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| bung's Blog
| Good Book09/29/09 at 04:42 PM by bung |
"Prejudice justifies the ill treatment we want to inflict on others, and we want to inflict ill treatment on others because we don't like them. And why don't we like them? Because they are competing with us for jobs in a scarce market. Because their presence makes us doubt that we have the one true religion. Because we want to preserve our positions of status, power, and privilege. Because we need to feel that we are better than somebody. Because our country is waging war against them. Because we are uncomfortable with their customs, especially their sexual customs, those promiscuous perverts. Because they refuse to assimilate into our culture. Because they are trying too hard to assimilate into our culture.
By understanding prejudice as our self-justifying servant, we can better see why some prejudices are so hard to eradicate: They allow people to justify and defend their most important social identities--their race, their religion, their sexuality--while reducing the dissonance between "I am a good person" and "I really don't like those people." Fortunately, we can also better understand the conditions under which prejudices diminish: when the economic competition subsides, when the truce is signed, when the profession is integrated, when they become more familiar and comfortable, when we are in a position to realize they aren't so different from us."
From Mistakes Were Made (but not by me): Why We Justify Foolish Beliefs, Bad Decisions, and Hurtful Acts | |
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| Ice-cream07/27/09 at 02:56 PM by bung |
The ice cream truck meanders up and down my block. For awhile, I thought ice cream trucks were just this fictional reality sort of thing, where you saw them in movies and read about them in books, but they didn't actually exist. I suppose I thought this because I had never personally seen an ice cream truck before. So I've never bought anything from an ice cream truck either, and a small gap exists somewhere on the surface of my heart consequently.
But then one day I saw one. I saw a truck, specially designed to distribute ice cream in residential neighborhoods, puttering here and there like a lost dog. I watched it for awhile, I remember.
Today I see the truck again. I see the truck, playing its cheerful, enticing little song, and I think about ice cream. Push-pops and Drumsticks and chocolate chip ice cream sandwiches and frozen Klondike bars and purple Popsicles. Mmmm.. Ice cream, how delicious! I remember I have some ice cream inside the house, in the freezer. I go inside and eat ice cream. | |
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| The Bitching of Touchy, Little Organism06/27/09 at 01:18 AM by bung |
No carnivorous betrayals or elegantly dismal aftermaths have besought me. No fires of Hell or acidic, daemonic potions have wrecked my imperfect skin, left it hanging with the looseness of ten thousand drunken tongues. The morning, though I cease to ever wake with any expediency, hears no screams of deathly ravages. All along the rain-soaked boardwalk, petting the wandering oak wrinkles which grow old but hardly waiver, I can still watch--still dissect--the meticulously dignified movements of a hundred or more creatures smaller than myself. As I look inward into that cavern, that impossibly stench-ridden, muddled, claustrophobic, antagonistic, stupid head, thoughts swim and awake, still. Alive, simple and tarnished but alive, I, or the patterned recklessness of flashing ideas and tall notions changing endlessly that is referred to as such, exist. Yet, in the mouth of such an existence, while lacking all those so-called evils and forever imbued with all the graces of cherished perception, from some corner pain writhes. What hand, I ask, has so immaculately guided these bereavements into my heart? Should they not be extinguished and forgotten, dead on the roadside?
Why is there growth in these things wicked when the face of endowment sets so little aside? I think it comes running, stride after rooting stride, out of pale vagueness far away, like the amnesic memory of an infant. Then it basks, comfortable. It stays, rarely latent, always inhibiting the ideals of a mind forced unto compromise. To the dreams, it wishes them away and they leave altogether suddenly. And what is left, fragments fed upon and desperate regards, get crammed into each other, pushed and chaotically forced into position until they all cannot help but be released with the confusion of a riot. It leaves remnants, slime-soaked tracks, denoting the fashion of its work. So the view is never much attractive.
Come now, girl, and watch the ugly landscapes forever drift slowly by. | |
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| A Moral Defense of Capitalism04/21/09 at 06:48 PM by bung |
So I just got back from listening to Dr. Yaron Brook, Director of the Ayn Rand Institute for Individual Rights and a bunch of other things.
Basically, like the title says, it was a moral defense of capitalism and reflecting upon our current economic and political environment. He was a really interesting speaker, plus I enjoy listening to people with Southern accents talk.
The worst part in going to listen to people speak is the embarrassment I feel for other people when the Q&A session starts. No, you jaded right-wingers--he doesn't need a standing ovation. No, you silly left-wingers--it doesn't make you more passionate to interrupt him by raising your voice when he's answering your question (especially you, fat, ugly lady who I assumed was mentally handicapped before you started speaking).
