Myriad

It was the most perfect kiss I've ever experienced.

Her skin was so soft and white and beautiful.

Her lips were succulent.

She was beautiful.

In that moment she was the most beautiful, most amazing, most spectacular, most perfect woman. Ever.

Every time I try to remember it brings me such joy.

Such peace.

God, I love her.

The memory of her.

That Kiss.

The way he lips gently caressed my lips.

How her tongue massaged mine.

Such joy.

Such peace.

Such happiness.

Such sorrow to think that it won't ever happen again.

The touch of he pale soft skin under my fingertips sets my nerve endings aflame.

To caress her cheek once more would be enough to cure me of this terrible ache.

The Passion. The Fire.

Why do I love so much the memory and despise so much the remembrance of it?

Parting is not sweet but sorrow. Someone's hope, if I could but borrow.
For hope has all but left me dead. And devil's feast on what angel's dread.

My parents set me up with a lesbian once.

Obviously, they didn't know that she was a lesbian. That would be weird though if they knew and set us up anyway. Like they got some sort of kick out watching me fail at life one more time.

It was actually a pretty good match. We both liked to get high and eat pussy.

She asked me if I'd force myself on her. I said no, I'm not a footy player. I only ever played touch footy. I have played some soccer but that just means that you touch me and then I fall over and cry.

I did suck a dick once. It's not something I talk about often but I figured that this is the perfect forum to get it off my chest.

It wasn't anything special really. I just happened to be really high and really horny and there was a cock in the room that looked like it needed sucking.

I won't go into anymore detail. I mean I'm sure you don't wanna hear about it. Plus there are some things that need to stay between a man and his dog.

Barking at each other from across the planet.

Leave a comment. Validate my existence.

If you don't have to make an effort to have your voice heard, do you really have anything worth saying?

Current western economics is based on debt. People and companies borrow money to buy and invest. Our economies don't grow by adding value, they grow by adding debt.

In much the same way, the internet grows not by creation but by multiplication.

Sure, we still have manufacturing sectors that pump out cars, guns and hard-on medication but the foundation of that industriousness is the ability of those manufacturers to receive credit. Borrowed money created by lending institutions at the click of a button.

Likewise, there are people creating new, fantastic things on the internet but the large majority of sites and users are copying, forwarding, leaching from those with more talent and greater skill.

So is the virtual world imitating the real world? Or are they both emblematic of a modern degeneration?

Fucked if I know.

But luckily for us, the technology that allows the garbage to proliferate also allows every back alley Picasso to have an audience and a platform.

It might take some effort to find that little golden nugget of brilliance amongst all the chaff but considering that either way all you have to do is sit there and click your mouse a few times it's probably not a good idea to be complaining.

I want a women.

Someone I can live with.

Someone I can love.

Someone who'll be worth the effort.

I think back on the last time.

It feels like forever ago.

Like cobwebs and the desert sands are fighting for the right to suck the life out of me.

When was the last time I felt... anything?

Have I ever?
Come even close?

But I know that feeling.

Or think I do.

That warm contented feeling that allows you to finally breath.
Like the whole universe just performed the Heimlich maneuver on your soul.
Clearing out the cobwebs and the dust. The sand and the silt.

Freeing you.
To be who you are.

To be
Who you really want to be.

Not the shell
Not the facade
Not the face that you present to the world.

But the real you.

Really real.

The one you've always wanted to be.

Sometimes, you take what you can get.
Sometimes, you don't make the best decisions.
Sometimes, you wish you had never been born.
Sometimes, you wish that you had inspired someone.

Because, damn.

If you could be someone's muse
Then maybe your life
Would mean something.

And your existence
Would become
Poetry.

And that
Would make it
All worth it.

Heat.
Burning fire.

Losing control.

Lost in echoes of word and deed and mind.

Too insane, too happy, too kind.

Out of darkness, I beseech you.

In those depths, I cannot reach you.

Let it happen.

Let it die.

Because you need to
Set yourself adrift.

Not for freedom.

Not for peace.

But because you can.


Because you must.


Because if you don't, everything you ever cared about or believed in, or thought to be true... would just vanish.

And disappear.


Forever.

Is she the Perfect Woman?

Does such a thing even exist?

Is she just fucked up enough to make me happy?


Who knows?


Not me.


But what I do know is that when I'm around her I feel comfortable. Content. Relaxed. At ease.

I can say what I feel and mean what I say and not hold back a thing.

Ideal woman?

Does such a thing even exist?

Shit.

Do any of our ideals really exist?

Are we just faking it?

I think that, perhaps, this may be the closest I've ever been to really loving someone.

For who they are.

And not just for what I wanted them to be.

The one thing
I really want
Is to be able
To tell someone
"I love you"

And mean it.

She looks like she could have anything she wanted.


If what she wanted was me.

They call it an open plan.

But the walls in this place are thicker than anything that can be built with stone and steel.


Open and honest

We may do business that way (or pretend to), but we definitely don't live that way.


It's been three years since I've seen the sun.

Well, at least the coffee's free.

I haven't written anything here for awhile.

I admit, I've been lazy.

I sit here every night in front of this fucking computer screen. Clicking on randoms links and reading up the most obscure and useless facts in the universe.

But I'm still out there. In the universe.

Trying to live a life. Trying to live well. Trying to do something.

Anything.

Anything to take me away from here and outta my head. Because sometimes, I'll admit, I get tired of myself.

I can't help it.

I have these thoughts. Deep, complicated trains of thought that seems to stretch on forever. And the further they stretch, the more they suck out of me.

Who are we, really? Why are we here? How are we here?

Where the fuck is here exactly? Are we a small part of the multiverse, or is the universe all that there is?

Will the Large Hadron Collider usher in a new era of theoretical and experimental physics?

When will I ever get laid again?


DEEP FUCKING QUESTIONS!


And they're in my head. All the time.

Yes, I'm a curious person. Yes, I want to know about the universe and how it works.

Yes, I wanna get fucking laid. (Like a muthafucka)

But for fuck's sake, can't a man get some rest? Just a little?




No?

Well fuck.

I feel like Chloe.

I feel like I'm dying and all I wanna do is get laid.

"Chloe had oils and handcuffs..."

"She had strapless underwear at home, and cried."


It's not that I'm desperate (well maybe a little). Or that it's been ages since the last time.

I guess I'm just starting to feel a need for physical human contact. A need to be loved.

When I find myself alone
I feel like I'm falling behind
Like everybody is two steps ahead of the game.

And I'm stuck here... doing nothing.


It's hard for me to understand my memories and make them fit into my present.
Forget about the future,
That's something I can't even consider.

Watching the fluoro people march past me on a daily basis
Marching to the beat of a drum I'm just not able to hear.
So intent on being different they don't realise they're just like everybody else.

And who am I to judge?
Am I so different?
I claim no great learning, no revelation.
Just a knowledge and a realisation
... and an admission.

At the very least I can acknowledge what I see for what it is.
And admit to who I am.

I just want the truth. From myself as much as from the rest of you.

Cold. Hard. Truth.

The pain of truth is a temporary thing.
It's the bitter taste in your mouth that lets you know that, yes you are taking your medicine
and yes, you will feel better for taking it.

I wonder sometimes whether what I'm doing is worth the effort.

Which leads one to thinking, "Well, what's the alternative?"

If I was doing something different, would I suddenly become a more complete person?

Happier? More content?

I have this nagging feeling that I'm missing out. That there are things that other people do, see, feel, which are beyond my ken.

Does everyone feel this way? Or is it just me?

Do they hide it?

Is there an emptiness inside all of us? A void that either needs to be filled or ignore?

A breach in our souls whose deafening silence needs to be constantly drowned out by the white noise of our day-to-day existence?

Then in the quiet moments, when there's nobody else around and the world has gone to sleep, it gnaws at you. Slowly and softly. Incessantly.

Perhaps it punctuates the moments of joy?

They say, you cannot see the light without knowing the darkness. But I say, your bumper sticker philosophy is creating a false dichotomy and that in reality, the universe we live in is complex and difficult to understand and the use of such simplistic language to describe such a complicated, multifaceted situation is both intellectually and morally bankrupt.

Sariel is what I'm called...

but...


that's what im called in a world where names dont exist and people are never really real and all you can do is hold your breath and hope and dream and wish that one day, some day, all this will become manifest. and that on that day, you will be there. with open eyes. staring, glaring, taking it all in. the brave new world. built upon the foundations of struggle and suffering and grief.

built upon lies and toil and strain. but it's still the same. never has there been a new day. never has the world woken up to a new dawn. never, in all of recorded time has anyone ever done anything of consequence. because everything everyone has ever done will cease. and you will be released. and all this will come to an end

And I'm here. In my head. All the time. Thinking, thinking, thinking.

