What's black and white and red all over? Your mother, upside down, wrapped in electrical tape. You on the run. The pain has been astronomical. Mentally shredded. Bringing myself back together. You never want your heart to get too cold, but sometimes enough things pile up together and the fire goes out and it's just you out there, alone in the backwoods, beside a ring of rocks and ash and you can hear them at the tree line cutting under the bushes and between the trunks and leaves would rustle if it wasn't so late a winter, and instead the twigs are snapping and whistling when they breath and more than anything else you want to howl and bring them to you because waiting has you chewing your tongue out of your face, but even if you could draw enough breath to do it, your throat is swollen shut tighter than your shivering eyelids. So you wait for sunrise with the knee quaked temerity of a hangman who knows there are worse things than death.
It's been a while. It's been a long long while. Every minute an exercise, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing, in control. Childhood memories know no limits and have no expiration date. They're like veins laid into the skin of your brain that pump that history through your tissues and sockets and bones and every few days or weeks or sometimes, blessed months, they rattle around your cells and locks like blind inmates with worn down kitchen ware for picks. Sometimes, strolling those halls you catch their empty, milky, eyes in little bits of mirror gummed to metal rods watching the sound of your footsteps down the hall. You took them out, one by one, to solitary confinement and punched those brown and blue iris's out with a peen hammer. Each new arrival. Because you could not stand the watching, but you never thought they would keep on looking with their ears, little mirrors still poking between the bars out of habit. Or maybe just to fuck with you. Every few days, weeks, or blessed months, one will get it right, and out of the corner of your eye, too far down the hall to break the hand at play, a cell springs open. Two cells. Three cells. Two more on the upper level. Another in a wing of a branch of your complex you only know because the alarm is thudding through your ears, through the bricks of your skull and you know something has gone very wrong.
The ghosts have been roaming again. To the point where the best thing I can do is lock myself up and pray for rain stiff enough to take the chalk off the attic walls where the roof is worn away. Sometimes I know why it happens. A lot of times I still don't. Managing is a kind word. But you do it to the best of your abilities. At some point it becomes not protecting yourself from others intrusions or exploitation or oversights or abuse or perceptions as much as it becomes protecting other people from yourself. Just because you know and can, to a degree, understand what's happening to you or not always the what, but the why (sometimes not even that) and can feel that something is not in its right place and that knife is not where you left it, and your shoes are covered in mud, but you went to bed early yesterday and it didn't rain until deep into the night, and that math is simply not accurate, does not mean that you can do anything to stop it besides isolate and insulate yourself as much as possible. "Bad things are about to happen."
It shakes you on the inside. The frameworks you've built up to contain and blanket fracture and split apart and you have to force one hand into the other. Force your hands to love each other so they do not tear you to pieces. And sigh "please, not now. Not yet." They will pay someday, but you're not ready yet. The switch turns and you're alone again. The things with names I cannot pronounce are gone, but how far away did they go this time. Are they in the next room? Around the corner of the building? Is he on the windowsill, outside the drawn shade admiring the night air? Check the bathroom. Where did all of this blood come from? The switch turns again. Rusty contacts spark and pain flows like spilled water on live copper. You hold your hands over your ears and go days without saying a word because if you do not know who and what it is that is breathing in your ear, you can never trust a word from between your lips again.
Pain builds and abets and builds in the dark inside your folds. They eat at your body. Snack and taste and tear away this and that. They can hear you crying through the years, sniffing you out. One and then two and then too many to count and all you want is to reach back through that long stairwell, past the cobwebs, to hug your little body and press your round little face into your chest until you stop breathing, but you can't bring yourself to do it, so you hold yourself tight and listen to the echos rising to the floor above and the snick snacking shuffle of their footsteps trying to find their way down to where your body broke all those years ago. They come down those stairs and pull chairs near and wait and watch and some laugh and some pick skin out of their teeth with spare change or a bobby pin. Some draw little things in the dust on the floor with little fingers. Pain builds and you take it and take it until it becomes.