Anyway, he denounced the federal reserve, bail-outs, social security.. the usual. Defended the banks while systematically attacking the Bush administration. All in all, I enjoyed it and consider myself thoroughly influenced (at the very least) in about one hour's time.
I specifically really liked his points about how altruism is an incompatible moral standpoint when endorsing capitalism. Now, I'm a defender of altruism, but at the individual level. At the personal level. When you're interacting with people. But at the economic level--as far capitalism, socialism, or whatever go--selfish is the way to be. Forced altruism is especially despicable and misguided.
He also spent some time talking about the innovation that is severely lacking in our most heavily regulated industries (a direct result of that regulation), such as airlines, NASA, and electrical appliances. But where do we see the most innovation? In high-tech gadgets and the like--the very least regulated of every single American industry. That's why we have cool new iPhones, mp3 players, and web books.
But yeah, it was good. I liked it. | |
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| History, History, History, History, History04/17/09 at 10:37 PM by bung |
August 7th, 2043 - “Boy is given first rifle and learns to shoot.”
October 11th, 2045 - “Boy kills first animal.”
May 4th, 2049 - “War begins and boy is drafted.”
December 30th, 2049 - “Battle of Golden Shore claims five thousand lives and boy is killed.”
July 18th, 2057 - “War ends and the people rejoice.”
July 19th, 2057 - 2xxx - “Society works toward the betterment of Man.”
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| Been a lot of Places04/15/09 at 02:14 PM by bung |
| I’ve been to see the first rise of the sun, somewhere on the Japanese coast. I watched the sky, sure enough, bow to that big hot ball. I fished the sea just to throw it all back, to keep it real. Started getting tired, feeling alone, so I went to London ‘cause the buildings there are old. I felt like a kid playing under Ben’s fog, just bein’ dumb. But then I got stuck, my leg trapped in some teeth on the ground. Had to feel more free, so I got a ticket to old America. It felt nice, no government’s nose in my basket. But I didn't have a friend, not one. So north to Canada I went. Found out it's true the people there are friendly, but that doesn't mean they want to be your friend. Yeah, I’ve been to a lot of places, always something new to see. Don’t really know why, but I think it does something to me. Couldn’t find any good place to ski, so I thought I’d go to the Alps. The people there were nice, but the snow kept stopping me cold. All I wanted was to sit next to a warm fire. And there’s no better place than Africa for that, where all the people are gonna burn in hell. No, there they don’t even have souls to sell. My visit got cut short, though, ‘cause the last tiger had me on the run as far as Moscow. I drank martinis, straight up, with the Reds. I’d heard they were bad, but they never once closed a fist, so who’s to say? Still I felt out of place. So I took my sack and made for Brazil. Figured there I’d barely even be seen. Yeah, I guess I’ve been a lot places, met a lot of people, seen a lot of things. I thought I’d be different, thought I’d be changed. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t, and it just had to be something larger than the weather. Then it happened, I figured it out. Sittin’ in Minnesota, under my favorite tree. I knew I’d been a lot of places, seen a lot of things, but I didn’t ever see me. | |
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| i am a pissed off red ant that eats only the best lettuce02/24/09 at 05:14 AM by bung |
It's about six in the morning right now. I did some speed this evening, but it's wore off now. I'd usually be sleeping, but I want to stop taking sleeping pills because chronic use of them is not good for a person. I know I'd like to not feel the need to escape sobriety, but I have my doubts of that receding. I've spent a lot of time just thinking tonight. Of course I didn't find out anything, but so it goes.
I'm not sad anymore. And it took me a long time to figure out what I'm feeling. I couldn't figure it out for a long time and I don't know why that was. But now I know that I'm just feeling unfulfilled. I don't feel any particular joy in accomplishing anything anymore. Like after I finish a book or write a paper, or jack off or finish a cigarette. There's just not anything there anymore. Which, as I see, pretty much sucks. I keep doing the things I like to do, but I don't really know why. I just do them and that's it. It's all unfulfilling and not much fun.
I think it's because I've been lonely, incredibly so, for a long time. I don't have anyone to share anything with. And then I wonder if I even have anything worth sharing. To some girl or whatever, I probably do. But personally, I don't have that intrinsic voice that says my shit is worth sharing. Which also sucks. I'm really going to stop doing so many drugs, which I've been doing a lot of lately, and hope the feeling goes away. Oh, but there it is, that cycle. I feel lonely, I do drugs to kill the loneliness, and the cycle repeats. In fact, I wouldn't doubt that I have felt exactly as I feel now, thought my same feeble epiphany, and the cycle (the larger one this time) just repeated itself.
