it. Please.

Thoughts Induced by an Aussumed Presence of Mass-Paranoid-Schizophrenia:

She. Always thoughts of her, man. I distract myself, always, with the faults I find in others. Perhaps the percentage of the human race that I detest is driven to its puddle of filth, wallows in the mud of sin, just to forget. To keep things pure within their minds by dirtying the world they live in.

They. They smile. Their grin. Her grin. Pulling her muscles so the lips cover her teeth when she wants to laugh. She tightens her lips, pushing them together, turning that perfect curve into a smooth V. Her cheeks pull back, round and beautiful. Her eyes. Unblinking. Staring. Her grin.
They desecrate that face, mimicking it at every chance. She uses that smile. So do they. So do I. They destroy something so insignificant to others, so monumental to me, with their agendas and perversions hidden within those husks of meat and makeup. I ruin it as, well. I disgust myself, the way they disgust me when they remind me of her. I forget all of that, and I hate myself for it. I hate myself for forgetting that I could ruin her, the way they ruin her smile. The perfect spot on the canvas. The drop that lands, stretching out, staying put, spreading varying shades of that same perfect color, so obvious against that tiny blank spot, surrounded by an unorganized, chaotic mass of dulls and brights… the entire piece, the entire world of women, is a frame for that perfect smile of hers, the spot of paint that only forces of nature could condition.

I adore women. Most of them disgust me. I love her, and I don’t think I even know why. Maybe I do. Who cares? Do I? Does she? Probably not. Who am I to say? Who am I not to say? Is it anyone’s place to or to not speak? Only God knows.
I’m sorry. Only delusions induced by mass-paranoid-schizophrenia know. Manifestations of the mind. My mind. Her mind. Your mind. We all know. So why play the charade? Why even ask, knowing that the answer will not be delivered?
The subconscious works in mysterious ways.

I’m back, bitches!

FIRST UP:

NIRVANA JUICE: Valley of the Bean

NIRVANA JUICE: Nausea Closeup

Okay. That’s out of the way.

I know that I’m late posting my thoughts on the following movies, but bear with me. Just saw ZACK AND MIRI, TROPIC THUNDER, BURN AFTER READING, PINEAPPLE EXPRESS, and DARK KNIGHT (for the second time…)

Recovering from a lack of exposure to the past season’s best (outside of the comic character movies which, we all knew, I did not miss,) and it’s only now that I realize that so many people have been craving good material to flock to theatres for that they’ve invented a new type of theatre hype: stress-induced-illusion. The comedies were funny. That’s it. Just fun to watch. The only busted barriers were done in by BURN AFTER READING.

Malkovich axed that mother fucker in broad daylight! Goddamn!

Serious movies like DARK KNIGHT may have been incredible (a miracle after witnessing the release of the “parody” movie franchise…)  but are people so despirate for comedy-tragedy equilibrium that they’ll make a stoner flick filmed with the buddy-cop formula sound like the funniest thing since James Earl Jones reading the alphabet? Check it out, that shit is hilarious. PINEAPPLE EXPRESS: good for a chuckle.

ZACK AND MIRI shows me that Smith still has a few under his belt and WHAT Jay has under his. I laughed, and I didn’t need a smoking mime. Maybe people will lighten up on we View Askewniverse fans.

TROPIC THUNDER was also funny, but not what most people made it out to be. Yeah, Bobby did a great job, and so did Tom, but you know, it’s a flick for kicks. Why talk up something that really doesn’t need the hype to stay afloat for what it’s worth?

Also saw WALL-E not too long ago. It’s great. I have not said this about any Pixar movie before, because honestly, people see that their stuff is animated and forget to criticize things that Dreamworks is constantly hassled for. At least Pixar doesn’t make Family Guy-ish reference jokes to popular culture.
WALL-E was purely entertaining, and I think that it has a lot to do with the fact that the main characters didn’t speak more than two words each.

