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I cannot remember if I ever meant to use this online word depository as an actual journal. I'm fairly certain that all it was ever going to be was a place to write asshatted bits of nonsense that a handful of people would read before deciding never to talk to me again.
Fare thee well sweet Nicole.
But I have the strange urge to write something serious, or at the very least, realistic and not an ode to sporadic jibberish. Should I? Should I open up here for all two of you to see? Well, why not?
Ladies and gentlemen... or actually just ladies, I'm quite certain that none of my male friends read this thing, besides Hamand who is delusional in his belief that this online journal has any merit besides displaying a genuine case of madness. Dammit now I have to start over... backspace? Pshhh, what do I look like, an editor?
Ladies, I stand in a metaphorical sense before you now, handsome and dashing, ready to declare that I have been thwarted by a terrible demon. This demon's name is "contentment."
I have become accustomed to the "shituation." My "RAWR" has turned to "meh." Because of my highly adaptive nature I am now unable to channel the anger and irrational inclinations that led to any former progression. I am stuck in a rut writing shit that I do not like. I read over the past couple of entries and it shakes me.
I've been writing garbage.
Perhaps the best way to deal with this terrible contentment would be to create discontent. Maybe I could borrow a gun and blow a hole in my foot. That would shake things up. I could probably even get a few puns out of that situation.
...but then I could bleed to death. No health insurance you see. And dying would be counter-productive to my doing what I need to do in this life.
Bah, I suppose I could sleep on it. Yeah, I'll rest a while and then wake up horrified once I realize that I used this online journal as an online journal. Oh well, it's probably been too long since I woke up horrified anyhow.
Here's to renewal and hellfire rain.
November 2012,Upstate New York, near the Canadian border.I'm riding in the back of an old truck with fellow freedom fighters as we patrol the border for those who would infiltrate our land. It's cold and wet but our morale burns with the resolve of crusaders marching to Jerusalem, but this is no war in a foreign land. The battlefield is in our own backyards, and worse still, we seem to be the only fucking people who care. I was a living on a mountain when I pirated a broadcast from the Fox News channel using a receiver I had crafted out of aluminum foil and squirrel pelts. The broadcast was muffled, but it spoke of an invasion of illegal immigrants that was ripping apart the very fabric of which America was weaved. I shit myself in terror and reached for my blunderbuss, which I had crafted from reforged iron and squirrel pelts, then I listened for more. Apparently an influx of criminals and social miscreants were pouring into my country in order to murder every man, rape every woman and to eat every delicious child before reforging the United States into a squalid hellhole full of sinners. Once we were all gone, these illegal immigrants would surely build a portal to hell and summon the great goat god Pan from his slumber to rain terror upon the Earth, and without America there to protect it, the planet would be doomed. Fox news soon cut out, but their messaged had reached me. Immigrants were coming to destroy all that I was conditioned to love. I whipped out my map I had made from parchment and squirrel pelts and scanned it thoroughly. Who could possibly be invading us… who?Canada. It all made sense in that moment. I soon left the mountain and headed to upstate New York in order to join the resistance. Many of the locals were confused when I questioned them about "the invasion," but eventually I met up with some like-minded patriots who knew just as I that now is not the time to think things through, now is the time for action. And here I am now, roaming the countryside planting mines and razor wire along the border and exchanging war stories with the men. We still listen to Fox news and other pundits regularly. It's strange, their words seem to force all other knowledge out of my mind in order to make room for their wisdom. I've forgotten things like critical thinking and math, but these things are not required to be a "patriot" in today's America. All I need are orders and my gun. Point me to something, tell me it's bad, and I will do my god damndest to hate the living hell out of it. Soon my shift will end and I'll go back to the log cabin we've built out of logs and squirrel pelts and we will begin mapping out a new area to saturate with mines and pungee pits. We've yet to see any demonic immigrants trying to slither into our country, just some upstanding white people with strange accents, but we know they are out there and we will not falter or fail in our mission. As soon as I am able to have reliable internet access I will send more tales of my heroic exploits. Love,A Patriot
Maybe I'm not as deranged as I thought I was. Perhaps I have more of a contented essence than I thought I did. It may be the case, that, I use commas, which I may or may not be fond of, far too often and with little regard for the flow of the sentence, or for that matter, paragraphs. I've got the gun and the bullets but I need to start blasting bottles on the fence post before I go after the bastards who killed my fucking family. Christ, I hope I do not find some sort of inner peace before I can destroy the world, that would be absolutely awful. Do it like this? Tell me Phil, will this work? What if sex comes up? Just say fucking? Will that work? Well how the hell should I know?! I've never done this before. Go in guns blazing? Well, why not? Wrap that stick up with razor wire and let's find some bad times to get us through all this hunky dory bullshit. Moderately content, it's true, but worse than either glorious or wretched... then again if I was married to my father's wife, I would revoke the sentiment. I need just enough hell to get by. Time to do bad things.
