mad drunk genius

I used to have all sorts of problems. Now there's just the one.

National Public Radio – twice as many listeners as I have readers

I got interviewed my National Public Radio today over the whole Bible Elective thing happening at Permian. I got interviewed and sounded like a complete and utter moron (though nowhere near as pretentious as I let myself become in my “writing voice”).

To quote a character from my fanfiction, “Words are slippery things” and they slip right out of your damn mouth without waiting for approval from your brain.

There’s an earlier post about this subject, “Netspeak to 1984 in a 1000 words or less” is the general idea, if not the exact title. I prefer the written medium because even when I’m at my most inebriated (from lack of sleep, mind you) and uninhibted, I revise what I’ve written at least a couple of times and I think about what I’m going to say more times than that.

But spoken words slide right off the tongue and onto your foot and then you insert them back into your mouth, or up your bum depending upon the severity of your mistake.

I won’t bore you with my political and theological opinion on the subject of a public school creating a class for the sole purpose of teaching the Bible, but it’s very well thought out and I rival the greatest poets and minds of any age in regards to its depth, scope, and imagination. Take my word for it. Written out, that comes across very clearly. Spoken aloud…. My natural stupidity should never be allowed to shine through. If I had any sense at all, I’d take a vow of silence. On the other hand, “Better a loud jackass than a quiet elephant.”

That’s a proverb isn’t it?

Wretched Man

I loved her. For a time I worshipped her, but I always loved her. Heart and mind and soul, but never body. Never body. My eyes did much loving, but such loving would not long do. An appetite whetted cannot so easily be sated, and I’m afraid to admit that my feelings began to turn to hate once I saw that my advances and potential advances would always be rejected and deflected so carelessly. She was a goddess, and I was a lowly follower, offering meaningless sacrifices in her name.

As much as I’d loved her, I hate her twice more. Ten more. A score, a hundredfold. Ah, what does it matter! What I did is done and though I am undone it cannot be. It should never be. An ecstasy should never be recanted once fulfilled, but mine should be. It most certainly should be.

The depraved ramblings of a diseased mind. Diseased and rotting with filth, but alive. Alive and active and hungry. Always hungry, but sharper still. Sharp as a tack, sharp as a knife, sharp as the needle that plunges into my flesh and gives my mind rest at last.

But I should not speak of what I did. A confession is a repression and and I will surely sink into depression if I do that. Let me be jjubilantand  rejoice, let my loving heart, mind, and soul rejoice for all of their wanting. Let me want until I want no more. Let my body jump and twist in agony for its having.

Wretched man that I am, I deserve no better.