Kincaid

9th book in a trilogy

Thu, 26 Jun 2003 15:19:16 GMT

Ever had the overwhelming urge to strip naked and swim in 800 gallons of sun melted gummi bears?

yeah. me either.

Soul Food

Wed, 23 Apr 2003 08:11:00 GMT

Jesus saves, Allah protects, Great Cthulhu thinks you'd make a nice sandwich.
-- Abdul Al-Hazred 730 AD

It's going to be a bad day

Mon, 21 Apr 2003 22:40:59 GMT

I had the onion ring dream again. It's not going to be a good day.

Test of the emergency boredom system

Mon, 21 Apr 2003 08:24:14 GMT

Oh gods. I'm so bored. I'm currently in the middle of a truly impressive insomnia streak, and I'm too tired to move. My reflexes are too shot to play a game, and as for watching tv .... I'll never be bored enough that 4AM infomercials make for good watching.

I'm so bored I could scream! Hmmm, hold on a moment.

Ok, now I'm bored, and my throat hurts.

Someone! Tell me what to do!

Hey! You! in the back. I heard that. That's a very rude thing to say, and besides, it's physically impossible. Last time I tried I was in traction for a month.

Warning! Warning! your soul is in danger

Sun, 20 Apr 2003 01:59:06 GMT

If you live in the Ottawa area, be very careful if you go outside this weekend. I think the local churches are having a soul gathering contest. I left my apartment for 3 hours to go rent a movie and renew my total loathing of the human population, and in that time I was accosted by FIVE different people all desperate to save my soul.

The most entertaining was a born again numbnut err... I mean christian who was really insistent to do me a good deed. The conversation went like this.

him " Hello. You look kind of odd, therefor you must be a heathen of some kind. I'mma save you soul."

me " Thanks, but my soul is fine. I keep it nice and safe in an old pickle jar in the closet."

him " You need to be born again, and allow jebus chirtmuffin to be your personal saviour and crap like that. blah blah blah, and so on."

me "Leave me be bible monkey! Lest I smote you in the eye with a pointy stick."

him "No! I will saves you! Give me your soul meats!"

me "Shoo, and leggo my coat!"

him "Never! Soul meats for my lord! Gimme dem now."

me "Off! off off off."

him "One of us, one of us, one of us."

me "Vsssshhhhooooooommmmmmmmmm"

him "Ow! you shot me with your deadly heathen eye beams! I bleed like a thing that bleeds a lot"

me "Damn skippy"

him ... well nothing. He was dead by this point.

Anyway, I swear this is true. And I'm not paraphraseing in any way. Why are so many people so insecure in their religious beliefs that the only way they can feel justification for whoring their souls out is to demand validity from total strangers?

I tried to explain to one of them that I make up my own religion as I go along. This confuses them. Usually about the time I get around to telling them that my current god is female, has long green hair, horns, can fly and shoot high voltage lightning bolts at people who piss her off, they tend to have wandered away to find a less demented victim.

so yes, if you're in ottawa, be careful out there. And always have your heathen eye beams charged up and ready.

Fri, 18 Apr 2003 08:58:58 GMT

Factory of Nightmares

There is a place, though you can't find it by accident, it's where all your nightmares are made. The only way there is to know the path, and if you knew, you should never go. For I have been there, and I know what awaits you, at the factory of nightmares. It wasn't what I thought I was looking for, but it is what I found. In my case, the journey was more important than the destination. I came upon this place that night, far from my home, and far from the safety of my world. If you choose to come to this place, then may whatever gods you love protect you, or in kindness strike you dead before you leave your home. The choice is yours, and it always has been. Follow me now, if you so choose, and be one with my tale:

It stands against the sky like a grinning tombstone. It's windows long since blackened by the foul smoke and heavy soot that billow never-ending from huge smoke stacks. The door is open wide, there is no need for it be closed. No need for lock, nor for a guard. No one comes here who doesn't belong. You enter, feeling brave in your armor of indifference and world weariness. No horror or demon could scare one as jaded and bitter as you. What beast from any pit of hell could possibly show you worse than you have seen done to men by their own brothers? Entered into that place, sure of yourself, and prepared (so you believe) for anything. Listen carefully, as you walk down the main hall of that huge factory, strain to hear the keening wails of the damned, the screams of the tortured and the forever more condemned who serve out eternity here. But there is nothing. Just smothering silence, as at a funeral where there is no love lost between the mourners and the deceased.

