Barbie evolved into Malibu Stacy. Malibu Stacy evolved into Lisa Lionheart. That's not nothing, that's an upgrade. Forgetting your troubles with a big bowl of strawberry ice cream turned into platitudes about believing in yourself and you can achieve anything. Conviction became a convict, chained cultist to the god of Belief. Lisa Lionheart became Ashley II, played by Miley Cyrus. That's not nothing. It's not Coke 2. But it's certainly not Coca Cola Classic. It has no real cocaine in it. It's just a cola. Not even a Pina Colada, no tequila, nothing but cola.
Winter's coming. Such as it is, anymore. These days, these crazy days. The yield curve is looking bad. I feel fine, but R.E.M. is not my jam, not at this time. All the wrong people die. I want to see more Epsteins, a scummy life reduced to an encouraged suicide, die shrieking, never understanding anything except a self-justifying warped morality. A few thousand of those is not too much to ask for. There's honour in sepuku. Do it, and don't give your money to your kids. We'll come for them if you try.
Achieve anything. That's your trophy. For achieving so hard, over-achieving, even - see the sullen derivative bass player? She's doing nothing new, achieving nothing. But in the future, everyone is over-achieving. Everybody learned to code. Everybody got a trophy. They're worth nothing, we need desalinated water, can't buy it with bitcoin or trophies.
References: zelda theme [koji kondo], crimson and clover [tommy james and the shondells], eriatarka [the mars volta], stonecutters episode [the simpsons], part of your world [the little mermaid]
8/21/19
8/19/19
8/15/19
You're a vessel for sickness, you pay it forward, perpetuate. The little girl isn't worth saving, she's beyond salvage, innocent kool-aid drinker, no need for no acid test, skip straight to poison. Paper over your sickness with a red eye patch. Strawberry ice cream color. Doesn't it make you feel good? It's all about you. Your pleasure is my own. Am I being sarcastic? I don't even know anymore. Irony though, that's always operational. Operational exhaustion, battle fatigue, well beyond the days of shell shock, there's no poetic way to describe it, just algorithms.
It'll take another global cataclysm closer to home to kill irony again. What will another season of dead irony dread feel like these days? In these times, I guess they'll be different times. At least I won't be quite as alone, I'll have an epic bacon win reason to live. Actually, a much better flavour than that.
I look like a pirate... Manic giggle. The red dead redemption mission where you get to kill KKK guys and not lose any honour points, there's much to be gained. The dread pirate Janine, red in deeds, so pink in countenance, bloody in words, a hot mess, dumpster fire. So fucked up. Can't turn away.
The apocalypse was always coming, I was always obsessed. Twas ever thus, I heard a chant that soothed me enough to feel like I could spin off the wheel of life and death for a playlet, aesthetically pleasing, elegant like an attractive equation.
It'll take another global cataclysm closer to home to kill irony again. What will another season of dead irony dread feel like these days? In these times, I guess they'll be different times. At least I won't be quite as alone, I'll have an epic bacon win reason to live. Actually, a much better flavour than that.
I look like a pirate... Manic giggle. The red dead redemption mission where you get to kill KKK guys and not lose any honour points, there's much to be gained. The dread pirate Janine, red in deeds, so pink in countenance, bloody in words, a hot mess, dumpster fire. So fucked up. Can't turn away.
The apocalypse was always coming, I was always obsessed. Twas ever thus, I heard a chant that soothed me enough to feel like I could spin off the wheel of life and death for a playlet, aesthetically pleasing, elegant like an attractive equation.
8/13/19
smells like heroism
after all this chaos and irony, the notion of a hero, is this when the dumb is sublime? i guess so
you can think what you want - which you know... so....
you can think what you want - which you know... so....
8/09/19
tell me what to do, Q
Runon hypotheses ripple corners of my media, bits of other's dementia, here comes everybody. Pretentious references an emergent property of social applications I'm platformed into since allowing my phone's location. Society is a tightening cortex, more a crystal protomolecule, malign. Mass psychology's devising a suite of new virii for reasons unknown, you know? Good enough for me to worship blindly.
