My mind begins to wander the second I open my eyes, and you follow shortly after. Each train of thought, meandering like a lazy river through the hills, latches onto the next, and the next, and the next, and you cling to all like sweet autumn fog. I find myself turning back to you, more and more often. Not to make sure you're still there, still sitting atop these thoughts like Moses on the mountain. I turn to make sure I haven't been led awry. You haunt me, like nothing else has haunted me. I find myself at odds, pacing, casting periodic glances at the walls, the windows, walking the length of my house like an animal, no, staggering and lifeless as a zombie.
I don't need to breathe, or eat, or sleep, or drink, or fuck anymore. I don't need to speak, or sing, or smoke, or bathe or pray. Nothing. I need only exist, and the mind, where you are ever present, takes care of the rest. You are the rest. I wake to the taste of you on my lips and never know from where it came. My nerves are on fire, straining aainst the bonds of flesh that keep them from your questing fingertips, your wandering mouth, the sweet, deep places where I can feel myself pouring, without ever doing it at all. I feast on you, and I am full. I drink you down, and I am sated. I inhale the scents that become wrapped in your hair, your pores, your clothes, and I need nothing else.
This is nothing like love, nothing like obsession, and yet, it becomes something akin to both. Something raw, something primal, something entirely synthetic, not entirely dilberate, and nothing at all. I rave somewhere in the center of my body, bashing against organs and blood vessels, crushing my bones from the inside. I shriek like a lunatic, and hear it reverberate when the blood hammers in my ears. I think I'm having a fucking stroke, and then I start to fucking stroke it.
I'm watching you with carnivorous intent, wearing a suit of silver armor. I'm so contested with myself I've started tearing suits in half and sewing them together like fashion frankensteins. Grey-blue, blue-grey, so on and so on. I carry a blue lightsaber and shoot lightning from my fingers.
No, those aren't right. This isn't good and evil. This is something much, much more ridiculous. I feel like a child. A hungry, murderous, horny child. Or maybe I feel like a monster. A passionate, poetic, adoring monster. I'd just as soon slurp your eyes from their sockets as I would write you a pedestal that rose to Valhalla. I would make you into a goddess or pull out my kidneys and wrap them as a gift. I can't decide. I'm self-destructive or self-constructive. I need you, I want you, I have to destroy you. Something, fuck, I told you this was stupid.
And all of it, all of it, is dust in the wind, baby, if you won't have me one way or the other. I'm neither asking nor assuming. I am consuming. I am one, I am all, I'm above and beyond.
I feel so divine when we entwine and I'm inclined to design and be kind, while my mind is behind, and rewind, and a feel fine for a time, but its mine and I'm maligned to the side and the size and the eyes are disguised and you die, or I die, or we die, and this night is fucking over. I end up as nothing, disgusting, discussing and fussing for something that's fucking just rusting somewhere out to sea, and it sucks to be me, but I scream without purpose or purchase and fall toward the earth and just curse and its worthless, I hurt it and skirted the blame, and I fed the remains to the almight flame and I claim that I love you but I would destroy you and toy with the body while we sat there rotting, if I die when you die then we die and it's all mine.
Sometimes the words rhyme without actually making a point or saying anything. I have given you examples. This is what you do to me, I think. I offer up my words, my little phrases, my clever jokes, my innuendo, my pride and joy and when I see them sat beside you they seem paltry and useless. You terrify me, and I have no idea how to react. I can see you and touch you and seem well at ease, but the centrifugal force of being around you is tearing the sinew and the muscle and the filthy things inside me in every direction. I feel huge, powerful, and deified in one moment, and like a lightbulb next to a lightning storm the next. You are all my strength and all my weakness and more. I am beholden to you, betrothed in some significant way. You are a preternatural beauty, like something from a dream, something from Shakespeare's idea of Midsummer, or Milton's Eden. You are wraith-like, enigmatic, erratic. I am an addict.
Take me, keep me, eat me. I am at your mercy.
Neurotically Yours,
-S.R.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Pieces
I grow restless beneath the shell of the earth, or the shell of this man, like the oldest, darkest, most forsaken cliche monsters. I am Cthulu, or the Dark One, or Lucifer, or the Sith. I am these things and I am more. More than words on the page, more than lines of dialogue, a camera angle, a nifty editing trick that offers foreshadowing and then lets you down at the climax. I'm a movie monster with a third dimension. And a fourth. And a fifth. I am large, I contain multitudes. Everything about has been crafted to fuck you up.
I like to leave them breathing heavy, sweating, lying flaccid in a pool of mixed fluids. I've left infinite evidence behind to tie me to these crimes. I've left infinite clues, littered here and there, like literary themes or The Riddler's hints, that will expose me for who I am. What I am.
The older I get, the less you matter. The less you matter, the more I can't seem to breathe without you.
I'm all vices and paradoxes, fucking and festering. I'll leave you violated without a second thought, but the way you smell will cling to my skin like ciggarette smoke to my clothes. Everything yellowed, stained, faded, and cynical. It's hard to believe in something you can't see, but even harder to care.
I have come for slaughter.
Cravenly Yours,
-S.R.
I like to leave them breathing heavy, sweating, lying flaccid in a pool of mixed fluids. I've left infinite evidence behind to tie me to these crimes. I've left infinite clues, littered here and there, like literary themes or The Riddler's hints, that will expose me for who I am. What I am.
The older I get, the less you matter. The less you matter, the more I can't seem to breathe without you.
I'm all vices and paradoxes, fucking and festering. I'll leave you violated without a second thought, but the way you smell will cling to my skin like ciggarette smoke to my clothes. Everything yellowed, stained, faded, and cynical. It's hard to believe in something you can't see, but even harder to care.
I have come for slaughter.
Cravenly Yours,
-S.R.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The Final Hunt
The night is damp and cool, as it always is in this place. The earth smells of growing things, moss and lichen, worms, grass still wet with the evening's rain. The air is clean, crisp, and carries with it the scent of prey and predator. I am hunting you, as I have always hunted you.
I've taken many conquests in these forests, speared them, gorged myself on them, and left them largely behind. Some I have taken as trophies, captured a piece for rememberance, some momento to hold as I drifted off to sleep. I recall them sometimes, sweet fragrances, succulent flesh, the writhing way they moved on the end of my weapon. All of them different. All of them the same. None of them you.
I have stalked and killed, but I feel as if you are the only one I've ever hunted. The only one really worth it, the only one that brings that exhiliration, that addictive, heady mix of anticipation and trepidation. I catch your scent here and there, as unmistakable as it is unidentifiable, or a glimpse of you far ahead, racing through the underbrush, skyclad and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. Then you're gone.
Yet, I feel closer than ever. Sometimes, I think this might just be a game to you. You tease me with those hints of your presence, drawing me in, feeding off the way I crave you. Perhaps you'll feed on me, if ever we meet. A veritable venus mantrap, a cocaine Aphrodite.
Sometimes I wonder which of us is predator and which of us is prey.
I know, in the deepest, nameless parts of me, that I'll catch you someday. That when I do, I'll throw down my spear and take you, be it nestled in the boughs of the mighties tree, or in the fine-grain sand on the shore of a lake, or in the grass still holding the evening's rain. My hands will rake and dig into your thighs, your hips, your breasts, your throat, and I will explore every inch of you. I will come to know and memorize every curve, every line, every dip and rise and subtle change of your body. I will commit to memory your voice, your need, your desire. You will be my last, one way or another.
I will pour every sweetness in me onto your skin, press every tender word that could fall from this tongue into you, and lavish you with all affection and want. You will be sun and moon, stars and worlds. You will be the seas, the trees, the cities of man and the plains of my dearest gods. You will be my Valhalla, here in Midgaard. I will hear your name sung on every branch of Yggdrasil, whsipered on every breeze, every breath from every creature that roams this infant earth. You will be my greatest treasure, my greatest pleasure, and perhaps, still, the death of me.
If that isn't love, then I hope I will never know love.
Intrinsically Yours,
-S.R.
I've taken many conquests in these forests, speared them, gorged myself on them, and left them largely behind. Some I have taken as trophies, captured a piece for rememberance, some momento to hold as I drifted off to sleep. I recall them sometimes, sweet fragrances, succulent flesh, the writhing way they moved on the end of my weapon. All of them different. All of them the same. None of them you.
I have stalked and killed, but I feel as if you are the only one I've ever hunted. The only one really worth it, the only one that brings that exhiliration, that addictive, heady mix of anticipation and trepidation. I catch your scent here and there, as unmistakable as it is unidentifiable, or a glimpse of you far ahead, racing through the underbrush, skyclad and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. Then you're gone.
Yet, I feel closer than ever. Sometimes, I think this might just be a game to you. You tease me with those hints of your presence, drawing me in, feeding off the way I crave you. Perhaps you'll feed on me, if ever we meet. A veritable venus mantrap, a cocaine Aphrodite.
Sometimes I wonder which of us is predator and which of us is prey.
I know, in the deepest, nameless parts of me, that I'll catch you someday. That when I do, I'll throw down my spear and take you, be it nestled in the boughs of the mighties tree, or in the fine-grain sand on the shore of a lake, or in the grass still holding the evening's rain. My hands will rake and dig into your thighs, your hips, your breasts, your throat, and I will explore every inch of you. I will come to know and memorize every curve, every line, every dip and rise and subtle change of your body. I will commit to memory your voice, your need, your desire. You will be my last, one way or another.
I will pour every sweetness in me onto your skin, press every tender word that could fall from this tongue into you, and lavish you with all affection and want. You will be sun and moon, stars and worlds. You will be the seas, the trees, the cities of man and the plains of my dearest gods. You will be my Valhalla, here in Midgaard. I will hear your name sung on every branch of Yggdrasil, whsipered on every breeze, every breath from every creature that roams this infant earth. You will be my greatest treasure, my greatest pleasure, and perhaps, still, the death of me.
If that isn't love, then I hope I will never know love.
Intrinsically Yours,
-S.R.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
To the Women In My Life, Part II
If I could reserve every tender feeling for you, I would. I could discard these other things and turn all my attention to supporting you and maybe, just maybe, those little pipedreams of yours could come true. I grin like a madman when I think about you, and I pace like a caged dog when I realize you're so far from me. Someone like you deserves all the best things, all the things she wants from life. I only wish that I was one of those.
You have enticed me, excited me as no one as before. You have broken my bones and mended things I didn't even realize could be mended, things I though too long decayed to breathe, to thrive again. You've been like fire to my nerves and a salve for parts of me I darenot name, could not put into words for fear of sounding like a fool. My only fear is that I've taken too much from you, and one day you'll wake up and realize I have nothing to offer in return.
You have haunted me for more years than I can remember, and yet I find myself divided. There is love, like nothing else in the world exists, and there is detachment because, after all, belonging to you doesn't seem like such a fairytale ending anymore. It seems more like our mutual last resort, like something we would do if no alternative existed, and something we would regret. For all our shared desires, we do not desire to share.
Your pain encites me to rage, and your sorrow spurs me to strength. I would tear the greatest mountains from the earth, and shred mankind's monuments to his power with my bare hands if it would turn your eyes away from the ground and back into the sky. I feel as if I should chain you here, to keep you from flying away and leaving me behind, and yet, I feel like doing so would destroy the very thing I love the most in you. There's something to talk about.
I adore you. Really, I do. But I find it so much easier to terrorize you than to play nice. Sometimes, you make me feel like we are still just children, just kids on the same block, and nothing I can say will ever be gratitude enough for that.
I find my attraction to you fascinating, if only for its endurance. You flit and flee and find your way into my life in clips and soundbytes and I feel like a waystation among your many travels. And yet, you throw your arms around me as if we've shared some deep and meaningful secret, and that makes me feel like the only man in the world.
I have, at times, loved and loathed you. Of all the women I have loved and lost and destroyed and built, you have ever been the most tumultuous, the most contested, and when I have spent my strength against whatever storm I've sailed myself into, you have always remained a safe harbor, a port in the tempest, where I can rest my weary bones and begin to gather myself to face it anew.
I have ever loved you, but I've never been so sure that I could not stand to be near a person.
The lady has a hold on me, the likes of which I can't find a metaphor to describe. In my mind, I finacy myself this brave adventurer, boldly facing down gods and men and monsters to find a way to prove myself worthy. The reality, I think, is that I am just a silly boy, and you are much too wise to see the virtues of my foolishness.
I would roast you on a spit, and feed you to a pack of wolves, but we have endured enough. And death would be too good for you.
There was a time when I found you distasteful. Now, I find the slightest thought of you nauseating. Like bad shrimp or undercooked poultry. You are no more significant to me than the bile it would take to digest the bits of you not too spoiled with venom to devour. Even digesting you seems like a waste.
You have never written me a song, and yet I dream sometimes of being little and terrified, and only the way that you sing can lull me to sleep. You have kept me safe and sane despite my ambitions to be neither, and that you've done so without expecting a single word of praise moves me to the brink of tears. So I crack a joke about the way you're getting old, and cover all that up with laughter.
I love the way you've grown, but you will never, ever hear me say it.
As far as little girls go, you turned out to be pretty endearing. I find myself at odds, sometimes in love and sometimes afraid to even think about you for fear of turning myself in to the proper authorities.
I remember when you were tiny, how you cried and bitched and moaned. You haven't changed that much, but I still think its just divine.
You're like oxygen when you're near me. No, something more incendiary. More magnetic. Just something more. I would kill lesser men to explore you, and I would burn myself out trying to find my way. All of that, just from the very simple, very drunken way you've smiled at me in the early hours before dawn, before daylight came to steal away the last little bit of magic in me and you went back to your life. I'm still looking for the way back to mine.
You have shown me that all the things that drew me toward you, were shallowand two-dimensional. I con only thank you for exposing yourself before I invested myself too much in you.
Sometimes, the way that you talk makes me want to gag you and punch you in the throat. Other times, I just want to leave the room. Quite frankly, I've come to the realization that you're a fucking idiot, and I'd like to have you put down so you can't bring harm to yourself.
I love you, but seriously, he wants butt sex. You'll get whatever you want that way.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Every year, about this time, I like to do something like this. Something that lets out some of those pent-up feelings. I did the first 'To the Women In My Life' a few years ago to great success and, since those people have changed somewhat in the interim, I decided to do another. This is by no means a comprehensive list of every person with a vagina I know. Quite frankly, addressing every one of those friends, family, assorted concubines, and otherwise unlikable people would be very time-consuming and I just don't have the energy for it.
Obviously I didn't put names on the above, and I did that for the sake of not giving a shit whether you know who I'm talking about or not. Rest assured, if you're there it's probably not that hard to figure out which one you may be. If you're really concerned, by all means, just ask me. I'm an open book.
If you'd like to apply for the next edition of this ongoing piece, drop me a line. I'll tell you all about the application process and the required 35 hours of community service, as well as the different communities in my brain that offer opportunities. Have a wonderful day.
Yours,
-S.R.
You have enticed me, excited me as no one as before. You have broken my bones and mended things I didn't even realize could be mended, things I though too long decayed to breathe, to thrive again. You've been like fire to my nerves and a salve for parts of me I darenot name, could not put into words for fear of sounding like a fool. My only fear is that I've taken too much from you, and one day you'll wake up and realize I have nothing to offer in return.
You have haunted me for more years than I can remember, and yet I find myself divided. There is love, like nothing else in the world exists, and there is detachment because, after all, belonging to you doesn't seem like such a fairytale ending anymore. It seems more like our mutual last resort, like something we would do if no alternative existed, and something we would regret. For all our shared desires, we do not desire to share.
Your pain encites me to rage, and your sorrow spurs me to strength. I would tear the greatest mountains from the earth, and shred mankind's monuments to his power with my bare hands if it would turn your eyes away from the ground and back into the sky. I feel as if I should chain you here, to keep you from flying away and leaving me behind, and yet, I feel like doing so would destroy the very thing I love the most in you. There's something to talk about.
I adore you. Really, I do. But I find it so much easier to terrorize you than to play nice. Sometimes, you make me feel like we are still just children, just kids on the same block, and nothing I can say will ever be gratitude enough for that.
I find my attraction to you fascinating, if only for its endurance. You flit and flee and find your way into my life in clips and soundbytes and I feel like a waystation among your many travels. And yet, you throw your arms around me as if we've shared some deep and meaningful secret, and that makes me feel like the only man in the world.
I have, at times, loved and loathed you. Of all the women I have loved and lost and destroyed and built, you have ever been the most tumultuous, the most contested, and when I have spent my strength against whatever storm I've sailed myself into, you have always remained a safe harbor, a port in the tempest, where I can rest my weary bones and begin to gather myself to face it anew.
I have ever loved you, but I've never been so sure that I could not stand to be near a person.
The lady has a hold on me, the likes of which I can't find a metaphor to describe. In my mind, I finacy myself this brave adventurer, boldly facing down gods and men and monsters to find a way to prove myself worthy. The reality, I think, is that I am just a silly boy, and you are much too wise to see the virtues of my foolishness.
I would roast you on a spit, and feed you to a pack of wolves, but we have endured enough. And death would be too good for you.
There was a time when I found you distasteful. Now, I find the slightest thought of you nauseating. Like bad shrimp or undercooked poultry. You are no more significant to me than the bile it would take to digest the bits of you not too spoiled with venom to devour. Even digesting you seems like a waste.
You have never written me a song, and yet I dream sometimes of being little and terrified, and only the way that you sing can lull me to sleep. You have kept me safe and sane despite my ambitions to be neither, and that you've done so without expecting a single word of praise moves me to the brink of tears. So I crack a joke about the way you're getting old, and cover all that up with laughter.
I love the way you've grown, but you will never, ever hear me say it.
As far as little girls go, you turned out to be pretty endearing. I find myself at odds, sometimes in love and sometimes afraid to even think about you for fear of turning myself in to the proper authorities.
I remember when you were tiny, how you cried and bitched and moaned. You haven't changed that much, but I still think its just divine.
You're like oxygen when you're near me. No, something more incendiary. More magnetic. Just something more. I would kill lesser men to explore you, and I would burn myself out trying to find my way. All of that, just from the very simple, very drunken way you've smiled at me in the early hours before dawn, before daylight came to steal away the last little bit of magic in me and you went back to your life. I'm still looking for the way back to mine.
You have shown me that all the things that drew me toward you, were shallowand two-dimensional. I con only thank you for exposing yourself before I invested myself too much in you.
Sometimes, the way that you talk makes me want to gag you and punch you in the throat. Other times, I just want to leave the room. Quite frankly, I've come to the realization that you're a fucking idiot, and I'd like to have you put down so you can't bring harm to yourself.
I love you, but seriously, he wants butt sex. You'll get whatever you want that way.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Every year, about this time, I like to do something like this. Something that lets out some of those pent-up feelings. I did the first 'To the Women In My Life' a few years ago to great success and, since those people have changed somewhat in the interim, I decided to do another. This is by no means a comprehensive list of every person with a vagina I know. Quite frankly, addressing every one of those friends, family, assorted concubines, and otherwise unlikable people would be very time-consuming and I just don't have the energy for it.