Everywhere your gaze wanders are signs of activity, business and chaotic hurry. But always in the shadows, always just out of sight. You can hear a thousand footsteps and the shuffle of a thousand brittle pages, but not once will you glimpse a face, or see a body moving in the gloom. Continue deeper into this place, the light growing dimmer, less revealing. There is no need for it anymore, you will know where you are, and where are to go. No one who does not, can ever find this place. Turned a corner, and looked into a wide assembly room. Limbs in various states of fester and decomposition are falling from a hole in the ceiling. Arms and legs, bent and twisted around each other, a grim embrace. As they fall to a moving belt, small misshapen creatures scuttle about. They pull the limbs apart from each other, and sort them carefully onto several halting conveyors running into a draped tunnel in the wall at the far end of the room. Not one of these creatures will turn it's horned and bloated body towards you as you stand there.

They move, shuffling and silent, about their tasks. There are arms and legs, all different sizes, shapes and colours of skin, being fed into the tunnel. Leave this room, and continued on your way. There come then footsteps behind you. Turned, and look into the face of a smiling man. He was dressed in gray; not formal, but clean and functional. His smile widens, the corner of his lips reaching back and up towards his ears. Stared into the clean hollow sockets where his eyes should be, and try not to count the teeth being displayed to you. He turns, and with a long tapered finger points further down the hall you were walking. Nod now, understanding his meaning. His lips have touched in the back of his head, and long straight healthy teeth completely encircled his face like an ivory band. He walks away from you down the hall he had come from; a moment later, the top of his head turns and follows his body.

Feel compelled to continue. Though you must know it a mistake. Most things in your life are a mistake, if you stop to think about it. Life is, perhaps, the greatest mistake of all; I digress, my apologies. Another door stands before you now, at the end of the long shadowed hallway. It will open by itself, with not a creak or bone chilling groan. You might feel somehow disappointed, but do not let it worry you. Inside the rest of the assembly line awaits. Through the wall to the left come the carefully sorted and organized limbs (of all sizes, shapes, and colours of skin). From the far wall come a forest of torso's, some still pink and fresh bloodied; others nearly black from decay, covered in the small gnaw marks of the rats and carrion creatures. More imps scurry about this room. As you watch, they hurriedly assemble complete forms from the grizzly assortment of parts. Their terrible efficiency is impressive, and more than you could hope to remember or describe to another soul. In the short time you watch, more than two dozen full bodies are constructed. They are then moved to another huge conveyer belt that runs into one final room you can not yet see.

I have made a mistake, for which I should apologize. I said the bodies were complete, but this is not exactly true. Each reconstructed form you saw had two legs (of well matched age and size), two arms (again well matched) melded to a suitable torso. That was all; they are lacking somewhat in the head department. Followed this line of (nearly) complete bodies to the last room. One by one the bodies are taken from the belts and hung by great meat hooks attached to rusted chains dangled from the ceiling. Each (almost) complete body has the hook forced through the spongy flesh of its chest by a great machine, and is then hoisted and carried off into an inventory so vast it stretches beyond the horizons your eyes can see.

More rows then there are numbers to count are arrayed before your sight. They might stretch on forever, a suspended sea of bodies carefully assembled and stored for some propose no living being could begin to fathom. For whatever reason, it is room that will push you over the edge into deepest fear. Begin to retreat, wanting to leave this place and to never again return.

Feet a hand on your shoulder now, and turn. Try to still the terror rising inside you like a dark tide in your soul. The grey man is here. His smile is less all encompassing then before, but his sockets remain just as empty. Now that you come to think of it, he may look a little like your father. Although if you were pressed, you could not say why. Feel him place his other hand on your free shoulder. His grip is not strong, but know you are going nowhere for the moment. His hands slid along your shoulders and came to rest on either side of your face. His smile widened as his eyeless gaze holds you. You are moving now, back into the room of bodies. Back into the heart of this nightmare.

He holds your head in his cold and dry hands as he walks into this room. Try to resist, to order your legs to run; but know you can do nothing. There, do you see the reason when you look over his shoulder? Behind you, and growing more distant can you see yourself? Your arms, your legs, your torso. Do you see how your body stands perfectly on balance, perfectly still, as a horde of the small shuffling imps surround it? One takes your hand (you might still think of it as yours, though some distance now separated you), and you can only watch as your body complacently walks with the imps out of sight, deeper into the factory.

Pay attention again to your captor; his smile is well past his ears and continuing apace. He turns you around then, and you will see your new home. A body, very like your old one, though much decomposed and greyed, stands before you. It hangs limply from the large hook through it's chest. Understand now, and I weep if you have any tears left. Your smiling captor will gently and with great care place your head atop it's new body. Look into his hollow eyes one last time as he steps back to admire his work. Try again to move, to run, to fight, to do anything. But this body is long dead, and long beyond caring for the desires of the mind. Can you now hear chains rattling somewhere in the distance, and the grinding of the rusting machinery? You are taken up into the endless heights of the rafters, into the forever sea of dead flesh and lost souls. You will see them then; the others, myself among them.