The things I think about are not the things I want you to know about.

Because the person I am to you is not the person I really am.

In my mind, I am a god and a demon and a lover and a poet.

In your life, I am just who I am.

To you, I am just another body that presents itself to you and then moves on.

But to me, I am the centre of the universe. I am all that exists and the only reason for existence.

I am here to conquer the universe and shape it to my own design.

I am here to become everything that every man ever wished he could be.

This is what's in my head. This is the place that you cannot see.

This is why I look at you as if to say "Nothing you do will change this. Nothing at all."

What you don't know. What you can't know. Is that I'm a man who spends most of his day searching for the threads of humanity in himself and the world around him. Sparks of life and love and lust and loss. The things that make the universe real.

How many times in my mind have I run away screaming at the insanely depressing and indifferent that spews out of every orifice, of every corner, in every part of the world.

Because the world goes on around me and I can't just sit here and take it.

What I want is to not have to explain myself every time someone asks "What are you doing for Christmas?"

What I want is to be able to go and have a night out, without waking up with regrets.

What I want is to stop being told what to do.

What I want is for people to accept me for the person that I am.

What I want is a woman with no gag reflex.

What I want is to not constantly hide who I am and what my motivations are.

What I want is for humanity to pull it's finger out.

What I want is for you to understand me.

What I want is for me to understand myself.

What I want is a sense of accomplishment.

What I want is passion.

What I want is a global paradigm shift.

What I want is a connection.

What I want is the total annihilation of all the evils on this planet and in my heart.

What I want is to stop acting like a dick to the people I care about.

What I want is to love and be loved.

What I want is this list to be shorter.

I'm a torn human being.

I need to make a choice.

I need to decide whether the people I considered my friends have made an error in judgment, or whether they were never really what I would consider friends and I've only now realised it.

Truth be told, I'm no angel.

I'm far from the perfect friend, or human being. But I'd like to think that at some base level there are things that I'd do, as a matter of course, for those I cared about.

If I act like a cunt (high probability) and you are my friend, I expect you to call me out. And I can say that I've never fucked off anybody for calling me on my shit. Because everyone needs their lessons to learn.

I may well deserve to be shafted, by more than one or two people. However, if you ever did dare to call me friend, then for fuck's sake at least have the decency to say something to my face. Because I can deal with motherfuckers and all kinds of shit, but I have a hard time dealing with insincere.

I've never truly hated another human being. Although I admit that I have hated.

I've never truly fallen in love. Although I admit I have loved. Often and well.

And I have never been left feeling so empty by ones I considered so close.

I've made bad, bad decisions in recent days. And maybe now I'm paying for them. But this is the first time I've ever written anything sober with tears in my eyes.


Sorry.

Who could say what was going through his mind?
It wasn't as though he'd ever mentioned wanting to do something like that. In fact it wasn't as thought he'd ever mentioned anything. Ever.
He was the epitome of he "silent type".

Not a mute.
No.
He had been heard to speak. But that was like saying George Bush occasionally said something clever.

So you can imagine, that hearing him sing, was something of a shock.
And what a voice!

Joe behind the bar was so shocked that he shattered over $100.00 worth of Scotland's finest.

Seventeen years he'd been going in there.
Never had he even had a conversation with anyone.

So what brought him to this? What possible force of nature had moved this silent mountain?
What else?

A woman.

The mind is a wonderful, incredible, terribly complicated system.
His mind was no different.
The place that song came from was a dark cul-de-sac in his brain. A dark part of town he rarely visited, which ironically for him, was a happy place.

And he was smiling as he sang.
Smiling!
Avian swine indeed!

The woman?
She was a beauty of the most ancient kind. The kind that was once found gathering nature's bounty with naught but a small strip of animal hide to protect her from those uncomfortable nicks and scraps that could make life more than uncomfortable.

She seemed out of place, that much was certain.
But then so did he.

Out of place.
Out of time.
Neither of them fit, except with each other.
Hence the song.

His voice poured out joy in a way that made it seem like a foreign language.
A body and soul so unused to bliss that this ultimate release was almost a birth. Pain and joy, intertwined.
Lacubrious joy and ingrained suffering standing together on that small karaoke stage, singing a love song to his beloved.

The governor of his heart had opened the gates on that long incarcerated part of his soul. The inmates now had complete charge of the asylum.

Several of the bar patrons had become transfixed by his performance. An almost evangelical outpouring that had them enthralled.He was, indeed, testifying, before all of creation.

The chatter had ceased. The only thing that could be heard was his song.
Or was it her song?
Some wondered, but her knew.
It was her song.
For her.
Everything for her.

“you should write a blog about your undying love for me”

You said it in jest. But it got me thinking. About love. About you. About me.

I think I know how you would want to be loved.

You would want me to love you like the world is ending. Undying love, as it were.

Well the world isn’t ending. At least not in our foreseeable future. And all love dies. Eventually.

If there’s no-one to love or be loved, then there can be no love.

But this says nothing about you and I.

Me and you.

You.

You are amazing and I feel honored to know you.

I do love you. But I don’t think it’s in the way you imagine it in your head. The romantic fantasy is a difficult beast to kill. It’s right up there with Jesus and ghosts in the bullshit theories that have no basis in reality category.

Don’t get me wrong. Love is real. But the Hallmark version of love that grips this western capitalist society of ours is bullshit.

Love is the basis of all our deepest and most valued relationships.

My relationship with you is something I value. I think more than I could ever possibly describe in words.

I love you, in a way that suits me just fine. So there.

There are a lot of things about a woman that drive a man to the edge of sanity and decency.

My favourite?

The aroma. The smell. The scent.

Scent of a woman?

More like breathing her in.

Every pheromone, every cell, every molecule.

Sniffing women is what I'm talking about.

I'm talking about going beyond that light and breezy, perfumed, wafting scent that most ladies like to radiate.

I'm talking about that deep down, pheromone laced, sex infused, in between her thighs aroma that makes you spine shiver every time you get a whiff.

It's like you're snorting the purest of all narcotics.

The chemical reaction shoots all the way up into your skull cavity and turns your brain to mush.

It's not a thing you can forget easily. Her smell becomes permanently imprinted on your memory. For as long as you live, you'll remember.

Decades from now, you will get a whiff of someone or something that comes close. And you knees will go week.

There is no aroma in this universe more pleasant than that of a naked woman who wants you.

I've been striving.

Increasingly.

To be honest.

I can't say that I've been that way. Or even close.

But I'm trying.
Trying real hard.

Not because I care about you, or the state of my immortal soul.

But just because, in the long run, it's easier.

If I tell you the truth... that you're an annoying mother fucker. Then the chances of you leaving me alone is greatly increased. Which, considering your annoyingness, is a good thing.

It's true that my honesty may cause you pain. However this is dwarfed by the amount of suffering you would cause me (and others) with your shit.

Plus you may actually learn something and improve yourself.

Or maybe I'm just a cunt.

A heartless motherfucker with no consideration for the feelings of others.

Even so, I feel honesty is still the best policy.

It may be hard. Painful. Isolating.

But still the best.

I have a black friend.

Really. He's actually black. Like from African and stuff.
Not just an Indian with baggy jeans.

So you see. I'm not a racist.

Which means I can use the word "nigger" without invoking the centuries of pain, suffering and oppression that that word carries with it.

You see the thing is, when you're a person of colour, that comes with a certain amount of baggage. When you wake up in the morning and put that skin on, you have a responsibility to an entire race.

You become a representative of an entire species.

And as a white man with a black friend, I totally understand that.

At the end of the day all you have is yourself.

No matter how well someone might know you they will never know the full extent of your madness. Your joy. Your sorrow.

It doesn't really matter how hard you try to kill it. That small lonely piece of you will always be there.

And the choice is yours. Accept it for what it is. Or deny, deny, deny.

But nothing you can do will ever change this simple fact. Embrace it. With open arms.

Find out who you really are. Let the wolves at the door fall silent... and breath.

I find myself having to stop and stand, with gaping mouth at the awe and wonder of it all. It amazes me that such a thing is even possible, let alone that it's happening to one such as myself.

Strangers from distant lands, friends and kind hearted roustabouts.

There is a saying which states that "familiarity breeds contempt" and another equally cutting statement which claims that "absence makes the heart grow fonder."

Two sides of the same coin, one could argue.

Nevertheless. Appropriate as they may be, they still barely begin to ellucidate my current state of mind.

Sitting there I began to wonder. What the fuck am I doing? Why am I running back to these people? What is it about them and about myself that keeps taking me back?

I find it gives me great pause when I think upon it. What is this unique quirk of fate that continually drags me northward?