It's also been some time since I felt genuinely excited about anything. So that's another thing I'd like to get back. Ha, first it giveth then it taketh away.
Tragically, because how we happen to be, I can't talk to anyone about this because people worry and take things the wrong ways. I loathe when people worry over me. It just fucking pisses me off. As if I would ever do something rash! Fucking shit, I still think life is beautiful and that there's no reason to be afraid, ever, and that drops of fucking rain are prettier than Rembrandts. But see, people don't really listen. Not really.
Haha, woah. Yeah, definitely need to stop snorting pills.
But, I am alive. I can do aaaaaanything!  Except, you know, think one original thought or create good art, but so it goes. | |
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| Irrelevant Points in Space01/21/09 at 10:31 PM by bung |
For a long time everyone sat staring, wondering what the fanciful piece of machinery, equipment, tool, or whatever it may be was. It brushed the sun off its face, painted in its metallic chrome. It had no handles, no perceivable front or back, and it could generally be described as rather obtuse in nature; long, convex curves donned the majority of the thing. One blackened, spring-loaded lever stuck out upwards, maybe two inches in length, at a 45 degree angle. It looked too elegant to be a weapon, and, frankly, looked too useless to be much of anything.
As they were told, no one dared touch it. They remembered the stories of men who had, out of sheer carelessness, or maybe just curiosity, fumbled with certain innocent-looking artifacts only to leave with two fingers swiped off or a shot of some most likely unstable liquid from a thousand-year-old syringe. Quite obviously, they did not wish to reach a similar outcome. But they were, also quite obviously, profoundly curious. And, as it goes, they became even more enticed in the face of an authority to overstep.
There the thing sat. Undisturbed and preserved equally as well as the other artifacts that had been recovered. What to do? Certainly to tamper with the item would not bring any great harm--those terrible accidents were rare instances and, in retrospect, always appeared to happen only to the "questionable" (see: imprudent, simple, and foolish) members of the team. They had heard the stories, recognized the mistakes made, and were now fairly confident on how to approach these situations. Back and forth, exchanging theories on what the thing was supposed to be, the few members selected for this particular excursion soon noticed the tone in all their voices, and inside they each secretly knew that someone would try to operate, or use, or do something to the thing. But who would make that move, that first, bold move?
If only this place, they all knew, hadn't been scorched with all those convoluted, ancient ideas and notions, hadn't been plagued by all those sad wars fought over nothing, then this ambiguity they used in designing just about everything would be totally unnecessary. But oh, of course, they had to fool. They had to deceive. Then it was ambiguity, a dark obscurity, that formed most thought and construction. Nothing was really much certain and no one could make sense of anything. It was all just very sad. How could anyone do so much, incite such levels of terror, over, quite literally, nothing? That was truly the saddest part, those wars fought over a nonexistence, wars fought over just . . . nothing.
It was an abrupt move, and what would later be described as a "rash choice by a careful man," when the first foot took a step towards the thing. It was the man who insisted on wearing a tie, even in the field, who made the move. He had looked at the group, sniffed, and as if to say, "What? Is everyone a fucking pussy?" moved toward the object. He moved as an assured, calm man, and if anyone thought him scared, they were wrong.
Foregoing a final examination, or even a short inspection, the man who insisted on wearing a tie flipped the switch (which immediately sprung back into place) before anyone could gasp or make an overdue objection. The group watched as, almost instantaneously, the top of the machine receded into itself and an absurd-looking giraffe, wearing a ridiculous hat and blue sneakers on all four hooves, rose eerily from the belly of the machine. Accompanying the rise of the giraffe, which spun about its axis, was a playful, bouncing melody that, in its own mystic way, sneered at this dismal land the group had been combing now for months. A collective silence started and, as everyone felt the same flash of relief, it was broken.
"An unusually large music box, huh?" the man who insisted on wearing a tie asked to no one in particular. "Barely worth our time."
He sat down on a nearby stone protruding from the ground and lit a cigarette. Another man did the same. They listened to the music and bantered amongst one another, casually joking that the man who insisted on wearing a tie must have been frightened, for lack of a better term, shitless. They watched the cigarette smoke rise, up towards where Heaven was supposed to be, and watched it vanish into the empty sky. There's still so much left uncovered, they said. We haven't, they went on, even covered a fraction of this deathland. A few of them, although they would never voice their opinion, thought the excursions were useless. They were just distractions, they thought. And, in a sense, that's what they were. Who could, with honesty, argue differently?