More than can be counted, living heads on festering shackles of flesh. What you thought to be heavy silence when you entered is known to you now. It was the sounds of a billion screams. A billion wails of torment and loss, so loud and so far beyond sound that it makes almost its opposite. A billion voices, crying together in an eternal scream of silence. As you are moved into position with my fellows, know there is no point in holding yourself or your sanity. Let both go, and joined in our scream.

Now and then, as the ages go by uncounted, we come back to ourselves for a time. A terrible span of calm thought, and rationality. These are the times you will learn to dread most. Madness is our only refuge from this place. The scream is our only release from the place we choose to enter, and can never leave. Can you feel it coming for you now? Like a sweet, warm and fragrant water. To cover your soul, and remove the pain for a time. Make no attempt to fight it, it is the only friend you will have now.

That is my tale, and my warning to you. You don't have to worry though, you can never find your way here; unless you are determined to. You need not fear this place, you need not look behind the shadows where you pass. It should be to your greatest relief, and to your greatest loss that only those who are invited can come to the factory of nightmares, and join in our endless scream.

The End

9 out of 10 ghouls prefer folgers

Tue, 08 Apr 2003 15:28:27 GMT

I think I died some time ago, but was too depressed at the time to notice.

Since then, I've slowly replaced my blood cells with highly organized caffeine molecules. I didn't mean to do it, but I kept needing more and more coffee just to stay awake. I came to this realization that I seem to have become a drip brewed zombie the other day when I had a bit of a problem.

I woke up in the usual manner. Slowly rising from my tomb of piled blankets, books, electronics remotes, and pillows so thin you could use them to cut steel. I shambled to a more or less upright position and dragged myself to the kitchen.

The horror. Nothing puts a roadblock in the train path of your morning like the sad sight of a totally empty coffee jar. A frantic, yet very slow, search of the room failed to locate so much as a single freeze dried crystal of coffee.

I began to wonder if I could capture a few slow moving neighbors and devour their living brains instead. But of course, I'd need some coffee to have the energy to do that.

So I spent the whole day in bed. Watching really bad big budget movies, because I was too weak to push the channel button.

Luckily, the story has a happy ending. A friend dropped by and was able to perform an emergency infusion of precious percolated black plasma. I'm off to the store now to restock on life juice. I'll have to ask someone when I get there which isle the brains are in.

Haiku for you

Fri, 04 Apr 2003 20:19:32 GMT

Time passes so slow
When you've forgotten how
To stand again

Get ye behind me! Ahhh yeah

Fri, 04 Apr 2003 13:00:05 GMT

Sometimes I'm honestly impressed by people's amazing ability not to think. In this specific instant, it was a street preacher I wandered by while I was downtown yesterday.

He was standing on a corner, bible in one hand, slight breeze wafting gentle through his head, and shouting at the top of his righteous lungs that the gays are to blame for everything bad in the world.

I couldn't help thinking that if that's true, it speaks well for homosexuals as a group. I guess they just try harder than straights.

I thought about it for awhile, since there were a few things that seemed odd about the whole idea. I came up with some conclusions that actually made me laugh out loud on the bus (which seems to really disturb the people sitting near me for some reason).

I would think the christian church in particular would be really careful about not calling any attention to 'deviant sexual practices' considering the truly awe inspiring collection of pedophile they have stored up.

Not to mention that this organization likes to dress young boys up in long dresses and have them sing the praises of a naked guy posed dramatically on a piece of wood.

I also thought about the god in question itself. A god who surrounded himself with a horde of feminate looking boys loafing around on clouds all day. And who had a spat with the most beautiful of these angels and in a huff threw him out of their celestial apartment and told him to go to hell.

And really, let's not even get into all the times jesus instructed satan to 'get ye behind me'.

The way I see it, anyone who can find happiness with someone else who cares for them as well should be congratulated and left alone. But that's just me, and obviously I'm nuts.

Possessed Processor

Wed, 02 Apr 2003 10:34:04 GMT

I think satan has set up shop in my computer's cpu.

I was routeing around in the guts of my poor little computer trying to get it to ... you know...work or something useful like that. As I was trying to wrench the lan card out of it's socket I sliced open the back of my left hand on the sharp edge of the hard drive mounting bracket.

I didn't actually notice this molestation of my flesh until I saw red puddles on the motherboard. A fair bit of blood had pooled over the processor.

I mopped it up with some paper towels and switched on the computer.

It worked. And, after testing it with a benchmark program I noticed an increase of about 40% from the same test that I'd run the day before. Then the screen started going funny colours and a high pitched wail came from the back of the case. I then shut it down and gibbered in the corner of the room for a few minutes (this had nothing to do with the computer, I just like to get my gibbering out of the way early in the day).

I decided to leave it off for awhile just in case. Just in case a really short fat lady appeared behind me and started shouting for me to go into the light. It was way too early in the day to start dealing with that sort of thing.

