Tag Archives: anger

Grandpa’s Pistol

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

An unloaded gun placed upon your forehead by your own hand grants a slice of perspective that you can take all the way to hell with you.

Potential is what’s scary. The concept of just turning it off. There is an exciting side to it, it must be said. Humans think they know everything, but one thing they can at least feign ignorance on is death. Sure, humans know that the body rots. It breaks down. Identification of the necrophages that feast upon the remains, a name? Gender, age- they can be added, calculated, surmised, addendumed and chronicled. It’s the moment between the final heartbeat and the last breath, where the body is still alive but struggling against the damage done. That moment will ever be hidden to us.

Smell the rot of a body on the road. It’s easy- humans kill things without even trying they’re so godamn useless. Roadkill in summer, a special nostalgia it carries with it. The stink is what can be remembered, but not because it is foul. It’s the confrontation of death, the confrontation of mortality n’ rot. That’s what’s special. In the beginning, it is easy to be repulsed by such odors. The odor of decay is never pleasant regardless of what is breaking down.

Pleasant, however. It can be enjoyed in a non-traditional sense. It is a reminder of death, the only consequence that humanity can understand. It is also penance- pay for your guilt by witnessing suffering and death and you too can be cleansed in the righteous pain that you yourself have inflicted. This is something good, but there is another side that is utterly hopeless through ignorance.

Why suffer? It’s a question that must be asked sooner or later. We all have reasons why we choose to avoid, or embrace suffering and self-torment. Is it just routine? A role that can be learned over time and patience? I don’t care.

Suffering is universal. From the lowliest cell to the mightiest creature, suffering is there from birth ’till death, metaphorical and tangible. Delay is inevitable. It is all mortality can ever hope for when reaching for immortality. Rot is inevitable. So is suffering. Suffering carries with it a beauty that is never seen simply because it is hidden below the misery that blinds humans to the world around them, to the world within.

Gun oil, time, dry rot, leather, wisdom, old spice, soap, an unending smile. Nostalgia creeps in even when the gun is placed against your head.

How do you picture your death? Is it beautiful? Peaceful? Is it a wish, your death? Are you the type that wishes to go without pain? I have seen death plenty of times to know that most die in agony, illness, or misery. Will you still smile when it is the final moment between your body living to your body dying? Smell the rot and see if you can still grin.

Tide of Violence

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Humanity is founded on the base need to hate and kill. All civilizations were built on bones and blood, their histroy hailed and celebrated and taught as something just and righteous. History is not written by the victor, it is simply written. There are versions of history all over the planet that change on bias, intelligence, and tradition. Human history is pointless simply because there is nothing to be celebrated outside of the overshadowed compassion and hope that our species sometimes personifies.

Violence is in human nature. We have “advanced” intellects and brains, along with strong and able bodies, and when we disagree, we turn toward violence. There is nothing more natural and hideous. It is everywhere. Consider yourself peaceful? You are not. Violence teems just behind your eyes, locked away within the primordial memories of the subconscious. It is all you ever want, and it is all humans can aspire to.

Urges are natural, correct? Even though humans are usually suppressed when it comes to sexuality, we are exposed to violence- even told that some forms of it are good, or lawful, or even righteous. Violence and fucking are the same act with different outcomes. The hate in our brains is distracted by hopefully love at the most, and pleasure at the least. Humans eat, drink, fuck and sleep not for sustenance, but for entertainment. We are merely looking for distractions, distractions to keep us safe from our primal sides. Our only side.

Civilization and manners are tricks. Parlor tricks, akin to what you’d teach a dog. Humans are just animals that can learn really complex tricks. What’s driving a car? Shooting a gun? Following orders? Cooking a meal? Assembling a nuclear power plant? Designing a rocket? Diagnosing an illness and treating it accordingly? Advanced. Human. Tricks. Nothing more. Strip that all away and there is nothing but the beast, the being that we are all afraid to be. And its this suppression that makes cooperation, civilization and global teamwork impossible.

Hiding behind words, laws, terms, phrases, beliefs, facts, fictions- we aspire to be an elevated Human, a person of great skill, success, and popularity whether in general, or in their own sphere of existence. Truth is we are humans, a species of animal, no greater in importance than any other creature by default on this planet. Humans are everywhere because we are feral, uncontrolled. We breed without plan or morality, we neglect our children in hopes of making more, maybe getting it “right.”