The absurd-looking giraffe retreated back into the machine's insides with the sound of slicked gears churning loyally. The music had faded just prior and a collection of sighs filled the space it had left. The sighs weren't, of course, meant for the music itself, but for one of those strange, allegorical events that takes place at such an exact moment in time that its metaphorical allusions are impossible to ignore. Again and again, they all kept returning to the very same conclusion: Namely, that this journey was prone to failure from the start, and, sooner rather than later, the words spoken by the Premier, even though they sounded inspired and convincingly hopeful, would cease to be heard. Many of them just wished for the end of it all, or, to be more accurate, simply the end of strife--the rest could, apparently, stay.
Imagine the relief they would feel if they knew the closeness of death! Surprised, maybe disappointed but not outraged, unknowing and really quite silly--that will be how they leave this place. Of course, the blame cannot lay on them, for how could they ever know that the rising giraffe triggered the release of an odorless, colorless, and fatally toxic gas super-compressed at the base of the device? How could they know of the tormenting spasms their nervous systems would procure in due time? Yes, it is true, they were wholly blind to their nearing deaths, which would occur within the hour.
The man who insisted on wearing a tie finished his cigarette and again flipped the lever to see that amusing giraffe spin to that whimsical tune once more. He was feeling an odd joviality that had suddenly contained him, so this time he whistled along with each note. | |
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| February of Last Year01/02/09 at 06:39 PM by bung |
I go to Jason Arelidavo's on account of a recommendation from a friend that he has cocaine that is relatively, at least around here, uncut, which, suffice to say, isn't saying much. Regardless of what I may hear, even from those so called "reliable sources," or regardless of what anyone may hear, it will be cut to shit. But that's okay. I'm not even looking for cocaine per se, at least not tonight. I'm looking for uppers, this time, or something to get me going like they say. Coke dealers always have more than coke to sell, or somewhere in their personal stash they have pills, at the very least poppers, to kill that comedown from their Sunday night coke binge-sex-lust-love-fuck session.
He had the best speed, man, he says, but that was all gone on Tuesday. Even the Adderall, that went pretty quick, he tells me, on account of spring semester beginning and all the kids back in town. But he doesn't let me down, he tells me. He asks me if I can remember a time when he let me down, and I tell him I can't but that's probably because I think this has been the first time. Right, he says. I was saving these for one of those days, you know, but I'll sell 'em, he tells me, feigning reluctance to part with the as of yet unnamed pills. They're Concerta he says--Ritalin with a fancy name. He says $14 a pill is reasonable, they're 50 milligrams, too, and they hit you hard, he continues, trying like a cracked retail sales graduate to entice me. I say I'll pay $8 at most, but no, that's not enough he says, and he raises his offer to $16, and I tell him he's fucking crazy. I'll give you $6, I say. And he starts with his 'fines' and 'okay nows' and so we settle on $7.
Arelidavo's got a girl on the couch with a pierced tongue that will occasionally reach for her lips to give them a sweetening. Her forehead is flat with a collection of minuscule sweat beads, and her tied up, pulled back hair looks unattractive but not quite disgusting. $75, Arelidavo says, doing his best to present this haggard specimen as a genuine prize, for 30 minutes with the cunt. I take another look at the girl, squinting, as if in some new focus I could discover her appeal, but there was nothing. Give me 15 of the Concerta's, the eighth, and actually yeah, do give me a half, no--just make it a full gram, I say. I part with a wad of green presidents so wide that if I didn't know just what they were getting me in return I would weep. But it looks more than it is because I'm more partial to carrying smaller bills to larger ones.
I take out my cellphone to check the time, and I notice that I'm almost late to my engagement with Liz. Elizabeth Astonyin asked me to 'have coffee' with her, proposing we meet at the coffeehouse on 2nd and Wills. I accepted the offer, and, at the moment of doing so, I recall displaying almost no hesitance, which could have, if she were astute enough to notice, implied my complete willingness to accompany her. And, if that be the case, then all the better for my cause, I say. That would take things somewhere else, however, to speak of all that, and right now I'm thinking of either doing the cocaine first or (quickly) rolling a joint.