Maybe I won't send this to that person but instead bask in being a low-promoter, the modest mouse. I might as well have a thick band of red cloth fastened across my mouth with a leather knot at the back, tight as the ruling elite - it's their centennial year without a class traitor, they're having a Mary Antoinette-themed ball at the national mall to celebrate, they're even above irony, it's passe, doesn't matter, how you say? A certain je ne sais quois.
Meanwhile, Q anoners keep above the expanding rustpile of ennui like a Cadillac Escalade bouncing above crunching metal roofs. They're waiting... waiting for a wily moron, a guy that'll believe anything but somehow keeps winning a silly game, congratulations chosen one, another strike, you bowled a three hundred again, amazing, how do you do it? Can someone get Penn and Teller on that?
Inherited wealth from a white collar criminal of Fred's status will go a long way, will beat whatever remained of an american spirit, and ironically, beat that spirit with its own platitudes, to the pathetic but long-backgroundized sight of a battered woman singing about her man in Atlantic City, such a sweet voice, some guys get off on that, real connoisseurs. The son's done a sloppy job with the Legacy, but still got the job done in a bumbling kinda way, knows enough to grease the worst oligarchs, the house of Saud kinda scum, the ones with the off-blue blood, so damaged from hypoxia bubbles, every family who excretes indiscreetly in literal throne rooms. Junior bragged about palling around with the mafia, just one of the pallies, no one gets away with asking him to get his shinebox ever again. One of the better WWF characters. Wrestling is real, turns out. Much like the distinguished Legacy of the most recent serious elder-statesman of the Grand Old Party of presidents got the Nickolodean treatment [remember the aughts?] by the born-again fail-son Yale-man with the Gentleman's C - but he got the job done, made a far higher pile of dead arabs than either the elder republican managed or the current one has yet.
That Fred-class money, turns out, lets the son turn your world, now his world cause we all have to live in his world, into his private episode of that Twilight Zone with the omnipotent child who can make reality. Low cunning gets the job done, who's the real idiot? It's that drive to rich idiocy - the power it yields and perpetuates is akin to a fusion reactor built by Boeing, its only currency is that it's backed by racks of offensive nukes, cause a Boeing weapons system wouldn't work in a combat situation where battlefield credulity had to be established, its only purpose is to cost lots and lots and lots and lots of money, everyone's money. That's why you can't take a first strike off the table, they'll remind you on CNN or any other major network, the only difference is the military contractor, can't remember which is the Raytheon News and which one's Lockheed Martin Times.
Maybe they'll win but maybe it's gone too far, no option left but to rage, damn the blood. Now I sound like them, the rage made me do it, I had no choice. Rage as a word is impotent as words usually are, a thing to type, laying it out on the table, the floppy cock of rage.
Doing is theory, I never did anything that spilled blood, that's good, right? But if the whites keep crying genocide, it's tempting to give them a taste of the real thing. Or more reasonably, restrict their ability to spark one with a hundred slug drum under the gun. Oh, is that inconvenient for their dumb hobby? Does that chafe their beloved delusional libertarian fantasy, owners' so small-dicked their tricked-out long-gun redeems their man cards? Ammosexuals are so stupid, Zarathustra's laughing. Hey, we can always still play Black Ops on xbox, the guns are cool and look real, they haven't banned videogames, they might try, lobbyists protecting hobbyists' right to buy culturally significant killing machines, deflect and say games are to blame, but they haven't yet so how about this compromise? Game guns! The pentagon is just a bigger, dumber, version of it. Useless expensive over-complicated weapons are cool and fun. I know, this is kinda boiler plate, warmed over, cold take.
I know they want a race war. I wouldn't really help that dumb dream. I'm not gonna lie though, after all these targeted shootings I would get some enjoyment seeing a body count begin to build on the other side, finally, cause prestige TV serials are not cutting it, they're fairy tales. There are sides, I'm not gonna say I'm in the middle and pretend the centrists are not themselves a side that is appeasing if not collaborating with nazi scum. Like when those people chanted the annoying british troll out of the new york bar. You don't have to be some kind of crazy left extremist to fight for decency, I mean dirtbag decency, the kind of decency that any dirtbag can practice, the humble but arrogant decency of your own royalty in solidarity with others who are sick of the stench of human trash, the royal we as opposed to a mediocre middle. In some ways I'm a man of the people, despite lacking cred in trash taste and a little too vain in eschewing superficial vanity, I don't like elites, I can mistrust 'em with the best of them, I don't wanna be no serf, but I guess everyone's into that these days, idiots...
