Wednesday, February 18, 2004

monster

This was more for me, as a personal thing, than anything, but I'll post it here. Comment if you'd like, I suppose, but yeah.

I'll probably salvage some of this tonight and make it into my column for newspaper.

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its times like this and i try to put it down but the words wont come. i wonder if the words left me and i dont have them anymore. it all seems dead at this moment and im left here wondering where its all at, where is my power, where is my feeling, where is the feeling of words coming down perfect in a nice cocosm of greatness? where is the feeling and i ask myself and i dont know i just dont know.

i dont feel sadness, i dont feel anything. i feel hopelessly hopeful and i take my ways and i cant seem to put them down on here. and it all seems like drivel right now and i feel like im wandering around in a deep pit of mud.

the mud is up to me and in my head. inside my brain and it says,

"you can think you dont know whats to be said,"
and i feel dead.

wheres the genius i thought i knew? maybe i never had it i say to myself. and emotions not running me through, the muds all over me and its covering. its a sheltered home where i can drown and feel fine but i wonder where its all at and itll just take time. and then itll all leak out and ill feel like im in control again. flying the airplane to the hard asphalt and crashing it and itll flame up and my eyes will be wild and visceral and ill feel so good. but right now i feel nothing and all i can hear is the redolent smell of the rotting carcass of nothing. he wears no clothes and is naked on the ground and is all over me, covering me, over my eyes. and up and down he shakes hes having a hemorrhage and theres fire on his mind. pyromaniac he wants to burn it all. hes too redolent with death and doesnt know what he got himself into. i wish i could throw him a rope but i want him to die. hes slowing dying in front of me as i feel it all coming out again so quickly.

its working and im loosening up. i was rust and i was coating a thick steel wire of mechanical mechanism. i wasnt doing anything but now im going somewhere. rain is falling in drops and it feels wet in my hand. its getting too hot to handle and i can feel it all coming into focus. clarity is becoming nature as the redolent smell of nothing is leaving my side.

i want to throw a funeral for him and ill do that but itll be a while before i can do that. my minds still stuck in the humdrum motions of the world—the world, the place i hate. the world is such a muse. hes quiet and makes me subdued and wants to slaughter me. im just a pig and he wants to take the skin and peel it back, he wants to gut me and see my bones and wants me to be redolent with motheaten wings. i wont let that happen ill fight him and im going to win. but its in my heart ill win; in my ribcage where theres butterflies and theres big monsters. these big monsters and butterflies in my head are spinning around in a cocoon no one can touch but me and ill make it through it all enwrapped in here. its a place to sleep and kill the pain in there. the pain is real let me tell you. its real as itll ever be.

each day is another grimace but im still smiling like them all. everyone is such an actor and i wonder why its this way. everyone should just do their own thing. they should be pursed with the toleration of individual mollification. everyone should just say screw reality and quit being so serious.

seriousness is a disease. it is an STD that i hope not to catch. i dont want to walk around and be all stern and harsh. i dont want to be the one to tell them all it doesnt matter. i want to be the one to lift up their hearts in the quietest ways. i dont want them to learn i just want them to be themselves and learn themselves. learning starts first at a personal level. you have to accept something and make it you. being too serious about something shows you want it bad enough that you'll bleed. youll grimace.

theres blood on the moon as we plan our escape—the god is in bloom, handcuffed and raped. interrogate him and make him admit to it all. hes the one who spoke them into it. hurry and get dressed as we leave for the last time. im sick of this world lets go up there. there moons bleeding and its catalysting. it has eyes and is more alive than any of them. our dreams are what carry us to nowhere but the moon. i have to keep telling myself of you. hurry, get dressed faster. we need to go and escape. its time to leave.

goodbye this world. its too full of diseased cows. theyve caught the mad cow disease of justifiable existence. theyre trying to give themselves reasons to lie on. lessons to blossom from. theyre trying to brain wash us all and teach us its right to know manmade facts. too bad carbon isnt made of that. itll all be gone someday. why even worry about it. why even learn when in the end you get old and unlearn in your wisdom. the world is an intolerable introspection. im sick of faking caring about it. the world and its children can can rotten in their skins. dont you know evil lives in a mother fucking pigskin? ive worn my pigskin too long its time to let it go.