And at times, it does my fucking head in.

The absurdity of the situation. The fact that if it wasn't for myspace I would never have met these people. I owe Tom a great deal. I owe you all a great deal more.

Many thanks. Once again.

I want a woman who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me 10 things I don’t already know, and make me laugh.

I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on.

And if you can do that I will follow you on bloody stumps through the snow. I will nibble your mukluks with my own teeth. I will do your windows. I will care about your feelings.

Just have something in there.

- Henry Rollins

I've been here before. It's familiar territory.

The mind is clear (relatively) and my system is clear of drugs (mostly). And yet I'm here again. Again, again, again.

And I'm glad. Fucking ecstatic. Just like last time. Better than last time.

More friends. More fun. More memories.

Good times.

Thanks again one and all.

New friends and old. Thanks.

If I believed in a god I'd ask her to bless you. As it stands all I can do is search for superlatives to describe the experience and the people and the situation and the emotions.

Sadly I find myself lacking in this task.

So thank you friends and stay as safe as your libidos and your bank accounts will allow.

The way you feel about her is beyond your ability to explain.

Everything she has ever done has only made you want her more.

Never kissed her lips. Never held her hand.

But for some reason beyond your comprehension she is in your thoughts. In your very being.

Sometimes in the background. Sometimes at the forefront. Sometimes you can barely move from the desire of you.

Years have gone by and yet this foundation has never once been rocked, or even threatened.

No matter where I've gone or what I've done, you were there. Whether you knew it or not you were always there.

Every choice, every decision. Every idea I've had from the first day to this one has been for you.

"Will she like this? What would she do in this situation? Will this decision make
me a better person for her?"

Every moment is filtered through you. Every choice.

And I don't care anymore who knows it. You are what I want. What I've always wanted.

You are everything I want to be.

If I strive, or yearn, or succeed. It's because of you.

And if you stab me in the heart, I apologise for bleeding on your blade.

Normally, you meet someone. You make eye contact. You say hello. You chat about mundane everyday things as a means of introduction. Slowly you get to know a person. And if all goes well, you get to touch them and hold them and kiss them.

That’s how it goes in the real world.

The virtual world is a bit different.

Online relationships have one major drawback. Personal Contact.
Even if you’ve known a person for years, you’ve never really met.
This naturally poses some problems.

You meet someone. You start to “talk”. Maybe you even swap phone numbers. You webcam each other.

The only trouble is you live here and they live there.

You want nothing more than to be with that person. To touch them and hold them and whisper warm caresses in their ear. But you can’t.

Because you live here and they live there.

Your reactions, and thoughts and emotions are just as real as any “normal” relationship. Your mind doesn’t know the difference. It has created the same connection it would even if you could touch. Same thoughts, same feelings, same pheromones.

Same fear, same anger, same jealousy.

Someone leaves a comment on their homepage and you heart screams bloody murder.

You become the guy who killed his girl’s mother ‘cause she kept you apart.

You become the woman who sells her house to go marry a man on the other side of the planet.

It’s a complete mental mindfuck.

It’s why celebrities have stalkers

And it’s ALL IN YOUR HEAD.

And you know it.

But you don’t care.

‘Cause it’s a cold and lonely world. And it’s hard to find people to connect with. So when you finally do, you never want to lose that because you remember what it used to be like before. Because this is better than nothing. It’s insane, and sick, and twisted.

But it’s better than nothing.

It's funny the things people do when they think they're appeasing their god.

So it's early on Sunday morning (way too early) and I'm standing here listening to a man in a dress chant incantations to his imaginary friend in the sky.

There's a naked little baby boy in a tub and a bunch of people in suits and pretty dresses.

Welcome to the world kiddo. This is just one of the myriad of crazy things you're gonna be subjected to over your lifetime. I hope for your sake your parents kept your penis in one piece.

I realise that genital mutilation is a popular past time for many around the world, but I don't think keeping your various body parts in tact would be a detriment to you. But then again, what would I know. I certainly shouldn't be telling anyone how to raise their children. After all, I can barely look after myself. I'm sure there's nothing wrong with taking a sharp knife and slicing off part of a person's most sensitive organ. Pain builds character, doesn't it. None of that pesky anesthetic stuff for my son. He's gonna grow to be a real man. 'Cause if he's a winner then maybe so am I.

If you really cared about me, then you would be with me. You wouldn't need excuses.

There would be no need for "I need to be alone". Because you wouldn't.

IF you really really wanted me, nothing else would matter.

Maybe you do actually like me, but obviously that isn't enough.

And to tell you the truth if your not in all the way, then you're not worth the effort.

I feel the need to kill.

To go out and obliterate the braincells that have made the recent past a fucking shitstorm of pain and confusion.

You see that guy on the news and you listen what he's done.

And you understand.

You don't condone. You don't even necessarily sympathise.

But you understand.

I am smarter than you.

I am prettier than you.

Everything I will ever do will always be better than anything you do.

I am ego.

I am the voice that tells you that you are special. Talented. Gifted. One above the rest.

I am above all others. I'm not like these other people. I'm not one of the sheeple. I am unique.


This is the litany that I repeat to myself. This is my mantra. This is what keeps me going.


I must tell myself these things, even though I know there is no basis in fact for a single one of these statements. And what's more, I must believe them. Each and every lie. Every misshapen truth.


I have to justify my own existence. Rationalise my actions. I need to stand apart from the great mass of humanity that constantly breaths over my shoulder.

You're drunk. You get in a cab.

You think you're going home.

After that, it's hazy.

You wake up and you realise, "This isn't home".

You look over and there's a girl lying next to you. "What the fuck just happened?"

Think dammit.

Okay, I'm not naked... and neither is she.


Fuck.

Interpretation is a funny thing.

Intention versus perception.

Take this blog thingy. It's written mostly from the first person perspective (i.e. mine). The tales found within are taken mostly from real life (mostly).

And when I write them down I'm usually clear on my intent and meaning (in my head anyways). The purpose of the piece, if you will.

The only problem is, you ain't me.

Which means that what you read will be understood differently to what the cunt next to you read.

You bring with you all your preformed conceptions about the universe and your place in it, which renders any objective understanding of any one piece terribly difficult.

Chances are if I know you, if we've ever met or crossed paths, then you will most likely end in up in here. Somewhere.

I don't write for vengance or spite. I don't write to get back at anyone.

I write for me.

I write to create and help me deal with my own shit. It's an outlet. A safety valve almost.

So if I let off some steam and you get burnt, tough. Deal.

I'm not here to protect you and I don't print lies. If you can't face the truth of your own, or mine, or someone else's actions well then perhaps you should stop next time before you do whatever you're upset over.

That said, I'm not out to hurt or "get" anyone. That is the last thing I'm looking to do here. Like I said - vent, create.

If I've upset you let me know. I will probably change or delete my stuff to keep you happy (there is a precedent for this). Because, honestly, I'd rather lose all the fucking shitty blogs from now until the end of time then lose you as a friend. Any of you. All of you.

I've never (that I can remember) written anything here in malice.

Thoughtlessness? Perhaps. But never malice.

Gratitude.

Grateful is what I am to you.

Thankful for the place you gave me.

Thank you for the time you wasted on keeping me occupied.

I could never repay you
No matter how I tried.

You showed me around your city
You gave me beer and food
You'll never know how grateful I am to you.

This was never your obligation
I don't know where else I would have gone
Don't know if my dreams would have all come true.

"every addiction is just a way to treat the same problem.

drugs or overeating or alcohol or sex it is all just another way to find peace.

to escape what we know.

our education.

our bite of the apple"

- Choke

Chuck Palahniuk

Through the tears all I can see is the hole that sits inside me.

I'd say that there's a hole in my soul if actually believed I had one.

Things are no longer as high as they were just a day or two ago.

Everything in my brain is messy and I can't shake this depressing feeling that makes me wanna break down in tears everytime I see a plastic bag floating in the wind.

My brain is struggling to correct the chemical imbalance I visited upon it this weekend just past. Struggling.

Deep breaths.

Regrets and actions, recent and ancient, come back as if to say "Look what you have done. You must make amends."

I remember a time, not too long ago. When I was in love with the universe and everything in it.

I was told by a dear, dear friend that in some circles it's laughingly described as "top yourself tuesday." Very funny indeed.

Luckily I'm nowhere near that dismal or desperate. And I fully understand why I feel this way. But jesusfuckingarserapingchrist, it aint a lot of fun.

I spoke to a friend today and there was nothing I could do to hold back the tears. No blame. Just tears. They had a source, this much is true. But they were dragged out under duress.