And just like that, we're back to human trash, although I'm talking about a specific human, not a large group, but it gets dangerous again, thinking I can identify the worst one percent. Let's say I'm taking a break from self-loathing, oh that's always running in the background like one of ms window's superfluous processes, but setting real-time priority to the task of loathing the really loathsome I hear about, the ripples in my media - deciding to believe, at age 37, that I can extrapolate from my tailored screens, to reality, thinking I'm not in the algorithm. It's mushy in the algorithm. It gets muddy here folks, when you're trying to be so serious, and sounding shockingly extreme to yourself, knowing a quick search for hypocrisy would turn up a thousand hits in a microsecond. But I'm on the anti-fascist side. You could call me antifa, even, although I don't deserve the title, I've never so much as been at a protest, they're so gauche, but voidbless those loud cringeworthy goofs that do it.
I would get some enjoyment from points on the board, scores beyond the pedestrian spectacle of a brownshirt punched by a blackbloc, I mean confirmed kills I can appropriate like runs from a fanatically-beloved sportsball team.
But it's sick, sick, sick.... to wish for that. I can see the sickness, not give the sickness a gun to play with. "We've got to play", the men's circle said, there's even a chakra angle to it, buddhists can kill rohingyas now, it's cool, it's backwards compatible, it's a 510 thread, vape cannabinoid oil while you're killing the enemy, the parasites, I can see how rage can live in me and my life has still been pretty comfortable most of the time, materially.
Thank whatever sorry excuse for a God exists in this universe... for love, I'm in love, that can keep a man from rage, I met an angel, we like each other, and crucially, love each other, no need for lawyers tricks. For that love, let's get specific, for her love, her scent, our oxytocin. I should say your love I guess, and make this a letter rather than a blog post, cause, gross, who wants to read that besides me and her? But this is my new style, unapologetic wanking, yeah, so novel right? And I guess I did kinda apologize just now, indirectly. Where would language be without lawyers tricks?
I'm not interested in races anyway, really. What I feel like waging war against is an undead network of chauvinists, bleached of morality. I'm not talking Caucasians, although anyone who calls themselves Aryan is probably one of them. I'm sure there's a few catch-22s here. I know some personal benefits do trickle down to me from this network. It's personal but it's not. My business is their chintzy business, a bunch of philistines preaching "culture", selling books, raking it in, whining about taxes, please build your space ark Bezos, take the rancid offspring of Falwell and Billy Graham with you, take Jake Tapper with you, get the fuck out of the way, heaven is a place on earth.
Respect for TYT and people like them, I'm not above that, not too cool for it, I dream about it for CHRISSAKES, dreams where I'm a guest on my favorite podcast with my fraaaaaands! 🙄
My dreams are the best when I'm a god on the fretboard, running the board, a six string ninja, getting away with murder. Not the best when I'm choking on my fluky fling as this version of myself that the Chapo collective dirtbag noun somehow knows, lethally embarrassing, maybe someday I'll be on that tier, like how every musician really wants to be a comedian with intellectual acumen. But really, if I'm not too cool for it, why will I reference a youtube channel I like but not link to it? Cause.... argh, it's so gauche, such a guilty pleasure, how good it feels to feel right, right on, righteous babeeee! I'm not too cool to get all stupidly fussy about looking gauche, keeping up with the non-gauche joneses who exist only in my mind, they're neighbors to Chuck Schumer's Baileys - they have to know that I know that channel is pretty hacky a lot of the time.