From this I can draw only one logical conclusion. My computer is possessed by a blood thirsty demon from Beyond. This explains a lot actually. Mainly it explains why every diskette I put in was chewed up and spit out like a virgin sacrifice. Now the beast wanted more.

A friend pointed out that the sailene and conductive properties of human blood might be acting as a factor in what I witnessed, but he's full of it and I ignore him mightily.

The practical upshot of all this is that from now on, I'm going to pour an offering of blood through the cooling vents everytime I want to play Unreal 2.

Back in black

Tue, 01 Apr 2003 08:48:05 GMT

Well, I'm back. More or less. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I poked at live journal. This is mainly because I have no sense of time (or direction. Really. I could get lost in a phone booth).

I'd like to say I've been away doing important and interesting things involving mysterious shadow women and international intrigue. The truth is not nearly as impressive. I just had to go report in to my alien overlords, and you know how traveling at light speed can play havoc with your timeline. Stupid relativity.

I hope everyone's doing ok, or at least not doing any worse than normal.

My health is about the same. That is to say, there are so many things wrong with me, they're too busy fighting each other for any one of them to actually kill me. Dammit.

I also learned an important lesson recently. Don't tie your boots too tightly. I was walking through a local mall on a quest for food in a tin I could afford (that didn't have a picture of a happy kitty on the front), and one of my laces snapped.

The resultant release of kinetic forces mowed down a herd of tourists outside a cinnibun and seriously scarred a pack of teens who were hunting cargo pants.

Luckily I was able to ride a security guard to safety before the survivors could rally. Still, I learned a lesson. That hurting random bystandards is fun. Wait..no...I mean... something else. yes. Something else entirely.

Which reminds me, I have to take that security guard back soon, he keeps chewing on the furniture.

Barbie got a +3 Fire Sword

Wed, 04 Dec 2002 20:18:08 GMT

I've been playing a few MMORPG's lately (for those of you who aren't into them, or you know, have lives, a MMORPG is a Massively Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game. If you cringe at seeing "U got sub?" or "SOW plz" or "NE1 got 200+ implant skillz?" you know what they are).

I've played all the major ones so far.
EverQuest (I'm too antisocial to do well in that one)
Asheron's Call (good game, but I've played it for so long it gets boring hella fast)
Anarchy Online (mmm, the worlds biggest pay-to-play beta test)
Dark Age of Camelot (online sewing circle. Yawwwwwwn city)
and so on.

Something's occurred to me, after playing these games. A lot of the player base consists of 13 year old males who run around with 'uber' toys and think they're cool because they can manage to mangle the english language so badly they sound like retarded chimps that somehow got access to a keyboard and credit card number.

They spend all day (and night usually), running around trying to get the best loot, and best gear. They obsess over their characters outfit and stand around in popular places to be admired or to admire others.

Basically, they're playing Barbie doll, but with swords/guns/magic/etc.

I can't tell you how much this amuses me.

I guess all the little girls we grew up around weren't playing girly games, they were just ahead of their time. Now the boys are finally catching up. We too can now fuss for hours over finding *just* the right colour shield to compliment our new boots.

"Oh ma god! These Bracers of the Nightmare Beast totally clash with my breastplate of Howling Winter! I can't go to the dungeon looking like this! All the Shadow demons will like, totally laugh at me. Whaaaaaa"

or

"That's a nice M-66 enhanced optical tracking SMG, but does it come in red? If I get that one, I'll have to go find a new trench coat of the Desolate wasteland. Oh pooh."

and my personal favorite

"ha, look at that guy. He's wearing those green chitin armor pants with that white shield. Could he BE any more clueless? Like awh mah god. Gag me with a +2 spoon or something."

So, I guess my point here is that boys have always really wanted to play dress up, but we weren't allowed to. At last, finally, with only millions of dollars of international telecommunications hardware and top of the line personal computers, we can live the dream and forget our burning envy of 10 year old girls with their plastic dolls.

This insight has the potential to keep me amused for weeks. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go look for dye plants so I can change my armor sleeves to a nice blue.

How time flies when you're waiting to die

Tue, 03 Dec 2002 20:11:30 GMT

So, I've been away for awhile. Not really away anywhere, just sort of away from my head. I let my mind wander, and it refused to come back.

I'd like to say I've been off having wild adventures and doing interesting things, but the truth is I've just been dealing with my life. Well, I say life, but I really mean the serious of loosely connected disasters that allow me to notice the forward movement of linear time. Which is pretty much the same thing I think. Of course, I thought I was chipmunk too, so what the hell do I know.

Mostly, I've been trying to make money. This effort is hindered by the fact that I don't want to do any kind of work, or effort, or risk serious jail time. You generally have to do one of these to make any real cash. And sadly, I just haven't got the looks to make it on my back.

For some reason, standing downtown with a big sign on that said "Will philosophize for cash" didn't pull in the big bucks I was hoping for.

