Entries Tagged 'Writings' ↓

The robot apocalypse is a long prophesied event, almost a now past-time of lunatics, urban-setting schizophrenics, and religious cults hoarding weapons in mid-western hideaways. Of course it’s a scary thought. I mean, can you imagine being ripped to pieces by a 4 ton metallic version of Dick Cheney? Nay, perhaps a piston-complete, hydraulic rendition of Vin Diesel pounding away at your pink parts?! (Not because he likes it, but because he has to teach you a lesson.) Or, quite possibly the worst of all possible robot ‘apocolypi’, some roaming robotic pricks who just constantly nags that you don’t eat right, never exercise enough, and have a generally negative disposition that just really “brings down the room.” Eff that!

Albeit, there are some scary things that COULD happen in the robot apocalypse. But who are we kidding? Robots aren’t people. They are better than us, and possibly always have been. The REAL robot uprising will be more bloody, more violent, more awesome, and have more Will Smith than anything we could ever imagine. And in the end, we don’t stand a chance.

To be honest, I’m excited as hell for it. I mean, total annihilation of the human race SUCKS, but give me a break, this shit is going to be more intense than if you played every Kurt Russell movie simultaneously while performing a ritualistic blood sacrifice to the gods of Off-shore Drilling (RNC) at a Hometown Buffet. I’m excited, I’m excited, I’m excited.

All that aside, I felt I should take it upon myself to outline how and why we’re gonna eat some dirty turds in the Robot Apocalypse, so here it goes. And please keep in mind, many lives will be lost in the Robot Apocalypse, so feel free to laugh with glee at the thought of this tragedy. After all, laughter is the Novocaine of the soul.

Let’s roll:

Scientology: The Beginning of the End
Just look at the roots of this word: “scien” and “ology”. Scien has a hazy translated root of knowledge, more accurately “information.” And ology infers “study” to most, however “calculate” might be a more appropriate translation from original texts. So “calculate information” is a potential translation of the name “Scientology.” Gee, that sounds like something human beings would love doing…calculating information, right?!?! Pfft, I say again PFFT. Calculate information?!?! The only thing organics like me do is drink beer, look at titties, and eat whole sticks of butter. Maybe throw in some cars crashing on TV or a melodramatic reality show about rich, irrelevant, slutty 20-somethings and we’ve got a weekend. So  “scientologists,” I’m on to your game.While the Christians may be ushering in the annihilation of ninety some-odd percent of the human race, it looks like Scientologists may be pushing for whole effing ship.



The Liberals: Let’s Talk, Turkey.
I should first say, I’m a liberal democrat. As an artistic, intelligent, young man, it’s really the only way I can feel better about that fact that men with no morals, ability to read, nor any actual job skills will probably be making thousands upon thousands of dollars more than me for my entire life. As they whisk super-models away on their company yachts with their alumni fraternity brothers, I will undoubtedly be whisking myself away for a weekend sleeping at the park, clutching a bottle of Andre and my broken sense of self-dignity. So I’m a liberal democrat. However, liberals like myself will be one of the vital failings in the Robot Apocalypse. Our heavy political hands, will push for the humans to try and make treaties with the mechanical death-mongers. We will appeal to the public to “talk” to the metallic monsters, or to “make peace” with them. There will be summits and conventions and every sort of talking and writing and dancing that impotently circle around physical reality.
Why didn’t we just let the damn NRA pack heat?! Every Billy-bob and Jedidiah would be going all “scarface” on those electro-mofos. But no, someone let pussy-footers like me be in charge of gun control. Maybe we deserve to be gutted like turkeys for robo-thanksgiving?



Lasers: fuck…..
The biggest blunder we made as humans was creating lasers. I mean, yea lasers are bad-ass, but don’t you think the robots know that too. Lasers are awesome, but they are also deadly and everywhere. From Roger Waters’s concerts to micro-surgery, we’ve got the damn things all over the place. And with a simple process, the robots will be able to turn a delightfully amusing acid-trip into the biggest blood bath since George W’s 21st birthday. So yeah, what the hell were you guys thinking when you started using lasers all the time?! It’s like putting a hooker in a room full of rich, white men. There will be blood.