ground control to major tom, this is me. im telling you im off. im going to the sky and its going to be better than anything here. theres blood on the moon as i make my escape. the god is in bloom hes handcuffed and raped. im glad to leave and shed off my mothskin. im stepping through the way. and im floating in the most peculair way. and im leaving you slaves.

im just another dead astronaut in space. im going to go far away. goodbye. im feeling very thin and my breath is thinning. its time to take the life. its the silence of the lambs and theres only me and devoidly end.

whats life but a gun held to your head. and eventually that gun goes off. maybe a few times it misses, maybe it runs out of magazines here and there. but eventually it gets you good. and its smiling when it does it too—i can just see it now. the wideeyed skeletal grin, and its got black holes for eyes and a grinning grinding mouth. i guess ill just pull the trigger for life i dont like creeps. and life is one creep. hes always stalking me and telling me what to do. and hes always taking whats me away and saying its not me. its as if im just a mannequin and im here to take his blows. and im not but i cant help it.

the only way to get out of lifes dodge is to escape here. and im floating up in the sky, cant you see? up heres where it all runs free, up heres where it comes out like a running river. up heres where the words flow and tangle you and theyre like vines, groping grabbing grating vines thatre thick from ages. the vines, when cut, will bleed an atophy for you and theyll bruise. and from their squirming masses you can bend and mar them to bleed whatever you want. if you want it to bleed. but if you turn your back and become just another one of them then thats a different story. then youre just like them all. all you can see is the future when what you should see is what the vines are out there for you to see. with these vines i can show you amazing things and theyll topple anything else.

i went to deaths store and there was nothing there. so i left and now im up here in the sky and the stars are twinkling. its like theyre blinking at me and i can also see theres the moon and im breathing off of nothing. its great. i dont have lungs. all im using is will and im bending it my way in a fun manner. im not all serious im not bogged down. im just me and im breathing through my skin. im breathing through my eyes. and im smelling through my hair. im even eating through my hands. its an amazing experience.

we hold these truths self evident: that all men arent created equal, and man seeks to pursue no life, no liberty, and no pursuit of happiness. all man should seek is right in his face and thats life and living it and not worrying about anything else. were so serious these days its funny. so bogged down by useless information its sad. because the only way information is useful to you is if you think its useful. some man can walk up to me and say that sex is the best information and the best thing to do. and if im set out and i try it out and i find i dont care for it, then its not important to me. its not useful. its not something i have a natural inclination for. but still some think i should develop this useless skill that i have trouble at. youd think people would learn from their mistakes: their mistakes say they shouldnt do something again and they should try something different.

im just rambling. lord i was born a rambling man. i have nothing to say so i hide it by having something to say. im a hopless pig. i wish the farmer would just eat me already. my time hasnt come yet. but i can see the little thing of me dying slowly. and as i lay dying a new me is rising and groaning to the tap of anothers beat. im being reborn each day and im being killed each day. theres random assassinations all the time. sometimes im sitting down and im just shot there and i fall over dead and i come back alive and ive forgotten some part of me. other times im injected through my arm and it all crawls around my blood veins and vessels and chokes me. other times radioactive decay is forced into my open mouth orally. and they all say theyre here for only oral support. oral support—thats a laugh. its not a good feeling when im being jammed in with things either. it hurts and i can feel it inching closer and closer to my heart, my core. i feel about as big as a dust mite then. and i feel just as dusty and just as below it all.

shoot me while im divine. kill me while im dead. shoot me while im bleeding. it all beggars belief. how it all is coming together; its all shards and its pieces of perverse contortion. it feels like im doing flips and back flips at the beckoning of anything around me. its all banal. its all useless and uninteresting. all i want is there for me to be reason. for me to have some meaning other than me. but its not there. theres only whispers of it; whispers swollenly sulled through susceptible shies. im just a ghost walking in those fields. im just an apparition and all i wear is a big branded number. im nothing more than a number. just looking at my social security number this is what i see. i see numbers. and its the numbers. alls about the numbers. nobody cares who you are, they just care what youre worth and whats your number.

