Polygon solution

So I waited at the Rez...

till I snapped, and said, "fuck it"...
I've got paddywhack at home
for whatever that's worth
it's just me, living with myself
minus the social scene - but it's the plain vanilla drug
ugh, i can't even get off on that anymore
nothing floats my boat.

I'm angry tonight, but I got no outlet. My girlfriend. She's no longer my girlfriend. Out fucking when she can. Well who can resist? Well, what's new? She fucked around when we were together anyway. I've got to learn to accept it. I'm trying. Part of me still clings to the concept of fidelity like static electricity. Nothing but idiocy.

There is a difference. She felt more guilt then. Less now. But still some. I guess that touches my heart, somewhere in that fucking cholestoral clogged mess. The BAD kind of cholesterol. The kind never touched by McCain Superfries. There's still SOME guilt.

LET'S ALL SING THE NECESSARY EVIL SONG!
NO PAIN NO GAIN! IN THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS!

I'm not a hustler. Nor a go getter. Negative. The firm baseline of reality. That I make for me. Isn't it so laid bare? Good. That's what this is for. I make no apologies. This is my blog, I write for me. Honesty. Let the reader beware.

Don't fucking fish for metaphors. I'm just trying to lay it out, no bullshit.

Destruction. Isn't it strange, what the products of AFFIRMATION MODE can produce? How sharp the ends can be? Weapons, even when they aren't intended as such. If I was smart, or wise, or whatever the fuck, I would realize everything is context specific. And I do. But where does that get me NOW? NOWHERE!

Goddamnit, where are my weapons? Where are my victims? I've long since past those times, when the only solution to aggrievement was murderous delusion. Yeah, you could have been a victim, but that's only intellectual wankery in a blood soaked aesthetic. You aren't, so enjoy your life.

Just fast forward, I think. We feel the temptation. To finish. But somehow, the Best of All Possible Worlds didn't intend us to have our fingers on the controls. Yet. This is just a node. A vertice. A pathetic limp wristed vertex. I won't edit a thing. No. I will. I probably will. GODDAMNIT! I'll cut it up.

What fucking good is reigning it in? What good does that do me? Does it give me a good credit rating? Does it make me the PERFECT TENANT? Guess what? I don't have a pussy for you to fuck... but aside from that obvious fact... I'm pretty clean, and I pay my rent on time.

Funny, I got called a slut tonight. Hilarious. Don't pin your insecurities on me. I never called you anything. Oh hell yeah, I called you that in my mind, when I was packing bread, and I had nothing else to do. When you follow a standard chain of thought through its every permutation of fractal societal cliche, you get to that eventually - just going through the motions. The solution to polygons. You polygonal slut. Not that that means much to me. Whatever floats your boat, nevermind what it does to my pathetic inconsequential emotions. I really do mean that, it's just that I'm not ACTUALLY detached. So I'm sarcastic, but sincere.

But don't fucking milk me for sympathy tonight. Oh you did. Oh but fuck that, I'm no saint. I'll just lie lie lie on the sand dunes... lie lie lie some more. Far far away from the trees. Far far away. Lie some more.

The candyman Can. It doesn't mean ANYTHING. To call me by that name. Farewell to the flesh? The swan song's still playing. Nerve endings seem endless. Just a hilarious hopping one-legged dance for the incompletion of closure. A war-amp hop-skotch totenanz. I wonder how many of these lines I'll use for my Carnegie Hall recital. Probably none. Because it's just another node. Another chode in the wall, as I laughed my ass off tonight. At least there was something.

Now, GO, my unholy army of the night. KILL!

Someone's got to do it, I'm no longer the revolutionary. I'm acid burnout Charlie Manson, recruiting an army for the entertainment, even if I don't know the lyrics to helter skelter, even if this analogy was dead before it was born. Ugh, prepositional abortions. AGH! Dextromethorphan gnosis for 200 Alex! Just don't man-in-black my street-song, cause you can never tell who is posting from an internet cafe. Fade out again.