This time is not like the last time. The next time will be different yet again. I am neither a lizard king nor doctor of journalism. I am a speck. Fighting to keep my head on straight and my knees in the upright and locked position.

There's a ball lodged in my throat and I feel abandoned by everyone who ever pretended to care. All the ones who put on those loving deceitful faces and told those twisted lies. Led me down the garden path. Was I led or was I dragged? Was I complicit in my own demise?

No way! Fuck you! Fuck all of you! All you fuckers that made me feel anything. Everything. You're to blame for all my sorrow. Evil does not begin to describe your crime. You are the worst kind of garbage.

Shudder at myself. I feel bent. Buckled.

Ride the fear and you'll do fine. Just ride it out.

And I hope I can love you again tomorrow or someday.

"And I will risk my neck again, again"

For everything. Truly.

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Four seasons in one day
Lying in the depths of your imagination
Worlds above and worlds below
The sun shines on the black clouds hanging over the domain

Even when youre feeling warm
The temperature could drop away
Like four seasons in one day

Smiling as the shit comes down
You can tell a man from what he has to say
Everything gets turned around
And I will risk my neck again, again

You can take me where you will
Up the creek and through the mill
Like all the things you cant explain
Four seasons in one day

Blood dries up
Like rain, like rain
Fills my cup
Like four seasons in one day

It doesnt pay to make predictions
Sleeping on an unmade bed
Finding out wherever there is comfort there is pain
Only one step away
Like four seasons in one day

Blood dries up
Like rain, like rain
Fills my cup
Like four seasons in one day



Upon my return, I heard this song. It touched a nerve in me that I can't even begin to describe. Pain. Joy. Sorrow. Warmth.

"Four seasons in one day"

Emotionally speaking I've really run the gamut this last couple of weeks.

Although even on the bottom end of that emotional scale I still found myself in more bliss than I could bare.

"I will risk my neck again, again"

It initially seemed like a gamble. Go and meet some people. Internet people.

The questions, the hesitation. "Will they like me?", "Will I like them?", "What if they're a bunch of real cunts?".

Luckily for me they were a bunch of cunts and we got on famously. Like old friends coming together after years apart.

"Smiling as the shit comes down, You can tell a man from what he has to say"

I feel like I've been smiling for days on end. It's been a real blast. I know I've said it before and perhaps you're sick of hearing it but, thank you. Each and every one of you.

"Even when you're feeling warm, the temperature could drop away"

Leaving them is hard. It's kinda like breaking up with someone who you still really care about. You know you should go, but every instinct is telling you to stay and hold on.

"It doesn't pay to make predictions"

There's no telling what the future holds for my new friends and I. Will we ever meet again? I fucking hope so. I can't imagine my life without them now. But even if we don't, at least we'll always have Paris (or in this case, Brisbane).

"Finding out where there is comfort there is pain"

Happy. That's what I am right now. Even through the tears. And thankful too.

"Fills my cup"

And my heart.


"Like four seasons in one day"

I did NOT write the following. It's stolen. From who or from where I dont' know. Just read it and remember. (And try to ignore how emo it is. Fuck sometimes I make myself sick)


Tell her you think she's cool ...

Tell her why you think she's so cool.

Smell her hair.
Take her to shows of bands she's never heard of.

Hold her hand in the pit.

Talk to her in movie theatres.

Pick her up and pretend youre going to throw her in the river;she'll scream and fight you but secretly, she'll love it.

Hold her hand and skip.

Hold her hand and run.

Just hold her hand.

Pick flowers from other peoples gardens and give them to her.

Tell her she's pretty.

Let her pay if she wants to.

Introduce her to your friends as "the coolest girl you know".

Sit in the park and talk to her.

Just talk to her.

Take her to the library.

Take her anywhere.

Tell her dirty jokes.

Tell her happy stories.

Tell her sad stories.

Tell her your stories.

Tell her anything.

Tell her stupid jokes.

Write poems about her.

Just walk with her.

Throw pebbles at her window.

When she starts swearing at you ... tell her you love her.

Let her fall asleep in your arms.

Call her.

Call her back if she calls you.

Sing to her ...no matter how bad you are.

Carve your names into a tree.

Get her mad, then kiss her.

Give her piggy - back rides.

Go see her band play even if they really suck,and tell her they were great.

Give her space if she needs it.

Push her on swings.

Stay up with her all night when she's sick.

Make up pet names for her, but cool ones ... not sappy ones.

Teach her guitar.

Lend her your cds.

Write on her.

Write about her.

Make her mixtapes.

Write her letters.

Take her to cool shops ...and let her take you to even cooler ones.

Just hang out with her.

Listen to all the bands she mentions.

Don’t tell her that her favorite bands suck.

When shes sad ... hang out with her

or

Stay on the phone with her ...even if shes not saying anything.

Buy her ice cream.

Let her take all the photos of you she wants.

Look into her eyes.

Slow dance with her...even if the music is fast.

Tell her a secret.

Kiss her in the rain ...

kiss her hand ...

kiss her neck ...

kiss her forehead ...

kiss her nose ...

Just kiss her.

Hug her.

Trust her.

Love her.

Be yourself around her.

Cherish her...

and when you fall in love with her

...tell her.

This is the last thing I ever expected to happen.

I was planning on a party. A getaway. A break. A vacation.

I wasn't expecting this kind of emotional mindfuck.

I wasn't expecting to fall so hard, so quickly.

Is this how addicts feel the first time? Drawn, compelled, overwhelmed.

This was just supposed to be a holiday. Just like all the other holidays I've ever taken. Relax a little. Maybe swim. Drink. Eat. Sleep. No stress. No Drama. No complications. No chance.

My mellow hiatus was not to be.

I don't remember how we met exactly. There was 36 hour drug binge and when I came to she was there.

And she was close.

And even though I couldn't remember all the details I knew why she was there. She was there for me.

She was mine and I was hers.

The question was, who was she?

As I stared down at her face I started to cry. No trinkle of tears mind, but rather a torrent. Was this pain? Joy? Who could tell?

She was Maria. And I loved her.

Body and soul.

I remember her first words to me as she awoke, "Don't leave".


So I didn't.

I need your love.

I need you to lift me out of the ashes I find myself in.

I need you to give me just some small semblance of hope, of joy, of not pain, of not sorrow.

You are the imaginary friend that keeps me breathing.


In this life the possibilities are endless.


It is possible I may meet her someday.
It's possible that she may even exist.
It's possible that this is as good as it gets.

Every action has an equal but opposite reaction.
Every joy has its sadness.
Every meeting has its goodbye.

I've just had a goodbye.
At this very moment I'm feeling quite sad.

It's come on gradually. It's been 2 hours since my goodbye and the emotion has been building.
It's like breaking up with someone. Like saying goodbye to old friends. Old friends who I met for the first time three days ago.

Fuck it's been a good weekend. Exceptionally so. Expectations were met and surpassed.


Big red is the bomb. If she didn't have a boyfriend I would rape her to within an inch of her life. Wonderful human being, pity she has poor taste in men. Heart her.


Her man. Fucktard. The Frodo Baggins of comedy. Never a backward step, never a wayward thought. If I thought he could survive it I'd rape him too. Heart him also.


And finally. Slutbucket. She is an amazing woman. She is without a doubt the most awesome, coolest person I have met in a long time. Possibly ever. She is the one from whom I would require permission before raping. I bow before her. She may have thought I was joking, but I meant every word.


I feel like the little kid you see yelling and crying as he's getting pulled out of the toystore by his mother.

Can't I stay just a little longer.

Or maybe forever.

So it's 20 minutes to midnight and I'm walking the streets of Brisbane with a smile on my face the size of my head.
Truth be told, I'd fallen in love. And the beautiful thing is it was with more than one person.
Sure we were all on drugs but, as a great man once said, "Drugs have done good things for us."
I have just spent 24 hours in the company of these people and now all I can do is smile and be grateful.
I just want to grab someone and tell them, let someone know why and how and when. But the streets are dead and empty. It's the calm serenity of a Sunday night in Brisbane. There aren't even any cabs on the streets.

Just me and my joy.

I love you.

Really. I do.

But I'm also on drugs, so I'm not sure what that means exactly.
Ecstasy is quite potent.

It's been over 36 hours since I swallowed those two little pills and I'm still feeling the effects.
But the important thing is, I love you. All three of you. Even number four. The disappointment.
All of you. Deep, chemical, passionate love. I'd rape each one of you from now until eternity if I could.

I'd do anything you asked me and more just to make you happy. Each one of you exceeded each one of my expectations by a measure or more.

The three. You brave three. Love, Joy, Happiness.

Words fail and the mind can't comprehend the magnitude of the occasion.
After so long and so many promises, the sense of relief is overwhelming.