Maybe I could start a call-in advice show. People could call me, tell me their problems with their various boyfriends girlfriends etc, and I could yell at them to shut the hell up, and demand they give me all their money. Seems to be the basis of most therapy as far as I can tell.

Perhaps I could stage a violent raid on my apartment, and take myself hostage. I could demand a huge ransom, and if they didn't pay, I'd let myself go and they'd have to deal with me again.

Maybe I'll just sit here and feel bitter at the world in general. Takes less effort. Yeah. That one works.

I'll miss you my fluffy friend

Fri, 22 Nov 2002 05:44:08 GMT

As a result of a humor accident involving the freshly mopped floor of my apartment, and a small piece of fallen fabric, I suffered a mild concussion today and spent 3 and half hours believing I was a small hamster named Fluppins Cacheseeker. I knew, without the shadow of a doubt that I was a small furry mammal who had, for some reason, been having a very strange hallucination that he was a tall pink hairless mammal.

It was the happiest 3 and a half hours I can ever remember.

What's the point here? Well, I have none. I just thought you might be amused at the rather limited grasp of reality I seem to posses from day to day.

Of course, reality is a pretty flimsy concept to begin with. It seems to be little more than a loosely connected series of perceptions. Information from limitless sources is aimed at your senses like a fire hose into a teacup. And, like that example, only a very small amount of that water will be caught and held by the cup.

It's no great revelation that perception creates reality. Everyone's heard the old thing about the man dreaming he was a butterfly, and then waking and not knowing if he was man who had dreamt of himself as a butterfly, or if he was a butterfly dreaming he was a man. It's one of those old unanswerable parables. Like; what's the sound of one hand clapping (and no, it's not Cl. It's more like whooosh...ow my arm!)

The way I see it, the answer is actually pretty simple. The man in the story was both a man who had dreamed, and butterfly who was dreaming. It just depends on which moment in time you choose to consider as 'now'.

We take a lot of things as being basically true. Like colour for example. Red is red. Doesn't matter if there's no eye to see a red light. The light is still red. Of course, you and I may not see red the same way. If my eyes have more rods, or cones than yours, we'll see the colour differently. The light is the same, but our realities are different.

Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I really wish I had a tail. I also wish I could find the food I bought a few days ago. I think I hid it somewhere for the winter, but I have no idea where. Maybe I should go smack my head into something until I remember, or pass out. Either is good.

I'm going to bed now. I think I really need to sleep. Some of the above made sense to me, and that can't be a good sign.

Sometimes, I worry about myself

Fri, 15 Nov 2002 16:58:16 GMT

Greetings estimeemed fellow super villain:

It is with the utmost joy and evil cackling that I report to you on the near completion of my latest sinister plan to enslave and eventually destroy all humanity (because hey, everyone needs a hobby).

I have finally received the final component for my master doomsday weapon. I now have the 7 grams of Isotope X, thanks to loozerb00y from Ebay! It is as you long suspected, the fools have brought about their own endgame. The final stages of my project are only moments away. The city's superheroes (including the damned Ottawa Social Climber Guy) will be powerless.

Although you have been instrumental and vital to this project, please allow me a moment of evil nasty guy nasty thing explainy rant. When my Horror missile is launched from it's secret silo (in the second story parking garage under my dentists office), it will fly into the lower ionosphere and explode, unleashing it's devilish cargo on the unsuspecting city below. High intensity waves of Logo-be-gone(TM) radiation will blanket the city. Nowhere will be safe! NOWHERE!! MWHAHAHAHAHA (insert pathetic coughing fit). Uh, sorry. need to vacuum in here more often. Stupid dusty secret lab of doom. I knew I shouldn't have fired Igor. Anyway, where was I?

Oh yes, When the Logo-be-Gone(TM) radiation reaches the ground level, it will completely and totally disintegrate all stitching thread of the type that is used to embroider designer logos and tags on clothing and electronics (even sneakers!). With no brand names to determine social status and 'coolness', the drooling troglodytes of this city will be reduced to ... well..... more drooling troglodytness. Oh the horror! The humanity!

They will scuttle about afraid and unsure of who to admire and who to despise. Nightclubs will become scenes of untold massacre as roving gangs of single brain celled jocks beat on everyone (including themselves) for not wearing the proper Gap attire and Nike footwear.

And into this tangled mess of humanity, I shall step forward and offer the bewildered masses what they most desire. I alone will have the secret of making brand name merchandise. They will flock to me; they will have no choice, and it will be their doom. For you see, my dear feind, the way to make the brand names resistant to the radiation, is to bond it with slow release cyanide (TM). The fools will clutch desperately to their chests the very thing that kills them. And they will sell me their souls for the privilege of the death I offer.

