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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.

The Great Filing System that is my Brain

Posted 3 October 2002, 4.54 am by firebrand

We fashion memories from scraps in the fabric of time.They are never an unbroken line; each is just a snapshot or a fly caught in amber. These memories are part of me, and yet they ARE me.

Some we share, others we cling to as if voicing them will somehow take them away from us. As if we will lose that part of us . . . .

I remember watching someone sleep, and having the urge to kiss him. For no reason at all. For some reason the draw of red lips, slightly parted, was almost more than I could bear. Something inside pushed me towards him, straining to feel the silken slip of lip on lip. Something always pulls me back.

I remember the cold rough concrete in downtown Knoxville, curled up in a corner next to a bridge. The smell of spilt beer on the walkway above and the texture of the pants I was wearing. The hot, wet tears cascading down my face, and the sobs bubbling up from my chest. I remember trying to be silent when someone passed by so they wouldn’t hear my shame.

Memories affect all the decisions I make and all the feelings I have. They can pick me up when I am down, or stop me in my tracks. I can box them up and shove them in the back of my mind, putting off the inevitable day when they resurface. I can share them with my friends or squirrel them away in a diary. All these snatches of time – these instants – make me who I am.

Cybar-Lovah? more like Cyber-Loser

Posted 2 October 2002, 2.18 am by firebrand

Go Here, Fools.

requires quicktime; i'd reccommend one of the lower bandwidth versions.

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Doggybag/baggy_dog is an artist living and working in Barga, Italy. Click here to read about this piece in his own words.

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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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