2

There are layers to the way that you function. There are the appearances and the motivations, there are the genuine desires within the realm of interactions and there are the strategic movements within the realm of interactions, there is an intricate lattice that involves the perceptual apparatus and an inexplicably complex set of factors which accounts for the propensities of individuals and the way that these propensities work themselves out in order to create the unending social rhythms that can be seen as scenes. The din in your elementary school lunch room and the buzz at your local dick farting coffee spot, people are bound to deal with each other. The din and the buzz are not the same. Sometimes it’s just the acoustics but other times it is the content within the interactions. Some will gossip about Jude Law’s current sexual partner while some others get enthusiastic about dragon lore. It is a simple theme. Socially involved beings are usually different, the sample in consideration has been taken with each individual in consideration without a self-fulfilling prophecy involving trends. I am not looking for trends. Synthetic patterns may be backed by the data, and we may have propensities. But I believe that the mold can be broken in any instant. I, the cock mandible creep-lord have had intercourse with some extremely attractive women. I have received fellatio and passionate sexually fueled kisses from multiple attractive women. It is a reality that I can extend out into the world. I do not do it to brag. I will not attempt to identify myself or the women… this is only an indirect glory ride, the glory being the joy I receive as I realize that I am smirking at my computer screen with a limp dick and a shitty finger remembering the peak visual moments of my rounds of intercourse with these rather impressive vixens. I actually cared about them at the time. I assumed nothing in my courtship of them. It is as though I was a different person then. I was a different being. I did not have this inward focus. I wasn’t so quick to judge. Maybe I am jaded. Something must have occurred, something that made me sour, something that sapped my enthusiasm, something that brought about the brilliant misery that makes me more valuable then the next asshole with a brain. I laugh as I see people focus, I laugh as I see them hone their skills, as I see them refine their goals in concert with their achievements… I see a world free of talent. I see buffoons stumbling around on ice. I am not worthy of help or acceptance. I realize that I benefit from living within a socially cooperative society… I realize that I do so while expressing views of isolationism and rigid cynicism, but not caring about that has come to me naturally. It is as though I am one of these fools that hope for world peace. It is as though I am one of these sheltered credit card hippies that doesn’t understand the way that power affords the privilege of freedom and the luxury of comfort. All those good feelings of a warm existence are founded on someone else’s work to maintain power, someone else’s work to maintain the necessary standing for privilege and luxury. The only step required for me to actualize the nature of this degenerate viewpoint that I have chosen to express and speak from… is the move that involves destroying my laptop. Throwing my cell phone against a wall with all my strength, telling my friends to go fuck themselves, followed by truly unkind tirades involving the flaws and insecurities that I have picked up on after knowing them and observing their lives for a period of time, an abrupt farewell to my family, with similar, but shorter tirades involving their flaws and insecurities. Oh it would be marvelous, like a scene from a gimmick whore comedy, I would stand during a family dinner in my grandparents dining room and I would go around the table spouting hate at the people that have shown me unconditional love, unconditional love makes me sick, we have abstract cognitive capabilities now, instinct and compassion can fuck themselves… through us… I am allowed to let myself drift into a state of physical and mental failure, I am capable of putting myself in a terrible position to achieve reproductive success. I am the immaculate king of ungrateful bullshit. There are no more idols, there are no worthy, living, icons. There are not nearly enough valuable and interesting people within any given social scene to make social climbing a worthy goal. There is no pinnacle. The only pinnacle that I can even imagine is a fully synthetic painting of a world that could only be maintained with special horse blinders and tanks of nitrous oxide.

There’s no telling how far it goes. Or why it goes. There is no reason that can be seen. There is no logical structure to the ways of a fiend like me. I am sure that some analyst could paint you a jazzy picture of what it is that goes on with me. But I am smarter than the analyst. I have not failed to do my homework. There are many people alive that are better than me, but I could even beat some of those that are more talented by playing my position correctly. I am the drifting nothing. There is no burden of victory on my shoulders. In my picture… all relevant forces come to a point of defeat. Everyone will give up, at least they will give up if they choose to press my front, they will fail and enter a regression involving attempts to regroup and reformulate, but my strongholds are amorphous. This is not a matter of overconfidence or narcissism, I recognized long ago that my depression and my rumination stemmed from low self esteem and a slew of insecurities; in fact, I am going to say that, in general, my entire outlook can be traced to a lack of confidence. I wish I was better looking, I wish my dick was bigger, I wish I was smarter, I wish my toes weren’t hideous, there are all sorts of eccentricities working behind this mask. But I have entered a different realm, I am not in the business of fighting the mask. I went to therapists when I was younger and they assumed that I was a naïve child… lost in the folds of development, caught in the pitfalls of some shit they heard an interesting lecture on, those mustached pricks and warm-talking cunts made me laugh to myself, I wondered if the balding 35 year-old clinical psychologist made funny faces when he took a shit. I was more concerned with the character of the therapist and the strange hollow feeling in my chest than anything that was being said in the sessions. There was too much experience to take in, too many details in my surroundings to try to reconstruct a firm notion of the core of my self. Therapy may help some people, but I have always been a steam roller of my own experience. There will be no fixing, it will all be flattened into a path, it will be archived as a record, a record that none will have access to, not even I can revisit the ghostly theatre of my past, the hazy colorlessness of my dreams, those things were moments in my brain that I cannot effectively access. They are gone and all the damage that the events of the past have done to my core, to the self that is mine, all that damage remains and makes me what I am, there is no fixing, there is no learning how to cope. There is just a base desire to move forward and a recognition that something must be done during the experience of the sensation of temporal movement. The body gives signals, sleep----wake up----- muscle spasm==[[arm’s asleep----- the phone rings----I get horny---- I write a paper---- I go out---- I speak to a person I have never spoken to before---- I roar at familiar people---- sleep--- I don’t remember going to sleep and I ponder that---- sleep

