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Oct. 23rd, 2007

Booooooks

This is a reminder for me. Books I need to get.

Pi: A Biography of the World's Most Mysterious Number - by Alfred S. Posamentier, Ingmar Lehmann
2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl - by Daniel Pinchbeck
Breaking Open the Head: A Psychedelic Journey into the Heart of Contemporary Shamanism - by Daniel Pinchbeck
Point Counter Point - Aldous Huxley
The Doors of Perception and Heaven and Hell - Aldous Huxley
Tesla: Man Out of Time - by Margaret Cheney
Black Hole - by Charles Burns
The House of the Dead - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
The Idiot - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Crime & Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
The Metamorphosis, In The Penal Colony, and Other Stories - Kafka
Rant - Chuck Palahniuk
Art of Modern Rock: The Poster Explosion - Paul Grushkin, Dennis King
While Europe Slept: How Radical Islam is Destroying the West from Within - Bruce Bawer
Stealing Jesus: How Fundamentalism Betrays Christianity - Bruce Bawer
A Foreign Policy of Freedom: Peace, Commerce, and Honest Friendship - Ron Paul
Gatewood Badlands

Oct. 19th, 2007

Friday Finds

Friday is now a day for random finds on the interbutts.

[On zombies potentially being used as a weapon, but oddly universally applicable]
"However, if there anything in this world that could possibly threaten humanity, you can bet that somewhere, someone is trying to turn it into a weapon." - Max brooks

GWAR give the best interviews:


Zombie snails(srsly):


Pia Fraus - Moon Like a Pearl:


Movie School: Moments that Redefined Cinema:

Oct. 10th, 2007

I Am The Carcass

I would say I'm sick, but I'm not.  It's impossible.  I'm knelt, hugged against a toilet, spilling my guts through my mouth.  Actually, that's a lie.  I'm spilling someone else's guts.  It's easy to find your way around a town like Badger, South Dakota when you're familiar with those deceased.  The carrion condominiums.  The fellow putrefying.  If you look at it on any map, all you'll see is a fucking road with enough nothing to replace anything you're missing, provided you're willing to get your fingernails dirty and cracked.  Also provided what you need is a liver.  Or a pancreas.

My empty chest throbs as I feel the masticated remains of tonight's feast escape my stomach.  The glory of the dead is that we never complain.  We're not using the ultimately vestigial collections of tissue anyway.  We're not even fighting for elbow space in our respective ghost towns.  I used to be that content.  When I was younger, I was a smoker.  Before I found out I was already walking rot, I would joke about how my end would come about by a tragic bus accident, as revealed to me in a dream by the Aztec god Quetzcotl, and that lung cancer was not an issue.  These days, I'm thoroughly convinced I don't have the equipment.  And speaking of which, the vortex of water is now engulfing what I thought would be my new pair of lungs for awhile.  Looks like I'll be fishing and feasting the next day.  Either way, soon after my humorous, self-imposed delusions became a thing of the past.  I gradually began to feel myself rotting as I walked.  The scent; the ichor-filled aftermath of necrotizing fasciitis, or whatever neurotoxin you'd like to fill in the blank with was pungent to me the way heartache is to those who have hearts.  Or the correct chemical equation to process it. 

It's so ironic when people try to convince you you're alive, when in the end you're a zombified slave when your mind comes into the context. 

If you're confused, you need to question your intelligence.  Being confused by nothing.  However, I'd heard it was called Cotard's Syndrome.  The belief that you're dead.  The belief you're walking rot.  The belief that you don't exist.  Imagine a hypochondriac zombie, and that's how Cotard's Syndrome is explained.  I also heard the accusations of being a hypochondriac.  I could feel my heart stop beating.  I could feel the space in my head gradually turning into a much more all-encompassing lack of vacancy.  The air I seemed to breathe only served to make my lungs crack and bleed. 

Ugh.  I think I just lost Mrs. Hannover's stomach.  Pity.  Her husband was buried right next to her though, I'm not particularly worried.

