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The Sound of Freedom

Posted 13 February 2002, 7.54 am by The_Roach

The following is a reader submission from janetdoggy. Enjoy.

The front page of the newspaper revealed the heartbreaking details. Although worthy of a headline story, It was not news to me. I was expecting the worst because I heard the helicopter.

For years, I regarded the noise from aircraft as the sound of freedom. Living a few blocks from Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas, My windows rattled constantly. Even Sunday provided no relief from the sensory assault of cutting edge weapons booming across the desert.

Three years ago, I made the right decision. I Moved my family away from the noise and confusion of an overcrowded nightmare.

Adjusting to a small town lifestyle is easy. I like knowing my neighbors. The police are no longer an enemy to be feared. I discuss my childrens progress in school with their teachers at the grocery store. Strangers wave and say "hello".

The helicopter is the only noise I'm likely to hear at night. It lands at the only hospital in a sixty mile radius. For many, it is the first and last time they will ever fly. The helicopter never brings good news.

Requiem For A Dream

Posted 13 February 2002, 2.08 am by The_Roach

Requiem For A Dream
Herbert Selby Jr.

No doubt you've already heard of this stunning piece of fiction, either as a literary work, or due to it's recent film adaptation. If you haven't, you're in for a rare and terrifying treat.

The story revolves around four individuals who lose sight of reality when they pursue their dreams. A lonely widow with nothing to live for learns she will be on television, and decides to take diet pills to fit into the dress she wore to her son's bar mitzvah. Meanwhile, her son and two of his friends plan to start selling heroin on the street in order to save up enough to open legitimate businesses and retire.

Of course, it's an old yarn in today's society, and one with an obvious outcome. What's fascinating about the tale is the manner in which it has been presented in both book and film.

Selby's writing technique is very raw, and requires some getting used to. There is little distinction of voice in dialogue (no use of quotation marks, either), many of his sentences run-on, and there is rarely a paragraph break. The first impression a reader might have is that Selby spent a little too much time with Hunter S. Thompson. What's more disturbing is that it works, drawing you further into the story and associating you more closely with the out of control nature the characters have.

The film doesn't pull any punches either. Director Darren Aronofsky uses a myriad of techniques and presents the viewer with a highly visceral, and deeply disturbing film. It has some very distinct differences from it's parent work, the most notable being the portrayal of drug use. Selby's writing works to downplay their importance, making them seem more casual as they would to the users themselves. Aronofsky employs an interesting tactic to achieve a similar effect by demonstrating the character's addictions in 4 second clips containing a barrage of images that show the viewer exactly what's going on without forcing them to watch another drawn out scene of hypodermic use. Add to this performances by Ellen Burstyn, Jared Leto, the tragically beautiful Jeniffer Connely, and a surprisingly talented Marlon Wayans (who would have guessed?), and you have a film you will want to show your kids instead of giving them a heart to heart about drug abuse.

So, which is better, the film or the novel? Neither. While not a carbon copy of the original work, the film holds true enough to it's namesake. Both are equally enjoyable, and equally challenging to accept.


Posted 12 February 2002, 5.58 am by Acheron

I am a baby. I am childish - I am immature, incapable of acting my age; an embodiment of my gender; just your textbook case of social underdevelopment.

Sue me.

If there is one thing I cannot swallow about my peers, it is their ceaseless levelheaded cynicism. If immaturity is merely a staunch, even emotional, attachment to one's beliefs, if immaturity is simply characterized by believing in something to the point of being excited, ecstatic, or upset by it, then by all means call me immature. The members of my generation are those, faces painted with doubting frowns, exclaiming, "It's just a game, calm down buddy." - except they say it at all the wrong times. For all our collective empathy we may as well mutter that non-committal phrase whenever someone gets fired, whenever a tree is chopped down, whenever somebody gains another pound of couch-potato primed fat - whenever anybody anywhere snuffs it.

So here I am, caring about biased judging in pairs free skate, caring when people waste my time in their many creative ways, caring about my academic future, etc. etc. - and being called a child for it.

Children care?

Adults don't?

"Guaranteed delivery in 30 minutes or less, or we commit Seppuku!"

Posted 11 February 2002, 9.44 pm by The_Roach

This is one of the funniest things I've ever seen on the web. Not only can you view Ninja Burger's menu, order from them (don't bother leaving your address, they know where you are), and apply for a job (the application is hilarious), they also supply tips for dating ninjas and have a few online games.

Maybe tomorrow

Posted 10 February 2002, 10.31 am by Andy


Oh, the pain: the pounding.

I know that it will never end, yet, still, I cannot find a door to open.
There is no door.
It cannot be opened.
But God knows, if I keep it closed, I'm going to die!

I just wish it would stop pounding!

I stand: pounding.
I sit: pounding.
I stand: pounding.
I collapse: pounding.
I wait, and I stand: pounding.

I walk: so much pounding, with every step pounding.
But I'm walking towards a cure.
I have to be.

I pass some friends.
Some snicker and pat my back (oh! You assholes, the pounding!)
Others' eyes shout empathy.
Still others fake sympathy, but I know they lie; they've never felt such pounding! No living creature has!

The pounding!

