Fuck being sick.
Now I just want to die.
I haven't accomplished a damn thing. Not a damn thing. I recall all of the opportunities in my life where I was asked to participate or apply for something, and I always thought:
Too much time
I'm not going to get it
They aren't going to like me
And guess what?
It is because I don't like hearing the bad news of, "No- you're not what we are looking for," or "Sorry, but we will keep you in mind."
And I am a fool. A god damn fool for all of the shit I have passed up.
I could probably be a prominent writer.
Instead I am sitting in my room with the blinds down and tears rolling down my cheeks.
It's too late.
I'm going nowhere. And I hate myself for being so foolish.
Hej hej,
Any
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Leave the world behind.
My eyes are going to drop out of their sockets.
My skin is going to melt away like candlewax.
I have been trying to make myself sick for over a week. It hasn't been going so well, as I am sick in a totally different context. So, my current illness is prohibiting me to make myself sick in the way I want to be. Am I not trying hard enough?
I just have so much,
and you-
you are worth being sick over.
Why can't I stop being sick of myself and start being sick over you?
Every fucking time I see you, I want to be sick. Sick forever. Sick so you can like me more, sick so I can like you more.
I'm not even worth it.
You know what?
I start tomorrow. I will be sick for you, only you.
God, help me. I know this decision is worth it.
I have decided. It will be.
Hej hej,
Any
My skin is going to melt away like candlewax.
I have been trying to make myself sick for over a week. It hasn't been going so well, as I am sick in a totally different context. So, my current illness is prohibiting me to make myself sick in the way I want to be. Am I not trying hard enough?
I just have so much,
and you-
you are worth being sick over.
Why can't I stop being sick of myself and start being sick over you?
Every fucking time I see you, I want to be sick. Sick forever. Sick so you can like me more, sick so I can like you more.
I'm not even worth it.
You know what?
I start tomorrow. I will be sick for you, only you.
God, help me. I know this decision is worth it.
I have decided. It will be.
Hej hej,
Any
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Babel.
I fell in love with a boy whose words I never understood.
I sat in my mother's living room with my computer plugged in to the modem at midnight in late March. My eyes were tired from the day, but I couldn't sleep. So, I decided to look through this boys life. I found his life several months ago, and I forget about it for a few weeks. I figured I would catch up and see what he was up to, so I went through the last month recorded. Beautiful accounts, from what I saw. I never knew what he was writing- it was an arrangement of letters I could never make out. I didn't even know his name. It took me a while when I first found his life to find out who he actually was.
When I was certain he was who he was (I thought it couldn't have been him, as he was present in too many of the photographs... but it turned out to be who I thought it was), I almost felt like I was starting to understand what was going on in his life more. I was no longer intimidated with the strange script on his page.
I called him David.
I never knew his real name, but he looked like he could be a David.
The more I looked at the words, I realized what language it was. I daren't use google translate, in fear of relying on it to interpret what David was all about. Instead, I kept him and all of his friends strictly visuals.
You know me and my fascination of fantasy people.
It is so strange to think David actually exists. He lives and breathes on this planet. And I only know him by the photographs that he posts. He doesn't even know that I look at them. Isn't that creepy? So extremely creepy. The price he pays publicizing his photographs. I bet he doesn't realize there is someone thousands of miles away from where he lives creating a storyline in their crazy little noggin, thinking he lives a tragically ornate life, the desperate wishes every American youth wishes to experience on a Saturday.
I never thought I would fall in love with David's pictures. David's life.
I think I fell in love with him because I wanted to be him.
Or one of those beautiful girls that he knew. Oh, to witness that divinity in the flesh would be heaven.
Instead, he would forever remain a 1081px × 1600px piece of pixelated beauty.
I said my prayers, ironically listened to "Young Adult Friction" by Pains of Being Pure at Heart," rubbed my eyes, and closed my computer. I turned off the modem and went to bed.
Only to have dreams about having long, luscious locks and an Irish beau at my side.