i go up to feel out the application. they want to know my social security number. they want to know me. they want me to write it all down not in my own words on a piece of paper. they want me to tell them im seventeen and that i live on a street. they want me to write things down that i dont care about. they dont want to talk to me as a person. and sometimes i try to sell myself and all they do is say theyll consider me. well let them consider that i feel useless. everything around you says youre useless. you see people better than you every day and youre glad youre not that person but all the same you wish you were them. but it doesnt matter because hopefully the world will set you on its way sometime, wont it? you hope so but you doubt it. you wonder where youll be in a few years. will it be the same place?

so all i can do is escape to space, where i can escape. and from here the god is in bloom, handcuffed and raped. were our own gods and some other people think were gods. were the divine interventions in our lives. if theres some outside force then theres some outside force. but its not about that outside force its about the people around me and whats shaping me and them all at once. each word we say to each other, each glint of the eye, each lull of the head, each single thing that happens adds together to produce us.

its funny to think pythagoras said something along the lines of everythings made of numbers. he even said numbers have personalities. he mustve been a genius, but geniuses are prone to misunderstand what it is theyre saying. if everythings made of numbers then all i am is zeroes ones twos and fives. im just lines and dashes and certain movements of a hand that make out a 5 or a 1. im not anything else. im just a number. i hope thats not true. i wouldnt want to be a number. id just want to be what i am even if thats a number. id rather be ignorant of the truths.

all i am is a combination of repetition. lifes one big complex gear. its got more gears than we can count. it changes all the time, and cycles, and sometimes these gears overlap and they make wonderful things. delightful things. and sometimes they seem to do nothing. and sometimes the gears get so mechanical, autonomous that it feels like youre going nowhere. and you go insane and you wonder how people can keep at life like a woodpecker. how they can keep pecking its tree. you wonder why they dig such a deep hole when once they crawl into its depth theyll just end up being thrown aside. theyll just end up dead and theyll just be recycled back into the earth. its just a washer washing clothes. the clean ones go in the dryer and dry out. and the dirty unwashed ones go in the washer. and they spin around and around. its like the earth orbiting the sun. its like the universe and how its so symmetrically perfect. how all the planets spin where they spin and are grasped like a firm hand into where theyre going. they just keep spinning and we just keep spinning and its quite dumbing. its just going back and forth over old land that we think looks new. i wish it would all be chaos. that itd all collapse on one another. that itd all break and come out of its certainties. i wish thered be something greater than just what things are and have to be. theres nothing great here but the gears meshing together and gliching when they can.

i wonder if our concept of time is even right. maybe everythings been set out. maybe it hasnt. maybe the future is happening as were here. maybe its like everyhing else: its just one big loop. and once it finds its end it begins all over again. maybe its just like that. i often get deja vu, this feeling that things have happened like this before, and its an amazing feeling. it gets in your skin and sort of wanders in you and shakes you. its like its announcing to you that theres something more to life than just point A to point B. its like its telling you theres even more to life than just a whole bunch of this and that and this and that. its like theres something more. its like you can grasp it but you cant. you get this feeling that you know something more than you know and you get a stroke of genius and its up in your spine and its all over you. its the gears of life overlapping. its things getting off kilter for a while. and the feeling is great.

what if the futures actually the past, and the past is actually the future? what if theres no such thing as future or past—its all just present, its all just things spinning in its cage and rapping in its steel and doing things in a set mechanical edge. what if its not like that and its actually only what we make of it.

what if we create everything we see and were the gods of it all. were the ones that make us feel pain and we love it. what if everyone is just another form of us.

what ifs are made for books. books i need to write but dont have the power.

its amazing. i feel like im leaving my humdrum existence. everything is aside. im moving with life and its moving with me and were dancing with one another. everything feels visceral. its as if im playing lifes game. its as if im messing with it. its a great feeling, creation is. its also an empty feeling all the same. its also so many other things at the same time.

