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Posted 9 October 2002, 2.46 am by Jake

~It's my first try at something semi-serious as opposed to short stories. Crucify me if you don't fucking like it~

What exactly are you staring at? Am I not supposed to try and be
-You looking at me-
-me reading Kafka-
-you wondering what I'm doing there-

As if I'm not supposed to have ambitions and ideas? Is my place in the great goddamned hierarchy of society not worthy of opening a book? Questioning our existence?

Jack London wrote of the education/acculturation of a young man named Martin Eden. Martin began as a sailor, a "work-beast", with many of his experiences notched onto his belt and a burning inclination to better himself. With the help of various people, he became a well-seasoned writer and intellectual (even so far as giving public speeches on Socialism). All his life he had pined for things that were just out of his reach. Upon finding them out of his reach, he stretched himself further in order to attain what was most treasured.

With that analysis out of the way, should people really have an innate desire for self-improvement? Is it worth it for a person "of the abyss"(to allude to London yet again) to strive for something better? To look at their daily life and ask, "Is this it?" Many people would agree with me when I say "Yes, it is a worthy cause, mainly because it gives people incentive to change their lives....and in essence, change the lives of others."

Where I'm trying to go with this, is that nobody should be stereotyped and dismissed as useless just because of their place in our modern dog-eat-dog society. That can be attributed to the tried and true maxim "Expect the unexpected". Nobody should rely on predisposed notions, because you could be easily caught off-guard.

Halloween is coming: Time for RolePlaying

Posted 8 October 2002, 5.36 pm by Shaggy

This piece is an entity, and must be read entirely in order to fully reach the power that I hope it has. It was brought on by a deconstructionalist theory of supplementation, in which binary oppositions are reversed, thus making the negative more privileged than positive, darkness more valued than light. Thus, I embrace my negative, evil, dark, sinister appetencies, and allowing them their perspective.

I stare down at them, for they are under my feet. They are lost, cold to me as if they were nothing more than an illusion. What does it matter that they fall? What does it matter that I rule over them?

Can it not be said that they are at my control, and thus subject to my temperament, for better or worse? My conditions are vague, but strict. I will accept no power unless it is absolute, and this I enforce with an iron fist. I am not worried about an uproar, for the commoners are nothing to me.

What does it mean, when they say that I am not a proper ruler? What does it mean to me when those underneath me say they have not enough food, or not enough drink? They believe in me as a ruler, and yet they doubt my ways. Is that any way to treat a ruler? They should be content underneath my boot, for it is a glorious position. It is better to be under my feet, under my control, than to be an enemy, which can fall at my fancy. Is it up to me, then, to see that my friends are fed? I do not believe so. In fact, I would rather worry about my enemies, of their fancy. It worries me more when an enemy wants my head, for this is everlasting. However, it is not everlasting when a friend wishes my attention, for fleeting is the attention of the human kind. Rather, I take pleasure not in the pleasures of others but of my personal gain.

I am a tyrant, and I admit it to any who wish to listen. The world is created on the backs of the weak; this is the manner in which the Wheel of Destiny conducts itself, for fleeting is the will of power. Just when man has his head above water, just when things are beginning to take form and to prosper toward the common pride, something explodes in fire, disrupting what has taken centuries to build. The sweat of man, along with his slaves, is as delicate as a flower; have mercy on the fellow who crushes this sweet thing underneath his cleats, for he is on the path to something great.

Something terrible is in my mind, and I admit that I cannot control it, for it controls me. I am the monster that I admit myself to be, I am the creature that watches as his enemy sleeps, waiting for a chance to strike and to taste of blood. I am ambitious; I am greedy. I am that which makes the populace frown in disgust, and I am proud. I leave a trail of blood in my wake, and I enjoy it profusely. This is my destiny, to destroy and to cherish the blood of the whore.

I lift my friends above my eyes, so that they may see my greatness. I cherish their power as they are above me, I cherish the pain that they relish as they step on me and crush me, and I delight in bringing them down, crashing. It makes them cry, and I laugh.

I am horror, and am distinguished from the rest of the world by the fact that I am not afraid to shed blood, mine or otherwise. I hold this within my fingertips, it is not wasted as I take each drop with pain and suffering. My hands are blistered, my heart is frail and broken, and I shed my wounded.

