There is no fate: not in a written-in-stone way, anyhow. No destiny. No meant to be or not meant to be. Genes are not a dictator. Environment is not a dictator. Not even a dictator is a dictator. They all only designate a spectrum of paths from the least to greatest resistance. Choice is the determining factor. And if its not, I guess I’m off the hook. I couldn’t help thinking what I thought, so you can go blame the singularity or the star in some parallel universe that died and collapsed under its own weight, creating a black hole that created the “bubble” of fundamentals that in turn gave rise to our cosmos, or whatever.
We’re all in a game, but we forget its a game. We’re forced to play roles, but we forget that we aren’t them. I think the attraction of apocalyptic themes and the allure of doomsday stories in today’s culture exists because we want to feel what it would be like to live in a land finally liberated from this game. Mere projections of our desire for global revolution.
I think kids feel fragile to me not because they are fragile in the way I consciously reckon it, which is to say physically fragile, but because I know how fragile they are emotionally, psychologically. One moment can impact their life so deeply, and it could very well be an immortal wound. I think of that kid with his irresponsible, negligent, asshole of a father living in that shit, rundown house with that other disgusting man, and how better off he would be with his insane mess of a mother and I feel utterly, irreparably sick inside. I feel my guts mangle and spasm in a stew of relentless chaos.
Any religion that worships any creator-god is a slave religion. That god has committed countless crimes against you, abused you, tortured you, neglected you, lied to you — all as existence and the history of humanity bear direct experience of — and yet you still accept this, somehow, as evidence (though unneeded, of course, as you have your fucking “faith”) of some all-loving, all-powerful, all-knowing creator? That is the mentality of a willing slave. It is no matter that the master does not exist — save, perhaps, through his “intermediaries” here on earth, which is, of course, what this rouse is all about: power of the few over the many. A powerful tool of social control utilized by alphas playing beta to a nonexistent alpha they pretend exists.
Speaking of the natural evolution of porn, I think it will find its home in the zero-gravity of space, and not only because its pretty much the only thing not available on some mangled node on the vast and expansive porno-web at the moment. And just think how things will have to change. Slap her on the ass too hard and you’ll send her hurtling towards a head-on collision with the porthole, where she’ll end up squashed against the window like some sun-baked Garfield stick-on doll. And the first guy to make the decision to pull out while fucking a girl in zero-gravity? He would no doubt experience pure horror as little fluid pearls erupted out of the apex of his manhood’s mushroom-head. This terror would only grow as these ping-pong balls of quivering happy juice, catapulted by the headbanging initiated by its release from between those luscious, moistened lower lips, would move swiftly towards his face — for his sake hopefully not bearing a mouth agape in shock and horror of the coming onslaught of jism-blobs.
The desert stretches around him like the open arms of some long-lost friend. No cover surrounds him to shield away the blazing sun, to provide shelter if it should ever rain, to battle against the wind. Poor, lost soul; he gave up so early in the game. Decided the pain was not worth the pleasure. I say unto him: “But the pain only came with its departure, and you never sought for it through someone else, just allowed yourself to pine away over one lone soul in one lone shell, stacking excuses upon excuses as to why this pain should not exist, on why that pleasure cannot be real. Though it does, and yet it is. And one thing dies, leaving space for another pleasure to be born. These death throes could mutate into birth pangs. But you would rather conjure ghosts to fill that empty room.”
They say majority rules, but that can be incredibly misleading. Majority of what? And of whom? And when? Take voting: the majority doesn’t vote, but the majority of voters have their way, so I suppose majority rules in that sense, though it would actually be more accurately represented by the phrase “the majority of the minority voting rules,” but whatever.
But only the majority of the voters at the time of voting rule, too. That same majority has no choice of that scale for the rest of the year or term. If majority ruled all the time, a president’s presidency would last only so long as he could keep his public approval ratings above fifty percent. A bus could dictate whether a particular passenger could ride or not.
