Fuck, I cannot believe it’s only a fucking Monday!
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“Much about death we’ll never know about, the final mystery and destination”
The only way to go here is the way of Epicurus, and it’s hard af to do. You can’t just say, “When I’m dead, i won’t know I’m dead, so death is not to be worried about” and no longer be terrified of not only dying but being dead forever after that. It fucks me up enough now for me to have an eternity’s supply of sorrow so I’m logically fucked forever if it carries over.
Here’s how i get through it… and it’s terrible… so terrible i can’t believe I’m telling you. I feel better because you die too. There, i said it.
I don’t feel like I’m dying alone. I don’t feel like I’m missing something or being cheated. And because this terrible curse on us is so tremendous, i almost feel obliged to become something like a muse or a ferry boat captain with a mandolin. Someone to see you through so you don’t feel alone… someone with a mischievous twist of humor to keep you on your feet and distracted from the oblivion that is waiting for you on the other side. You have no idea what I’m doing. Don’t fuckin talk to me bro shut up i know wtf I’m doing.
I’m the goddamn Grand Wazoo. Cleetus-Awreetus Awrightus the funky emporer.
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Going to the gas station looking at the price of fuel be like…
“I am tired of these prices boss, real tired.”
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No way. I’m scared to read the bible. I heard there are secret potassium decay activated transdiatronic sublimates embedded in posi-semtactical syntax algorithm codes that enter your brain like a trojan horse and turn you into physic slaves of the reptilians. And I DO NOT want to go there.
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Correction: i meant to say never would it be so important that you get the number of chickens right that you wait until they hatch to count them. DO you or DO YOU NOT agree?
When would i ever need to know that i have 277 chickens and not 281 because 3 are still born?
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What is wrong with you? You get her all worked up and go in the other room and record yourself from there… and she still responds to you from the other room?
You should be flogged.
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No… we scream at each other from across the house. The cat lady stays in her computer room and I get the living room.
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What is a berserker, and how do they work? Or what is it that gets the fighter through impossible odds, I should aks. I can tell you what happens to me when in this mode. And everybody does it… but there are great differences in degrees of force.
There is that ‘blank’ state… ‘bro just blanked on em’. It’s a half in and half out frenzy where the opponent is not just an opponent but a reservoir of everything that disgusts the fighter. The opponent becomes every man that has ever crossed him, cheated him, beytayed him, etc. The fighter pours out this ass whooping as if he were fighting an entire army.
The degree of force behind this attack depends on how big the reservoir is. Michael Douglas when he gets the flat cheeseburger in Falling Down… but on steroids. And if the fighter is as fit as he is angry, the transformation, the blanking out, is incredibly violent.
Okay, think of when you’re doing some stupid task and you’re getting frustrated because the thing is awkward and heavy and tedious and suddenly you’re no longer just struggling with this stupid thing but mad at it too as if it were alive and plotting against you. Then a wave of angry retard washes over you and you plant your feet, snatch the thing with a death grip and hold it there in front of you as if you were about to choke it. That’s kinda like what i mean, but the thing is a person instead of an object. It’s a violent eruption of force that bursts forth from frustration. All the pain centers close down. All caution is thrown to the wind. The fighter becomes an animal foaming at the mouth and three times stronger than it was five seconds ago.
And you don’t reach this state by being merely afraid. This is not the ‘cornered animal’ that fights like a savage thing. This is something else entirely. When a man’s thymos is charged with the power and rage of Aries. His opponent becomes the very embodiment of evil (his version of) and not just someone he tries and beat up. We’re talking ripping limbs off and throwing fuckers through the air shit.
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Now check this out. This is kinda cool if you pretend it’s real for a second. One of those deals when you see it and go “omg, that is totally right!”
My Mars is in Sagittarius. This means that I’d rather avoid you all together than obligate myself to fighting with you. But not in a cowardice way… in a dismissive way. Mars in Sagittarius likes to leave the scene. It’s already boring him. So, you gotta attack em to put him into action.
If Mars in Sag acquires an enemy, he will plot from a distance like an archer… not rush him like infantry… unless, again, he is immediately attacked.