The smile on my face has been locked in for over 24 hours.

Thanks to you.

Thanks to us.

Even without the narcotics my feelings would be the same. Are the same. You are, each and everyone, awesome.

Excellent human beings, every one. And I thank you.

I'd not done ecstasy before and doing it with you made it an unforgettable experience.
Sitting here now, alone, all I wanna do is hold you and kiss you and lick you all over.

Sober or not, I still heart you.

(This was originally written on Monday 3rd June 2002 as a journal entry. It has been edited here to protect the innocent and reflect more recent events)


I have no idea about anything. The older I get the less sure I am and the less I know (or think I know). No plans, no ideas, no prospects, no desires. No life?
I'm not depressed.
I'm quite happy actually
I'm happy being single.

Random thought: If the world was at peace would we still be able to produce the great art and science that conflict produces? And if we weren't, would it be worth it?

I regret being brainwashed by my parents and the church during my formative years. I regret not being more sexually active and aggressive. I regret being so timid when it comes to women. I regret not pursuing my musical and acting dreams. I regret doing what I was told to do. I regret my apathy towards causes that should force me to action. I regret being the lazy by-product of a materialistic consumer driven 20th century. I regret the 21st century has brought war and not peace. I regret that it took me so long to be deflowered. I regret to see my health and fitness declining. I regret not making out with Elissa in the 7th grade. I regret not having sex with Michelle after the Uni-ball. I regret that my cousins no longer have a father. I regret that four of my greatest friends lack the same. I regret the difficulties my niece has faced. I regret not following through with the guitar in the way I should. I regret never asking Kristina to go out with me. I regret being blind to the women who found me attractive. I regret all my racist, sexist, homophobic and bigoted remarks, thoughts and actions. I regret not being more genuinely accepting. I regret the words that caused pain. I regret putting on so much weight after high school. I regret not looking for more life affirming employment. I regret my shyness in all its manifestations and senses. I regret not taking that girl back to my hotel room. I regret pissing in the sink in primary school. I regret all the breakups. I regret not getting to know the one-nighters I've been with. I regret ignoring Diane the way I did. I regret the enemies I've made. I regret permitting evil to be done in my presence. I regret not remaining friends with the ones I've lost touch with. I regret that more people in my life and in the world don't pursue higher ideals. I regret that I never knew my father's parents. I regret that money is the world's prime motivator. I regret that even though I recognise money's evil influence I still derive joy in possessing it. I regret that even though my thoughts may occasionally be enlightened my actions are generally lurid and common. I regret that I have no one to share my intimate thoughts with. I regret my inabilities to share my deeper thoughts and emotions. I regret getting that speeding ticket. I regret that I continue to have lustful thoughts about the sisters and girlfriends of my friends. I regret that I cannot tame or control my sexual thoughts. I regret being a slave to my hormones. I regret being a physical animal. I regret the contradictions I discover in myself. I regret my hypocrisy. I regret that it took me so long start again. I regret not pursuing the dream. I regret not making plans. I regret that I can't talk about such things with my parents. I regret that sex is perceived as something unclean. I regret that only politicians go into politics. I regret that every day there is always some new way to die or be killed. I regret that George Lucas chose to direct Episodes I, II, and III. I regret that sex so dominates my thoughts. I regret jerking off so much. I regret that pleasure is often considered a crime. I regret that people are awarded money for being stupid. I regret the lies that I've told. I regret telling the truth. I regret being a 27 year old boy. I regret the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. I regret that women are still 2nd class citizens. I regret that people being killed just makes others want to kill. I regret that I want love. I regret my regrets. I don't regret that I believe I've come to the end of my regrets.

Well that was certainly enlightening, not to mention entertaining. So many regrets. Still I seem happy with the way I've turned out. I think. It's just not all smiles and sunshine. I am glad I did that. It was slightly cathartic. Hell if you can't be honest with yourself than really what's the point. I may as well write fiction.

When you have something to say, it is often the case that someone has said it before and put in a way that you could never even begin to approach.

For examples, please see the following...

We live in a twisted world, where right is wrong and wrong reigns supreme. It is a chilling fact that most of the world's leaders believe in nonsensical fairytales about the nature of reality. They believe in Gods that do not exist, and religions that could not possibly be true. We are driven to war after war, violence on top of violence to appease madmen who believe in gory mythologies.

These men are called Christians, Muslims and Jews.

Osama bin Laden is insane. He believes God whispered in the ear of Mohammed 1,400 years ago about how he should conquer Arabia. Mohammed was a pure charlatan -- and a good one at that. He makes present religious frauds like Pat Robertson look like amateurs.

He said God told him to have sex with as many of the women he met as possible. I'm sorry, I meant to say "take them as wives." God told him to kill all other tribes that stood in his way or that would not placate him with assurances of loyalty or bribes. God told him, conveniently, that everyone should follow him and never question a word he said.

He sold this bag of goods to the blithering idiots who lived in the Arabian Peninsula at the time. If that weren't shockingly stupid enough, over a billion people continue to believe the convenient lies that Mohammed told all that time ago -- to this very day.

We live in a world full of insane people. Sanity is an island battered in an ocean of frothing delusion. The people who believe in science are the minority. The people who believe in bloody fairytales are the overwhelming majority.

George W. Bush is the most powerful man alive. He is a class A imbecile. He is far less intelligent than the average Christian. But like most of the others, he believes Jesus died for his sins. That idea is so perverse and devoid of logic it should shock the conscience. Instead, it gets him elected, and earns him the reverence of a great percentage of America. America! The most advanced country in the world -- run by a bunch of villagers who still believe Santa Claus is going to save them.

There is no damn Easter Bunny. There is no Jesus waiting to return. Moses never even existed. These were all convenient lies from the men of those times to gain power. Their actions were rational -- they wanted to deceive their brethren so that they could amass power. I get their motivations. But I cannot, for the life of me, understand our motivations, thousands of years later, still following the conmen of yesteryear into our gory, bloody, violent end.

Jesus is said to have said on the cross, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" Because Jesus was insane and the God he thought would rescue him did not exist. And he died on that cross like a fool. He fancied himself the son of God and he could barely convince twelve men to follow him at a time when the world was full of superstition.

Excellent marketing by some of his followers would later rescue his botched effort. How many people saw his miracles? One? Twelve? Eighty? Why didn't he show the whole world? Not because this is some giant pop quiz by God to test us -- but because he did not perform any miracles!

Even his apostles can't agree on what miracles he supposedly carried out or when he carried them out. Or whether he returned after death or he didn't. Whether they saw him in person or just as a vision. Rational human beings shouldn't believe this kind of nonsense. Yet most of the world does.

If a man today killed his only son to show how much he loved other people, he would be considered a madman, locked in jail and earn society's contempt. Yet we think this is some sort of noble act by our Father in Heaven.

In Heaven? What, with the harps and the winged angels and the 72 virgins? My God, how stupid do you have to be to believe that?

I know most of you don't actually read your religious texts, and when you do, you assiduously try to avoid the parts that make no sense whatsoever or hide underneath the comforting grasp of your religious leaders who have concocted a bunch of circular logic (a crime to even use that word in regards to Christianity, Islam or Judaism) to shield you from the obvious folly of the written text.

So, I'm not calling you stupid if you haven't really read the material. And I know how powerful brainwashing is. We all received it when we were young and it is exceedingly difficult to break its grasp. But people dance around the issue out of politeness because they don't want to call you what you are -- ignorant.

There are a lot of people I love dearly and respect wholeheartedly who believe in religion. I hate to do this to them. But we have killed far too many people, wasted far too much time on this nonsense for us to keep going in this direction for fear of offense.

Jesus was a lunatic. God is not coming to your rescue. He hasn't come to anyone's rescue in thousands of years, including Jesus. Mohammed was a power hungry, scam artist and ruthless conqueror. Moses and Abraham were figments of the imagination of some long dead rabbi. He would probably laugh his ass off at all of you who still believe the fairytales he made up thousands of years ago. He probably wouldn't even believe it if you told him.

Did I mention Judaism? The chosen people? Come on, get off it. People walk around in clothes from 18th century Russia, thinking they have been chosen by God when they look like a bunch of jackasses. I'm tired of all the deaths because we did not want to give offense. Orthodox Jews are wrong and ridiculous.

As are the orthodox and fundamentalists of all of the religions. It says in the Bible that it is an abomination to wear clothes made of two different cloths or to eat shellfish. If you think God will hate you because you mixed wool and linen or because you ate some shrimp, you are insane.

How long are we going to dance around the 800-pound gorilla in the room? The world is run by madmen. It's not just Bush and bin Laden. It is the leader of all of the countries in the Middle East, almost all of the Americas and most of the rest of the world.

