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I don't like this anymore...

Posted 17 October 2002, 12.19 pm by Jake

School is becoming a harrowing ordeal as of lately. Not because of rigorous schoolwork, but because of the level of immaturity amongst my peers. Now, I’m a champion of fun myself, and I’ve definitely been accused of being immature more than once in my lifetime, but this generation of kids just don’t know when to quit. They openly challenge respectable and sane teachers, laugh at people’s horrible misfortune (i.e. death), and don’t care about ANYTHING. I would have expected them to be somewhat mature by now, but these kids are mindless. They walk around as if they know everything and have no decency or manners. This wouldn’t normally bother me, but it seems as if every single solitary one of them acts this way.

Now, the true question is, why in the fuck do they act this way? I’m almost positive that a majority of it is for the attention of their classmates, and I’ve come to a similar agreement over the possibility that it could stem from a dysfunctional family, etc. etc. What worries me even more, though, is the fact that they have no regret for what they say or do. Every remark, every action is performed to evoke some sort of response from their target audience, be it teachers, students, or even police officers. These are the kids that you’d fear would bring guns to school. These are the kids whose parents most likely taught them firsthand how to act that way, or a lack of responsibility on the family’s part causes them to find other means of connecting with people. These are the kids who may have a disorder that causes them to behave in such a manner that it pisses off even the most passive students.

The real problem here is, though, many of the teachers are getting into the practice of stereotyping students, and even coming to the conclusion that if a majority of students act like they do, then the whole group acts that way. And by that logic, the whole group is innately flawed. Today, I sat through three class periods of nothing but reprimands, lectures, rants, and cathartic screaming from the teachers. The subject? Conduct. According to them, we “all have to shape up and get with the program, otherwise we’ll never get anywhere in life.” One of my friends, a mindful, clear-headed student who gets decent grades, was asked by a teacher as to what he planned to do in life. He responded, “Well, I’d like to be a psychiatrist.”
She stared him straight in the eye and said, “You’re never going to make it."
He paused to ask "Why do you say that?"
" Because you all act the way you do. Your facades don’t fool me”, she replied.

If it was me, I would have gone to her after class and specifically asked her why she had said such a thing, and especially done so in front of the rest of the class. However, he freaked out and proceeded to avoid her like the plague. This is just one of the many instances during which innocent bystanders have been held accountable for the brash and irrational actions of others. And it’s shit. But, according to the administration, we should grit our teeth and cope with it. I mean, what’s one more year?

That doesn’t speak for the future generations of well-behaved students who will have to deal with this utterly disgusting display of elitism and disdain, though.

I am (not) a Blood-whore

Posted 17 October 2002, 12.09 am by Shaggy


I tremble softly, as the implications of my madness surround me. Why am I so energized when I think of myself as a damaged beast, as something that can be controlled by something so abstract as to be termed “wicked” or “disturbed.” I feel strong when I think of myself as weak, and it is an impossible contradiction in terms. What is this new feeling, this emotion, that has not yet a word to describe it? What is this referent abstract, and am I the only one who feels it?

It is a relatively modern thing, present in much of my generation. We are proud of our weaknesses, as if we could wear them like fashion. One need only turn to the growing popularity of heavy metal, underdog action movies, and even, indeed, fashion. It is becoming very fashionable to be weak and aware, to be different to the point of being absurd.

I am not normal, and I pronounce it with a familiar air, with the same pride of all those who have stated it before me. In fact, the statement has become such an oxy moron for those who say it. After all, how many people can say such a thing before it actually becomes normal to say, “I am not normal?”

Halloween is upon us, and I can feel it in my energy for the darkness of my soul. My id itches to escape, for it knows that a socially acceptable escape is coming soon. My ego and superego have a chance to relish each other for a moment, both committing socially questionable acts such as embracing murderous and evil thoughts, wanting ever so much to watch the murder-whore, to see blood before my eyes, and yet at a safe distance, for it will not be by my hands. Yet still, this thirst would normally sicken me in any other manner, but in this I am perfectly comfortable, perhaps even all year round.

I am a horror movie maniac, I admit. It excites me, even when what I am watching is nothing more than a murder-whore acting out childish, basic, lusty instincts. What is this disease that I feel, and why do I hate and love it so much?

My sanity is at a delicate thread. Life is so difficult, yet something constant to rest on is becoming obvious: we, as humans, for some reason or another, need art. Only the most stagnant of human beings rests in nothing more than the practical. Whether we admit it or not, even the most practical of us return home to movies, novels, television, video games, poetry, or even (and while I am reluctant to include this on the list of art) popular gentleman’s/gentlewoman’s magazines (FHM, Maxim, Playboy, Cosmo... all pretty much the same thread of sex-sales). We return to this, and at the root of all art is emotion, passion, pain, anger, pain, blood, disruption, sexuality, sensuality, sensuousness, et cetera. Anyone who doubts that blood is present in art does not need to look far before he/she finds examples. Anna Karenina is hailed as one of the best novels ever written, and is filled with such violence and blood as a man and a woman being mutilated by a train, or a horse being flipped into a sealed fate. Homer, a poet who has never been presented an accepted equal, is filled with gore, like in The Odyssey, in which men’s brains are bashed in against the ground by Polyphemus, blood being soaked into the earth, the sponge of blood. The culinary arts would be nothing without blood.

I have heard that, at the moment of death, you can see a look on the victim’s face that is like none other. I do not trust what I hear of it from the movies, for surely there are not too many script-writers who truly know what these faces of death truly look like first-hand, or perhaps they do.