Suppression will always lead to outburst. When we bury our dark desires opposed to examining, understanding, and learning from them, we are doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over, acting in the folly that this time! This time…will be different. It won’t be. The reason for this is simple- humans are unhappy because we are animals covered with clothes and bombarded with social constraints and ideals. Imagine putting your dog in a suit and then screaming at him when he doesn’t meet the sales goal for June. If you wouldn’t do that to a dog, why a human?

When did we decide we need all the technology and extra population to survive? When did we decide that murder must be suppressed, except when it isn’t? Like in movies, art, video games, and crime? What changes? Nothing.

We are a suppressed species, denied our own urges and thoughts for so long that we are evolving toward apathy. Suppression, and the choice to be civil, are not the same.

 

 

People Watching- Ever Notice This?

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Look at people as they walk around in whatever little prison they have chosen to exist in today and ask yourself if you notice anything they all have in common.

People watching is one of my favorite activities. I like to study humans because I am one, and it helps me to better define my world around me if I am able to classify and judge my fellow humans beings. Depressed, sometimes I just sit in one place and silently observe humans and the world they squat on. And I’ve noticed something disturbing.

No-one is smiling.

Now, interaction with another or witnessing something funny doesn’t count. Also, these people weren’t exhibiting neutral faces, either. They just looked miserable. I watch humans move from one place to another and accomplish nothing even though they are completing something. Gnarled with apathy, frustration, anger, grief, sadness. Human language just gets in the way- our real expressions and meanings are better monitored by watching the face, and listening for vocalizations.

Volume and appearance are two things humans understand very well, and language does nothing but mottle and confuse our own natural reactions, degrading thought and instinct into “choice”. It’s all downhill after that. A facial expression says more than most words can, and for the complexities of life that need language to survive, to function? Outdated. We’re doing the same shit over and over because well? We’ve always DONE DID IT THAT WAY! What a great fuckin’ reason to keep doing something, right!?

Humans aren’t happy creatures. We’re not built that way. We are not made to bring in the sunshine and save the planet. We are here, like any other creature, to assert dominance through violence (metaphorical or tangible) and remain the king. Problem with humans is that when a king gets old, there’s no younger, smarter, stronger person to force the masses and the idiots that lead them toward extinction. Instead, we have so many kings and queens all over this planet, we’ve all become subjects and slaves, including the repulsive noble class (rulers, politicians, bankers, billionares, CEOs, tycoons, etc) that we labor for and continuously hate and love depending on whim.

Humans have been practicing metaphorical pseudo-intellectual auto-cannibalism for YEARS! Accomplishments are measured with blood and success in the human world. I mean, why do you think everyone looks so pissed and miserable? As you shuffle to your next hole to hide in, consider this. You are the only one in control of your life and death. Even if murdered, the control you have is to relinquish life, or fight for it- either way you are still worshiping death.

Death. Stare at a humans face and study the features. See where the skin is stretched across the skull? See where the eyes sink into the sockets? That skull, a symbol of death, is always there. When you look at another human being, you are watching them die before your eyes, you are watching their skull come forward and their mortality sink back into it, deep in the shadow of the brow until lost in darkness.

And instead of spending time with people we care about, we are too busy working at a job we hate/tolerate (your a godamn liar if you say you love your job 100% of the time) to obtain money for things we don’t need and have invented for others to want, and then finally need. Humans feed into this loop like we belong there.

That being said, here’s something else. Misery loves company. Positivity is infectious. Humanity’s default state is negativity because of how we forced ourselves into compartments honeycombed through understanding. Positivity is a choice. Negativity is the default. Humans are forgetting this, and they are becoming more and more fixated on tasks, rewards, and death. We value all the wrong things, you know.

I mean, why do you think no-one is smiling?

Death- the Only True Human Religion

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Trapped in this wretched hole as each click of the clock shreds reason and vitality. I am sick of this place. Every moment, every accomplishment is tainted by the darkness of this world. Blood-colored glasses opposed to rose, glass shattered not full. Watching in silence, each human moving slowly through their pathetic lives, just like me. Even the rich ones. The celebrated ones, the humans who we elevate for no reason other than masturbatory aid and spite, they are just as pathetic and pointless.