THE CITY WILL BE OURS!!!

we can have car races up and down the queensway! squeeeeeeee!!!!

today the city, tomorrow .... well actually I plan to nap for most of tomorrow. But the day after that, THE WORLD! (or at least the rest of North America).

--------------------------------------------------

I think I let my mind wander one day, and it's never come back. I hope it's happy somewhere.

Because I'm too lazy to think of anything new

Thu, 07 Nov 2002 05:12:28 GMT

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<HR><font="+2">So You Want to be a Freak
or
Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Becoming a Misanthropic Hermit- But Were too Filled With Black Ennui to Ask


Unfortunately, the first and most useful step towards becoming an antisocial misfit is often out of your hands; as it happens when you are only a few years old. It is not necessary, but helpful, if your parents, who never loved or even very much liked each other, go through a messy and very ugly divorce. The experience of being used as a pawn in an emotional tug of war will help build a solid foundation of mistrust in you and give you lots of time alone to wander inside your own head. Moving back and forth between bickering parents will also prevent you from forming any long term friendships with other people your age. During these formative years of your life, friends would only server to distract you from what you should be doing; spending all your time alone in libraries reading books about vampires, ghosts, death and the occult.

The most important step is also the easiest. Simply go to public school for your card punched, mechanized education. By the time you reach the late elementary grades, you should be sufficiently different from all the ?normal' children to be mocked and ridiculed by everyone around you. This is important. The following years of non-stop abuse, teasing, beatings, terrorizing, and total rejection will set you up nicely for the next steps. It will also build into you a mistrust and hatred of authority figures as you watch the teachers ignore the constant abuse heaped on you, and sometimes even joining in it.

Next is high school. If you haven't lost all faith in humanity and developed a strong loathing of everyone around you, you soon will. During these years, it is important to find others like yourself who are rejected and hated and tormented by the ?normals'. Even if you don't think alike, it is important to band together with these people for survival. Don't forget to keep up your studies of things most people would find disturbing. Openly carry around books about magic and all manner of dark things. This will make you a target of hate and fear among the other students. By now you should be dressing all in black; trench coats are optional, as are self inflicted scars on your wrists and or legs.

If, by the time you have finished high school, you still have a glimmering of optimism or hope, attend a semester or two of college or university, as funds permit. Once you feel yourself ready, it's time to head out into the world. Move to the biggest city you can find and rent the smallest apartment you can find. Listen to the most depressing tragic music you can find, at the loudest volume you can stand. Start hanging out at places with names like "the Raven" or "Sanctuary".

You'll probably be accepted into the various ?in' groups for the first time in your life. For awhile it will feel great, and you'll begin to believe that all the pain and suffering were worth it. Don't relax yet though. It won't take long for you to realize that the people around you now, are as shallow and stupid as those you hated in school. As your bitterness and loathing for everyone and everything increases, you'll be ostracized once again. Alone and empty, begin turning ever more inward until you never leave your home and your head is filled with nothing but despair and thoughts of bloody revenge. If you live in the states, and have access to large scale fire arms, feel free to go out in a blaze of vengeance by destroying every Gap store you can find. And always remember, no one understands you.

Congratulations, you are now a misanthropic loner. Enjoy.

<HR>
I wrote this many years ago for a high school english assignment. I handed it in the same day as the Columbine thing happened. I was suspended and sent to a shrink. I still find that funny.

I should have studied

Sun, 03 Nov 2002 02:37:56 GMT

This is a test I got from Cutevirindi. It rates how screwed up you are.

If feel oddly disappointed with my scores. I guess I wasn't really paying attention during the test. Plus, I'm pretty sure the people who made it are all against me. Heh.

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid:	High
Schizoid:	High
Schizotypal:	Very High
Antisocial:	High
Borderline:	Moderate
Histrionic:	Low
Narcissistic:	Moderate
Avoidant:	Moderate
Dependent:	Low
Obsessive-Compulsive:	High
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20 years for sale to highest bidder

Fri, 01 Nov 2002 21:49:16 GMT

I really wish there was a way I could sell some of my life. Like, if I could go to a doctor, and them take 20 - 30 years off the end of my natural life span (IE. if in the natural course of things I would normally die at the age of 72, I would instead die at 52. And I mean natural death, excluding accident, illness, or riding a flaming Harley into a crowded starbucks.)

After this temporal liposuction surgery, I could take those severed years and sell them to someone who wanted to live longer. That person could then have my unused years grafted onto their own life and live on beyond their own natural life span.

There seem to be a lot of people out there who desperately want to live forever. I am not one of them. Most days, just getting out of bed requires a supreme effort of will, that leaves me too tired to do anything for the rest of the day.

So, I could sell off the years I don't want, I could live my truncated life without having to worry about money anymore. That would be great.