Obviously I didn't put names on the above, and I did that for the sake of not giving a shit whether you know who I'm talking about or not. Rest assured, if you're there it's probably not that hard to figure out which one you may be. If you're really concerned, by all means, just ask me. I'm an open book.
If you'd like to apply for the next edition of this ongoing piece, drop me a line. I'll tell you all about the application process and the required 35 hours of community service, as well as the different communities in my brain that offer opportunities. Have a wonderful day.
Yours,
-S.R.
It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year
December is here and with it all sorts of magical, fuzzy feelings. Goodwill towards man! Charities a'ringing their bells! Hugging in the streets! The busy hustle and bustle of winter before the hatred for cold weather sets in! The lights! The music! Fuck you all!
Here we go again.
There's a thing circling on Facebook where everyone changes their profile picture to a cartoon character to show their support for or against child abuse. I suppose its supposed to be anti-child abuse, but as they say, any press is good press. Now, things like this are always happening but there's a sudden influx of them around the holidays. Sort of like the influx of venerial diseases around Valentine's Day. There are generic posts about showing support for the troops going around like swine flu through an elementary school, and more charities out whoring themselves for spare change than hookers. I find it all just so disgusting.
The thing is I support the troops. Hell, I love war. I don't want our boys and girls dying over there but you know what? That's the job they signed up for and its the job most of them are proud to do. I support the shit out of that kind of courage. But I don't feel the need to post about it on my Facebook. We all support the troops, why do we need to say it that particular way at this particular time of year? Have we admitted more democracy-hating Soviets into the country than before? No. Then what the hell? The soliders won't see it, they're in fucking Iraq. Write them a letter, send them a card, buy them some Christmas presents.
You won't, because your support for them is as shallow as mine. Let's be realisitc people. Of course you want them home safe and sound. We aren't monsters, we're people and so are they. But you don't think about them. How many of the people posting those status updates about it will give them a second thought that same day? The day after? The answer is very few. Even those of us with family over there don't devote every second to the war effort. Why? Because we're not directly involved and we have other concerns. We're too self-involved to give it much more than the occasional heated debate. That isn't a sin, that's human. So don't get all on your fucking high horse because Christmas is three weeks away. It makes you look pathetic.
Likewise, I'm totally against child abuse. If I saw a dude kicking the shit out of his kid, I'd make it a point to smash his face in with a brick. But some silly, bullshit Facebook gimmick doesn't do anything more than make you feel less guilty for being so privileged as to not be beaten every day. That's all. You aren't donating money to help these kids. You aren't going to work for social services or CPS to try and save as many as you can. You're sitting at home in your middle-class neighborhood going, "Gee, sure sucks to be a child abuse victim. Haha! I can change my profile picture to Goku and that'll save someone's life! I feel so much better!" Fuck you, you are an asshole.
If you really want to help those kids, go volunteer. Don't spam me with some bullshit like this, because then I have to go all the way to Blogspot and get pissed off about it. Doesn't anyone have a charity to support angry bloggers? Come on, I need money too. It's Christmas time, for gods' sakes, how will my family survive with me being so angry all the time?
My point is this: If we are too self-involved to give a shit about the needy or the homeless or the erectile dysfunctions for the rest of the year, what the hell changes us around Christmas? Guilt. Plain and simple. You feel guilty because other people live in squalor and filth and poverty. Big fucking deal. They live that way in August too, but you don't care about it then. The worst part about it, is that you make other people feel guilty by proxy.
Say, for instance, you post that thing about the soldiers and then change your picture for the kids. Now you have a friend or relative that makes slightly more money than you do the sees that and suddenly feels shitty because you're actually less fortunate than they are, and you're so tender-hearted you're helping out anyway. It's like Keeping Up With the Fucking Jonses: The Guilt Trip. Your friends do it, you feel less important for not doing it, so you do it too. You aren't saving anyone, you aren't contributing to the moral fabric of humanity, you're saying "None of you are better than me! I FUCKING LOVE SUPPORTING CAUSES! I AM THE ALMIGHTY GOD OF FACEBOOK CHARITY!"
Give me a break.
The problem is easily solved. If you really care, then care all year long. Post that shit, volunteer your time, donate your money when you can. If you don't really care, then don't fool yourself and don't try to fool the rest of us. And, most importantly, stop inviting me to this shit. I'm not moved, I'm not motivated. I'm irritated. And if I have to be the only asshole honest enough to say "Oh, Jimmy got beat up by his mom again? Guess he should take some fucking karate classes," then I'll be that asshole. Because I don't feel so guilty with what I have that I need to justify my station in the world by pretending to care about things that don't matter to me.
Like I said, Go America. Win that war. Kill the bad guys. And don't worry, kids, eventually someone with a heart and proper training will come along and either save you from that abusive home or fail miserably because their job is too difficult and not rewarding enough. Either way, the great and powerful Guilt Machine will make sure you know there are lots of people out there that support you, but none of them that care enough to adopt your sorry ass.
It's bleak, but so is winter. Let's move on to the part where we hate each other, all of this fake goodwill is starting to give me diabetes.
Loathsomely Yours,
-S.R.
Here we go again.
There's a thing circling on Facebook where everyone changes their profile picture to a cartoon character to show their support for or against child abuse. I suppose its supposed to be anti-child abuse, but as they say, any press is good press. Now, things like this are always happening but there's a sudden influx of them around the holidays. Sort of like the influx of venerial diseases around Valentine's Day. There are generic posts about showing support for the troops going around like swine flu through an elementary school, and more charities out whoring themselves for spare change than hookers. I find it all just so disgusting.
The thing is I support the troops. Hell, I love war. I don't want our boys and girls dying over there but you know what? That's the job they signed up for and its the job most of them are proud to do. I support the shit out of that kind of courage. But I don't feel the need to post about it on my Facebook. We all support the troops, why do we need to say it that particular way at this particular time of year? Have we admitted more democracy-hating Soviets into the country than before? No. Then what the hell? The soliders won't see it, they're in fucking Iraq. Write them a letter, send them a card, buy them some Christmas presents.
You won't, because your support for them is as shallow as mine. Let's be realisitc people. Of course you want them home safe and sound. We aren't monsters, we're people and so are they. But you don't think about them. How many of the people posting those status updates about it will give them a second thought that same day? The day after? The answer is very few. Even those of us with family over there don't devote every second to the war effort. Why? Because we're not directly involved and we have other concerns. We're too self-involved to give it much more than the occasional heated debate. That isn't a sin, that's human. So don't get all on your fucking high horse because Christmas is three weeks away. It makes you look pathetic.
Likewise, I'm totally against child abuse. If I saw a dude kicking the shit out of his kid, I'd make it a point to smash his face in with a brick. But some silly, bullshit Facebook gimmick doesn't do anything more than make you feel less guilty for being so privileged as to not be beaten every day. That's all. You aren't donating money to help these kids. You aren't going to work for social services or CPS to try and save as many as you can. You're sitting at home in your middle-class neighborhood going, "Gee, sure sucks to be a child abuse victim. Haha! I can change my profile picture to Goku and that'll save someone's life! I feel so much better!" Fuck you, you are an asshole.
If you really want to help those kids, go volunteer. Don't spam me with some bullshit like this, because then I have to go all the way to Blogspot and get pissed off about it. Doesn't anyone have a charity to support angry bloggers? Come on, I need money too. It's Christmas time, for gods' sakes, how will my family survive with me being so angry all the time?
My point is this: If we are too self-involved to give a shit about the needy or the homeless or the erectile dysfunctions for the rest of the year, what the hell changes us around Christmas? Guilt. Plain and simple. You feel guilty because other people live in squalor and filth and poverty. Big fucking deal. They live that way in August too, but you don't care about it then. The worst part about it, is that you make other people feel guilty by proxy.
Say, for instance, you post that thing about the soldiers and then change your picture for the kids. Now you have a friend or relative that makes slightly more money than you do the sees that and suddenly feels shitty because you're actually less fortunate than they are, and you're so tender-hearted you're helping out anyway. It's like Keeping Up With the Fucking Jonses: The Guilt Trip. Your friends do it, you feel less important for not doing it, so you do it too. You aren't saving anyone, you aren't contributing to the moral fabric of humanity, you're saying "None of you are better than me! I FUCKING LOVE SUPPORTING CAUSES! I AM THE ALMIGHTY GOD OF FACEBOOK CHARITY!"
Give me a break.
The problem is easily solved. If you really care, then care all year long. Post that shit, volunteer your time, donate your money when you can. If you don't really care, then don't fool yourself and don't try to fool the rest of us. And, most importantly, stop inviting me to this shit. I'm not moved, I'm not motivated. I'm irritated. And if I have to be the only asshole honest enough to say "Oh, Jimmy got beat up by his mom again? Guess he should take some fucking karate classes," then I'll be that asshole. Because I don't feel so guilty with what I have that I need to justify my station in the world by pretending to care about things that don't matter to me.
Like I said, Go America. Win that war. Kill the bad guys. And don't worry, kids, eventually someone with a heart and proper training will come along and either save you from that abusive home or fail miserably because their job is too difficult and not rewarding enough. Either way, the great and powerful Guilt Machine will make sure you know there are lots of people out there that support you, but none of them that care enough to adopt your sorry ass.
It's bleak, but so is winter. Let's move on to the part where we hate each other, all of this fake goodwill is starting to give me diabetes.
Loathsomely Yours,
-S.R.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Only One Of Us Walks Away
Everything has gone to shit. There, I said it. You could call it karma, but if you said that to my face I would choke you to death. Sure, call it karma, call it every seedy, deviant, insidious thing I've ever done coming back to haunt me. Call it universal retribution for the felonies and the crimes, the lies I told as a child, or all the women I've plowed through, heedless of them as emotional beings, as anything but a fucking hole to waste some time wallowing in. Call it your god's way of seeing to it that I'm made aware of my every transgression, or call it shit-luck, the proverbial gene passed down from generation to generation in this family that ensures each of us will claw our fucking way out of the mud only to be shit on. Call it whatever you like, but the fact remains: Everything has gone to shit.
I'm angry, is what I'm saying. No, anger doesn't do this justice. This is rage. This is wrath. This is Old Testament God-style fucking monstrous, consuming, utterly impotent anger. It is preternatural, supreme in its occupation. There is no bastion holding out against the tide, just this white-hot sea of roiling, destructive energy. I want to tear out your gods damned eyes and force-feed them to your children. I want to tear your dick off and hurl it into the sun. I want to pull your organs out and fuck them one at a time, and eat whatever's left. No one is safe, no one is sacred, and every one of you looks like prey. Let's rock and fucking roll.
I've got no motivation here. No rudder, no direction. I have nothing but this. No conscience stops me, no moral fiber restricts these midnight prowls. I've burned away all the lust and the love and all of my vices have amounted to nothing. All my vaunted self-control is worthless here. All the tricks and talents I've developed to keep this shit subdued are long used up, and all my desire to protect and to cherish are exhausted. This is me at my most primal, and that delicious feeling of power is more addictive than any body, any drug, any substance or surface that I have ever imbibed. I want to rage until I've erupted, and then I want to burn you all alive with the aftermath.
The worst thing about all of this, is that it feels so fucking good. I can't keep the adrenaline from flowing, the hate from spoiling the scent of everything near me. I can't keep the anxiety in check, or the sheer excitement from shaking my hands. Bloodlust, maybe. There is no clear target to this, no reason for it that I can find. I'm simply here. I feel like I've been gone for a long time, buried in the earth like so many rotten corpses.
I'm back from the dead, assholes. And I'm taking all challengers.
I defy you to regard this as so much bluster, so much bullshit spewed from testosterone and maybe the ill-effects of a recovery from a long period of depression. I realized recently that I'd been stuck in one of those, although the epiphany did little to stem the tide of what was coming. Please, call it nothing but talk. Give me a single fucking reason to teach you how little you know. I have taken so much pleasure in being nice, in protecting people, in riding that high horse. But I've never taken more pleasure in that than I have in absolute destruction. Ask, and you shall receive.
Rot, you loathesome parasites, and get your claws out of me. This husk is dessicated, eviscerated. There is nothing left for you, nothing to slake your thirst or sate your hunger. The flesh is stripped, the blood consumed, the bones snapped open and the marrow taken. There is nothing left but perceived revenge, but the rage that sustains me, and constant beat of drums. Rest assured, I am coming for you. I've come back this far, and by daybreak, nothing will keep me at bay. The howling cries of the madmen will be all you hear, all the warning you receive of my approach. By the time the lights flicker and die, I'm already too close for you to escape. One by one, if that's how it must be. That way, I can burn out in peace.
Yours,
-S.R.
I'm angry, is what I'm saying. No, anger doesn't do this justice. This is rage. This is wrath. This is Old Testament God-style fucking monstrous, consuming, utterly impotent anger. It is preternatural, supreme in its occupation. There is no bastion holding out against the tide, just this white-hot sea of roiling, destructive energy. I want to tear out your gods damned eyes and force-feed them to your children. I want to tear your dick off and hurl it into the sun. I want to pull your organs out and fuck them one at a time, and eat whatever's left. No one is safe, no one is sacred, and every one of you looks like prey. Let's rock and fucking roll.
I've got no motivation here. No rudder, no direction. I have nothing but this. No conscience stops me, no moral fiber restricts these midnight prowls. I've burned away all the lust and the love and all of my vices have amounted to nothing. All my vaunted self-control is worthless here. All the tricks and talents I've developed to keep this shit subdued are long used up, and all my desire to protect and to cherish are exhausted. This is me at my most primal, and that delicious feeling of power is more addictive than any body, any drug, any substance or surface that I have ever imbibed. I want to rage until I've erupted, and then I want to burn you all alive with the aftermath.
The worst thing about all of this, is that it feels so fucking good. I can't keep the adrenaline from flowing, the hate from spoiling the scent of everything near me. I can't keep the anxiety in check, or the sheer excitement from shaking my hands. Bloodlust, maybe. There is no clear target to this, no reason for it that I can find. I'm simply here. I feel like I've been gone for a long time, buried in the earth like so many rotten corpses.
I'm back from the dead, assholes. And I'm taking all challengers.
I defy you to regard this as so much bluster, so much bullshit spewed from testosterone and maybe the ill-effects of a recovery from a long period of depression. I realized recently that I'd been stuck in one of those, although the epiphany did little to stem the tide of what was coming. Please, call it nothing but talk. Give me a single fucking reason to teach you how little you know. I have taken so much pleasure in being nice, in protecting people, in riding that high horse. But I've never taken more pleasure in that than I have in absolute destruction. Ask, and you shall receive.
Rot, you loathesome parasites, and get your claws out of me. This husk is dessicated, eviscerated. There is nothing left for you, nothing to slake your thirst or sate your hunger. The flesh is stripped, the blood consumed, the bones snapped open and the marrow taken. There is nothing left but perceived revenge, but the rage that sustains me, and constant beat of drums. Rest assured, I am coming for you. I've come back this far, and by daybreak, nothing will keep me at bay. The howling cries of the madmen will be all you hear, all the warning you receive of my approach. By the time the lights flicker and die, I'm already too close for you to escape. One by one, if that's how it must be. That way, I can burn out in peace.
Yours,
-S.R.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Separation of Church and State
Before I start this, let me explain where some of the ire you're about to witness comes from. I find myself at a lot of political functions these days, something for which I am at times grateful and at times wrathful. However, some manner of religion is present everywhere at these things. Much of it is lip service, and the rest is utter bullshit. The rest of it comes from a mixture of places, things I've seen here and there, or heard from the mouths of people (some of whom I care enough about not to murder, some of whom will probably never be found) or in print. Lastly, it stems from some comments by a man I both respect and detest: Chuck Norris. Mr. Norris, despite his fearsome roundhouse kick and other talents, is a highly conservative man and some comments he made in a recent book sparked the thought process that led me here. So, by all means, take these things into account as you read.
Now, I'm about to rant. Violently, by all indications. However, before I rail against anything (because who knows where this will actually go once I get started?) let me tell you what I believe. I believe that religion, or I should say religious faith, is a wonderful thing for practical as well as impractical reasons. It can be therapeutic, it can be a safe place when we endure trials and tribulations, and it can provide the framework for a healthy life. However, I believe faith is individual. No one believes exactly what you believe or what I believe. No one will interpet their faith exactly the same way. My religious beliefs are fairly simple. I honor my gods (the norse gods, if you're still in the dark about that somehow) and I give them my praise because they are dear to me. I thank them and worship them privately, because doing otherwise seems retarded to me. I believe if I lead a good life, if I die honorably and without cowardice, I'll spend my afterlife in Valhalla with the greatest of men and when Ragnarok rolls around I'll march back to Midgard and lend my arm against evil. That's it. There are no real rituals, no real ceremonies. I celebrate in my own way and if people want to join me in these things I welcome it but by no means encourage them to take my beliefs and my methods as a scaffold for their own. We are all different, we all believe differently.
Which is why I think organized religion, particularly as it pertains to politics, is fucking stupid. Look, I don't care what you believe in. Really, it means absolutely fuck-all to me. It has no bearing on my life save for judging how batshit insane you may or may not become later in life. We can discuss it, we can share ideas, we can do those things and then go back to our own respective places and continue living. That's my favorite thing about the hypothesis America represents. A melting pot, a place of culutral diversity, of religious differences, a place where we don't have to worship the same gods and we're not condemned for our varying faiths.
So why the fuck would we need faith in government?
Look, the Founding Fathers were Christians. And like all good Christians they brought their faith into their actions. That's great for an individual. As I said, whatever rules you believe your faith encourages you to follow are probably there for the betterment of everyone. The problem is that, as I said before, we all believe differently. Certain things are close to universal, sure. Mindless killing and stealing are wrong. But that's why we have laws. If a governing body creates laws but can't enforce them without invoking some manner of all-powerful God, then that governing body has failed. They might as well scrap the entire system and start over with theocracy, because they're inefficient at governing any other way.
Likewise, those same Christian Founding Fathers were the ones who proposed a separation of Church and State. They recognized the inherent wrongness in governing based on religious philosophy. Or governing with the aid of religious philosophy. It takes power away from civil service, from the people, and puts it in the hands of the most convincing guy who speaks for God. Prior to America's birth, wars were fought constantly for dominance based on religion in Europe. Protestant kings overthrowing Catholic ones and vice versa. It became more about faith than about ruling. That same problem would have existed one a much, much more violent level in a place that they envisioned as a utopia for all people, regardless of differences in faith.
So religious people make a big deal about toting the last bastions of faith present in our governing system: "In God we trust" on the money, "One nation, under God" in the Pledge of Allegiance, prayers before government meetings. These things are a link to our past, they'll say. They're what stand between us and a bohemian wasteland populated by greed and promiscuity and all manner of nasty things. The truth is, that that's bullshit. The reason we continue doing these things is simple inertia. It has been part of our heritage long enough that it becomes an essentially meaningless, kitschy little thing we do out of habit and tradition, rather than widespread belief that its necessary.
