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GooGoo

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

Pounding.
Pounding.
Pounding.
Pounding.

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!

THAT POUNDING!

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.

POUNDING!

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. http://www.leisuretown.com

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
paper.

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
marks.

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.

Big Hairy Pussy

Posted 9 February 2002, 2.35 pm by Alexander

This site is extremely funny. For the best laughs, visit the guestbook. I don't know which is funnier - the people who love the site or the people threatening to call the authorities.

What's the betting this site gets about 10x the hits akpcep does as well? Bloody internet. Oh and while you're at it, check out badcookie. Funniest bit is the page full of email complaints about the site. Classic! Thanks to Scab for that one...

Girl In Landscape

Posted 7 February 2002, 8.10 pm by The_Roach

A young girl, blossoming into womanhood, loses her mother and moves to a frontier settlement on an alien world. Here she will learn of the frailties of the human heart and the ignorance of hate while an virus resident on the planet begins to run it's unimaginable course through her body.

This is the premise of Girl In Landscape by Jonathan Lethem. Science-Fiction/Western novels are fairly few and far between these days, and rarely do they focus more on the human element. This is Lethem's aim in the coming of age tale of young Pella Marsh, the daughter of a politician who couldn't quite hack it on Earth and decides to move his family in an attempt to get a fresh start.

Sadly, it falls short of the mark.

Lethem's amazing descriptive talents are still evident here, but they seem labored, even rushed at times. Several ideas are presented, but never explored to the satisfaction of the reader, such as "household deer", chameleon-like animals who seem to just run around and stare at things and can be psychically linked to people (provided one knows how). There's a romantic interest that goes nowhere (or went somewhere, or is going somewhere, I'm still not certain), a history of the alien planet that is vague at best, and a race of inhabitants whose visualization is somewhat fuzzy around the edges.

Am I saying that it isn't worth reading? Not exactly. There are plenty of interesting concepts presented, and the pacing is just steady enough to keep things moving. The dialogue especially has some tidbits that will have you thinking about the story in more depth, and this is probably why the rest of the book seems so lacking.

If you're looking for a good sci-fi tale, Lethem is still probably your author,though. Check out Amnesia Moon for some excellent concepts and a good head trip. Gun, With Occasional Music is an fantastic detective story reminiscient of Philip K. Dick's classic Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?.

Then again, you're still probably better off reading about Tourettic Lionel Essrog in Lethem's masterpiece Motherless Brooklyn.

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A year or so ago I undertook a study entitled 'Faces of Death'. I produced a quite substantial body of work concerning corpses, and faces in particular. I concentrated mainly on victims of murder. This image was produced by rolling a thick layer of ink onto a steel plate and rubbing, scratching and soaking it off with turps. The plate was then pressed onto paper, and this is the result.


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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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