I’m once again posting here knowing perhaps only 3 people will read it. My tumblr is dull, unkept, flaccid and lacks character….like your mom.

This should be my last semester at that wretched excuse of a school Elac. I say should because nothing is for certain, even though I’ve been accepted to a number of different schools. It looks as if I’ll be heading up north to either Berkeley or Santa Cruz. Although I’d prefer Berkeley, Santa Cruz is a close second and wouldn’t mind attending. I hear great things about living in northern California and hopefully I will mesh well up there. 

Vague disinterest is how I’d describe my moods as of late. As dismal as it sounds, I’ve  somewhat grown to accept the ordinariness of life and people. I suppose its asking too much to want every person I meet to be as interesting as say, Stephen Fry; an erudite, articulate renaissance man. It’s not all bad. This just makes me appreciate those I meet who throw conventionality out the window and embrace their oddities and eccentricities.

I haven’t read a really good bookin some time now. 

I don’t really hate fat people that much anymore. 

I feel a tad stagnate in my personal and intellectual growth. 

Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah

That is all. 

Knowledge of self is the beginning of all other knowledge. If you don’t know where you come from and you don’t know where you’ve been, then you don’t know where you are and where you’re going. Erasing a man’s history is designed to rob him of the confidence and sense of self-worth that is the root of our identity. It is dehumanization designed to allow others to then control that man. However, a man who knows his history and knows who he is will always have the confidence to assert his rights.

post. on. tumblr.

I haven’t wrote in this here thing for some time now.

so. thoughts. vomit.

I don’t enjoy waking up to go to my math class, nor do i enjoy sitting on cracked wooden seats, and reading graffiti ethced on desk (and not the witty, “I’m a philosophizingcollege student who just had to share this profound quote i read in a Dostoevsky novel” kind of grafitti.) I also equally dislike watching my math teacher refuse to write a negative sign. example? to him, it shouldn’t be written 9-7=2 but  9+-7=2. I guess the entire math community has it all wrong.

I’m still working at kmart and i’m suprised i havent quit or gotten fired by now. Its ridiculous how little i care and how little the management seems to care about this.

Of all the books i’ve read recently, my favorite was ‘my booky wook’ by russell brand. i wanna be a heroine addict and bang prostitues. i’m sure a self destructive life style is more interesting than what i’m doing. i’d take 50 charlie sheen years over 150 martha stewart years any day. i dont think that made much sense?

i’m set to apply for transfers in the fall. i’m ready to leave this mundane cesspool, even without having a clear and decisive idea about where I’m leaving to or what i’m leaving for. but i think i’m leaving.

I’m absolutely petrified of living an ordinary life, although the course i’m on seems to be leading me to just that.

ramblings. shit.

i was once sitting with a woman. she told me about her day and i was completely disinterested. she was politie, i was not. my eyes wandered from the table where we were sitting at to the lights on the ceiling to her breast to the cars zooming by outside the coffee house where we were conversing. she was dull. and i was disinterested. maybe she was too.

by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

why do you think more participation by the public is the answer ?

Thoughts….

I need a break…and perhaps a social life. I’ve finally been inducted into a secret fraternity of teens who have no time and no life. We nod at each other as we pass on the street, giving a knowing quarter smile. My room is filled with empty monster energy drink cans to eeek out an extra hour to cram for a test…I’m keeping them to some day pass on to my children (assuming i ever get time to fornicate). soooo you know you’re overworked when…

….your left eye twitches involuntarily (why is it always the left?)

….you forget what your last meal was ? when’s the last time i ate ?

…..you talk to yourself out loud, disagree with what you said, get in a fight, and then don’t speak to yourself for 20 mins

…..you stop drinking water cause pissing is such a waste of time.

…..you write the same sentence twice

…..you write the same sentence twice

…..you accidentally doze off while driving (don’t worry it’s only happened once)

…..you’re slightly aroused by this picture

gotta love it though

The labor of the exploited peoples around the Equator is not really necessary to the world’s economy. They add nothing to the wealth of the world, since whatever they produce is used for purposes of war, and the object of waging a war is always to be in a better position in which to wage another war.

And she doesn’t want to press charges
My yellow cousin
Ghost of a gypsy
Drunk off the wine of pressed grapes
Repressed screams
Of sun shriveled raisins
And their dreams
Interrupted
By a manhood deferred

Will she ever sober?
Or will they keep handing her glasses overflowing
With the burden of knowing

The ghost of a little girl in the desolate mansion of my manhood
Am I a man now?

Lord, don’t let her fall asleep
Her brother’s got keys to her dreams
He keeps them on a chain
That now cuffs his wrists together

Mommy doesn’t believe he did it
But he’s left footprints on the insides of his sister’s eyelids
And they’ve learned to walk without him and haunt her daily prayers

And if you rub your fingers
Ever so softly on her inner thigh
She’ll stop you
Having branded your fingertips
With the footprints of her brother
The disbelief of her mother
And a sister who called her a slut for sleeping

Rise and shine my mother used to say
Rise and shine
But how can I?
When I have crusted cloud configurations pasted to my thighs
And snow covered mountains
In my memories
They peak into my daily
And structure my moment
They hide in the corners of my smile
And in the shadows of my laughter

My hands have been tied behind the back of another day
If only I could have them long enough to dig up my feet
Which have been planted beneath the soiled sheets
Of a harvest that only hate could reap

I keep trying to forget

But I must remember

And gather the scattered continents
Of a self once whole
Before they plant flags
And boundary my destiny
Push down the warted mountains that blemish the soiled soul
Before the valleys of my conscience get the best of me
I’ll need a passport just to simply reach the rest of me