It's strange that I've spent so much of my life hating "hipsters" and indie bastards because they actually try to be different, try to make themselves seem unique. I don't know why that infuriates me so much. Probably because any put-upon sub-culture bothers me. But I digress. The other reason that those kids bugged me was because I thought they were rebelling against nothing. I've been inundated with subculture of all varieties since I was a baby, and I was never really exposed to people who saw normalcy as a key virtue, people who craved sameness and boredom over any kind of rebellion or an interesting life. Well, now I'm surrounded by them. They're not bad people, really, and then I remembered that I've rarely met a hipster I didn't get along with. These people all want to grow up to be cops in the city they were born in, and success is more than just a word for them. Hipsters all want to grow up to be artists and rock stars, and success is based on how famous they can get and how vapid they can make art. The two groups are more similar than they'd like, just on opposite aesthetic spectrums. I can't help, when contrasting myself with the cops-to-be, realising how hard I try to feel different from them. And I think I understand I tend towards self-hate a little better now.
In other news, I have listened to Josephine by Mark Lanegan and Josh Homme 17 times in the past 3 days. You should listen to that one. The War on Terror continues, and it's WORKING, people. On this day, 1365 years ago, Umar ibn al-Khattab was killed by a servant in Medina (but probably not really, considering how totally fucked calendars are). I need a fucking drink and I HAVE WHISKEY DOWNSTAIRS OH AWESOME KAY BYE.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The time is...FATALITY
Bust out of the bank, a sardonic grin on your face, sort of embarrassed at your grandstanding antics, but fuck it you've come this far so might as well shout "Attica! Attica!" because there isn't a whole lot else goin' on near or around you. There ain't much of a crowd, 'cause you ain't much of a robber, but you're motherfuckin' Robin Hood, so don't worry about it. The man on the roof worries about it, worries that you will actually follow through and kill the hostage, so he finishes you first. It happens fast, and so you don't even notice. God damn boy. A man should hear the bullet that ends him.
He goes in for the punch, and you hardly feel it connecting into your teeth except as this pulling sensation, and he winds up and smashes you again and you stumble backwards, fall, and realize you have a mouth full of bloody, dislodged teeth. You stand up, shakey, not hurting but not happy, and you call him a bitch. He laughs and pulls out a blade. You're scared at the end, I guess, but you're more just angry that this fag got to finish you off. God damn. Color is all it is in the end, really. Color is all it is. There's a lot of red here.
The earth is red and the stone is red and the sky is black, black. The canyon of Nis is not empty, but where it was once full now it is in a half-way point, mostly empty, with these little specks of habitation and intellect and then these vast, empty cities full of sick people, twisted beyond repair, crawling over each other, screaming, screaming, fucking and twisting and suffocating and dying in this great city on the shores of the river of blood as their veiny pale bodies interweave and intermesh and It takes hold and It slowly rots us and It slowly wins because it doesn't care for us. And we die.
He goes in for the punch, and you hardly feel it connecting into your teeth except as this pulling sensation, and he winds up and smashes you again and you stumble backwards, fall, and realize you have a mouth full of bloody, dislodged teeth. You stand up, shakey, not hurting but not happy, and you call him a bitch. He laughs and pulls out a blade. You're scared at the end, I guess, but you're more just angry that this fag got to finish you off. God damn. Color is all it is in the end, really. Color is all it is. There's a lot of red here.
The earth is red and the stone is red and the sky is black, black. The canyon of Nis is not empty, but where it was once full now it is in a half-way point, mostly empty, with these little specks of habitation and intellect and then these vast, empty cities full of sick people, twisted beyond repair, crawling over each other, screaming, screaming, fucking and twisting and suffocating and dying in this great city on the shores of the river of blood as their veiny pale bodies interweave and intermesh and It takes hold and It slowly rots us and It slowly wins because it doesn't care for us. And we die.
Ate porridge
I woke up fully dressed today, and my last memory is finishing Lanark. Good. I wish I could remember the ending.
Look at meeeeee...yeah!
Look at meeeeee...yeah!
Shut up fuck you GO TO HELL
DO YOU THINK I MOTHERFUCKING CARE ABOUT YOU.
I want to be an abusive father. I want to tell my child terrible lies. I want to torture them mentally, telling them all the motherfucking awful truths and lies I know. Yeah. And I want a butler.
Anyone that reads this blog is sort of weird. You would need to have this absurd dedication to drab life. Basically, whoever you are, kill yourself. Oh, and hey! Insert Internet meme here!
Jesus Christ in a handbasket is it ever difficult to write down thoughts. This has been...My third blog post of the day.
I want to be an abusive father. I want to tell my child terrible lies. I want to torture them mentally, telling them all the motherfucking awful truths and lies I know. Yeah. And I want a butler.