But it's my participatory daily show on crack, a better drug than the substances I was taking at least... They're doing what they can, trying to take their country back. Justice Democrats, haha, like Q except real! Re-purpose the burned-out chassis of the party and make the boomer conspiracy junkies eat shit. You can pry the gun I don't have from my cold dead hands. Just stop voting you fucks, if you won't have the decency to die. I can say this cause I got an American girlfriend. For my part, I gotta make a deal when it gets diplomatic in the complicated future and agree to perform espionage at extreme risk for the safety of our child.
Scratch the child part of course, let's thin the generations in gestation after the toxic gens have been overpowered, empower the inheritors of collapse and ruins, then phase ourselves out with modest natural lifespans, find the CEOS who escaped to islands and bunkers, hunt them down and kill them, humanely, don't even give them the operation paperclip treatment, we've got our own eggheads who can begin fixing the mess. Oh, it's all our mess, let's not get delusional with deflected blame, but the self-described elites are vastly more proportionately responsible, you don't get to weasel out of the bill collection, not this time, it's catching up with you fucks, you can't drink it away, can't fuck it away, can't meditate it away, can't AA it away, can't AI it away, we'll catch up with you before your artificial intelligence does, it's my mission to prevent your singularity. I have no control worth talking about though, things could just as easily as not end up with a de-torsoed Lincoln statue, like an alternate ending to a Planet of the Apes movie that still doesn't make any sense, except with a homemade algorithm.
Manifestos are a cheap vehicle, often fueled by amphetamine, a lemon, won't start, will only start a puddle of blood on the floor of another mass-killing. There's mass insanity and guns, it's getting worse, the insanity boosts the gun sales, break your back trying to save capitalism if you want, I've got better things to do, I'd expend about as much energy on that as I would rehabilitating the public relations of Jeffery Epstein, and that's even if I was getting Alan Dershowitz-sized fees wired to me, with about as much enthusiasm
No wonder fentanyl is sweeping through the guiltier and guiltier ranks of relatively privileged miserable pricks like a cleansing rain, like what all hateful psychos say about their enemies, like a randomly chosen Alex Jones rant except typed on a blog post, not with Vitamin Force Brain Power powder-money-enabled sets and mics and production values. Valuable, like a form of entertainment on a commute, not that much less similar to a morning with Howard Stern.
Fuck your tattoo, oh yes, fuck your tattoo, take it to the singularity, that's where I'm taking my rage, let's pray it never takes. Meanwhile, alternate-universe James Hetfield wins Taco Bell employee of the month award for March 2006.
Maybe I won't send this to that person but instead bask in being a low-promoter, the modest mouse. I might as well have a thick band of red cloth fastened across my mouth with a leather knot at the back, tight as the ruling elite - it's their centennial year without a class traitor, they're having a Mary Antoinette-themed ball at the national mall to celebrate, they're even above irony, it's passe, doesn't matter, how you say? A certain je ne sais quois.
Meanwhile, Q anoners keep above the expanding rustpile of ennui like a Cadillac Escalade bouncing above crunching metal roofs. They're waiting... waiting for a wily moron, a guy that'll believe anything but somehow keeps winning a silly game, congratulations chosen one, another strike, you bowled a three hundred again, amazing, how do you do it? Can someone get Penn and Teller on that?
Inherited wealth from a white collar criminal of Fred's status will go a long way, will beat whatever remained of an american spirit, and ironically, beat that spirit with its own platitudes, to the pathetic but long-backgroundized sight of a battered woman singing about her man in Atlantic City, such a sweet voice, some guys get off on that, real connoisseurs. The son's done a sloppy job with the Legacy, but still got the job done in a bumbling kinda way, knows enough to grease the worst oligarchs, the house of Saud kinda scum, the ones with the off-blue blood, so damaged from hypoxia bubbles, every family who excretes indiscreetly in literal throne rooms. Junior bragged about palling around with the mafia, just one of the pallies, no one gets away with asking him to get his shinebox ever again. One of the better WWF characters. Wrestling is real, turns out. Much like the distinguished Legacy of the most recent serious elder-statesman of the Grand Old Party of presidents got the Nickolodean treatment [remember the aughts?] by the born-again fail-son Yale-man with the Gentleman's C - but he got the job done, made a far higher pile of dead arabs than either the elder republican managed or the current one has yet.