I get in my car and I decide on the cocaine. Concerta's are a bitch, and weed is just like, well, almost like a cigarette, at least in the quantity it's smoked. So the cocaine, then. I take out the bag, make one line, two, and return the bag back to my coat pocket. In preparation, I pack a small bowl of the bud. I usually get about three solid rips, deep and pleasing ones, off the bowl before it's done. But anyway, I go back to the cocaine and do the first line--it's smooth and almost perfect in a way. And then I do the second, and the second is, of course, just ideal. I sprinkle some cocaine on top of the bowl I'm about to smoke just for the hell of it, even though smoking cocaine is highly inefficient. So I smoke the bowl as I'm starting my car and notice for the first time that it's actually a little too fucking cold outside. But alright then, I still have to meet Liz, and I wonder for a moment why I'm going to a coffeehouse when, a.) I do not like coffee and b.) I also have no particularly affinity towards houses.
Liz tells me about a movie, or rather a film, she recently discovered, which actually means it was recommended by her ******ty film professor, no doubt. And she has this habit, more irritating than a simple eccentricity, in which she makes the great assumption that the topic on her mind is worth being spoken about, as something that one should lean in to, crook the head, and listen to with perfect attentiveness. This is only one of her annoyances, of course. I pretend to agree with what she's saying, a nod and then a smile, to imitate someone who's interested. I'm actually thinking about the last waves of the cocaine, which happen to be giving in rather abruptly at the moment, and I debate if I should excuse myself to crack open a Concerta.
In her own cold, direct way, Liz almost exudes something prideful, or at the very least a kind of conclusive certainty. I try to listen to what she says, and on some level I feel as if I only owe it to her, but my mind feels like it's stepping, dancing in and out of consciousness, so I regrettably cannot do her the pleasure.
". . . a characterization of this modern excess we've taken, as a society and a culture, to go hand in hand with terms like 'success,' 'achievement,' and 'the betterment of Man,' when truly, and this is not just my own interpretation but an interpretation shared by many of the recent French film scholars, at the heart of it all, our core, we wish for nothing more than endearment of one. In this way, we're shown as much of the actors on-screen as we are shown of ourselves; we're a wholly less than picturesque ideal those age-old, century-spanning, Aristotelian virtues would lead us to believe we are. And, as I'm sure you've guessed, we find that Marcel presents not only the fusion of ambition and self-doubt, but an agglomeration of all existentialist . . ."
My head is caving in on itself, I think. There's a sting in my eyes which adds to the headache I have, which Liz has been adding to since the cocaine wore off.
". . . so a person can really be, and this a word that's tossed around far too commonly with film critics, moved. It's almost--please tell me if I'm being too ambiguous here--it's almost like there's a latent quality which vibrates a masterful harmony within the film, something present but not overbearing in each character. That's what films are missing, that harmonic substance. We see it in a Hitchcock or a Renoir, but today there's such a . . . a merciless gulf between unity, entertainment, harmony, and substance that . . ."
I watch Liz move her tongue across the top of small, straight teeth as she takes a pause, deliberating or maybe just distracted. I need to go take a Concerta and do a bump--just one--I finally conclude, fixating on a single strand of saliva breaking between her lip and tooth. I politely excuse myself to the restroom, the bag of Concerta's brushing almost seductively against my thigh. Liz looks annoyed, practically offended, but I make no comment and get up to leave.
". . . a reign in which we all seek, a revolt against placid boredom and Neutrogena cover-up . . ."
The bathroom is cramped but reasonably well-kept with traditional home style decor. One of the two stalls has a fresh log of shit floating actually quite gracefully, but I enter the other, anyway. I take one Concerta from my bag and shove the bag back inside my pocket. I've said before, I think, that Concerta's are a bitch and that is still true. You see, the Concerta cannot simply be taken, at least not for recreational usage. It must be modified so to get complete absorbance and, consequently, complete satisfaction from the drug. To explain, the outside of the capsule is coated with a plastic-like film which must be cut off. The film prevents rapid absorption of the drug into the stomach and intestines, so it's obvious why it must be removed. It's usually not a mere 'cutting away' that is required, but a selection of small cuts which serve as the bases for the rest of the coating to be essentially chipped free. Nothing is genuinely hard or difficult in modifying the pill, but it is a nuisance and a bother. Lastly, a small part of the pill inside its encasing needs to be discarded. This part is called the 'push.' Its job is to push (hence, hence) the drug out at a steady rate over the course of about a day. Again, it's clear why that would be hampering to my goals, so I cut it off and drop it in the toilet with a tiny splash.