Yet, a part of me holds back. A part of me still wishes to be socially acceptable. This self-same part of me cannot wait until my roommate steals one more scrap of my food, until he oversteps his boundaries one more time. He has already been warned, you see. He does not know that I am a monster in the guise of a sheep. I may look cute and cuddly, and indeed, I may be soft to those I love, but inside I hold the sickness, the sickness of passion that is held within any author, and, I would like to think, any writer.

I am sick, though my leaches are always near at hand. I embrace endurance without these leaches, though. It is Halloween, the season of dead bodies and ghosts. I can hear a wolf howling in the background, and I can hear voices whispering sweet, soft things. I shake softly, and I only partially believe that this shaking is a symptom of the cold season.

Why am I such a monster? Is it catharsis, or is it something sick inside me, something that is festering? Is this what it feels like to be dying, to not be in control of what you feel anymore, only feeling the most tender of kisses or the most impressionable of anger?

Most importantly, and one that scares me the most, will these emotions disappear when it comes time to stop role-playing, when the season of sickness and instability, which provokes us to unleash all this pent-up aggression, passes? Or is it a sickness that lingers?

Am I crazy?

I am not an A...

Posted 13 October 2002, 5.49 pm by Sickan

Have you ever wondered if you – and you alone are a different being on this planet?

Are you an alien amongst human-beings? Is there a part of you, more than your unique individualism which makes you different? If is why? ‘why’ must always be the question. That single question which makes our souls live – that makes our hearts beat again and again.

The curious mind that keeps this world at bay – that keeps it alive. My mind – your mind – the instrument that utter the eternal question ‘why’.

The answer lies within the mind. The mastermind – but still the answer must be continued by a repeated ‘why’. As humans we demand answers. But never will we be satisfied. That is the prescription which drives us eternally to seek the truth. But why the truth? Can’t we be satisfied with the lies that are told to us?

Lies are must easier to comprehend, to embrace than the hurtful truth. The truth… is the truth what we make of it, of life or is it simply the lies told well?

Lies are defined by us. The people. The inhabitants of this wrecked and tattered world. Does it even matter. Search for truth can make you
empty when you find it.
The truth is simple and hard to understand. There are levels of truth, as well as lies. Can we ever find the truth. Why not. But why should we.

Is this just a result of my tired and confused mind, this late hour? Is it just me who wonders? No. See, we must put this feeling away. We are not unique – we are the same at some degree. I am not the only one who are having these thoughts, they are not mine – they are shared by many. That is nice. That is even reassuring for me to know.

I am not an alien.

Peace

nigger

Posted 12 October 2002, 7.20 pm by The_Roach

nigger: The Strange Career of a Troublesome Word
Randall Kennedy
Pantheon Books, 2002

Never in American history has a word had such persistant impact as nigger. From popular culture to the courtroom, this book examines the trials and tribulations of what's considered by many to be the filthiest ever spoken and discusses the various problems that may yet come from it.

At many points in my reading, I couldn't help but wonder at who the book was written for. Kennedy frequently takes a condescending tone when it comes to reminding the reader of recent events and personalities. On thw whole, though, it's still fairly pleasant. The author makes every attempt to show the issues at hand with the careful balance of a plate spinner, and his bias is only seen in a few of the more grey area circumstances.

Overall, it's a very quick, easy, and fairly informative read. I think that everybody should have a copy of this book, if only to serve on a silver platter to the next person who attempts to utilize the word in a hate-fueled, disrespectful manner. On second thought, they probably wouldn't read it either. At the very least, it's brilliant for it's irony; A man named Kennedy using the word over 300 times may even make it worth a second pass.

So cute!

Posted 12 October 2002, 6.23 pm by Craig


Check out this cool flash movie!! Really cool...

Visit Site.

Make sure the sound is up or you won't hear anything!

Masturbakers

Posted 12 October 2002, 6.12 pm by Craig


mmmm... erotic cakes!.

Proof!

Posted 12 October 2002, 10.19 am by Berly

Here it is, proof that I'm far too easily amused.

This thing...this DIRK is a glob of interconnectedness....or something. I'm still playing with it.

DIRK you!

Paradise lost

Posted 11 October 2002, 10.52 pm by firebrand

Vill's post reminded me of this. I suppose this is yet another entry in my current obsession with memories and other girly-type “feelings and shit.”

I don’t even remember what being in love is like.

It used to swamp my days – I’d lose whole hours wrapped up in that cocoon. Vague memories of couches and blankets, foot massages and hot cocoa swim out occasionally. I can remember the moments. I can’t remember the feelings. I can’t remember what it was like at all.

Have I blocked it out because the boy I thought I loved was just that – nothing more than a boy, confused in his own desires? Or has it just been so long since someone has inspired me thus that those emotions have slipped away like an atrophied muscle?

How does one remember an emotion? If I think about an apple, I can remember its colors and its smells and its tastes. If I think about a feeling, I can’t make myself experience it. Sometimes a smell or a taste or a color will bring that feeling up though. It’s an enigma.

Of course, then comes the question: Does one really want to remember being in love with someone who is no longer available? Or even if available, someone you wouldn’t want to return to? I think the answer is clearly and firmly “No.” Otherwise, we would just be spending our time pining over something we can’t recreate.

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They were done for an exhibition a couple of years ago . They asked for something to so with the summer. They are mixed media and oil paint on metal advertising boards - for ice cream.


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Props to Green Mamba for bringing the weirdness

Hmph

80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.

lol we all know you don't have a soul ghoti

my soul for some carbs...

But of course!

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