Money, whether one has it or not, does not dictate the quality of ones life. The quality comes from within and without, a collective forced upon us all by the other stinking, greasy apes we share this shithole with. Ever smell humans in a crowd? Their sweat, their breath, pushing against your lips and face, the sick primitive heat pulsing below an oily sheet of weeping sores and nerves. Itchy, irritating, like a burn from human waste.

There are no humans worthy of saving. No humans worthy of anything but misery and death, the only things we fully understand and worship. Truly, death- misery can be quelled, but all of our actions stem from the terror of death. More than just instinctual, modern humans hide from it, sheltering themselves under substance, surgery and medicine- atavism, fashion, entertainment, breeding, eating, it’s all in worship to death.

It’s the only true human religion. Death. It’s something that we all understand collectively. We don’t know what happens leading up to death or what happens after, but humans constantly prepare themselves for that moment, the split second before the grave when life and death hold together before drifting apart once more. Rot. Decay.

Have you ever took in the odor of a rotting carcass on the side of the road? Bloated in the summer, black welts pushing through the pristine fur you’d still like to touch. Their guts, blood, misery- all frozen in their last moment, their dignity displayed. I envy and laugh at the dead. The reverence they receive, the reverence they don’t. Respect for life to worship death isn’t even a thought. We kill, metaphorically kill, betray, destroy. Look at what we’ve created in the name of medicine, or life. Now look what we’ve created in the name of death.

Guns, swords, bombs, poison, explosives. The filthy human can destroy the planet a thousand times over but we still hack humans open in the name of health to heal them. And heal them we do, sure. But consider the sophistication of modern weaponry when compared to medicine. We can kill anything, but we still lack cures for diseases that have been around for too long. We cannot heal anything.Humans prolong death in subconscious reverence.

Humans are death. It’s all we have. It’s all we know. Our food comes from disguised genocide, our medicine keeps you ill with false hope and health, the extension of life is merely a prayer sent to death. Please, please don’t let me die. Who are you asking? If faith is in your toolbox, how fares it against mortality? It is not faith, religion, government. None are to blame. A sentient species is only as good as its kindest, most generous members and humans cling to the skin of life far after their time has come.

Look at what humans admire and idolize. Who are cast aside, stepped on, and elevated- where is justice and hope when staring in the face of ruthless finance? This whole world is diseased- all humans worship is death, and business. They are one in the same. Every job is a killing job. The ones we love, the ones we hate. They exist not to provide for us, but to stimulate greed and to push us toward a singular ideal- work hard, save dough, get rich, live dreams. You can’t live a dream! You can only relinquish to time and hope your inadvertent and subconscious obsession and reverence of death allows you enough ignorance to enjoy the only part of death that makes sense- life.

Humans looking or asking for/about the meaning of life has missed the answer all along. Some may weave complicated metaphorical tapestries (like myself) that end up as bullshit in the face of time and reality- others choose to seek meaning in personal accomplishment, volunteerism. Other still? they seek accomplishment through murder, rape, and torture. The greater good is always good when you are a part of it, and humans have a way of ensuring that they survive so they can pass on the story of their brush with death, as well as exposing the death of others in an effort to be grateful for life. But no-one is grateful for life.

We waste it at work, in substances, in sloth. The smiles behind everyone- from the homeless wretch to the highest billionaire; our smiles and false gratitude are ways to conceal the true nature of humanity from our fellow humans, burying the instinct deep within a concept called “society”, or behaving in a “civilized” manner. Civilization is a fucking joke. We still have gladiatorial pits. Only when athletes die, it’s a mistake, accident, or tragedy; but in the same breath there are humans happy from this misery, enjoying the death of another.

The shrill words of the fundamentalist, so certain that his god is there, and wants you to die, the “wisdom” of the atheist so certain that his god doesn’t exist, the intelligence of a scientist, so certain of his work that all other concepts, facts, ideas- all illogical and useless, to be cut away from the precious time (HA!) we have. These cocksuckers are lying to themselves, and so are you.

You are a disciple of death. There is no escaping it, and the only true meaning of life is to die. There is no greater honor or disgrace than the grave. Hell. We even purchase life insurance policies to give our loved ones money after we die. Humans are wrong, awlays wrong, and we are so certain of our certainty that we are literally killing one another.

