Acid Minded

I hate winter.

It was a dark and stormy night. No…Scratch that.

It was a boorish winter morning. Last night’s snow was slowly melting away under the assault of a depressingly gentle rain. It was the kind of morning that made your crappy single sized bed feel like the lush cushions of a Persian harem (the number of concubines in the harem varying according to the number of degrees below zero).

The only thing to look forward to is the warm shower that you know is just waiting for you a few feet away. But the second those sheets leave your feet, you suddenly realise that this heavenly pleasure is fiercely guarded by the bittingly cold air which has invaded the room while you slept.

Such was my predicament.

So, after debating the pros and cons of staying within my Persian Harem and missing classes for the third time that week, i decided against it and slowly inched off those blessed sheets, exposing my frail body to the failures of central heating. Verbally cursing earth’s drunken axis, I then sprinted to the bathroom and wrenched the shower’s hot water knob open. Soon the room filled with warm, delicious steam.

Oh Steam!

You Wonderful, divine creation! You loving creature of energetic water molecules bouncing off my skin and leaving behind a thin jacket of hot sweat. Take me into your loving embrace! Make me forget that soon i’ll have to journey outside, where no amount of silly looking clothes will make me feel like i do now!

The pleasant memory of the shower and steam bath on my mind, i quickly bundle up and head outside. And as the wind slaps me hello, i find myself thinking of the many tiny unborn children, hidden in the warm and cozy folds of their mother’s wombs, naked and oblivious.

Lucky Bastards.

phrases

E is like the crazy friend from highschool that comes to visit once in a while. You have a fantastic night and then you wake up the next morning in a jail cell with a hangover and he’s long gone.

MDMA is like the sexy girl you manage to pick up every so often. You again have a fantastic night but she has the courtesy to give you a few small quickies before she leaves.

“What do you mean we don’t have a spare planet? My dear boy, have you not heard of the planet XTC?”

Freelance Fingers.

Why is it that even if i intend to write nonsense i have to pause before i start? Am i actually scared of writing bad nonsense (does such a thing exist?)

So what is the point of having a blog i wonder? To write your innermost thoughts for the entire online population to read? To get famous? A friend of mine said that it helped him to organize his thoughts in his head, but then why not just use simple pen and paper?

TO SAVE THE ENVIRONMENT! Yes from now on we must write every single little thing electronically, forget that the actual electricity you are using is harming the planet in some way (it seems that wind turbines are killing bats now…i hope Gotham’s worst never get a hold of that info). Can you imagine having to open up your bloody laptop every time you want to check the grocery list? Or to write down a girl’s number? That kind of future depresses me…

Actually, come to think of it, how incredibly stupid do you have to be to believe that Global Warming is a myth? Is Greenpeace deliberatly melting the glaciers with a bunch of hair dryers? No? WELL HOW ARE THEY MELTING THEN? No wait…perhaps the sun is just getting hotter because it’s about to explode…and if that’s the case i think global warming is the least of our worries! (Pass the Heroin please Honey).

Is it normal for your brain to just completely crash on you, or am i having occasional down syndrome? (didn’t want to use the word retarted there…and as a result my sentence sucks, another reason why political correctness needs to be corrected)

Ode to a long haired leather Jacket

Hello my friend, where are you going tonight?

Your face has rarely been so bright

and i’ve never seen those eyes before.

I look at you and wonder how it must be

to not move and yet be free

Won’t you share this secret with me?

You are the kid on christmas day

The glutton at a free buffet

A dreamer that has found the way.

And though the hypocrites convict you

There can be no final verdict

When you live inside your mind.

Vita

Hey little boy won’t you run along now, chase your dreams wherever they lead you. Follow the sound of your teacher’s voice as it brings you to her truth, then forget it on the way home.

Hey young man won’t you speed your way through, look at those skirts with brand new eyes, why don’t you go inside for a peep. Realise the pain of your existence, you are alone in this world so don’t stop to smell the lilies.

Hey young fella won’t you creep along now, your teachers are gone and you think you can do it alone but you’ll never have the means to quite make it. Settle down now in your quiet life of muted misery and wait to be free of your children.

