A super-spook. A ghoul analyzer and a ghost memorizer.

NUMB TO THE MEDIA WHICH IS MAKING THEM STUPID

Man the first three tracks on ‘Beatles For Sale’ pretty much sum it up for me

yup

I have been really stressed out recently . . . and I haven’t been eating! Or sleeping! So I have been taking a lot of epsom salt baths, and have walked some but it’s 20 degrees outside at night so I don’t stay out too long. Anyway this morning I “woke up” (meaning I stopped lying on the couch staring at the ceiling) and tried meditating. It became obvious pretty quickly that I am never going to be able to do this because as soon as I sit down my cat tries to curl up on my lap or screams at me to give him treats!

Being on Earth has taught me that if you say something to someone, even if it the absolute naked honest-to-God ground-level truth, and they don’t want to hear it, then they won’t hear it.

The one-eyed man is not king in the land of the blind, he is a lonely old fool.

Sometimes on holidays I used to stroll along the sunny side of the Nevsky about four o’clock in the afternoon. Though it was hardly a stroll so much as a series of innumerable miseries, humiliations and resentments, but no doubt that was just what I wanted. I used to wriggle along in a most unseemly fashion, like an eel, continually moving aside to make way for the generals, for officers of the Guards and the Hussars, or for ladies. At such minutes there used to be a convulsive twinge at my heart, and I used to feel hot all the way down my back at the mere through of the wretchedness of my attire, of the wretchedness and abjectness of my little scurrying figure. This was a regular martyrdom, a continual, intolerable humiliation at the thought, which passed into an incessant and direct sensation, that I was a mere fly in the eyes of all this world, a nasty, disgusting fly—more intelligent, more highly developed, more refined in feeling than any of them, of course, but a fly that was continually making way for every one, insulted and injured by every one.

There were moments of such positive intoxication, of such happiness, that there was not the faintest trace of irony within me, on my honour. I had faith, hope, love. I believed blindly at such times that by some miracle, by some external circumstance, all this would suddenly open out, expand; that suddenly a vista of suitable activity—beneficent, good, and, above all, ready-made (what sort of activity I had no idea, but the great thing was that it should all be ready for me)—would rise up before me, and I should come out into the light of day, almost riding a white horse and crowned with laurel. Anything but the foremost place I could not conceive for myself, and for that very reason I quite contentedly occupied the lowest in reality. Either to be a hero or to grovel in the mud—there was nothing between. That was my ruin, for when I was in the mud I comforted myself with the thought that other times I was a hero, and the hero was a cloak for the mud: for an ordinary man it was shameful to defile himself, but a hero was too lofty to be utterly defiled, and so he might defile himself.

welp.

hey this is my website that no one reads so i’m allowed to write whiny melodramatic cripplingly self-aware posts about whatever i want

if you want to do that too then get your own website dude

anyway:

if i am a hot air balloon then everyone else on planet earth is a saddistic asshole with a blowgun

I just bought some truly terrible red wine. It tastes like toaster waffles. I am going to drink the whole bottle anyway though.

If Satan were to appear before me in a cloud of red smoke and tell me that I had died five years ago, and that he had created a new dimension just for me that was identical to my life on Earth, and that everyone I know is an automaton designed to keep the charade going, I would say, “Yeah I kinda figured that was the case.”