Antisocial
Yup, I'm still feeling antisocial. 3rd shift helps this though - i don't really get to see anyone anyway. I'll also be out of town this weekend, Mom's B-day. I'll snap out of this slump eventually, pendulum and all.
The fruits of a conversation that lead to a reality check about phobia. I go about touting that I don't have any, and yet I realized quite plainly, I do. With the mindset that tells me phobias are really just immature and extreme emotional reaction to an otherwise rational concept - ex. A few spider bites are really bad, true. But there is really no reason to go screaming and running out of a room for every spider. That doesn't change the phobia for most people, but its how it works. Most of my remaining tid-bits of phobia revolve around failure/betrayal. Stems of Pride and Covetousness. And so, I give up these in an attempt to also be rid off a phobia that has been bothering me for some time - a fear of writing. Freewriting (10 mins. of writing whatever) has helped. Keeping a journal is an even better first step, but I think I'm going to attempt to channel this in a new direction, fiction. Incredibly short, just musings, introductions, hashing out what a character might be like - fiction. And to the friend with whom I had this conversation - thanks, and I'm a quarter through.
These two are the first bits:
There are three terrible ways to wake up. From least horrible to most they are: Sick, Hung over, and Dead. Let me explain a bit. Sick includes all those ways you can wake up and have life just suck. Not because of something you or anyone else did or caused, you just catch the shit end sometimes. It sucks, but thats what being sick is all about. After all, it's only one vowel from Suck. A hang over is slightly worse. You did it to yourself, and you probably knew better. Every time you do this you swear "It'll be the last," and it wont. Your a dumb shit just like every other upright asshole that can hold a lighter and/or a bottle. Which brings us up to the last. Dead. Okay, so you can't actually wake up dead, right? You can wake up to getting killed though.
You see it all the time in the movies. The villain guy holds impairs, disables, or otherwise incapacitates the hero, who then has the good sense to wake up just in time for a 'sure' death that some ten-year-old envisioned, and a five-year-old could escape from. Hell, you may even see the good guy sneak up behind some nameless henchman and snap the patsy's neck. That doesn't always kill, it just snaps the neck - quadriplegic for life, as good as a death sentence. Most folks don't realize though, just what is the point to a good KO outside of a fight? Demoralization.
The reality comes down to interrogation techniques. You can read that torture, or any other fucking way you like. Excluding some psycho freaks out there, the whole point is getting information. It comes down to a loss of self-control, even of one's own consciousness. You know you're doing it right when he doesn't even have a clue as to where he is or what time it might be. Some how you've given him a glimpse hope. A light at the end of the tunnel and their ticket there is information. This makes a person pliable. They'll tell you just about anything by the time the pain clears the fog, and they remember the other two times they woke up. If they have any teeth left, they'll spill the beans. When you get what you want, after employing such a technique, kill them. Yes, they need to die. Sure, you gave them hope, and now you've lied to them. You also just tortured the poor fuck! Don't draw it out, don't even let them know it was coming all along. One bullet in the head, low caliber, no mess. Welcome to a cold hard reality. Don't give someone a way to come back and haunt you. I've heard it argued that leaving them alive can send a message. Don't be stupid. If you're trying to send a message - a body does it better. Anyone remotely competent in the forensic arts can tell exactly what you did to the asshole.
Cold. A zipper. A change in pressure, temperature. An acrid smell. Distorted voices, "Fucking Ass~you... ~No, NO!! You listen to me... Fine." The void of unconsciousness.
I can't see anything, have I gone blind? I can't move my legs or feet very far, it feels like I'm zipped into something, a bag. Freezing Fuck! It's cold. It feels like I'm on a slab. It smells like formaldehyde. I'm in a morgue? They put me in a fucking drawer!?
"Oh sh--. OH SHIT! OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT!," Screaming, I lose it. I need to fucking get, and fuck an Einstein sandwich, I need out five minutes ago! I've forgotten my dream at this point. I've forgotten how I should be dead, I've forgotten the irony. Kicking and Screaming is all that I am.
The razor's edge imposes upon her jugular. A tiny abrasion opens up, a bud at the ready to bloom. The faintest whimper and a miniscule droplet of blood strokes her collar bone. A hair's width in either direction and her life would be spilt on the floor. Frozen wide eyed, the lead from her heart achingly pounds out beat after painful beat. Mascara runs down her cheeks. She sneers, "Is this how you want to go?"
"No, don't. Oh- please, Don't. No."
"Oh shut-up. You disgust me, you fucking disgust me! Such a pussy, such a cry baby. Damn-it! When will you learn I'm only joking," She pulls the razor away from her throat. The familiar choked laughter fills the room and dies out in the hallway. Once again she is alone. A reflection sighs relief, wipes the tears, leaves the blood, and walks away.