So yeah, I was a hypochondriac and I had Cotard's Syndrome.  That's all a thing of the past.  As I stare into my dirtied and porcelain, white-washed reflection off of the lid of the toilet seat, I see eyes with no soul.  No spirit.  No mind.  As a matter of fact, there's a check list of things I'm missing, which is why I have to keep making these trips.  None of it's entertaining, I just have to stop the fucking rotting.  It's haunting me.  I can't stand that god damn smell, and I can feel to the depths of my core the new gelatinous form my flesh is taking.  The pus building and congealing.  I am the fucking walking dead, but I am not content to share the same hallowed ground with people who refused to fight.  So, I eat.  My teeth tear through flesh.  Commuted fractures of bones rake against my mouth, and I feel them tear away at whatever seems to be stopping them inside my body.  The marrow, slightly dried but still somewhat  satiating, grinds against my teeth like muddy grains of sand.  Occasionally, I even cringe whenever I feel the jelly inside whatever unlucky souls' eyeballs mixes with the dirt and reaches the back of your taste buds, which convinces me it's working.

Your tongue works with a system of sensory cells in different areas that determine taste.  The tip of your tongue recognizes sweetness.  the sides of your tongue recognize saltiness.  The back of your tongue, directly underneath your uvula(Mine seems to've gone missing), is where your brain identifies bitterness.  That's why whenever you taste something too bitter, your stomach releases everything.  I don't think that's so in my case, but I recognize it.  I vomited because I packed too much, like a tourist bringing too many clothes on a trip that's way too short. 

Coffins these days are fucking beasts.  My fingernails?  Cracked.  Bent back at the cuticle.  And look at that, my thumb nail is gone.  Probably lost it when I was clawing my way towards my rented prostate.  However, sometimes when you're lost in the hedonism of complete gluttony, you start to feel traces of yourself come back.  I didn't just eat Mr. Hammond's prostate.  That wasn't enough.  I didn't just leave it at that.  I had to test it out.  I had to see if my suspicions were right.  I had to see if I chose the right prostate.

Yes.  I put my penis in him.

At first, you'd be mortified by the thought.  Cold, stiffened and decaying material is not a suitable home for any kind of genitalia.  If I'm dead, and he's dead, then is it really necrophilia or just semantics?  I thrust and brushed my face against his emptied chest.  Obviously he was an organ donor and I'm lucky to've gotten what I did.  I pushed and pushed deeper into the wound I extracted his prostate through, and it was rough.  It felt like fucking sandpaper covered in vaseline.  If you don't get the idea, you get the occasional snag on rigid bones around the pelvis.  There really is no scar I just can't replenish later, even if it means coming dangerously close to a post-mortem blowjob. 

So, my spine twitched, my back arched, and luckily enough, I blew a load.  I might've been worried about leaving DNA, but it'll be funny hearing about police finding a man's own DNA in the cavity his prostate was removed from.  It's like an anatomical Mobius strip.  I'm not ashamed to say I'm grinning, staring at this dingy and moldy toilet, watching my reflection off the waves of the vomit-stained water.  A hypochondriac.  Sufferer of Cotard's delusion. 

This is fighting to reclaim existence.  This is using the dead to prove to myself I'm alive.  However, I'll never stop.  I'll continue to rob graves of nutrition.  I'll continue to paradoxically enjoy, somewhere in the depths of what doesn't exist, the taste of congealed blood sloshing through my mouth. 

I am the carcass.

Sep. 16th, 2007

Random Analysis

I didn't really want to actually post a blog on my Livejournal.  I have MySpace, Facebook, the standard spill-your-guts sites, so naturally when I occasionally feel the need to write and publish something useful, I have a number of venues to do it through.  I figured Livejournal would be a nice parody blog, and I might actually get back to that someday, but whatever.