Why do we need the Ten Commandments on government buildings? We have laws crafted to mirror those ten holy rules. We enforce those laws based on a fairly successful judicial system. We don't need, in other words, to flout the fact that our laws are based on the laws from God Himself. Doing that would undermine the power of our human system and, in addition, be utterly pointless. Everyone knows where the basis for law came from. Why be redundant?
Furthermore, blatantly favoring something that is Judeo-Christian in nature, regardless of your intent, is unconstitutional. You can't display things like that and still expect America to remain diverse, the next step is incorporating more religious pomp and circumstance than we've had before, and guess where it will come from? I understand that the Christian denominations are a majority here, but it doesn't make them any more worthy of having their bullshit carved into our walls than anyone else. That isn't how America works.
I think, even more than the stupidity and lack of sense involved, my problem lies, as usual, with organized religions. Now, as I said before, I don't believe the same thing as you do. You, in turn, don't believe exactly the same thing as anyone else. I don't, however, begrudge you your beliefs. I encourage them. By all means, have faith in something. Don't try to force it on me, don't look down on me because I disagree, because that's a really fast way to punched in the fucking throat. But please, believe.
The organization part is what I loathe, not the religion. See, an organization has to, by its very nature, have a heirarchy. That's something I don't think can be brought into religion. I don't think its right, or feasible, to quantify devotion or belief. Therefore, how can we say who is more pious? How can we say who is more holy? Or more deserving? I'm even supportive of people gathering for similar religious things, but why do we need a leader? Why can't it simply be a gathering of like minds to share in something profoundly dear to them?
Because somebody needs to make money. Churches, regardless of what they'll tell you, bring in a lot of money. We're talking Microsoft levels of money. And while they certainly provide a great deal of that money to charitable pursuits, none of it goes to taxes. None of it goes to, say, infrastructure. Why does the church get to hold itself aloof from government in that way, but still demand to be part of the lawmaking? The governing? Seriously, the hypocrisy of it makes me want to tear out my fingernails and rage-fuck a Scotsman in the Vatican, just to display my vulgar distaste for the whole affair.
Likewise, if those same churches paid taxes, who is to say we couldn't orchestrate a fund, a secular fund, mind you, that would donate that money to non-profit charities that are already doing what the fucking church does with less revenue? Why couldn't we do that? Because if such was the case, I'd encourage the church to participate the way any other corporation does: by buying politicians.
I pick on the Christians, but all churches are the same when it comes down to it. Organized religions all sing the same song, they just do it in different languages. But I speak the universal language: I Call Bullshit.
Feedback is appropriate here, so by all means toss some at me like rotten tomatos at a Carlos Mencia show.
Faithfully Yours,
-S.R.
Now, I'm about to rant. Violently, by all indications. However, before I rail against anything (because who knows where this will actually go once I get started?) let me tell you what I believe. I believe that religion, or I should say religious faith, is a wonderful thing for practical as well as impractical reasons. It can be therapeutic, it can be a safe place when we endure trials and tribulations, and it can provide the framework for a healthy life. However, I believe faith is individual. No one believes exactly what you believe or what I believe. No one will interpet their faith exactly the same way. My religious beliefs are fairly simple. I honor my gods (the norse gods, if you're still in the dark about that somehow) and I give them my praise because they are dear to me. I thank them and worship them privately, because doing otherwise seems retarded to me. I believe if I lead a good life, if I die honorably and without cowardice, I'll spend my afterlife in Valhalla with the greatest of men and when Ragnarok rolls around I'll march back to Midgard and lend my arm against evil. That's it. There are no real rituals, no real ceremonies. I celebrate in my own way and if people want to join me in these things I welcome it but by no means encourage them to take my beliefs and my methods as a scaffold for their own. We are all different, we all believe differently.
Which is why I think organized religion, particularly as it pertains to politics, is fucking stupid. Look, I don't care what you believe in. Really, it means absolutely fuck-all to me. It has no bearing on my life save for judging how batshit insane you may or may not become later in life. We can discuss it, we can share ideas, we can do those things and then go back to our own respective places and continue living. That's my favorite thing about the hypothesis America represents. A melting pot, a place of culutral diversity, of religious differences, a place where we don't have to worship the same gods and we're not condemned for our varying faiths.
So why the fuck would we need faith in government?
Look, the Founding Fathers were Christians. And like all good Christians they brought their faith into their actions. That's great for an individual. As I said, whatever rules you believe your faith encourages you to follow are probably there for the betterment of everyone. The problem is that, as I said before, we all believe differently. Certain things are close to universal, sure. Mindless killing and stealing are wrong. But that's why we have laws. If a governing body creates laws but can't enforce them without invoking some manner of all-powerful God, then that governing body has failed. They might as well scrap the entire system and start over with theocracy, because they're inefficient at governing any other way.
Likewise, those same Christian Founding Fathers were the ones who proposed a separation of Church and State. They recognized the inherent wrongness in governing based on religious philosophy. Or governing with the aid of religious philosophy. It takes power away from civil service, from the people, and puts it in the hands of the most convincing guy who speaks for God. Prior to America's birth, wars were fought constantly for dominance based on religion in Europe. Protestant kings overthrowing Catholic ones and vice versa. It became more about faith than about ruling. That same problem would have existed one a much, much more violent level in a place that they envisioned as a utopia for all people, regardless of differences in faith.
So religious people make a big deal about toting the last bastions of faith present in our governing system: "In God we trust" on the money, "One nation, under God" in the Pledge of Allegiance, prayers before government meetings. These things are a link to our past, they'll say. They're what stand between us and a bohemian wasteland populated by greed and promiscuity and all manner of nasty things. The truth is, that that's bullshit. The reason we continue doing these things is simple inertia. It has been part of our heritage long enough that it becomes an essentially meaningless, kitschy little thing we do out of habit and tradition, rather than widespread belief that its necessary.
Why do we need the Ten Commandments on government buildings? We have laws crafted to mirror those ten holy rules. We enforce those laws based on a fairly successful judicial system. We don't need, in other words, to flout the fact that our laws are based on the laws from God Himself. Doing that would undermine the power of our human system and, in addition, be utterly pointless. Everyone knows where the basis for law came from. Why be redundant?
Furthermore, blatantly favoring something that is Judeo-Christian in nature, regardless of your intent, is unconstitutional. You can't display things like that and still expect America to remain diverse, the next step is incorporating more religious pomp and circumstance than we've had before, and guess where it will come from? I understand that the Christian denominations are a majority here, but it doesn't make them any more worthy of having their bullshit carved into our walls than anyone else. That isn't how America works.
I think, even more than the stupidity and lack of sense involved, my problem lies, as usual, with organized religions. Now, as I said before, I don't believe the same thing as you do. You, in turn, don't believe exactly the same thing as anyone else. I don't, however, begrudge you your beliefs. I encourage them. By all means, have faith in something. Don't try to force it on me, don't look down on me because I disagree, because that's a really fast way to punched in the fucking throat. But please, believe.
The organization part is what I loathe, not the religion. See, an organization has to, by its very nature, have a heirarchy. That's something I don't think can be brought into religion. I don't think its right, or feasible, to quantify devotion or belief. Therefore, how can we say who is more pious? How can we say who is more holy? Or more deserving? I'm even supportive of people gathering for similar religious things, but why do we need a leader? Why can't it simply be a gathering of like minds to share in something profoundly dear to them?
Because somebody needs to make money. Churches, regardless of what they'll tell you, bring in a lot of money. We're talking Microsoft levels of money. And while they certainly provide a great deal of that money to charitable pursuits, none of it goes to taxes. None of it goes to, say, infrastructure. Why does the church get to hold itself aloof from government in that way, but still demand to be part of the lawmaking? The governing? Seriously, the hypocrisy of it makes me want to tear out my fingernails and rage-fuck a Scotsman in the Vatican, just to display my vulgar distaste for the whole affair.
Likewise, if those same churches paid taxes, who is to say we couldn't orchestrate a fund, a secular fund, mind you, that would donate that money to non-profit charities that are already doing what the fucking church does with less revenue? Why couldn't we do that? Because if such was the case, I'd encourage the church to participate the way any other corporation does: by buying politicians.
I pick on the Christians, but all churches are the same when it comes down to it. Organized religions all sing the same song, they just do it in different languages. But I speak the universal language: I Call Bullshit.
Feedback is appropriate here, so by all means toss some at me like rotten tomatos at a Carlos Mencia show.
Faithfully Yours,
-S.R.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
What Women Want, If They Know What's Good For Them
I've been trying to decide what, in my mind, is the worst quality in people. This is purely an exercise for me, as I feel like I am rather less than qualified to identify a bad person (because I am a bad person), but one I've decided to see through to the end. In doing so, I've also come up with some ideas for what qualities I like in people on the rare occasion that I like people. By combining these opposing concepts with my favorite subject behind drinking, racism, and Star Wars (that is, women) I have developed a series of no-doubt informative paragraphs regarding what I would seek in a potential mate and what would send me screaming from the relationship like a Christian from a talking snake.
I have also succeeded in taking virtually everything I have ever been taught about how to structure an opening paragraph and forced it to suck my cock.
I'm not sure why, at this point, I've elected to do this or how successful it will be to conduct this excercise in full view of you, my adoring public. I have, as I said, been thinking about it a great deal lately. Maybe I need a girlfriend. Maybe I have brain cancer. Point is, you are about to get an education in my personal philosophies, and if you verbally dispute them I will become very angsty, dye my hair black, and call you a whore.
So, what do I dislike about people? What qualities are more likely to fill me to the brim with rage-lava than make my heart swell with love juice?
Envy. Envy tops the list because it find it has an inherent duality and that can mean only one thing: people will make it negative. See, some kinds of envy can be powerful motivators. My brother is heaped with praise for how good he is at sports and I, craving that sort of positive feedback, resolve to get better at the things I enjoy. This, in turn, fosters a friendly kind of competition and a desire to improve.
However, if I'm envious that my friend is getting tons of sex I might remedy this by getting black out drunk with a fat girl and contracting herpes. This, obviously, would be a negative thing. Far more appropriately, envy is kind of the central source of jealousy. That, I can not tolerate.
Envy can be good for a relationship in moderation. I think a girl that craves my attention is a wonderful thing, and being what I'd call "playfully jealous" is cute in my book. By all means, tease me about the amount of time I spend with my friends. But when it becomes overbearing, we'll have issues.Contrary to popular belief, I'm not much of a liar or a cheater, and I find myself unable to relate to jealous people because I see no reason for it. Your significant other will do what they're going to do, regardless of how much pressure and suspicion you pile onto them, and doing things like searching their phone or following them after they leave your house, or checking their Facebook status to see if it mentions another girl's name and then losing your shit will only make them feel more entitled to do those things.
If you suspect me of something and refuse to believe it isn't true, I might as well make it true, in other words. So, for me, jealousy is irrational. Not to mention my aforementioned ineptitude when it comes to lying and cheating in the first place. I have no use for lying. I find the truth much more invigorating.
Static cling is a close second. Look, everyone wants to be adored. There is nothing, nothing, more satisfying than looking into a person's eyes and seeing that they are wholly devoting all of their attention and affection for that moment to you. We all like to be appreciated for the things we're good at, for our physical appeal, for the size of our genitals. Again, in moderation. When you become obsessive, that adoration becomes stifling and oppressive. Instead of wanting to show off how good I am at something (let's say gangsta rap) so you'll find me more pleasant to be around, I want to smack the shit out of you with a brick so you'll leave me alone.
See, clinging to someone actually repels them. You become like polar opposites in magnetism. It's wonderful when your partner shows an interest in something you like, but it's terrible when that person wants to become so utterly involved in that thing that you start to hate it. People have different interests, even people in relationships. You don't have to like every obscure black metal band that I do, but I do expect you to respect my taste. Likewise, I won't pretend to be salivating at the thought of hearing about how much you love your new job but I will listen intently to how your day went, or that dream promotion you're working on. You can share passions, of course, but those things should not be wholly overlapping. The specific interests that define my personality will not, under any circumstances, be the same ones that define you.
In regards to the clinging thing on a personal level, I like my solitude sometimes. We all do. I like to see my friends without my girlfriend tagging along. This doesn't mean I'm ashamed of you, or that I don't want to spend time with you. It means, on some level, I think we're close enough not to be sewn together every waking moment. Likewise, I expect that sometimes we'll see friends together and sometimes you'll give me twenty bucks to get lost for the night so your friends can come over and watch Dateline or whatever. These separations are healthy.
Attraction and criticism are tied because they're kind of tied together. Look, I'm not Brad Pitt. Or Keanu Reeves. Or whoever represents the ideal male physique to you. I'm overweight, I'm a little out of shape, I have physical flaws like all normal people. What I mean is, I'd like to think I'm a pretty decent looking guy, but I am by no means a greek god of manly physical stature. Nor are you Audrey Hepburn. Of course we'll be attracted to each other, without attraction we couldn't very well have a physical relationship. I will fawn over the features I find beautiful about you and, more or less, ignore the less attractive ones. While I certainly don't expect you to drool over me, I also don't expect derogatory remarks, particularly about things I'm unhappy with about myself.
To be fair, this isn't something I've ever dealt with personally. Typically, people who find something unattractive enough about me to warrant attention aren't interested anyway, and they keep those things to themselves. I have, however, seen this in other relationships where a party will mercilessly point out physical shortcomings. That's wrong, and you're an asshole.
Likewise, critcism can be constructive. If I mention my weight, for instance, you might suggest a gym. Or something to that effect. You might even teasingly poke my love handles. That is the extent of it. Further than that and I'll point out how one of your boobs is bigger than the other, your feet look like hobbit feet, and your nose is wide enough to land planes on. Not because these things are true, but because I'm vindictive. Why? Fuck you, that's why. That sort of constructive criticism (and I'm using the example of physical things here, but it applies to any aspect of a person) should be used sparingly and carefully. Hurting someone, especially over something they're insecure about, for any reason, is a real dick move and should incur dick punches. For women, it should incur forced anal. Because it makes you a nasty cunt, and no one wants a nasty cunt.
Moving on, I'm obligated to talk about sex. It's part of the contract I signed with Satan to earn this gift of gab I've abused so often, I have to mention sex every time I speak. Sex has to be invigorating. Plain and simple, I've broken off more casual flings and become dissatisfied in more semi-serious relationships as a result of boring sex than damn near anything else. I have said, probably a billion times, that I revel in things like this. If the sex is bad, chances are the conversation is bad and, in my experience, one or more of the negative things I mentioned above is prevalent. Likewise, I have a lot of sexual quirks. I don't expect you to cater to them all, and I may not want to cater to all of yours, but there has to be enough fertile ground between us for a healthy sex life to bloom. Not too liberal, not too conservative. If you're not into anything more than brief, lights-out, missionary sex I am absolutely not interested. I need a lot more variety than that to thrive and, frankly, you probably do too.
More succinctly, I am not interested in someone that isn't interested in exploring.
Lastly, stupidity. I shouldn't elaborate much on this, because it seems obvious enough, but for the sake of balance I'll do just that. Conversation is a big deal to me. We have to be comfortable talking. I'll make jokes about my many, many failures and shortcomings as a human being, but a lot of the things I'm told I excel at I firmly believe. Being intellectual is one of those things. Understanding this, I will also never talk down to someone. I'm trying to make a career using words, and despite the occasional snide remark about grammar or word choice, I don't expect that everyone will be on the same level as I am all the time. Likewise, I expect you are well-versed in a field that I may not be as competent in. We should be able to learn from each other, and I'm fairly liberal in what I call a field. If you have kids, you know a shit ton about raising kids that I don't know, but I'd damn sure like to learn about it.
The point is, someone that has nothing to offer me intellectually, who can't offer me a stimulating conversation every now and again, has no business sharing my life. I like to be told I'm intelligent, but hate being told I'm smart by someone with a lower IQ than a box of nails.
So, what does a guy like me look for? An attractive girl (believe me, that's pretty broad) that isn't half-retarded, that adores me for the things I'm good at and lets me adore her in return. A girl that doesn't mind my flaws because she has some of her own, flaws we can work on together. A girl that is neither wholly submissive nor wholly domineering. A girl that likes herself some sex, but doesn't find my fascination with it disgusting and encourages me to find new and exciting things to try. I want a girl that is interested in my life, not interested in running it.
Additionally, I have a pretty nice dong.
The line starts here, applicants can expect a response in five to ten days.
Orgasmically Yours,
-S.R.
I have also succeeded in taking virtually everything I have ever been taught about how to structure an opening paragraph and forced it to suck my cock.
I'm not sure why, at this point, I've elected to do this or how successful it will be to conduct this excercise in full view of you, my adoring public. I have, as I said, been thinking about it a great deal lately. Maybe I need a girlfriend. Maybe I have brain cancer. Point is, you are about to get an education in my personal philosophies, and if you verbally dispute them I will become very angsty, dye my hair black, and call you a whore.
So, what do I dislike about people? What qualities are more likely to fill me to the brim with rage-lava than make my heart swell with love juice?
Envy. Envy tops the list because it find it has an inherent duality and that can mean only one thing: people will make it negative. See, some kinds of envy can be powerful motivators. My brother is heaped with praise for how good he is at sports and I, craving that sort of positive feedback, resolve to get better at the things I enjoy. This, in turn, fosters a friendly kind of competition and a desire to improve.
However, if I'm envious that my friend is getting tons of sex I might remedy this by getting black out drunk with a fat girl and contracting herpes. This, obviously, would be a negative thing. Far more appropriately, envy is kind of the central source of jealousy. That, I can not tolerate.
Envy can be good for a relationship in moderation. I think a girl that craves my attention is a wonderful thing, and being what I'd call "playfully jealous" is cute in my book. By all means, tease me about the amount of time I spend with my friends. But when it becomes overbearing, we'll have issues.Contrary to popular belief, I'm not much of a liar or a cheater, and I find myself unable to relate to jealous people because I see no reason for it. Your significant other will do what they're going to do, regardless of how much pressure and suspicion you pile onto them, and doing things like searching their phone or following them after they leave your house, or checking their Facebook status to see if it mentions another girl's name and then losing your shit will only make them feel more entitled to do those things.
If you suspect me of something and refuse to believe it isn't true, I might as well make it true, in other words. So, for me, jealousy is irrational. Not to mention my aforementioned ineptitude when it comes to lying and cheating in the first place. I have no use for lying. I find the truth much more invigorating.
Static cling is a close second. Look, everyone wants to be adored. There is nothing, nothing, more satisfying than looking into a person's eyes and seeing that they are wholly devoting all of their attention and affection for that moment to you. We all like to be appreciated for the things we're good at, for our physical appeal, for the size of our genitals. Again, in moderation. When you become obsessive, that adoration becomes stifling and oppressive. Instead of wanting to show off how good I am at something (let's say gangsta rap) so you'll find me more pleasant to be around, I want to smack the shit out of you with a brick so you'll leave me alone.
See, clinging to someone actually repels them. You become like polar opposites in magnetism. It's wonderful when your partner shows an interest in something you like, but it's terrible when that person wants to become so utterly involved in that thing that you start to hate it. People have different interests, even people in relationships. You don't have to like every obscure black metal band that I do, but I do expect you to respect my taste. Likewise, I won't pretend to be salivating at the thought of hearing about how much you love your new job but I will listen intently to how your day went, or that dream promotion you're working on. You can share passions, of course, but those things should not be wholly overlapping. The specific interests that define my personality will not, under any circumstances, be the same ones that define you.