I cry, so that others might laugh at me. It aggravates me, and this is an emotion that I decidedly enjoy. My teeth clenched, my heart throbbing against my rib cage, and I am ecstatic in it all. To be honest, I would not have anything other than confrontation, for it turns on the inner truth. Conflict and opposition are defined in me and define me, for it is the negative that I enjoy and conquer.

Disdain is the word of the day. It rolls off the tongue like blood, sweat, and tears. I speak it with love, and it enjoys me.

I am negative and positive, alpha and omega. I am both brutal and kind, and my wrath can be exquisite in its flames. My limbs are heavy and thick, my teeth are sharpened to a point, and I quiver with it all. I am powerful, I am the phoenix that will lift itself from the burning ashes, ashes that are thrown unto the bonfire of love and passion. I am terrible and loving, and I bring my followers to tears with my power and beauty.

I am rich in blood; indeed, it overflows and drips from my ears. I feel the world slip inside me, and I am terrible.

As I place my head on the pillow, my cathartic ramblings still hold venom at the tip of my tongue. My eyes are still filled with tears with my frustration, and the tiny crescents of blood on my palm begin to burn. I have shed something terrible, I feel it dying as it is brought into the open. I feel hatred, as I am only human. I do not pretend as if I am some benevolent Christ, only capable of love and healing. I am tainted, and I am original sin. To deny oneself is a great sin indeed, and I do not enjoy lying. So, though these words be powerful even stretched out of context (as they are by default), the imagery presented is often brought to my mind when I cannot take my anger at the world any more. I do not pretend like I enjoy the murder-porn that the daily news has turned into (or perhaps always was). I have to have some escape, or I fear I will go mad with the injustice that this world presents itself, when you dig into it. Though I attempt to make the best out of who I am, to help and heal those that I may, I am not perfect by any respect. I believe there is only two perfect creatures, one human and the other surreal. I love my girlfriend so much that her faults are not seen by me, for she is faultless in my eyes. There is an entity, some call it Truth others God others still call it many names, too numerous to contain herein. This is the only other perfect.

I am purged of Satan. He is now trapped in the words above this explanation, and I can destroy him. He is channeled through my anger, he exists in my wounds. I can now print the beast out and tear him up, or consume him. He is my slave, subject to my will.

He is out in the open, in the eyes of God, and subject to the warrior angels, who protect us everyday. Now that the devil is out of me, I can sleep.

Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.

Posted 7 October 2002, 3.00 am by The_Roach

Errors in judgement, we all make them. Sometimes it's something as simple as choosing the wrong pair of slacks to go with that shirt, or perhaps even buying that garish Hawaiian number in the first place. When we're lucky, the mistakes that we make don't affect anyone but ourselves. We can gingerly extract the toenails from the roofs of our mouths, shrug our shoulders, and smile with the hopes that not too much blood is dripping on our teeth. Sadly, things are not frequently that simple.

Whenever something goes awry that involves another person, however, we have to take a step back and think. We have to take into consideration the reactions of those people who are directly affected, even those indirectly affected. We have to judge what's important to us, determine if the feelings and motivations of those people make any difference when the house of cards comes tumbling down. Sometimes we have no choice but to swallow the bitter pill of humility and beg forgiveness for the wrongs we have committed. Others, it's just better to cut your losses and walk away. I'm far more skilled at the latter.

There is a firm policy that I have always tried to live my life by. I have no regrets. For every time I've pushed someone because of my foolish pride, people that only wanted to help me, or to love me, I have no regrets. For any instance where I have fallen short of the expectations placed upon me, I have no regrets. For every friend I've hurt, those that forgave me and those who could not, I have no regrets.

Don't mistake this for not being sorry for the transgressions I may have made thus far. Loathe as I may be to admit it, I'm not the emotionless automaton that I like to portray. I know what empathy is, and when I hurt others, I hurt myself. I'm also aware that when we allow ourselves to dwell on the wrongs we have done, the wrongs done to us, we never become better people. You can plead for a pardon only so long before they throw the switch on the chair. If you don't get it by then, you never will. Every once and a while, you have to abandon all hope (ye who enter here), and make the most of what you have left.

I can't imagine looking back upon my life and thinking about everything I've done wrong, wondering where I would be if I had done this or that differently. I hope that I'll never have that kind of time on my hands but, if I do, I'm sure that I could find a better use for it. Even so, it's those mistakes and what we take from them that makes us the people that we are. I can't fathom being any other person than I am today. There's no amount of conjecture that can tell me what tomorrow may bring, and I seriously doubt that I'd want to know.

Dude, I can't feel the bong!