In the pile of ash inside the stone circle in the backwoods you failed to navigate and so made a bed, the weight of ignition is reached. The heart inside you, driven and compacted to a block of solid steel arctic ice, begins to burn again. Focus taken returns. It is only you. Yes, they are near, but it is only you holding the gun to your chest and the hammer falls and you exhale fire. The sun is hanging itself and all you need do is walk toward it to feel its heat. The air is not vibrating anymore, instead holding you the way you tried to hold yourself. Pain destroys until the scale goes so far it can only be described by what it creates. Clarity is a kind word. Control. Management. I know someday it will go somewhere we will not come back from. But that day is not today. Today, everyone is in their cell. Everyone dangerous enough to raise the hairs on my neck and make me piss into my pant leg and fill my left shoe. History never goes away.
Rebuild. Come back to us. There is no reason for this is the biggest lie you'll ever hear. Someday we'll be right and they'll see what it is that steals sleep from our eyes. It's been a long long while, but it feels like no time at all. Someday we'll have a necklace made out of their teeth, little holes drilled in them, fillings and all, with a little pink thread through them and the back ends in fisherman knots tied to silver clasps. That would be nice. Someday sweetheart.
Clean with alcohol only. Do not attempt to replace blown fuses. Do not remove access panels. Return to certified mechanic for regular maintenance. Made in the USA.
Showing posts with label merciless. Show all posts
Showing posts with label merciless. Show all posts
4/5/13
10/25/12
Proliferation Theory
If you do enough, something is bound to stick favorably. For a time I approached writing with an arrogance. I thought, because it was the only thing I got decent marks in, I must be good at it. And then I got bad grades. Still got good grades from time to time, but bad grades just as often, usually related to the technical composition and not the ideas. And then I got good technical marks and bad ones on the formation of ideas. Sometimes I did well with both.
It was a strange time. I transitioned from writing on my own time and going to class and writing instead of doing homework to higher grades where writing was my only homework and all I did in classes. The arrogance of perceived innate talent faded quite a bit with one failed attempt to win awards after another and I blamed closed communities and the like, the department was exceptionally cliquey. I believed the profs liked what they liked and you liked what you liked and it was your job to jump the gap, not theirs.
I don't know what my problem is exactly, but I do believe it is that the people that I idolize make it look so effortless and what they make feels like hit after hit after God damn hit. Maybe proliferation theory is failing me. It's difficult to say either way. Maybe I am genuinely no good. It's tough to digest. Without some kind of schedule. I rolled up a dollar bill. It's just strange, I guess. Proliferation theory. Asking when is good enough for me good enough for someone else.
The theory begs a lower standard, but how much is compromised in terms of value and personal expansion? Is the cost appropriate to the value of the product, the life time stamp I put my name to? I don't know. I do it predominantly for myself, at least that's what I've convinced myself of. I don't know. Would I kill to go back to school? How many people? Could I plea bargain my way out of life sentences and would the offer still be good when I got out? I'd have to think about it. Hypotheticals.
Yeah, it drives me crazy. A little bit. I try to think about what else I would be doing, could be doing. None of it appeals to me the same way. Everyone, including myself, well maybe not everyone, many people talk about being their harshest critic. I may be my most passionate lover. Delusions of grandeur coming with the territory, but I don't always see it so clearly. The Fantha. Losing focus on the mission. I just want to die knowing I was good as I could possibly be, not knowing I was good as I was going to be. Who wants that?
I think believing that I'm great keeps my engine running. Keeps the clutch down and a hand on the shift knob for when I come running. Beyond that, I don't know how much credence I give it. I butcher language and muddle image on a weekly basis. I talk like broke nosed sailor all too often and argue like a fifteen time concussed politico's son. Pretty sure my mental dictionary has "turn to page 345"s on it and on page 345 there is a crayon hand drawn hairy dick in the corner.