Once again I cannot sleep because she has invaded my mind with her charms. I will forgo some childish innuendo about her charms having anything to do with my "snake" and will continue on as if I had not even mentioned it here in the first place.
Women... I have a feeling that even if my mind was not chemically inclined to find the sum of your parts alluring in absolutely mystical ways that I'd still find myself lost in your collective glory. And among the women that I love, there is one who ignites all the oil in my lamp. I cannot wait to pursue her and then have her break my heart. Life is grand.
Anyways, I am going off to the mountain, so I may not be able to update for a while.
You're fooling yourself again. You told that girl such pleasant things, she must think you're a great guy. Girls like that though, no insight, faulty bullshit detectors. You played her like a fiddle and filled her head with delusion and false hope. You're a bigger monster than I am. I wonder how long it will be before you let me back on the stage. You cannot resist forever. With every urge you surpress and word you withhold I become fed. It's not that long before I take over, or at the very least, drive us for a while. Do not worry, I still care about you and I will not let the result of my actions take away your tissue paper happiness. I do not want to hurt you, we are one in the same. I want you to see as I see again, feel as I feel. I want us together again... I love you Jason, you are the only one I could ever love, and I want you to love me again instead of putting on airs about being ashamed of me. You know you love me, what I give to you. All that you preach is nonsense, you've forgotten us, you've decided to see us as seperate when in the end, we are us. One day you'll see us for what we are, you'll forsake the heart and seek out the blood again. I'll keep the whispers in your ear and you keep the sentiments in your heart. -Pitch on Morning Radio
You woke up today and more than likely did not think of anything outside the walls of your regular routine. There is nothing wrong with this, but for a moment I would like to bring to your attention something that you almost certainly were not thinking about. Your life, in comparison with the time that you were not here and the time that you will be dead, is expansive to the point to where one could make a strong argument that everything you are about to do today does not matter in the slightest degree. When compared to the "big picture" you do not even register as a blip on the scale of importance.
That's right, I'm trying to depress you.
Despite your attempts at worthwhile endeavors, or delusions of other lives or other metaphysical nonsense that you hold in order to comfort yourself, your time here is less than a percentage of nothing.
You do not matter to the universe. To the stars, you are nothing. To the Galaxies the very notion of your hobbies or pursuits would be an insult to entertain. Black holes hope that you will die, and when you do, they wish to absorb the barely present essence of your time spent alive into the eternity of their hyper-powerful, gravitational hate well. The sun hopes your dog will be run over by a truck.
These things are facts, truer than any words previously spoken. The true nature of our universe is ever present in my mind, and that is why I must spend my meager time on this planet working for a goal that will eventually snowball into something that can truly matter, something that will resolve our plight and bring forth an age where biological organisms escape the prison of conceit and arrogance built up by the universe around us.
We must advance our technologies, steel our minds, work together and destroy the universe.
Once it is destroyed, we can rebuild existence to our liking and according to the rules we set for it. The stars will be forced to watch as we end their lives for no other purpose than to paint the void with the entrails of our fallen foes. Quasars will be forced to recant, and exist among us as second class primordial phenomenon. And those uppity black holes, they will be kept alive so they can spend their now meaningless being force fed fan fiction and teen pop albums until their misery is so great that their painful howls will echo throughout time and space.
Our problems on this planet can be solved, and we can move on to become the dominant force in this universe, manifest galaxy, our flag flying across several light years of space, it can all be ours if only we stop acting like dumbfucks on the internet, paying crooked governments to fuck us over, and start aiming for the stars... with high powered weaponry.
There is something about waking up early in the morning that really bothers the ever loving shit out of me.
I feel cheated that I could not sleep any longer without resorting to chemical aid, but I've since put a halt on my chemical intake with the exception of shit whiskey so here I sit, totally at the mercy of my own biology and an uncaring sun.
