I think so, but I don't know.
I think I am, and I KNOW you are.
You dig into my pockets, and you take the change that isn't yours.
You do nothing to end world poverty.
So we can't decry the other. (We are him/her.)
We can't avoid our own duplicity.
(You see!!!???)
Except by watching reality television...except by seeing Jesus in every snowflake, in every thrust of the Nigerian plunderer, (condomless, exploding his seed into your virgin infants crawl space, but curing his AIDS.)
BUT
If we are all bad, then so what?
Who am I to care/ I don't.
We DONT:
So hence no Morality?
PARATAXIS
which is the case when you write shit and no one understands it
which is the case that all you motherfuckers that come here don't get
that I am leaving the shit out that you should know
but that most of you don't
dont fuckin' tell me I am wrong in saying this:
"The most obstinate thing I can see is a fat man in gym clothes."
Don't tell me I am fuckin wrong about that.
Look the fucking word up.
You people are getting me so fucking angry here.
I avoid writing.
Why?/because I suck. Also, because you won't get anything, even if I didn't suck.
I'm not here to write.
Only one crazed reader understands that. He is PRAISING himself now, but he is slightly correct.
I will write almost every day now. I will podcast again. The words must leak out. We can not worry what the random person who reads only one post will think. Surely, you will misunderstand things. This is necessary.
Marx said something to the point in his introduction to Capital. About never being properly understood. Let us make no certain understatement. The method of the Dialectic is not a method of scientific understanding.
I will make no appeal to it whatsoever.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
I used to do this without trying
Things could be worse: RETRO from the 2000's
I just got through watching the movie Talk Radio.
The movie brings up some heavy questions. I could apply a lot of the those questions to blogging.
SO Maybe I SHOULD do some soul searching....
What am I doing? What do I stand for? What do I want?
Nah, I find that shit boring.
What I learned from watching the movie.
All the important questions I can ask about this blog have to do with my audience.
What's wrong with my audience? What is it that youwant? Why the fuck do you keep coming back?
For the abuse?
I think you just enjoy watching me decay.
DECAY
I keep seeing myself in the mirror. I'm getting old. My fat belly collects lint in the belly button when I forget to pick it out.
I think talking to 18 year old kids at work about my sincere love of "fit preggo" porn is laugh out loud funny. So did the 18 year olds. But what the fuck do 18 year olds know?
My goatee is uneven. My ingrown toe nail is bleeding through my sock. I have unexplained back pain. I keep finding squishy tumors in my testicles. I keep shitting green. I just put myself on Prilosec because my throat closes for no good reason. My face and lymph nodes are swollen.
I need a haircut. I am going bald. I am going gray.
YOU SAY
Things could always be worse.
I SAY
No they can't.
I feel terrible. I try to imagine a person worse off than me. I think about a guy who always wanted to be a woman. Who felt trapped in a man's body. Who hates his penis. He wants to cut off the penis and wear cute skirts and those long body shirts that get layered under shorter shirts. He wants to paint his nails. He wants to be taken care of. He wants to be rescued. He's so tired of making decisions for himself. He just wants someone to make the decisions for him.
So he gets the surgery. He gets his penis cut off. Now he uses the girl's restroom. He shaves his legs.
Try to imagine he does not have huge "man hands," or a massive Adam's apple. Try to imagine that he can have an orgasm with his new vagina.
Let's imagine he sits with his legs smartly crossed and has boyfriends. Maybe even fools the guys at college. They don't know that he is a Tranny. They just like his girlishness. They fuck him and he blows them. He enjoys all the cum in his mouth.
But one day he wakes up and misses his penis. I mean REALLY misses his penis. The way any man would miss his penis if it was cut off from him. I wonder what he would go through. I have no idea. Other than staring down at his empty pelvis.
Probably lots of crying.
There are just some mistakes you just can't undo.
He would have to go on living as a woman. He would have to wear those pink breast cancer buttons in September. He would have to watch Oprah. Fuck. I have no idea what else he would have to do. I guess he would have to keep on faking it like all women do.
Because men are useless fucks. We are. We just don't give a fuck. We want your pussies. We want you to admire us. We crave your attention. We need you to build us up.