The Will Smith Scenario
There is no doubt in my mind that upon the first signs of the Robot Apocalypse, the citizens of the world will start looking for a new leader and savior to address the inbound threat of annihilation. And who will they choose? Will Smith, of course. Mr. Smith not only has experience with fighting evil robots (I, Robot) and general mechanic devices (Wild Wild West), but he also has significant experience battling general threats against the human race (MIB, MIB II, Independence Day, Hancock). Even his wife, Jada Pinkett Smith (total hottie) was part of a giant underground movement against robots at one point (The Matrix: Reloaded, The Matrix: Revolutions). The world has seen Will kick robotic ass, protect humanity, save the world, work his ass off to feed his kid (The Pursuit of Happiness), and keep it funky fresh (The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air). He is the first, most obvious, and best choice to lead and protect the human race against the robots.
The problem is that the robots already know this. Not only do they know this, but they have already begun recruiting him. Goodbye Mr. Smith, you could have been our savior. Then again, I hear Scientology totally gets you laid. Good deal for Will: humankind, you are effed.



Arnold: The Governator
Although many may believe that Arnold Schwarzenegger would pose a threat, if not a stumbling point in the waves of the robotic armies, they are totally wrong. Arnold is a sad, old, fat man who has nothing left but his centrist politics and a once-hot Kennedy bride. He’s not the terminator, that was just a really shitty action movie. Deal with it.



Human Survival Instinct
The last reliable hope of preserving human existence has been our basic survival instinct. Humans have lasted centuries, through many rough conditions across many really shitty places. Supposedly we even ventured across the giant trans-pacific land bridge, bringing the early Americans here. Even during the black plague, people were holed up in terrible living conditions, barely able to survive. But survive they did. Human’s have a knack for sticking around. Or, at least, we did.
With the recent invention of television, fast-food, petrol fuel, and numerous other human “advancements” we have completely lost touch with our survival instincts. Humans now put their electronic pleasure and fantasy in front of their own survival (Hold Your Wee for a Wii), and sacrific the once treasured place as a social being for dark dungeons lit by LCD screens (WoW, really wow). Reality TV, MMORPGs, Myspace, TiVo, Netflix, Wii, and many other things: All preemptive distractions engineered by the robo-race that is slyly amassing their numbers underground. They have worn us down to helpless, lumps of flesh, dependent upon the very things which will be our ends. We can no longer live without these items. And when they take them from us, there will be no survival for humans to want.



Prayer: Please Help Big Guy
Our final plea will probably be to the big guy in teh sky. However, we totally pissed him off a while ago (circa 2001). And really from what he’s said in a few phone interviews, it sound like he’s just gonna pull out the popcorn, sit back in his chair, and let the goodtimes roll. Afterall, he didn’t even have a hand in the apocalypse this time around. Big guy probably needed a break anyway.

So that’s it. The end of humankind.

Of course, I’ll probably be changing sides before any of the bloodshed. Lord know the damn robo armies are gonna need a guide for invading the areas of the world without Google Streetview implimented yet. I’m sure they will keep my head alive in a jar or something like that. At least then maybe I’ll be around long enough to see the second generation of robots: with thier hot rods, rock music, crazy hair dos, and loose computational guideines.

Until then, good luck humans.

Show me a place where art is not bought and sold. I will show you a place where art does not exist.

A transcription from a crinkled up napkin I found in my pocket this morning:

And these two poor lovers, crossed hearts from the crib of life itself. Little do they know of each others wants. Just like oil separates from water, so they churn against each other, always melting to the others movements and never breaking the skins of their cages. It is despairing, at best, that two so lovely souls would find every fulfillment but the one they desire most. So closely they speak, yet they find themselves at sea…alone…apart. Lost in the water of another, or maybe of all others, or maybe all things. It is sad, ultimately sad. Finding solace aside their fulfillment is anything but great, anything but true and good. Their denial is a refutation of man himself, of the spirit of the age. To spit it all out and call everyone nothingness. Nothing but fools and deceivers. Nothing at all. The lack. The end.

Yes. Alcohol makes me emotional. But I’m only soft and squishy on the inside…and around the midsection.