My head is hung over the ledge again: that beautiful white ledge.
I peer into its bowels: that beautiful white.
I think of so many stories of near-death experiences: that beautiful white light at the end of the tunnel. Oh! How true!
That beautiful white!


I see through the white to the ripples. So many ripples, splashing in the water.
Falling from my face.
The ripples are my tears.
Rolling down my cheek.
Splashing in the water.


I can't remember a time when it's been this bad.
I can't even remember last night.
Surely I will die. Nothing can live through this pounding.

Fractions of events begin coming together: too many bottles, too little thinking.
Too much drinking.
Too little thinking.

Between the ripples I see the watery mirror.
A gash in my forehead.
On top of the pounding.
Fuck you, gash.
Fuck you.

But where did you come from?
Why can't I remember?
Why all of this fucking pounding?

My head is hung over the ledge, that beautiful white ledge.
But still the relief doesn't come.
I fear it never will.

I stand and collapse. Pounding!
Still pounding!

Maybe next time. Maybe next time.
Maybe tomorrow.
Tomorrow the pounding will be gone.
Maybe tomorrow.

I reach for a bottle.
I forget the pounding.

Justifiable Homocide

Posted 10 February 2002, 8.58 am by The_Roach

While cruising around tonight, I found this. If my roomate did that, he'd be dead in an instant.

On a side note, check out this amusing tidbit as well. Irony is a beautiful thing, no?

Leisure Town

Posted 10 February 2002, 5.55 am by Sunny2Tall

My friend refered me to this....well....I don't know what you would call it, but it's fucking hillarious. The site takes those posable toys (like Gumby) and makes little comic strips out of them. They're all fucking hillarious.

The Goal

Posted 9 February 2002, 5.19 pm by Alexander

This is a reader submission from Alfalfa. Personally, I find the kind of activities it describes tremendously sad and unnecessary, and in no way does akpcep condone self-mutilation over talking about your problems, but this obviously came from the heart and is very well written.

She sat, placid, alone on her bed. Cross-legged and quietly she looked into
her side drawer. She knew exactly what she was going to do. The motions
were routine. Years of practice could only have explained the ease in which
she carefully and gently raised a single razorblade out of the drawer. Her
arm moved slowly, seemingly knowing that no one would catch her, and discover
her little secret. Once placing the razor on the sheets below her, she again
cautiously reached into the drawer, this time returning with a roll of toilet

Her expression had changed; the air in her room was heavy. She had turned on
some music, but she kept in at a low level, in fear of waking her parents.
There were immense waves of pain that seemed to radiate off of her. She sat,
hunched over the area of her bed in front of her. Her eyes raged with
internal fire. Somewhere within her, there were tears wishing to flow. You
could visually see her struggling to gain control of her emotions.

Slowly, dramatically, she picked up the blade. She held it up into the light
beside her. She watched in wonder as the light reflected off of it. She
brought it towards her left thumb. Patiently she brushed her thumb against
the gleaming blade. Testing to see if it was dull, it was not. She placed
the blade down and laid out two rows of toilet paper in front of her.

Once again she picked up the razor. She adjusted her grip, and slowly
inspected her left forearm. It was covered with scars. Some of them where
white, slowly fading from past pains, others seemingly invisible, having
faded for the time being. Some were still pink showing how recently she had
hurt. Sprinkling in and around these scares were smaller circular ones, burn

She paused, her breath stopped for a moment. She closed her eyes,
remembering the world. Remembering all the people that hurt her, and all the
people who never cared. All the people she hated, not because they hurt her,
but because she couldn't stop caring. She was disappointed and angry with
herself, for consistently trying to be kind to people who couldn't care less,
for not being good enough for their love.

With sudden anger she intensely searched for an empty area of flesh. She
moved away from her wrist, it was much too cluttered. The middle of her
forearm looked attractive to her relentless eyes. Slowly, her eyes burning
with untold passion, she brought the razor down to her skin. The cold metal
began tearing forcefully in a slow continuous motion. At first touch she
winced slightly, but pushed past the pain. After all, it was the goal.

The metal tore deep, and the cut was finished after two inches had slowly
been ripped open. She went over it twice, to make sure the incision was to
her satisfaction. The self-inflicted wound was bleeding violently. She
watched it bleed, blankly staring patterns in which the blood flowed down her
arm. Abruptly, she grabbed one of the two rows of toilet paper and made in
into a wad. She pushed it up against the bleeding wound.

After a few moments rest, she was at it again. The second cut was much like
the first; it went in the same direction. It was less deep, but longer.
This time, she paid no mind to the blood, and proceeded to her third and f
inal cut. She was angry, and her arm, was the target of her misdirected
anger. She cut, with such passion and fury. This third one was two and a
half inches long. She had gone over it many times, watching the blood seep
up to the surface while the blade was inside her flesh.

Each time she made an incision, she released some of the pain inside her.
Each time, her heart felt lighter. And for some sick reason, she felt
relieved. She knew that this wasn't a permanent solution. But, it was a
temporary solution for a permanent never ending, problem. That was all she
needed as she look at her work. She saw three new future scars to add to the
growing collection. They would take weeks to heal, and right then she didn't
even care. Nothing mattered. She felt content that she could hurt herself
more than the would could ever hurt her.

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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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Props to Green Mamba for bringing the weirdness


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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