oh you have a cursive lowercase french word tattooed on your forearm huh

don’t know how i missed that before, i guess your sleeve was covering it

listen i have to go home right now

i’m going to have a sort of yard sale for my soul. i feel i should mention here that i am also an organ donor. take whatever you want, man. i don’t need any of this shit anymore. i’m going deep, deep undercover. i’m going to go so deep that eventually i just die of loneliness.

i said this to my friend matt just now:

“one day they will find my skeleton in some basement room, dusty for many years, and they will pull it off the desk in which i am bent over, and they will find a screed written on a roll of toilet paper that contained all my little insect thoughts on man and earth and love and chaos and the promise of death (lol)”

i really, truly don’t hate people. i hate crowds. but you put someone in front of me and i will try to like them as best i can. usually they give me a reason not to! i wish that weren’t the case.

and see: i don’t exactly blame them, because [exhales weed smoke] this whole generation—hell, this whole world—was bought and sold before any of us were born. i listen to people talk and they’re just saying things they read on the internet, or in terrible hardcover books with some asshole on the cover who is wearing wood-frame glasses and a V-neck sweater and has chemically-whitened teeth. their entire lives were dreamed up by someone else. their lives are owned by someone else. and the scary part is that if you introduce ANY original thoughts into a conversation, someone will invariably ask, “wait what’s that from?” or, worse, they will decide you are a piece of shit because you said something, usually an indisputable raw truth, that makes them feel uncomfortable.

if the first words you use to describe yourself mean “[believing in something but not actually doing anything about it]” or “[abstaining from eating certain types of food for moral reasons]” or “[vague meaningless buzzword that nobody is going to remember in five years]” then you should definitely sit down and reevaluate your life dude

in my 10th grade yearbook there is a section where they asked four or five people what job they wanted when they grew up

you know it’s like “doctor!” “park ranger!” “botanist!” “teacher!”

for some reason they decided to ask me

i told them, with a straight face, “either dictator or cult leader”

they printed it!

as i recall my parents were upset

in 12th grade i won “best sense of humor” and when they asked me how i felt about that i told them humor is the product of despair and that the fate of the clown is to be sad on the inside forever

listen: don’t get nervous but i’m about to post some Poetry

but it’s ok because it’s Cool Poetry and i didn’t write it, and it’s from ‘rime of the ancient mariner’ which rules

anyway:

Are those her ribs through which the Sun
Did peer, as through a grate?
And is that Woman all her crew?
Is that a Death? and are there two?
Is Death that Woman’s mate?

Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man’s blood with cold.

The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice;
“The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!”
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark;
With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea,
Off shot the spectre-bark.

yeah so that’s DEATH and The Spectre-Woman (Life-in-Death) aboard a crewless skeleton ship and over a game of dice they gamble for this dude’s life

yeah hey maybe that right there is uhhhhh

well yeah maybe it’s the long and short of it as far as i’m concerned

we’re all trapped in a slow free fall towards the great big skeletal hand of His Holiness The Grim Reaper

every single god dang one of us, not one spared

so there’s no getting out of this thing alive

but near as i can tell the most painless way to fall into The Master’s grasp is to never care about anyone

if i were alive 150 years ago i would be some old russian dude with a huge beard and i would be sick all the time and writing a 1,200-page book and would die seconds after finishing it

but as it stands i’m some sad little twerp with a dinky website that is about an inch away from being a livejournal from 2003

i saw a tattoo the other day

“from misery comes knowledge”

nope

it’s definitely the other way around