when you think about it all im typing is scribbled characters which are given a certain value when combined in a certain way. when theyre set in the way i want them i can tell you what im feeling. i can tell you what i want to say. i can do whatever i want. its an amazing thing, language is. its also limiting in some aspects, and exceeds in others. language is a strange tool.

when my minds lucid clear like this i can finally unlock my mind. i can finally get rid of all the garbled garbage and just think what i want to think and so much more. im not held down and raped by anything else. im not under some kind of wry eye. im just with me and im with these words.

its like a telepathy. if these words are set somewhere else or are read in some distant time, theyll still be here. ill still be able to speak. itll be as if im alive even when im dead. itll be like im past existence, im on some level where nothing matters but what im saying. a place where nothing is on you but what im saying and what youre making of what im saying. its telepathy. telepathy—they thought it never existed but it does. its right in front of our eyes. you can look into me through this while im doing the same.

with words i can create large trees. i can make a big monster. do you want a big monster? ill give you one.

hes in front of you. hes taller than youve ever seen—when you look at him you think of a big skyscraper that scrapes the sky and leaves it empty. hes got big teeth. on his teeth theres yellow plaque and his gums bleed all the time. theres also bits of food in his mouth. his eyes are heavy and dark and when you look in them you see yourself. his nose is wrinkled and you can feel the harsh blowing of them as he breathes in and out. you can imagine his lungs breathing, his heart beating in a thud thud. to look at him you have to look up. he has red scales all over his body, as if hes bleeding. and his hands are large and bulky, theyre full of muscles and tissue. and his feet are even more muscles—they're full of muscles, like big roots of a tree—all whirling and spirals. theyre the size of large buildings, built of flesh and bone and endless times hes stomped on the ground. hes eyeing you and his arm reaches out to you. his arm is the size of your entire body and then some. its like theres a big semi truck in your face and you cant see anything else. only you and this big fist thats balled on you, this big red fist thats full of power and muscle and design. and you cant see anything—not even his face anymore. its only him.

and suddenly you realize hes not a monster at all. hes just a big, towering, scary creature thats words. hes nothing more than the values placed upon words put together in a certain way, a certain fashion. all he is is just what words are: scribbles, and certain things repeated over and over again in a purposeful manner which lets me give you something the words will tell you. im a big talker and i can say big things, but i never move my lips. all i do is sit here and lick them and thats all. nothing more nothing less. but in my mind im spinning with lifes gears. im switching and changing and meshing and im like a hampster running in a cage but i never get tired. i could do this forever. but nothing allows it. and when im away from it it takes time to get it back—just as you saw. remember the start of this? it was so rusty, so stale. it was all nothing. remember? remember the dead rotting carcass of nothing redolent with the scents that are his own? i remember him.

hes long gone now. im on top of some pinnacle now. im climbing it higher and higher, and when i look up all i see is something more to be created; i see no end, and i never saw a beginning unless there was one some ways down. but down below me all i see is a monster: a big monster thats only words, and thats all. thats all he is and thats all he ever was. that monsters whats holding this mountain up and hes getting more muscle with each passing moment. soon hell be able to throw this mountain around like its made of styrofoam. like its a feather that just floats and doesnt have much inertia. the monsters everything thats built me as a writer, as a person, as me up to this point.

who am i? im a cynic. im full of spite and i hate many things. but i also love many things. i love the way the wind blows on trees. i love the way you whisper to me in your mind while im typing this even though i dont know who you are. im in a haze now and i dont know what im saying at all. all i know is that im making some connection—im speaking to something. what it is, i dont know.