Hey old man you’ve got to go to the store, but you don’t run anymore, what happened? Won’t you get up and come with me, I’ll show you how you can be, that little boy once more.

ctrl, alt, Escape.

Escapism.

This word dominates a lot of human life.

For most of us, our lives are repetitive to the point of being often boring and sometimes depressing. It all starts with an implemented routine shortly after birth (usually the culprit here being the parents who feel forced to maintain schedule). Wake up, eat, burp, occasionally throw up, bumble around a bit as far as your little baby legs will push you and then back to a forced nap/sleep whenever your parents feel like you’ve had enough or they need a rest.

As a baby you can get away with disrupting other people’s routines. Your ignorance of the rules gives you an all forgiving innocence in the eyes of the adults. But once you’ve been deemed intelligent enough to communicate and understand orders well enough, playtime is over and routine becomes your master.

You can easily know when you have become a slave to routine when you can attach particular actions to certain times of day. Six o’ clock is the first sound of the alarm and with it comes the automatic pushing of the snooze button three to five times depending on how tired you feel or how angry your mother’s voice sounded that particular morning. Eight thirty: the walk to the classroom or lecture hall. Naturally, this leads to your life gathering an annoying predictability and once enough time has passed without any significant change taking place, boredom firmly settles.

Yet we dream of more. Man is filled with dreams. We look at the sky and imagine ourselves soaring towards the sun or hiding furtively behind the clouds. We hear stories of others, like us! who braved terrible conditions, climbing mountains or wrestling nature’s strongest predators. Where do these dreams come from? Hollywood? Books? But where did these human authors pull these dreams from? Surely they cannot all be inhuman freaks, gifted with some abnormal gene that gives them dreams beyond our own.

No, these dreams arise out of our lustful desires for the feeling of change. The quick alertness that adrenaline gives you when your mind detects that something isn’t in it’s usual place. You want to feel your heart beat faster, churning your blood into that an all consuming energy. To feel that at this moment, you, could match the achievements of those make believe characters, the sportsman turned idol, the billionaire businessman.

Bloody hell! You could leave them all behind! Tear off your suit, run like the wind, rescue the girl, kick some ass and be back in time for tea. You could be the shining star that all other humans look up to and hope to be. The hero that inspires fear in the hearts of the wicked and hope for the young crippled boy. God dammit, you could do it all!

Then it fades. You might shake your head or blink a few times, maybe even chuckle softly at how far your mind carried you away. But you store the memory, even as you go back to your routine. And you relish the thought of the next great fantasy.

Lemon

He suddenly realised that the lemon was still in his hand. This bright fragrant little fragment of hope, enveloped in his flesh. Power began to surge into his hands; Power fuelled by sheer hatred for this single most beautiful fruit. He wanted to crush it. Nothing else would have made him happier than to gently make this lemon bleed it’s sour juices. The people around him began to notice his obsession and begged him to stop: ‘No’ they cried, ‘Not the Lemon!’.

but Oh Yes! he thought. They couldn’t possibly understand. If only they knew how good it felt, to crush this soft defenseless object, especially when it had built up popular support! He was no longer crushing a mere piece of fruit, but the hope of everyone who so wanted it to survive.

The sense of power this gave him was better than any sexual experience; it overwhelmed his senses. He gave a quick cruel smile to his audience before proceeding with the show.

His nails began to dig under the soft pockmarked skin. Flashes of flesh made him sometimes confused as to what he was indeed holding, but he pressed on. The people around him had vanished as his mind focused on these new sensations.

The bitter fragrance which teased his nostrils. The weak resistance which his strong hand was gradually overcoming, and then the cool refreshing liquid that crept from the open wounds.

No other cruelty had ever felt more stimulating or pleasurable.

But sadly, no good thing is everlasting. The once wondrous lemon, symbol of happiness and hope to any drug crazed mind had been turned into a crumpled mushy mess; no more pleasure could be derived from this carcass.

So he threw it away, rinsed his hands, and moved on.