That Fred-class money, turns out, lets the son turn your world, now his world cause we all have to live in his world, into his private episode of that Twilight Zone with the omnipotent child who can make reality. Low cunning gets the job done, who's the real idiot? It's that drive to rich idiocy - the power it yields and perpetuates is akin to a fusion reactor built by Boeing, its only currency is that it's backed by racks of offensive nukes, cause a Boeing weapons system wouldn't work in a combat situation where battlefield credulity had to be established, its only purpose is to cost lots and lots and lots and lots of money, everyone's money. That's why you can't take a first strike off the table, they'll remind you on CNN or any other major network, the only difference is the military contractor, can't remember which is the Raytheon News and which one's Lockheed Martin Times.
Maybe they'll win but maybe it's gone too far, no option left but to rage, damn the blood. Now I sound like them, the rage made me do it, I had no choice. Rage as a word is impotent as words usually are, a thing to type, laying it out on the table, the floppy cock of rage.
Doing is theory, I never did anything that spilled blood, that's good, right? But if the whites keep crying genocide, it's tempting to give them a taste of the real thing. Or more reasonably, restrict their ability to spark one with a hundred slug drum under the gun. Oh, is that inconvenient for their dumb hobby? Does that chafe their beloved delusional libertarian fantasy, owners' so small-dicked their tricked-out long-gun redeems their man cards? Ammosexuals are so stupid, Zarathustra's laughing. Hey, we can always still play Black Ops on xbox, the guns are cool and look real, they haven't banned videogames, they might try, lobbyists protecting hobbyists' right to buy culturally significant killing machines, deflect and say games are to blame, but they haven't yet so how about this compromise? Game guns! The pentagon is just a bigger, dumber, version of it. Useless expensive over-complicated weapons are cool and fun. I know, this is kinda boiler plate, warmed over, cold take.
I know they want a race war. I wouldn't really help that dumb dream. I'm not gonna lie though, after all these targeted shootings I would get some enjoyment seeing a body count begin to build on the other side, finally, cause prestige TV serials are not cutting it, they're fairy tales. There are sides, I'm not gonna say I'm in the middle and pretend the centrists are not themselves a side that is appeasing if not collaborating with nazi scum. Like when those people chanted the annoying british troll out of the new york bar. You don't have to be some kind of crazy left extremist to fight for decency, I mean dirtbag decency, the kind of decency that any dirtbag can practice, the humble but arrogant decency of your own royalty in solidarity with others who are sick of the stench of human trash, the royal we as opposed to a mediocre middle. In some ways I'm a man of the people, despite lacking cred in trash taste and a little too vain in eschewing superficial vanity, I don't like elites, I can mistrust 'em with the best of them, I don't wanna be no serf, but I guess everyone's into that these days, idiots...
And just like that, we're back to human trash, although I'm talking about a specific human, not a large group, but it gets dangerous again, thinking I can identify the worst one percent. Let's say I'm taking a break from self-loathing, oh that's always running in the background like one of ms window's superfluous processes, but setting real-time priority to the task of loathing the really loathsome I hear about, the ripples in my media - deciding to believe, at age 37, that I can extrapolate from my tailored screens, to reality, thinking I'm not in the algorithm. It's mushy in the algorithm. It gets muddy here folks, when you're trying to be so serious, and sounding shockingly extreme to yourself, knowing a quick search for hypocrisy would turn up a thousand hits in a microsecond. But I'm on the anti-fascist side. You could call me antifa, even, although I don't deserve the title, I've never so much as been at a protest, they're so gauche, but voidbless those loud cringeworthy goofs that do it.
I would get some enjoyment from points on the board, scores beyond the pedestrian spectacle of a brownshirt punched by a blackbloc, I mean confirmed kills I can appropriate like runs from a fanatically-beloved sportsball team.
But it's sick, sick, sick.... to wish for that. I can see the sickness, not give the sickness a gun to play with. "We've got to play", the men's circle said, there's even a chakra angle to it, buddhists can kill rohingyas now, it's cool, it's backwards compatible, it's a 510 thread, vape cannabinoid oil while you're killing the enemy, the parasites, I can see how rage can live in me and my life has still been pretty comfortable most of the time, materially.