all i know is i am heavily bitter. i am heavily sarcastic. and so, the monster you see below you? the one i described earlier? hes also heavily bitter. he just sweats it. every thing he does is a snarl and done with little time management other than when its all coming together like it is now. and he just doesnt want me to stop. hes looking at me lean and hungry, just like cassius did to julius caesar in shakespeares play. lean and hungry and he wants me to feed him. and he doesnt eat meat. well, he eats a kind of meat: he eats words. words are the other white meat. theyre also the best meat i can think of. because they dont cost anything. go to a store, and beefs sold by the pound. maybe chickens there at the store too; roast beef, whatever you want its there. but words? words dont cost a thing. all they cost me is this monster thats continually wanting more words. thats groveling and who gets very bored when im not around. he gets so bored he doesnt hold this mountain up for me any longer and it all starts going down, and lessening its grip.

when i was a kid, when id see that one arnold movie—i think its total recall—id get scared at that one part where theyre at that hill and theyre rolling down. id call that rolling down the hill. my parents caught the name and it stuck. whenever we saw the movie again, theyd say the movie was rolling down the hill.

well, thats what it feels like. it feels like rolling down the hill when im not feeing my monster. this monsters never full; he always wants more to eat—and the more i feed him the bigger and stronger he gets, and the more less he seems like a monster. hes actually quite beautiful i think. i think he is far better than anything ive met up to this point. maybe we should get married. that would be the wedding.

id have to get him one big ring for him to wear it, thats for sure.

if im ever married to an actual woman i think ill get one of those rings from those toy dispensers. you know, the ones that cost about 25 cents a pop. thats the wedding ring ill give her. that should show her how much marriage really matters. marriage itself doesnt matter—the ceremony of marriage itself is just tradition. its spending your life with someone else thats really marriage.

i think my monster and i already married sometime. were intertwined. we coalesce. were indisputable. we cant be broken down. were like atoms. were at the atomic level and were a hydrogen bomb together. were a manhattan project thats ready to bomb nagasaki and hiroshima. were ready to make some people surrender—surrender to the genius we can make.

right now i could be writing a story. i have many in mind, and others that are just brimming through, like fresh fish ive caught on a line. i know what im fishing for.

i want to write a story about a cat. my friends cat is sick. i read it in his livejournal. his name is pollie. or polly. or however you want to spell it. i think itd be great to give him the gift of a story about a cat thats like this. his cat has black and white patches on its like a cow. he has fond memories when he was a child of the cat.

in an easy sense, the cat symbolizes his childhood. and how its dying.

paullies been coughing blood. and im sure my friends been coughing up blood too—the blood of childhood. its draining out of him, ounce by ounce, pound by pound. eventually itll all be gone and every shred of what he once was will now be what he is in an adapted, forever changed way.

its like this: we all have monsters in us. i just choose to make my monster one that eats words. maybe someone elses monster is a needle that injects itself in their arm and gives them release for the cost of life. maybe someone elses monster is a cigarette that clears them up while at the same time going into their lungs and killing them. maybe someone elses monster is a great sickness theyve had their whole lives.

whatever the monster is all you can do is feed it. its what youre meant to do. its all you can do. and the more you feed your monster the better youll feel and the less time youll have till its time to go and your suffering is all over. the less time you have to stare death in the face. and the more easy it is to say no to him.

i think i have a good monster. hes a kind creature when he wants to be. other times he changes into other monsters. hes a great shape changer, let me tell you. he assumes many forms, as id hope any other monster of anyone elses does. sometimes he comes at me in the way of society. societys a big monster that i try to keep locked in his cage. i try to adapt to society and feed its needs to me. but sometimes i just cant keep up.

its just like this: i need a job, but havent got one. i went to this rental store, video action, the other day and i decided id feed my monster. it was with the encouragement of my parents i was able to do it. i sold myself to the manager there. i held out my hand to her, said "mitchell smith" and she didnt take it. right off the bat i felt like an idiot. "my hands are dirty" was what she said. well sorry. that really shook me up. then i gave my rhyme and reason. i told her i had sent in an application last time i applied here, and i saw she was hiring a second time. i told her i lived really close and that i had a car and that i went to century and that i was a junior. she didnt care i could tell. i felt very dumb, and im sure my monster was smiling at me—im sure society was smiling at me like a snob.