Purpose is a fine commodity. Take a digger. Fire off the magazine, discharge, and throw it as far as you can. Sometimes panic can be beautiful. Never outwardly. Did I tell you that I was you? Don't be silly. Don't be silly little king with your crown. Let me polish that for you; you dropped it skipping puddles in gutters without your galoshes. You know the ones with He-Man and Skeletor printed all over? I'll remember for you.
Just behave, okay?
The project was, the final project was, to make a visual that encompassed everything you believed poetry to be. Everything you believed poetry to be and the purpose it served. They came in with their power points and dream catchers and God's eyes and a diorama of a village and someone made a painting and someone made a collage from printed magazines and there were a handful of abstract sculptures and even a figurine, but you made a life sized naval mine with trigger switches and detonators and wires out of empty wine bottles and paint brush handles and spray painted it black. That was a fun walk across campus with that hugged to your chest. Cutting across the grass, because the people on the sidewalk could go f--- themselves that early in the morning. You worked on it all night after thinking about it for a week. Everyone talked about their things and you talked about yours. And that's where it ended.
Officially. I suppose, the project is ongoing. I hate myself. I love myself. I hate myself. I'm sorry to drag you into it. I don't know how else anything changes. Contemplating the validity of ProT.
///Starkey - "Spacewalk" infolatice diver with a bad respirator. the city is so vast and so uninhabitable so far beneath the waves
from a similar born year and different circumstance, but very little I haven't enjoyed while there: alicja-w-krainie-czarow
It was a strange time. I transitioned from writing on my own time and going to class and writing instead of doing homework to higher grades where writing was my only homework and all I did in classes. The arrogance of perceived innate talent faded quite a bit with one failed attempt to win awards after another and I blamed closed communities and the like, the department was exceptionally cliquey. I believed the profs liked what they liked and you liked what you liked and it was your job to jump the gap, not theirs.
I don't know what my problem is exactly, but I do believe it is that the people that I idolize make it look so effortless and what they make feels like hit after hit after God damn hit. Maybe proliferation theory is failing me. It's difficult to say either way. Maybe I am genuinely no good. It's tough to digest. Without some kind of schedule. I rolled up a dollar bill. It's just strange, I guess. Proliferation theory. Asking when is good enough for me good enough for someone else.
The theory begs a lower standard, but how much is compromised in terms of value and personal expansion? Is the cost appropriate to the value of the product, the life time stamp I put my name to? I don't know. I do it predominantly for myself, at least that's what I've convinced myself of. I don't know. Would I kill to go back to school? How many people? Could I plea bargain my way out of life sentences and would the offer still be good when I got out? I'd have to think about it. Hypotheticals.
Yeah, it drives me crazy. A little bit. I try to think about what else I would be doing, could be doing. None of it appeals to me the same way. Everyone, including myself, well maybe not everyone, many people talk about being their harshest critic. I may be my most passionate lover. Delusions of grandeur coming with the territory, but I don't always see it so clearly. The Fantha. Losing focus on the mission. I just want to die knowing I was good as I could possibly be, not knowing I was good as I was going to be. Who wants that?
I think believing that I'm great keeps my engine running. Keeps the clutch down and a hand on the shift knob for when I come running. Beyond that, I don't know how much credence I give it. I butcher language and muddle image on a weekly basis. I talk like broke nosed sailor all too often and argue like a fifteen time concussed politico's son. Pretty sure my mental dictionary has "turn to page 345"s on it and on page 345 there is a crayon hand drawn hairy dick in the corner.
Purpose is a fine commodity. Take a digger. Fire off the magazine, discharge, and throw it as far as you can. Sometimes panic can be beautiful. Never outwardly. Did I tell you that I was you? Don't be silly. Don't be silly little king with your crown. Let me polish that for you; you dropped it skipping puddles in gutters without your galoshes. You know the ones with He-Man and Skeletor printed all over? I'll remember for you.
Just behave, okay?
