(no subject)
I spent the 4th of July tirelessly working on crossword puzzles. Although a good percentage of my "friends" began to suspect my insanity, I must say that I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Of course, a homicidal sociopath probably enjoys killing his victims as well, so I suppose that isn't saying very much. Being engaged in word puzzles does have its advantages. It makes it surprisingly easy to be anti-social at such sparkling social shindigs.
On another note, I was contently napping yesterday afternoon, pleasantly engaged in a light slumber and having stupendous visions of awe-inspiring merit when i was awakened by a phone call. Upon answering the phone (after falling out of bed, finding that I was helplessly tangled in linens, and dragging myself halfway across the room), I found that my aggravator was none other than my one (un)true love, Patrick. Why why why would he ever so painfully pull me from the phenomenal pleasures of my psyche? That questioned remains unanswered at this time, but one thing is certain: I wish I had ignored the dissonant ringing of my phone. Patrick arrived at my doorstep wrapped up like a package containing some sort of delicious surprise on Christmas morning. I quickly unwrapped him, but finding nothing of interest, carefully re-taped the wrapping and sent him to the return address on the card. Or perhaps this was still part of my dream. Well, whatever actually happened (or didn't happen) is of no matter. We found ourselves at the local cineplex, watching Michael Moore's latest theatrical disgrace. I impassively observed him taunt, tease, and torment the bush administrations in ways that only an avoirdupois monstrosity of his size can. I stolidly watched him sneer scornfully, spitting venomous sarcasm at the senate and all other sectarian stand-pats. And then, his film, if you could call it that, turned to the Iraqis. And suddenly, the screen was filled with death. Innocent children, amputated, burned, dying, dead. Children wetting themselves, shitting themselves, screaming, crying, suffering. And mothers, grandmothers, on their knees, weeping, calling out to allah, having nothing to live for after losing their sons, daughters, husbands, and brothers. Innocents. A slaughtering of innocence. At that point I left the theatre, locked myself in a stall, and sobbed hysterically. Never in my life have I witnessed genocide, though I was aware of its existence all my life. But to see death, unnecessary death, and the death of children. Fucking five-year-olds missing their arm, or their head. It made me want to die. Is it possible, to see such things, and actually live? To know that such suffering exists in the world, that we allow such suffering to exist, has forced me to conclude that I don't want to live in this world. And an infinite number of cars, clothes, or ipods couldn't do a damn thing to change my mind.
On another note, I was contently napping yesterday afternoon, pleasantly engaged in a light slumber and having stupendous visions of awe-inspiring merit when i was awakened by a phone call. Upon answering the phone (after falling out of bed, finding that I was helplessly tangled in linens, and dragging myself halfway across the room), I found that my aggravator was none other than my one (un)true love, Patrick. Why why why would he ever so painfully pull me from the phenomenal pleasures of my psyche? That questioned remains unanswered at this time, but one thing is certain: I wish I had ignored the dissonant ringing of my phone. Patrick arrived at my doorstep wrapped up like a package containing some sort of delicious surprise on Christmas morning. I quickly unwrapped him, but finding nothing of interest, carefully re-taped the wrapping and sent him to the return address on the card. Or perhaps this was still part of my dream. Well, whatever actually happened (or didn't happen) is of no matter. We found ourselves at the local cineplex, watching Michael Moore's latest theatrical disgrace. I impassively observed him taunt, tease, and torment the bush administrations in ways that only an avoirdupois monstrosity of his size can. I stolidly watched him sneer scornfully, spitting venomous sarcasm at the senate and all other sectarian stand-pats. And then, his film, if you could call it that, turned to the Iraqis. And suddenly, the screen was filled with death. Innocent children, amputated, burned, dying, dead. Children wetting themselves, shitting themselves, screaming, crying, suffering. And mothers, grandmothers, on their knees, weeping, calling out to allah, having nothing to live for after losing their sons, daughters, husbands, and brothers. Innocents. A slaughtering of innocence. At that point I left the theatre, locked myself in a stall, and sobbed hysterically. Never in my life have I witnessed genocide, though I was aware of its existence all my life. But to see death, unnecessary death, and the death of children. Fucking five-year-olds missing their arm, or their head. It made me want to die. Is it possible, to see such things, and actually live? To know that such suffering exists in the world, that we allow such suffering to exist, has forced me to conclude that I don't want to live in this world. And an infinite number of cars, clothes, or ipods couldn't do a damn thing to change my mind.