Have I offended you? That's too bad. Stop killing each other in the name of false and ridiculous Gods and I will stop ridiculing you. Trust me, your offense is much worse than mine.

Right now as you read this, there are ignorant, hateful Muslims teaching other ignorant Muslims how to put on a suicide belt. There are orthodox Jews telling other Jews how they must never leave their "holy land" no matter what the consequences are to other human beings. They assure their followers -- remember, they are not the chosen ones, we are. If we crush and oppress them, don't worry, God will excuse it, and even desires it, because He is on our side.

There are maniacal Christians who are praying for the end of time. Who are hoping that most of the world's population is wiped off the face of the Earth by their vengeful and murderous God. Whom they believe is, ironically, a loving God. Unless, of course, you make the fatal mistake of not kissing his ass and appeasing him, in which case he will slaughter you and condemn you to eternal torture. What kind of sick people believe this?

The kind who live next to you. The kind who voted for George Bush. The kind who send their religious leaders to the White House to argue against even-handedness in the Middle East because it would prevent their sick prophecy. The kind who have undue influence over how we use the greatest and most lethal army ever built by man.

If you don't want to be called ignorant or misinformed, then get informed. Learn the real nature of our universe and put aside old wives tales about resurrected Gods, omniscient prophets and a guy who could split the Red Sea but couldn't find where he's going in the desert for forty years.

- Cenk Uygur

- Percy Bysshe Shelley

You are a nice guy. I really, really like you. But...


Most guys have heard this.

I wasn't surprised. It was obvious that she was the type of girl who wanted, needed a proper relationship. And that just wasn't me. At least not with her.

She's cool and all, but not worth the effort of an actual relationship.

Truth be told, not many women are worth the effort. At least not to me. Don't get me wrong. It's not like I'm turning away pussy left, right and centre. In fact quite the opposite. Times are starting to get desperate.

But that doesn't mean I'm gonna start dating every dumbshit that comes along just 'cause she has a vagina. I've done that. It's really not as much fun as it appears. At least not anymore.

I want a relationship. Don't misunderstand. But I need someone I can connect with on a intellectual level, more so than a physical one. She doesn't have to read Plato and Aristotle, but she has to of at least heard of them. I'm not looking for a genius, just someone who isn't a complete moron.

Is that so much to ask?

Some say the internet is like a series of tubes.

Those people are idiots.

The internet is an invention. A tool.

A tool that allows disparate pockets of humanity to connect with one another.

And download porn.

You know, all the important stuff.

Putting porn to one side, for the moment, if you can. Making connections is what this is about.

The human animal has been evolved over millenia to seek out emotional attachments. We form emotional bonds with anything and eveything. From pets to inanimate objects to abstract mental constructs.

Our strongest bonds, however, are reserved for other member of our species.

Friends, lovers, family members, sympathetic characters. We get attached. We hold on. We never want to let go.

All of our greatest fears, our sadness, our ugliness is based on the disconnect we feel when someone leaves us. They die, they disappear, they find someone new. It's one of the primary themes of human existence.

As is connection. The two facets of our existence that act most strongly on our psyche.

We do all in our power to make connections with like minded people. We try to improve how we look and who we are, in order to make ourselves more appealing. Not necessarily to the world at large but rather to the pockets of humanity we feel comfortable with.

So when something like the internet comes along, that allows you to connect with all kinds of people, from all over the globe, it's perfect.

Whatever niche you fit in, you can find your place online.

If you love to have your left pinky toe sucked to the theme of mighty mouse, you will find someone who shares your passion online.

You will connect and form bonds and be opened up to new ideas. You will find virtual friends and lovers and it will be good.

You will tell her you love her. He will profess his undying devotion.

You will swap pics, and webcam and email.

You will feel exactly as you would in real life. Same butterflies, same cold sweats, same dopey smile on your face.

The only trouble is, it's not really real. Because you're in Boise and she's in Bhutan.
And no matter how open and honest you are, or claim to be, you can never fully realise the entirety of that person.

Yes they could be flat out lying to you. Definite possibility.

What's more likely is that your perception of them is simply wrong. Assuming you do ever meet, who they are and who you perceive them to be are two completely different things.

In all relationships, particularly romantic ones, we idealise the other person. We filter out the flaws and the smooth out the rough edges in our minds. We put them on a pedestal and bask in their radiant glow.

The thing is, in the real world, reality has a tendency to burst our fucking bubbles and bring us crashing to earth in a pile of our own regret and sorrow. Because in the real world there are no barriers. When you are lying naked with the girl of your dreams, there are few secrets left to divulge. Every scar, every pock mark, every part of her is revealed to you.

Beyond even the physical aspect, you cannot hide who you are. When you are actually with a person, living with them, being with them, they cannot help but reveal themselves. It's true that there are some parts of us that never see the light of day but most things don't. Because they can't.

But in the virtual world, everything is filtered. Yes you love him, you care about him, you think about him all the time, you want nothing more than to be with him. But you don't really know him and he doesn't know you.


So am I against internet relationships? No.

I am totally for any relationship that will bring you joy and make you feel a little warmer in this cold, uncaring universe.

Like I said, one of humanities primary motivations is the desire to connect with others of or species. We are hard wired to do so. And it is fantastic when we do. It is when we feel most alive, most human.

Because let's face it kids, loneliness is the knife that keeps twisting until it leaves you cold and broken. It leaves you clamouring for any kind of warmth and affection. Leaves you willing to take anything, anyone, boy or girl.

Take your chances kids, whether in the real world, or this one. Yes you will hurt and yes you will feel pain. But no pain is worse than the pain of nothing. Of emptiness. Of loneliness.

If hell really did exist it would not be fire and brimstone. It would be the lack of heat. If would not be piles of screaming humanity. It would be empty and alone.

Stay warm my friends, and if you can throw some warmth my way once in awhile I'd be more that happy to reciprocate.

So the first thing I remember is I'm standing in the hallway banging on the door.

It's late, or early. Depending on who you ask.

I'm standing there knocking/banging and I'm standing there in boxers and black socks and a white singlet. A wife beater.

And I'm busting to take a piss. Absolutely fucking busting.

I don't know how long I was out there. I don't even know why. I just knew that I needed a toilet, or similar, fast.

I began to look around the halls for a pot plant. Something. Anything. But no luck.

Back to the door. Keep knocking. Louder.

It's started to get cold now but all i can think of is my bladder.

It's full to the brim with the remnants of the night's alcohol intake. Jack Daniels. No ice. No mixer.

I'm very rock and roll.

I rock quite hard. Which is how I found myself in that state. An evening of loud rock and roll music and copious amounts of alcohol. All the elements of a pleasant evening. Including the missing memory.

And it was a pleasant evening. Very much so. But it doesn't change the fact that I'm locked out of my hotel room in my underwear and a bladder full of booze.

Hoping, praying to a fictional deity that my room mate isn't a heavy sleeper.

The Universe speaks in many languages, but only one voice.
The language is not of any nation or race or world.

It speaks in the language of hope. It speaks in the language of trust.
It speaks in the language of strength, and the language of compassion.
It is the language of the heart and the language of the soul.
But always it is the same voice.

It is the voice of our ancestors speaking through us.
And the voice of our inheritors waiting to be born.
It is the small, still voice that says we are One.

No matter the blood, no matter the skin,
No matter the world, no matter the star,
We are One.
No matter the pain, no matter the darkness,
No matter the loss, no matter the fear.
We are One.

Here, gathered together in common cause
We agree to recognize this singular truth and this singular rule:
That we must be kind to one another.

Because each voice enriches us and ennobles us,
And each voice lost diminishes us.
We are the voice of the universe, the soul of creation,
The fire that will light the way to a better future.

We are One.

- J. Michael Straczynski

He has your number. He has your email. He knows the address of your homepage.

Your phone rings. It's not him. But apparently it would be good idea to get a new credit card.

Your inbox is full. Nothing from him. But you should be able to extend your penis length by inches.

Your homepage has new messages, new comments. Not a one from him. But every unsigned band from here to Tijuana wants to be your friend.

Did I do something? Did I scare him off? Is he okay? Maybe i should write him a letter? Just like in the olden days. But will that freak him out? Too personal? Too much? Too soon? You don't even remember if you have any stationary. Do people even write proper letters anymore?

Why won't he call? Anxiety.

Did I misinterpret something? Panic.

Could I be that blind? Fear.

Your mobile phone beeps.

Could it be? Anticipation.

You snatch at your purse. Where is it? Impatient.

Finally, it's him.

Hey hows it goin? Feel like grabbing a coffee today?

Relief. Smile. Peace.