The fruits of a conversation that lead to a reality check about phobia. I go about touting that I don't have any, and yet I realized quite plainly, I do. With the mindset that tells me phobias are really just immature and extreme emotional reaction to an otherwise rational concept - ex. A few spider bites are really bad, true. But there is really no reason to go screaming and running out of a room for every spider. That doesn't change the phobia for most people, but its how it works. Most of my remaining tid-bits of phobia revolve around failure/betrayal. Stems of Pride and Covetousness. And so, I give up these in an attempt to also be rid off a phobia that has been bothering me for some time - a fear of writing. Freewriting (10 mins. of writing whatever) has helped. Keeping a journal is an even better first step, but I think I'm going to attempt to channel this in a new direction, fiction. Incredibly short, just musings, introductions, hashing out what a character might be like - fiction. And to the friend with whom I had this conversation - thanks, and I'm a quarter through.
These two are the first bits:
There are three terrible ways to wake up. From least horrible to most they are: Sick, Hung over, and Dead. Let me explain a bit. Sick includes all those ways you can wake up and have life just suck. Not because of something you or anyone else did or caused, you just catch the shit end sometimes. It sucks, but thats what being sick is all about. After all, it's only one vowel from Suck. A hang over is slightly worse. You did it to yourself, and you probably knew better. Every time you do this you swear "It'll be the last," and it wont. Your a dumb shit just like every other upright asshole that can hold a lighter and/or a bottle. Which brings us up to the last. Dead. Okay, so you can't actually wake up dead, right? You can wake up to getting killed though.
You see it all the time in the movies. The villain guy holds impairs, disables, or otherwise incapacitates the hero, who then has the good sense to wake up just in time for a 'sure' death that some ten-year-old envisioned, and a five-year-old could escape from. Hell, you may even see the good guy sneak up behind some nameless henchman and snap the patsy's neck. That doesn't always kill, it just snaps the neck - quadriplegic for life, as good as a death sentence. Most folks don't realize though, just what is the point to a good KO outside of a fight? Demoralization.
The reality comes down to interrogation techniques. You can read that torture, or any other fucking way you like. Excluding some psycho freaks out there, the whole point is getting information. It comes down to a loss of self-control, even of one's own consciousness. You know you're doing it right when he doesn't even have a clue as to where he is or what time it might be. Some how you've given him a glimpse hope. A light at the end of the tunnel and their ticket there is information. This makes a person pliable. They'll tell you just about anything by the time the pain clears the fog, and they remember the other two times they woke up. If they have any teeth left, they'll spill the beans. When you get what you want, after employing such a technique, kill them. Yes, they need to die. Sure, you gave them hope, and now you've lied to them. You also just tortured the poor fuck! Don't draw it out, don't even let them know it was coming all along. One bullet in the head, low caliber, no mess. Welcome to a cold hard reality. Don't give someone a way to come back and haunt you. I've heard it argued that leaving them alive can send a message. Don't be stupid. If you're trying to send a message - a body does it better. Anyone remotely competent in the forensic arts can tell exactly what you did to the asshole.
Cold. A zipper. A change in pressure, temperature. An acrid smell. Distorted voices, "Fucking Ass~you... ~No, NO!! You listen to me... Fine." The void of unconsciousness.
I can't see anything, have I gone blind? I can't move my legs or feet very far, it feels like I'm zipped into something, a bag. Freezing Fuck! It's cold. It feels like I'm on a slab. It smells like formaldehyde. I'm in a morgue? They put me in a fucking drawer!?
"Oh sh--. OH SHIT! OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT!," Screaming, I lose it. I need to fucking get, and fuck an Einstein sandwich, I need out five minutes ago! I've forgotten my dream at this point. I've forgotten how I should be dead, I've forgotten the irony. Kicking and Screaming is all that I am.
The razor's edge imposes upon her jugular. A tiny abrasion opens up, a bud at the ready to bloom. The faintest whimper and a miniscule droplet of blood strokes her collar bone. A hair's width in either direction and her life would be spilt on the floor. Frozen wide eyed, the lead from her heart achingly pounds out beat after painful beat. Mascara runs down her cheeks. She sneers, "Is this how you want to go?"
"No, don't. Oh- please, Don't. No."
"Oh shut-up. You disgust me, you fucking disgust me! Such a pussy, such a cry baby. Damn-it! When will you learn I'm only joking," She pulls the razor away from her throat. The familiar choked laughter fills the room and dies out in the hallway. Once again she is alone. A reflection sighs relief, wipes the tears, leaves the blood, and walks away.