Friday, January 1, 2010

pretty much moved

I’ve started doing all my blogging at my newer wordpress blog. I like wordpress more so I doubt I’ll be updating this one any time soon. I’ll leave it up for archiving purposes of course. If you like reading what I write, check

Yes, I am begging.
Writers need input.

Friday, December 11, 2009

Pea [RHCP]

I'm a little pea
I love the sky and the trees
I'm a teeny tiny little ant
Checking out this and that
I am nothing
So you have nothing to hide
And I'm a pacifist
So I can fuck your shit up

Oh yea I'm small

Fuck you asshole
You homophobic redneck dick
You're big and tough and macho
You can kick my ass
So fucking what

in line, like the rest

All the words around me bite.  They drip with bitterness.  Everyone is so displeased.  It's a simple enough existence in this place I live, but no one is happy.  And rightfully so.  Simple here means "do what you're told".  Yelling is the language, though I don't speak or understand it.  It grates on my nerves.  Sometimes I can almost feel the discontent and anger dripping from the walls and ceiling.  Heavy on my shoulders, it weighs me down.  Quick, someone pull the plug on the drain before I drown.  I fear floating here forever, lungs filled with that which I spit so easily.  Any of us could do what we could to make it easier for all of us, but I don't want to fix it.  I want to escape it.  So until then, I'll continue to contribute to this horrible fucking feeling.  Hence the self-loathing.
Someday I will escape, and I can start having the kind of life that will inspire incredibly more interesting blogging and writing.  Until then, you get this shit, and for writing...I'll keep making shit up.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Perpetual, Slow-Motion, Car Wreck

I’m a goddamn emotional wreck. I think about the past too much. My emotions are all over the place. I wish I had a disorder so I could have a reason. A “get out of self-pity free” card.

Converting self-pity to self-loathing.
Replacing my emotions with jaded cynicism.

So far it’s not working so well. I need to get the fuck out of here. Disappointment is too deeply stained here. Everything I try to do suffers because of this place.

“Sure blame it on the place, if you really tried to do anything, where you lived wouldn’t mean a thing. You could live there if you stopped complaining.”

Well FUCK YOU. I don’t want your goddamn advice. I know what I need. So go fuck yourself.
I’m going crazy.

I need a new me.

Who Gives a Shit? I'd Like To

Sometimes the people who have decided to no longer be a part of my life come wandering through my mind for whatever reason. I wish I could sit here and reminisce about the past, and wish they would at least speak to me, or that we could be friends, or that I could be there for them.


I’m not allowed to give a shit.
It’s bad for me.
And they won’t ever know the difference.
So I’ve chosen apathy for the time being.
It helps.


I’d like to give a shit.

Monday, November 30, 2009

Naked Bullshit

A man is many things, and in his lifetime he has the opportunity to be many different men. Throughout their lives, people reinvent and rediscover themselves time and time again. This is exceedingly so in those oh so important developmental years known as the teenage years. Or as I prefer to call them, the downward spiral. It is in this time we are introduced to many of life’s less than pleasant qualities. Some fuck, and some get fucked. Often both.

In my own short journey, I have been through many a transformation. You might say I was evolving to be the “man” I am today, but that would imply a constant growth, an ascension. Yes, I have been many different men, and I have grown, but cynicism and experience tell me to never think that I (nor anyone else) have grown beyond our flaws and those parts of us we despise. Surprisingly enough, self-loathing is not my motive for writing on this night. Surprise. Tonight, despite my weariness, I aim to share my mental musings on my attempt at removing that which is unnecessary from my life and simplifying myself.

First on the list of overly complicated things in my life: clothing. Every time I must be seen by eyes other than my own and those of my nuclear family, I tend to dress to the nines as best I can. Being from a small town in South Carolina, one can assume correctly that I am almost always quite overdressed for any occasion. What better way to put less thought into my wardrobe than to emulate another person? So lately it’s been jeans, old converse, dark t-shirt, and leather jacket in honor of Hank Moody. Looking like I just got out of bed and don’t give a shit is liberating and refreshing.