And I ask you. Do you still question the human devotion to its one god? The only religion ever to stick with any bipedal, pathetic, ignorant greaseape is death. So until the moment you achieve death, fill the void with things you enjoy. There is no being right, or wrong. No truth, no lies. You must sculpt your own life before you can even desire death.

So stop wasting time and embrace life through the concept of its end.

Obsession with a Character

by in 99 Cent Novellas and tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Mental health has always been an area of cloudy self-misdiagnosis and a constant drain on my own personal energy and willpower for me. Depression, anxiety, blind anger. They are all my friends, and I have them with me every day. No matter what I do, no matter where I go, they are always there.

Different emotions manifest themselves in different ways for different people. My defense mechanism is immediately to go into fantasy. Push out the non-fiction, and fill the empty space with stories of my own choosing. Lately, the feeling of stagnation has permeated into my life, but it is one that is unguided and without reason. Typically, I can hone in and solve my own problems, but I am not one who will deny help.

Gruun, one of the characters from my 99 Cent Novella project, has currently been my focus of obsession. Having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder already makes me predisposed to latching on and never letting go, so. Writing and fantasy kinda just…fell into place as I battle my brain.

I focus on Gruun because he is what I want. He is what I need. A force of unstoppable nature, an immovable forward moving object. Regardless if you know what the fuck I’m talkin’ about or not, let me be plain. This character is a literal manifestation of my own rage and body insecurity.

He is massive, muscled, and brutal- kind, compassionate and patient, he is the balance of fury and civility. Acting in the real world like a normal person can be difficult (is everyone merely acting?). Can be? No. Is difficult. For me at least.

Normal. There’s a word that I despise. It’s a label that follows the same mantra as generalized testing inflicted upon children in “schools” all over the world. Who the fuck makes the rules for normal? And why do I have to follow them? Why do you?!

Because there is no real normal. It is a label.

Obsession rocks and reels with you, waning like the tide. Sometimes, you are up to your ankles, and sometimes your buried neck deep in the sand, struggling for air as the tide collides into you over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over again.

There is a freedom in directed brutality. I’ve never been a believer in simply spitting out anger and harming anyone or anything in my way. So as this builds up, it festers. The anger builds first, and then frustration afterward at the fact that you cannot simply purge this fury from your body. As stress and these feelings build, they must be released. And anger is best released on yourself or inanimate objects.

Writing is in act of masturbatory masochism that is rewarding and soul crushing. I turn my anger inward so it can only hurt the person responsible for it. It sits in me, a little black hole. My own personal abyss, pulling me on top of myself, collapsing. Gruun is that release.

Hatred piled on top of the frustration and rage seeps downward like grease, soaking the whole godamn mess, making it worse. Depression and self loathing is the dark fog which clouds the entire scene. And guess where you are? At the bottom, clawing through, looking for the light in the fog.

Whenever I am sad, rage is the first emotion to burn through the fog. All my emotions converge into that rage and create a multi-faceted confusion prism of human emotion that is almost impossible to direct or hold on to for a long time. To awaken such rage, writing is an outlet that often drags me out of the shithole and sits me back high on my own big ol’ pile of fuckin’ bullshit.

But with that anger driving me, slurping down all the bullshit becomes palatable when you don’t care about what you swallow.

I’ve never felt numb. I can’t- and this isn’t a statement of pride but fact: I need to feel. More specifically, I need to feel rage. The process of inflammation, reduction, and retribution associated with my  twisted mental jungle gym concept of my own consciousness. As the anger surfaces, so does the writing.

Gruun, Spek, Alistar, Thas. They are all facets of my rage personified. Every character I create is a bloody chunk of my own fuckin’ meat, raw and vulnerable. It’s my job to toughen them, and to toughen myself. What’s in a character? If you have any skill or common sense, the first thing in a character should be a piece of yourself. Rage is the first emotion I turn to.

Yours?

 

Lost with a Compass

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Days roll on by and the guilt of stagnation hangs with the meat until there is a call for action.

Completion of tasks, both great and small, go checked off until the lists are calm, until the day makes sense again. Wandering-

There is a stark honesty about apathy and sloth. They imply peace, but are often abused. The mind is a weak thing that must be cradled by willpower and bone, or it will break. Each stone pillar wears away in the desert sand until all is dust, slow but sure.