In regards to the clinging thing on a personal level, I like my solitude sometimes. We all do. I like to see my friends without my girlfriend tagging along. This doesn't mean I'm ashamed of you, or that I don't want to spend time with you. It means, on some level, I think we're close enough not to be sewn together every waking moment. Likewise, I expect that sometimes we'll see friends together and sometimes you'll give me twenty bucks to get lost for the night so your friends can come over and watch Dateline or whatever. These separations are healthy.
Attraction and criticism are tied because they're kind of tied together. Look, I'm not Brad Pitt. Or Keanu Reeves. Or whoever represents the ideal male physique to you. I'm overweight, I'm a little out of shape, I have physical flaws like all normal people. What I mean is, I'd like to think I'm a pretty decent looking guy, but I am by no means a greek god of manly physical stature. Nor are you Audrey Hepburn. Of course we'll be attracted to each other, without attraction we couldn't very well have a physical relationship. I will fawn over the features I find beautiful about you and, more or less, ignore the less attractive ones. While I certainly don't expect you to drool over me, I also don't expect derogatory remarks, particularly about things I'm unhappy with about myself.
To be fair, this isn't something I've ever dealt with personally. Typically, people who find something unattractive enough about me to warrant attention aren't interested anyway, and they keep those things to themselves. I have, however, seen this in other relationships where a party will mercilessly point out physical shortcomings. That's wrong, and you're an asshole.
Likewise, critcism can be constructive. If I mention my weight, for instance, you might suggest a gym. Or something to that effect. You might even teasingly poke my love handles. That is the extent of it. Further than that and I'll point out how one of your boobs is bigger than the other, your feet look like hobbit feet, and your nose is wide enough to land planes on. Not because these things are true, but because I'm vindictive. Why? Fuck you, that's why. That sort of constructive criticism (and I'm using the example of physical things here, but it applies to any aspect of a person) should be used sparingly and carefully. Hurting someone, especially over something they're insecure about, for any reason, is a real dick move and should incur dick punches. For women, it should incur forced anal. Because it makes you a nasty cunt, and no one wants a nasty cunt.
Moving on, I'm obligated to talk about sex. It's part of the contract I signed with Satan to earn this gift of gab I've abused so often, I have to mention sex every time I speak. Sex has to be invigorating. Plain and simple, I've broken off more casual flings and become dissatisfied in more semi-serious relationships as a result of boring sex than damn near anything else. I have said, probably a billion times, that I revel in things like this. If the sex is bad, chances are the conversation is bad and, in my experience, one or more of the negative things I mentioned above is prevalent. Likewise, I have a lot of sexual quirks. I don't expect you to cater to them all, and I may not want to cater to all of yours, but there has to be enough fertile ground between us for a healthy sex life to bloom. Not too liberal, not too conservative. If you're not into anything more than brief, lights-out, missionary sex I am absolutely not interested. I need a lot more variety than that to thrive and, frankly, you probably do too.
More succinctly, I am not interested in someone that isn't interested in exploring.
Lastly, stupidity. I shouldn't elaborate much on this, because it seems obvious enough, but for the sake of balance I'll do just that. Conversation is a big deal to me. We have to be comfortable talking. I'll make jokes about my many, many failures and shortcomings as a human being, but a lot of the things I'm told I excel at I firmly believe. Being intellectual is one of those things. Understanding this, I will also never talk down to someone. I'm trying to make a career using words, and despite the occasional snide remark about grammar or word choice, I don't expect that everyone will be on the same level as I am all the time. Likewise, I expect you are well-versed in a field that I may not be as competent in. We should be able to learn from each other, and I'm fairly liberal in what I call a field. If you have kids, you know a shit ton about raising kids that I don't know, but I'd damn sure like to learn about it.
The point is, someone that has nothing to offer me intellectually, who can't offer me a stimulating conversation every now and again, has no business sharing my life. I like to be told I'm intelligent, but hate being told I'm smart by someone with a lower IQ than a box of nails.
So, what does a guy like me look for? An attractive girl (believe me, that's pretty broad) that isn't half-retarded, that adores me for the things I'm good at and lets me adore her in return. A girl that doesn't mind my flaws because she has some of her own, flaws we can work on together. A girl that is neither wholly submissive nor wholly domineering. A girl that likes herself some sex, but doesn't find my fascination with it disgusting and encourages me to find new and exciting things to try. I want a girl that is interested in my life, not interested in running it.
Additionally, I have a pretty nice dong.
The line starts here, applicants can expect a response in five to ten days.
Orgasmically Yours,
-S.R.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Art and Criticism: A Bullshit Relationship
I want to talk to you about criticism. I don't mean the sort of criticism you incur when you walk into your parent's living room in a tube top and miniskirt at thirteen (or, as it happens, at thirty-three) or the kind the police will give your sense of humor when you inhale half a can of paint and take a shit on the hood of their squad car because "that shit would be totes ridic". I mean legitimate criticism, specifically of the art world.
Now, to clarify, I'm talking all manner of art and things that can be loosely defined as art. So, your books, your poems, your movies, your music, your painting, your sculpting, your artistic but utterly functionless buildings, your television shows, your video games, and your theater. I am not talking about fashion or reality television because my personal definition of art doesn't include these things. Also, at least when it comes to fashion, I don't understand their terms.
However, the forms of education and entertainment (as most of the art I've mentioned can be one or both) I'm talking about are just a framework. The meat of this is in criticizing them. You'll find book and movie and t.v. reviews in most respectable magazines and newspapers, in addition to volumes upon volumes of reviews, critiques, and slanderous venom-spitting on the internet. Those are important to note. Additionally, you'll find yourself confronted (if you study literature as I did, for instance) with scholarly criticism, which is more than deciding whether or not something sucked more ass than the gritty reboot of Rainbow Brite. Scholarly criticism often focuses on a piece from a particular perspective, and there are as many of them as there are black folks at a KFC in Harlem.
Of course, with this variety, you'll encounter some bullshit. In fact, a ton of bullshit. So many metric tons of bullshit, they could easily be scuplted into the Dubai of Bullshit. Let's begin.
Take, for instance, Left 4 Dead 2. This is a first-person shooter that entails essentially blasting your way through hordes of zombies in a post-apocalyptic world. With the continued mainstream popularity of zombies and their ilk, through films and television (most recently AMC's original series The Walking Dead) these monsters have found their way into our culture and bonded themselves there. With insertions of zombies into artistic works, from the aforementioned visual media to sculpture, performance art, and literature (notably World War Z and Pride and Prejudice and Zombies) zombies have become a sort of artistic medium all their own. Agree or disagree, it really matters little. My point, is the criticism this game, and others like it have received. Willie Jefferson from the Houston Chronicle wrote, in a review, that many of the infected creatures in the game appeared to be African-American, and implied a racist undertone in the game. While another "journalist" alleged that because Resident Evil 5 was set in Africa and (obviously) the majority of the creatures were African, that the game was overtly racist.
Fucking, really? Look, Left 4 Dead was set in New Orleans (another point of contrition for the fuckhead writer because of the widespread destruction "remniscent of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina") a city with a diverse population. Including colored people. One of the protagonists, I should also mention, is black. In Resident Evil, one of the central protagonists is also from the area. How the hell is that racist? Furthermore, why are we reading racism into something that isn't meant to convey that kind of theme? Here, some films, like some television shows and video games, are meant to be profound. Their stories carry messages, they involve deep thinking and evoke emotion. These games are supposed to be about two things: Scaring the shit out of you, and mowing down hordes of monsters. There is a dehumanization in these types of media because portraying any protagonist murdering hundreds of people via gunfire is no way to market a product.
So you're calling something racist that has no intrinsic ability to be racist. If you omitted character models because of skin color that would be fucking racist. It would be displaying a total lack of immersion and confidence in your product out of fear of criticism from some half-wit hack that failed a literary analysis course in college for confusing every drawing of a sword with a man whipping out his dick.
Speaking of which...
Fuck feminism. More specifically, fuck people that read things from a feminist perspective that have no business reading a fucking phone book, much less a piece of classical literature. How can you look at Shakespeare or Milton or fucking...Beowulf from a feminist perspective? Or a communist perspective? Or any one of a dozen other perspectives?
You'll call swords and scepters phallic symbols and read a mysogynist attitude out of a piece of literature, or a work of art, that was created long before the idea of feminism. That's not only an excercise in futility, its utter, batshit insanity.
My point is that in order to criticize something in a relevant, logical, meaningful way, you must first take into account what it is you're looking at. Art, for all its imagination and creativity and forward-thinking, is still bound pretty strictly by the time period and cultural beleifs in which it was created. Beowulf didn't include bold, strong-willed female warriors and undertones of free exchange economics because Anglo-Saxon women were not warriors and they were subservient to their men and free exchange hadn't been invented yet. So you can't look at it from a feminist perspective because that perspective is irrelevant. You can't examine it for economics because bartering and earning posessions through acts of heroism aren't legitimate ways to build an economy.
So, if your culutre treats women like property, or looks at warriors as barbarians and scholars as gods, you will naturally be inclined to portray those roles in your art. Another culutre can't come along and say its wrong or bad, or anything really, based on their own culutral beleifs. To do so is foolish. It's like fundamentalist religious sects calling our Hollywood movies blasphemous because they don't include a "Praise Jesus!" or a cry of "Allah!" in every other line of dialogue. It's like Japan claiming every martial arts movies ever made is slanderous of Japanese culutre. In other words, fucking retarded.
Take your source material into account before you comment on it. Make sure you're attributing themes and attitudes and messages that are appropriate for the material. A video game about slaughtering zombies or an epic poem about a viking adventure are not valid places to inject profound emotion and complex thought.
Besides, black zombies and white zombies both want the same thing.
All we wanna do is eat your brains.
Subsequently Yours,
-S.R.
Now, to clarify, I'm talking all manner of art and things that can be loosely defined as art. So, your books, your poems, your movies, your music, your painting, your sculpting, your artistic but utterly functionless buildings, your television shows, your video games, and your theater. I am not talking about fashion or reality television because my personal definition of art doesn't include these things. Also, at least when it comes to fashion, I don't understand their terms.
However, the forms of education and entertainment (as most of the art I've mentioned can be one or both) I'm talking about are just a framework. The meat of this is in criticizing them. You'll find book and movie and t.v. reviews in most respectable magazines and newspapers, in addition to volumes upon volumes of reviews, critiques, and slanderous venom-spitting on the internet. Those are important to note. Additionally, you'll find yourself confronted (if you study literature as I did, for instance) with scholarly criticism, which is more than deciding whether or not something sucked more ass than the gritty reboot of Rainbow Brite. Scholarly criticism often focuses on a piece from a particular perspective, and there are as many of them as there are black folks at a KFC in Harlem.
Of course, with this variety, you'll encounter some bullshit. In fact, a ton of bullshit. So many metric tons of bullshit, they could easily be scuplted into the Dubai of Bullshit. Let's begin.
Take, for instance, Left 4 Dead 2. This is a first-person shooter that entails essentially blasting your way through hordes of zombies in a post-apocalyptic world. With the continued mainstream popularity of zombies and their ilk, through films and television (most recently AMC's original series The Walking Dead) these monsters have found their way into our culture and bonded themselves there. With insertions of zombies into artistic works, from the aforementioned visual media to sculpture, performance art, and literature (notably World War Z and Pride and Prejudice and Zombies) zombies have become a sort of artistic medium all their own. Agree or disagree, it really matters little. My point, is the criticism this game, and others like it have received. Willie Jefferson from the Houston Chronicle wrote, in a review, that many of the infected creatures in the game appeared to be African-American, and implied a racist undertone in the game. While another "journalist" alleged that because Resident Evil 5 was set in Africa and (obviously) the majority of the creatures were African, that the game was overtly racist.
Fucking, really? Look, Left 4 Dead was set in New Orleans (another point of contrition for the fuckhead writer because of the widespread destruction "remniscent of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina") a city with a diverse population. Including colored people. One of the protagonists, I should also mention, is black. In Resident Evil, one of the central protagonists is also from the area. How the hell is that racist? Furthermore, why are we reading racism into something that isn't meant to convey that kind of theme? Here, some films, like some television shows and video games, are meant to be profound. Their stories carry messages, they involve deep thinking and evoke emotion. These games are supposed to be about two things: Scaring the shit out of you, and mowing down hordes of monsters. There is a dehumanization in these types of media because portraying any protagonist murdering hundreds of people via gunfire is no way to market a product.
So you're calling something racist that has no intrinsic ability to be racist. If you omitted character models because of skin color that would be fucking racist. It would be displaying a total lack of immersion and confidence in your product out of fear of criticism from some half-wit hack that failed a literary analysis course in college for confusing every drawing of a sword with a man whipping out his dick.
Speaking of which...
Fuck feminism. More specifically, fuck people that read things from a feminist perspective that have no business reading a fucking phone book, much less a piece of classical literature. How can you look at Shakespeare or Milton or fucking...Beowulf from a feminist perspective? Or a communist perspective? Or any one of a dozen other perspectives?
You'll call swords and scepters phallic symbols and read a mysogynist attitude out of a piece of literature, or a work of art, that was created long before the idea of feminism. That's not only an excercise in futility, its utter, batshit insanity.
My point is that in order to criticize something in a relevant, logical, meaningful way, you must first take into account what it is you're looking at. Art, for all its imagination and creativity and forward-thinking, is still bound pretty strictly by the time period and cultural beleifs in which it was created. Beowulf didn't include bold, strong-willed female warriors and undertones of free exchange economics because Anglo-Saxon women were not warriors and they were subservient to their men and free exchange hadn't been invented yet. So you can't look at it from a feminist perspective because that perspective is irrelevant. You can't examine it for economics because bartering and earning posessions through acts of heroism aren't legitimate ways to build an economy.
So, if your culutre treats women like property, or looks at warriors as barbarians and scholars as gods, you will naturally be inclined to portray those roles in your art. Another culutre can't come along and say its wrong or bad, or anything really, based on their own culutral beleifs. To do so is foolish. It's like fundamentalist religious sects calling our Hollywood movies blasphemous because they don't include a "Praise Jesus!" or a cry of "Allah!" in every other line of dialogue. It's like Japan claiming every martial arts movies ever made is slanderous of Japanese culutre. In other words, fucking retarded.
Take your source material into account before you comment on it. Make sure you're attributing themes and attitudes and messages that are appropriate for the material. A video game about slaughtering zombies or an epic poem about a viking adventure are not valid places to inject profound emotion and complex thought.
Besides, black zombies and white zombies both want the same thing.
All we wanna do is eat your brains.
Subsequently Yours,
-S.R.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Lead Me Into Temptation
I feel like drinking. Not drinking as is my habit, imbibing until what seems to be and what should have been are blurred together and the significance runs away from both like water down a storm drain. I want to drink stars. I want to drink worlds and lives and memories. I want to feel unimaginably huge, unimaginably powerful. I want to be the ineffable thing that lingers at the furthest corners of the mind, that haunts the periphery and vanishes from sight. I want to be radiant, incandescent with the permeating light of a trillion worlds, a trillion suns all burning in my guts. I want to drink like the gods and spit hellfire down the throats of my opposers.
I find that there is an emptiness here. In me, I suppose although I've never given much thought to it. For all I'm aware, it is all emptiness. Or loathsome things. Or big fuck-off dildos with fangs and eyes that prey on children for sustenance. For all the soul-searching I've pondered doing I haven't gone very far down that road. Most of the time I know my heart well enough and the rest of the time I'm content to let it do its own thing. And yet, that empty feeling persists.
Let me be clear, you can't fill it. No one can fill it. This isn't some void to be patched up, filled in, built over, bridged, spanned, leaped, plumbed, exploited, mined, or looted. There is no chasm yawning out into the untapped fathoms of my emotional being. That kind of existential bullshit is best reserved for people with small minds and smaller dicks. I don't need to put love or companionship or pussy in place of this little bit of emptiness. I just need to know what the fuck it's doing there and why it demands so much of my attention. I've cut people out of my life for shit like this. Sometimes for less.
Well, sometimes I cut myself out of other people's lives. I rarely just forget about someone. Forgetting just isn't an acceptable quality in a creature like myself.
I think maybe I've misplaced something. I used to have something in that place. Not something big, the hollow left behind is shallow and not very expansive, but maybe it was something important. Important things can be small, yes? Maybe not. I could be imagning the whole thing, in which case, the feeling will likely dissipate before too long.
But maybe not.
Some days, I can't help but feeling I missed an opportunity somewhere. Like a turn I should have taken down an old dirt road that, with thanks to the hectic nature of the Universe, was not clearly marked. A road that didn't show up on my map. I like to think there's an alternate route, maybe an exit ramp up ahead I cn use to swing around and head back, but I doubt it. I hate asking for directions, and I'm much too stubborn to just turn around and take it slow so I don't fly by again.
It is possible that this is a ubiquitous feeling, and my interpetation is slightly off. Then this would be nothing more than an exercise in futility, explaining something everyone feels in their own special way.
Then again, I've never been much of a follower anyway.
Disgustingly Yours,
-S.R.
I find that there is an emptiness here. In me, I suppose although I've never given much thought to it. For all I'm aware, it is all emptiness. Or loathsome things. Or big fuck-off dildos with fangs and eyes that prey on children for sustenance. For all the soul-searching I've pondered doing I haven't gone very far down that road. Most of the time I know my heart well enough and the rest of the time I'm content to let it do its own thing. And yet, that empty feeling persists.
Let me be clear, you can't fill it. No one can fill it. This isn't some void to be patched up, filled in, built over, bridged, spanned, leaped, plumbed, exploited, mined, or looted. There is no chasm yawning out into the untapped fathoms of my emotional being. That kind of existential bullshit is best reserved for people with small minds and smaller dicks. I don't need to put love or companionship or pussy in place of this little bit of emptiness. I just need to know what the fuck it's doing there and why it demands so much of my attention. I've cut people out of my life for shit like this. Sometimes for less.
Well, sometimes I cut myself out of other people's lives. I rarely just forget about someone. Forgetting just isn't an acceptable quality in a creature like myself.
I think maybe I've misplaced something. I used to have something in that place. Not something big, the hollow left behind is shallow and not very expansive, but maybe it was something important. Important things can be small, yes? Maybe not. I could be imagning the whole thing, in which case, the feeling will likely dissipate before too long.
But maybe not.
Some days, I can't help but feeling I missed an opportunity somewhere. Like a turn I should have taken down an old dirt road that, with thanks to the hectic nature of the Universe, was not clearly marked. A road that didn't show up on my map. I like to think there's an alternate route, maybe an exit ramp up ahead I cn use to swing around and head back, but I doubt it. I hate asking for directions, and I'm much too stubborn to just turn around and take it slow so I don't fly by again.
It is possible that this is a ubiquitous feeling, and my interpetation is slightly off. Then this would be nothing more than an exercise in futility, explaining something everyone feels in their own special way.