Hej hej,
Any
I sat in my mother's living room with my computer plugged in to the modem at midnight in late March. My eyes were tired from the day, but I couldn't sleep. So, I decided to look through this boys life. I found his life several months ago, and I forget about it for a few weeks. I figured I would catch up and see what he was up to, so I went through the last month recorded. Beautiful accounts, from what I saw. I never knew what he was writing- it was an arrangement of letters I could never make out. I didn't even know his name. It took me a while when I first found his life to find out who he actually was.
When I was certain he was who he was (I thought it couldn't have been him, as he was present in too many of the photographs... but it turned out to be who I thought it was), I almost felt like I was starting to understand what was going on in his life more. I was no longer intimidated with the strange script on his page.
I called him David.
I never knew his real name, but he looked like he could be a David.
The more I looked at the words, I realized what language it was. I daren't use google translate, in fear of relying on it to interpret what David was all about. Instead, I kept him and all of his friends strictly visuals.
You know me and my fascination of fantasy people.
It is so strange to think David actually exists. He lives and breathes on this planet. And I only know him by the photographs that he posts. He doesn't even know that I look at them. Isn't that creepy? So extremely creepy. The price he pays publicizing his photographs. I bet he doesn't realize there is someone thousands of miles away from where he lives creating a storyline in their crazy little noggin, thinking he lives a tragically ornate life, the desperate wishes every American youth wishes to experience on a Saturday.
I never thought I would fall in love with David's pictures. David's life.
I think I fell in love with him because I wanted to be him.
Or one of those beautiful girls that he knew. Oh, to witness that divinity in the flesh would be heaven.
Instead, he would forever remain a 1081px × 1600px piece of pixelated beauty.
I said my prayers, ironically listened to "Young Adult Friction" by Pains of Being Pure at Heart," rubbed my eyes, and closed my computer. I turned off the modem and went to bed.
Only to have dreams about having long, luscious locks and an Irish beau at my side.
Hej hej,
Any
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
A nice friend reminded me of something.
He was right. Thinking about the little things, like getting dressed in the morning, to the big things, such as our mere existence, is crazy.
Why do we do the things we do? Why do we have to exist?
I began to imagine myself step out my front door, naked. I know how the world react- appalled, flabbergasted that I would go against the social construct of being clothed. The thing is, the only thing that would matter would be what I would be thinking. Of course, I wouldn't think I was going mad, because I would just be thinking of this 'philosophical' blog post that I am typing out right now. And, so many would try to ship me off to a mental institution after I explain to them that I 'don't care about having to wear clothes in public,' or the fact that I don't care if my hair is washed and well kempt. I don't care if I want to yell at the top of my lungs out of my window, or dance at a bus stop.
WHY DO WE WORRY?
WHY DO WE ALWAYS HAVE TO CAUTION OURSELVES?
I still don't like myself. Not one bit. In fact, even after this liberating discovering of not having to care what external factors influence me, I internally still hate myself. This is because the external factors dug their needles into my skin when I was young. They injected me with their poisonous thoughts, and they handed me filth. I took that filth, crushed it into a fine powder, and breathed it in. I licked it off of my lips, off of my fingers, and it all has consumed me. It has poisoned the way that I think of myself.
This is what happens. You let so many things trouble you, that you let them become a part of you.
I look back at the photos of me I middle school. I was beautiful. I didn't need to look better, I looked damn good then. Even in high school. And now, because I inhaled all of those dirty, dirty comments people fed to me, I am packing them on. Every inch of me is a word they have said to me. And I can't let it go. The more they pressure me, the more I grow. I am growing so much, and I now hate myself for letting this happen to me. I need to have blinders on. I can't listen to anyone anymore tell me how I should be.
I need to take the control into my own hands.
I am tired of hating myself.
Don't you dare say anything encouraging.
Don't tell me I am fine the way I am.
Your words don't mean a damn thing to me anymore.
You have made me the way I am:
A 5'10" piece of hatred.
Shut up.
