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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.

Comfort Food

Posted 7 February 2002, 9.36 am by marilee

While writing this, I am eating a plate of potatoes with margarine and cranberry sauce. Potatoes are well known for being comfort food. Although, when it comes to me and unfortunately many other people, "comfort food" is taken to a whole new level. It would be silly to pretend the reason I'm eating this isn't purely due to emotional issues. Because, I am in fact, rather down right now.

The other night, one of my friends pointed out how thin I looked. I replied, "Oh, really? That's funny. I've gained back at least 10 pounds since I started eating again." She asked why I didn't eat, so, I explained it to her. Like many people, she asked if it was because I didn't like the way I looked. Once explaining it to her, she understood. The thing is, most people think all eating disorders are about image. It is easy to make that mistake when looking at eating disorders, because image is the most prominent thing about them. In my case, and I'd say these are your average reasons, it has to do with control, accomplishment and how you and others perceive you as a whole person.

When I can't control my life, I control what I eat. It is impossible to control all aspects of your life and sometimes things get so much that I can't seem to get a grasp on anything at all. Choosing what I eat is one of the simplest ways to gain back that control. When it feels like every single decision is being made for me and there is no way out, turning down that cookie can make me feel like I own the world. Of course, that cookie always turns into lunch and lunch turns into a day and day somehow turns into a month. By this point, control is lost again although you wouldn't know it if it wacked you on the head.

As for accomplishment, it's linked to the whole control issue as well. I feel my life has very little accomplishment in it. I never feel like I am doing enough and even when I am constantly busy the things I am doing aren't being marked and rewarded. By not eating I feel in control again and the self-satisfaction is almost instant. Once you are out of highschool people very rarely tell you when you are doing a good job, they mostly leave you alone unless you are screwed up. Food is something easily measurable, unlike most things you work for in life. Turning down a couple desserts isn't going to hurt you, but the feeling you get doing so starts to warp and damage you in ways that seem almost impossible to reverse.

At first, you feel hungry. Battling that hunger and winning makes you feel like you've accomplished something big. Soon your body switches into starvation mode and you stop getting hungry, you don't even notice it. This is when you start to get down again. You try harder and harder because once again you feel out of control and what you are doing to yourself isn't noticeable. You might slip up and eat something, maybe even by mistake, and beat yourself up about it for days. This contributes to the disintegration of sane and rational thought even more so.

In my case, when I slip up, I feel like a failure. The fact I yearn for accomplishment in the first place is partly due to the fact I normally feel like a failure. I have failed to accomplish most of the basic things people my age have, I have failed many of my friendships and relationships and I have failed in many of my attempts at activities as a child. So, when I slip up, all I can think about is how I can't slip up again, how to do so would make me a complete failure without any hope of ever improving myself.

After a couple weeks of success your body ceases being able to cope with the stress you are putting it under. Dizziness, lack of concentration and exhaustion all set in. Your body very slowly starts to shut down. A week or two later and you'll start fainting. At this point if you try to eat it hurts, it is so painful you can hardly walk after a couple bites. All of this, makes you happy because you know it must be working. Which again, warps your perception of things just a little more. When this happens to me, I get to a point where anything destructive starts to feel good. Anything I can put myself through makes me just a little tougher, a little stronger and satisfied.

Now, the last part of the problem. The part that none of you, unless you too have experienced this, will be able to sympathize with. The part I even have a hard time sympathizing with when I am healthy. The part where being sick makes me special. I am basically a very plain person. In school I never fit into any of the cliques. I was too perky to be a goth. I wasn't cool enough to be a skater. I wasn't pretty enough to be popular or smart enough to be a nerd. In the regular classes I was too advanced to fit in with my peers, in the enriched classes I wasn't smart enough to understand what anyone was talking about. Basically, I was always somewhere in the middle and invisible. My little "secret" is what makes me feel special and interesting. It sets me apart from the rest of the room. I know, on some level, that this isn't true. I know, deep down, it likely makes me a less interesting person. The problem is that deep down doesn't matter anymore because there is always going to be something deeper, the perceptions I have unintentionally warped through years of hurting myself.

I may be eating now, in fact, I may very well continue to eat three meals a day for the rest of my life. I may, through exercise and a healthy diet, achieve a level of weight and a body shape I am mostly happy with. I may one day feel like I have achieved something worthwhile. The hard part is that I am sure, the next time things get bad, I will sit, with a fork in my hand, shaking as I slowly take a bite of whatever it is I have found to binge on. Hating myself weather I actually swallow that bite or not.

Captain Corelli's Mandolin

Posted 6 February 2002, 11.58 pm by Villager


This is a special novel. Written by previously little known French author Louis De Berniéres, Captain Corelli's Mandolin is set in the second world war, on an idyllic little Greek Island; Cephallonia. It is from this wonderfully crafted place that most of the events unfold. Written from a complex, incredibly effective and very clever multi-stranded narrative, we are introduced to different aspects of the war form drastically different perspectives. From the humorous, elaborate depiction of Fascist leader Benito Mussolini throwing a wobbly, to the emotive and heart-rending journals of the homosexual Italian soldier Carlo Guercio, to the wise and perceptive writings of avid historian, local doctor and father, Dr Iannis.

The book takes us through the course of war, chronicling the effects of service, oppression, love and fear upon each individual, with the body of the book devoting a surprisingly equal portion of attention to the "main" characters. This has the effect of leaving to you the total interpretation of each character and their merits, and in doing so De Berniéres achieves what few others can; act as a relatively impartial guide rather than leading you by the nose, and he does it well.

The most well publicised feature of the novel is the love between two of the main characters, Pelagia (played by Penelope Cruz in the screenplay adaptation. It is worth noting that compared to the beauty De Berniéres manages to present us with, Cruz is a disappointment!), the mature, worldly daughter of Dr Iannis, and Antonio Corelli (played by Nicolas Cage in the film), the cultured Italian soldier, opposed to war but loyal to his country. Wooed by his melodic mandolin and unexpected humanity, Pelagia finds herself in a fatal position; in love with the enemy. The struggle these two have, in the wider context of war and the effects on the immediate community, are truly compelling.

I could spend pages detailing the wonderful intricacies that surprise you with each character, and each passing chapter, but that's the fun to be had from reading the book. The ending is somewhat of an anti-climax, but at the same time you get the feeling of cohesion, and it feels true to the turbulent and surprising story before it. I cannot recommend this book highly enough, even if you have no time for books of love, war or tragedy. Simply because the subject matter is used merely as a beautiful screen for what is really at the heart of goings-on; people, feelings and emotion. This is the only book that I have ever read the entire way through more than twice, and I will certainly return to it again.

Other reviewers do far greater justice to the magic of this book than my limits as a writer ever could, but beg, borrow, steal or buy this book and you will be thinking similar terms of amazement the whole way through.

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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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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!

Yo ! Does this work ?

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