Then again, I've never been much of a follower anyway.
Disgustingly Yours,
-S.R.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Predator
My heart beat like a galloping horse, like the drums from "Run to the Hill", like a thousand refugees fleeing for their lives from a cavalry charge meaning to ride them down with lances and bows. I was crouched, waiting, watching my prey. I was certain she would hear it, the beating of my heart, the thunder of blood in my ears, so keen were her senses. Yet, she continued to walk unperterbed through velvet darkness, speared here and there with safts of silver moonlight. The thirst came upon me then, as it always does when prey is near. The need. The ache that begins in my guts and works in two directions: down, first, where it lingers in my loins, and then up where it takes root in my mouth. The same sensation each time. Each time it feels like the first and nothing like the last.
She paused beside a pool of pristine water, fed by a creek that hummed softly across a bed of small, smooth stones. Clear, clean water. She dipped her hand in to drink, brought it to her lips and tilted her head back. Soft white throat. The ache, stronger now. I checked my spear, my footing. The ground between she and I, prey and predator, was flat, clear of all but soft, slightly damp grass. She would turn soon, her eyes would face away from me.
Now.
As if in slow motion she turned her head away, glanced back over her shoulder. Perhaps she heard some sound she thought might signal danger, but there was no danger that way. Only endless forest, dark as the Ever Black. No, the danger sprung at her from the underbrush. I lurched forward, powerful legs rushing soundlessly at her from the bush. She turned back toward me, satisfied that there was nothing behind her, and her eyes grew wide, though not with understanding. That would come later. They grew wide with confusion. How could I have eluded her senses? Crept so near without her knowing? Questions to which the answers no longer mattered.
I speared her there, threw her flat on her back and took my fill of her flesh. She writhed and screamed, perhaps in agony, perhaps in ecstasy, with my weapon in her guts. Her hips rocked and bucked, her teeth gnashed at me, snatched at my shoulders and hands, but I drove it in deeper and finally, finally, she was still. I was sated, the hunger left me.
This, I thought, would be the last hunt. There had to be a final hunt. Always I thought, this will feel like the first and this will be the final time. Always I am wrong.
Once more, perhaps.
I hunger,
S.R.
She paused beside a pool of pristine water, fed by a creek that hummed softly across a bed of small, smooth stones. Clear, clean water. She dipped her hand in to drink, brought it to her lips and tilted her head back. Soft white throat. The ache, stronger now. I checked my spear, my footing. The ground between she and I, prey and predator, was flat, clear of all but soft, slightly damp grass. She would turn soon, her eyes would face away from me.
Now.
As if in slow motion she turned her head away, glanced back over her shoulder. Perhaps she heard some sound she thought might signal danger, but there was no danger that way. Only endless forest, dark as the Ever Black. No, the danger sprung at her from the underbrush. I lurched forward, powerful legs rushing soundlessly at her from the bush. She turned back toward me, satisfied that there was nothing behind her, and her eyes grew wide, though not with understanding. That would come later. They grew wide with confusion. How could I have eluded her senses? Crept so near without her knowing? Questions to which the answers no longer mattered.
I speared her there, threw her flat on her back and took my fill of her flesh. She writhed and screamed, perhaps in agony, perhaps in ecstasy, with my weapon in her guts. Her hips rocked and bucked, her teeth gnashed at me, snatched at my shoulders and hands, but I drove it in deeper and finally, finally, she was still. I was sated, the hunger left me.
This, I thought, would be the last hunt. There had to be a final hunt. Always I thought, this will feel like the first and this will be the final time. Always I am wrong.
Once more, perhaps.
I hunger,
S.R.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The Problem With America
Are you a Republican? You're an asshole. Are you a Democrat? Then you're an asshole, too. Independent? Green Party? Nazi Party? Assholes, every one. Are you a Tea Partier? Then you, my dear, are the biggest asshole of all. You've been willingly mislead, I'm afraid.
I've been covering a number of political events the past month or so for work, events on both sides of the party line. Do you know what I've discovered? I want to rage-fuck every one of these people to death. Rage-fuck, because it's the most humiliating thing I can think of and I'm harboring too much pent-up aggression to bother thinking of something else.
Here's my issue with all of this bullshit: They. Are. Lying.
Very simple, very straightforward. Every one of these people running for office is a liar. They are universally full of shit. The democrats are taking heat because they promised and promised to make everything better and, in the last two years, they've really shown us fuck-all. The Republicans are looking to get back on top because people are impatient and they have little to no attention span. They've forgotten the eight year pile of shit we went through the last time the Republicans were in charge. The rest of those parties I mentioned are assholes by proxy because they chose a fucking party.
Do you know what my first impression of this grassroots Tea Party stuff was? Thank the gods. Seriously. These are people that agree with me. People of all parts of the political spectrum that are just fed the fuck up with big government expansion, with losing jobs and money, with being lied to. Mostly, I thought they were fed up with politics. With politicians getting elected that can't or won't do what we want them to because they're constrained by party alliances and political hoopla.
I was wrong. You know who the Tea Partiers are? Republicans. Sure, sure, they've masked their party nonsense with anger and frustration, but do you know why they're frustrated? Because they aren't in fucking office. That's it. They're preaching and prattling on about the Constitution and how the government isn't adhering to it. They're calling themselves patriots and Sons of Liberty and talking about freedom and equality. They're earning themselves reputations from the liberal side of the media as right-wingers and radicals and racists, while the conservative media eats it up and endorses them.
They are full of shit. They cry and cry about how they're being slandered by everyone, by the people in office and by the "biased, far-left media" and do you know what? They're wrong. Not about the fact that the media is saying these things, but about these things being slander. Admittedly, some of it might be utter bullshit, people trying to sell papers and rake in viewers. Then again, these Tea Partiers and these Patriots are just as guilty of making up bullshit to garner headlines. Its two sides throwing monkey shit at each other.
The media isn't "far-left" anymore than these people are "far-right". They're both barely coherent, barely intelligent enough to form a fucking opinion, much less a radical one. They're saying the same, tired Republican-Democrat bullshit and jacking it up to mean more than it needs to mean.
Do you know what will fix the country? Pull us out of the economic shitter? We will. If we, as a fucking whole nation, will pull our heads out of our asses long enough to take a deep breath, we could turn this thing around. Here are some of our problems:
1.) Foreign Policy. As a liberal, you want to suck Europe's dick. As a conservative, you want to tell them to eat yours. Both of you are outrageously stupid. My dad tells me time and again about how they all owe us for saving their asses back in the war. Bullshit. Do you know what we need? Trade and commerce. Fair trade and commerce. Don't shun these people because they aren't from this country, this country exists because they wanted to expand three hundred years ago. Do we owe them for that? Absolutely not. But nor does that give us any right to tell them to get fucked. We've had a dynamic, rapidly expanding economy for much of our history here, we have unprecedented freedoms and so on. It doesn't make us better or worse than other countries. It makes us different. So trade with Europe, trade with Asia. If they're practicing unfair political or economic policies, show them the error of their ways diplomatically. Failing that, awaken the great sleeping beast of our combined military and show them with fire. But pull your head out of your ass, America. Pompousness and isolationist ideals aren't what this country was founded on.
2.) Economics. Everybody is pissed off about the economy. Hell, I'm pissed off too. The state of our economy is preventing me from getting a raise, and I'm flat broke at my current pay rate. I'm in debt, I owe money, and I'm living, literally by the seat of my ass. The problem is that we're not a manufacturing economy anymore, we're a consumer based economy. Republicans will blame this on big government making it impossible for American companies to compete. Democrats will do the same because that's the big issue right now. The truth is this: Manufacturers create jobs, not politicians. Small businesses create jobs, not politicians. Corporations create jobs, not fucking politicians. Do you know how they can create jobs and bring money back to our economy? By enticing these businesses to come back home.
I've heard a lot of these politicians and their outspoken supporters talking about how Americans will out-work and out-produce other countries. Simply put, bullshit. Here's the problem we're having. Products, be they foreign or domestic, are heavily taxed and regulated, mostly because an ever-expanding government needs ever-expanding funds. So, companies are going oversees where the labor and materials are cheaper, then selling their products for a bigger profit. You tell me American-made products are higher-quality but how the fuck would I know that? I can't afford to buy them. And the ones I can afford are shoddy and ill-built. The other problem is that Americans demand better wages than other countries because our cost of living is higher, because an ever-expanding government needs ever-expanding funds. Call it inflation, call it whatever you like. Fact of the matter is our cost of living is increasing because we keep needing more money, so workers need to make more. So employers need to pay more. This country was built by people who worked hard because it was its own reward. Because they were proud of their work. It is being ruined by people who demand more and more money, not because they need it, but because they feel entitled to it for being American. Furthermore, how many of you would trade your office jobs for factory jobs?
That brings me to my next item.
3.) Immigration. The benefit of immigration, aside from the cultural melting pot this country was always supposed to be, is cheaper labor. We Americans, the born and bred ones, can enjoy loftier lifestyles and less physically demanding jobs because those things are being taken care of by the lower economic classes, cheifly the blue collar boys and the immigrants, both legal and illegal. Republicans want to shoot the illegals and Democrats want to suck them off. Why are we bothering with either? See, the problem is the application process for citizenship in this country. It is unreasonably expensive and time-consuming. So we've got a crisis where people are hopping borders and bringing too much of their culutre here. Our national language is subject to debate. Here's how to solve this issue: Throw out the current process. Get fucking rid of it. Instead, for each applicant, do a thorough background check, give them a thorough physical, and insist that they take classes on American history and English. Enough to be proficient in both. That's all our current system establishes and more! Proficiency in the language, non-criminal background, clean bill of health, and a knowledge of our national history and what we stand for. What the fuck else do you need? Hell, some of these people speak better english and know more about American history than kids we educate here.
Of course, there will still be border jumpers. But how much easier would it be to manage a tiny fraction of what we have to manage now? Just the criminals and the dishonest ones. Those people? Shoot them. But an honest man trying to make his way in a better palce than he grew up? That's the American fucking Dream, we just need to give them a shot. As for the language, it's English.
4.) Religion/Racism. Okay, this is probably the biggest one. Anyone that knows me can taste my disdain for both organized religion and hypocrisy. I'm a very "practice what you preach" sort of guy. So here lies my issue with religion. We are a predominantly Christian country, fair? Most of the Western World identifies that way now. However, one of the founding virtues of this country was religious acceptance. Not tolerance. Acceptance. At this point, I'd settle for tolerance. Since 9/11 which, not to sound insensitive, but let's stop beating that horse shall we? Since 9/11 we have a very anti-muslim sort of vibe going on. Mostly from the right, the obviously religious conservatives. But I get the idea the Democrats don't jump on board because they have a psychological need to disagree with the Republicans. So, anyone from the Middle East, Muslim or otherwise, has to deal with a certain degree of persecution. For instance, this mosque they were talking of building near Ground Zero. People were getting death threats over it. People were protesting it.
That's unconstitutional, assholes. See, that Bill of Rights you're always prattling on about? Gives us the freedom to practice any religion, anywhere. Was this mosque going to harm people? No, not anymore than a church or a synagogue harms people. So practice what you fucking preach. These are fundamentalists we're fighting, not everyday practitioners of Islam. Allow me to draw a parallel. Disdaining Islamics because of a few fundamentalists, labeling them all terrorists, is like labeling every Christian a member of the Westboro Baptist Church. It's like saying you all protest at the funerals of soldiers with signs saying "God Hates Fags". Ashamed yet? How about its like saying every Christian is a Jew-killing sack of shit. Because that was the Inquisition, right? I'm not the first one to raise this point, but I'm the only one that will knock your fucking teeth in for disputing it.
Here's another one: Separation of Church and State. This is a democracy. Religion, therefore, has no place in our government. None. I don't care what the liberals say, I don't care what the conservatives say. I don't even care how much of the population is religious. It should have no bearing in government. That's what that statement means. We are voting on what is right for us, what is best for the country. That may not always be what your religion demands, but we have this handy Bill of Rights and Constitution that point out where we should go when we have those sorts of conflicts of interest. On a related note...
5.) Gay Marriage. Legalize it. Now. Not because I'm a bleeding-heart liberal, and not because I think the monotheistic beleif in one-man-one-woman is utterly ridiculous. Legalize it because it's unconstitutional to ban it. It is none of the government's business and it is beyond their jurisdiction to decide. The liberals want it for the wrong reasons. They want it because they're selfish and they want to prove how powerful they are by 'allowing' this. They want it because they're genetically predisposed to oppose conservative views. The Republicans don't want it because they're thinking with their Jesus instead of with their fucking brains.
This is not an issue. This is a travesty. You tell me it will disrupt the sanctity of marriage and I tell you you're a retard. Marriage has never been sanctimonious. It's never been sacred. Sure, the vows are sacred. Sure, the bond between two people is sacred. But show me a time in history when men didn't have concubines. Show me a time in history when two people that didn't love each other on some level could make a family simply because they said a few ceremonious words. You can't, because that time doesn't exist. Marriage is about a bond between two people, and if that bond doesn't give a shit about gender why do we?
You tell me it'll lead to people marrying their cousins or goats. I have two concerns with that. The first, is why are you concerned about it? What right do you have to interfere with someone's business? Second, that's ridiculous because you can already marry your cousin and a goat can't say its vows. You're making shit up because you don't have a real reason to be opposed to it when you give it some thought. Your knee-jerk reaction doesn't hold up.
6.) Homosexuals. This one is actually not about all of America, it's about the gay community, more specifically the flaming gay community that shoots its mouth off whenever possible and can't seem to adapt to society like the majority of people, gay straight or otherwise. Seriously, guys, give it a rest. You are regular people, just like me. Well, maybe more regular than me. But the outlandish things you do? Those flamboyant clothes, the mostly naked parades, the shrill shrieking? Those are setting you back decades. The unabashed promiscuity? Likewise. Live your lives the way we all do, for yourself. Stay out of the spotlight, stop doing irrational shit, and be fucking people, not charicatures.
7.)Politics. Let's bring it all around, shall we? I've gone on long enough. Politics is the real issue in this country. It's the issue because we've let it become an issue. Rather than making our own decisions, taking care of our own lives, we've allowed the government to do it for us. And they have done so happily. That is the nature of government. Power craves more power. The checks and balances in this country are in place so the people never allow the government too much power. Problem is, we've ignored them. Now, we're stuck in this system where parties are making decions based on party politics and they're stomping on business, they're stomping on people. None of these people we elect in November is going to change that, because they're all after power and politics.
Here's how we solve it: Real Patriots. People like me, people that love this country because its lovable, and despite hating the people, want to see them do better. People that have jobs and lives to return to once this shit is all cleared up. People that are open minded, not religiously influenced, and willing to say what's on their mind, while listening to the people that elected them. These are the people you need to elect, not businessmen, not politicians, not doctors and lawyers and judges looking to move up. Fucking people.
That, or Revolution.
Choose wisely, little ones.
Love and Kisses,
-S.R.
I've been covering a number of political events the past month or so for work, events on both sides of the party line. Do you know what I've discovered? I want to rage-fuck every one of these people to death. Rage-fuck, because it's the most humiliating thing I can think of and I'm harboring too much pent-up aggression to bother thinking of something else.
Here's my issue with all of this bullshit: They. Are. Lying.
Very simple, very straightforward. Every one of these people running for office is a liar. They are universally full of shit. The democrats are taking heat because they promised and promised to make everything better and, in the last two years, they've really shown us fuck-all. The Republicans are looking to get back on top because people are impatient and they have little to no attention span. They've forgotten the eight year pile of shit we went through the last time the Republicans were in charge. The rest of those parties I mentioned are assholes by proxy because they chose a fucking party.
Do you know what my first impression of this grassroots Tea Party stuff was? Thank the gods. Seriously. These are people that agree with me. People of all parts of the political spectrum that are just fed the fuck up with big government expansion, with losing jobs and money, with being lied to. Mostly, I thought they were fed up with politics. With politicians getting elected that can't or won't do what we want them to because they're constrained by party alliances and political hoopla.
I was wrong. You know who the Tea Partiers are? Republicans. Sure, sure, they've masked their party nonsense with anger and frustration, but do you know why they're frustrated? Because they aren't in fucking office. That's it. They're preaching and prattling on about the Constitution and how the government isn't adhering to it. They're calling themselves patriots and Sons of Liberty and talking about freedom and equality. They're earning themselves reputations from the liberal side of the media as right-wingers and radicals and racists, while the conservative media eats it up and endorses them.
They are full of shit. They cry and cry about how they're being slandered by everyone, by the people in office and by the "biased, far-left media" and do you know what? They're wrong. Not about the fact that the media is saying these things, but about these things being slander. Admittedly, some of it might be utter bullshit, people trying to sell papers and rake in viewers. Then again, these Tea Partiers and these Patriots are just as guilty of making up bullshit to garner headlines. Its two sides throwing monkey shit at each other.
The media isn't "far-left" anymore than these people are "far-right". They're both barely coherent, barely intelligent enough to form a fucking opinion, much less a radical one. They're saying the same, tired Republican-Democrat bullshit and jacking it up to mean more than it needs to mean.
Do you know what will fix the country? Pull us out of the economic shitter? We will. If we, as a fucking whole nation, will pull our heads out of our asses long enough to take a deep breath, we could turn this thing around. Here are some of our problems:
1.) Foreign Policy. As a liberal, you want to suck Europe's dick. As a conservative, you want to tell them to eat yours. Both of you are outrageously stupid. My dad tells me time and again about how they all owe us for saving their asses back in the war. Bullshit. Do you know what we need? Trade and commerce. Fair trade and commerce. Don't shun these people because they aren't from this country, this country exists because they wanted to expand three hundred years ago. Do we owe them for that? Absolutely not. But nor does that give us any right to tell them to get fucked. We've had a dynamic, rapidly expanding economy for much of our history here, we have unprecedented freedoms and so on. It doesn't make us better or worse than other countries. It makes us different. So trade with Europe, trade with Asia. If they're practicing unfair political or economic policies, show them the error of their ways diplomatically. Failing that, awaken the great sleeping beast of our combined military and show them with fire. But pull your head out of your ass, America. Pompousness and isolationist ideals aren't what this country was founded on.
2.) Economics. Everybody is pissed off about the economy. Hell, I'm pissed off too. The state of our economy is preventing me from getting a raise, and I'm flat broke at my current pay rate. I'm in debt, I owe money, and I'm living, literally by the seat of my ass. The problem is that we're not a manufacturing economy anymore, we're a consumer based economy. Republicans will blame this on big government making it impossible for American companies to compete. Democrats will do the same because that's the big issue right now. The truth is this: Manufacturers create jobs, not politicians. Small businesses create jobs, not politicians. Corporations create jobs, not fucking politicians. Do you know how they can create jobs and bring money back to our economy? By enticing these businesses to come back home.