Ah well, another hopeless dream. I'm off to the building office to pay rent for the month. I wonder if they'll take one of my kidneys as payment?

chapped lips and a full stomach

Thu, 31 Oct 2002 10:25:03 GMT

I really need to get out grocery shopping sometime. I'm starting to wonder what food group Chapstick falls into.

Tales from the crypt

Wed, 30 Oct 2002 10:58:32 GMT

Watched Return of the Living Dead tonight. Great movie. If hundreds of zombies appeared here in ottawa looking to feast on brains...they'd starve back to death before they could even find a light snack.

Anyway, after the movie was over I decided to go out for a walk. I went to the cemetery next door. Yes, cheesy I know, but hear me out. At 3 AM, it's a great place to go for a stroll. Totally quiet, no lights, no people (well, none you have to worry about or be bother by), and since it's about 3-4 square klicks in size you can't see many signs of civilization once your inside it. On a clear, starry night it's beautiful beyond words. Also, if I walk around the streets at 3 AM, I get stopped AT LEAST 3 times by cops in any given hour to be asked what the hell I'm doing out at that time, and to have my pockets searched.

So, as I meandered the suburb of the dead, I came to wonder about something.

On my way to the graveyard, I saw quite a few jolly Halloween decorations in the windows of local stores and houses. Happy jigging skeletons and smiling skulls. Whimsical ghosts and happy looking pumpkins. Once I got inside the graveyard, nothing. Why is that? You'd think that would be an ideal spot for such holiday festivity.

They wouldn't even have to spend much on the decorations really. Just dig up old granny and wire her in a jaunty pose. Perhaps some tasteful animatronics to make the putrefying bodies pop up out of the ground as people pass by. Disney could be hired to write some family oriented songs for them to sing.

I guess this isn't done because it would be considered somehow 'disrespectful' or 'god damn sick, you fucking freak!'.

Ok, I can see that point. But, here's what confuses me. I mentioned some of the Halloween decorations I saw today, but I left one out. Witches. The lovingly crafted stereotypical green skinned hag with broom and cauldron (black cat optional).

This is considered all right? Didn't that image of witches come about during the inquisition witch hunts and hysteria? Correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't witches made out to be evil and ugly by the christian church because they represented a threat to the churches power and efforts to enslave the peasants in europe and the states?

As a result of this hysteria and persecution, thousands of innocent women were burned alive after being tortured in ways that would make a nazi Holocaust survivor feel lucky? But now it's ok to have cartoon images of these victims taped to 7-11 windows to advertise snickers bars?

Have I missed something?

As my own pointless protest against this, I'm making some new Halloween decorations to display outside my apartment. I'm thinking maybe some happy smiling christians being fed to some happy smiling lions. Maybe a few grinning saints waving as they're nailed to chunks of wood. A few cartoon priests abusing some whimsical choir boys (the priests could be selling mars bars or something as well, I don't know).

What's my point here? I don't have one. What would be the use? Humanity really annoys me some days, but there's too many of them breeding too fast to really do anything about it.

Madness!

Mon, 28 Oct 2002 09:32:48 GMT

Quiz time. This one's from Excel Sage, a most enjoyable (and extremely deranged) piece of anime.

Ow, just .... ow

Sun, 27 Oct 2002 21:25:13 GMT

I failed once again in my quest for pastry yesterday. Once again I returned sans pumpkin pie. The more thoughtful people out there (if there is anyone out there) might wonder why I just don't make the damn pie myself. Well, I would, but for two things.

One: I have no idea how you actually make a pie
Two: The nurses at the hospital are getting really sick of seeing me covered in third degree burns (which seems to happen anything I go near a stove)

So, I decided to try again today. This is proof that I am totally incapable of learning from experience.

I got to the store, with it's ten thousand florescent lights blinding and burning down on me. I rushed to the pastry aisle with no real sense of hope, but a grim determination. And Lo, there was a pie.

It was a thing of beauty. A masterpiece of chefy skill. The filling looked just the right colour of creamy caramel. Not burnt, not overcooked. Just perfect. The crust looked so tender and moist that it melted if you even glanced at it. And it was on sale, half price.

I grabbed this miracle prize and waltzed to the check out. Maybe I'd been wrong all these yeas. Maybe life didn't really have something personal against me. Maybe I wasn't really cursed. Maybe life could sometimes be other than a nightmare of pain and emptiness.

I left the store, and headed back across the parking lot to the bus stop, thinking positive thoughts of rare joy.

It was right about then that I heard the screech of tires. A mini-van came swerving around a blind corner near the bus stop totally ignoring the big STOP sign there. It came around the turn, saw me halfway through the crosswalk, and tried to brake on the rain slicked pavement.

It didn't. Instead, it slammed into my side and sent me in a neatly crumpled heap into the road.

From where I lay, I was able to watch in dazed amusement as another car swerved around my prone body, and neatly drove over my backpack. My backpack which contained the aforementioned pie. I lay there, with various morons gawking and panicking, and thought only "fuck. I really wanted that pie."