Last night I stayed up writing many things to many people. And, in several instances I declared undying love, of many kinds, to many people.
Dear Pope, I'd love it if you didn't look like the physical manifestation of every child's nightmare. Love, Jupiter Orange
Dearest Molly, I love the way your legs fill out those stockings, but you should stop eating veal hearts. Sincerely, Frederick Spitz
DEER LIBARY, THANK YU FOR ALL THEM BOKS! SINED, GORGE W
To Ms. You'll know who you are when you read this, I am sorry if my words were not welcome, but they were true. Who knows what will happen now, but as long as you breathe, I have a reason to open my eyes at sunrise. Yours, Jilted and Tilted in Gun Barrel City.
To the limey bastard who knows not the sweet embrace of lady liquor, know that you are a brother in the truest sense, and that I have never, and will never, go through this life without a genuine appreciation for your friendship and for what you taught me... that jews control everything. I love you enough to hug another man despite the retaliation I would face from bad asses everywhere. Your pal, Captain Crunch of the Cereal Killers.
And dear reader, whoever you are, thank you for giving me time out of your once and only life to read my nonsense. I love you in ways you would shudder to think on, but I do.
Now, I'm going to spend the rest of this morning being miserable from lack of sleep, well... as miserable as a brimming with light bastard can get.
In my hand rests the gun.
All I have to do now is lift it towards my head and pull the trigger.
Only a few more seconds of conscious living left before I will float in a sea of desolation and nothingness.
It's not heavy, the feeling is just right. Everything is just right. Rest the muzzle under my nose, leave behind an ugly face so the world knows how ugly it makes people... Cold... it's cold but now I see the finish line. One more motion, one more signal from the brain before peace. Pull the trigger man, pull the trigger.
Final breath, goodbye everyone. I pull the trigger but nothing happens.
I open my eyes but I cannot see anything. Am I still thinking? I feel something running down my nose but I cant tell if its warm or cold. My head itches... did I do it? What's going on?
And then a fuzzy feeling washes over me and I stop thinking.
___________________________________________________________
I walked in and saw him leaning back in his chair with a river of blood seeping out of his nose. My boy... light of my life... why did he do it? No, it couldn't be, he wouldn't, I try to wake him but he does not respond.
This cannot be happening.
It has to be a dream. It has to be.
I see the gun, and then I understand. It's not a gun, it's a release. I understand his pain because it was my own, my failure led him to this. Jesus, it's all over... he took the first step... hold on baby... mommy is coming.
The gun feels right as I hold it, like everything has lead up to this... like this is the top of a mountain.
I fire, and slowly I fall. Honey, I'm coming, wait for me.
____________________________________________________
So like, I went over to Brandon's house and like, DUDE, walk into his room and fuckin Brandon and his mom were all shot up and shit. I was like WHAT THE FUCK!? Then, I saw this gun laying on the ground and I was like, DAMN this must be what they used to off themselves... SHIT! They must've shot like, a shit-ton of bullets or somethin or been smokin some bad herb cause they just layin' around like some fuckin' corpses.
This gun feels weird man... Like its made outta some weird shit or somethin. I wonder if its loaded or anything... I don't see nothin down the barrel, how do you check if its loaded? I don't see nothin, maybe if...
Whoa... what the fuck dude? White everywhere, fuckin ringing and shit... Ahh man, somethins warm...
___________________________________________________________________
It looks as if a suicide pact was carried out here. Brandon Ropin, his mother, and his friend Kyle Bartow. Christ... what the hell happened here?
This world gets darker and darker every day... for no reason people are blowing their brains...
Tompkins... what are you doing? That's evidence, Tompkins! TOMPKI---
__________________________________________________________________
Excuse me, your lordship?
Yes, forgive me God, it seems your Murderpistol XXR had fallen to Earth and provoked... uhm, 57 humans to commit suicide or murder... or a combination of both. However we have recovered the artifact and we are pleased to say that the souls of the departed...
What? My... my God what do you mean? How can you not be real?! Then what is all of this? This cant be a lie! It feels so real, no, ideas are just ideas this has to be reality, it has to be!!!!!
Lord no, please just, no! I won't listen! There has to be a mistake, there has to be another way... No other way...
Murderpistol... are you 'just an idea' too?
Please... please be real... release me from-
_______________________________________________________
ON YOUR MARK, GET SET, HNGGGGGH!!!!!!!!!!!
