QUIXOTICALITY

So here I am bloody shivering in this stupid room; air conditioner blowing directly at me, Beherit hood on, wearing black boxers, losing the nimbleness in my typing; it's so hard to do anything when you're cold, you lose your flexibility, your thinking goes whack, now i remember why I was such a dumb kid whenever it came to winters and/or snow.

So I wrote a poem about being high on weed, at the same time holding a jealousy of the guy in front of me who has a bigger joint/blunt/whatever size it may be and its street lingo coded term.

so here goes nothing/everything/something. I hate that line.

'Behold a foe;
A fool two inches greater.
I am 5 hours ahead of my own time;
recessing from this vortex of morality.
A congregation for my stupidity;
The parliament in my head;
Jesters argue, cheer and jeer;
I do not catch a word;
A blender of emotions;
A mosaic of words;
Marred in requiem.
Monochromatic a rainbow eaten by the shadows of the sky;
Breathing out clouds of refracted vomit.
Colours seek within me an atomic state of diabolism;
A painted canvas of debauchery.
A faceless mask pinned onto me to "injustify" my masquerade.
Far flung loops of animosity;
An ulcer in the sun.
Thus this enemy greater now by an inch;
Sickly this monolith besieging my intensity;
GET ME AWAY FROM THIS "QUIXOTICALITY"

Nihil

So folks, I hope you're all recovering from my previous post, but here I am again to give another piece of information about myself.

You all may know that I am Nihilistic so here I am to give the wikipedia explanation of the belief:

Nihilism (from the Latin nihil, nothing) is a philosophical position which argues that existence is without objective meaning, purpose, or intrinsic value. Nihilists generally assert some or all of the following:

* Objective morality does not exist.
* No action is logically preferable to any other in regard to the moral value of one action over another.
* In the absence of objective morality, existence has no intrinsic higher meaning or goal.
* There is no reasonable proof or argument for the existence of a higher ruler or creator.
* Even if a higher ruler or creator exists, humanity has no moral obligation to worship them.

The term nihilism is sometimes used synonymously with anomie to denote a general mood of despair at the pointlessness of existence.[1]

Movements such as Dada, Futurism,[2] and deconstructionism,[3] among others, have been identified by commentators as "nihilistic" at various times in various contexts. Often this means or is meant to imply that the beliefs of the accuser are more substantial or truthful, whereas the beliefs of the accused are nihilistic, and thereby comparatively amount to nothing (or are simply claimed to be destructively amoralistic).

Nihilism is also a characteristic that has been ascribed to time periods: for example, Jean Baudrillard and others have called postmodernity a nihilistic epoch,[4] and some Christian theologians and figures of religious authority have asserted that postmodernity[5] and many aspects of modernity[3] represent the rejection of God, and therefore are nihilistic.

But of course there are more to it that this little expression. You guys shoud read books by Nietzsche and Palahniuk, it's all too philosophical, too transgression-al, too factual. But there, I wanted to post something but I was too lazy so I just copied and pasted.

So was that the first time you fucked a dead girl?

Check this out folks.... I found a fucking wheelchair!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ok so I'm replacing it with the chair that cut me up that night.

I also bought Joy some guppies; she'll take them once she shifts to her new place.

So anyway, I was discussing to myself on my new wheelchair that if I were to create a job for myself, I'd be a vocabularian! A person who comes up with words, just to get paid to make shit up. Then create words like misogynistisim;one who dwells in the ideal of misogyny. Or abominative; equal to the meaning of destructive.

But fuck all that, I'm not in a very good mood now; my parents fucked me up since last night and oh the beauty! I never did anything wrong this time, really. I was forced to suck up to them this entire saturday; apologies friends. But yeah, I'm not gonna express all my angst here. It'll just waste your time and my effort.

So I'm going to improvise on a story, remember that other time I wrote about voyeurism? This is another friday for that guy...
_____________________________________________________________________________________

I'm standing here in front of this window again, hand stuffed crassly down my pants, waiting for my show to start.

There, my spartan and his masochistic princess frolic on the satin linen, petting and groping each sensitive spot.

Flabbergasted you say I am?-- Very.

But it's alright to forget how to breathe once in a while like this, it chokes the insanity exploding in the multitudes within your knotted brain.

My penis is like an anxious horse, waiting to charge into the horizons of sexual immorality.

But fuck that! I believe nothing in this world should ever be immoral. Honestly, think about it, we weren't evolved into a civilised world. All this bullshit of technology, industrialization, urbanization, culture and what have you. All this 'morality', 'sanity'; all these are just vortexes in which we create to displace the idea of fear, work; we just want to make this life seem safer, seem easier, seem more fluid, more 'professional'.

I tell you, if not for the Brits, we would have still been chopping heads in jungles, if not for scientists, our only source of entertainment would be 2 baboons slapping their red asses at our faces, if not for the civilization, this entire planet, would be perfectly insane.

In which I would prefer...but then again, I wouldn't be standing here, you wouldn't know what a game console is, and we would definitely be plucking ticks out of each others' hair.

Someone once said, "Culture is to make a drinking bowl out of your enemy's skull, civilization is to go to prison for doing that."