The project was, the final project was, to make a visual that encompassed everything you believed poetry to be. Everything you believed poetry to be and the purpose it served. They came in with their power points and dream catchers and God's eyes and a diorama of a village and someone made a painting and someone made a collage from printed magazines and there were a handful of abstract sculptures and even a figurine, but you made a life sized naval mine with trigger switches and detonators and wires out of empty wine bottles and paint brush handles and spray painted it black. That was a fun walk across campus with that hugged to your chest. Cutting across the grass, because the people on the sidewalk could go f--- themselves that early in the morning. You worked on it all night after thinking about it for a week. Everyone talked about their things and you talked about yours. And that's where it ended.
Officially. I suppose, the project is ongoing. I hate myself. I love myself. I hate myself. I'm sorry to drag you into it. I don't know how else anything changes. Contemplating the validity of ProT.
///Starkey - "Spacewalk" infolatice diver with a bad respirator. the city is so vast and so uninhabitable so far beneath the waves
from a similar born year and different circumstance, but very little I haven't enjoyed while there: alicja-w-krainie-czarow
8/5/09
i walk to work. no. NO, youre not listening. 08/05/09
they are turning it into the worst fucking investment ever. you know the thing. that thing that "no one can take away from you." that thing that unlocks the power and magic of learning. that thing that lets you make 35K a year on average. yeah, that thing. fucking education. the worst fucking personal investment ever. no one should be saddled with this personal burden. ever. its a fucking business.
they let you sign yourself up (and hopefully one of your parents too) to recieve a bacterial infection. Since you cant pay your way or get perfect grades and be in every club (probably because you're a normal fucking person with real concerns in life from a less than absolutely supportive and financially endowed family and youre probably in that big square part of the standard distribution of human beings under the age of 25) the rules clearly state that if you receive this infection you can go to college. the infection degrades your health and your prospects and your financial reputation and your bank account for up to 30 years and is removed if you pay the people that gave you the infection the cost of tuition plus an arbitrary amount of additional money so that they dont have to work and can go on vacations to exotic places and pay for their kids to go to college. but if you dont pay them back and pay for their vacations, and their kids to go to college, within 30 years, sometimes as little as 15, then the infection metastasizes and kills your work life, financial, family life, and cuts you off from all sources of material/meaningful help.
actual phone call today. keep in mind i answer at least 4 of these a day. I recieve between 8 and 12 every god damn day. "hi im calling on behalf of ers a collection company for UIC. we're calling about 6k you owe. will you be able to close that out today?"
"no. of course not. if i was able i would have done so months ago."
"well the account has been... is delinquent" (i made the fucking payment to keep it out of collections the business day before... but hey its my "deadbeat" word against their "without fault" system. the account was never delinquent before either hence its newly minted arrival at ers) "and we need to close it out immediatel-"
i interrupt her "look, if i had the money i would give it to you. i just started a new job a couple of weeks ago and making barely enough to pay rent, keep my phone on, and pay out my 600 a month in student loans" (my job pays about 19k before chicago and fed taxes)"i cand do some kind of payment plan."
while we're talking my phone rings again and its AES on the other line. calling about one dollar and eighty fucking cents, i shit you not.
"well sir, how much do you make" exasperation tinges her voice. "im not authorized to do a payment plan until i know that along with your mortgage or rent."
"well i make 19k and my rent is 200 a mo" i live wth my gf. it should be 450 but shes letting it slide for now
"thank you sir" she interupts me
"well wait a minute" i interupt her "hold on a sec. i have 70k in student loan debt. doesnt that matter?"
silence. then "well its not really a part of our equations. we do our calkalations based on housing and income" WHAT THE FUCK. ARE YOU SERIOUS? how fucking caniving is that? well next time ill just lump the 6 to 7 hundred a month i pay out to student debt in with my rent.
"based on what i calkalated can you make a 234 dollar good faith payment today?"
"no, if i could do that i would have just paid UIC directly and avoided all this mess."
"can you make a 100 dollar payment?"
"i dont know. maybe."
"okay i need your routing number and check number" WHAT!
"no, i said maybe. i need to do some calculating too and find out what i can afford to pay. i dont have any debt information in front of me because im at work right now"
"do you have your check book?"