I pop the now ready Concerta into my mouth, leave the stall momentarily, and wash the pill down with tap water. Then I go back into the stall and do a small bump of cocaine. I must have done a small bit too much because I instantly go past baseline (my initial target) and can feel the sleek power brought on by precious dopamine. I weigh the idea of simply leaving Liz at the table, slipping out of the bathroom presumably unnoticed, and continuing my day while she discusses film with herself. I imagine she could continue the same conversation we were having, virtually unadjusted, so what's the difference? But no, that would be inwardly humiliating for her, and as much as I enjoy seeing those who I have little care for experience all kinds of benign suffering, I decide against the idea, if only because I would not be physically present to witness her reaction, anyway.
The cocaine still ardently pumps through me, and I don't feel like going back to the table. I have, for one second, one of those flashes of reality where everything either seems to be or is quite clear. Everyone, I think during this one second, has the inherent potential to become larger than they thought they could be, better if you will, but also far worse. But every choice, even the most common or ordinary of them, builds towards one of the two extremes. Small choices, those that build towards failure, grow one on top of the other until, at a certain point, failure is inevitable. The same holds true for the small choices leading towards success. Since life itself is built on a series of small rather than large choices, there are far more small choices made, so while the possibility of one large decision reversing the path of success or failure is a possibility, its likelihood is small. Over time, these small, and what look to be irrelevant, choices make impacts that are hard to fathom. A person born into poverty, or the worst of any conditions, does face a considerably more difficult path than one born into more favorable circumstances, but if the poverty-stricken individual calculates, falls upon a great deal of luck, of chance, success can be attainable with the successive growing of those correct choices on top of one another. It's true that, yes, a person in many cases would need the ability of immaculate calculation in order to do such a thing, but nevertheless the possibility remains, and that, the possibility, is what's of worth.
I think to myself and wonder if my choices are building towards failure or success, if my end result will come from a series of small choices, growing and growing, or a larger, more decisive choice that shapes my entire means of respectability. I've been gone a rather long time now, and I decide I should probably go back to the table. I haven't decided yet if I'll concede to Liz's lust-fuck desire she undoubtedly has, but if I do I'm not giving her any of my cocaine. | |
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| Two States (On the Pavement)12/19/08 at 06:44 AM by bung |
There are two states in which I live. Or rather mental ones, not physical states. Now, obviously, I feel a million billion different emotions just like everyone else, but these are the two that show the most dominance. And anyway, they aren't merely those simple mental states of joy or confusion or excitement or any of those. They're what that person wants you to see when they tell you to see the "big picture," but you just tell them to fuck off.
It's like this: I always think about things that are bigger than myself. Take the future as an example, or purpose, meaning, change, impact, worth, or futility or whatever you want. Any of those can serve as a template. They all exist independently of myself. They don't need me, not at all, to keep them being as they are. But I, as I exist independently of them, am dependent on them (mind you, this is only the first of two states). I find it to be such a waste to strive or actively attempt to reach those ideals, or, what's more often than not, attempt to explain and understand them. Though I can't help it. I suppose some people would say that it's a rare kind of mind and worth nurturing, that gray mass I have in my head. Dumb people usually say stuff like that. It's not worth anything but leaving.
You see, when someone spends all their time solving and analyzing (or at least the attempt to do so) they make themselves small by making those other, more important things so big. Naturally, this leads to the neglect of one's own person. Why should they find joy in primetime television or care about what hurts them? Those are such entirely minuscule trivialities when compared to, taking from our example, purpose or change. That's where emotions should be allocated towards--not into a single, small human being, but into things of importance, of grandeur. So is it more important to find purpose or bring about great and favorable change to society, to achieve some noteworthy respect and admiration from respected peers, than it is to retain all one's humanity?
That's how it usually is. I keep thinking I need to improve myself, to find more insights, read more words and gain more knowledge, because that, and only that, will preclude this imagined greatness I am to create, or discover, explain. It doesn't go away, and I don't know if it's more annoying or more tiresome. In people that are capable, those that possess an irregular genius or have a gift they probably take for granted and hate, it could be beneficial. They could really do something with that gray mass in their heads. But, with me, you see, I only have the thoughts--the thoughts, the thoughts, the thoughts, but nothing else. I don't have the right tools to be capable, or, at the very least, I don't know how to use them, which amounts to the same thing.
But it's not as tragic as it sounds because there's still that other state, and I know the means to get there. You see, when I chemically alter my brain for given spans of time, that weight which presses on me, telling me I must do this or I must do that, goes away. Okay, okay--at least it becomes lighter, and that's enough. I don't have to care about admiration or respect, and I certainly do not need to waste time figuring out a goddamn purpose that is probably purposeless, anyway. I can just ... sit ... and rest. There's no need for those things larger than I am. I'm right here, now, and I want to feel what I want, please myself.