But majority rules is a concept that misleads in other ways as well. For instance, why is it considered such an ethical or moral way of handling a group of individuals, anyway? If you were stranded on an island with two other people and they decided you should do all the work while they lounge around, would that be moral? For that would be majority rules. Accepting that there is power in numbers, majority rules is just a sublimated manifestation of “might makes right,” if you think about it. That’s why we’re supposed to be in a Republic, as it rules by law, and these laws are supposed to create nonnegotiable securities aimed at preserving personal freedoms. Things that the bully we call “majority rules” cannot touch. Things that would be unanimous. The most bare-bones, generic, fundamental liberties we would all secure for ourselves if we were only thinking of ourselves and not other people: this secures those same liberties not just for us, but for everyone else, too.
“Life is but a dream,” a children’s rhyme insists. Well, if this is the case, than who is the dreamer? And why do elements of the dreamer’s dream dream themselves? Do my dream characters themselves have dreams? And the dreamer who dreams the dream we call life — is that dreamer, too, part of someone’s dream? And why, if life is but a dream, do I always wake back up into this dream but whenever I dream I dream a different dream? Or is it that the dream we call life is a dream that operates in accordance with a different set of laws than those which govern our personal dreams? After all, it quite clearly does. Perhaps the distinctions between the laws governing our personal dreams and this big dream stem from the fact that we are all jointly the dreamers in this big dream, whereas we are lone dreamers of our personal ones. Perhaps the consistency of this dream is held by the fact that not all people are asleep at once, and so the dream is maintained. Perhaps the laws governing this dream arise out of the fact that there is more than one dreamer, and so the desires of all dreamers cannot be satisfied at once as in personal dreams, but must arise as, before, after, around, through, over, or between the desires of other dreamers, and that this leads to a chronology of events linked through a cause-and-effect web; in short, the temporal dimension governing this dream is the result of rival dreamers.
“What if you accidentally leave the maintenance keys in your pocket and take them home, as you’ve done before?” My boss asks.
Well, what if I leave them in the office, which has a locked door, and what if we get busy and the manager on duty has to deal with customers and we need paper in the women’s restroom and I can’t get the manager’s attention and then he has me wait and fifteen minutes later I get the keys to the office, open the office, get the keys to the maintenance closet, go to the female restroom, wait for the woman in there — a 200-pounder — to emerge in a suspiciously speedy way as she averts eye contact as I go inside to find the toilet overflowing, shit everywhere, because the woman, in the half an hour it took for me to acquire the keys necessary to change the toilet paper, had to leave as urgently as she had to take the mother of all dumps and, instead of waiting on TP, was forced to wipe her ass with her sock, which she flushed down the toilet and subsequently clogged it with, and as I work on unclogging the toilet, the Health Inspector arrives because someone called her a day ago because one out of a billion hairs on half a dozen employees ended up on a guy’s cheeseburger and she opens the female restroom door to take a leak and empty herself of her Vente Latte she poured down her gullet as she drove here in her gas-guzzling SUV just in time to see me frantically alternating between passionately-plunging and trying to fish it out with a mangled coat-hanger like an overly-enthusiastic back-alley abortionist as a turd sails down a growing stream of tinkle-tainted toilet water (with a hint of brown due to renegade poop-particles, giving it that beef stew kind of coloring) stretching from the toilet to the open doorway she stands within like a peanut-infested canoe of stinky doom amidst off-white-water rapids?
That would be far more unfortunate than me leaving home with the maintenance keys after my shift, methinks — and much more likely, as the fact remains that I’ve never taken the maintenance keys home.
In today’s culture, they have replaced the gods and goddesses found in the mythologies of old. We call them stars as if they are truly oh-so high above us, so utterly unreachable and clearly omnipotent. We are passive spectators to the drama of their lives; drooling voyeurs living through them vicariously. And as any sky-gazer will tell you, falling stars are the best. So went the MJ Meteor, so goes Comet Houston. And, as we all know, Charlie Sheen is a motherfuckin’ UFO.