she actually wrote my name on a piece of paper. she had me first print my name and phone number, then wrote some other things down. she said shed already hired two people but shed considered me. and so i left. on the way out she asked me "do you have piercings on your ears?" i said no, of course i didnt, and that i found the unfashionable on women. i didnt tell her that i had piercings in my brain, and that there was a monster constantly piercing me inside, as if renching me, as if choking me, telling me i needed a job and i needed one now so i could start saving up for college and so i could have some spending money. but then again im sure she didnt care. i was just another idiot there trying to get a job and i was under her power. i was a helpless and weak rag doll for her to crush any way she wanted and id do anything for one chance to drink from the oasis that is a job that gives good experience.

i left outside in the snow and i was looking my monster through the cage in the eyes. his eyes were dead and but full of cruel intention. he was snarling at me, agape and hatefully. i looked in those eyes and i could see her throwing away that piece of paper shed had me write my name on. i could see her throwing it away with the most satisfied look on her face. as if she were saying aloud but only from her face, "im glad thats done with."

i felt horrid after that. i drove home and my parents asked me about it in crazed, frenzied voices. "what did she say!" "did you go there?" "did you get hired?!" "what happened?"

and i didnt want to answer any of their questions. i felt like a prisoner being interrogated for something he never did. i felt like a prisoner locked away for nothing he ever deserved. i felt like there was a thick wall, and that behind that wall there was someone listening in, and they could hear me, sure as anything else. they knew what i was saying. and they werent liking it.

i just told them i had done what id done in my sour, defeated drones. and id told them i doubt id get hired. it felt so all in vain, and my monster loved it in his cage. i just wanted to blow his brains out with a gun. i wanted to shoot society out and make it sputter and die. i wanted to see it leave me alone. i wanted my lemons back. i wanted the sweet sour naiveté of a child. i wanted to be what i wished i could still imagine i was. i wanted to see things in wondervision: in a vision that told me all was great, and good, and just, and that there was a tooth fairy, a santa claus, and people werent' so shortcharged and were actually amazing beings.

but that was ripped away long ago. all i have is that body's shreds, its small clothes. and i hold those close in an embrace. i do hold these truths to be self evident: and i hold them to me like flesh to bone when im lonely and cold and sad.

thats all i can turn to when theres nothing else: the past, and how it used to be. and i let it make me stronger, i let the realization that ive lasted this long, and i can last longer, settle in. i let it crawl in like a cockroach going into a roach motel to permanently set up shop till its death.

if theres a nuclear winter, a cold burning hot death, at least this roach can crawl out.aleast this memory will pull me back through. at least i can ascend down heights ive already ascended and come to them for life everlasting, everbreathing, everloving. at least with that i can feel security. can feel all ive ever wanted to feel: just to feel useful to someone, something, somehow. i seek to past for the futures love. for its acceptance of me and leveling of me.

merrily merrily merrily, life is but a dream. a sad old thing. a wicked gnarled old being. a flaccid limping ping.

merrily merrily merrily, life is but a dream.

my feet hurt from my nervous twitch i have with them: i move them up and down, up and down, as if im jambling walking all the time. as if i must be moving all the time. its given that since i have weight, then i can be set in motion by inertia. and the only thing that can slow me down is friction: the carpet burn, and the sudden slow.

my hands feel numb on these keys, and they feel tired and tiring. my body aches of nothing because theres something. its late—it is 12:20 AM and i believe i should sleep, but im ascending so many steppes today. im going so high and i dont want to end up so low tomorrow. i just want to sit here, my keyboard and i, you and i, here all day, speaking to one another. well, youre not really speaking, but i can hear you. youre some cadencing voice in the unheard distance. youre some gear in life. some mesh with it. some bone to steel, something that seeks to overturn the necessary motional spin.