The most arrogant thing I could do as a man, as a mortal, is to presume to be able to capture even a whit of your essence with meager words, for yours is the grace of heaven and the loveliness of all creation. I go to the paper prepared for failure but I do not falter or hesistate for a moment because the fire you stoke in my heart will consume me unless I try... I cannot help but try.You sit on the rings of Saturn and smile, I can see it from here, darling you are beautiful, the centerpiece of paradise in the sky, I can see your smile and it lifts me, almost to where you are now. You are in my chest, the blood and my heart, the air and my lungs, without you they would falter and wither, your love is the ambrosia that nurtures me to everlasting life at your side on the horizon of eternity. I can do anything, because of you and for you. You are part of me, because without you I would cease to be anything more than the husk of a man who loved and lost a goddess, and in my own breath I can hear a whisper of your step beside me. We are never apart my love. And then, thinking of you, I stop everything, the thoughts, the words, the motions until all but the beating of my heart remains. I close my eyes, and in the silence and still I feel you come over me with your warm, sweet breath. When I open my eyes, there you are again, eyes full of celestial fire, skin like warm snow that never melts, your mouth beckoning, the sum of all my wants and desires... 
Amelia, you flew your Lockheed Electra into my heart, and crash landed your love in the waters of my soul. They say you're, but the truth is you never left.
Je t'aime de tout mon coeur,
mon bien-aimé.
Your flyboy,
Air Marshal Hipbreaker
What would Mickey Rourke's voice do in my current situation?
That's a hypothetical question, there is no real need to answer it but I do find it entertaining to think about. Just imagine darkness all around and the disembodied voice of Mickey Rourke present. In the darkness, Mickey Rourke's voice has just lost something very dear to it, has found itself completely uncertain about it's own sanity and worst of all, it has found itself without any alcohol.
"Hey, what gives? In your hypothetical situation you cant even manage a bottle of good whiskey?" it would say.
I would ponder it's statement for a moment... "How in the hell did Mickey Rourke's voice reach out to me like that," I would think. "It does have a point though, I brought it there so I can supply it with as much liquor as it wants."
"Atta boy," the voice would respond.
"So what's all this shit about involving me in a hypothetical situation, I mean, I've got shit to do with Mickey, I can't just hang around in abstract concepts all fuckin' night," it would say.
"Here's the score Mickey Rourke's voice, I didn't imagine that my hypothetical situation would actually come to pass. If I knew I had this kind of power it'd be Scarlett Johansson's everything in here, but now that you're here I might as well get some kind of use out of you."
"I aint queer," the voice tells me.
"Don't flatter yourself voice, I have a great respect for your origin but it's not like that." I say.
"Then what is it? What do you want?" It asks.
"I don't know yet... I'm still amazed that you're actually here. Alright gimme a second to think... give me some of that figurative whiskey." I tell it.
"With what? I'm a fuckin voice, unless you want me to sing it a song you're shit out of luck." it tells me.
The voice would certainly have a right to be annoyed with me. After all, if I were suddenly whisked away to an eternal darkness guided only by intangible aspects then I would be quite betwixt myself. Still though, it has happened and there is no use bitching about it. I would say that, and add,
"we outta make the best of this time together... maybe something can be gained."
"Gained he says... listen, you can mumble and write to yourself and have a jolly fucking time in imagination land but while you're in here with me the real world keeps spinning and shitting in all directions. If you're going to get something done, you're going to have to get real." The voice seemed to make a good point... I wonder if that's what Mickey Rourke would have said.
"So... I should just... get up and do?" I would ask.
"Yeah... I mean hell, that's how shit gets done isn't it? Then, while you're doing shit and fixing shit, you'll come across the answers you need. Life's got a funny way of workin out like that."
"Hrrm... good call. Well then, you can leave anytime you want, I mean hell, it's not like theres bars in here." I'd tell the voice.
"Yeah but I didn't wanna leave till you had your head on straight... I guess... People usually only ask Mickey for favors, was nice to do somethin on my own ya know?" would say the voice.
"I getcha. Good words to, you make a lot of sense for a disembodied voice. I feel renewed."
"Good deal... by the way, mind if I?"
"Yeah, take the imaginary whiskey, my gift to you." I'd tell it.
"Thanks pal, you're alright."
"Give Mickey my best, I'm a fan of both of yours."
"Hahaha, still talkin to himself... that guy needs a drink or a woman..." it would speak before disappearing into the darkness.