I've heard a lot of these politicians and their outspoken supporters talking about how Americans will out-work and out-produce other countries. Simply put, bullshit. Here's the problem we're having. Products, be they foreign or domestic, are heavily taxed and regulated, mostly because an ever-expanding government needs ever-expanding funds. So, companies are going oversees where the labor and materials are cheaper, then selling their products for a bigger profit. You tell me American-made products are higher-quality but how the fuck would I know that? I can't afford to buy them. And the ones I can afford are shoddy and ill-built. The other problem is that Americans demand better wages than other countries because our cost of living is higher, because an ever-expanding government needs ever-expanding funds. Call it inflation, call it whatever you like. Fact of the matter is our cost of living is increasing because we keep needing more money, so workers need to make more. So employers need to pay more. This country was built by people who worked hard because it was its own reward. Because they were proud of their work. It is being ruined by people who demand more and more money, not because they need it, but because they feel entitled to it for being American. Furthermore, how many of you would trade your office jobs for factory jobs?
That brings me to my next item.
3.) Immigration. The benefit of immigration, aside from the cultural melting pot this country was always supposed to be, is cheaper labor. We Americans, the born and bred ones, can enjoy loftier lifestyles and less physically demanding jobs because those things are being taken care of by the lower economic classes, cheifly the blue collar boys and the immigrants, both legal and illegal. Republicans want to shoot the illegals and Democrats want to suck them off. Why are we bothering with either? See, the problem is the application process for citizenship in this country. It is unreasonably expensive and time-consuming. So we've got a crisis where people are hopping borders and bringing too much of their culutre here. Our national language is subject to debate. Here's how to solve this issue: Throw out the current process. Get fucking rid of it. Instead, for each applicant, do a thorough background check, give them a thorough physical, and insist that they take classes on American history and English. Enough to be proficient in both. That's all our current system establishes and more! Proficiency in the language, non-criminal background, clean bill of health, and a knowledge of our national history and what we stand for. What the fuck else do you need? Hell, some of these people speak better english and know more about American history than kids we educate here.
Of course, there will still be border jumpers. But how much easier would it be to manage a tiny fraction of what we have to manage now? Just the criminals and the dishonest ones. Those people? Shoot them. But an honest man trying to make his way in a better palce than he grew up? That's the American fucking Dream, we just need to give them a shot. As for the language, it's English.
4.) Religion/Racism. Okay, this is probably the biggest one. Anyone that knows me can taste my disdain for both organized religion and hypocrisy. I'm a very "practice what you preach" sort of guy. So here lies my issue with religion. We are a predominantly Christian country, fair? Most of the Western World identifies that way now. However, one of the founding virtues of this country was religious acceptance. Not tolerance. Acceptance. At this point, I'd settle for tolerance. Since 9/11 which, not to sound insensitive, but let's stop beating that horse shall we? Since 9/11 we have a very anti-muslim sort of vibe going on. Mostly from the right, the obviously religious conservatives. But I get the idea the Democrats don't jump on board because they have a psychological need to disagree with the Republicans. So, anyone from the Middle East, Muslim or otherwise, has to deal with a certain degree of persecution. For instance, this mosque they were talking of building near Ground Zero. People were getting death threats over it. People were protesting it.
That's unconstitutional, assholes. See, that Bill of Rights you're always prattling on about? Gives us the freedom to practice any religion, anywhere. Was this mosque going to harm people? No, not anymore than a church or a synagogue harms people. So practice what you fucking preach. These are fundamentalists we're fighting, not everyday practitioners of Islam. Allow me to draw a parallel. Disdaining Islamics because of a few fundamentalists, labeling them all terrorists, is like labeling every Christian a member of the Westboro Baptist Church. It's like saying you all protest at the funerals of soldiers with signs saying "God Hates Fags". Ashamed yet? How about its like saying every Christian is a Jew-killing sack of shit. Because that was the Inquisition, right? I'm not the first one to raise this point, but I'm the only one that will knock your fucking teeth in for disputing it.
Here's another one: Separation of Church and State. This is a democracy. Religion, therefore, has no place in our government. None. I don't care what the liberals say, I don't care what the conservatives say. I don't even care how much of the population is religious. It should have no bearing in government. That's what that statement means. We are voting on what is right for us, what is best for the country. That may not always be what your religion demands, but we have this handy Bill of Rights and Constitution that point out where we should go when we have those sorts of conflicts of interest. On a related note...
5.) Gay Marriage. Legalize it. Now. Not because I'm a bleeding-heart liberal, and not because I think the monotheistic beleif in one-man-one-woman is utterly ridiculous. Legalize it because it's unconstitutional to ban it. It is none of the government's business and it is beyond their jurisdiction to decide. The liberals want it for the wrong reasons. They want it because they're selfish and they want to prove how powerful they are by 'allowing' this. They want it because they're genetically predisposed to oppose conservative views. The Republicans don't want it because they're thinking with their Jesus instead of with their fucking brains.
This is not an issue. This is a travesty. You tell me it will disrupt the sanctity of marriage and I tell you you're a retard. Marriage has never been sanctimonious. It's never been sacred. Sure, the vows are sacred. Sure, the bond between two people is sacred. But show me a time in history when men didn't have concubines. Show me a time in history when two people that didn't love each other on some level could make a family simply because they said a few ceremonious words. You can't, because that time doesn't exist. Marriage is about a bond between two people, and if that bond doesn't give a shit about gender why do we?
You tell me it'll lead to people marrying their cousins or goats. I have two concerns with that. The first, is why are you concerned about it? What right do you have to interfere with someone's business? Second, that's ridiculous because you can already marry your cousin and a goat can't say its vows. You're making shit up because you don't have a real reason to be opposed to it when you give it some thought. Your knee-jerk reaction doesn't hold up.
6.) Homosexuals. This one is actually not about all of America, it's about the gay community, more specifically the flaming gay community that shoots its mouth off whenever possible and can't seem to adapt to society like the majority of people, gay straight or otherwise. Seriously, guys, give it a rest. You are regular people, just like me. Well, maybe more regular than me. But the outlandish things you do? Those flamboyant clothes, the mostly naked parades, the shrill shrieking? Those are setting you back decades. The unabashed promiscuity? Likewise. Live your lives the way we all do, for yourself. Stay out of the spotlight, stop doing irrational shit, and be fucking people, not charicatures.
7.)Politics. Let's bring it all around, shall we? I've gone on long enough. Politics is the real issue in this country. It's the issue because we've let it become an issue. Rather than making our own decisions, taking care of our own lives, we've allowed the government to do it for us. And they have done so happily. That is the nature of government. Power craves more power. The checks and balances in this country are in place so the people never allow the government too much power. Problem is, we've ignored them. Now, we're stuck in this system where parties are making decions based on party politics and they're stomping on business, they're stomping on people. None of these people we elect in November is going to change that, because they're all after power and politics.
Here's how we solve it: Real Patriots. People like me, people that love this country because its lovable, and despite hating the people, want to see them do better. People that have jobs and lives to return to once this shit is all cleared up. People that are open minded, not religiously influenced, and willing to say what's on their mind, while listening to the people that elected them. These are the people you need to elect, not businessmen, not politicians, not doctors and lawyers and judges looking to move up. Fucking people.
That, or Revolution.
Choose wisely, little ones.
Love and Kisses,
-S.R.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Unheeded
The ageless sensations of ached-for libations that pour down my throat like cascading venom, leased from the highest peaks in the most vile of places. I'm frantically shitting in every direction, hurtling backwards towards resurrection. The gods are speaking, but the words are beyond me. A warning, a reason, a chance at glory, the meaning is there but the truth of it is simple: I will make you loathe me. I will be symbolic of your hatred, bucolic if you need it. My addictions are all contradictions. My escapes are just aversions of fate.
I've grown so tired of the smell of new flesh. So fond of the scent of decay.
I hunger for power, for more to devour, my bent is self-destruction, but I'd rather destroy you. I told you the day we were spat from the snarling bowels of this place that you would never come to love me. I will only bring disgrace, distaste, dispassionte negatives. You'll become an off-white shade in the gray space between my vices. I'm filled with viscous fluids that are caustic to the touch. I wish that I could take you home, but I'd have to kill everything that you love.
I've grown so weary of being adored. One more time, I must be abhorred.
There are no words in waiting. No final chapter for this. Remember what I told you and not what you meant. Talking in circles will get you nowhere with yourself. The only one talking in circles is Hel.
Utterly Without Compassion,
-S.R.
I've grown so tired of the smell of new flesh. So fond of the scent of decay.
I hunger for power, for more to devour, my bent is self-destruction, but I'd rather destroy you. I told you the day we were spat from the snarling bowels of this place that you would never come to love me. I will only bring disgrace, distaste, dispassionte negatives. You'll become an off-white shade in the gray space between my vices. I'm filled with viscous fluids that are caustic to the touch. I wish that I could take you home, but I'd have to kill everything that you love.
I've grown so weary of being adored. One more time, I must be abhorred.
There are no words in waiting. No final chapter for this. Remember what I told you and not what you meant. Talking in circles will get you nowhere with yourself. The only one talking in circles is Hel.
Utterly Without Compassion,
-S.R.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Warnings
I will tear you limb from limb, and revel in my power over you. I will break your fragile bones and suck the marrow from the center. I will cut slivers from your organs and eat them at my leisure. I will fucking kill you and never spare you a second thought.
Discarding bodies and discarding lovers are so similar I find the comparison almost pointless to draw. So much blood. Those glassy, lifeless eyes. The ache that returns, so savagely, after the briefest period of their absence. It fades, it flows, it finds its way home and then drowns you, polishing off a bottle of bourbon and leaving your lungs choked with brine and your veins thick with lust.
I can taste ash, like the men of Pompeii, just before Vesuvius buried them forever.
She hemorrhages in my dreams, the way they all do, jet black blood that oozes, colored and clouded and coagulated with disease. It flows, not swiftly and not willingly. Only by virtue of the number of wounds I've inflicted. Horrors in numbers too great to discern, the rotting of worlds to the conqueror worm.
I will make war on your body in ways that will leave you surrounded, beseiged, utterly without hope as famine sets in and the ransacking waits, hungry, eager to taste sweet meat. The horde I will raise to strike against your walls will be unstoppable, interested only in pillage, in the slaughter, in the bloodrage.
And you will breathe your last somewhere in the lingering time between dark and light, overlooking the sea with the salt in your pores and the breath of the ocean in your hair. The place where all my jilted lovers go to die.
Death is only a matter of a little pain.
You're doomed,
-S.R.
Discarding bodies and discarding lovers are so similar I find the comparison almost pointless to draw. So much blood. Those glassy, lifeless eyes. The ache that returns, so savagely, after the briefest period of their absence. It fades, it flows, it finds its way home and then drowns you, polishing off a bottle of bourbon and leaving your lungs choked with brine and your veins thick with lust.
I can taste ash, like the men of Pompeii, just before Vesuvius buried them forever.
She hemorrhages in my dreams, the way they all do, jet black blood that oozes, colored and clouded and coagulated with disease. It flows, not swiftly and not willingly. Only by virtue of the number of wounds I've inflicted. Horrors in numbers too great to discern, the rotting of worlds to the conqueror worm.
I will make war on your body in ways that will leave you surrounded, beseiged, utterly without hope as famine sets in and the ransacking waits, hungry, eager to taste sweet meat. The horde I will raise to strike against your walls will be unstoppable, interested only in pillage, in the slaughter, in the bloodrage.
And you will breathe your last somewhere in the lingering time between dark and light, overlooking the sea with the salt in your pores and the breath of the ocean in your hair. The place where all my jilted lovers go to die.
Death is only a matter of a little pain.
You're doomed,
-S.R.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Curiosity
I could crave the heat of your body as I have craved so many physical things, could become addicted to the way you make my synapses fire, fill my brain and blood with chemical euphoria like heroin and leave me gasping, shuddering, sweating, exhausted like night terrors.I could beg you to tame me when our hips rock in tandem, your fingernails dig into my back and come away bloody, my teeth find the soft, sweet flesh of your throat and leave you trembling.
I can see the way your body would arch, you toes would curl, your eyes would slam shut as your mouth hung open, can feel your breath in my ear carrying pleas of "harder", "fuck me", "hurt me". I know what you would look like covered in scratches, bruises, welts, sweat, saliva, cum and how you would lie there, chest heaving as your lungs hauled in oxygen to slow your racing heart.
I know these things, like I know Whitman and Shakespeare and Milton. Like I know the way you'd shudder when I read you their words and mine. I know them like I know your face, the subtle movement of your tongue when you wet your lips before I kiss you. I know them, and I don't know anything.
I can imagine you exceeding imagination. Defying everything I have come to expect and leaving me open-mouthed, gaping stupidly, wondering how I never thought of this before.
More than anything, I want to know.
Spilling out into infinity,
-S.R.
I can see the way your body would arch, you toes would curl, your eyes would slam shut as your mouth hung open, can feel your breath in my ear carrying pleas of "harder", "fuck me", "hurt me". I know what you would look like covered in scratches, bruises, welts, sweat, saliva, cum and how you would lie there, chest heaving as your lungs hauled in oxygen to slow your racing heart.
I know these things, like I know Whitman and Shakespeare and Milton. Like I know the way you'd shudder when I read you their words and mine. I know them like I know your face, the subtle movement of your tongue when you wet your lips before I kiss you. I know them, and I don't know anything.
I can imagine you exceeding imagination. Defying everything I have come to expect and leaving me open-mouthed, gaping stupidly, wondering how I never thought of this before.
More than anything, I want to know.
Spilling out into infinity,
-S.R.
It's Frost Approaching
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack fol de daddy o
Whack fol de daddy o
There's whiskey in the jar
I ran amok in stories where the last true heroes linger and I cast aside my worries for the bright, gold dawn of Heaven. Where I came upon a beggar, an old man dyin' slowly. I stole away his misery and sent him away from me. T'was far from a miracle that I breathed away his pain, oh, for I live on naught but suffering. No joy or love sustains me. I threw off my cloak of velvet, trudged on through the desert and into the Night of Chaos. Whirling all around me, the endless dark surrounds me, upon a fabled road in walk with Satan's steps beneath me.
Staggering I came upon a poor, beleagured woman. I asked her why she wept and she said her lover had been stolen. Brought away from light of day, whereupon he was murdered. I kissed her 'neath a twisted bower, pushed myself inside and left her with a promise of a future life to love.
On I walked, past naked Fear who writhed in violent passion with the uncoiled snake of Hatred. I heard a mournful wail escape the frenzy of the rape. Tolling through the hours, I espied Hell in the distance, and took a long road 'round the gates that I would not be tempted. I stood upon the Edge and gazed out into the Twisting Nether. Sat upon the crumbling stone, there to await my lover.
Decades passed, my beard grew long, my eyes have lost their luster. Still I sit with silent patience, waiting on another. I still recall the fragrance as she whispered me a promise. To meet upon this lonesome ledge if ever we were parted. Long and long and long ago, I wrote my final story. I closed my eyes and left the world to find her without hurry. I walked a thousand thousand miles and waited day and nightly. To hear her footsteps drawing near, but was I led here blindly? For in the guise of woman often comes the devil to the ear. If I have been forsaken by the one I chose to die for...what's to stay my body from decaying here without her?
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack fol de daddy o
Whack fol de daddy o
There's whiskey in the jar
Shall I be remembered? Shall I be forgiven? What Hell awaits me when I make the long trip back to Heaven? I turned away from Light and then turned away from Darkness. Shall I be ever trapped between, imprisoned in the Twilight? I stand to start my journey. As she stands up behind me. She too has grown without me. Hand in hand we stand to gaze, but nothing strikes our fancy.
Let's away to Heaven, Love, they barred you entrance without me. And off upon the fabled road, now smooth to travel easy. I took her back to Asphodel, I turned my back on bristling Hell, and stepped into the daylight. With a greeting wave to Uriel, we stepped through the Gates.
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack fol de daddy o
Whack fol de daddy o
There's whiskey in the jar
Constant. Eternal. A peal of thunder cracks on jagged mountains. Tears, like fat raindrops, spill from the Eyes of God. I am without you. I am without. Pleas ring off the valley walls, but I am deaf to voices. Deaf to courage and cowardice. Deaf to all but despair. I am without you. I am without.
Det är frosten som nalkas,
-S.R.
Whack fol de daddy o
Whack fol de daddy o
There's whiskey in the jar
I ran amok in stories where the last true heroes linger and I cast aside my worries for the bright, gold dawn of Heaven. Where I came upon a beggar, an old man dyin' slowly. I stole away his misery and sent him away from me. T'was far from a miracle that I breathed away his pain, oh, for I live on naught but suffering. No joy or love sustains me. I threw off my cloak of velvet, trudged on through the desert and into the Night of Chaos. Whirling all around me, the endless dark surrounds me, upon a fabled road in walk with Satan's steps beneath me.
Staggering I came upon a poor, beleagured woman. I asked her why she wept and she said her lover had been stolen. Brought away from light of day, whereupon he was murdered. I kissed her 'neath a twisted bower, pushed myself inside and left her with a promise of a future life to love.
On I walked, past naked Fear who writhed in violent passion with the uncoiled snake of Hatred. I heard a mournful wail escape the frenzy of the rape. Tolling through the hours, I espied Hell in the distance, and took a long road 'round the gates that I would not be tempted. I stood upon the Edge and gazed out into the Twisting Nether. Sat upon the crumbling stone, there to await my lover.
Decades passed, my beard grew long, my eyes have lost their luster. Still I sit with silent patience, waiting on another. I still recall the fragrance as she whispered me a promise. To meet upon this lonesome ledge if ever we were parted. Long and long and long ago, I wrote my final story. I closed my eyes and left the world to find her without hurry. I walked a thousand thousand miles and waited day and nightly. To hear her footsteps drawing near, but was I led here blindly? For in the guise of woman often comes the devil to the ear. If I have been forsaken by the one I chose to die for...what's to stay my body from decaying here without her?
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack fol de daddy o
Whack fol de daddy o
There's whiskey in the jar
Shall I be remembered? Shall I be forgiven? What Hell awaits me when I make the long trip back to Heaven? I turned away from Light and then turned away from Darkness. Shall I be ever trapped between, imprisoned in the Twilight? I stand to start my journey. As she stands up behind me. She too has grown without me. Hand in hand we stand to gaze, but nothing strikes our fancy.
Let's away to Heaven, Love, they barred you entrance without me. And off upon the fabled road, now smooth to travel easy. I took her back to Asphodel, I turned my back on bristling Hell, and stepped into the daylight. With a greeting wave to Uriel, we stepped through the Gates.
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
Whack fol de daddy o
Whack fol de daddy o
There's whiskey in the jar
Constant. Eternal. A peal of thunder cracks on jagged mountains. Tears, like fat raindrops, spill from the Eyes of God. I am without you. I am without. Pleas ring off the valley walls, but I am deaf to voices. Deaf to courage and cowardice. Deaf to all but despair. I am without you. I am without.
Det är frosten som nalkas,
-S.R.
A Glossary of Sorts
As you may be aware, I recently decided to upload all of my old blogs (or rather, those that I didn't deem retarded) onto this site, both for the sake of preservation and due to a complete lack of respect for my free time. If, out of curiosity, you happen to read through them you'll find a number of names signed to the bottom. I assure you, these are not cases of plaigarism. These are personas I write under and you could associate them with different moods or different states of mind. I'm sure you'd pick up on it eventually, but just for the sake of clarity I'll include a brief idea for each of them here.
