end of the road?
I can read all day - but I can't write unless I feel it - and then, who for? Me? An audience? I can't write on tap. I can't do fucking essays and I'm not loathe to admit that I'm really struggling right now. I can read another language but I cannot speak it. What does that mean? What does that say about me? I knoiw girls who know a fraction of my vocab can warble away quite happily? Whats wrong with this picture? Maybe William Burroughs quote about girls and language learning in "Queer" was correct.
On a similar vein, I never learned to speak to girls. I realised that I never developed the social skills. I realise that I have a bad self image at times. I've been places and my minds been places that I'm not sure I could communicate, not sure I'd want to communicate but would feel miserable and insecure if I couldn't communicate to a certain specific non existent at the present moment and perhaps never special one. I realise that I've always had a fairly low position in social pecking orders. Sometimes I wonder if my whole view of reality is simply retarded. People tell me my observations are fairly acute about other people and social situations. I think maybe thats a reflection of a powerful social intelligence that overdeveloped because of my piss weak emotional intelligence and physical prowess. I over analyse because analysis was my only weapon. But then sometimes you need to reflect - I mean, what if your killer application ended up killing you?
I have all these thoughts and I just can't really seem to get them out. If I fancied you I'd be horrified if I was caught looking at you - yet underneath I sometimes think that truly, and honestly I don't give a shit about anyone or anything, that its drive hunger and fear of punishment.
I was meant to be giving up beer for a month. Somehow I have fruitbeer in the chiller. Why?
I hate Blair. I hate Brown. I hate Cameron. I hate Bush. I'm a civil liberatarian. I've never made my mind up about economic liberatarianism as it clashes with a certain socialism and I can never work out exactly where I stand, but man should be able to drink what he wants, fucks what he wants and should be able to resist braindead shitty labour value when it no longer has a survival. My friends, it no longer has a survival value and anyone who lives a life of power and luxury and paps on about the inherent worth and dignity of labor should be laughed at like the loon that they are. This is why I hate the whole new labour project. Pious fucking roundhead killjoy scum. Its gotta be said that just because the right wing make a point and hard, does not mean they're necessarilly wrong. I fundamentally want to spit on people who want to universalise any new morality. The government are now aiming to make public drunkeness as socially unacceptable as "smoking and drink driving". Why the war on hedonism? Robert Anton Wilson once said that "the definition of a puritan is someone, who is scared that someone, somewhere is having more fun than they are". What I do to my body is none of the states buisness. Fuck CCTV cameras, fuck DNA databases, didn't vote for any of this, fuck ID cards, no-one was consulted, no-one voted for any of this. I think I may have to leave my society. Lobotomised and castrated blitzvurped fuckwits in their McJobs all going home, fucking their adonine partners with kitemarked condoms and drinking herbal tea. No more working class. No more middle class. A 24/7 1984 Brave New World internet super high super marionette bondage show with no visible sadism and a nation of masochists. Islington uber alles.
OK that was a little scattershot. I don't like my lack of progress. I don't like my making the same fucking mistakes I always made. I hate the way my civilisations going. New labour continued Thatchers legacy and we're definitely a less free nation than we were ten years ago. And 9/11 was a fucking smoke screen whatever its underlying reality. I've just been so depressed and angry, even by usual standards as of late.
If I don't get my shit together and fast I'm in real trouble - I can't afford to go under. I've wasted too much time already.
Would a little love and sex make it better? - Probably not?
I don't understand. I don't understand. I'm a fucking alien.
What would Henry Miller do? Run away to Paris and talk dirty?
None of this changes a single thing.
Dear diary (sic) do I talk to you, or at you or through you?
On a similar vein, I never learned to speak to girls. I realised that I never developed the social skills. I realise that I have a bad self image at times. I've been places and my minds been places that I'm not sure I could communicate, not sure I'd want to communicate but would feel miserable and insecure if I couldn't communicate to a certain specific non existent at the present moment and perhaps never special one. I realise that I've always had a fairly low position in social pecking orders. Sometimes I wonder if my whole view of reality is simply retarded. People tell me my observations are fairly acute about other people and social situations. I think maybe thats a reflection of a powerful social intelligence that overdeveloped because of my piss weak emotional intelligence and physical prowess. I over analyse because analysis was my only weapon. But then sometimes you need to reflect - I mean, what if your killer application ended up killing you?
I have all these thoughts and I just can't really seem to get them out. If I fancied you I'd be horrified if I was caught looking at you - yet underneath I sometimes think that truly, and honestly I don't give a shit about anyone or anything, that its drive hunger and fear of punishment.
I was meant to be giving up beer for a month. Somehow I have fruitbeer in the chiller. Why?
I hate Blair. I hate Brown. I hate Cameron. I hate Bush. I'm a civil liberatarian. I've never made my mind up about economic liberatarianism as it clashes with a certain socialism and I can never work out exactly where I stand, but man should be able to drink what he wants, fucks what he wants and should be able to resist braindead shitty labour value when it no longer has a survival. My friends, it no longer has a survival value and anyone who lives a life of power and luxury and paps on about the inherent worth and dignity of labor should be laughed at like the loon that they are. This is why I hate the whole new labour project. Pious fucking roundhead killjoy scum. Its gotta be said that just because the right wing make a point and hard, does not mean they're necessarilly wrong. I fundamentally want to spit on people who want to universalise any new morality. The government are now aiming to make public drunkeness as socially unacceptable as "smoking and drink driving". Why the war on hedonism? Robert Anton Wilson once said that "the definition of a puritan is someone, who is scared that someone, somewhere is having more fun than they are". What I do to my body is none of the states buisness. Fuck CCTV cameras, fuck DNA databases, didn't vote for any of this, fuck ID cards, no-one was consulted, no-one voted for any of this. I think I may have to leave my society. Lobotomised and castrated blitzvurped fuckwits in their McJobs all going home, fucking their adonine partners with kitemarked condoms and drinking herbal tea. No more working class. No more middle class. A 24/7 1984 Brave New World internet super high super marionette bondage show with no visible sadism and a nation of masochists. Islington uber alles.
OK that was a little scattershot. I don't like my lack of progress. I don't like my making the same fucking mistakes I always made. I hate the way my civilisations going. New labour continued Thatchers legacy and we're definitely a less free nation than we were ten years ago. And 9/11 was a fucking smoke screen whatever its underlying reality. I've just been so depressed and angry, even by usual standards as of late.
If I don't get my shit together and fast I'm in real trouble - I can't afford to go under. I've wasted too much time already.
Would a little love and sex make it better? - Probably not?
I don't understand. I don't understand. I'm a fucking alien.
What would Henry Miller do? Run away to Paris and talk dirty?
None of this changes a single thing.
Dear diary (sic) do I talk to you, or at you or through you?