The Metric System is Pretentious.

Practicality Was Never My Strong Suit.

The slow rumblings of inevitable rebellion were swelling within me, every part of my logic said NO. But the inner machinery of my justification was well prepared for that. I was rebelling against benevolent dictators, people who had taken me in, I was a refugee complaining about the blankets, and I knew that. But that didn’t change the way I felt, it was some sort of weird reverse stockholm syndrome. I can’t play the role of Stepford for too long before shit goes bad.

I lost my right hand, I was in a lot of pain, constantly. No amount of church going bullshit was going to change that. I din’t believe in God, I never have. I just wanted a friend, and I guess that’s how I met Janet.

She was 51 but looked like she was 36, I found out her age by pilfering her wallet and it’s contents and finding her I.D. while she was in the shower (She was also an organ donor). All of this lead into a spiraling debauchery of my despondent love for her, and my callous indifference for everything else.

Reblog if you are not wearing pants

Because, fuck ‘em.

(Source: orphanfacepunch, via killing--moon)

You Bastards Must Be Crazy.

In my life of relentless purgatory I am continually assailed by incredible feelings of want, lust, and dread. Not to mention the catastrophic sterile numbness that comes with living in the depths of the woods among all too sane, healthy, and practical people. I feel sterile, devoid. If nothingness could feel apathetic, it would be me. 

So, I decided fuck it. I’ll go see if I can audit some classes at the small University 4 miles away. That’s a 4 mile bike ride for me through wooded mountain roads with no shoulder. Which is no big deal because I bike that back and forth just about everyday anyway, and fuck it I’ve been out of college for almost 5 years now. I have a craving for the academic setting, I’ve been reading about 800 pages a day anyway, and I’m just about certain I could kick any literature or film students ass with my obscenely obsessive knowledge rabies.

When I get there, A woman with explosively large, orange, and crimped hair offered to help me, and I explained that I was only going to be in town for another month or two waiting on some surgeries and I would like to possibly audit some classes. She succinctly, with the placid face of someone on too many anti-depressants informed me that I could enroll in the college with the help of financial aid. I repeated that I was only going to be here for 2 more months at most and wasn’t interested in enrolling but just auditing a few classes. Without saying anything she walked away and came back with a form for me to fill out. She then directed me over to the business office, who I would have to see before I could fill it out. 

When I arrived at the business office a young man seemed very happy to see me and thought it was “absolutely great” that I wanted to audit classes. He did, however, inform me that there would be a “small fee”. In an act that I thought was odd at the time, he wrote it down on a post it note and handed it to me… still smiling. 

It read in small red handwriting: 

$450 per credit.

That’s $450 PER MOTHERFUCKING CREDIT, THE CLASSES I WANTED TO AUDIT WERE 3 CREDITS EACH. THAT’S A GRAND MOTHERFUCKING TOTAL OF $1,350 A CLASS. THAT’S $2,700 FOR TWO CLASSES. THAT’S 10% OF MY STUDENT LOAN FOR TWO CLASSES. ALL OF THIS IS FOR, I REMIND YOU, A SLEEPY ASS TINY LITTLE UNIVERSITY IN THE MIDDLE OF BUM FUCK NOWHERE. AND I WOULD NOT BE GETTING ANY ACTUAL CREDIT FOR THESE CLASSES, BUT MERELY ALLOWED TO SIT THERE AND LISTEN TO THE PROFESSOR. WHO THE FUCK DO THESE PEOPLE THINK THEY FUCKING ARE?! HARVARD?! 

SO NO. HOW ABOUT FUCK THIS. HOW ABOUT INSTEAD, I LURK AROUND YOUR LIBRARIES, WHICH I ALREADY DO! YEAH THAT’S RIGHT I’M ALREADY ALL UP IN THAT BITCH, SNATCHIN’ UP YOUR KNOWLEDGE. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT. HOW ABOUT I WAIT AROUND AND IDENTIFY THE ENGLISH STUDENTS, AND THEN TELL THEM I’LL DO THEIR HOMEWORK FOR THEM AND MAKE THEM STUDY GUIDES FOR TEN DOLLARS, WITH THE FIRST ONE A FREE PRACTICE RUN TO SEE IF THEY LIKE MY WORK. HOW ABOUT THAT YOU DIRTY RICH MOTHERFUCKERS? BECAUSE THEN I’LL BE GETTING PAID TO GO TO YOUR MOTHERFUCKING SCHOOL. YOU WORTHLESS PIECES OF SHIT. 

Don’t even fuck with me on the morality of my actions in this matter, because there is no way they are lower than the stinking shitpit of moral ground you have to stand on to charge such a dramatically high price for knowledge.

