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The Second Greatest Failure of Omnipotence
2007-01-04 05:13 am
I tried drawing Odin, one of the characters from the comic idea floating around in my head, but it really, really sucked. Methinks I need more practice, considering the only thing I can draw consistently well are gigantic birds of prey that are also on fire.

Maybe it's time to hit the anatomy books again considering I haven't drawn anything that remotely resembles a human being in over a year...

Beyond that, I'm extraordinarily bored. Going down to a few hotels later today to smooth talk my way into an interview. Sadly, the one downtown by U of A is out of my reach because it would entail focusing every last penny I earn to the transit there and back.

No, srsly, friends list, I am very bored, and not much into writing an overcomplicated wordbomb of a post to entertain myself. If splatterhouse were still around I could pester her for lewdness or something while she puts up photos of harlequin fetuses and whatnot. But now that she's gone, all of my newer friends are middle-aged or older men, and that's just plain wrong, and I feel weird asking for teh newds when it's one o' my old guard friends like clockworkari or shodan43893, especially when the latter would just stick an electrified pike into my brain, simultaneously electrocuting me to death and leaking my brain out onto the floor, in some half-assed effort to turn me into a zombie. And clockworkari would just give me insightful, sage-like friend advice, and that is clearly not teh nekkidness.

(Note: I would mention some other LJ friends, too, but you all seem to be going through varying stages of being married or otherwise involved in a relationship/being men or lesbians/being unattractive/etc.)

NO, I'M REALLY BORED, AND I WILL FORCE YOU ALL TO TOLERATE THIS COPOUT OF A POST AS SUCH, BWAHAHAHAHA.

I could post a list of New Year's resolutions. They would mostly involve ways to develop technology that would allow me to effectively shoot the everloving fuck out of my television screen without actually damaging the television.

I guess that's another thing about stress: eventually it builds up so greatly that you just can't help but sit in front of the TV, screaming mindless obscenities at the flashing images because yet another fucking commercial has leaked its way into your subconscious, thus inciting severe rage at all of humanity. When I look at the television, I see further reason to mix bleach and comet and sulfuric acid into an over-sized needle to jab it right through the fucking eyeball of every person I come across, and then inject the cleaning solution into the frontal lobe of these hapless, dirty people that would dare exist and be targets for said vile consumerism; most other people just see an Olive Garden commercial.

So, newd womanz pix plz? I, err, need them so I can draw the human body again. And so I don't have to watch TV to assuage my shallowly affected hormonal impulses for violence and sex.

No idea what this post was supposed to do. I think I just like seeing the bolded "Livejournal" tag in my GMail from whenever I get replies, honestly. It's so much better than the unbolded "Livejournal" link.

Current Mood: confused confused
Current Music: Roadrunner United -- "Baptized in the Redemption"

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2007-01-02 04:09 am
I believe that I have become bored with writing. This matter, of course, bears deeper examination, because I know that I have yet to traverse every byway and hidden trail that words can offer up to my greedy mind, and there are greater depths still to troll in order to glean ever more meaningful approximations of my psyche through language. Without a doubt, I feel I need to write in order to reason my way around the gaping wound in my sanity, and yet at the same time I feel as if mere words simply are not enough to conquer the errant chemicals in my mind.

That, folks, is a fancy way of saying that I kinda wanted to write something, but didn't much give a fuck either way. So instead I'll just give a bunch of one-liners summing up exactly what's been going on in my life:

  • Still jobless; wondering bitterly about Michael putting in an application at a local market and getting a callback the second day, and me putting in applications at many many more places, and calling them back repeatedly, only to be met with disappointment; will look into blaming God for this on top of His iniquities against the emotional functionality of my brain; special note - incinerate every inch of the surrounding area with yet-to-be-discovered pyrokinesis and dance upon the scorched corpses of every last manager in the region.