I have no idea what the fuck you get back from us in return. We give you nothing. All we are is WANT. We are like children. We are want machines. We desire everything we can see and think of.
We need to feel. To touch... everything... maybe that's why you love us. We are your little children that can speak to you, and rub your backs, and lick your toes, and open jars you cannot, and build the world for you.
You just want to live in the world of emotion and make believe.
In the world where there is just you and me and we talk all night in the bedroom/and we cuddle on blankets listening to the rain splash against the windows/and off in the distance we hear car alarms go off after lightning strikes and the car alarms remind us that we are playing hooky/that the real world is out there/but not in here with us/not today at least/we are safe.
YOU SAY
But at least YOU still have your penis! That poor tranny boy lost his!
I SAY
I wish just my penis was cut off. I wake up with a boner every morning, but what use is it?
I am castrated.
Only you will tell me that my castration is all in my head.
A man without a car is castrated. I am a man without a car. I have only my erection. What purpose could my erection possibly serve?
A reminder!
A reminder that I never get what I want. You see The tranny has closure. I do not. My erection ensures that I will have an endless supply of "possibility" followed by failure.
BUT THINGS COULD BE WORSE
No they can't.
If things "could always be worse" then how can you gauge things as they actually are?
If your "standard for comparison" is always changing it can not be a standard for comparison. A comparison without a set value is fallacious.
Things are as bad as they can possibly be.
It's just as likely that we live in the worst of possible times as it is that we live in the best of times.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
I am constipated with Life
"You're getting off work soon."
She was a Mexican and in her mid 30's. Married which meant to me that I had a pretty good chance.
She did not look up from counting my drawer when she talked to me.
"Go home and watch TV. Blog and space out. " She told me.
"I plan to." I replied. "It's all I do anyway."
"I know." She laughed.
So I went home and blogged and spaced out and watched TV on the computer. I did those things because they were the only things I ever did. I guess I could have done something else, but I never thought about doing anything other than "what I always did" until it was too late.
I would look over at the alarm clock perched on my computer monitor and realize it was 6 in the morning. 6 am. Too late to do anything now. Then I would remember that I would have to be at work in a few hours. I would lie down on my bed and try to masturbate. 40 or 50 minutes later, my penis, dry and chaffed would cough out an orgasm like a sick child coughs out phlegm from the flu.
I would try to go to sleep then. Usually it was hot in my room and the noise from the ceiling fan would keep me awake. The ceiling fan had light fixtures that did not work because the light bulbs had corroded into them. The light bulbs would clang around hitting the side of the fixtures because the fan wobbled at high speeds. I needed to run the fan at high speeds because my room faced the sun and always kept a residual heat about itself. I was too poor to run the air conditioning anyway. Not too cheap mind you, just too poor. I could afford the internet or air conditioning, and I chose the internet. I never regretted that decision.
Days pass. Weeks go by. Somehow those weeks turn into years. The only way I marked time was by watching the growth of hair that sprouted up in the most unnecessary of places on my body. Whenever I got bored of plucking all my unwanted hair I would turn my critical attention to my weight or my disappearing hair line.
I lay under that ceiling fan all those nights watching the fan wobble, waiting for it to fall off of its hinges.
Ceiling fans make me think of death. All because I watched the movie Angel Heart as a kid. The movie made a lasting impression on me, and I always told myself that if I ever got to make a movie I would include cinematically impressive shots of ceiling fans as an homage to the movie.
One day out of boredom I stood up on the bed and adjusted the light bulbs in hopes that I could get the jingling to stop. I played around a few times with different positions, but nothing worked. I would get frustrated then and lay back down on the bed. I kept getting aroused by the noise though, so I would jump up and start to have a go at the ceiling fan again, fancying myself some kind of fix-it man.
Suddenly there dead silence, the noise from the fan had stopped.
"Are you kidding me?' I asked myself. "That's it?"
She was a Mexican and in her mid 30's. Married which meant to me that I had a pretty good chance.
She did not look up from counting my drawer when she talked to me.
"Go home and watch TV. Blog and space out. " She told me.
"I plan to." I replied. "It's all I do anyway."
"I know." She laughed.