I'm reading a book by Chuck Klosterman titled Killing Yourself to Live.  It's about a writer for Spin magazine that does an expose(I guess you could call it) on the world's fascination with death, and how being a musician that has died automatically elevates you to godhood. So far, he's snorted coke off in a graveyard and had a schizophrenic bout with himself and his three imaginary women, only one of which he's in a relationship with.  It's ironic that the book is essentially one long road trip, because that's exactly the kind of thought it's inspired.  You're locked in the isolation of you and your friends' means of transportation, using the stereo as your own soundtrack.  It's like a Kevin Smith movie.  I'm reading this while some movie is playing on TV, it's called "The World, then Fireworks."  Right now, I'm om imdb.com, seeing what everyone else has to say about the movie, and frankly, it's not good.  What I paid attention to seemed incredibly enthralling, mainly because the setting is essentially the ideal 1950's black and white, smoking and evocative dialog in Chicago motif.  Something about me wishes that's how things functioned still.

However, the entire time I'm thinking about the difference between myself then and now.  The difference that will be between myself now and when I'm forty.  I'm nineteen, and sometimes I feel like I'll never figure anything out about myself.  I'm pretty much a walking collection of hypocrisies, the same thing I ultimately hate about people in general.  One passage of the book, the author asks, "When I'm fifty, will I have a hard time justifying the context of searching through Robert Johnson's crossroads just to satiate my obsession with death?"  Just then, Billy Zane howls at some woman he's sleeping with, demanding she let her id take over.  Just then, a previous passage jolts through my head: "You're fascinated and obsessed with these things because you want to compensate for not being able to understand them."

That's about where I decided to quit reading for the night, because I felt genuinely affected by it.  I'm obsessed with so many things.  Whether or not it's because I don't understand them may not apply to all, but even so, I began to think.  For instance, I'm obsessed with people telling me about their problems, especially if they're depressed.  I'm a manic-depressive, and at times I feel that if I can listen to all these people tell me their problems and maybe cheer them up, I'll have the answer for myself.  It'll be so much easier to just convince myself that things are not really the way I think they are.  Seems that after nineteen years though, you'd become impervious to your own cycle of disillusioning yourself and putting a new illusion into the vacuum.  For someone who's always despised alpha males and cringed at the thought of becoming one, sometimes I wonder why I won't just admit to myself that I want to dominate the conversation.  I want people to feel intrigued and that there's something new and different when it comes to me, but there might not be anything at all behind the over-analytical nonsense. 

I argue with myself constantly.  The friends I have, what would happen if I let my id take over for a day?  Or, what would happen if I just quit trying to make them laugh or feel so comfortable?  What would happen if I really was tragically hit by a bus?  Would I just be quietly phased out of peoples' lives one day, only for them to ask, "Whatever happened to that guy?"  It's not that I want to make a difference for hundreds of people, it's that I want to make a difference for two or three.  That's why I'm so obsessed with death as well as the taboos and mystique surrounding it.  I don't know who I'll know by the time I die.  I don't know who will remember me the way I really was or who will remember be because of what I did for them, and it really does bother me.  That's why I'm so fascinated by learning about everyone who I felt has influenced me.  All the biographic books I own are by people who have massive influence over me, the only stipulation being that all of them are about people who are now dead.

What I'm feeling right now, I don't really know if it's depression or fragility.  Weakness is definitely a contender. 

When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful,
a miracle, oh it was beautiful, magical.
And all the birds in the trees, well they'd be singing so happily,
joyfully, playfully watching me.
But then they send me away to teach me how to be sensible,
logical, responsible, practical.
And they showed me a world where I could be so dependable,
clinical, intellectual, cynical.
There are times when all the world's asleep,
the questions run too deep
for such a simple man.
Won't you please, please tell me what we've learned
I know it sounds absurd
but please tell me who I am.

Sep. 4th, 2007

Let's Talk About Ourselves

My name's Ryan, and I'm the greatest person alive.  Whenever I masturbate, I sploosh money.  Whenever I walk, women throw their bodies in front of my feet so I never touch the ground.  I've resorted to having sex with inanimate objects because I've already boned every woman that traverses the face of the planet.

I'm a really good listener, though.

AIM quote of the day:

"BonSothoth:    Now tell me how brilliant I am. :P

ZombieBman:    The grey clouds part at the spiritually thunderous sound of your heels tapping against the earth undeserved of such awe-inspiring splendor. :0"

Sep. 2nd, 2007

The Wolf Is Loose

I've heard about this Livejournal business.  Now all I need to do is finance revolutions so people will read it and not die of boredom.

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