  • My Christmas presents this year were, as follows: $170, large supply of smoking tobacco, and a strange card with images of children on it sent to me by an LJ friend who's actually a CIA agent and is probably keeping tabs on me because I am no doubt a national security risk; also received several days of tonsillitis wherein I wove in and out lucidity as I questioned whether I could cool my fever in the River Styx; the sister's codeine wouldn't kill the pain in the back of my throat, on top of unsafe amounts of Advil, Tylenol, and Excedrin; am better now.

  • Wondering why I'm sleeping so much; I understand fatigue is part of the "down", but I've never slept this often during depressive episodes in the past; currently attempting to combat this exhaustion having taken about 10 Excedrins in the last 8 hours, and will move to coffee soon in an attempt to spare my stomach lining and liver from giving me the finger and stumbling, intoxicatedly, out of my rear orifice; caffeine the only reason this update is happening.

  • Tried to make myself draw something tonight; didn't work; want to kill things/cause severe pain/bash face into wall.

  • Got my iPod to work after several months of it being dead; found out there's a new Machine Head album coming out in March; seeking more good news of this sort, so I'll probably finally get to repairing my bike sooner or later today after about 1.5 years of it's pedal being broken just so I can feel useful.

  • Still wanna draw more but can't; fuck that - desire to draw, and subsequent inability to do so, has superceded my will to delve into wordsmithing in a dedicated matter as in the past; will look into ways of forcing my body to draw without being overcome by psychopathic rage and self-loathing.

  • Really wished I had lots of vodka on New Year's Eve; still wish I had vodka right now; I need to get really, really shitfaced.

  • Can't stop thinking about taking another walk past the airplane graveyard.


That about covers it. See you in a month or two.

Edit: I've been reading past entries of mine again. (These times are always accompanied by astonishment that I "used to be able to write that well.") Touching upon each of them, trying to remember who it was that wrote them, and thinking that these things really didn't happen too long ago. I think it's then that I made the mistake of looking at the dates of these entries and realizing they all happened a year ago - I subsequently realized that the entire last year of my life was a revolting waste, and that time only flies when you fill it with nothing of importance.

I've gotta get more caffeine or something into my system. I've got to kickstart proactivity somehow. I need something. Something to bring phoenix back for a spell to whip me into shape and remind me what living is like again.

I never did meet any requirement on my imperium post from over a year ago, and every last one of the items on that list could've been easily accomplished in the span of two months or less. I truly am turning into a royal fuckup, and I've got to change that.

I think most of the reason I've been feeling down is that I've created various persona in my brain that all centered around either transcendence of the norm, or hatred of the weak, and the last few months I've come to realize that by my actions I am both glaringly normal and disgustingly weak.

I will not tolerate this. I will not. I will get fucking pissed, and I will enact change, and I will fucking crush whatever gets in my way. That is what I must do. No more of this cynically laughable attempt to "think" my way around my depression; thoughts, like words, have no value without accompanying action.

I've got to get the fuck out of here.

Current Mood: tired tired
Current Music: Mnemic -- "Deathbox"

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2006-12-08 05:40 pm
I decry the current trend of lackluster movies. I just got finished watching Falling Down, with Michael Douglas, the first time through, and was left thinking two things:

1. Comparatively, movies these days are about as entertaining as a giraffe sucking off a gorilla. No, wait, they're less entertaining; that would actually be pretty cool to see.

2. It will never, ever be safe for me to have children. Ever. For society, mainly.

Still job-hunting. Might've had one by now had I bothered applying to fast food restaurants, but no. Just no. I've put in a few calls to certain places to see what the likelihood was of me getting a job were I to apply, places that are not cookie-cutter retail jobs. Uniformly, gruff voices spoke with a hint of disapproval about my lack of a piece of paper which is supposed to denote my competence. I hate people, and my inability to afford college.

However, a tiny spark of hope has embedded itself somewhere I can't see in regards to education. I will attempt to grow this spark into a flame, and then an inferno. It's been too long since I've burned alight, though I caught the few merest glimpses of that self a few nights back before going into bed and having it disappear by the time I awoke, and on a few evenings while smoking and staring into the west as the horizon burned with whispers of wanton freedom and joy. Suffice to say I am comforted that it's still around, and driven maddeningly to the edge by my own inability to access it. It will come, eventually, of it's own volition, and I will accept it.