Hej hej,
Any
Why do we do the things we do? Why do we have to exist?
I began to imagine myself step out my front door, naked. I know how the world react- appalled, flabbergasted that I would go against the social construct of being clothed. The thing is, the only thing that would matter would be what I would be thinking. Of course, I wouldn't think I was going mad, because I would just be thinking of this 'philosophical' blog post that I am typing out right now. And, so many would try to ship me off to a mental institution after I explain to them that I 'don't care about having to wear clothes in public,' or the fact that I don't care if my hair is washed and well kempt. I don't care if I want to yell at the top of my lungs out of my window, or dance at a bus stop.
WHY DO WE WORRY?
WHY DO WE ALWAYS HAVE TO CAUTION OURSELVES?
I still don't like myself. Not one bit. In fact, even after this liberating discovering of not having to care what external factors influence me, I internally still hate myself. This is because the external factors dug their needles into my skin when I was young. They injected me with their poisonous thoughts, and they handed me filth. I took that filth, crushed it into a fine powder, and breathed it in. I licked it off of my lips, off of my fingers, and it all has consumed me. It has poisoned the way that I think of myself.
This is what happens. You let so many things trouble you, that you let them become a part of you.
I look back at the photos of me I middle school. I was beautiful. I didn't need to look better, I looked damn good then. Even in high school. And now, because I inhaled all of those dirty, dirty comments people fed to me, I am packing them on. Every inch of me is a word they have said to me. And I can't let it go. The more they pressure me, the more I grow. I am growing so much, and I now hate myself for letting this happen to me. I need to have blinders on. I can't listen to anyone anymore tell me how I should be.
I need to take the control into my own hands.
I am tired of hating myself.
Don't you dare say anything encouraging.
Don't tell me I am fine the way I am.
Your words don't mean a damn thing to me anymore.
You have made me the way I am:
A 5'10" piece of hatred.
Shut up.
Hej hej,
Any
Thursday, March 18, 2010
A raise of hands.
Who reads this blog, and why? How did you find it? Why do you continue to read this?
If you could answer, that would be lovely.
Hej hej,
Any
If you could answer, that would be lovely.
Hej hej,
Any
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Candystripe Straw.
Happy St. Patrick's Day.
I write this in the basement, staring straight into my cup with a candystripe straw.
It is so weird to think of the things we see as two-dimensional. Like, everything we see is 2-D. Don't look puzzled. The only thing that makes us trick our minds to think that what we see is 3-D is the fact that our sensors for feeling can usually grasp/touch whatever is ahead of us.
And the fact that we are told/brainwashed during our school learning that we live in a 3-D world... and that the particles that make us... us... are 3-D as well. What the hell is this bullshit?
Now I am starting to believe what I see is what I can see. We have 2-D vision and 3-D touching-abilities, that is that. Paintings are what we see all of the time... constantly in motion, nothing is ever still.
I think even a painting can move. There is something in me that is convinced that nothing is the same as it was 23 seconds ago.
Things are always turning into something different- not necessarily older (as the thing of time is arbitrary and tacky... I hate the concept of time, yet time travel fascinates me).
The idea of fantasy's or mind tricks fascinate me. According to Aristotle, the only way that we can see illusions are if the images are drawn out from memory. We cannot have nightmares or see hallucinations without the ability to draw back on something we have seen before.
Now, how does this explain mythical creatures? How can one possibly dream of a mythical creature? I am certain I have had dreams that have terrified me with creatures I have never seen before. Are they actually hybrids from things we have seen before? Is that why when movies creature Extra Terrestrial beings, they still have figures like a human?
I have tried, so many times, to imagine living in an entirely different world with an entirely new set of senses. I could not think of anything other than the five that we have right now, could not think of anything that was remotely feasible because I cannot think of anything outside of what I already know.
So, how is it that a man can think of something no woman or man has ever thought before?