This is why it comes so naturally to me to be an anarchist. I am simply uninterested in fighting for and trying to protect anything but my own immediate interests. I would never join a fuckin army or a gang or a crowd of marching protestors. You are all spooked out retards to Mars in Sagittarius.
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I have never put much faith in zodiac horoscopes myself.
Going by the Chinese instead of the Greek I am suppose to be the luckiest of all signs, yet I don’t feel so very lucky.
Yeah, something weird going on with the Tiger Capricorn mix. It’s like Cap’s permanently serious and cynical attitude interfers with the light footedness of the Tiger and the admiration the fates usually have for this splendid creature.
The only time in my life when my luck is not shit is when I’m doing bad stuff… then it’s like I’m surrounded by demon protectors that lead me in all the right directions. Perhaps the Tiger needs to hunt to show his full splendor and appease the fates? I mean who pays any attention to a house cat?
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My cat become a lion the second he leapt into the backyard… and transformed from lion back into human when I let him back in. I miss him.
Too bad for your mom you’re not like my cat was.
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I hate weeks like this one, I am worried that I won’t have enough gasoline to get me back and fourth to work the next two days. I get paid this Friday but otherwise have no money until then.
Sure, I have no debts, everything is paid off, and I have no bills, but otherwise the feeling of barely making it prevails having no spare money afterward. I refuse to get a second or third job, the assholes that run this nation shall steal no more of my time. The fact that is becoming the norm is insane.
Every work day is the same, get up at 4am and be at work by 5am. I don’t get home after work until right around 4pm.
Two words: pawn shop
And serial killers are always hypersensitive very early on… that’s what gets them into trouble. It takes just one monolithic bad experience, and they’ll curse the whole of existence. You guys aren’t hypersensitive. Being charged with crimes you didn’t commit, losing four grand to shyster mechanics, etc… you all go “oh well… this is part of life ho hum”. The serial killer goes “yeah no it isn’t, either. Watch this.”
So we have a paradoxical duality in the nature of the psycho; he begins as an oversensitive pussy and then becomes a vigilante sadist like a Batman but the evil version. Now you all are the ho hum pussies. This is something critically important to understand… especially for all you wanna-be forensic psychologists.
The serial killer is the bad gened guy whom if put in the wrong environment, will absolutely not tolerate any bullshit. You dress em in dresses or pick on his stutter in school and you just fucked everybody. Just wait. Break up with em for a shitty reason or give him an STD, you just doomed all of womankind.
Serial killers do it better. I’d rather be serial killing. So on and so forth.
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Nah, I wouldn’t pawn anything.
You going to go postal because of bad mechanics service? Sounds like a bad idea to me.
The entire wheels of the bus are about to come off for this entire nation, putting yourself in a prison before that happens is just terrible strategy. There’s a much larger picture taking shape friend, I am curious as to why you cannot see it.
No, it’s too late for that. If this most recent one was the straw that broke the camel jockey’s back, i wouldn’t be here right now. So, clearly, that one wasn’t the one.
The rising again of the great Phoenix will happen one of two ways. A single final preposterous event that sends me over the edge or after a long calculated wait during which they keep accruing one after the other. To date i have enough substance for a fuckin manifesto. Prison writings, records, when they denied me medical for my back, and i was rolling around on the floor in solitary for months. I got all kinds of shit on em, bro. My writing is like the goddamn necronomicon of anarchy, and it would take a Plato to stand a chance in a courtroom with me.
Alternatively, some super awesome stroke of good fortune may happen to me and I’d be so excited I’d forget about it all and become the unprincipled hedonistic slob who cares no more about justice and truth.
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If new motor mounts and a transfer case will cost more than a 3-4 grand, I’d not be able to do it on this card I’m using. So I’d prolly try and sell the truck to pay off the balance of 5 grand now pending… or the brand new transmission in it if the truck won’t sell. I could piece sell it. Sell the ladder racks and the wheels.
Loved this truck, man. Thought i would have it for years to come. Work horse like I’ve never owned before. 300 horse 5.4 liter 4x4. Would easily get 100,000 more out of it if I got new lifters and valves. Was actually planning on doing that next. Not anymoooore.
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Noice look at the beams of light. It’s like god announcing the coming of Michael and his destroying angels.
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