mad drunk genius

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

Tag: life

Piss in my bed, piss on my life

On a Friday, I lost my job & with it my healthcare.

On Monday, I learned that my longterm ex had been sleeping with my housemate, and that his infidelities in their relationship—and her complaints about him doing so as her direct superior—led to his firing & her continued mental breakdown.

On Wednesday, I learned my teeth are in need of much attention that will need dental coverage I probably can’t afford.

Thursday morning I awoke to find a sexual partner had drunk herself to excess & pissed herself in her asleep (again).

Thursday afternoon, a woman who’d just gotten out of a break-up let me know that when she wanted to hang out with me, she had no sexual interest implied.

Very little in this actually related. All of it feels like it is.

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Marvelous, this fantastic world, isn’t it?

Quentin, the upscale gangster banker, is not so awkward in person.
——Slip in to the backward way, then try to extricate again.
His limbs on one side —the left—were transparent as they began to reform.

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So then what is yours?

In the play that is my life, I am the protagonist. I am important and irreplaceable, but this is not a one-man show.

There are supporting characters who must remain the same or else the show can’t go on, but they’re really just roles, you know. Roles that can be filled by any talented actor.

There is no one more important than the rest. Everyone is replaceable. Everyone has a role and if they decide to leave it, someone will pick up where they left off so the show can go on.

We’re all actors, but in my play, everyone must have a role.

Wow, that’s almost as bad as the video where pig got its head cut off with a chainsaw

Oh wait! It is the video where the pig got its head cut off with a chainsaw.

No trick, it really is that bad.

Which is to say, it’s not all that bad at all. I think I’ve touched on this before, but the funny thing about the internet is that it has a way of desensitizing the individual to at least visual violence and otherwise disturbing things. I imagine if I had to smell something rotting, I’d have a problem, but for example, a picture of the shores several days after the Indian Ocean Tsunami of 2004 showing dozens of bloated human bodies, not a big problem for me. Standing there, I don’t think I’d be overcome by the visual tragedy or horror of it, but rotting flesh would probably cause me to give up my lunch to the earth.

In the case of the pig, and I understand the difference between a pig and a human being, watching it violently die produced very little effect. At first I was incredulous that what I thought was going to happen actually would, then I was silent as the chainsaw went in, a raised eyebrow at the still kicking decapitated body, then laughter and a verbal, profane-laden expressions of disbelief as I watched the perpetrator chortle maniacally. No real shock or disgust.

*Various soldiers getting sniped in Iraq*

That produced a bit of hate. I mean, it’s Islamic propaganda and American servicemen are getting killed or wounded on camera without any provocation, meanwhile Islamic-style music plays in the background. It’s real people and if not as dramatic as a chainsaw execution, still violently destructive. But am I shocked? Was I unable to watch all of it? No, although after several minutes I grew bored and skipped through it, finding it all to be very much the same. Boredom.

Certainly all of this could have come about in other ways. Hunting profusely could quite possibly lead one to find it easier to pull the trigger on another human being. Video games haven’t monopolized simulated homicide, whatever Jack Thompson would like you to believe. And in the past, I helped a lady with several pigs hold them down and castrate them (pigs whose testicles lie inside them and must be cut into, dug out, and finally severed). That was certainly no less violent or torturous, even if it was supposed to be done for their benefit, done with relative concern for them, and not fatal. I felt something then, more due to my kinship as a male animal than anything else. Now, I feel sorry for the pig, but in a much more detached way.

Hey, it’s just a short clip, and a tiny one on a screen mere inches from my face. It’s not real, so it’s not surprising that these unreal things start to lose their weight after a while. Law of Diminishing Returns and all that.

But even a virtual diminishment has an effect on the reality that constitutes our lives.

De Nada

To understand, we must start at the end and work our way back to the beginning.

He is dead and in a casket. He is at his own funeral. People are crying, but why? There are not many people around to cry, but why? Where did they all come from?

He is in a hospital bed, the nurse covers him with a white sheet. In the hall outside, a doctor tells the people that he is dead and they burst into tears. There are less here than before, but their tears are no less genuine, the scene no less moving.

He is quiet. He is very quiet and the people around him do not acknowledge his existence as they chat and interact around him. He is there, but he is not. He may as well not be there, but he is unavoidable. It would be impossible not to notice him, but no one does.

He is at work, it is his last day. Tomorrow he won’t be able to come back. He has known for a very long time that this day was coming, so he has had a very long time to accept it. He has accepted it. But what will he do?

It is dark and he is asleep in bed. No, not asleep, but lying still as though he were. He is sad. Why is he sad? There are no tears, there are no words. No sounds, not a sigh or groan to give a glimpse into his thoughts. He is sad. He must be. There is no one else.

He is very young. He is in school and afraid. Of what? Who knows. But he is there and he is alone because he is afraid. He sits, surrounded by others, but he might as well not be there. He does what he does quietly and proceeds without fanfare. He is not the target of hate or love, but indifference.

He is playing. There is a swing and he swings on it. Other people play with a ball or on a merry-go-round, he stays where he is and swings. Now and again, boys and girls swing next to him, but there is little talk.

He is very loud. He is crying out, screaming with every ounce of power his small body provides to him. He is hungry, uncomfortable, and frightened, but no one is near to help him. Someone must be in the house, but they do not come.  Eventually, there is food, there is milk, and there is changing. He is content.

He is pain, terrible and seemingly unbearable pain. He is a parasite forcing his will on another body. She could not turn her thoughts elsewhere if she tried. Those around her might, but dare not. He is the reason for their occupation, too.

He is warmth, tingle, and explosion. He is the only thought of two minds for a single moment, and the only reason for their existence. He is life itself.

The music of life

Music swings this way and that and it’s all mathematical formulas when you get right down to it. It’s all about math and using math to make art, to make the notes that people want to hear in a way they want to hear them. But it ain’t the notes that makes it go, it’s the flow, dig?

The notes make it music and the beat just gives it movement, but that’s the most important part.

See, life is like the notes. Life is the events, like the beats are events. They stand still in time, waiting for context. A note out of context doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a sound. It needs all the other notes around it. A moment of time doesn’t mean anything, it needs what comes before and after. It’s all cause and effect, see. Cause causes the effect to be effected. But unless you’ve got the rhythm, unless you’ve got the beat, nothing happens. The notes are just there and they don’t play no music. Life don’t go unless you’ve got the flow, dig?