you want to make a cocoon instead of make a gear, or spin on a gear. you want to go into your cocoon, enwrapped, and come out anew. you want to go in as ugly, come out as beautiful. i dont think the monsters are so kind. mines pretty docile here—the one thats making me write, and making my enjoy, ascending these heights. but i have others—others that are this same monster, only at different intervals of time, and pressure, and astuteness. they all grab me very hard—so very hard—and push me this and that way, and make me just want to lay down, and have myself lain and lost and no longer here—but i keep up well. i keep pushing myself, and its because of this—these moments here when im doing this, im working magic, and i know it, i can feel it, that im alive. this is what i live for—something as simple as words.

in simplicity theres an innate complexity; a certain largess to it all. its like gears, only these gears arent just circling endlessly, they arent encumbered with mechanical edges. theyre encumbered with some, but i can bend them to my will well enough. i can make them my own craft. i can style my own meshes and cycles and rotations. i can make my own radiuses and pis and my own certain mechanics to how these gears act, numerically as well as qualitatively. i can do whatever the hell i want, and thats the encompassing beauty of it all; the endless appeasement of it all.

i hate parent figures. my dad tells me to go to bed. to "quit writing my poems and shit." he came in here and took the internet cord. he thought i was online, that i was on the internet. theyve taken the cord lately just to get to me, but it hasnt done anything. actually, its just my dad thats taken it away. my mom did take it away at one time, but i think by now she sees that siege was hopeless.

see, i came home one day from school. she holds up applications. they were ones id filled out but never turned into the places. i thought it was pretty hopeless anyways. i mean, ive been submitting a hodgepodge of applications here and there, and nothings happened. and i also went up to video action a few days ago.

but i think she realizes by now that im doing the best i can. honestly, my parents, and most other people, dont have the exact, precise feelings that im feeling. they dont know me, i see. i dont even know myself, so that tells you. ive been suppressing all feelings lately and just saying "screw it all, just push ahead mitch." i wonder how long i can keep that up—that i can keep trying because im making myself do it.

my grades at this moment are terrible, they arent well off. midterms are tomorrow i think too. i hope they can get better. i dont know why i should even care, but i realize that if i have bad enough grades, my parentsll take away my computer, and without the computer my writing abilities are severely limited. i dont like writing longhand at all. my writings so sloppy and terrible, i hate it. i dont like writing it down and looking at the slop the surmounts. its ugly and i hate it. and im too impatient at something as simple as writing to sit there and make my handwriting as perfect as i can. i just dont have patience for such provincial things. not that writings provincial. its just a thing that comes easy to me, especially right now when im just churning out words like this. i just dont like to put much effort into anything, and what i put effort into often involves emotional release, or catharsis, or something im meshing and moshing with, like writing. like now. i do believe ive said right now is amazing, but i guess i have to keep saying it. i love every second of writing late at night, here in my room, with the lights off. it makes a days struggle all worthwhile to its ends. and some days—like today—i just dont think i can write at all. but right now i feel like i could write forever, and the words wouldnt stop coming.

i cant stand my dad sometimes. and its faltering to see how frail my mom seems. but thats for another discussion, another day.

my dads always been obsessed with making sure im not online all that often. which is fine, in moderation. when it gets to the point where your dads limiting your time online like youre some weening baby, and he gives your parental controls when you know youre mature enough to understand where not to go, and you know you wont go there, it gets pretty sad. before, a long while back, they took away my internet because they found some porn on my computer. thats fine. im sure most any man youll meet will admit hes looked at porn once in his life. it may be fantasy, but its more along the lines of something that lets me get an image and hold it and let it carry me onward in my lustdriven handles with masturbation. oh my god, i just said masturbation. im sure some of you out there are now ululating that like ive sinned. well, masturbation is natural. so learn to mature and deal with it. because im not talking about it in some school girl giddy fashion. im just saying the truth because thats what i want to say to myself as well as you. i dont want to put up any petty guards against what im thinking about right now.