Writing has been hard. Mostly these types of entries flow because there is no point to them. They have no definitive purpose, nor is their journey valid or useful. Creating ideas in the brain that won’t translate -or can’t- into creation itself. There’s no more will to write anymore and there must be a rally within to find the spark once more. It feels forced and arbitrary. Wouldn’t read the words pushed out like a smeared shit.

Mostly the violence sticks out. Violence in the stories, especially the killing and dealing with loss and guilt. Envy. Stick to what is comfortable and profitable, but can there be a time when comfort is a liability opposed to an asset? Of fuckin’ course.

Setbacks at a later age are harder to cope with as responsibilities, anxieties, worries, and doubt build up inside an adult brain. Not enough space to cope. So it’ll get fixated. This one is fixed on violence.

Why the violence? Why the need for blood? Is there a hurt inside that is invisible to the world and its victim? Why such blind anger? Why the need to spit pain in all directions?

Forests sometimes have a path. Deep ones, ones that have been around for decades; tempt beauty off trail, but there is no solace or safety where there is no vision. Following a compass so the path is always known is not foolproof. Many, many times the forest will swallow travellers. Some find the path once more and travel to the intended destination, wiser for the experience as a whole. All too often, the direction, goal, and destination is lost or discarded, and there are mass graves of intention and loathing that conceal an endless supply of ignorant bodies.

Wander the woods, but keep an eye on the path. Death, metaphorical and tangible, comes in many forms and feelings.

Mind the deadfall.

A Zenith’s Umbra

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , , | 1 Comment

Bottled rage and pain are a collective pool in which all is poured and consumed. Shattered shards of sadness and lethargy mix with an indignant sense of apathy where the only viable goal is self destruction, or loathing. Concepts of self hatred change accordingly, always mesmerizing and out of reach. When a grasp is finally achieved, there is an abyss that draws all hope toward it, the choke of tears, the burn of frustration, exhaustive overwhelming waves of just…hopeless, hopeless pain. Most turn numb after a time but the burn of pain eats holes through this veneer and then the sensation of release is all too common. But there is no release. That rage and pain just can’t disappear, or be let go of. It is an anchor. Calcified with shadows from the crawling abyss of depression. Feel it sitting? Some could ask. But it isn’t a question, it’s a statement with a shit eating grin.

As the anchor rusts inside, those shards break off and get lodged in hope, fraying it. But there’s no way to let it out without violence at this point. A mild interjection, a disagreement they are drops in a bucket of blood, where the entire sea is red, and there are many drinkers- completely parched but on their hands and knees shoveling the gore into there gaping throats, dark as the abyss that spawned them. Many choose to kneel with them, some choose to observe, others ignore. There comes a point where the light at the end of the tunnel is a pinpoint harpoon of bloody light, where the only option is endless violence, endless fury, endless tears, all frustration. Throwing anger and pain out of itself until burned out and snuffed like the stove’s pilot. There can only be blood.

Violence calls out from the abyss, a voice and a guide. That endless depression, dragging and holding, clawing- choked; see what there is now but a bleached black skeleton rattling against itself in the silence of depression and darkness. The empty void- staring into an unlit room after nightfall, the maw of familiar things suddenly unknown- there are no guiding voices in the pitch black ink. There are only demons. There are no allies. Only imagined voices. Ingrained. Doubt clings to each other, creating clots that can only cause stroke.

So utterly sad. Just…so sad. It’s the best word. Despair feels cliche, sorrow, melancholy, the only thing that works is sad. Swirling down a filthy drain, clogging itself until the tub is full with psychic quicksand, which overflows and settles into the places that are forgotten inside. It is a fluid, anger a solid, they mix and do not blend. Drink it all down anyway, each urchin of unrelenting anger appearing in the outline of a clenched jaw, let it make deep slashes and allow the sadness to infect and help fester. Doubt settled there first, but it mixes nicely with anything, a whore on the spectrum. Shackled and tamed the pain gets worse as it is contained in a smaller and smaller space. There is the essence of anger, it grows and shrinks its vessel at the same time until there is no place left to go but everywhere and against itself.

Gouge a blood trench through death, each inch a reminder of mortality so final and pathetic in the last moments in such vulnerability where dark daggers plead suicide for the owner. But there is no suicide. There is no end. No. End. Except the only one that matters.