I typically write under the pseudonym Scar Rider (variations of which include: S.R., S. Rider, and the ever-popular and arrogant The Scar Rider). It comes from some vague idea I had years and years ago upon the first time I heard that song "Starrider", which was one of Foreigner's less successful singles. It occured to me that we learn, not so much from the goals we set for ourselves, but by the hardships we endure to get there. Scars, in other words. Its something I've grown fond of and the one I use most because it is the one closest to the real me.
I also use God As Himself (or, occasionally just God as a shortened form) which comes from the idea of God as an actor or a character in a script. Typically it also has to do with rage.
Then there's Nemesis, which is newer. Nemesis was a Greek goddess of Redemption. A concept that fascinates me.
And finally, A Phantom Lullaby, because it sounds fucking sad.
That said, please continue reading and sending me astronomical amounts of money.
All the best,
Scar Rider
I typically write under the pseudonym Scar Rider (variations of which include: S.R., S. Rider, and the ever-popular and arrogant The Scar Rider). It comes from some vague idea I had years and years ago upon the first time I heard that song "Starrider", which was one of Foreigner's less successful singles. It occured to me that we learn, not so much from the goals we set for ourselves, but by the hardships we endure to get there. Scars, in other words. Its something I've grown fond of and the one I use most because it is the one closest to the real me.
I also use God As Himself (or, occasionally just God as a shortened form) which comes from the idea of God as an actor or a character in a script. Typically it also has to do with rage.
Then there's Nemesis, which is newer. Nemesis was a Greek goddess of Redemption. A concept that fascinates me.
And finally, A Phantom Lullaby, because it sounds fucking sad.
That said, please continue reading and sending me astronomical amounts of money.
All the best,
Scar Rider
A Dream of Unrequited Hunger
Originally Posted: 10/14/09
I've seen you all over the place, flitting from shadow to shadow across the imaginary landscape, the vague, hazy outline of a world where dreams dwell. I've seen you clothed in scraps, probably all you could find in the aftermath of the fallout. I've seen you wrapped in blankets made to look like the midnight sky, to keep you concealed, to keep you away from me. I've seen you and wondered what you are, what you do, and what it would be like to touch you.
First you try to fuck it...
I've wandered after you, trying to lay hands on skin that looks like porcelain. Someone carved you from something precious. Someone made you to be perfect. That much is certain. But what I am I to do?
Then you try to eat it....
You know I'm here. Night after night I pursue you and night after night you flee, taking wing through this gray and insubstantial place until you're lost from sight, until I have to return another night to chase you. Why don't you just stand still? Why don't you let me touch you? You see how quickly I become disoriented, distorted, my intentions turn sour.
If it hasn't learned your name you gotta kill it before they see it.
You're elusive, evasive, invasive. You crawled inside me somehow and I have to wonder if I leave part of myself in this place when I'm awake the way I leave my body in the real world when I sleep. Is that how you did it? You waited until I left that lingering connection there and crawled inside, just waiting for me to return? I'm afraid you've slipped into the physical world now and there's nothing but a relfection left of you in the devastated place where we met. I'm afraid I'll never find you. Worse yet, this ugly place has already claimed your life. They'll eat the sweet meat from your bones and leave the rest for carrion, the same as I would have done. The only difference is that I love you, and the others are nothing but cannibals.
Missing vital pieces,
-S.R.
I've seen you all over the place, flitting from shadow to shadow across the imaginary landscape, the vague, hazy outline of a world where dreams dwell. I've seen you clothed in scraps, probably all you could find in the aftermath of the fallout. I've seen you wrapped in blankets made to look like the midnight sky, to keep you concealed, to keep you away from me. I've seen you and wondered what you are, what you do, and what it would be like to touch you.
First you try to fuck it...
I've wandered after you, trying to lay hands on skin that looks like porcelain. Someone carved you from something precious. Someone made you to be perfect. That much is certain. But what I am I to do?
Then you try to eat it....
You know I'm here. Night after night I pursue you and night after night you flee, taking wing through this gray and insubstantial place until you're lost from sight, until I have to return another night to chase you. Why don't you just stand still? Why don't you let me touch you? You see how quickly I become disoriented, distorted, my intentions turn sour.
If it hasn't learned your name you gotta kill it before they see it.
You're elusive, evasive, invasive. You crawled inside me somehow and I have to wonder if I leave part of myself in this place when I'm awake the way I leave my body in the real world when I sleep. Is that how you did it? You waited until I left that lingering connection there and crawled inside, just waiting for me to return? I'm afraid you've slipped into the physical world now and there's nothing but a relfection left of you in the devastated place where we met. I'm afraid I'll never find you. Worse yet, this ugly place has already claimed your life. They'll eat the sweet meat from your bones and leave the rest for carrion, the same as I would have done. The only difference is that I love you, and the others are nothing but cannibals.
Missing vital pieces,
-S.R.
A Tangled Mess of Limbs and Orgasms
Originally Posted: 9/22/09
You're a tall glass of scalding hot water, poured down my throat. You burn like the whiskey I've grown so fond of, but you leave scars behind like fat, violating fingers forced into soft orifices. I could certainly tame you, but I prefer you run wild and fill me with fantasies of rocking hips, grinding along to something that vaguely resembles music, too drunk to care that you're singing off-key while you ride me, too drunk to care that you're riding me. That something slightly trashy, slightly classy, and altogether wonderful.
She steals like a thief but she's always a woman to me.
I'm unsure of how to proceed here, like treading new water or walking knee-deep in a shit bog, barefoot, harvesting human refuse in hopes of making art. None of my skills seem particularly useful right now. I don't think the best of them would impress you. For all my prowess, I can hardly make you bat an eye. What time is it? And silence is my answer.
This movie sucks. Better suck my dick or something.
I like petty things more than I like pretty things. Pretty thing make one covetous, jealous, and entirely too serious. I'm much more lackadaisical, much more reserved. I'd rather sit back with a nice cold beer and watch a pretty thing get gang fucked than have to touch it myself. Petty things, though, petty things are different. Petty things are valuable only to someone who sees their value. Otherwise, their worth is so miniscule it hardly warrants noticing. I scoop those little things up and hold onto them, secure in my possession, secure in our mutual need (and, often as not, mutual distaste) for each other.
I'd like to block you out because your singing is unnerving, its a distraction, and I have work to do. Important work. Not important to the world, but important to me. You could be important to me, someday. Maybe. Right now, though, you're another voice in the din, another muse among many. Or maybe one facet of a muse that's too large to comprehend with the human eye. I haven't decided yet. I hear it isn't size that matters, anyway, it's intent that counts. Whichever, I'm on the wrong side. I'm not very big and I mean only to harm you. I'm incapable of doing good with these hands.
This all seems sort of trite and boring, doesn't it? Kind of unwarranted, at least. I suppose I can see where I think I have a point but, you have to agree, most of what I say is bullshit and silly metaphor. Bleeding words so I don't have to sacrifice part of myself. Or so it appears.
One thing is for certain, I'd really like to fuck you. Not for any particular reason. Nothing comes to mind, at any rate. I'd just enjoy it. Like I enjoy macaroni and cheese, or coffee, or cigarettes. I could probably do without it, but why bother? Far better to get what I want than dwell on the idea of it.
Now that I've gotten myself all worked up, I've got a beating or two to hand out before sleep claims me. She's a tricky mistress, sleep. Always sneaking up on a man and walloping him on the head. Kind of like that uppity nigger in Blazing Saddles. Or she would be if she carried a shovel and hit you accidentally. That, however, is not the case. She's calculating, manipulative, and sexy. Just the way I like my creatures of the night. The only way I'll let them touch me without devouring them on the spot.
Dream deep, little wanderer. The empty sky is wider than you know.
Unflinchingly Yours,
-S.R.
You're a tall glass of scalding hot water, poured down my throat. You burn like the whiskey I've grown so fond of, but you leave scars behind like fat, violating fingers forced into soft orifices. I could certainly tame you, but I prefer you run wild and fill me with fantasies of rocking hips, grinding along to something that vaguely resembles music, too drunk to care that you're singing off-key while you ride me, too drunk to care that you're riding me. That something slightly trashy, slightly classy, and altogether wonderful.
She steals like a thief but she's always a woman to me.
I'm unsure of how to proceed here, like treading new water or walking knee-deep in a shit bog, barefoot, harvesting human refuse in hopes of making art. None of my skills seem particularly useful right now. I don't think the best of them would impress you. For all my prowess, I can hardly make you bat an eye. What time is it? And silence is my answer.
This movie sucks. Better suck my dick or something.
I like petty things more than I like pretty things. Pretty thing make one covetous, jealous, and entirely too serious. I'm much more lackadaisical, much more reserved. I'd rather sit back with a nice cold beer and watch a pretty thing get gang fucked than have to touch it myself. Petty things, though, petty things are different. Petty things are valuable only to someone who sees their value. Otherwise, their worth is so miniscule it hardly warrants noticing. I scoop those little things up and hold onto them, secure in my possession, secure in our mutual need (and, often as not, mutual distaste) for each other.
I'd like to block you out because your singing is unnerving, its a distraction, and I have work to do. Important work. Not important to the world, but important to me. You could be important to me, someday. Maybe. Right now, though, you're another voice in the din, another muse among many. Or maybe one facet of a muse that's too large to comprehend with the human eye. I haven't decided yet. I hear it isn't size that matters, anyway, it's intent that counts. Whichever, I'm on the wrong side. I'm not very big and I mean only to harm you. I'm incapable of doing good with these hands.
This all seems sort of trite and boring, doesn't it? Kind of unwarranted, at least. I suppose I can see where I think I have a point but, you have to agree, most of what I say is bullshit and silly metaphor. Bleeding words so I don't have to sacrifice part of myself. Or so it appears.
One thing is for certain, I'd really like to fuck you. Not for any particular reason. Nothing comes to mind, at any rate. I'd just enjoy it. Like I enjoy macaroni and cheese, or coffee, or cigarettes. I could probably do without it, but why bother? Far better to get what I want than dwell on the idea of it.
Now that I've gotten myself all worked up, I've got a beating or two to hand out before sleep claims me. She's a tricky mistress, sleep. Always sneaking up on a man and walloping him on the head. Kind of like that uppity nigger in Blazing Saddles. Or she would be if she carried a shovel and hit you accidentally. That, however, is not the case. She's calculating, manipulative, and sexy. Just the way I like my creatures of the night. The only way I'll let them touch me without devouring them on the spot.
Dream deep, little wanderer. The empty sky is wider than you know.
Unflinchingly Yours,
-S.R.
Morbid and Torpid
Originally Posted: 9/7/09
Piece me together from the wounds that we've inflicted on each other. Recreate my voice from the sound bytes and snips of memory you can recover. Paint my eyes the myriad colors of your dreams and make my lips from two pear halves, tinged red with embarassment. My chest and arms will come together from bits of duts and clumps of stone. The rest of me will take shape while you breathe a flustered sigh, unsure of where to go from here. Build me again, because you've laid waste to me the way that only you can.
I've been destroyed and devoured and unmade a thousand times. It never gets easier, you never get numb to the way you flesh separating from the bone sends shrieking agony cavorting along your nerves. You can almost learn to enjoy it, the process if not the pain, but you will never become accustomed to it. I won't, at least. I refuse to get used to something so very unhealthy.
I remember being pulled apart. The way the joints burst, twisted, resisted. Finally, as if they just submitted to the inevitable, they tore and split. I could almost hear them sigh, whimsically perhaps, thinking of better days. The skin was stripped, the pulsing maze of muscle and arteries below left exposed. My insides aren't ugly so much as they're confusing. It could be a kind of beauty, or some sort of existential art, but it could also be described as horror. Loosely, at least.
I'm not sure why a simple 'Fuck you' aimed at my face is so offensive. Quite frankly, I've thrown out enough of those in enough directions that one was bound to whip a half-circle and take a dive back at me. Then again, I should know these things always come at me from the place I least expect and, for once, the surprise was enough to render me speechless. I see no sense in fighting. I'm just letting it go. Maybe that's better. Maybe I'm just too tired to bother.
Of all my vices, love and lust are the two most obnoxious. Someone once told me that at least ninety percent of my problems revolve around someone with a vagina. Or someone who allegedly has a vagina. I'm either trying to fuck them, trying not to fuck them, or wrapped up in some semblence of love. One way or another. Honestly, its gotten a little bit tedious. I mean, the sex I don't want to have is usually about as horrifying as I can possibly imagine and the sex I want to have is rarely more thrilling than watching a monkey get gang-stomped by a bunch of angry molestation victims. And love, heart-wrenching and wonderful, is getting to be a pain in the ass. I'd swear off both of them entirely, but that'd be like Old Man Junkie Shuffle swearing off crack. They'll inevitably rot my teeth, cause my skin to itch with preternatural intensity, and force me to steal from and murder my friends, but Thor Be Praised its a hell of a high.
I can't get the smell of your arousal out of my skin.
I can't get the sound of your raging out of my mind.
I'm spilling over the edges around me, cascading down the slope toward the earth far below. If the impact doesn't kill me, pray to whatever gods you embrace that the flood doesn't reach your doorstep. Because then, nothing will stop me.
Placated only by monstrosity,
-S.R.
Piece me together from the wounds that we've inflicted on each other. Recreate my voice from the sound bytes and snips of memory you can recover. Paint my eyes the myriad colors of your dreams and make my lips from two pear halves, tinged red with embarassment. My chest and arms will come together from bits of duts and clumps of stone. The rest of me will take shape while you breathe a flustered sigh, unsure of where to go from here. Build me again, because you've laid waste to me the way that only you can.
I've been destroyed and devoured and unmade a thousand times. It never gets easier, you never get numb to the way you flesh separating from the bone sends shrieking agony cavorting along your nerves. You can almost learn to enjoy it, the process if not the pain, but you will never become accustomed to it. I won't, at least. I refuse to get used to something so very unhealthy.
I remember being pulled apart. The way the joints burst, twisted, resisted. Finally, as if they just submitted to the inevitable, they tore and split. I could almost hear them sigh, whimsically perhaps, thinking of better days. The skin was stripped, the pulsing maze of muscle and arteries below left exposed. My insides aren't ugly so much as they're confusing. It could be a kind of beauty, or some sort of existential art, but it could also be described as horror. Loosely, at least.
I'm not sure why a simple 'Fuck you' aimed at my face is so offensive. Quite frankly, I've thrown out enough of those in enough directions that one was bound to whip a half-circle and take a dive back at me. Then again, I should know these things always come at me from the place I least expect and, for once, the surprise was enough to render me speechless. I see no sense in fighting. I'm just letting it go. Maybe that's better. Maybe I'm just too tired to bother.
Of all my vices, love and lust are the two most obnoxious. Someone once told me that at least ninety percent of my problems revolve around someone with a vagina. Or someone who allegedly has a vagina. I'm either trying to fuck them, trying not to fuck them, or wrapped up in some semblence of love. One way or another. Honestly, its gotten a little bit tedious. I mean, the sex I don't want to have is usually about as horrifying as I can possibly imagine and the sex I want to have is rarely more thrilling than watching a monkey get gang-stomped by a bunch of angry molestation victims. And love, heart-wrenching and wonderful, is getting to be a pain in the ass. I'd swear off both of them entirely, but that'd be like Old Man Junkie Shuffle swearing off crack. They'll inevitably rot my teeth, cause my skin to itch with preternatural intensity, and force me to steal from and murder my friends, but Thor Be Praised its a hell of a high.
I can't get the smell of your arousal out of my skin.
I can't get the sound of your raging out of my mind.
I'm spilling over the edges around me, cascading down the slope toward the earth far below. If the impact doesn't kill me, pray to whatever gods you embrace that the flood doesn't reach your doorstep. Because then, nothing will stop me.
Placated only by monstrosity,
-S.R.
A Soft Spot in the Chest Cavity
Originally Posted: 7/29/09
When I asked if you wanted a fucking piece of me, I meant do you want my heart. I don't need it, its too damned heavy to carry. If you won't eat it, I'm just going to toss it anyway. Go ahead, take it, its on me. If you aren't 100% satisfied, I'll refund your money and you can keep the kidneys and the shipping cost. I can't refund the time you'll lose taking it for a test drive, but life is all about taking risks. Maybe, this once, I'm a risk that'll pay off. Maybe I'm a risk that won't leave you in a wheelchair, incontinent, and cumbersome to your loved ones. Maybe.
Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe all that shit they say about me in the tabloids is true and I'm just clocked in to fight and fuck and bail out. Collect my paycheck and see you for the class reunion. This is a job for me, after all. Cut me some slack, though. I'm never late, I never call in sick, and I'm always good for a few drinks, a few laughs, a few minutes of wasting your breath. Too few? Fuck you.
Or maybe we're both wrong. Maybe I'm no pauper and I'm not prince. What's left? Gunshots, bloodpsatter, your lifeless eyes staring up, frozen in mute horror. You knew what I was going to do, and you couldn't stop me. Let them catch me. Let them throw me away forever. Let them take my life. "Any last words?" "Jesus, my bad." And that's it. I'm in heaven. Ready to fuck you up for eternity. You can't escape, you can't hide away behind the authorities. I'm a monster and I can never be stopped.
Then again, speculation is just taking a shot in the dark at your family reunion. Someone with your blood in their veins is catching a bullet, but who and where? It doesn't matter. What matters is the attempt. The nervous twitch of a hand when you ask the question, the tense, agonizing silence before she answers, the look in her eyes, the way your stomach churns and rises when she opens her mouth to speak, the rejection or acceptance. That's what matters. The aftermath is just formalities. Just paperwork to keep you busy so the Bossman don't catch you slackin' off again and git you fired. How long it takes you to finish that pile of work and move on is your business, but profits are rising in this hustle-and-bustle style that means the longer you delay the harder you'll have to work to please your customers.
I'm talking about relationships and what a pointless waste of time they are when I'm not in one. And what an even more worthless waste of time they are when I am. I really think its the whole seriousness that bothers me. The need to blow little details out of proportion. Yes, I vaguely recall our first date. Should I be required to? No. Yes, I remembered today is the day you wanted to drag me along to see your grandmother. Do I want to go? Absolutely not. Yes, I know you like the black shirt. Why am I not wearing it? Fuck you, that's why.
When you're friends, it doesn't matter. You can be completely comfortable around a person, say what you like, do as you please, wear what you will. When you take on the mantle of being that same person's significant other it becomes a whole new pile of assholes. Why, you ask? I don't know. Suddenly your crude humor isn't funny anymore. Suddenly your love of the sauce is unacceptable. Suddenly your lifelong struggle with a chronic failure to jump at every fucking whim is a crime. Here's a whim you can jump at, bitch: Suck my dick.