(might I point out that, at this point, I passed out last night and am continuing this the next day...which would be today)

Next to go: my overabundance of texting. I’ve come to realize that these little snippets of thought are generally worthless. The only thing I really ever get from a conversation performed without any oral communication is a pissed off feeling when the other person inevitably stops replying. Some manners would be nice, but it’s too much to expect anyone to be polite. Instead of playing “text message etiquette evangelist” and spreading the good word about common decency, giving up my addiction is not only the more productive solution, but also the one that requires less effort on my part. No offense to those of you I do text, but as I’ve said time and time again, if people want to talk they’ll talk. If you want to text me, then you’ll text me, and I’ll respond. I’m not (always) that much of an asshole.

Last on the list: over-thinking my interactions with others. Trying to make good impressions with everyone you meet makes interaction more of a chore. I’ve never enjoyed chores. I’ll admit to being a little vain, checking myself in the mirror, putting a little too much effort in trying to look how I thought was cool. Saying what I want, no matter how crude or brutally honest, gives me a comfort no amount of bullshitting can supply. Now that I’ve accepted the fact that I’m an asshole and probably a bastard, being myself has felt easier. Not to sound like a typical angry teenager, but if someone doesn’t like me they can fuck off. We all die alone anyway.

Had enough of my bullshit about myself? Good, me too. I’m just another douchebag in the march of the fuckheads. Splitting a post up across time is a bad idea. This one is gonna be short I suppose, but that just means you get to waste less of your time reading my rambling. Not sure why you would read through this in the first place. For those of you who did, congrats your shitty past few minutes (or however long it took you to read this) and on having nothing better to do. Seriously, welcome to the club, Motherfucker.

But really, if you’ve got so much time to blow on the internet why aren’t you looking at porn? Porn doesn’t really do it for me, but at the very least go google naked pics of a celebrity before you attept to do something productive, you know you want to you sick fuck.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Where's the Cream Filling?

It’s so hard to find anyone with substance.  Not saying that I’m loaded with the good stuff, though I will say I can bullshit with the best, or whoever is just below the best.  I find the majority of my conversations lacking in correctly spelled words much longer that my common four letter fare.  It’s not that I’m a spelling nazi (I am), it just says something to me when words are constantly misspelled when the clock hasn’t quite struck 10 o’clock and all involved parties are sober.  Of course, there’s more to substance than proper use of spell check, sadly there’s not much involved in my lackluster social interactions of late.  Even the flirting drags on, even though I love to please a beautiful woman with the gift of words.  I also love to please a beautiful woman with gifts of the more intimate variety, but that’s another rant for another night.  My new found self-loathing, which I embrace, tells me it has something to do with my awful attitude and over-abundant cynicism concerning the opposite sex; however, I have come to the conclusion that it is indeed the fault of my chosen conversational partners.

Whatever happened to intelligent women with opinions and thoughtful insights into the various subjects of life in which I am interested?  I’m not asking a lot, I’d just like to have an interaction with a pretty face that didn’t make me feel like I was trying to masturbate in public on a cold winter day.  As you can imagine, there’s no happy ending there, just that tired feeling that leaves you longing for something more that is also preferably a great deal warmer.

Whatever happened to deep, intimate conversations between strangers?  Why is everyone so scared to talk about sex?  I don’t mean that the only worthwhile conversations are ones about sex, more often than you would think healthy for a 19 year old of the male persuasion, sex is the last thing I want to talk about.  I’m simply referring to the sad state of individuals’ intellectual capacity for anything outside the realm of their cut and pasted opinions, religious beliefs, and methods of reasoning.  I feel like I’m spreading myself thin over so many topics, so let’s focus.  This blog is about a lack of substance, so let’s save the sex talk for another time.