So I went home and blogged and spaced out and watched TV on the computer. I did those things because they were the only things I ever did. I guess I could have done something else, but I never thought about doing anything other than "what I always did" until it was too late.
I would look over at the alarm clock perched on my computer monitor and realize it was 6 in the morning. 6 am. Too late to do anything now. Then I would remember that I would have to be at work in a few hours. I would lie down on my bed and try to masturbate. 40 or 50 minutes later, my penis, dry and chaffed would cough out an orgasm like a sick child coughs out phlegm from the flu.
I would try to go to sleep then. Usually it was hot in my room and the noise from the ceiling fan would keep me awake. The ceiling fan had light fixtures that did not work because the light bulbs had corroded into them. The light bulbs would clang around hitting the side of the fixtures because the fan wobbled at high speeds. I needed to run the fan at high speeds because my room faced the sun and always kept a residual heat about itself. I was too poor to run the air conditioning anyway. Not too cheap mind you, just too poor. I could afford the internet or air conditioning, and I chose the internet. I never regretted that decision.
Days pass. Weeks go by. Somehow those weeks turn into years. The only way I marked time was by watching the growth of hair that sprouted up in the most unnecessary of places on my body. Whenever I got bored of plucking all my unwanted hair I would turn my critical attention to my weight or my disappearing hair line.
I lay under that ceiling fan all those nights watching the fan wobble, waiting for it to fall off of its hinges.
Ceiling fans make me think of death. All because I watched the movie Angel Heart as a kid. The movie made a lasting impression on me, and I always told myself that if I ever got to make a movie I would include cinematically impressive shots of ceiling fans as an homage to the movie.
One day out of boredom I stood up on the bed and adjusted the light bulbs in hopes that I could get the jingling to stop. I played around a few times with different positions, but nothing worked. I would get frustrated then and lay back down on the bed. I kept getting aroused by the noise though, so I would jump up and start to have a go at the ceiling fan again, fancying myself some kind of fix-it man.
Suddenly there dead silence, the noise from the fan had stopped.
"Are you kidding me?' I asked myself. "That's it?"
My nemesis was a paper tiger. I performed a simple trick and the noise stopped.
"All those freaking years." I mumbled to myself. "I suffered through those bothersome clicks and clanks."
"All those freaking years." I mumbled to myself. "I suffered through those bothersome clicks and clanks."
But now I had gotten the noise to stop.
Suddenly I felt like a new man. I would sleep now. I would sleep better than I had slept in years. I would wake up each morning refreshed. I could attack the day now with all my new found energy.
I am not sure what happened to that promise, but it never happened.
Maybe the clanks of the corroded light bulbs hid the sounds of roommate's television, or his skulking back and forth to the refrigerator.
Whatever it was it seems it made no difference. No matter the improvement my situation comes under. No matter the effort I make. No matter how objectively the improvement could be presented before me it still does me no good.
I sleep no better than before fan noise stopped. Now I just seem to notice my backache instead of the annoying sounds emanating from above me. I concentrate on the uncomfortable collision that is my back and the cheap mattress beneath me. I am itchy and I wipe blood from my ingrown toenail onto the sheet which sits scrunched in a ball at the foot of the bed.
I still wake up with a pounding head full of dread. I hope tomorrow will be different. But I know it won't. I marshal all my physic energy. I try to convince myself to get up and go to work if for no other reason than to escape my lousy bed.
I hate waking up. I hate waking up more than anything. I do mental calculations to find the latest possible time for getting up. I'm not sure why. I wished I didn't. I would like to take my hatred out on the world, and thereby become a man of conscience. Or tell the world I am tired of it and check out. Become a bum. But I don't.
I guess I have no will power. I am stuck again on that lousy metaphor of being an amoeba. Alive, but with no will. Movements that seem directed, but are devoid of purpose.
I don't wish to sprout nihilism. I don't look all that deeply into the abyss. I am not overrun with the nausea of dread.
I am just constipated with life
Suddenly I felt like a new man. I would sleep now. I would sleep better than I had slept in years. I would wake up each morning refreshed. I could attack the day now with all my new found energy.
I am not sure what happened to that promise, but it never happened.
Maybe the clanks of the corroded light bulbs hid the sounds of roommate's television, or his skulking back and forth to the refrigerator.