Posted 6 October 2002, 10.28 pm by Jake

Larry Carlson

Don't forget your opium for this one.


Posted 6 October 2002, 7.37 am by firebrand

Click on link.

Check out the "virtual Afghanistan" section. crazy shit man, crazy.

Play with Letters

Posted 6 October 2002, 2.55 am by firebrand

Click Me

From my collection of tender links.

Yeah, But I Didn't Mean To

Posted 5 October 2002, 11.12 pm by Berly

Intent. It is the one thing that can be known only by the individual it resides in.

So how do YOU know what someone's intent is? Can it be proven? Beyond a doubt? How do you know they have not mislead you about their intentions? It could be as infinite as a reflection in two mirrors opposite each other, or it could be as simple as someone telling the truth.

Built of a blend of such things as thought, rationale, and emotion - it becomes something even more abstract and futile to clarify.

One is permitted all kinds of latitude when it comes to undesirable thoughts and emotions. Not so with perceived nefarious intentions. Even flawed rationale is not nearly as damning as flawed intentions.

I find it amusing that such an impossible thing to know is used to appraise people. The legal system will even grant you a lesser punishment if you can prove that you didn't mean to do it.

It effects each and every one of us, regardless of our age, race, location, etc....[insert symbol for infinity].... Even the non-human are susceptible. Discussions surrounding the intent of deities as well as devils are as passionate as any others.

This hopelessly sought truth is more powerful than a first impression.

Caught Up in the Moment

Posted 3 October 2002, 10.23 pm by Jake

“Well,” I think, “at least I won’t have to go to work tomorrow.”

I heft the pistol in my hand. It feels like a brick of lead, so heavy yet so small. A Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum revolver. 6 little friends. 6 little ways to die.
Right now I have two options.

Option #1: I can put the gun to my chest, approximately where my heart is, blowing a majority of it away yet risking the concept of surviving a mortal wound.
Option #2: I can stick the barrel in my mouth, blowing off the top of my head and a good bit of my gray matter, yet the risks? See aforementioned statement.

I choose option #2, for aesthetic purposes.Just for the sake of the coroners and medical examiners.
I begin to count down from 5.
Five. Four. Three. Two,
I grit my teeth around the barrel and begin to tighten my finger on the trigger.
Hot tears are rolling down my burning cheeks. I’ve got a pounding fucking headache that’s on the verge of being cured by a single Cor-Bon 280 grain bonded-core lead aspirin.
The phone rings.
I jump out of my chair, scared shitless.

I reposition the gun in my mouth like a wretched child on a teat of death, gritting my teeth onto the barrel, trying to ignore the ringing telephone. My thoughts begin to wander. Who could be on the other line? Ideas of salvation from a telephone line, someone else’s voice begin to cloud my head. FUCK! No! I try to concentrate on the task at hand, in my hand.

The phone trills for the fourth time. Should I answer it ? Ah, no! I can’t. I gotta do this.
Instant relief, and I’m willing to throw it all away over a telephone call. Gotta be tough. Gotta be a man. Instant self gratification, freedom from this dirty fucking mortal coil. Right here. Right now. I tighten my grip on the pistol, and begin to tense the muscles in my finger.

The answering machine kicks on. I hear my own voice for what may be the last time. I roll my eyes as the greeting drones on with all of its little insignificant requirements…Leave your name, number, and a brief message and I’ll give you a ring from the afterlife.

My best friend’s voice echoes over the speaker.

“Dude? Hey, this is Justin. I just wanted to know if you wanted to come down to Blue’s and have a few beers with all of us. It’s Lisa’s birthday, so grab a card on your way. I’ll see you when you get there. Peace!”

I look over at the mirror next to my bed. I look like an idiot, slobbering all around with half of a gun sticking out of my face. What was I thinking, anyways?

I sigh and take the gun from my mouth. I walk over to my laundry hamper and pull out a used towel to dry the spit off of it. I look at the pistol disdainfully, and decide to eventually take it by the pawn shop and get rid of it. Give me $300, give me $5, just give me a reason not to use this thing on myself.

I pull on a shirt, spray on a bit of cologne, grab my housekeys and walk out the door. I lock it securely and turn around, stepping onto the sidewalk. I glance both ways before I step off the curb and onto the crosswalk.

So much for salvation.

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In 2018 I started painting again. This was one of a series of acrylic sketches I did to relearn techniques and revisit my skills from art college.

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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!

Yo ! Does this work ?


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