Two things are validated recently:

One. I really wish people would pay some fucking attention when you expect them to.

Two. If you want something done right, do it yourself. Do not, do not, expect ANYONE to give a shit as much as you do/would/will. It's not that I believed this totally - it's that I thought certain persons were exempt from this categorization. Sadly, no one is. This includes close friends, family, ingestible parasites, etc.

Someone will read this post and do one of two things: break out in tears or get really angry. I strongly suggest you do neither - this is me purely venting and I choose to have this post remain isolated from any particular situations in my real life. Therefore I assume you will tell me you've read this, but I also fully expect you to realize I will not care (in terms of disappointment) outside of the next half hour or so.

Therefore I submit to you to read what I have written and consider it. Do not take it as insult. It is not meant to be so.

Instead it is a declaration of myself learning something new - insert knowledge.txt - and a hope that others will take small grains of salt and a few cents from it and apply it to their own lives as well.

In other words, it's me preaching to myself.

I need to try harder. Always.

Nothing is ever too small.

I have safely and fully determined how I will navigate the rigors of boredom brought upon by graduation ceremonies.

PSP.

Humans are not worthy of this ambrosia.

I am sorry to report the following.

But late last night, I came to digital epiphanies since lost in a vortex of nightmarish images.

Mario DDR is out, and mein gott. Mario looked at me, from inside the television screen, and called me his little bitch.

His eyes glowed red and he bellowed a series of malicious laughs, each wrought in sadistic magics and seared into my skin. And he laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed.

Yes, people. It is that fun.

Working with persons who know nothing about technology is very frustrating.

Me> I need to reboot the computer
Foil> Why
Me> To get everything setup on the network
Foil> No that's okay I need to check my e-mail
Me> Right. Until I do that you can't
Foil> Oh that's okay you can wait

Over and over and over. I want to scream out USE YOUR F*CKING LAPTOP FOR THE TIME BEING, but then I think I would be out of a job.

Senses....

I wanted to announce that I have purchased a puppy. Her name is Sprite and she is a Siberian Husky. She lives nicely in my Nintendo DS and knows two tricks so far.

All of this has been done with my masculinity remaining intact.

To prove the last statement, I offer this: Victoria's Secret's mannequinns make an exceptionally strong case for humans to manufacture translucent women. Those ass-e-quinns with the thongs? It's a wonder I was able to leave the store with my eyes (and various other organs) still functioning and unchaffed.

Uh huh. Think about that for a while.

/will probably add more to this post later...

I'm pretty bored and felt like literature called. Mechanized literature - the digital kind, self published and born. So I'm mixing little peices of zeroes and ones. DNA in the antiverbal realm. I love it. Mechanical. Cold. Beautiful.

A sixth one came out, and that's almost as many....

First off, matrimonial matters. There are strictly of the peripheral category - no centralized targets aimed (thank ye gods). But I can't help feeling that the majority of these cases, disconnected though they are, are sherades and facades. The kind of thing that says it is peanut butter, but in fact contains no peanuts. Maybe like a pencil that makes unerasable marks. You know the kind. Damn the first and third species of that hellish writing instrument (although heavenly sketch application). I won't name names, I won't conjecture minutia, nor pick out distinct examples. But I will say this - we're not old enough. None of us are. And the ones that think they've surpassed the genetic, ageless threshhold are holding onto some pretty pathetic straws. The kind that ants couldn't use to survive a partial downpour, nor birds fit to see for nesting.

But let's leave it to this - I assume that a relationship is much like calculus. There are certain algorithms that, once executed, are meant to bring two souls towards a more perfect union. Like a fusion towards a better atom, sinuous and whole. That's the idea, anyway. Or so I'm led to beleive. And even then I start to think maybe I'm not the best leader or the best to be led.

The conclusion I bring myself to trust in generally consists of being a metamorphosis reaction. To be blunt - the forever ought to erase the insignificant, meaning I'd like to think that when you're discussing that kind of ironclad commitment, maybe getting upset over trivialities would subside and fail in the overwhelming wake of sheer happiness and ecstacy.

But even then I beleive that's an overexaggeration on my part - a reaction that just proves I'm searching for way more than can be promised to me or anyone else. Like I'm thinking the prospect of gold was enough to keep pirates from slitting each other's throats. Obviously that is not the case (as evidenced in Goonies). Even with a great wall of everything you'd ever hoped for, white gloves are still disturbed by filthy hands.

Yea, love. But don't you think that would overshadow juvenile arguments? I guess not.

It's an archaic way of looking at things, I'll admit. This isn't the roarings 19th century. Women can show their ankles at the beach (as well as numerous other fleshy counterparts in an optical buffet). So no one thinks about these things to the degree I do. I have heard that this is a "problem," which I always thought was a hilarious noun to ascribe to this situation.

It just proves I'm still right. So moving on, let me close with this:

You guys have seen this happen before. No doubt within the last few years, I beleive. And one of you already treaded those waters, only to meet certain dispatched crews and gangplanks. Given all of that, and despite my eggress, I do wish the best of luck. And I hope in ten years I can look back and call myself wrong. That solidifies their own testaments to temporary catharsis. And only good can come of such a phrase given towards means towards ends towards lives.

Truly, D was right. Transient guests are we.

So then. That leaves that to the dogs. I chose "dogs" for no particular reason, I assure you.

Swift changes ensure my leaving, something I look forward to without trepidation. That's a kind of power I've never felt before. A liberation from the absolute stagnant cesspool. Absolution. I'm blowing up the tunnels and they are collapsing behind me. I stole keys from the gaurd and just happen to know which door to head through. So that's a nice way to think about it. I could reference other things, I guess.