The writings of Nietzsche inspire me in me in multiple ways, but I'm not here to give you a review on 'Beyond Good and Evil' or debate the philosophy in 'The Antichrist'. I'm here to tell you all what I'm jacking off to.

As you already know, the last time I was here, the 'Spartan' tried to become a solo '15-man-bukkake-mob'. Today is rather different.

"It's my turn to choose, darling," I heard him say as he pulled his lips from her nipples, "the last time you took my cum, this time, I'll shit, pee and spit on you altogether..."

"That's fucking absurd, Andre! Do you think I'm a fucking toilet?! But it does sound fun..."

People, read no farther, this is going to turn out worse than '2 Girls 1 Cup'.

But if you've watched Japanese kinky videos, they go far worse than your imagination.

She began licking at his asshole as he forced out a wet discharge of brown, vile substance...

*writer's note: As I'm writing this, I'm imagining your wicked reactions and enacting them out as I go on, please that this 'recess' to grab a bucket, my imagination does stretch quite a bit...*

He moaned in relieved ecstasy, then grunting again as he squeezed his guts for a second discharge, this one going all over her face, browning her beauty.

He did this multiple times before urinating all over the lavish carpet.

He turned around looking at his work of art, then he spat on her.

Slut.

Whore.

Bitch.

Beautiful.

He began licking her clitoris, banging on her vandalized body, licking off the shit on her. He began to vomit inside her.

I turned away, I'm too disgusted for this, this is too immoral to even be savage.

I'll come back another friday.

BRACHYPELMA

I'm telling you all, I'm getting into a spasm, an anxiety, an adrenaline, a gust, a mosaic of flustered emotions.

I've gone crazy, almost lunatic-like.

It's a frenzy I tell you, a frenzy. A craze, a passion, a whatever of such adjectives...

You see, I've already gotten one Brachypelma; Brachypelma Klassi(Mexican Pink)



This is Scarlett. Now I'm getting these, like by end of next month.



Now this my friends is a Brachypelma Boehmei, I'm going to call her Bethany, yes she has to be female; all my spiders must be female.



And this is a Brachypelma Smithi, going to call her Sally.



This one is a Brachypelma Emilia, I am going to call her Elvira, after the sexy horror hostess.

So there you have it, wasting over USD$150 for these 3 beauties, I've gone a maniac for the brachys. I think I'll just keep the entire sub-species till I move on to another.

Helter Skelter

I fell in love.

But hey, you can only fall in love 5 times in your life, so make use of it.

I fell in love with a girl, a genre of music, a set of idols, writing.

And now, I fell in love with another person.

I'm so sorry to break it to you but I've fallen in love with the lyrics and music of Don Mclean.

He sang and wrote songs like 'Vincent', 'American Pie' and 'Castles in the Air'.

I'm addicted to playing his stuff on my guitar, and singing his songs.

You know, I really broke into tears when I heard him sing 'Vincent' live; he can bring out the torment Van Gogh faced as an artist.

You see,being an artist in any form is not easy. Inspiration trapped in a head can cause misery. Believe me when I say Artists are Invalids.

Take a look around you, pick up a history book, look wikipedia up; pick your artist, pick your inspiration, select your history.

A long, long time ago...
I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And, maybe, they’d be happy for a while.

But february made me shiver
With every paper I’d deliver.
Bad news on the doorstep;
I couldn’t take one more step.

I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride,
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died.

So bye-bye, miss american pie.
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Did you write the book of love,
And do you have faith in God above,
If the Bible tells you so?
Do you believe in rock ’n roll,
Can music save your mortal soul,
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

Well, I know that you’re in love with him
`cause I saw you dancin’ in the gym.
You both kicked off your shoes.
Man, I dig those rhythm and blues.

I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck,
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died.

I started singin’,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Now for ten years we’ve been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rollin’ stone,
But that’s not how it used to be.
When the jester sang for the king and queen,
In a coat he borrowed from james dean
And a voice that came from you and me,

Oh, and while the king was looking down,
The jester stole his thorny crown.
The courtroom was adjourned;
No verdict was returned.
And while lennon read a book of marx,
The quartet practiced in the park,
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died.

We were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Helter skelter in a summer swelter.
The birds flew off with a fallout shelter,
Eight miles high and falling fast.
It landed foul on the grass.
The players tried for a forward pass,
With the jester on the sidelines in a cast.

Now the half-time air was sweet perfume
While the sergeants played a marching tune.
We all got up to dance,
Oh, but we never got the chance!
`cause the players tried to take the field;
The marching band refused to yield.
Do you recall what was revealed
The day the music died?

We started singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Oh, and there we were all in one place,
A generation lost in space
With no time left to start again.
So come on: jack be nimble, jack be quick!
Jack flash sat on a candlestick
Cause fire is the devil’s only friend.

Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage.
No angel born in hell
Could break that satan’s spell.
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite,
I saw satan laughing with delight
The day the music died

He was singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news,
But she just smiled and turned away.
I went down to the sacred store
Where I’d heard the music years before,
But the man there said the music wouldn’t play.