For now I merely seek to minimize the damage wrought by my own failed incompetence; primarily, I seek jobs in revolting retail in fields that I find passably acceptable. The most I can hope for at this point with neither a college education, nor a starting capital, nor a functioning mode of productive sanity (or insanity, for that matter) is a job at an arts and crafts store. The pay will probably be comparable to other big-box stores, but this one in particular provides a delectable 25% discount on all its merchandise, which works out for me because it was the only store I frequented on the matter, to begin with...

The application is put in. Now I just have to hold my sanity together until I can do something about it. No small task. Conversely, productive insanity would be welcome, but this middle ground of neutral listless insanity is going to be the end of me unless I can whip my brain-chemicals into some manner of shape. Again, no small task. But I've got to hold on to something. Anything.

Ninja Edit: Cream soda does, in fact, still rock. Also, with each passing day, Livejournal stuffs more and more useless, gaudy toys into its programming, and with each new infection of self-effacing technological updates it loses a bit of the Zen simplicity and hands-off liberty that used to welcome me each time I logged in.

Current Mood: melancholy relatively Empty
Current Music: David Lanz -- "Cristofori's Dream"

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2006-12-02 10:26 pm
splatterhouse

Why?

Edit: Nvrmnd.

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2006-11-23 07:05 pm
This is why my friend, Mike, rocks: http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=12488700&blogID=196858245

Also, I lost my job. I guess I should be thankful that I don't have cancer?

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2006-11-23 04:47 am
Sorry, Mike (and Crystal), not gonna be able to make it over there for Thanksgiving. It's 5 miles away, and I just don't have the energy to walk there. Maybe next year, eh?

Happy Thanksgiving.

Edit: Also, the phone keeps dying on me because I keep forgetting to put it on the charger. That's why I haven't called you back yet.

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2006-11-18 03:37 pm
Ladies and gents, boys and girls, people-things of all ages, do you know what time it is? That's right, it's whatever the fuck the little clock in the right hand corner of your computer screen says it is! Now, who among you can tell me what else your computer tells you about your life? Moreover, do you ever wonder that if your computer is telling you things, you may in fact be completely fucking insane?

I know I sure do, but hey, I figure listening to the demon gnomes that frolic upon the green, wondrous field of plastic that comprises my motherboard is a far more desirable alternative than hearing my illustrious nation's President seep viscuous words drenched with flaccid dumb from between his lips while telling the Judicial branch to collectively go fuck its self right up behind it's soiled black garbs, no? Further, I imagine that hearing something is better than not hearing any sort of outrage, disgust, revulsion, and whatnot from the idiot fucking American public right after their own fucking government just cockslapped the fucking constitution and told them they only have legal fucking rights so long as the government says so. What of fucking accountability, you inconsiderately insolent fuckchild retards? You elected these lascivious courters of despotism, their gnarled, pale fists clenching your humanity while they fuck your underage teenage children, and get paid by honor-defiling corporations to ignore what few of you that do have some sense of ethics. YOU chose this for yourselves, America. They say that a woman cannot be chosen to be raped, and I personally was inclined to agree, but you who would soapbox with sagging lips of pseudopurity, of mere revolting "morality", you have lent your collective philosophical orifices to the phallus of dumb fucking human evil, all while squawking in your dying gasps about how they didn't fix things for you.