 

Corpses and Christmas

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , | 2 Comments

Death comes in a strange haze that is punctuated by a sudden snap and loss of all control. Rarely is it quiet, even when done in secret, and the meat will fight to stay alive as long as there is a soul fueling the heart that still refuses to stop beating. It is also intimate. Private. To look upon a dead body, to see the last moments of life and the first moments of death frozen in the muscles; it is seen almost too causally, and tossed aside as something normal.

Death isn’t normal, it’s inevitable. There’s a difference. To watch someone decline, point A to point B, and then be there, to stare at the body, to feel the loss. The gravity. There’s nothing normal about it. Last week, my grandfather finally died, and I say finally because he had severe dementia, and ultimately, it cost him his life. A grim blessing, truly.

Work doesn’t have time for death, so I was working like usual. The call I received was simple, gentle. He was gone, and it had been a long time coming. I’ve only seen a dead body once before, to be honest. For as much as I write about death and the consequences of it, I have little face to face experience with it. But like most things in life, one is often woefully prepared for grievous situations no matter how well adjusted they claim, or have tried, to be. I am no exception.

Walking into my grandfather’s room at home, I smelled…illness. Medicine, old sweat, piss, shit, sadness, impatience, boredom. I approached his form under the sheet, but his face wasn’t covered. He was on his side to alleviate the pain in his lung from the night before, still in the same position I had left him when I said goodnight to him. I remember holding his hand as he gripped the safety rail on the side of his bed. He still gripped that rail. I sat down beside him, and looked into his face. What I saw is now burned into my skull, my very godamn bones.

His skin was yellow and thick, like looking at candlewax covered in a thin, dessicated membrane. His mouth was slightly open, as were his eyes. They hadn’t closed them. I looked into those eyes, seeing a flicker of his iris. A clot of bright green mucus clung to his nose and upper lip, they had not cleared it. As I stared at him, I couldn’t help but feel…hate. Anger. Not at him, or my family, but unguided.

Touching him was a terrible mistake. His skin was freezing, slightly damp, and rigid. I tried to hold his hand, but it was resistant to movement thanks to rigor mortis. I had this maddening thought, this terrible thought, that I needed to wash my hands right away. I felt like I had taken some of that death. He lay there for several hours as we waited for the funeral home to take away his remains. Even though he was gone long before they took him, I never felt the void until he was no longer in the house.

Void. The perfect word.

My grandfather was dead, and I thought I was prepared for it. In truth, my experiences with death have never been normal, so I don’t understand why the subject is so simply dealt with by so many others. I feel that his death was a miserable, lingering experience that a man of his worth and caliber did not deserve. But, I am no god. I have no power here. I am merely another hunk of meat trying to make sense of more death in a world so alive.

I hate the casual way death is approached in modern times. Or disrespected. It is downplayed, accepted, spun, altered, hidden, applied, dictated, ordered, natural and forced, among other things, and it is the final answer to a question that was asked at birth, the question that burns inside every one of us until the day we blink when staring death in those empty, black sockets.

Death is not a stranger to me. I am surrounded by it, as all we are. And I can feel the clawing black sometimes. It’s like a rotted bridal veil that we all look at the world through. Death and I have a strange acceptance for one another. Well, at least an acceptance that a man and an intangible force of nature can have together. Death comes. Death is always coming, and we must all be ready for it. Even when we aren’t. Even when it’s our own.

The night before I left him, I could feel his beating heart and shallow breaths. Together, the sensation in the room felt like pleas, or prayer under the husk of death because he lost his power of speech a few days before he died. I watched him, laboring under his illness, and could only think to say, “…”

Nothing.

I’m being a Shitty Writer.

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Alright ladies and gentlemen, listen the fuck up please.

These last few sample chapters I’ve been posting have been utter shit- just…fuckin’ diarrhea, fresh from my ass, onto my keyboard, through my screen, and directly into your eyes and I am sorry. So, what Im gonna do. Is overhaul each and every single chapter I’ve posted on this website (Except for Warrior Shaman. it needs to be edited, sure. But I KNOW I nailed that shit to the fuckin’ WALL YO) until awesome and then re-post them one by one, whether you like it or not.