Whatever it was it seems it made no difference. No matter the improvement my situation comes under. No matter the effort I make. No matter how objectively the improvement could be presented before me it still does me no good.
I sleep no better than before fan noise stopped. Now I just seem to notice my backache instead of the annoying sounds emanating from above me. I concentrate on the uncomfortable collision that is my back and the cheap mattress beneath me. I am itchy and I wipe blood from my ingrown toenail onto the sheet which sits scrunched in a ball at the foot of the bed.
I still wake up with a pounding head full of dread. I hope tomorrow will be different. But I know it won't. I marshal all my physic energy. I try to convince myself to get up and go to work if for no other reason than to escape my lousy bed.
I hate waking up. I hate waking up more than anything. I do mental calculations to find the latest possible time for getting up. I'm not sure why. I wished I didn't. I would like to take my hatred out on the world, and thereby become a man of conscience. Or tell the world I am tired of it and check out. Become a bum. But I don't.
I guess I have no will power. I am stuck again on that lousy metaphor of being an amoeba. Alive, but with no will. Movements that seem directed, but are devoid of purpose.
I don't wish to sprout nihilism. I don't look all that deeply into the abyss. I am not overrun with the nausea of dread.
I am just constipated with life
Friday, March 23, 2012
Ecstasy is alright with me
Damn, that fucking smells.
Of course it does, you can't go jamming your finger in your butt for an hour and not expect it to smell can you?
I guess not. He thought. Then he typed:
Ecstasy is the best thing in the world. The best thing you have never tried. The best thing THERE is to try. But you straights won't ever know how great it is, because you are too scared and chickenshit to try it.
It doesn't matter that ecstasy will leave your kidneys bad. It doesn't matter that your vision goes blurry. It won't matter that you won't be able to concentrate anymore.
Who the fuck thought you were going to get past Hegel's Phenomenology of Mind and into his Critique of the Right anyways? Politics is smallitics nowadays. Anyway we've got Rachael Madow to instruct us in that game now. Who needs 19th century white men?
I don't! Fuck man, it's the friggin' 21st century. I trust only non bald lesbians. Not fancy androgynous computer assisted voices. And if a non-bald lesbo wants to insist that white men shouldn't go around armed and ready to kill whenever the neighborhood watch tells 'em it's okay, then shit that's the end of history man. Fukishama style, only with less atomic energy and more misplaced acquiescence to the status quo of capitalist relations.
There is no struggle, but the class struggle.
Beer. I fucking love it. I am going to do this thing where all I drink is beer, from now on. Going to kick that soda habit. Fucking soda is makin' me fat. The fatter I git, the less sleazy twenty one year olds want to sleep with me. Like all they want is to cash their chips in and get married. Like sleeping with some old fat man will reduce their trade in value.
One thing you young ladies need to understand is that as soon as you step foot off the lot you lose half your value. 15 and virgin? I'd pay 16 dollars and two bottles of Hard Mike's Lemmonade to rape your ass.
But in your twenties? A beer drinking hussy like you, probably on birth control, probably not listening to Daddy Rush. Probably banging dudes in your dorm room left and right. Shit man, might as well bang me. Fuck, some chicks like to slum it like that. Totally get's em off that I sweat climbing up stairs. Totally makes em wet. Daddy issues I guess.
Maybe.
Maybe they just like being mistreated. Who the fuck am I to tell you no to that? Like we've figured out mankind. Like we've figured out culture and shit. We have NOT, no way, sir!!!
Look at the MTV show. The one about the guy with no underpants. I want to like that show. But I can't. Everybody is too damn clever, and good looking. Everybody has perfect days. Everybody gets laid.
That's what's wrong with kids these days. God damn kids have been getting satisfactory trophies for just showing up for so long, they can't take a shit by themselves without some kind of award show afterwards that says like, " And for best green shit, it's little Maggie. Way to go Maggie. Way to take that green shit! We are all so fucking proud of ya!"
I used to think that writers who told stories about Millennials being super needy was lazy. I mean you read stories every couple of years in Time or News Max Magazine that tell you how frustrated bosses are at the young people today and you just kind of blow it off. They can't really be that bad.
