It's only been about a week, but...

... could this be anima projection?

 

Conjecture on the Nature of "Tramp Stamps"

Tonight, I have deduced the subconscious drive which, I suspect, may be responsible for the "tramp stamp" phenomenon.

This fad could be yet another indicator of humanity's passive acceptance of its own inevitable relegation to an analogous fate: to end up as just another faded, artificial blemish on the ass of the universe, shamelessly screaming "look at me" simply because it can – and because that may be all it can do.

Interpretive Audio Journal: "Happy Tension: What Comes Next?"

Ruminations on the Wonders of Contrast and the Occasional Profundity of Surprise

Hot, stagnant and rancid-milk thoughts spill ignorantly from their brain-buckets, trespassing in my space, a raging river of raving idiots all tangled in each others' limbs. It's a mental picture even the blind couldn't miss, should they ever happen upon this panoramic horrorscape by some cruelty of fate.

I try not to hate this mob, and I fail - but with enthusiasm. My role, my function, my job is to squeeze every last fetid drop of curd from its little toy actors, then return them with painted-on smiles to their meaningless lives of tedium and superficiality. Even their delusions are uninspired, tainting me as they do with the stench of wasted thought. I would rather die a thousand torturous deaths than live a single one of their lives, and being drowned in the minutiae of their dramas, day after day, year after year, does wonders for provoking such satisfyingly-morbid manifestations of my own dark dreams.

Ahh, if I could press a button and eradicate them all, down to the very last one, I would. I would press it and never release it, filling its sacred socket with my determined digit, satisfying my desires as if those of a lover. If only I had such a button...

— And there, suddenly, a break in this cloud of human flesh: a brilliant beam of life, emitted from the last vestigial reserve of cerebral heaven within my vast hell. The Earth upsets itself beautifully, and I hear it plainly: a sound I'd long forgotten, an idea I'd perhaps only ever imagined...

As if that terrible switch was flipped off somewhere behind the cosmic gate of insanity, my reality reshapes itself, taking once more its place at the helm of my mindship, changing course just slightly - first port, then starboard and finally starward, away from that maw of oblivion which lurks ever-patiently in the shadow of every tomorrow, gnashing its teeth at me hungrily.

And then, suddenly, the curdled folk became not quite so smelly as they once were.

... What button?

Noir Boredom, Part 1

The night air was stagnant and humid, and stuck to my skin like the rancid breath of a drunken god peeking disinterestedly into a long-forgotten terrarium. Hot, acrid raindrops the size and color of blood-shot eyeballs pummeled the ground with such force that I could almost hear the pavement screaming in agony as I drifted through an otherwise silent darkness. I don't know why I was surprised at a sudden realization of my discomfort. There hadn't been peace here for any living thing in many thousands of years - but now, even the inanimate elements themselves seemed to exude a kind of passive, intangible discontent. I felt it watching me, somehow; I imagined it licking its lips.

I heard rather than saw a wave of mud oozing surely down the nearby wall of a collapsed building, and felt a malign presence at work. I wondered if the ground itself might be trying to act upon some ancient survival instinct, driving it to slowly swallow everything whole, press the reset button on even the faintest memories of human life. I guess I couldn't blame it.

As I passed closer to the crumbling ruins of what looked to have once been a bank, I cracked a caustic grin at the now-foreign images that exploded into my head: an immigrant pushing a mower across a thick bed of green grass; automatic sprinkler systems spinning in the hot summer nights to keep the stuff from dying in the absence of poor Johnny Boy's underpaid—and likely completely unappreciated—diligence; posturing, prosperity, pretension practically dripping from every gleaming blade. So much wasted time and energy on such a simple thing as fuckin' grass; it's no wonder our species didn't survive.

At that thought, I couldn't hold back a chuckle. My hollow laughter echoed blandly into the great expanse of the blasted lands I was crossing and soon died, alone, in a distant corner of an endless desert.

Dribbles of Common Truth-Sauce: August 31, 2012

Jim: Have you heard the news!? Jersey Shore is finally getting cancelled after this season! It might not be making our schools any less-worse (well, not *directly*...), but remember this the next time somebody says that Obama hasn't accomplished anything!

Ale: Hahahaha! Never watched jersey shore.. but I've heard it's terrible!

Jim: And I think saying so makes terrible look bad.

Note to Self: Billiards is the meaning of life... idiot!

Why do I enjoy playing pool?

— Because pool is a perfect analogy for life... sort of!

Every event which takes place is merely a determinable mathematical expression based on a finite number of measurable variables. You might not be able to see them; you might not know they exist; you might not even be able to comprehend that they might - but the pool table, the universe, doesn't care. Your ignorance is just another factor. Even if you choose to blindly shove the cue, you always *could* have known where every ball was going to end up after every shot - and every human being knows this, at least on some level.

I enjoy pool because it reminds me—albeit in a largely tangential fashion—that there is never any reasonable justification for willful ignorance - and that even if I convince myself the game doesn't exist, even if I were to refuse to play... it's still playing me.

My Resolve to Resolve Me

I turn my collar to the cold and damp.

I miss the days when I could turn on a pop radio station and have a chance of hearing Sarah McLachlan. Now, I can't turn on any radio station at all without being inundated by some kind of agenda. No, thank you; I don't want to buy your cd, your lifestyle, your fame, or your vacuous "message." What the hell happened to that thing called "music?" (Don't answer. I only employ such obvious rhetorical interrogatives in the preservation of my last vestiges of starving optimism).

I've been catching myself saying that "I feel old" quite a lot lately, and—of course—I found myself wondering WHY. After much thought, I realize that I don't feel old – at least not physically. When I first created this blog, it was the cynic in me that opted to adopt the moniker "Mr. Blase," despite the fact that I have generally managed to find happiness even in my darkest days. Now, however, I realize that a definite cloud of real blase is rolling softly down my mental valley – if not quite yet settling. That's not the kind of irony I favor.

As the days drift by, I find myself needing more and more time alone, even to the point that I have to remind myself to make time for my loved ones. Casual acquaintances are a thing of the past; I can no longer spare such investments. I've considered the possibility that my—admittedly extreme—introversion has been deepening with age, or perhaps with the frustration borne of life's usual failures in the context of my inescapable perfectionism, but I don't believe that to be the case. Instead, I suspect that this is a symptom of a long-avoided problem for which I still don't have a real remedy: I just don't feel at home in any large group of people - whether that be a party, a city, or a society. It all feels wrong to me.

The mental atmospheres of status quo's inhabitants continue to evaporate steadily, and as the pressure to assimilate becomes stronger by way of both simple mass and self-preservative conviction, I am becoming more and more aware of my growing instinct to escape it all before I'm swallowed up and changed – before I am reduced to simply so much condensation on the brow of the social machine, to be dripped into yet another furrow behind its plow. At the same time, the avenues for a true escape have only grown narrower with every passing year, and their accessibility more strugglesome. I feel trapped. I've responded by nesting; by surrounding myself with nostalgia and sentiment at home; by aspiring to spend as much time as possible away from the sounds, smells and sights of people; by drowning myself in allegory and abstractions and using them as gloves with which I can safely handle the more emotionally-radioactive elements I encounter on a day-to-day basis, but my words—like silent raindrops—fell...

Forced isolation is no better for me than forced socialization, and all I have really accomplished in my withdrawal is a masterpiece of loneliness; my next project in life is to attempt to dismantle it, discard it, and rid myself of any sentimental attachment to it. I have too many things yet to do in life, and I don't want to do them alone.

Silence—like a cancer—grows...