Your government can imprison you now for no reason. They can drag you and your children to hidden prisons, AND THEY CAN FUCKING TORTURE YOU AS VICIOUSLY AS THEY PLEASE SO LONG AS IT DOESN'T CAUSE MAJOR ORGAN FAILURE. Yes, that's right, while the maliciously grinning executive branch dined upon the corpse of Lady Justice, the legislative branch nonchalantly debated what kind of torture was acceptable with a degree of distasteful aloofness found only in the haughty, mindless discussions of bourgeois relating with repugnant sneering of their last encounter with you plebeian fucking retards. Meanwhile, the American public let out a collective sigh before lowering their snouts back to suckle on the communal fucking supertit that is the - LIEK OMFG - Britney Spears divorce. You weak minded putrilescent scagsnorting fucks! By all means, fall back on your checks and balances to save you. No doubt your Supreme Court will get right to saving you, just as soon as they steal your fucking house to make room for another cookie-cutter convenience store chock full of shit that will give you cancer if consumed in large amounts, which is the only fucking size that registers to your corpulent fat fucking ass, which has been infused with so many irradiated, gene-altered foods it has grown sentient and recalcitrant to your every fucking pathetic effort to lose weight while your second fucking mouth you grafted on directly over your stomach rams fucking lardburgers directly into your fucking lymph system. That's okay, you can find weightloss pills on aisle 12, which are so expensive not because they really work, but because you've grown so fucking dumb you think you can throw money at things until they go away.

While you're there, make a special note of the music on the speakers. Notice a distinct lack of abysmal fucking 80's pop music? It doesn't fucking matter if it's not even Thanksgiving yet, ye olde grande retailers have brought X-mas back early, just for you! NO, YOU KNOW WHAT?! FUCK THAT. We've made it Christmas all the time, now! It's a hundred and twenty fucking degrees outside, but we've dragged Kris Fucking Krinkle's corpse out of the snowy wastes of the north, and now we'll parade him at you, wield him at you until you fucking buy! Buy! Buybuybuybuy, because if you don't get your screaming spoiled hamburger-sucking mini-mammoth of a fucking demonic offspring the latest and greatest barely-improved-but-twice-as-expensive shiny electronic thing, you're a goddamn failure as a fucking parent and you may as well ship your child off to Good Ol' Ex-Communicated Father McClallahan's for a good old fashioned Catholic fistfuck.

Don't worry, by the time you've read this we've already made Christmas Day every day of the known fucking calender year (and even some unknown days, too). We've dragged in whatever homeless people we could find into the recording studio, and had them screech mindless jolly inanities into a fucking microphone for your listening pleasure so you could have 327,367 remixes of fucking Jingle Bells. Only into ethnocentric music? No worries! We've had random black women banshee to symphonic accompaniment because, as we all know, the only thing black people like is rap, and fucking coke-snorting psychobitches that scream in as many different octaves as possible in a laughable attempt at talent. Are you a soulless, joyless white person who seeks only the most torpid expressions of music, possible? Gotcha covered! We've got renditions of Three Kings so white, they made Tom Brokaw run away screaming to join a rapcore, niggas-only group in some sad attempt to purge the whiteness from his being, which, in frustration, will eventually lead him to boil his honkey skin off in a holiday-themed deep frier while rapping about bitches with 6-ton asses in thongs and getting platinum shot into his fucking dentures at 8,000 feet per second with a rail gun! Are you Asian? Hah, don't even get me started on William Hung! None of you bitches can sing, so instead we just got all of you billions of fucktards to screech out Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer at once in some last ditch effort to end the failure of this experiment of humanity. If your head doesn't immediately explode, you sure will wish it did!

We ain't going to ever stop with Christmas, ever, motherfuckers! You had a War on Christmas last year, but this year Old Saint Nick is bringing the war into your homes. He'll impale your fucking children on christmas trees tinseled in crystallized arsenic while feeding your dog broken glass ball ornaments and burying a garish red and green battle-axe into your fucking 3 inch-thick skulls before electrodes embedded into the blade shoot forth and assimilate your brain into a gaudy Christmas-buying machine.

This is the future you have chosen for yourselves, America. Your forefathers fought back with flash of fang and fire of eye the shimmering, sightless horror of human oppression, and you, it's Children, have used this freedom to complain, to rend your stomach-skin apart and offer your intestines to the dark beast whole if only he'll make you not responsible for the anathema of your own lifeless existence!

Is this what you want? Can you really throw away all of this for your fucking sloth? Why? Why?! Why must you transmogrify what could have been into the worst, most asininely shallow expression of nihilism, ever?