Sure. De Franco's. 6pm

He will be mine.

What to wear? Makeup, shower, preen. How long do I make him wait?

My brain releases chemicals that trigger my fear/panic response.

I have detected a threat. Or a possible threat. Possible false-positive.

Earlier, through regular contact, my brain made the connection, grew the links, stimulated the pleasure centres, released the pheromones.
And it was good.

But now I feel sick. Tormented. Twisted.

Now I want the world to die. Just so the pain can end.

But is the threat real? Could my perception be flawed?

Yes it can, and I understand that, but it’s too late.

My brain has a mind of its own and it’s too late to change that.

Bloodstained fingerprints on your pillow.

How did those get there?

Fog. Haze. Dim.

What the fuck did I do?

Run to the mirror. Inspection.

No sores, no scars, no red. What the fuck?

You walk back to the bed and stare down at wher your head was a few minutes ago.

Fingerprints? Handprints? Who's hands?

You look down at your palms. Clean.

You measure your hands against the pattern on the pillow. Too small. Way too small.

Relief. Not my hands.

If not mine, who's?

Panic.

Fresh inspection. Hand mirror. You check. No bruises. No damage.

No rape.

You hope.

So, what the fuck?

Your mind races now. Where was I? Who was I with? What's the last thing I remember? Was I drunk? High? Sedated?

Stop. Calm down. Relax and breath.

You're alive and unscarred. You're at home.

Are you alone? Shit.

Where's that cricket bat?

Ok, bedroom is clear. Bathroom, same.

Step into the lounge. No-one. No signs of... anything. Kitchen is clear.

Front door is locked. No damage anywhere, no sign of anything.

Just some bloody prints on your pillow?

What the fuck?

Last night is... hazy.

Work 'til five. Drinks with friends. More drinks.

Pills?

Yes, pills. Definitely pills. You remember at least two, taken in the toilets. Maybe more.

You remember dancing. Throwing up at one point.

But then what?

Who can I call? Who was there? Who can I trust?

So you call the first name on your list. No luck. Doesn't remember a thing. Great minds think alike.

Second name. Saw you leave after midnight. Alone. To where? Who knows?

Third name. Dumped you in a cab at 4am with directions to the driver to take you home.


Shit.

Need clues. Need something. This is just too weird.

Alright. Bedroom. Fine-toothed-comb. Go.

Blood on pillow. Right. No-shit.

Anything else? On top, no. Underneath?

Is that a hair?

Yes. But who's is it? Mine?

No! I am definitely not a blonde.

We now have a mysterious blonde.

Not enough. Need to keep looking.

Sheets are clean. Floor is clean.

Fuck I can't do this CSI bullshit.

Ok. I know I was wasted. I know there is blood. I know at least one place I was last night.

Memory... she was wearing blue. SHE! Blonde. Blue dress.

She was wasted too. Just the way I like em. Oh fuck and she was ugly too.

And fat... fuck.

So where’d the blood come from?

You run into the bathroom. Open the bin… and there it is. Staring up at you.

Ever have that not so fresh feeling?

You see her and she's smiling
And the frown's gone from her face.
You taste the joy within her
As she puts you in your place.

She makes you wanna do it
Makes you wanna try.
She needs your hands to guide her
You want to make her high.

Take your place beside her
Take your place inside.
Take whatever she gives you
There's no reason to hide

I wanna be inside you baby
And thank you for your time.
I wanna make you pant and scream
I wanna make you mine.

It's not so much her, rather the idea of her.

But at the same time it is her.

It's her and every other her that there every was or ever will be.

Anticipation.

It's her unique and individual genetic code that marks her as one to watch. One to touch. One to be a part of.

In my mind I guess there's a an ideal image of a distant idea. It draws me near. Partly because of what's in my head but mostly because of what's in hers.

I know at some level its absurd. I know its not really real, in the way that a blade through the heart is real. But I know that I really want the thing that lies outside my grasp.

I imagine, in my mind, what it would be like to feel her skin against mine. I wonder how I would react to her embrace. What reply do you give to questions that aren't spoken?

Is it the idea that I desire, or the person? What is it exactly that drags my thoughts from the mundane to her?

I want to touch, to feel, to kiss, to hold, to lick, to suck. I want to do all the things that have played out in the theatre of my mind.

" I wish to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived… I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner…"

I want you, because to not want you would be unacceptable.

Considering that women are the only sex that has them, it seems to me that they don't really understand the tit. Well most of them.

You see tits are an amazing evolutionary development.

Beyond their more functional aspect, i.e. the suckling of young, they are tools of world domination.

Yes ladies, you have the tools at your disposal.

Some would argue that the vagina is the key, and true the vagina is vital, but the tits are key. They are what you present to the world. The simple hypnotic effect of their presence is enough to launch a thousand ships and bring them back home again.

Those two lumps of fatty tissue hanging from your chest are your gateway to ultimate power. Capped as they are by dark round points that focus the eye (and the mouth) where it needs to be.

Men are mesmerised by them. We can't help it. We've evolved as they've evolved. We just want to hold them and squeeze them and lick them and be near them.

Ladies. You can use them to rule the world because you can use them to rule men. And since men rule the world, once you control us you'd control everything.

So get 'em out girls. Don't get mad when you catch us staring. Just take control. You know you can do it. Even ugly girls can do it, such is our weakness.


Long live boobies.

Sex is so much effort.

Seriously.

I don't have the stamina for it at all.

All the heavy breathing and sweat. Honestly, I think most of the time I'd rather just squeeze her tits a little, play with her pussy (or both), get blown, blow a load all over her face (or tits), and then leave.

But even that becomes a chore when they want you to stay.

You know how grandparents are.

"Stay." "Have some tea." "Would you like a biscuit?"

Then all she wants to do is talk.

"How's work?" "How's your mother?"
"Who else are you fucking?"




"Just you grandma. Just you."

I don't have a huge dick. I think it's about average.

The thing with my dick is, it curves (or bends).

Downwards.

Growing up I remember hearing jokes about how taking a piss with a hard-on was virtually impossible. One of the worst things in the world. But it was never a problem for me. When I started watching porn I began to think I was a freak who would never get laid and women would run away screaming from my freakishly bent dick.

Well I still think that, and they do, but it doesn't bother me as much because I learnt that, yes, there are bent dicks. They bend up and left and right and yes there is a small percentage of men who have dicks that bend down.

Just like there's a small percentage of men who like to stick their dicks into livestock.

You know, I've been pretty horny in my day. I've gotten pretty aroused and desperate to empty out a load, but I have never been so horny that I would be willing to rape a sheep.

I have been so horny that I have gotten down on the floor of my shower cabin and tried to suck my own dick. Naturally I scrubbed it clean first, 'cause otherwise it would've been gross. I almost did it too. I cam close enough that I could of licked it, but that would've just been weird.

This I have done, but I have never been so horny that I've looked at a dog's arsehole and said "Yep, I'll have a go."

I have been so horny that I have masturbated in the stalls of a McDonalds toilet. But never once have I daydreamed of penetrating someone from another species.

There is, however, a small percentage of men (and women) who don't mind a bit of cross species loving. But really, how horny do you have to be to look at a sheep's arse and say "Baby, tonight I'm gonna make you mine."

Is there foreplay involved? Rimjob maybe? Or is it straight to the anal rape? Or do you have to first befriend the sheep and then shame it into not telling anyone?

You know, kinda like the priests do with the 12 year old boys.

Well let's be fair. It's not all priests. Seems to be only the Catholic ones. That's probably because they don't let them get married. The married priests, they keep the rape in the family. It's so sad that the Catholic priests have to go out and rape strangers.

But no, not all priests are rapists. I don't want you to walk away thinking that all priests are rapists. Being with, and knowing one's priest can be a wonderful and life-affirming occasion that you will always cherish and remember. I remember when I first met my priest. But then who doesn't remember losing their virginity?

And I made sure he'll always remember losing his.

Rocky Raccoon thought he was the man.
But Big Bill Bubaloo knew
That the girl and Rocky were threw.

Normal-sized Stan liked to hang out
With big nosed Dan.
And Mary enjoyed the company of Fran.

They had something of a Rainbow Connection
Their hearts flew in every direction.
Their feelings were an erection to their love and affection.

Take what is given, give what is yours
Sit on the mountains and rest on the shores.
Never will never come again

Have you ever picked up a chick (or a guy) and you've started to get into it, kissing rubbing, sucking, whatever.

It starts getting heavy and the passion starts to rise.

And then you realise that she (or he) has the same perfume that your mother or sister wears (or brother/father).

So as the scent fills your nostrils the memories start to flow back into your brain. The familiar olfactory response brings back all the memories of your youth and your childhood.