Longing.

Tilly’s face escaped into an introverted wonderland, a certain degree of forlorn ambiguity draping itself lazily through her features as the men stared at the flickering television screen. He sat there, fascinated, smoke emanating from his cigarette in neat little streams forever billowing over themselves as they conjoined and dissipated into the ceiling. He wondered what was there, the hollow wonders of her eyes, all the mystery of her being condensed to a small point staring off through the strands of her brown hair, dancing like a thinly veiled gate, inviting you in and simultaneously, playfully, tauntingly, keeping you out. He wanted nothing to do with the flickering of the television and everything to do with her. There she was, with her perfect shoulder bones pressed deeply into the couch cushions, fixated on nothing as she inhaled her belly button almost up to her ribcage… defying the world to force her to be anything but beautiful. 

I Finished my Screenplay.

“I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.”  -Arthur Rimbaud

We start shooting in October.

You Fucking Obsequious Nightmares.

I don’t feel comfortable like this, I will put on my smile and read you my fucking script, encouraging, delightful, and insincere in every aspect. I’ll play the character that fits in perfectly to the plot, I’ll become one of your favorite supporting roles, I’ll craft every line and reaction to what you want. But I won’t be comfortable, and I’ll never be sorry. Go ahead with your peace and love, your simplistic ambivalence and yearning to build a perfect, beautiful world. But always know, that I won’t be a part of it, a disconnected, unapologetic, tatterdemalion, giggling at your failures, forever remaining the last bastion of obscenity.

(Lot’s of) Women Are Insane.

Shit’s not like it was in the old days, when damsels in distress were actually damsels in distress. Back then, there was imminent war, pillaging, politically arranged marriages, beheadings, plagues, and dowry’s. Shit was fucking rough. Men HADto wear shining armor back then because everything was turbo fucked up. Nowadays, shit’s still fucked up, just in different ways. There’s still a lot of generally good guys that are more than willing to defend your honor and express our love, but they don’t really need armor to troubleshoot shit on your computer or install a ceiling fan. But no, women are fed all this crazy atavistic “heroic” shit men are supposed to be doing. They’re forcefed this shit from the instant they’re born. Then it’s reinforced over and over again in a never ending barrage of unrealistic and ultimately really fucking shitty romantic comedies full of knights in shining armor. Fuck, I don’t even own a horse. All of this reinforced bullshit, has led to the most perplexingly futile and straight up dangerous game played by modern couples. This is how it goes… The woman intentionally gets into trouble with her boyfriend or potential boyfriend around “To see how much he loves her” Then she gets too fucking drunk and starts shit, pits you against her parents, alienates your friends, and places an insanely high importance on completely fucking unnecessary tasks. Women will put your entire fucking life in limbo just so they can stand back and grade you on some absurd and forever ambiguous “Love Report Card” That goes something like this. “Oh he got punched in the face and banned from his favorite bar for something I did, hmm… i’ll give him a ‘B’ because he could’ve beat that other guy over there up too. I don’t like his tattoos, he should’ve known that.” That is fucking insane! What a terrible way to measure how much I love you! You want to know how I fucking love you?! It’s when I look into your eyes and tell you “I love you”, it’s when I spend all of my time with you and genuinely care about how you’re feeling, it’s when I go down on you and cuddle! But I know there’s a bunch of fucking insane bitches out there who are probably like “Well he never does that shit for me often enough.” You know why?! It’s probably because you keep on doing stupid shit trying to get him to prove that he loves you! (Or he’s a douchebag, or you’re ugly) It doesn’t make us love you more, IT MAKES US FUCKING HATE YOU.

Fuck, look at Romeo and Juliet, you think that shit would’ve ever had a shot if Juliet was like “Oh daddy, that young Montague boy Romeo snuck into your orchard last night and called out to me, maybe you should see what he wanted.” While all the while silently thinking “Pshh. anyone can compare me to the sun, and my eyes to stars, now I’ll see how much he really loves me.” 

NO. FUCK THAT SHIT.

That’s when Romeo is like “Fuck that crazy rich bitch, she ratted me out to her father. Come Mercutio, let’s go pick up on hoodrats at the brothel. They don’t have dads.”

and Mercutio’s all like, “I’m so down.”

Leaving Juliet with her nurse saying something like “I don’t know, everything seemed to be going so well, he was so romantic when we were talking, but now he just ignores me… Whatever, I don’t need his headgames. Now comb my hair.”

I’m not saying every relationship is like this, and in fact, a lot of mine aren’t. But I see this shit happen too fucking often, and more often than not, I’m the one who has to fucking hear about it.