Thank whatever sorry excuse for a God exists in this universe... for love, I'm in love, that can keep a man from rage, I met an angel, we like each other, and crucially, love each other, no need for lawyers tricks. For that love, let's get specific, for her love, her scent, our oxytocin. I should say your love I guess, and make this a letter rather than a blog post, cause, gross, who wants to read that besides me and her? But this is my new style, unapologetic wanking, yeah, so novel right? And I guess I did kinda apologize just now, indirectly. Where would language be without lawyers tricks?
I'm not interested in races anyway, really. What I feel like waging war against is an undead network of chauvinists, bleached of morality. I'm not talking Caucasians, although anyone who calls themselves Aryan is probably one of them. I'm sure there's a few catch-22s here. I know some personal benefits do trickle down to me from this network. It's personal but it's not. My business is their chintzy business, a bunch of philistines preaching "culture", selling books, raking it in, whining about taxes, please build your space ark Bezos, take the rancid offspring of Falwell and Billy Graham with you, take Jake Tapper with you, get the fuck out of the way, heaven is a place on earth.
Respect for TYT and people like them, I'm not above that, not too cool for it, I dream about it for CHRISSAKES, dreams where I'm a guest on my favorite podcast with my fraaaaaands! 🙄
My dreams are the best when I'm a god on the fretboard, running the board, a six string ninja, getting away with murder. Not the best when I'm choking on my fluky fling as this version of myself that the Chapo collective dirtbag noun somehow knows, lethally embarrassing, maybe someday I'll be on that tier, like how every musician really wants to be a comedian with intellectual acumen. But really, if I'm not too cool for it, why will I reference a youtube channel I like but not link to it? Cause.... argh, it's so gauche, such a guilty pleasure, how good it feels to feel right, right on, righteous babeeee! I'm not too cool to get all stupidly fussy about looking gauche, keeping up with the non-gauche joneses who exist only in my mind, they're neighbors to Chuck Schumer's Baileys - they have to know that I know that channel is pretty hacky a lot of the time.
Scratch the child part of course, let's thin the generations in gestation after the toxic gens have been overpowered, empower the inheritors of collapse and ruins, then phase ourselves out with modest natural lifespans, find the CEOS who escaped to islands and bunkers, hunt them down and kill them, humanely, don't even give them the operation paperclip treatment, we've got our own eggheads who can begin fixing the mess. Oh, it's all our mess, let's not get delusional with deflected blame, but the self-described elites are vastly more proportionately responsible, you don't get to weasel out of the bill collection, not this time, it's catching up with you fucks, you can't drink it away, can't fuck it away, can't meditate it away, can't AA it away, can't AI it away, we'll catch up with you before your artificial intelligence does, it's my mission to prevent your singularity. I have no control worth talking about though, things could just as easily as not end up with a de-torsoed Lincoln statue, like an alternate ending to a Planet of the Apes movie that still doesn't make any sense, except with a homemade algorithm.
Manifestos are a cheap vehicle, often fueled by amphetamine, a lemon, won't start, will only start a puddle of blood on the floor of another mass-killing. There's mass insanity and guns, it's getting worse, the insanity boosts the gun sales, break your back trying to save capitalism if you want, I've got better things to do, I'd expend about as much energy on that as I would rehabilitating the public relations of Jeffery Epstein, and that's even if I was getting Alan Dershowitz-sized fees wired to me, with about as much enthusiasm
No wonder fentanyl is sweeping through the guiltier and guiltier ranks of relatively privileged miserable pricks like a cleansing rain, like what all hateful psychos say about their enemies, like a randomly chosen Alex Jones rant except typed on a blog post, not with Vitamin Force Brain Power powder-money-enabled sets and mics and production values. Valuable, like a form of entertainment on a commute, not that much less similar to a morning with Howard Stern.
Fuck your tattoo, oh yes, fuck your tattoo, take it to the singularity, that's where I'm taking my rage, let's pray it never takes. Meanwhile, alternate-universe James Hetfield wins Taco Bell employee of the month award for March 2006.
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