And she starts to fondle you, but now all you can think about is your sister, and you think to yourself...

"This is the best family reunion, ever."

I am officially over it. Are you?

If you're anything like me, and chances are you may be, then after you finish your day job you may occasionally head down to your local watering hole and knock back a few. Especially on a Friday evening.

That's been a fairly regular circumstance in my life of late. Friday evening drinks with the good (and not so good) folks from work. The only problem is that it's become so regular that it is now more of a chore than a fun thing to do.

The same places, the same music, the same drinks, the same people, the same quicksand.

The last three fridays I've come home feeling bummed out and depressed (and way too sober). Even before then the nights were mostly hit and miss. I mean how much fun can you have doing the same thing without the assistance of drugs and/or alcohol?

It's actually bummed me out pretty heavily. It always seems like a good idea at the time. Go have a few drinks with some friends, check out the chicks, get fucked up. Who could ask for more? Well, me, I guess.

It's not all bad though. The nights usually start off pretty decent. They just end up shitty. And I've realised, it's me. It's not my idea of a good time.
I just can't handle being out with people who just wanna listen to shitty music and talk about work. And on top of it all I see most of thise people in a daily basis, I don't really want or need to see them anymore than eight hours a day.

It could be that I'm just a bitter, twisted fuck who desperately needs to get laid. Perhaps I'm looking for love in all the wrong places. Perhaps I'm just a little whinny bitch. Probably.

Every artist needs an audience.

No one wants to paint a picture and then leave it sitting in the basement.

No musician wants to sit in their bedroom and play to the walls.

And it's not necessarily about ego, although that does play its part (for some more than others). What the artists, and indeed all people, desire is connectivity. Connecting with the rest of humanity,

Because that is what we, as human beings, really want. We want to connect with people and through our art we make those connections. Or at least try to.

"When the going gets weird the weird turn pro."
- Rauol Duke

If this statement is true, then I'm definitely an amateur. Dull is one way of describing it.

Slow is another.

Empty.

I've been reading some HST recently and I've begun asking myself a few questions. Am I part of the story, or merely an observer? Why don't I do more? Should I do more? Is it laziness? What would I do anyway?

I've always thought about this stuff, but now after working full-time for the last six months I've started to look forward. Is this the type of shit I'll be doing for the rest of my life?

I wanna turn pro. Really I do. But that's where the fear comes in.

The Fear.

No job means no money. No money means no comforts. No comforts means no porn.

Stay the course.

Apathy is THE outstanding characteristic of humanity. Apathy and fear. History records outstanding events that have led mankind to the place we are now. But what history does not record is our almost fanatical aversion to any change whatsoever. Good or bad. A pathetic, apathetic race, full of fear.

I do know that there is always a tipping point. When mine will come I can't say. I also know that for some, things don't change. I'd like to think I won't be one of those people. I'm looking for a way out and all I can see is my own apathy and fear.

Maybe it is fear. Risk minimisation. Now that has the ring of truth to it. You ask yourself what's the worst that could happen. No matter what you'll always have a place to stay (you hope). It's a lot better situation than most. But the trouble with that is that failure is always an option. And that, I think, may be my point.

Would it be that bad if I did just drop out of the whole scene? Join a band. Become a stand-up. Start doing all the drugs I've been meaning to try.

What's worse, the fear of failure or the fear of a life not worth living?

I feel the fear building inside. Sure it's nice having money in your pocket, but that can only go so far. It won't stop the fear. There's probably nothing that will ever kill it completely, but there's gotta be a way to keep it silent.

Working, as I do now, I find my life has changed in a manner that does not sit well with me. I have become, for lack of a better phrase, part of the machine.

Doubtless some of you may feel I'm exaggerating. Making an issue out of nothing. I know that at least some of you will be saying to yourselves, "Jesus-ass-raping-christ. Shut the fuck up, you fucking pussy."

Yes I know all that.

I know that simply owning more than one pair of shoes makes me better off than more than half the planet. But you know what folks, generally speaking, the rest of the planet has sweet fuck all to do with the way I live.

Human beings are selfish creatures.

When we help others it's because it makes us feel better, or puts us in people's good graces. Every motive is ultimately selfish.

"I'm being good in this life so I can have paradise in the next."

Well the only paradise is the one we create. Selfishness can work as a positive. I want friends and influence and love and sex. So I act like a good little boy and chew with my mouth shut and laugh at the boss' shitty jokes.

I open the door for you 'cause I wanna eat your pussy. I say please and thank you because I don't need any extra people pissed at me or thinking I'm an arsehole. I help the poor because... well I don't help the poor, but if I did it would be for the tax benefits and to make myself appear to be kind and stuff.

And you know what, I am kind and loving and warm. But I'm still selfish, just like all the rest of you. And in my selfishness I declare that working 9 to 5 is the fucking worst, worst thing I have ever done.

When did grown adults start acting like fucking children? Acting disgusted or offended when I use the word cunt is fucking childish.

Words have no real power in and of themselves. We give them whatever meaning or power we desire. There is no such thing as bad language. There is only language. Just like saying there is no bad weather, only weather. Good and bad are relative terms.

Our perception of a thing goes a long way toward explaining ourselves. Whether that thing is weather or language. Everything we despise about ourselves and each other was created by us and is perpetuated by us.

It's time to let go.

Let the gay folks do their thing. Let me say cunt. Let the ladies get their titties out. Let us all do magic mushrooms and see the pretty colours.
No-one's gonna get hurt. Not really. Maybe your sense of righteousness might get bruised, but you know what? Your sense of righteousness is a bunch of crap.

It's just an extension of that fictional, bullshit religion you've placed your stock and store in, and at the end of the day it means fuck all. Jesus will not save you, Allah will not protect you, G-d is as real as the tooth fairy.

All there is, is all there is. The universe is a wondrous, fantastic place. But it ain't magic. So stop acting like you know everything about how I should live my life. You cunt.

You know when you get that feeling?

You know that deep down feeling?
That one that twists your gut in a thousand directions.
And leaves you feeling like you just stepped off of some high-speed merry-go-round.
Light-headed, dazed, confused.
Mumbling incoherently under your breath.
Singing indecipherable phrases from the songs you tell your friends you've never heard.

That feeling.

You must know that feeling.
It's the one that stabs you right through the chest.
And all you can say to yourself is, "Ahhh.
That's the spot."

You know that feeling, right?

Darkness is spreading.
No recourse.
No way back.
Nothing you do can stop what's coming.
I know you feel helpless. Impotent. Lame. Deaf. Blind.
Nothing. No-one. Nowhere.
Wherever you go, whatever you try, no matter how many variations you attempt.
The result will not change.
You will not change.
Darkeness is spreading.

I love that there are women in the world who are quite happy to take their clothes off and show me their naked bodies. Not just me, mind you. Anybody who happens to click on the right webpage, or purchase the correct magazine.

The fact that often times they're getting paid does not change my feelings towards them whatsoever.

I think it's wonderful.

I know that I've spoken of the wonders of porn before. Porn is life after all. And I don't wish to repeat myself, however...

You see I was wading through a few of my regular sources today and checking out some lovely still photography. And as I was perusing the available talent it suddenly dawned on me that perhaps there is hope for this world after all. Perhaps humanity will indeed "make it".

You see the fact that there are women in the world who, despite everything they are told by their parents, their society or their religion. Despite all opposition. They still make the choice to display their beauty to the world. Even the ones who the world at large would not deem beautiful. The fatties, the trannies, the midgets, the homegirls. The ones with the scars and the missing teeth. The ones with the green hair and the horse faces.

Against everything "moral" and "decent" they take a stand and say "FUCK YOU".

And that gives me hope.

Of course there are other benefits as well. I, and millions like me, have something to empty our sacks to. The girls, as I mentioned, get paid (well most of them), and humanity makes slow steady progress toward a better, more open society.

Because, you see, freedom, real freedom, means being able to do whatever you want without restriction or control. Provided no harm is done to any third parties. Porn is the embodiment of this kind of freedom. No harm, no fear. Just humanity at its finest.

Somewhere out there, in the big wide world, they're playing music and enjoying themselves. Subscribing to lavish quantities of joyous abandon, sucking the marrow from life and pleasuring themselves and each other.

Me, on the other hand, I'm just sitting here. I sit and I type and I watch the odd movie and I think about the world and my place in it.

How does it make me feel to be here, alone, knowing that in the big wide world people are doing things and becoming better than they are?

In the big wide world there are degenerates sinking to new depths of depravity. Even the miserable ones, the dark and twisted souls, they're out there. They're doing things. Shit is getting done. It's all happening out there, in the big wide world.