There's about a thousand things I want to write here and now. Some confessionary, others testimonial, premonitions, declarations, and various other exultations. But I want to ensure I have the correct audiences before I begin that sort of thing. So I see another phase as needing to be constructed and performed. In due time. Preaching to walls yields no echoes but your own. I don't want or need nor have use for echoes. I want new retorts, various responses. And yet even then I doubt I'll get them. And when I do (if I do, I should say), I'm going to ignore them nonetheless.

Blood is beautiful.
I'm learning the harmonica.
And poi.
I'm reading at least three books.
I want to write that many.
A sixth one came out, and that's almost as many....
Most of us are still too young.
Most of us don't know what we are getting into.
But we still tell ourselves we do.

Most of these will be continued later.

Short story, I hope to extend this and maybe even illustrate it.

"The COmponents of Silence"

People are always scared when I pull out the knife. This guy is no different.
“I’m afraid you don’t understand. I’m here to kill you and nothing less or more.”
He’s breathing fast now, like all the others. Just once I’d like to find someone with a bit more conviction, but that doesn’t come with my job.
“I’m here to save you and myself, Jeremy. Doesn’t that sound great?”
“But you’re going to kill me.”
Refreshingly, when he talks, it’s not some sort of stringy high-pitched frantic bullshit. Despite the fact that he’s trembling, his voice is still fluid, silky and low. There are shades of tranquility hovering within his words. I guess part of dreams come true.
“Yes, I am.”
“But why?”
“It’s really quite simple. Let me tell you a story. About you.”
He reluctantly agrees. He doesn’t know I’ve traversed his mind already before I begin to speak.
For the next two hours I dive deeply into the psychic energies running around in the room and tell Jeremy a story about his life. Every second, I’m tracing another disturbance, another incongruity, running down tangents and cerebral pits that pulse in his skull. A series of connected events, all intertwined into each other and cutting away with viscous thorns. Thoughts, stories, networks – a crass jumble of lines and electrified synapses, all full of memories of the last three weeks.
You see, I’m repairing him. Slowly fixing all the little breaks placed in his brain – millions of them, writhing and throbbing. This all has to do entirely with his recent life.
“Jeremy, I know everything about you. All those lost opportunities and times you cried into your pillow. All the times you took a razor and cut the number fourteen into your palm. No one else seems to notice it, right? Don’t you wonder why?”
“I wear a bandage.”
“But don’t you think someone would notice that you have an incessant wound on your palm? Asked about it? Tried to medicate it? What would happen if they saw it – that it was clearly and intentionally done? That the cuts were followed exactly like the first set ever made?”
“No one has.”
“Because I’ve stopped them.”
The news calls me a murderer. A kind of sleazy ripper. A rapist. Demented. Everyone loves to add their own personal adjective and narrative to every body they find. Channel Four is universal in every city, I’ve discovered, and they always use the phrase “scene of death.” It’s like some sort of morbid memo that was passed to every reporter and news correspondent. Maybe they wrote it with bold letters. Remember, people, this is our job and we can’t go around fucking up our words.
See, the problem I have with all these descriptions is that they are false. I assure you there’s a very good reason why.
These people I kill – for simplicity sake, I will say victims, although I want to be perfectly clear that it is a terrible misnomer – are different sectors of me. Of my entire embodiment. My psychological network, my body. I am connected by an invisible string to every person I access. These connections are visible in ultraviolet spectrums, and someone viewing them would see one intimately buried deep in various organs of my body. There are thousands of them.
There is not one on my left ear. There is a reason for this.
“She cheated on you, Jeremy. Since then you’ve come drastically close to falling into madness. You are connected to my right hand. That’s the hand I cut best with. That’s the hand I kill with. Lunatics become separated from me, and I suffer. When one of them drifts into psychosis, they are severed from me, and my body violently tears the offending organ out, like excising a malignant and cancerous guest.”
At this, I touch my ear. He becomes quiet.
“So you kill people for yourself. How goddamn selfish.”
“No. I save you. I preserve your mind and place it away in a realm you can’t see or touch. Inside a swirling world, entombed in drugs that pump you full of morphine-like bliss. When I kill you, you restore part of me, I become whole, and you get to live inside a paradise behind my eyes.”
When someone destroys their own mind, either by a persistent state of psychotic imbalance or silencing themselves in suicide, they are torn from me. Julia in New York took my ear when she shot herself. I can only be alerted to an eventual breakdown by a few days at most. Without my rescue, my body will slowly degenerate. Additionally, their mind will rot away inside eternal purgatory. Such an end is reserved only for the people connected to me. A selective Hell, the most virulent and punishing.
In other words, a select few are of this majestic, though troubled, honey. Distant manna slices that I have to devour before they decay and putrefy. When I kill them, I silence their struggles and pain.
Jeremy doesn’t seem to understand all of it.
“Why would you be chosen to do this?”
“I don’t know. I believe I will learn that when I find the last host. I can’t afford to lose any more.”
Brilliant flashes of pain rip through my mind. There’s another one. She’s in Japan. That’s all I can tell for now. It’s like passing needles down your throat. Swallowing bees. Touching urchins.
That one has my leg.
“I have to go, Jeremy. Now.”
I slit his throat - the least painful. It’s called murder, but it’s really salvation. Instantly I feel restored. My mind cleared. Jeremy is speaking to me.
“You were right.”
Every soul tastes different. Like crystals, like water. Purity wrapped in peace.
I guess Channel Four will be here soon.
I’m only silencing fires - preserving myself and every part of me stretched across the world.
One day we’ll all go to heaven. One day we’ll all be silent. And it will be nice.