Conversation occurs everyday.  So why do so many people seem to suck at it?  When you strike up a conversation with another person and you realize they don’t have anything to say, I think it would only be polite to let them know they should work on that.  Don’t be rude.  Be honest.  If only men were more interested in conversation, all the women I’ve come across lately might be better at it.  When it comes to relationships with women, men are pretty one-dimensional.  It may be a horrible stereotype to say that everything a man does is decided by the member that hangs between his legs, but the majority of a man’s decisions concerning the fairer sex can be, and often are, decided wholly by what his dick wants.  It is a distressing fact that, even after thousands of years of evolution and civilization, this atrocity has not been discouraged on the level required to make us stop.  Men are more than a sexual organ on legs, but as men, we generally fail to let the women we encounter know that things like intelligence, individuality, and personality are just as important as how much their appearance makes us want to ensure the continued survival of our species (or at least go through the motions while using a prophylactic).  Some would say you can’t fuck a personality or get a blow-job from a college degree; well I would say that you can’t discuss the philosophies of Thich Naht Hahn with a pair of breasts or share your poetry or prose with a pussy (yes, I did that for purposes of alliteration).

What I’m basically trying to say is that, as a majority, man has seemingly done all in his power to discourage women from having substance.  Who needs substance when most guys seem to say that they would rather date a girl who puts out quickly than a woman who is more concerned with having something interesting to say.  Please, I need to make sure my genes proliferate, but if I can’t find a girl who’s beauty is more than skin deep, the world’s gonna be short a few “effeminate male body” and “12 inch genital” genes (I only did it for the alliteration, really).  I think that would just be a travesty, but hopefully it won’t come to that.

(12 might be a bit of an exaggeration, but only by a few inches at the most, I swear)

Of course this all applies to men as well, and ladies in this position…I feel your pain.  But as most know (though won’t admit) interactions between two men border on cavemen level most of the time.  And I doubt this next bit is true for most men, but my interactions with women are far more genuine than those I have with men.  Hence my reaction to the lack of conversational partners.  It’s not for completely shallow reasons.  I may be effeminate, but I am still a man.

I can find some pretty lady to stick my tongue in, but that’s only a temporary distraction (unless she was really good, then it might be a slightly longer temporary distraction).  If I could sit down over coffee and have a halfway decent conversation about the possibilities and implications of quantum physics, or discuss how Jack Kerouac perfectly captured rhythm and beat in his writing, I would be overjoyed and inspired for quite some time.  I’m not against going out and doing things, sharing mutual interests, and discovering the possibilities of our own physicalness, but when everything else grows old, when we’re tired, when we’ve exhausted ourselves and can only lie in bed, we always have our words.  I’ve sped through all the physical possibilities so fast sometimes that I’ve basically smashed my face against that large brick wall that is the lack of conversational compatibility.  After that, I’m not pretty.  Shit doesn’t last long then.

What’s the solution?  Fuck if I know.  Go read some books.  Catch up on your Nietzsche.  Don’t ask me, I just point out how fucked up we all are.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

I Am Bitter

I am not Buddhist. The best I can manage is the occasional hypocritical bit of philosophy about how we shouldn’t judge others or their choices or beliefs. Our beliefs are our own. But mind and body do not coincide, word and action are not one and the same. Who I am is my business, and who you are is your business. Of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t tell you how fucked up I think you are. You are fucked up, I guarantee it. There is no one righteous, no not one. And negative actions have negative consequences.

Despite my apparent disgust with my own actions, I am not apologizing. Instead I embrace self-loathing. I am an asshole, yet I am intelligent and caring. I am intelligent and caring, yet I am an asshole. This is where I should say something like “take it or leave it, bitches”, but that seems so arrogant. It’s as if I were saying that I am better than you if you don’t accept it, and if you do accept it you’re my punching bag, my bitch.

Prick, Asshole, Douchebag, Fuck, what’s the difference? I haven’t been called a Fuck, that’s really the only real difference, besides the spelling, pronunciation, linguistic origins, social acceptance, etc. I like to try to differentiate them, give them different meanings with slight nuances only a true wordsmith like myself would understand. One more thing to be right about. Another chance to have a discussion where I shout “Fuck” for no real reason other than the fact that I like the way it feels to say it.