200 years of fucking nothing. Wasted, all gone, and we're left with a headless, directionless amorph with several thousand nuclear weapons and the collective IQ of a fucking pair of salad tongs.

Have fun in Abu Ghraib, motherfuckers.

Current Mood: enraged I fucking hate all of you.
Current Music: Devildriver -- "Nothing's Wrong?"

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2006-10-20 09:11 am
Boy do we have some characters that come into my place of occupation, know what I mean? I mean, characters, man. Surely you know. It's not just the calculatorily icy anathema of a denotation of the word, either. When you say that someone's a character, you do it with a sly grin and a wink, and not without some extent of grudging acceptance, too, as when an ancient codger of a man looks at a long time friend and bemoans him as "an old mongrel, you". I hope that you, the reader, understand me when I say "character", then, that I'm not derogating anyone; were that the case, I would probably instead prefer a term like "pedantic fuckface of a dickhole" or some such. Not so with the comeraderie of them characters I see, affable oafs, beggars, and nightlings they be.

Take Mr. I-Treat-My-Handshake-As-My-BondTM. (Bolded because he is an archetypal character and is thusly important and deserving of your extra attention, moreso than Bob in Accounting or Bob in Technical Support, or Bob in...you get the idea.) A hearty handshake with a strong, metacarpal-crushing grip is an inspiring, manful thing to behold. However, Mr. I-Treat-My-Handshake-As-My-BondTM really prefers to bond with too many things and/or people and/or me. Possibly taught from a young age that a handshake is an honorable introduction, he prefers to saturate any conversatorial confrontation with his same gender with that hallowed clasp, probably not understanding that frequency of a certain action and loss of symbolism are directly proportional. More often than not, he is in such a rush to bond that he closes his grasp too soon. This is wrong. A true handshake requires that the involved parties' meaty gathering of skin between the thumb and index finger meat (pun intended, for I am indefatigably witty like that) before hands are closed and shaking commences. Premature closure of the hand by one or both parties results in only a partial handshake, which resembles something like a man holding the four fingers of his significant other while he intones his deep love for them. Thus, Mr. I-Treat-My-Handshake-As-My-BondTM has defiled the handshake through implied homosexualism that in turn leads to an Angry God who sends his hateful pseudo-Christian hordes to protest the funerals of soldiers. Inadvertently, Mr. I-Treat-My-Handshake-As-My-BondTM has destroyed that which he holds dear. Far better, instead, to save it for the rare occasions when actual bonding does occur, and not for those times when you accost a confused, bleach-haired young man in your local retail store of choice.

Another gentleman, and possible character, I serviced last night in a manner that was completely professional and not gay in the least--like saying, "I serviced a man last night," may possibly imply--asked my opinion on a certain speaker. I immediately recounted my experience with previous customers and said, "Well some customers simply love them, while others loathe them and decry their very existence." It was when he gave me a somewhat odd look that I couldn't fully read that I realized I slipped up, after which I managed to stumble out, "But the best speakers we carry are these here Pioneers, totally." I hoped that the mixture of Southern Dialect Low-speak and Linguistically Disparaging Beverly Hills Youth-speak would be enough to throw him off, because as everyone knows, to work at a retail store and to be intelligent and well-spoken is to admit FAILURE.