My dear movie and music industry,

I felt like we needed to straighten out some “kinks” that have been binding up our relationship recently. I know you say you’re “losing” money to online copyright infringement (torrents, illegal streaming video, p2p), but it’s just not true. You can’t lose money that doesn’t exist. Did I say I was “losing” money when wiki(Borat) released and all of my slavic characters I do stopped being funny? No. Why? Well, because no one was going to ever pay me to hear them. And the same goes for online copyright infringement. People don’t download videos and music because they want to pay for it, but find the allure of searching and downloading for hours fun. They don’t buy your stuff, because well, it really sucks recently. I mean even the Church of Scientology shows their crappy productions for free, however you wanted us to pay to see wiki(Oceans 13). C’mon. That’s why I think I have a resolution that doesn’t require you arresting anymore of these young radicals who are providing your poor content for nothing. How about you make something good for a change? It works, trust me. I bought the new Radiohead album, and it’s like one of a dozen albums I will actually buy this year. You know why? Because it doesn’t suck. That’s right, and you know how hard the Radiohead album is to find for free download? Pretty damn hard. It’s because people want to give money to things they like, but not to things they don’t.

So, let’s make a deal. You come out with some quality films and music. Maybe stop with the remakes and the sequels. How about a new Charlie Kaufman film and an album from someone like MF Doom, and I will go out and buy them. Then, once we both know we can trust each other again, we’ll do it more and more. You keep making things we want to watch and listen to, and we will actually BUY them. It sounds like a favorable deal for everyone. So good luck and I’ll look for something in the papers.

Much love,

Max

p.s. If you release Ocean’s 14, any remakes, or some kind of Borat squel, all bets are off.

Mr Buddha-beads,
I can honestly say there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish I were in a graduate program or teaching or just on the streets doing philosophy. And just for the record, I think our boundaries of creativity are the same. I’ve just never had the sense to obey mine, though, and have always lived beyond my means in every capacity. Which has also created my problems in life. Like wanting to be a thousand different Maxs in a thousand different places. It tears me to pieces. The real reason I stopped doing philosophy is because I am terrified of doing one thing, and then doing it wrong. That’s why I spread myself so thin, its like betting across the table in craps. I can only suffer minor losses. But much like craps, I always lose in the end. This is all a part of why I moved up here. To find Max. I was/am so confused, so very disoriented by the mixed messages of everything and everyone, all the time. I had lost me. I lost what I wanted and did what everyone else wanted, always.
I love philosophy, and I constantly drift back into it. Not because I have to, but because I want to. Why don’t I do graduate school? Because I’m not sure if I can. I’m not sure if it’s worth my time to legitimate what I’ve learned by writing papers about what I already know is wrong (Not to say everything you learn in grad school is wrong). But I do know that we stopped doing it from where it really resides. We stopped living and thinking and being from our hearts. I do philosophy because I love it. Not because I want to be right or find “the answer.” There is no answer, you know that. Truth, reality, knowledge, these things all come from the same place. And there is no way to “know” them, not in the way they are pursued now. I lost hope in the classic methods. I lost hope in approaching their avatars. Because I realized what Tolstoy was really trying to say. That no matter the magnitude of the question, the seemingly marvel notion of some thought: we still woke up in the same bed and ate the same breakfast and lived the same lives. Only it was the hearts of men that changed, not their minds. And thats when I knew I had truly walked away. Because I was done with the academics. I was done with their importance. And I was done with myself as anything more than a man. Of course I still do philosophy, but not on their terms anymore. I do it on mine now. I manipulate them, I contort and tweak them beyond recognition. Nietzsche knew that he would be smashed by a hammer, but his students never understand that. It is not my life that bends into my philosophy, it is my philosophy that bends into my life. I love talking with you Eric, because I think of you as one of the few who ever understands what I am saying or even sees me as what I am. And you must know better than anyone that I didn’t leave school to chase something else. I left to be educated. I left because the academy is once again an ivory tower. I am unsure if I will ever write or return to school to get a degree. Because it is more clear to me now that to truly hold what I have realized, I must live it more than speak it. If I am to believe in the virtue of one man against the plurality of many, I must be one of those men. And if I am to believe that in the future of philosophy, I must take it outside the walls. I think you are/will make an excellent philosopher, professor, father, and friend. You may not be as aggressive as me, or as heavy handed, but you have always been better at understanding. My creativity is rooted in my misunderstandings. It is not a gift, it is the just the state of things. I’m a designer who is colorblind, and a philosopher who is upside-down. I don’t see the answers beyond us, I see them below us. I no longer care what truth is, and with that I have seen the meaning of the word philosophy. It is not to ask better and better questions, in hopes of finding the bottom answer. It is learning that there is no bottom for an answer to rest. That the most important question is not about what is Good? But, rather, what does Max believe to be Good? It is within me, not out there somewhere. There is no “out there.”
Sorry, I’m rambling now.