I disagree with this. I am starting to believe we have all thought the same thing in our life before, it is whether we have brought it to the front of our conscience or not... and who has the chance to publish the thought first to be claimed the ultimate thinker of the 'genius' thing they thought of all 'by themselves.' Hmm- phooey.
I really do enjoy Foucault's writings on Bentham's Panopticon, and how that structure is similar to how we all live censored lives, but doesn't everyone notice this as they get older?
"Man was born free, and everywhere he is in chains,"-- very famous opening line from Rousseau.
Well, as I said before, doesn't everyone notice this? How we are all censored? I mean, especially during our teenage years, when our parents begin to have a tighter grip on us (or when we start to realize that our guardians are holding us in a headlock)! Those who have had the courage to stand up to their oppressive governments, they know they are being over-censored, because they are oppressed. Why is it such a big deal to credit certain people with certain 'ideas?'
So that we can quote them?
I am starting to feel that even quoting is starting to be the lamest thing ever (despite the fact that I have quoted Aristotle and Rousseau directly in this post so far)- it isn't intellectual to quote someone, it's just an easy way to formulate something you have thought about and the author has been able to say the words eloquently enough for you to reiterate them...
We have all thought the same things... some have articulated the thoughts better than the others...
Now I am a looney.
I am really straying away from my final philosophy paper. I am trying to figure out what I am going to do, but I am basically going to be talking about this in a nutshell. The way that we perceive, how appearances and understanding function in human beings, according to Aristotle.
It is some pretty mediocre stuff, but it is still interesting, nevertheless. I hope this can hopefully spark some ideas for my final piece of crap. I want to push my limits on what I need to write for this paper. It doesn't have to be the best thing that I have written (I vouch that it will not be!) but it certainly has to be interesting enough to read.
Hej hej,
Any
I write this in the basement, staring straight into my cup with a candystripe straw.
It is so weird to think of the things we see as two-dimensional. Like, everything we see is 2-D. Don't look puzzled. The only thing that makes us trick our minds to think that what we see is 3-D is the fact that our sensors for feeling can usually grasp/touch whatever is ahead of us.
And the fact that we are told/brainwashed during our school learning that we live in a 3-D world... and that the particles that make us... us... are 3-D as well. What the hell is this bullshit?
Now I am starting to believe what I see is what I can see. We have 2-D vision and 3-D touching-abilities, that is that. Paintings are what we see all of the time... constantly in motion, nothing is ever still.
I think even a painting can move. There is something in me that is convinced that nothing is the same as it was 23 seconds ago.
Things are always turning into something different- not necessarily older (as the thing of time is arbitrary and tacky... I hate the concept of time, yet time travel fascinates me).
The idea of fantasy's or mind tricks fascinate me. According to Aristotle, the only way that we can see illusions are if the images are drawn out from memory. We cannot have nightmares or see hallucinations without the ability to draw back on something we have seen before.
Now, how does this explain mythical creatures? How can one possibly dream of a mythical creature? I am certain I have had dreams that have terrified me with creatures I have never seen before. Are they actually hybrids from things we have seen before? Is that why when movies creature Extra Terrestrial beings, they still have figures like a human?
I have tried, so many times, to imagine living in an entirely different world with an entirely new set of senses. I could not think of anything other than the five that we have right now, could not think of anything that was remotely feasible because I cannot think of anything outside of what I already know.
So, how is it that a man can think of something no woman or man has ever thought before?
I disagree with this. I am starting to believe we have all thought the same thing in our life before, it is whether we have brought it to the front of our conscience or not... and who has the chance to publish the thought first to be claimed the ultimate thinker of the 'genius' thing they thought of all 'by themselves.' Hmm- phooey.
I really do enjoy Foucault's writings on Bentham's Panopticon, and how that structure is similar to how we all live censored lives, but doesn't everyone notice this as they get older?
"Man was born free, and everywhere he is in chains,"-- very famous opening line from Rousseau.