The last character that merits mention today was a tattooed blues guitarist that was having some car trouble. Because I look at the same repetitious regurgitation of vehicular accessories most people assume that, through the powers of Alchemy and Demonic Arcana, I am somehow an ASE-certified mechanic, so I was of course summoned to aid him with my hallowed I-Open-Boxes-That-Contain-Car-Things knowledge. He complained that his tires felt like they were about to vibrate off, so after checking the tightness of his lug nuts with a torque wrench that I totally know how to use because I'm the retail mechanic person thingy-thing, I checked the wear on his tires and found out that he had alignment issues. ("My friend's a mechanic and I had him do the brakes, dude.") I then went on to tell him about boring things like government safety standards which state that tires with under 5/16s of an inch of tread left are unsafe, and which I am now recounting here because I secretly hate you all and want to know that you're squirming in your chairs like maggots, wondering and hoping I am going somewhere with this because otherwise I will have wasted your time, which in turn means that I HAVE POWER OVER YOU PURULENT LOWLINGS LIKE THAT AND YOU ARE POWERLESS TO AVOID MY BOREDOM RAY OF DEATH. Ah, I guess the only thing which made him a character was that he was a poor artist who drove a car on the verge of explosion, and also that he rammed his hand into his engine block to play with the throttle cable after the vehicle was started up. This prompted a genuinely concerned, "Dude, I wouldn't do that if you want to keep playing a guitar..." I suppose another interesting thing is that he duoed with a female pianist who could lie on a bench perpendicular to the playing keys and play upside down. After he told me this a wistful, "I really hope I make it," escaped his lips, and there, too, I felt kinda bad for him. If only success revolved around a dextrous gimmick.

The fact that I may have given him bad directions to his home (he was new in town) further burdens me with guilt. Sorry, dude.

I suppose I'm something of a character, too, I guess. I'm just some smartass kid with a large vocabulary, going nowhere any time soon or ever, too poor to afford new clothes or shoes, and lookin' homeless at work with holes creeping their way into every piece of my wardrobe, and working so hard the body odor trumps the several crusty layers of spray deodorant I layer on before work. Yeah, I'm a character, but maybe that's not such a bad thing. Could be a pretty good excuse one of these days.

"Ah, Your Honor," I'll croak in my smoke-heavy voice, a sliding Eighth-Grin dancing its way onto my face as I look up through earnestly mischeivous eyes, "I suppose one could say I burned that place to the ground, and even watched as some o' the peeps inside burned with it, but it ain't no thing, man. They was characters...jes' like me, and they knew what was comin'. They wanted it. All characters do, man. All do. Now if ya' don't mind, I believe I have a date with that ol' 'lectric chair, eh? Whattaya say?"

Them characters, man. Get 'em all the time where I work. All the time.

Current Music: God Forbid -- "Divinity"

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2006-10-19 06:38 am
I hate everything about myself, and the fact that other people don't hate me as much as I do makes me distrust them.

How was your day?

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2006-09-25 07:14 am
You know those guys that are supposedly adults but who seem to have never latched onto puberty to its fullest extent, lending them the appearance of a half-man/half-child demihuman whose age and (more importantly) alignment on the scale of good and evil can never be truly deduced? There's one of those things at my work. Sometimes I just want to latch on to him, and shake him, screaming, "Carpe pituitary, motherfucker!" over and over until he cries and his voice breaks into manhood.

I guess I wouldn't be so annoyed by him, it's just that he is severely and odiously polite, on the scale of Miles in Turn of the Screw, so much so that every time I catch a glimpse of him I want to punch in his soft, underdeveloped skull to see if his brains would pop out of his eyes like in a bad horror movie. I could justify this violence by saying I mistook him for a prepubescent individual - see my archives for further explanation of my position on "abortion".

Beyond that, I just worked day 6 of my 7 day work week after managerial schedulers fucked up. I have been sick all of those days, and even had the great joy of stocking 3 of those days with a fever over 100. I am at the point of collapse, almost, so much so that I would be neatening a certain area of the department, and would wake up in another aisle with no recollection of having fallen to sleep. That day I started hallucinating flashes of light was the best, though. Can't call in. Must not be fired, must not starve, etc.

Finally, I ended my day by going outside and seeing the annoying mass of flying rats/pigeons that populate the parking lot get scattered by an assaulting hawk. It rocked. On the way home I also saw what appeared to be a very large eagle land near me on a power pole, though I can't for the likes of me figure out what kind. It's underside plumage was mostly white with flecks of brown, with it's dorsal side seemed to be varying shades of brown. Might not have been an eagle at all, but in flight it had the familiar wing and tail feather spread of most raptors I've seen. It's wingspan must've been at least 5-6 feet.

I'm very tired. Also, I don't think I've read anyone's journal for at least a week or two. My bad. Think I'll go to sleep, now.

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