Can you really condemn men for searching for perspective, in their own, sometimes foolish ways, when the cost comes at their own expense? And especially when it lifts that weight? Ah, to enjoy both the simple and the complex. There's no more fretting about the world at large, because the world now spins in a living room on a sofa. | |
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| Pirate Bay T-shirt12/11/08 at 10:23 AM by bung |
I'm sure many of you are aware of the ultimate, most badass torrent site out there, thepiratebay.org. Well, now they are selling a variety of t-shirts! Just look at the fashionable design below!
Now, I had planned on purchasing one of these t-shirts to support my favorite site for breaking copyright laws, but look at that price! 29 fucking Euros for a mother fucking t-shirt! Although I do, like most people, value my appearance, that kind of money is quite steep for a simple "environmentally friendly" t-shirt.
I wouldn't, although, be against the prospect of some kind AP user buying one of these shirts as a gift for moi. Personally, I don't feel that the best way to show someone appreciation is in buying them a material item, but that's just my own thoughts on the matter. If you enjoy buying material possessions for those you admire, by all means--BUY ME ONE!
Thank you kindly in advance. | |
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| Great Oaks11/29/08 at 10:22 PM by bung |
At the time, it wasn’t completely obvious why I chose to recall that specific moment. We had had so many moments together, many of them of equal brilliance, so why this particular one chose to stand out eludes me. It must have left some kind of enduring impression on me, changed me in some way I can’t see, or otherwise it would have been forgotten in the swarm of the rest. The reasons for why this happens to be irritates me on the same level it interests me. Maybe putting such a recollection down on paper will help to clear things up or at least make them more legible. And even if it doesn’t it won’t be a complete waste, because the worst that I can be left with is a sweeping sense of nostalgia. Memories have the enigmatic quality of uprooting themselves at the most inopportune times, which has proven itself completely true in this instance. Whether they make themselves known due to an external stimulus or simply mere chance, I do not know. The fact is, however, that they do make themselves known, so surely a reason unknown must have caused their resurrection. But enough with the explanations and trivialities, the disclaimers and forewords, because it is the time for remembrance, and a memory neglected is a memory wasted.
We sat under the great oak with Summer growing towards old age. The sun was at our backs, and my shadow almost touched your shadow. I thought of the perfection that would be if only we could stay here forever, but I knew that we couldn’t. And I knew that you knew it, too. But what could be done about it? I did not know then (and neither did you) and I do not know now. Being human, we did the most irrelevant things to achieve our dream. You took my hand from the large, heated stone, and held it like you would never let it go. I felt your warmth and your grasp, but I was still short of grasping you. Yes, you took my hand and showed me what it means to be a man. In that air, that soothing country air, it always felt good to forget about any other places and their air. You made me feel great, and I hoped I made you feel something like the same, too.
You said, “If it ever gets too bad just lean on my shoulder.”
I remember feeling happy when I saw you smile at a butterfly that fluttered in front of your nose. You bumped your water bottle and it spilled all over the ground, but you told me it wasn’t a bother. Nothing much is a bother. We called rain but there the sun stood just the same. I said to you it’s both a shame and a privilege that us humans get to change and grow. We talked about the times we’d been through and came to the conclusion that we hadn’t been through very much. You told me how your brother used to hit you, but that you’ve forgiven him because anger doesn’t sell for much and oftentimes is not worth keeping. Then, when you were in high school, you told me about how people called you weird and it hurt, but that you’ve forgiven them, too, because you pity the whole lot of them. I found out some of your secrets, laughed at only a few, and then told you some of mine. I’m usually too shy to initiate a kiss, but that day I kissed you on the mouth with no hesitation.
Even in these days, much later, I still wonder where you went. Do you live in the city with a family? Is your car a hybrid and your husband a Protestant? Back then, it happened so suddenly. Although I never knew it, you told yourself that it was for the best and believed it. When it’s late summer and I’m awake in bed, I sometimes wish I could still feel your skin on mine, and I wonder if you wish you could feel my skin on yours. It’s a shame we never kept in touch. We said we would, but I think we both knew we wouldn’t. That’s how it is and there’s nothing to be done. I don’t know why, but it makes me sad when I think about it. It feels like I lost something precious, and it’s quite possible that I truly did. Still, there’s nothing to be done. But it’s true, when I’m scared or confused or down, I still think about how your hand would feel in mine and how it would make it better. | |
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| [untitled as of yet]11/12/08 at 06:54 AM by bung |
Since I'm mysterious and deep I like to read and write. Or maybe I like to read and write because I'm mysterious and deep. Or maybe I overuse satire. Either way, this is something from a little story I'm doing. I don't know if it will turn into a full blown novel. I'll just stop writing when the story seems complete and the words are well put.