Well, as I said before, doesn't everyone notice this? How we are all censored? I mean, especially during our teenage years, when our parents begin to have a tighter grip on us (or when we start to realize that our guardians are holding us in a headlock)! Those who have had the courage to stand up to their oppressive governments, they know they are being over-censored, because they are oppressed. Why is it such a big deal to credit certain people with certain 'ideas?'
So that we can quote them?
I am starting to feel that even quoting is starting to be the lamest thing ever (despite the fact that I have quoted Aristotle and Rousseau directly in this post so far)- it isn't intellectual to quote someone, it's just an easy way to formulate something you have thought about and the author has been able to say the words eloquently enough for you to reiterate them...
We have all thought the same things... some have articulated the thoughts better than the others...
Now I am a looney.
I am really straying away from my final philosophy paper. I am trying to figure out what I am going to do, but I am basically going to be talking about this in a nutshell. The way that we perceive, how appearances and understanding function in human beings, according to Aristotle.
It is some pretty mediocre stuff, but it is still interesting, nevertheless. I hope this can hopefully spark some ideas for my final piece of crap. I want to push my limits on what I need to write for this paper. It doesn't have to be the best thing that I have written (I vouch that it will not be!) but it certainly has to be interesting enough to read.
Hej hej,
Any
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Oh simple thing- where have you gone?
This week. This goddamn fucking week. It doesn't feel like a burden, either. It feels like it is going to stretch out to be the longest week of all weeks this year so far. I have $20.05 to live off until Thursday. I will make it, and I will be a champ.
I went to bed last night at 10:30 as my body was telling me it was what it needed to do. I tried to fight it, but I closed my computer and caved in to a deep sleep. I did not rise until 8 this morning, and I still feel fatigued. Maybe all of the anxieties/excitement of going home is getting way over my head? I have never been so excited about going home ever since I have moved to college. I know that it is going to be a bundle of sun and time to read things that are not required...
I am editing a paper right now, and I almost find editing papers more exhausting than writing them. You would think there were only so many ways that you could rearrange words to make them sound coherent.
Bah.
Well, you are right when there are only so many ways... but it always turns out to be more ways than you could ever fathom. So, you pass your writings to multiple people in hopes of gaining multiple perspectives...
And when you compile the edits from that draft, you can continue to edit that again.
Editing is a gruesome, endless cycle.
Writings can always be improved. It is sickening to know that there will never be an ideal paper written (except in Plato's goddamn World of Forms. Suck it, Plato).
Speaking of, I have to decide very soon if I am going to write my final philosophy on Aristotle, Kant, or Nietzsche... Nietzsche sounds like a sound choice about now.
My eyes are drooping. I think they are doing this to me so that I do not have time to work. But, I must. I must finish. I am not stressed about this right now because I know that it will get done.
Hej hej,
Any
I went to bed last night at 10:30 as my body was telling me it was what it needed to do. I tried to fight it, but I closed my computer and caved in to a deep sleep. I did not rise until 8 this morning, and I still feel fatigued. Maybe all of the anxieties/excitement of going home is getting way over my head? I have never been so excited about going home ever since I have moved to college. I know that it is going to be a bundle of sun and time to read things that are not required...
I am editing a paper right now, and I almost find editing papers more exhausting than writing them. You would think there were only so many ways that you could rearrange words to make them sound coherent.
Bah.
Well, you are right when there are only so many ways... but it always turns out to be more ways than you could ever fathom. So, you pass your writings to multiple people in hopes of gaining multiple perspectives...
And when you compile the edits from that draft, you can continue to edit that again.
Editing is a gruesome, endless cycle.
Writings can always be improved. It is sickening to know that there will never be an ideal paper written (except in Plato's goddamn World of Forms. Suck it, Plato).
Speaking of, I have to decide very soon if I am going to write my final philosophy on Aristotle, Kant, or Nietzsche... Nietzsche sounds like a sound choice about now.
My eyes are drooping. I think they are doing this to me so that I do not have time to work. But, I must. I must finish. I am not stressed about this right now because I know that it will get done.
Hej hej,
Any
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