Daily Archives: January 19, 2011
I want to be different, like everybody else I want to be like
I want to be just like all the different people
I have no further interest in being the same,
because I have seen difference all around,
and now I know that that’s what I want
I don’t want to blend in and be indistinguishable,
I want to be part of the different crowd,
and assert my individuality along with others
who are different like me
I don’t want to be identical to anyone or anything
I don’t even want to be identical to myself
I want to look in the mirror and wonder,
“who is that person? I’ve never seen that person before;
I’ve never seen anyone like that before.”
I want to call into question the very idea that
identity can be attached
I want to be a floating, shifting, ever changing persona:
Invisibility and obscurity,
detachment from the ego and all of it’s pursuits.
Unity is useless
Conformity is competitive and divisive and leads only to
stagnation and death.
If what I’m saying doesn’t make any sense,
that’s because sense cannot be made
It’s something that must be sensed
And I, for one, am incensed by all of this complacency
Why oppose war only when there’s a war?
Why defend the clinics only when they’re attacked?
Why are we always reactive?
Let’s activate something
Let’s fuck shit up
Whatever happened to revolution for the hell of it?
Whatever happened to protesting nothing in particular, just protesting
cause it’s Saturday and there’s nothing else to do?
(stolen from John S Hall, because he is right)
Everyone likes a newspaper. Wait, that’s not true because you are all too busy blabbering on the Internet to actually fucking do anything like learn, so now you have to come here so I can tell you to fuck off and read somewhere else.
It’s a strange thing to do for a blog, isn’t it? I have to sit here for fear that I might upset you. It’s my only good play, and I am not much in a sporting mood, and if I were, that sport would be hunting.
I don’t often talk to myself on this blog. If you have been paying attention, this blog is about you for a change.
This is what a newspaper is; a conglomeration of resources designed to inform you. It is not “your morning newspaper” that you go to the mailbox every day so you can get agitated about shit you won’t do anything to fix. Fuck you. It is your link to the outside world because you cannot drive everywhere at once to go see everything. Not only is that not a good thing to do because it’s a waste of fucking time and gasoline, it’s like asking to go to the Sun to see the moon. It is unnecessary, and it is why that gas sticker is freaking you out. It’s because YOU want to go everywhere except where you really are.
You are only trying to escape your own house because you are unsatisfied. That is as plain as I can make it. You think you own the road, and I know this because you are a bad driver, as I have noted before. You run all around and around and you get dizzy from the sight of everything. This is called not being not able to see, and you should take your fucking wish to go blind to an amusement park where that stupid shit belongs, because those are fun but the world is not your fucking amusement park. My house is not your playground, and neither is my road. I have been to too many places where death and destruction takes place all because someone graded a road into it.
I will be your newspaper, if you’d like. I spent a lot of time on Facebook and that was a good newspaper until I found out that there are no journalists on it, just the same assholes you’ve been friends with your whole life, and it comes as no surprise that you are an asshole. I know this because you go to reunions and say shit like “Oh, Meredith! You haven’t changed a bit!”
That is your problem. You don’t seem to change much, and you are still an asshole. I don’t have an explanation for this yet. I’ll find one for you soon. I think I can put my finger on bad parenting as the problem, but only you can figure that out. Everyone is a bad parent, because they are too busy doing other things that are probably a waste of time, like running around the world like you own it. No. You are renting. That is how nature works, she can make you and take you just like your sick mother.
So anyway, I dumped the Facebook yearbook and go to Huffington Post instead and I find you in there again, making assertions of fact in politics that you cannot prove because you don’t know what you are talking about. I hope I fucked up your day if I found you being stupid in there. I find you with plenty of interests, politically speaking. There are plenty of anti-social websites like Facebook that ask you what your interests are, and you, an asshole with no clue what reality is, put in a few. You probably get all frustrated that you don’t have enough space to get them in. This upsets you for some reason.
Well, all I can say, is that the problem with you is that you are not interesting, and that is why you scream at everybody, “these are my interests! I am interested in things. I am interesting because I am interested”.
No. You are only interested in your interests and that is why you are a moron and you will die wondering why everything turned out so bad.
You should have read your newspaper, because your family members are in the obituary. But you only look for people you are interested in, and that is why the newspaper is so bad. Eat your newspaper, it probably has some fiber you are most likely lacking.
You fall in a pool. At least that’s what I am told by what little I know about Greek myths. Some of you may have read them; that would be everyone seeing this, now wouldn’t it?
What you fucking people need to learn is that those books aren’t there for your fucking bathroom. Last I checked, I paid a fuck of a lot of money for books I barely read.
Which means I paid for that. I paid the price of not reading them quickly enough. That is how you fucking idiots got a B and not a C. I tire endlessly of people who bitch about shit they get and then they don’t use it. That is why you get a lousy poster on corkboard telling you it is Black History Month, and then you go to class having not talked for a month about it.As a former B student, I can tell you this is true. This thing they call “goal-setting” for your children is making them stupid, by the way. No parent reacts to a two. It is a number. That is not a grade. Grades get parental attention, and any of you who has come home with a D knows this. Your parents generally fuck your life up for two weeks straight if you dared to bring home that thing. I will address this later. Do NOT come here and tell me I do not have to use quotation marks; because you will hurt your poor little self when I send you YOUR quote without the extra apostrophe.
This is why recycling exists; to use something your dumb ass doesn’t know how to use. Any Boy Scout will remind you that he can start a fire with one match, some badass showoffs can do it with flint.
It is very late, and I am very tired. Hear me quickly: when you are tired, you make mistakes. If you catch one, see me, and I will explain it to you. I do not shy away from words easily, because I am addicted to them.
This can make you or me have a bad day with each other. I do not like to be mean. So, what I am saying before I finish this, is be nice. If you have been following this blog for a minute or two, you will find mistakes.
These are called “typographic errors”, which is fancy talk for “my keyboard fucking sucks and I would like to throw it out my kitchen window”.
I can figure out a way to end this story, though.
When you make a mistake, you say at the very least “excuse me”, or “my bad” or whatever the fuck stupid colloquial bullshit you call an argot you want to use, because quite frankly, you can’t fucking read, so that means that you cannot talk.
Well, whoever has pissed me off today, will talk soon, and it will not be here. You know why? Because I am not on Facebook, that is why. When you are famous on Facebook, you are generally nice to people.
When you are an asshole and a little shitbird on Facebook is when someone’s head comes up.
That is when mine comes up, and you will be the reason I am up so late to tell you that you suck.
The end…for now. Stories don’t end.
But if yours does, it will be your sick mother’s story to tell, and that is why you will not be able to sleep as I tell this story.