I’m very alienated here as I haven’t found many people who wish to listen to me banter on and on as I do.
I do miss school. But I know that it isn’t for me. I have these grand dreams of teaching a classroom of kids about Descartes or Hume or Derrida. But then I remember what I believe to be the case. And I wonder if I would even be able to represent any of the philosophers of old in a fair manner. I care so little for the context of their writings now. And I have made most of them into monsters. But what else would I have done? Worshiped them?

Write back and take care of yourself friend.

Max

How does one say “I’m feeling suicidal”? Is it always a cry for help? I don’t want any help. What could anyone else do? Anesthetize it? What about when it’s not a cry for help, but a simple conclusion. Is there something wrong with feeling meaningless?

I’m eating funions and drinking a coke. Yea, I feel suicidal. It’s never got me before. I just wish I could tell someone. But it’s like a crime. It’s like a fucking weight you haul onto someones head. Why? “Because it’s a cry for help.” What about when it’s not a cry for help, and you just want to be a person and share how you feel. You can’t. It’s too cool to be suicidal now. So people say it like its nothing. It is something, its human. I’ll admit it, I’ve had a bit to drink. And more than likely that’s impairing my judgment. But am I gonna pull any triggers? No. Why? Because I can’t. My parents would never recover. My friends would be rather put out. And everyone else, well, they would call it a waste. That, that is exactly why I can’t. Because that same worhtlessness, that very exact meaninglessness is in conflict with my first emotive response. “No one cares.” But they do. And because more than anything my heart aches at the thought of hurting them, and so I save myself from the blade. I am just a piece of flesh in the end, but to them I am Max. And that word has bore on me more weight than any other. I am resonsible for myself, I. And I cannot let anything take me under. Not even the winter of loneliness I currently endure. This isn’t about writing, crys for help, or any of that bullshit. It’s about a human life, my human life. It’s about feeling like refuse, like worthless trash after everything I have done. And I have done a lot, but so little at the same time. I wasn’t born into money, I wasn’t born into fame or fortune, and I wasn’t born into the heart of a creator. I was born Max: worker, liver, sleeper. I work at irrelevant ends, I live beyond my means, and I sleep terribly, knowing that one day it will end and I will not be remembered long.

I bought a single lottery scratcher on my way home tonight. I told myself I would end it all if I didn’t win. Not because the money would make matters better, but because I knew the odds were against me. I settled in here, with my funions, cola, and cigarettes. I lit one, and I scratched at the ticket. Nothing. No winnings, no life. I stared at the ticket for almost 20 minutes, hoping I saw something wrong. I didn’t. Then I realized, I couldn’t do it if I wanted to. I don’t know why. Because of what they would say about me, because of the pain I would cause my parents to bear, all of it, I don’t know. And then I saw the fatal flaw of it all. I wanted to end it because I saw my own irrelevancy, but I couldn’t because I felt my relevancy. It’s not ironic, just irrational. I wasn’t important enough to live, and too important to die. I am a ghost, stuck between two worlds. The one that would spit me out and the one that I would call home. But, they are the same world, the same people, the same cold reality. In this I am lost…and afraid. Afraid to act out my promise, afraid not to. So I hung the lottery scratcher on my wall, that one day I may either throw it away or make good on my promise. It’s not a cry for help, no one can DO anything but me. It is what they call “becoming.” You either adapt or fall to the wayside.

//the poet//
Time is a funny, fickle thing. In time all things are possible, they say. This much would seem true. The world comes together in perfect resonance and harmony. All things ring with beauty and passion. Love falls from the sky on to our heads. Peace finds home in the hearts of deep slumbers. All is one, the multitude follow sequence on the pulse of our souls. …then one night, we awaken to the autumn turning. The crisp blades of dark days slice between our oneness of now. What once was harmony stumbles on the snares of chaos and disaffection. The threads of fate quickly grow dry and brittle, passing roughly on the hands of our weavers. But none is a surprise. As they said, ‘in time all things are possible.’ Even the benefit of a perfect moment meets its destruction in the ticking hands of tomorrow. And so is the history of man from each golden second, we squeeze the juice of our own tragedy. So is the history of tonight. That clarity of now, shattered in the wake of soon; from this apex we descend. Dark, deep, cold descent.
My brother, the man, is caught in the disclarity. It brings me to tears like an infant. My world, the place where I wake, is defiled and lost.