I am sorry for my shitty work. I forgot that it is very easy to become those shit spewing, self centered asshole writers I am always slamming on. And THAT. Is not something I ever want to become. Never.

Peace bitches YEAH   8======D

MODERN WARFARE, YEAH

My Opinions are Poisonous- But they are Mine

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , | Leave a comment

Here are my opinions. Hopefully I can spark some discussion among you all.

Most of the time, I write with gritted teeth and an ember of white hot hate in my heart. This world I view, I look at it through tired metaphors for eyes, and cliche comparisons to the aging process and how I’m becoming more and more of an adult. Every tiny thing that we are forced to bare witness to chips away at the very fabric of what we are. Television, movies, video games, books, magazines, commercials. You name it. In lieu of brainwashing theories I substitute hatred. Hatred in its purest form, unbiased except for my own disposition and belief systems.

How do you picture your hate? Hmm? Is it a burning fire, or a raging Goliath? Me? I picture my hate as an infinite puddle of black ink, unable to reflect its surroundings. It is sticky, venomous, and absolutely thrilling. I love hating. I love hatred. I love anger. Pain. I like to inflict it upon my enemies, and I like to feel it within myself.

Understanding such things are alien to most. I sit and watch as each moment ticks away, each moment grows longer and less defined and all I can feel is apathy and hate. Hate is always there. And anger is soon to follow. Know what I saw today? Angelina Jolie makes her first public appearance after she decided to have a preemptive mastectomy. And she was showered with accolades and praise. Fuck her and fuck her titties. It’s not news.

People in Turkey are getting fucked up. Some poor bastard overseas got run over and decapitated by two assholes hiding behind the guise of Islam. John Holmes’ insanity plea was taken, so he won’t be prosecuted like the rest of us. Michael Jackson’s parasitic family is trying to suck more money out of some hapless bastard that had contact with MJ before he died. Almost in the same month, another pedophilia accusation was placed up against Jackson. Why? Not for justice of course. The “victim” was seeking cash reparations.

Good people do good deeds nowadays. Donating to the poor, the sick, the discarded. Some people save other people’s lives in hospitals, on the street, on the job. Fuck em’. Know why? They see that god is watchin’. They see that god is watchin’, and the know that the great big karma train is coming around again to pick them up and take them to a better place. They live in fear, terrified of the world and all the evil and good in it. They are weak. And I despise them.

I am all for abortion. I am all for gay marriage. I’m all for more background checks and less gun control. I’m all for legalizing all drugs. I am all for vigilantism. And I am a staunch supporter of road rage. Militant Atheism is more close-minded than ANY religion, and intellectualism never existed because humans are able to shove body parts together and exchange fluid. I believe that suicide is cowardly and selfish. I believe that bullies should be prosecuted as adults, regardless of age. I believe that those being bullied should stand up and fight back, and not by telling their parents or teachers, but with a quick punch to the throat and then a knee to the face.

We are alone in this world. All of us. We marry, we date, we get roommates. We find fuck buddies, friends, acquaintances. But will always be alone. We come into the world alone, and we should all die alone. In violence. Not in illness or of an old, peaceful age. But one of violence. A car crash, a gunfight, a nasty bar room melee. The world…the whole world has gone soft. It’s not the violence we commit, or the destruction we bring. It’s not the fear, the cowardice, the back room politics.

We, all of humanity, is a race of cowards. We stand up for nothing, and we ignore injustice. And we do finally make a stand, it is typically with a petition, or a fuckin’ protest sign, rather than with a fist and our guts filled with fire. All the figures that have stood as an inspiration to so many are full of shit. There are no idols. There is no ONE god. There are no good causes, or bad causes. There are merely people inflicting pain or pleasure on one another, and we just choose sides. Morality has become a massive grey area that we all fall prey to. We know what is right and wrong. We are not products of our environment, we are products of our soul. We all commit evils. We all commit good. But we no longer have a spine.

Weakness and ignorance are the two greatest threats to this planet and the “peace” that can never be achieved. There is no room for compromise because all opposing sides are so desperately trying to be right. But there’s one thing I can say with certainty. One thing that I can take a stand on, and allow it to guide me. But I realized something quickly after writing this last paragraph.

…I never came up with anything. So what does that make me?

I don’t fucking care what it makes me. All I care about is what I can do in spite of it.