stephen king said, in his on writing book, that you can write anything you want, as long as you tell the truth. and thats what im doing here. im telling the truth. so if hearing the truth hurts your little soul, then you can stop reading right here and ill after warn you that im not here to take tallies and make sure i dont bring in things i shouldnt. i dont see the big deal about masturbation. its natural in a human sense. we all do it and even if we havent we wish we could many a time. people who hold back on their desires are often irregular religious fanatics as it is who hold their values of morals so high that they say they can control their desires. well, i say screw that. im going to do whatever i want when i want and as the desire comes to me. im not going to regress and hold back, im going to let it go when it goes. morals themselves are just perceptions. but some perceptions are universally accepted, such as its wrong to kill another person, which i agree with. but having a sense of morals isnt a big deal. all having morals does is make you look naive and innocent when it comes to speaking of these morally wrong things. things like masturbation, being a homosexual, premarital sex, all those good things. people dont realize that all of those things arent bad at all, and people should be allowed to do whatever they want within some reason of the perceptions society puts on things at a given era and time.

people who have morals often lean onto them because they cant find their own ways to see things. they dont understand that is okay to have sex when youre not married. marriage itself is mostly an institution of churches. but its definitely more than that: its spending your life with someone, as ive already said somewhere in this long ramble.

if youre going to tell me its wrong to have sex before marriage, then thats fine. have your opinions. but to me, its stupid to say. what are humans? they are classified as mammals. they are homo sapiens. were only different because we have our improved, ohso intellectual brainweights. so tell me, if its so wrong to have premarital sex, and since were animals—since were highly related to chimpanzees, tell me how its wrong? marriage itself isnt a natural thing. its just another thing created by man. sure, certainly, youd want to spend your life with someone, but does it really require a "marriage"? well, to get the legal rights of marriage it does, but in general, does it? no. and is sex natural? yes. sex is natural. all animals do it. were just able to contemplate it, unlike all other animals. but still, its what our main purpose is as a whole. scientifically, were here to reproduce. were not here to do anything else. were here to carry on the genes, to keep ourselves alive through our offspring. whats so wrong about giving into desires?

heres what i can understand: i can understand waiting until sex is special. until you feel something for the person youre going to have it with. but premarital sex? its not bad at all.

its now almost 1 AM and i think i should be sleeping. i dont even remember how i got to talking about premarital sex, but there we are.

i do think im a rather naive person, but i lean heavily on my common sense, and my gut, intuitional nudges. i let these rule me. while there are facts in this world, i use my common sense to make them my own. you can often look at facts many ways, and contort them and perverse them in your own ways. thats what i do. i believe that theres never something as simple as black and white—i believe theres always a gray area as well. i like to see every side of something, i like to have it all squared out before i just dive in.

and all the same, to do things this way, you have to accept others' opinions. and that i do.

i often resort to "its my opinion" because i know i wont reach level ground with a person—theyll believe what they believe while a believe what i believe. its what being an individual is about. and people who seem to think they need to be greater than everyone else, and somehow think their opinions are the answer i despise. they get on my nerves very easily and im prone to be very apathetical towards them because i just dont care what they think if theyre not going to accept that i can believe what i want, even if im wrong by what they think. equality and dignity. those are two words, i think, i value highly. theyre also such small words for something bigger, something that some people just dont have.

some people are egotistical morons. they are intelligent, but they flaunt it way too much. they seek to rule every person they can, to rape them of their opinions just because they think theyve got the ego, the bird, the size of texas and they can own anything and anyone. all you can do is adapt and accept these people, but they still bother me.

i feel like love is in the kitchen
with a culinary eye
i think hes making something special
and im smart enough to try

and yes, the lack of punctuation in the sentences was on purpose. why wouldnt it be?

im going to sleep, or going to try to sleep. its been fun, whoever you are, and whatever ive made.

sorry monster, its time to just become a monolith for the time being. sorry, i know, its a shame. its just too bad, i know.

i hope i can sleep well. i need to be well rested. i have two speeches to do tomorrow, woohoo...

and now im just rambling so i can get this to level out at about 8,000 words. whee.

okay. off i go.

i still think its beautiful what this turned into. how when i first started it felt so empty, so unbrimming. but now, now its crazy. i feel bustling with things to say, like a short order waitress on an evening rush, going back and forth and carrying a dizzying array of trays full of sizzling, hot meat. there it is again: meat.

the feed of the monsters.
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