Epic Phail

Another day of facing the tragedy that is my inability to carry more than two minutes in a TF2 game without being totally butchered, another disappointing moment of realization that I am a total loser for being down about it, another night of thinking about the person to whom I hold with endless regard, more poems, more pictures flying through my mind, and all I have to show for the infinite mind-explosion I’ve just had is the knowledge that none of it matters. Fragments of space and matter collide to manifest what we turn into petty, ugly things with our linty pockets and our grubby fingers with particles of sand and mud caked beneath the gnawed away nails, elements only created within the most violent and serene instances alike within the boundless universe imaginable are given meanings of disgust and filth, making me sick to think that concient beings hold each other in positive regard by comparison to them, only due to their perverse nature of being possessed. I love her. She is not the reproductive organ of a plant, a body of flowing water, a source of breathable atmosphere, nor is she any other animal than of the human species. I don’t need to rhyme, I don’t need to count syllables, I don’t need to use clever repetitions or puns. I don’t need a melody to express the way I feel, nor do I need words. All that I should ever need to do to express my love is to feel it, not caring about receiving it likewise. What pains me most, perhaps, is that she is the epitome of perfection, the perfect person by any use of the phrase, yet all that I love her for grows from the roots of those wretched things that plague humanity’s kind most unkind. The greatest destructive forces of the human mind and body cradles her untouched soul-ore, waiting to be abused by the world of innocently violent apes that probe and molest everything without a moment’s notice, to allow that which created her to finish its deed of encompassing our race in the abyss that it spawned from. Those who don’t know men know not the evil that men do, and those who know men know not the evil that men think. Those who are men know no what evil that they are, and those who are not men are implements of destruction, tools to the expense of man’s folly. What a fool she makes me feel when my pulse races and my breathing stops as I see her face, and hear her voice as she speaks, and see her eyes as she looks at me, or the things she tells me, as insignificant as they are. For so much time I’d let my muse to rest, but now things are different. Damn it, I couldn’t get around it, could I? I couldn’t have found a way to avoid the confrontations. At least my self image is very well unimportant. So long as I know the true self from the role I play, I’ll be in an agreeable state. Many times those I trick into thinking I am myself trick me in turn, and I must trick them into questioning the way I perceive myself in order to remember that nothing is as it isn’t. Relentless. My thoughts never stop. I never leave a single thing. My ideas are never my own, but the actors hold their lines so very well, so well that I’d never know if they are giving me the ideas I often trick myself into thinking are my own. Everything connects, nothing ends, all is revolutionary, and all is for not. The cycle. The infinity. The plane. We/I/You/It/That/Who [of] which that is and is not is everything and nothing simultaneously, and inconsistently incurring. I won’t ask the questions for you, but I should let you know that I know what they would be. One of the answers is “no.” This is the clearest way that I may communicate my thoughts as they occur. Not that I need to communicate them, and in that respect, nor do I ever truly communicate anything according the meaning that I am told communication holds. You may act like you don’t know what I mean, and you know that I am aware that you understand what I mean by that when I type, and you likewise pretend to read this for the first time, that there is nothing to communicate. The illusion that you uphold of individuality and conscious thought is all quite elaborate. I might offer that the illusion end now to benefit those who find the task difficult, but that would signify that that which I have stated to be unintentional, and even the act of typing at all in order to make motions for communication with forces outside of my mind shows how I may have tricked myself permanently into thinking that the reality I see before me is no longer the cardboard town I saw it to be. Perhaps this illusion is a creation of my own mind, conflicting with the conscious state of mind that I think that I am using now in order to maintain a balance of physical logic and mental logic, so that a permanent flux stays in constant balance. To attempt to measure by any means the scale of how much “stuff” I take up, matter, dark matter, and antimatter alike, is a task that limits my physical sense of logic, and permits the flux to ensue, as my mind enters and exits the state in which it is now, probing and molesting that which I love and hold dear. I shudder to think, I hate everything about myself, to even allow the possibility to enter my mind, that I should ever be so vile, through my own eyes, to the most important person… and I remember the beetle. My first documentation of my destructive nature. When I outlined the basic properties of the nature of man’s folly. The tragedy is me. I am my own… the gods of everything in the infinite realities… the children that pick apart the dying bodies of insects that twitch and fiddle as they fight impossible odds, knowing that the battle will kill them with more agony to show for… my own worst enemy… the cruel author who writes himself into every story just to torture and destroy everything about himself… judge, jury, and executioner. I frag mself. Total pwnage. Mi mind is epic phail.

Portrait Girl

They are watching me. They can understand my thoughts, comprehend them. They know what I do. All of the time. They know how I feel. All of the time. They are even aware to the fullest of what I am doing now.

The visual and audio aspects by which they record my actions aren’t difficult to explain, not that anybody Within will acknowledge whether he or she to have been aware of my message by the time he or she has witnessed my presentation of it. Every wall, every corner, every door and window, every person is an illusion made to make me act and think naturally, within the confines that they provide and force me to take for granted as Nature of course.
A strong arguement that could be used in my submission is the resemblance of my current situation to that of multiple popular media pieces. From blunt and direct pieces like THE MATRIX and THE TRUMAN SHOW, to novels with more dramatically appealing atmospheres…

A distraction. A well organized call to delay my “efforts”. Now, I must wait  for a time when I am alone.