"no im at work. im standing at the front counter right now, at my job, so i can make money to pay you people."
"well can you go and get it on your lunch break?"
"no, i walk to work. i cant get home and back here on my lunch break."
"well cant you just give me the routing number?"
what the fuck. listen to the words coming out of my fucking mouth!!!
"no, im at work. i dont have a car. if i could afford a car i could afford to pay you people."
pohone rings again. guess who? its ers. on another line. in another office. calling about the same fucking thing. literally to the T. i switch and then switch back to cynthia.
"i am car less. i have a hard enough time just keeping my phone on just so i can get calls from you people six times a day. i walk to work. i dont have my checkbook because when i left i planned on going to work. not to the bank. its what i do on week days."
"well can you call me tonight then so we can discuss this matter?"
"there isnt much else to discuss unless you're coming up with smaller monthly payments. i need to go home and review some information and my finances and ill get back to you as soon as i can and hopefully itll be with good news."
literally twenty minutes later phone rings again. ERS. about the same thing. i tell the new lady i just talked to cynthia. must be a fake name because she had no fucking clue who that was. i tell her everything i told the first lady. she tries to play the "oh i know youre struggling but i just want to help you. do you have a routing number today? well call me back tomorrow at 9am." which turned right before she hung up to "ill call you tomorrow at 9am." which i promptly corrected
"dont call me. ill call you with information."
but she tries to play the "i identify with your position and want to do whats best for you and my company and get this resolved as quickly (left out satisfactorially) as possible" but i wasnt buying it. they always do that. see the thing is... that person on the other end doesnt fucking identify with you. they dont know what it feels like to get these calls year after fucking YEAR after FUCKING YEAR. they have no fucking clue. and thats why i want to strangle them. i want to put their eyes in meat grinders. i want to beat their children till their skin comes off in wet sheets. i want to pull their teeth out one mm at a time, suck the ripped nerve ending out of it and spit it into their empty eye sockets. they have no idea what its like to not sleep... to grind your teeth... to jump everytime your fucking phone rings.... to miss job opportunities because you didnt recognize the incoming calls number... agonize over spending 99 cents on a fucking piece of candy because it might make or break you that month.
its a fucking industry. and every day this goes on. it makes me wish more and more. that i hadnt aspired to anything more than dropping out of highschool and learning how to fucking dig ditches, flip burgers, and never look past the end of my own dick. fuck education. thats how the lending situation as it stands today makes me feel. its gonna take decades before i can even dream about telling my future kids differently. let alone anyone else who asks me for advice. the wonderful usa is pay to play. and you better be fucking prepared to pay or your fucked. they might not smash off the back of your head with a hammer and fuck your gray matter today... but theyll get you. they got nothing but time.
///nine inch nails - right where it belongs (year zero): yeah i get that feeling sometimes trent. your a poet and a scholar, but mostly you're just honest.
they let you sign yourself up (and hopefully one of your parents too) to recieve a bacterial infection. Since you cant pay your way or get perfect grades and be in every club (probably because you're a normal fucking person with real concerns in life from a less than absolutely supportive and financially endowed family and youre probably in that big square part of the standard distribution of human beings under the age of 25) the rules clearly state that if you receive this infection you can go to college. the infection degrades your health and your prospects and your financial reputation and your bank account for up to 30 years and is removed if you pay the people that gave you the infection the cost of tuition plus an arbitrary amount of additional money so that they dont have to work and can go on vacations to exotic places and pay for their kids to go to college. but if you dont pay them back and pay for their vacations, and their kids to go to college, within 30 years, sometimes as little as 15, then the infection metastasizes and kills your work life, financial, family life, and cuts you off from all sources of material/meaningful help.
actual phone call today. keep in mind i answer at least 4 of these a day. I recieve between 8 and 12 every god damn day. "hi im calling on behalf of ers a collection company for UIC. we're calling about 6k you owe. will you be able to close that out today?"
"no. of course not. if i was able i would have done so months ago."