I'm not directing this anywhere. Its just commentary. Seriously, though, why does it change everything? Why is it suddenly so god damned formal? What happens to the inside jokes, the secret handshakes, the laughter for no real reason, the staying up late and talking? Where does that go? Does the sex replace it? I don't think so. The sex becomes less and less extraordinary. So what happens to that shit? Why do you suddenly have to pretend to be a re-made man (or woman, I guess) to impress someone who should know better? These are legitimate questions, and I think I have the answer. Play along.
The answer, of course, is that you're fucking retarded. I don't think you have to do those things. I think that when a relationship is new it feels fragile. It feels like a baby. So you lie to it. You tell it the world is beautiful and you're amazing and the sex is astronomical. You tell it you don't like to drink and the word 'nigga' is not in your vocabulary. You don't like to laugh at handicapped people. You don't cheat on your girlfriends or do irresponsible things, or forget just about everything she says to you. You do memorize her every curve. You call her everyday just to tell her you're thinking of her. You kiss her and say its the only time you've ever kissed someone like that. You lie through your god damned teeth. So does she. She's a liar, too.
Then you settle in. You start to feel comfortable. The real you creeps back in. You speak your mind, you get pants-shittingly drunk, you forget absolutely everything she says because, frankly, is was boring the first time. You confess that you hate his favorite band and, furthermore, his mother is a neurotic bitch. You become yourselves. Then you break the fuck up. The cycle begins anew.
You know what I say? Fuck all that. Stop lying to each other and get on with being people. No one is perfect for you because no one is perfect. Your ideal match will still have some character flaws. Character flaws you'll just have to get used to. This fairytale bullshit has to end. It has to end. Do you hear me? It is ridiculous. You'll find someone you get along with. Someone with the same crazy tendencies you hated about your mother or father. Someone you love unflichingly because, despite the occasional thought of murdering them in the shower, they're incredible. They're a part of you. They're your other half.
Until then, life is all bitches, money, and taking the risk of catching infections. You do it. We all do it. We thrive on the challenge. We thrive on the uncertainty. And when we find that special someone, we thrive on the periodic fights, the sobering backhand, and the strength that comes with knowing someone far crazier than you has your back.
That's love, folks, and god damn is it beautiful. Flawed, Odin's Beard, is it flawed, but nothing else compares. Not even a beer, a sandwich, and a warm place to sleep on a rainy night in a strange place. Unless, of course, that special someone is right beside you. Then, well, you'd better just prepare for death because it never gets any better.
Sentimental, but you can kiss my ass.
Alone when you're not here,
-S.R.
When I asked if you wanted a fucking piece of me, I meant do you want my heart. I don't need it, its too damned heavy to carry. If you won't eat it, I'm just going to toss it anyway. Go ahead, take it, its on me. If you aren't 100% satisfied, I'll refund your money and you can keep the kidneys and the shipping cost. I can't refund the time you'll lose taking it for a test drive, but life is all about taking risks. Maybe, this once, I'm a risk that'll pay off. Maybe I'm a risk that won't leave you in a wheelchair, incontinent, and cumbersome to your loved ones. Maybe.
Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe all that shit they say about me in the tabloids is true and I'm just clocked in to fight and fuck and bail out. Collect my paycheck and see you for the class reunion. This is a job for me, after all. Cut me some slack, though. I'm never late, I never call in sick, and I'm always good for a few drinks, a few laughs, a few minutes of wasting your breath. Too few? Fuck you.
Or maybe we're both wrong. Maybe I'm no pauper and I'm not prince. What's left? Gunshots, bloodpsatter, your lifeless eyes staring up, frozen in mute horror. You knew what I was going to do, and you couldn't stop me. Let them catch me. Let them throw me away forever. Let them take my life. "Any last words?" "Jesus, my bad." And that's it. I'm in heaven. Ready to fuck you up for eternity. You can't escape, you can't hide away behind the authorities. I'm a monster and I can never be stopped.
Then again, speculation is just taking a shot in the dark at your family reunion. Someone with your blood in their veins is catching a bullet, but who and where? It doesn't matter. What matters is the attempt. The nervous twitch of a hand when you ask the question, the tense, agonizing silence before she answers, the look in her eyes, the way your stomach churns and rises when she opens her mouth to speak, the rejection or acceptance. That's what matters. The aftermath is just formalities. Just paperwork to keep you busy so the Bossman don't catch you slackin' off again and git you fired. How long it takes you to finish that pile of work and move on is your business, but profits are rising in this hustle-and-bustle style that means the longer you delay the harder you'll have to work to please your customers.
I'm talking about relationships and what a pointless waste of time they are when I'm not in one. And what an even more worthless waste of time they are when I am. I really think its the whole seriousness that bothers me. The need to blow little details out of proportion. Yes, I vaguely recall our first date. Should I be required to? No. Yes, I remembered today is the day you wanted to drag me along to see your grandmother. Do I want to go? Absolutely not. Yes, I know you like the black shirt. Why am I not wearing it? Fuck you, that's why.
When you're friends, it doesn't matter. You can be completely comfortable around a person, say what you like, do as you please, wear what you will. When you take on the mantle of being that same person's significant other it becomes a whole new pile of assholes. Why, you ask? I don't know. Suddenly your crude humor isn't funny anymore. Suddenly your love of the sauce is unacceptable. Suddenly your lifelong struggle with a chronic failure to jump at every fucking whim is a crime. Here's a whim you can jump at, bitch: Suck my dick.
I'm not directing this anywhere. Its just commentary. Seriously, though, why does it change everything? Why is it suddenly so god damned formal? What happens to the inside jokes, the secret handshakes, the laughter for no real reason, the staying up late and talking? Where does that go? Does the sex replace it? I don't think so. The sex becomes less and less extraordinary. So what happens to that shit? Why do you suddenly have to pretend to be a re-made man (or woman, I guess) to impress someone who should know better? These are legitimate questions, and I think I have the answer. Play along.
The answer, of course, is that you're fucking retarded. I don't think you have to do those things. I think that when a relationship is new it feels fragile. It feels like a baby. So you lie to it. You tell it the world is beautiful and you're amazing and the sex is astronomical. You tell it you don't like to drink and the word 'nigga' is not in your vocabulary. You don't like to laugh at handicapped people. You don't cheat on your girlfriends or do irresponsible things, or forget just about everything she says to you. You do memorize her every curve. You call her everyday just to tell her you're thinking of her. You kiss her and say its the only time you've ever kissed someone like that. You lie through your god damned teeth. So does she. She's a liar, too.
Then you settle in. You start to feel comfortable. The real you creeps back in. You speak your mind, you get pants-shittingly drunk, you forget absolutely everything she says because, frankly, is was boring the first time. You confess that you hate his favorite band and, furthermore, his mother is a neurotic bitch. You become yourselves. Then you break the fuck up. The cycle begins anew.
You know what I say? Fuck all that. Stop lying to each other and get on with being people. No one is perfect for you because no one is perfect. Your ideal match will still have some character flaws. Character flaws you'll just have to get used to. This fairytale bullshit has to end. It has to end. Do you hear me? It is ridiculous. You'll find someone you get along with. Someone with the same crazy tendencies you hated about your mother or father. Someone you love unflichingly because, despite the occasional thought of murdering them in the shower, they're incredible. They're a part of you. They're your other half.
Until then, life is all bitches, money, and taking the risk of catching infections. You do it. We all do it. We thrive on the challenge. We thrive on the uncertainty. And when we find that special someone, we thrive on the periodic fights, the sobering backhand, and the strength that comes with knowing someone far crazier than you has your back.
That's love, folks, and god damn is it beautiful. Flawed, Odin's Beard, is it flawed, but nothing else compares. Not even a beer, a sandwich, and a warm place to sleep on a rainy night in a strange place. Unless, of course, that special someone is right beside you. Then, well, you'd better just prepare for death because it never gets any better.
Sentimental, but you can kiss my ass.
Alone when you're not here,
-S.R.
The Merits of Rejection
Originally Posted: 7/7/09
I was thinking today, and that never turns out well. Here's some shit I came up with.
I once told a woman
That I was in love with her.
She, very politely, told me to
Go fuck myself,
A piece of advice that has
Been more helpful
Than any I've received since.
Rejection has its merits. I say this first because its the thesis upon which everything hereafter is based and, well, that's how I was taught to write. Allow me to be more specific when I say what I mean by rejection, though. I don't mean being rejected for a personal loan, or being rejected by a prestigious college, or being rejected from joining the ranks of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders (besides, fuck Dallas). I mean rejection in a personal sense. Boy (or girl) likes girl (or boy) admits it and is soundly turned away. That kind of rejection.
If you're a normal person, it inspires you to try harder. Maybe you want to change some aspect of yourself and that rejection spurs you to do it. Maybe you want to manipulate that person into thinking you've changed, believing you are, now that they've cast you aside like rubbish once, more to their liking. Actually, that one seems most likely. Courting is, after all, an elaborate series of lies. You paint yourself perfect. Once the object of your affection is yours, then you reveal the slithering pit of snakes that is your personality. By then, its too late for them.
If you're someone else, rejection gives you a better idea about the kind of person you're attracted to and, more importantly, the kind of person that is attracted to you. That lesson is a little harder to learn. Just because one busty blonde has decided your ability to burp the Star Spangled Banner isn't endearing doesn't mean another one will think likewise. I didn't say, however, that rejection would tell you everything. Just that it will make your options a little less vague.
For most of us, probably all of us, rejection is a fear. It isn't a paralyzing, pants-shitting phobia, but it is something we're afraid of encountering. That makes your average person cautious. When you invest in someone, or something, only to have them snort derisively at your pathetic wooing, it hurts. That's a merit, right? Caution? I think so. Recklessness is good most of the time. Especially when you're young. You learn from your mistakes, exhalt in your triumphs, and become a better, stronger, (faster?) person. Other people, though, are indeed paralyzed with the fear of rejection. These people will agonize over a crush, or a pet they want mommy to buy them, or any number of things, for months or years and never say a word. The hints are there but, let's face it, your love interest isn't a mind reader. Then they're hopelessly crushed when that love slips into the hands of another. When these people make the news, they're usually socipaths. However, I think there is a larger group of shy, rejection phobes who aren't the stalker-killer type.
Which brings me to a related topic. Let's all grow some balls. Seriously, folks, we all need to. In times past, men didn't fear rejection because they simply asked a woman out and the woman said yes. Otherwise, she'd be beaten and cast out of her family to become an old hag and/or prostitute. That's how I imagine it, at any rate. The socially accepted behavior for most of our species' history was that men approached women and women, for the most part, were basically useless property. Except when it came to fucking and cooking. Even then, more than a few of them were incapable of functioning properly and needed a sound reminder of their place in the world.
These days, gender lines are blurred and that tradition, much like slavery and the guillotine, isn't worth clinging to. You can't knock your wife around for making shitty coffee and women can't wait around for Prince Charming to grow some hair on his sack and ask them to the ball. Also, more often than not, Prince Charming is either gay or confined eternally to the Purgatory that is Friend Space. Guys have the same problem, though. We all seem to be so locked into this Pussy Pounding Competition (an actual pasttime in China, I'm told) that we rarely pursue a girl we aren't sure of bedding, thus damning Princess...whatever the gender equivalent of Charming would be, to Friend Space. Not that being friends is a bad thing. It only blows when you're condemned there.
I think that fear of rejection comes into play there. You go after a girl you're not sure of and she tells you to suck the snot off the tip of Castro's spider-veined cock and you look like a sissy in front of all the tiny-dicks you call your friends. Or "Bros", if you prefer. Likewise, I think being rejected a time or two will let you take these things a little less seriously and act a little bit more like a human being than a jackal. Who gives a shit what those Varsity Basketball players think? Those guys peaked at seventeen. Life after highschool (or maybe college) for most of them is a downhill slope of failure. And so what if she rejects you? Big fucking deal. It isn't the end of the world. Find someone she hates and nail her instead, if you're the vindictive type. Better yet, her best friend. Unless her best friend is a guy. No, even then. He's probably into it.
This is, I admit, one of those places in life where I'm something of a hypocrite. I don't really go for the gold myself. But do you want to end up like me? Surely not, good sir, surely not. Also, a lot of you (meaning everyone else on the planet) are more upset by your fear of rejection, or your experiences with rejection, than I am. I don't take many things seriously enough to be upset by them, at least not when it comes to interactions with other people. Letting someone else dictate how I feel seems like a waste of time to me. Actually, try it my way before you decide to grow enormous testicles and ask out that secret crush. Just relax, lay back, have a beer or a smoke or something, and enjoy the ride. Someone wise once said, "Life is a highway," so ride her all night long.
Another thing, just breifly. Think about the last time you had a little crush on someone. You know how you wanted to hide it but, at the same time, you kept dropping little hints you felt hepless to prevent? Cut it the fuck out. Look, that person is never going to pick up on it. Never. Seriously. Especially if they feel the same way and they, like you, are too shy and emotionally stunted to do something about it. They're going to think one of two things, either you're fucking weird and they should stay away from you, or you've turned into some kind of wacky metrosexual Bizzaro version of yourself. Your friends, though, will see it almost imemdiately and laugh at you. They laugh mercilessly at you because friends are like pet tigers. Pet tigers in that, they're cute and cuddly until you display some kind of weakness, and then they eat your flesh because it tastes good. Lovingly, of course.
There you have it. Either learn to live with rejection, its merits and its upsets, or learn to love masturbation and writing scathing Facebook Notes. Those are your options, and now is the time to pick one. Join us next week for, "Fisting: Ejaculation Aid or Indicator of Rage Issues?"
That's all folks,
-S.R.
I was thinking today, and that never turns out well. Here's some shit I came up with.
I once told a woman
That I was in love with her.
She, very politely, told me to
Go fuck myself,
A piece of advice that has
Been more helpful
Than any I've received since.
Rejection has its merits. I say this first because its the thesis upon which everything hereafter is based and, well, that's how I was taught to write. Allow me to be more specific when I say what I mean by rejection, though. I don't mean being rejected for a personal loan, or being rejected by a prestigious college, or being rejected from joining the ranks of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders (besides, fuck Dallas). I mean rejection in a personal sense. Boy (or girl) likes girl (or boy) admits it and is soundly turned away. That kind of rejection.
If you're a normal person, it inspires you to try harder. Maybe you want to change some aspect of yourself and that rejection spurs you to do it. Maybe you want to manipulate that person into thinking you've changed, believing you are, now that they've cast you aside like rubbish once, more to their liking. Actually, that one seems most likely. Courting is, after all, an elaborate series of lies. You paint yourself perfect. Once the object of your affection is yours, then you reveal the slithering pit of snakes that is your personality. By then, its too late for them.
If you're someone else, rejection gives you a better idea about the kind of person you're attracted to and, more importantly, the kind of person that is attracted to you. That lesson is a little harder to learn. Just because one busty blonde has decided your ability to burp the Star Spangled Banner isn't endearing doesn't mean another one will think likewise. I didn't say, however, that rejection would tell you everything. Just that it will make your options a little less vague.
For most of us, probably all of us, rejection is a fear. It isn't a paralyzing, pants-shitting phobia, but it is something we're afraid of encountering. That makes your average person cautious. When you invest in someone, or something, only to have them snort derisively at your pathetic wooing, it hurts. That's a merit, right? Caution? I think so. Recklessness is good most of the time. Especially when you're young. You learn from your mistakes, exhalt in your triumphs, and become a better, stronger, (faster?) person. Other people, though, are indeed paralyzed with the fear of rejection. These people will agonize over a crush, or a pet they want mommy to buy them, or any number of things, for months or years and never say a word. The hints are there but, let's face it, your love interest isn't a mind reader. Then they're hopelessly crushed when that love slips into the hands of another. When these people make the news, they're usually socipaths. However, I think there is a larger group of shy, rejection phobes who aren't the stalker-killer type.
Which brings me to a related topic. Let's all grow some balls. Seriously, folks, we all need to. In times past, men didn't fear rejection because they simply asked a woman out and the woman said yes. Otherwise, she'd be beaten and cast out of her family to become an old hag and/or prostitute. That's how I imagine it, at any rate. The socially accepted behavior for most of our species' history was that men approached women and women, for the most part, were basically useless property. Except when it came to fucking and cooking. Even then, more than a few of them were incapable of functioning properly and needed a sound reminder of their place in the world.
These days, gender lines are blurred and that tradition, much like slavery and the guillotine, isn't worth clinging to. You can't knock your wife around for making shitty coffee and women can't wait around for Prince Charming to grow some hair on his sack and ask them to the ball. Also, more often than not, Prince Charming is either gay or confined eternally to the Purgatory that is Friend Space. Guys have the same problem, though. We all seem to be so locked into this Pussy Pounding Competition (an actual pasttime in China, I'm told) that we rarely pursue a girl we aren't sure of bedding, thus damning Princess...whatever the gender equivalent of Charming would be, to Friend Space. Not that being friends is a bad thing. It only blows when you're condemned there.
I think that fear of rejection comes into play there. You go after a girl you're not sure of and she tells you to suck the snot off the tip of Castro's spider-veined cock and you look like a sissy in front of all the tiny-dicks you call your friends. Or "Bros", if you prefer. Likewise, I think being rejected a time or two will let you take these things a little less seriously and act a little bit more like a human being than a jackal. Who gives a shit what those Varsity Basketball players think? Those guys peaked at seventeen. Life after highschool (or maybe college) for most of them is a downhill slope of failure. And so what if she rejects you? Big fucking deal. It isn't the end of the world. Find someone she hates and nail her instead, if you're the vindictive type. Better yet, her best friend. Unless her best friend is a guy. No, even then. He's probably into it.
This is, I admit, one of those places in life where I'm something of a hypocrite. I don't really go for the gold myself. But do you want to end up like me? Surely not, good sir, surely not. Also, a lot of you (meaning everyone else on the planet) are more upset by your fear of rejection, or your experiences with rejection, than I am. I don't take many things seriously enough to be upset by them, at least not when it comes to interactions with other people. Letting someone else dictate how I feel seems like a waste of time to me. Actually, try it my way before you decide to grow enormous testicles and ask out that secret crush. Just relax, lay back, have a beer or a smoke or something, and enjoy the ride. Someone wise once said, "Life is a highway," so ride her all night long.
Another thing, just breifly. Think about the last time you had a little crush on someone. You know how you wanted to hide it but, at the same time, you kept dropping little hints you felt hepless to prevent? Cut it the fuck out. Look, that person is never going to pick up on it. Never. Seriously. Especially if they feel the same way and they, like you, are too shy and emotionally stunted to do something about it. They're going to think one of two things, either you're fucking weird and they should stay away from you, or you've turned into some kind of wacky metrosexual Bizzaro version of yourself. Your friends, though, will see it almost imemdiately and laugh at you. They laugh mercilessly at you because friends are like pet tigers. Pet tigers in that, they're cute and cuddly until you display some kind of weakness, and then they eat your flesh because it tastes good. Lovingly, of course.
There you have it. Either learn to live with rejection, its merits and its upsets, or learn to love masturbation and writing scathing Facebook Notes. Those are your options, and now is the time to pick one. Join us next week for, "Fisting: Ejaculation Aid or Indicator of Rage Issues?"
That's all folks,
-S.R.
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