//the philosopher//
The signifieds have become incomplete. From each moment to the next, these constellations of social space have gone from definite to vacuous mass. Bodies, now, floating through the voids of human interaction. The signifier is unable to navigate. Constructs understood as “living” and “being” have buckled under the pressure of unbearable lightness. There is no choice for the signifier, but to shed the skins of his past. To construct the new “living,” the new way of “being.” There is nothing but the disjunction of understanding, a shift in the world itself. Within the void, all signification is lost, but in the oneness there is no differentiation.

//the soul//
Who am I to feel like this? I am sick, I am uneasy, I am ready to vomit now. All is lost. But for how long? I know honesty and levity. Murky are the minds, they lack vision of truth and ignore the whispers of time past. Of course all is empty! This is the oldest of silent understandings. Fullness is not bleeding from the spacious wounds in reality, but from the eyes and the ears of all. Their pens spitting words and stories and meanings. And who am I but a fleeting apparition, an insatiable passion? I, poor soul, will soon dissipate into the mist of the Real. But before I pass, one emotive you should not forget: this moment, this void, this vacuum, this emptiness. Remember the terror of this moment floating away. Remember when everything melted into laughter….but you, poor man…you have already forgotten.

//the void//
So it is. Then not. Then is. The fate of man, pulled into something and pushed out to nothing. It is fate. Nothing more.

//the man//
Life is beautiful.

From ee cummings’s “Days of Innocence”:

who are you, little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window; at the gold

of november sunset

(and feeling:that if day
has to become night
this is a beautiful way)

The world is an ugly placee, it is said, a very ugly place: full of anger and hate and filth and garbage. But in the quiet, early mornings, in the soft places we find our rest, there is the seedlings of beautiful things. Before we fully wake, between the dark sleep and the bright day, moments, fleeting moments, where dreams are forever and was is being. Like children, without limits or rules or obligation. The heavy words of who we are, suspended in confusion, lost in the void between consciousness and nothingness. All that could be is. Everything is beautiful, the world is all things. For centuries we live in happy tiny moments from each breath to next, within that time of waking. And then we remember, like reality being ripped, we remember all the things we aren’t and can’t and don’t. We remember the hate, the anger, the garbage, and the filth. The world is painted once again with our ugly, deformed view.

From ee cummings’s “Adult Nursery Rhymes”:

What a wonderful thing
is the end of a string
(murmurs little you-i
as the hill becomes nil)
and will somebody tell
me why people let go

They have called us the insatiable human soul?

That from birth to death we seek to understand, to reveal the underneaths, to look for the secrets beholden beyond the puppets of origin. This is the worst sort of lie, the miserable, false manifestation of trickery and illusion. We are not victims of this Real, hidden from the Truth in a maze of shaking, hazy reality. Our souls are not insatiable, even the simplest monk knows this. Our souls cannot be fed, and neither do they wish to consume.

The phantasm of human want in a product of idle time and self-hatred…

When I close my eyes in the dark room of my soul the voices around me continue to banter and ring. I can feel all of them within me; we are the children of stardust and sunshine, we are the same. Seperations, birth, death, all of these illusions of the violent self-inflicted logic. Outside of ourselves we are nothingness, but inside of ourselves we are whole.

…

hat heavy, musky breath enveloping my shoulder and neck, it could only be your desire. Your tight grip on my fingers, sewing you into I, making us; The next moment from this as the weavers of fate. I could feel it in your heartbeat, the immediacy of being here now.
being-as
being-in
being-now
I never sleep in your arms, but I never want to. The binary I, consuming, becoming the analogous now.
What is passion in the eyes of my lover?
It is my reflection, it is showing each-other ourselves.
My pulse pounds as the cosmos spin around us, through us. You lips puckered sweetly in the weightless sleep. As I tightly clench my eyes shut, I see us lying there, naked, without worry, without yesterday.

In your bed, lover, I melt away. I become nothing in the eminence of all things…I become truth in the vacuum of space.