"well the account has been... is delinquent" (i made the fucking payment to keep it out of collections the business day before... but hey its my "deadbeat" word against their "without fault" system. the account was never delinquent before either hence its newly minted arrival at ers) "and we need to close it out immediatel-"
i interrupt her "look, if i had the money i would give it to you. i just started a new job a couple of weeks ago and making barely enough to pay rent, keep my phone on, and pay out my 600 a month in student loans" (my job pays about 19k before chicago and fed taxes)"i cand do some kind of payment plan."
while we're talking my phone rings again and its AES on the other line. calling about one dollar and eighty fucking cents, i shit you not.
"well sir, how much do you make" exasperation tinges her voice. "im not authorized to do a payment plan until i know that along with your mortgage or rent."
"well i make 19k and my rent is 200 a mo" i live wth my gf. it should be 450 but shes letting it slide for now
"thank you sir" she interupts me
"well wait a minute" i interupt her "hold on a sec. i have 70k in student loan debt. doesnt that matter?"
silence. then "well its not really a part of our equations. we do our calkalations based on housing and income" WHAT THE FUCK. ARE YOU SERIOUS? how fucking caniving is that? well next time ill just lump the 6 to 7 hundred a month i pay out to student debt in with my rent.
"based on what i calkalated can you make a 234 dollar good faith payment today?"
"no, if i could do that i would have just paid UIC directly and avoided all this mess."
"can you make a 100 dollar payment?"
"i dont know. maybe."
"okay i need your routing number and check number" WHAT!
"no, i said maybe. i need to do some calculating too and find out what i can afford to pay. i dont have any debt information in front of me because im at work right now"
"do you have your check book?"
"no im at work. im standing at the front counter right now, at my job, so i can make money to pay you people."
"well can you go and get it on your lunch break?"
"no, i walk to work. i cant get home and back here on my lunch break."
"well cant you just give me the routing number?"
what the fuck. listen to the words coming out of my fucking mouth!!!
"no, im at work. i dont have a car. if i could afford a car i could afford to pay you people."
pohone rings again. guess who? its ers. on another line. in another office. calling about the same fucking thing. literally to the T. i switch and then switch back to cynthia.
"i am car less. i have a hard enough time just keeping my phone on just so i can get calls from you people six times a day. i walk to work. i dont have my checkbook because when i left i planned on going to work. not to the bank. its what i do on week days."
"well can you call me tonight then so we can discuss this matter?"
"there isnt much else to discuss unless you're coming up with smaller monthly payments. i need to go home and review some information and my finances and ill get back to you as soon as i can and hopefully itll be with good news."
literally twenty minutes later phone rings again. ERS. about the same thing. i tell the new lady i just talked to cynthia. must be a fake name because she had no fucking clue who that was. i tell her everything i told the first lady. she tries to play the "oh i know youre struggling but i just want to help you. do you have a routing number today? well call me back tomorrow at 9am." which turned right before she hung up to "ill call you tomorrow at 9am." which i promptly corrected
"dont call me. ill call you with information."
but she tries to play the "i identify with your position and want to do whats best for you and my company and get this resolved as quickly (left out satisfactorially) as possible" but i wasnt buying it. they always do that. see the thing is... that person on the other end doesnt fucking identify with you. they dont know what it feels like to get these calls year after fucking YEAR after FUCKING YEAR. they have no fucking clue. and thats why i want to strangle them. i want to put their eyes in meat grinders. i want to beat their children till their skin comes off in wet sheets. i want to pull their teeth out one mm at a time, suck the ripped nerve ending out of it and spit it into their empty eye sockets. they have no idea what its like to not sleep... to grind your teeth... to jump everytime your fucking phone rings.... to miss job opportunities because you didnt recognize the incoming calls number... agonize over spending 99 cents on a fucking piece of candy because it might make or break you that month.
its a fucking industry. and every day this goes on. it makes me wish more and more. that i hadnt aspired to anything more than dropping out of highschool and learning how to fucking dig ditches, flip burgers, and never look past the end of my own dick. fuck education. thats how the lending situation as it stands today makes me feel. its gonna take decades before i can even dream about telling my future kids differently. let alone anyone else who asks me for advice. the wonderful usa is pay to play. and you better be fucking prepared to pay or your fucked. they might not smash off the back of your head with a hammer and fuck your gray matter today... but theyll get you. they got nothing but time.