That is until one day when I worked with one of these kids. And for Pete sake. The kid needed a Trophy every time she sharpened her pencil. She ended up quitting before I could fire her.
This whole world has gone to shit. Which reminds me to take my finger out of my ass.
We probably shouldn't mention that.
I won't.
Of course it does, you can't go jamming your finger in your butt for an hour and not expect it to smell can you?
I guess not. He thought. Then he typed:
Ecstasy is the best thing in the world. The best thing you have never tried. The best thing THERE is to try. But you straights won't ever know how great it is, because you are too scared and chickenshit to try it.
It doesn't matter that ecstasy will leave your kidneys bad. It doesn't matter that your vision goes blurry. It won't matter that you won't be able to concentrate anymore.
Who the fuck thought you were going to get past Hegel's Phenomenology of Mind and into his Critique of the Right anyways? Politics is smallitics nowadays. Anyway we've got Rachael Madow to instruct us in that game now. Who needs 19th century white men?
I don't! Fuck man, it's the friggin' 21st century. I trust only non bald lesbians. Not fancy androgynous computer assisted voices. And if a non-bald lesbo wants to insist that white men shouldn't go around armed and ready to kill whenever the neighborhood watch tells 'em it's okay, then shit that's the end of history man. Fukishama style, only with less atomic energy and more misplaced acquiescence to the status quo of capitalist relations.
There is no struggle, but the class struggle.
Beer. I fucking love it. I am going to do this thing where all I drink is beer, from now on. Going to kick that soda habit. Fucking soda is makin' me fat. The fatter I git, the less sleazy twenty one year olds want to sleep with me. Like all they want is to cash their chips in and get married. Like sleeping with some old fat man will reduce their trade in value.
One thing you young ladies need to understand is that as soon as you step foot off the lot you lose half your value. 15 and virgin? I'd pay 16 dollars and two bottles of Hard Mike's Lemmonade to rape your ass.
But in your twenties? A beer drinking hussy like you, probably on birth control, probably not listening to Daddy Rush. Probably banging dudes in your dorm room left and right. Shit man, might as well bang me. Fuck, some chicks like to slum it like that. Totally get's em off that I sweat climbing up stairs. Totally makes em wet. Daddy issues I guess.
Maybe.
Maybe they just like being mistreated. Who the fuck am I to tell you no to that? Like we've figured out mankind. Like we've figured out culture and shit. We have NOT, no way, sir!!!
Look at the MTV show. The one about the guy with no underpants. I want to like that show. But I can't. Everybody is too damn clever, and good looking. Everybody has perfect days. Everybody gets laid.
That's what's wrong with kids these days. God damn kids have been getting satisfactory trophies for just showing up for so long, they can't take a shit by themselves without some kind of award show afterwards that says like, " And for best green shit, it's little Maggie. Way to go Maggie. Way to take that green shit! We are all so fucking proud of ya!"
I used to think that writers who told stories about Millennials being super needy was lazy. I mean you read stories every couple of years in Time or News Max Magazine that tell you how frustrated bosses are at the young people today and you just kind of blow it off. They can't really be that bad.
That is until one day when I worked with one of these kids. And for Pete sake. The kid needed a Trophy every time she sharpened her pencil. She ended up quitting before I could fire her.
This whole world has gone to shit. Which reminds me to take my finger out of my ass.
We probably shouldn't mention that.
I won't.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Why is it that women like me to have sex with them while they sleep???
I am drinking LARGE amounts of wine
in LARGE blue wine glasses
I am a TERRITORIAL she- BEAST
that will indulge you,
only to feast on your intestines
I am walking very fast to get to you
I am bitter:
like a cold
medicine
for
cold sores
I am getting very DRUNK
(quickly)
to amuse
you
I think you like me now
I think you hate me now
You are my fuck biscuit
I am your mountain MAN
in LARGE blue wine glasses
I am a TERRITORIAL she- BEAST
that will indulge you,
only to feast on your intestines
I am walking very fast to get to you
I am bitter:
like a cold
medicine
for
cold sores
I am getting very DRUNK
(quickly)
to amuse
you
I think you like me now
I think you hate me now
You are my fuck biscuit
I am your mountain MAN
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