Is it commonplace to be an alien of your age?
Or maybe that’s just the angst of youth becoming the resolve of adulthood…souring up like bad milk. Like most of em, I’m not really sure, and equally, I wish I were.
It’s Saturday, sometime in the early hours…I guess it’s actually Sunday, the day isn’t important. The time is probably around 3am, but again, not important. There’s a lot of people in this damn hot room: smoking, drinking, watching, talking…yelling over the music I suppose. We’re somewhere off Beverly and Alvarado, this plain old building filled with people and music and cigarettes and booze.
I’m not drunk, just a little buzzed. The worst kind of buzz. That self-aware, irritated buzz. My stomach is turning and twisting, but it’s not what I drank, it’s what I’ve seen…and see. Bodies everywhere, pushing and pulling at their seams.
Its four days before Halloween. The majority are playing their characters. OF course, I wore my costume as well. It’s stupid, but I like it. Otherwise I wouldn’t have worn it. The funny thing about this culture, though, these indie/scene kids, it’s their ability to both oppose and relish superficiality. They are just kids, mostly, so I can’t really hold it against them. They don’t live in an age of rebellion, or even the evolution of rebellion. They are at least three times removed from the rebellions of youth. Free jazz, greasers, beat culture, protests, free love, these are merely relics of the past. This, this age, the age of which I am both home and alien is evolved beyond itself. These kids rebel against themselves, the bodies of revolution. They find art and creativity in expressions of pure vanity. Shallowness is not their unfortunate end, but their goal, their hope. They are the rebellion, turned in on itself. So much so that the conventions of the past are useless. As it was said, ‘nothing is what it seems,’ here, in this room, everything is as it seems.
Their symbols are not planted in the deep roots, but only in the symbols themselves. Their irony and satire serves none but irony and satire.
And so, half-drunk, I sit at the edge of the room, smoking cigarettes wondering why I am here.
Not in that big, deep way of wondering, but in their way…wondering why I am in this
building, with these people, smoking this cigarette, asking this very self-involved question.
But none of this matters, it’s what they call ‘living in the moment’, living in the excrement on nowness. The room is too crowded for my taste. It makes me feel old when I think like that. So I sit longer…and stare and smoke.
They make me sick, really.
But I know better than to blame them, and pulling apart my own psychology is like breaking down logic. Both are too aware to let the truth bleed.
Nonetheless, I hold my nausea down. I let it boil and percolate into a ration of self-loathing any psyche would gladly devour without question. I’m too fat. I don’t dress right. My hair takes too long to style, and I’m loosing it faster than I would like. My teeth are crooked. And although smoking is sexy, discolored teeth, like mine, are not. But worst of all, I’m too self-hating. I hate that I hate myself…and
thus I hate them. They make me sick.
It’s not long before another young woman dressed in some slutty version of something is sitting next to me….on this out of place couch. Of course I’m looking at her, staring even, that’s why she wore this outfit, isn’t it? But stupid me, I don’t drool over her small ass or even pause to strip the threads off her tits in my head. I, being the idiot I am, look to her face for my kicks.
She’s sober, avoiding my eyes, avoiding my look. I take the hint and go back to my cigarette. But, I AM a masochist and a moron, so I return to her face. She looks at me accidentally and gives me a back-handed smile…I hate those.
It’s like when a girl tells you she won’t fuck you because she cares about you too much. So she smiles at me with that ‘Hi, you’re too nice to fuck me” smile, and I smile back with my “I’m harmless but willing to fuck you” smile. Eventually I get to her tits and I take in a good eye-full. Then the thighs, stripping most of her modesty, at least what was left to it in that costume. It crosses my mind how much fun it would be to tie her…well I’m not that kind of guy I guess.
So I go back to my butt of a cigarette, and flick it to the carpeted ground. I need another, but they are all gone. Too much time smoking, not enough fucking. This rooms gets old fast, so I take leave of it. The other room isn’t much different, just less smoke and better music. In the crowd there are two girls and a guy fucking as best they can with their clothes on, staying vertical. The guy has enough handfuls of tits and ass to feed a small nation. It’s like he’s pulling the first crop of the season, eager like this never happens for him. He’s hording that flesh like a dying man’s salvation, like a man who never gets laid. But he does, it’s easy to see. One girl smashes her ass into his crotch, almost to a punishing amount. The three all but short of fuck on the dance floor.
It makes me sick, they make me sick. All the evolution of man, the advent of technology and science, the grand works of fiction and every ounce of creativity, all worthless, all stupid and pointless, all filth covering the golden cunt of Aphrodite. All simply because I want to be this guy, I want to fuck these girls; I want to feel them tremble under my thumb. And I hate them so. Now clarity finds me, in this moment. I am an alien of my own age, just like everyone else. I am the same as them, I am them. I want to fuck and choke and bite and struggle.
They sicken me…I sicken me.