The pattern is foolish without introspection. The lack of introspection brings about the buffoons on the ice… they are not adept enough… they cannot fathom the choices or improvise in a way that is novel enough… the lack of talent shines through again… but my acquaintances tend to accept people as they are… as long as a certain boundary is not crossed at one extreme or another… as long as a style is within a certain realm… then the person gets by… it helps if they are unassuming and it helps if their acquaintances don’t give a shit, if their acquaintances don’t set high subjective existential standards… whatever the circumstances… most people find networks and form social backbone… somehow the buffoons manage to function. Sometimes the buffoons produce in areas that I wish I was producing… the buffoons manage to avoid handcuffing themselves in situations that I find myself constantly restrained… I handcuff myself through indecision and a lack of focus… these little doubts creep in… I consider the absurdity of my claims and the brittle thread upon which my perspective hangs… how it might all change if a pretty, smart, funny girl were to become my steady intercourse friend. There might be a new outlook, I might come to deserve the criticisms of my former self while still agreeing with the doctrine of my past self in principle but acting upon the pleasant sensation of a new momentum in actuality. There is very little room for me to interpret the stream of asinine thought that comes through my inner sense of things. There is a sort of lying and fleeting story line. I craft fictional situations and forget them, I decide to change my life in various ways, and I lose motivation, I lose interest and I revert to the masturbating stagnation. Responsibility does not exist, I am accountable in the sense that I have riddled myself with anxiety, my unpleasant moments outweigh my pleasant moments approximately 20 to 1, but that aside, I do not have any sense of responsibility. For example I do not feel as though I should do anything to change the nature of my situation. I am content knowing that my being is a brute fact… and I do not view my life as a progressive project… I just view myself as a series of time slices that I may reflect upon and dissect within my chamber of self-loathing, my inner sense. It is a strange blurring of every thing, but somewhat addictive once you have been familiarized with the practice. Non-risk takers can’t understand the brute fact of having explored such an unacceptable thing. To stay alone and fight yourself… to face the things you hate… to ignore crucial responsibilities within the synthetic goal realm… The non-risk takers are lame in ways beyond the general understanding… and even ‘the general understanding’ should be subject to intense scrutiny, the general understanding is neither exact nor worthy of reference… regardless, the absence of risk is a horrid property of my surroundings… everything is done so carefully; the planning of outfits, the allegiances pledged, and the courses of action avoided in order to maintain a projected image, specific to general, I range as I move forward, and I only briefly look back to explain on the fly, the ranges may vary slightly due to the lack of planning and/or editing. This is not good writing, but it is certainly honest, and this form of honesty comes through a subjectively tainted lens. I am the type of person that cannot control particular forms of lying… I have been fooling myself in regard to the way I feel and the opinions that I truly hold and the things that matter to me, so much so that some of my formulations are guarded without conscious effort. In a sense I have pigeon holed myself as an automaton in certain areas of my emotional life. I am not in control and I am bothered by that fact.

Nights like this are bad for my soul. And I don’t use soul in a sense that can be directly defined in any of the traditional senses. My notion of soul has to do more with a general sense of the state of self. It isn’t an explicated thought… it is more of a direct perceptual thing. It has to do with the level of comfort that you achieve upon exiting a deep breath. Would you describe it as a pleasant release or a momentary respite? The soul is that general ambiguous awareness of the self imposed moral standing of the thing you view as ‘you’. The heightened status that one gives to certain aspects of experience shine through in the readings that are given through the functioning of the soul… and sometimes… it is just known that the soul is in a garbage state… because shit is upsidedown.

The shapes and the angles as the neck extends up to the cheekbones and out with the jaw. And the way in which those shapes and angles change as the neck accommodates the object. When the action is performed skillfully the shifting of the angels and the contour of the shape can be extremely physically pleasing. Stimulation--------Numb, repeatedly, is not good for the soul. (my notion of soul)