If I am not Buddhist, as I tell the world, what am I? I am not angry. I am bitter. How do I know this? No, it’s not because you said so. It’s not because a friend pointed it out to me and their wisdom caused me to realize this about myself. If you have said any of this about me, you’re still an asshole and you’re still wrong. You can still go fuck yourself. I don’t mean to offend, it’s just a figure of speech.

What am I? I am Bitter. It is the subconscious philosophy by which I live my life. I don’t express my opinions and ask others to do the same so I can segue to a series of personal attacks against them based on their possibly opposing viewpoint. Having said that, I tend to spend my days on the edge. Whether it’s due to my current life situation built of a series of failures and disappointments, or just my nature, I’m only words away from hopeless romantic or bitter asshole. If I need to explain how this relates, you should stop reading this now and try participating in something that might please your fellow man, like banging your head against a wall till you pass out, or blowing your fellow man, he tends to enjoy that. And for fuck’s sake remember to rubber up if you engage the opposite sex, we don’t want you reproducing and prolonging the life of the idiocy gene.

Returning to the previous topic, I am Bitter. I don’t hate your god, or your religion, but for some reason I don’t want to hear about him. I don’t want him to bless me. I don’t want to sit around and bow my head while you converse with your imaginary friend. If there is a god, he’s even more of a slacker than I am, and I’m not quite sure why you’d want to thank him for fuckin around for eternity. I’m jealous, no one thanks me. At least I provide a sometimes entertaining conversation to various persons. And I’ve also provided a few other services that I guarantee your god can’t provide, but I won’t discuss those. I’m not a fucking animal (yes, I’m looking at you, frat boys).

I am Bitter. Families bother me, not the people in them, but the unit as a whole, the control they seem to exercise, the harm they cause. Let people be fucking individuals. I think that’s basically all I have to say on that subject.

I am Bitter from years of being fucked over by girls, being lied to by friends, and being blown off and ignored by everyone else. I know you probably hate me by now, if you’ve even managed to make it this far into my spiel. But as some other douchebag said (and I’m paraphrasing), “Don’t screw with me, if you have an opinion then fucking express it, unless you like being a bitch.” I don’t know who said something similar to that, maybe it was in a dream, or maybe I said it. The point is, the only reason you all get along so well in your safe little circle of pricks is because you’re all a bunch of liars. You tell each other what you think they want to hear with the occasional bit of honesty thrown in for good measure. Maybe you gossip about someone not around or sling the occasional insult. So when I come along and tell you what’s on my mind, your make believe is threatened and you get offended. So you say I’m an asshole. I don’t know if that means I really am an asshole, but what’s the use in denying it. You can try giving me all kinds of different situations that you think are proof against all this, but keep that shit to yourselves, I don’t have all the answers.

For the record, I am Bitter, but at least I’m honest, and I won’t be apologizing any time soon. These thoughts are to be continued, perhaps in a blog, or maybe in a story. I feel I may soon find my Satori.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

You know, I think my writing/blogging would be incredibly more interesting if my life were as well. I need something to write about.

what i wrote in a bar

I visited where I used to work the other night. It was mostly empty, so I sat at the bar next to the only other guy there(at least, he was at first). And this is what I wrote while I was there.


when you sit in
a memory from your past
seeing people and things
that haven’t been
a part of you for
well, quite some time
*insert life lesson here*


he sits next to me
asks for things
he doesn’t want
quickly denying them
before his server can
make a
“it’s mucho grande’”
“I LIKE mucho grande’!”
what a booming yet
simple voice
i wonder if he has an
can’t tell


tonight was slow
gotta get out
gotta gotta
F-, oh i’ve had enough
cursing for the time
being is easy
living is easy but


even us
underage folk
wander to bars when we’re
lost or
feeling down in ourselves


the ice in my drink
attacked me!
“Defend the last little bit!!!”
how rude


customers oh so
but confused
it only does it every
“oh look!
a light!”
laughter ensues
i’ll admit
i chuckled, it was funny
got a weird look though
i had revealed i was eavesdropping!
“i was on TV once!”
waving in the background of a commercial
doesn’t count

it does?

i wanna be
on TV
hey, can i
have your autograph?

laughter ensues