So then:
Sometimes the room I'm in keeps changing, like I imagine it as being somewhere else. Absolutely different from here. In the 16th century I imagine kings and queens, princes and princesses, dining with grace that's assumed to be deserved. There is a kitchenette of utensils available to every single person eating at the table. You can't use the dainty fork for the chicken! Are you crazy! The dainty fork is only used for the dainty items, and I assume you at least have the intelligence to know a fact like that. But be carefu--Oh no! Really now!--does that even look like a soup spoon to you? Have you even seen a soup spoon before? Of course you haven't, because if you had you would know of the superior scooping ability of a genuine soup spoon. It's little things like these that make me question your competence at--well--just about everything. I sincerely hope that I make you feel at least a some sense of negative self-worth because I would find that to be perfectly pleasing.
And now I want to tell you to stop moaning, crying, pouting all your pitiful tears all over the place because human life, like any life, is expendable. War would be obsolete if human life were ever considered to be indispensable. Your life--fuck, it doesn’t matter much at all. Oh, your friends and family will be great and loving to you if all goes well, but then one day--huawww--you’re gone. Your friends and family will mourn their loss. Hell, they might even mourn their loss for their entire life if they liked you enough. A few generations and you're gone. Almost like you never even existed to begin with. But you sure used a lot of this place's resources on the way out.
But really, the prospect of funerals isn’t kidding anybody. People are often dragged to funerals if only to show respect for the dead. For all they know, since they’ve never met that decaying body of flesh, it could have been a complete asshole. Lived an utterly worthless life, but as it always is, polished into a homily that depicts it as noble, and caring, and good-humored, and what have you--all that type of nonsense that is really nothing more than an embellishment of a few select memories that some people vaguely recall, distorting their ultimate importance merely because the it in the memory no longer exists. The memory remains with the same accuracy and feeling, if only slightly more commanding; somehow, this absolutely and completely irrelevant notion that this memory is truly of no grand importance pertaining to anything at all always eludes the individual. What could better demonstrate the towering selfishness and preoccupation with all of our own selves we possess!
What an embarrassment evolution has produced. If God exists, He’s a fucking idiot. And if God exists, then we’re all his slaves, so that may explain why so many people feel the need to allow their minds to be slaved into virtually irreversible contamination. And really, what can a person do but sigh? Sure, there’s activism, change, protesting and marching--but somebody has got to be willing to guide an organization into having giant influence. I sure as hell couldn’t do it. To be honest, I haven’t met one single person who would come anywhere near qualifying for the job. People are generally lazy. They might have jobs and work hard, bring the meals home, but when it comes to activism they may cast their vote on some ballet and that’s it. I really want the place where I live to be a certain way, but the only thing I’m going to do in an attempt to construct it is sign my name and fill in a few circles.
It’s hard for someone like me personally to make any attempts at criticism, however, because I follow their example to a cue. Is it virtuous or noble? Probably not. Maybe by some convincing philosophical argument it could be proved to be. But I couldn’t care less what the “ethics” of my choices are. I simply do not have a care for those kind of thoughts. I do not even give a spec of shit to them. They mean nothing in the end if I somehow receive wisdom and happiness from them--the only two things where the end sure as shit justifies the means. That’s all I really need, plus a few cigarettes, of course. | |
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| I Take Lots11/08/08 at 08:12 PM by bung |
| I'm very lonely. So I take lots of pills. They sometimes help. | |
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| Poetry10/27/08 at 02:24 AM by bung |
I hate writing poems. Fucking poetry. Walt fucking Whitman, you little bitch. I would have cut off your dick and fed it to your mother, you nancy ******. Anyway, I found this on my computer, so apparently I must have written it some time ago. I vaguely remember doing so.
Very long ago, before even time
There lived a man who spoke only in rhyme
He told of how life doesn't mean all that much
So there's no point in making an unnecessary fuss
And he explained how life seems to be free
But it's when you die that you pay your fee
People said that what he thinks is really sad
But he said he can breathe the air so it ain't so bad
And people would often ask him,
"But what's the point in going on?"
"Well personally," he would say,
"I just don't want to live underground!" | |
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