Anyone that reads this blog is sort of weird. You would need to have this absurd dedication to drab life. Basically, whoever you are, kill yourself. Oh, and hey! Insert Internet meme here!
Jesus Christ in a handbasket is it ever difficult to write down thoughts. This has been...My third blog post of the day.
It completely sucks
You know what, I like being alone. I like sitting in a chair in front of a computer watching porn and laughing because there's nothing else to laugh at. I like listening to "The Passenger" on a loop and hoping nobody walks in because I'm not sure but I think that song might be considered totally lame by a bunch of hardcore cool
kids who I would totally hang out with. I like thinking about how I actually suck pretty bad on the hole (get it?) but that's okay 'cause I got time, so don't be a self-pitying little FAGGOT (too late). Man, I sure do like not going to mechanical bull riding and not getting drunk and enjoying myself on one of my last nights in Montreal. Yeah, I love this man. This rules, it is completely radical.
Duncan! You are not going to let this woman drive you out of your house!
It would rule to be an awesome dude. I guess I'll have to settle for being an alright guy. Sort of a silver medal if you will. On that note, gold is pretty terrible, huh? It's gaudy and yellow (the second-worst colour) and it has this unfortunate association with a culture and credo based utterly upon "conspicuous consumption" (to directly plagiarize from Achewood) which I do fie upon. Also, it has this kind of weird sound to it like a giant very gently crushing crystal glasses with his pinky while tittering like a gay little idiot. FUCK THE HOMOSEXUALS, BITCH YEEEEAAAHH!!! Look at how subversive I am. I am being offensive. It is ironic.
Irony has gotten a bad rap lately, but that is only because it requires a minimum of two hundred pages to execute with any kind of subtlety. Otherwise you are a nineteen year old girl in a pixie haircut wearing Buddy Holly glasses and a Thundercats T-shirt talking about how great the nineties were. Fuck that. Either that or you are a man in a turtleneck talking about Kirkegaard and spewing out the words post and modern from between your goatee laden lips, and if you are that guy I swear to Shiva I will punch you in your smirking face.
I'm full of bitterness and bagels. I feel like Woody Allen. I even sort of look like him. How totally sick is that.
I have a lot of trouble making jokes to people I don't know extremely well, because I have this tendency to say something completely boring and then weakly try and follow it up with a joke and I just end up running away and hiding behind the wedding cake (because I am at a wedding). Even with people I am comfortable with, I end up getting the skitters and descending into a mumbling shell of a man hiding behind a wedding cake.
This has been the minutiae of my life. I hope you enjoyed hearing every dull detail of myself. I wish I was more intelligent and unhappy, then I could be a starving artist.
kids who I would totally hang out with. I like thinking about how I actually suck pretty bad on the hole (get it?) but that's okay 'cause I got time, so don't be a self-pitying little FAGGOT (too late). Man, I sure do like not going to mechanical bull riding and not getting drunk and enjoying myself on one of my last nights in Montreal. Yeah, I love this man. This rules, it is completely radical.
Duncan! You are not going to let this woman drive you out of your house!
It would rule to be an awesome dude. I guess I'll have to settle for being an alright guy. Sort of a silver medal if you will. On that note, gold is pretty terrible, huh? It's gaudy and yellow (the second-worst colour) and it has this unfortunate association with a culture and credo based utterly upon "conspicuous consumption" (to directly plagiarize from Achewood) which I do fie upon. Also, it has this kind of weird sound to it like a giant very gently crushing crystal glasses with his pinky while tittering like a gay little idiot. FUCK THE HOMOSEXUALS, BITCH YEEEEAAAHH!!! Look at how subversive I am. I am being offensive. It is ironic.
Irony has gotten a bad rap lately, but that is only because it requires a minimum of two hundred pages to execute with any kind of subtlety. Otherwise you are a nineteen year old girl in a pixie haircut wearing Buddy Holly glasses and a Thundercats T-shirt talking about how great the nineties were. Fuck that. Either that or you are a man in a turtleneck talking about Kirkegaard and spewing out the words post and modern from between your goatee laden lips, and if you are that guy I swear to Shiva I will punch you in your smirking face.
I'm full of bitterness and bagels. I feel like Woody Allen. I even sort of look like him. How totally sick is that.
I have a lot of trouble making jokes to people I don't know extremely well, because I have this tendency to say something completely boring and then weakly try and follow it up with a joke and I just end up running away and hiding behind the wedding cake (because I am at a wedding). Even with people I am comfortable with, I end up getting the skitters and descending into a mumbling shell of a man hiding behind a wedding cake.
This has been the minutiae of my life. I hope you enjoyed hearing every dull detail of myself. I wish I was more intelligent and unhappy, then I could be a starving artist.
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