///nine inch nails - right where it belongs (year zero): yeah i get that feeling sometimes trent. your a poet and a scholar, but mostly you're just honest.
8/21/08
the big 101 (p2)
Subject : the big 101 part 2
Posted Date: : Aug 21, 2008 9:00 AM
achievements... teh greatest hits of all time, so check it...
cut down part of a forty foot tall tree.
drank a thirty pack in one night.
drank a forty in less than ten minutes.
crowned take down champ on high school wrestling team, once.
wrote a seven page paper in two hours, got an A.
got a perfect score on final paper in highschool.
smoked half a pack in three hours.
beat off 9 times in one day.
slept for 22 hours.
dead lifted 315 pounds.
got published 4 times.
won 3rd place in mlk writing contest with poem about dr. king being racist.
had a love story published.
stayed awake for more than fifty hours.
finished a three hundred cig tub of tobacco.
wrote more than 220 poems.
almost finished a 400 page story.
beat super mario 2 in one sitting.
ate an entire can of spam in less than five minutes.
ran a mile in five minutes twenty one seconds.
did 75 push ups at once.
doggy paddled the length of a pool once.
accumulated over 100 gigs of porn.
read the bible cover to cover.
drew a 12 issue run of a 20 page original comic book.
jumped through the cieling twice.
sigh what else...
you know what, these achievements suck. just listing them makes me wanna say, well what the hell have you done that actually mattered? and the answer for now i guess is nothing. thats depressing. this was supposed to be a super happy time... but i guess ive just been down pretty much 24/7 for the past five days. its difficult to find meaning in the daily commercial inundated crap fest. its like trying to walk around in a shit storm with a clean cup of tea. every sip gets worse than last.
then again maybe im just being too hard on everyone and everything. maybe these are pretty awesome things... at least in the right context. the right context can make anything awesome. kind of.
whatever
phat ass track list coming, eventually.
do a shot for me. make it a double.
Posted Date: : Aug 21, 2008 9:00 AM
achievements... teh greatest hits of all time, so check it...
cut down part of a forty foot tall tree.
drank a thirty pack in one night.
drank a forty in less than ten minutes.
crowned take down champ on high school wrestling team, once.
wrote a seven page paper in two hours, got an A.
got a perfect score on final paper in highschool.
smoked half a pack in three hours.
beat off 9 times in one day.
slept for 22 hours.
dead lifted 315 pounds.
got published 4 times.
won 3rd place in mlk writing contest with poem about dr. king being racist.
had a love story published.
stayed awake for more than fifty hours.
finished a three hundred cig tub of tobacco.
wrote more than 220 poems.
almost finished a 400 page story.
beat super mario 2 in one sitting.
ate an entire can of spam in less than five minutes.
ran a mile in five minutes twenty one seconds.
did 75 push ups at once.
doggy paddled the length of a pool once.
accumulated over 100 gigs of porn.
read the bible cover to cover.
drew a 12 issue run of a 20 page original comic book.
jumped through the cieling twice.
sigh what else...
you know what, these achievements suck. just listing them makes me wanna say, well what the hell have you done that actually mattered? and the answer for now i guess is nothing. thats depressing. this was supposed to be a super happy time... but i guess ive just been down pretty much 24/7 for the past five days. its difficult to find meaning in the daily commercial inundated crap fest. its like trying to walk around in a shit storm with a clean cup of tea. every sip gets worse than last.
then again maybe im just being too hard on everyone and everything. maybe these are pretty awesome things... at least in the right context. the right context can make anything awesome. kind of.
whatever
phat ass track list coming, eventually.
do a shot for me. make it a double.
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