And in the streets: the children screamed,
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed.
But not a word was spoken;
The church bells all were broken.
And the three men I admire most:
The father, son, and the holy ghost,
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died.

And they were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

They were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die."

Those were the lyrics to American Pie.

Anorexic Cynic part II

Cecil was his world, Cecil was his light, Cecil was his everything.

Everything Cecil wants, Cecil gets.

This was Planet Cecil.

For the 5 year old paper doll and the 64-year-old man.

Formalistic to her, and to her alone.

This is Cecil.

She was adorned with all sorts of condiments, flowers, girly stuff; sugar, spice and everything nice?

Day and night he rued her, unfathomably he rued her. More vivacious than ever, he fell in love.

Such loneliness has the tenacity to provoke such adherence. The probabilistic similarity to that of love, of affection, of lust, of desire and of other such adjectives.

Charlie played Bad English's 'When I see you smile'. And as he was humming the bass line to the chorus, his eyes stung. Blinking out tears, he thought of every moment he had spent with Cecil, from when he first crafted her, to this very moment.

Author's note: Actually, I see many possibilities to continue and end this very boring, very plain, very, very stale story. So I leave it to you to give me suggestions to continue from here :)

Quests of Nonsensicality.

Remember the time when you first heard the word masturbate?

How did you react to it?

Shocked and embarrassed cause you were doing it all along without anybody's knowledge.

or

Confused but curious?

This I say, 'pick number 1'

It'll be the same either way, we all have to do it once.

This story was about a group of office executives who find weird ways to masturbation.

But this is about their sick manager who installed spy cams in the woman's toilet and surveys them as his hand is stuffed crassly down the front of his pants.

But now, I forgot, this story isn't about him either.

My story of the man who fell in love with a paper doll, will end happily some other time.

But no, no, no, this current story has to go on. The Prolific Odium must continue in its grasp to entertain, corrupt, disgust and captivate each and everyone of you who actually come to this site and read my material. I have to keep writing to stay as the Prolific Odium, please tell your friends about this site and do, please do, tag my tag board.

BUT SCREW IT! ALL YOU PEOPLE OUT THERE STALKING THIS BLOGSITE HOPING BEYOND HEAVEN YOU'RE LUCKY NOT TO KNOW ME AND MY AUDACIOUS ATTITUDE. HOPING BEYOND SOME INTRICATE BLASPHEME THAT GOD WILL NOT SPARE YOU HELL IF YOU KNEW ME, CAUSE YOU ALL DO KNOW KNOW THAT I ENJOY WATCHING PEOPLE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ok....

Time for my medication.

My psychiatrist says I have to take these pills once a day.

Mental vitamins.

You see, I suffer from Schizophrenia. I don't blame myself, my parents, my music, my gender, my interests, my sex life, my addiction to cigarettes and/or beer.

So anyway, I was re-diagnosed after being misdiagnosed with catatonic schizophrenia, but in the end, diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. I DO HAVE THE MOBILITY OK!

So, I don't know why I should be tell you this, so I won't elaborate further unless you really wanna know.

So back to the story.

Hammond kept secrets. The kind of secrets you hate to know. The kind of secrets that deserve the title of being a secret. So secretive, it's even a secret as to why it's a secret.

But I know this secret. Of course I do, if not, this wouldn't be my story.

So shut up, read my story, faint/vomit/walk away disgusted/dream about it later on.

Hammond, Hammond Hammond Hammond.

Hammond has a secret.

Just one.

Just.

You've heard of weird stories, erotic stories, gore stories, and life goes on.

This is all of them put together.

Like a party mix of 2008!

Like that compilation album of the love songs you already have that keeps airing on the telly cause record companies own rights to those songs and they they're running broke on cash but to print bullshit like that and sell them at nonsensical prices.

Fuck compilation albums. Fuck big record companies who're going broke. Fuck all.

But love all.

Only this isn't some party mix.

This isn't your grandmother's luncheon with her rotting friends.

This isn't one of Dolly Daffodil's pink-themed tea parties.

I'm not a big record company going broke and printing albums with songs that expired in my head.

I'm a writer publishing improvised short stories to pass time.

And so life goes on and Hammond kept this one secret.

You will soon realise that you should have never read on after this part...

Hammond worked as a fresh foods packager.

One day on the job, back in the late 90's, he came across maggot infested food.

He got a little too fascinated, if you know what I mean.

Like every inordinate adult whom anybody would love to deprecate, he experimented.

Like a kid given time alone with baking soda and vinegar.

Like a devious, maniacal scientist given the opportunity to create a weapon of mass destruction.

Like a blond given a dildo.

He experimented.

He stuffed maggots down that pisshole of his.

Feeling every groove of the body wiggle down his insides, he developed a state of trance.

He stuffed them deep, deep down. The white struggling monstrosity, or should I say monstrosities, were all swimming in his testicles.

He watched his balls morph and evolve into many many shapes and positions.

He masturbated, for almost an hour he masturbated.

When he came, all that was out were globs of cloudy, grey-ish fluid with eyeless, groveling, disgusting creatures etching around the seams.

He found serenity, this was his new haven.