Anyway, I suffered no real injuries. I just have a massive bruise covering my entire left side, and a Chrysler shaped indentation stamped into my ribs. I was out of the hospital in 3 hours and 50 seconds. 3 hours of sitting around in the waiting room, and 50 seconds for a sneering doctor to poke my ribs and say 'dur, you's got a boo boo. Me doctorb, you freak. I look down my nose at yous.' I'm not even lucky enough to die.

I asked for a doggie bag of morphine, but they would only give me some T3's. Not as good as pie, but at least the day wasn't a total waste.

Why does it hurt?

Sat, 26 Oct 2002 17:40:14 GMT

Why! Why can't my successes ever be as spectacular as my failures?
Why must everything I touch cause nothing but additional pain.
Why can I only ever be successful when my goal is something incredibly stupid or self destructive.
.... Why can't I even make a tuna fish sandwich without ending up in the emergency room with third degree burns and mayonnaise in my hair?

I don't really mind being manic depressive, I just wish I didn't alternate between those two states every 10 seconds.
I want something to strike out at. Some source of my anger that I can touch. Instead, it just feels like I'm in the center of howling vortex. Trapped in a state of rage and impossible dreams. If I try to move away from the center, the winds pick me up and slam me back broken and weaker to where I started.

Ah well, enough whining. I'm going out to once again undertake my quest for pumpkin pie. I'll fail of course, but I guess "I couldn't get pie" sounds better than "I couldn't get out of bed".

To anyone reading this, I hope you have a better day than I will.
I know you're out there, I can hear you bleeding.

Grim

Thu, 24 Oct 2002 19:04:21 GMT

Red and Silver

Hello little girl. Why are you out here all alone in the deep dark woods?

I'm going to my grannies house. I have a basket here, see?

Yes, so I see. It is red, like your cloak and hood. Such bright red, it's very pretty.

Thank you.

You know it isn't safe out here for little girls all alone. There are wolves, and bandits and all manner of bad creatures.

Yes, I know. But it's ok. I'm just going to see my granny; to take her this basket. I know the way.

Why, child, are you out here all alone. Why have not your mother and father come with you?

My father is dead. He died a long time ago. My mother says that her new husband is my father now, and that I must never speak of the other. They don't like me going to see granny. They say she's old and crazy.

Is she?

Yes, but I like that about her. She's not like my mother and father. She listens to me, and tells me things. She won't ask me to do things I don't want to. Granny has a big garden behind her cottage!

Does she?

Yes. It's full of so many plants; herbs and special things from all over the world she says. She gives me food when I visit. Mother doesn't give me any at home. She says we haven't enough money for us all to eat. She says it's more important for her husband to eat, so that he can go out and work. She says that if I were a son, instead of a daughter, that I could eat too.

If your granny has extra food, then why doesn't your family live with her?

I told you! They don't like her. Especially my father. He says she's evil. He says he has to punish me when he catches me going to see her. He says it's grannies fault that he has to do those things when he catches me. And other times, when he says I'm thinking about her.

Why don't you just live with your granny then? You don't have to go home.

Granny says it's important. She says they're my parents, and that there are many things I have to learn from them.

I see. My, what a big tooth you have there.

Thank you. It was my fathers. My real father. The tooth is real metal! See how it shines? And the handle he said is made of real bone. He used to tell me that the animals of the forest have any teeth, but people don't. We have to make our own teeth. He gave it to me before he died. He said it would keep me safe from the evil things in the forest.

The forest can be very dangerous.

I know. But it's all right. I understand it. Wolves will attack if they are hungry, and bears if they think you're trying to hurt their children. The forest makes sense I think. At home, it makes less sense. People will attack for no reason. Or for reasons I don't understand. I like it out here better. A wolf would only try to eat me, people have so many more ideas.

Yes. Wolves are not like people I guess. Though both can be dangerous.

I can't wait to get to my grannies cottage! She'll be so happy to see me, I know.

Little girl of the red cloak and silver tooth, tell me; what is in your basket?

Goodies! From my mother and father. It's from them I got this lovely red cloak and red basket. I know, I can wash them again and again, but they'll stay red. See? Do you think granny will like these goodies? Mother and father were surprised! If you look, you can still see it. See how surprised they look? Maybe they'll smile later. They didn't seem very happy before. But now they don't have to worry about anything. I can use my tooth to make them smile. Maybe I will later. I'll ask granny.

Be careful small one. Your basket smells so good. Some might try to take it from you.

Would you try to take it?

No. Although it smells so wonderful, I know it's not for me. But you should hurry. I will tell the others I pass about you. About the girl of red and silver. We know your granny, and we know better than to take what is hers. But hurry child.

I will. And you be safe as well. Other people may come, and some will want your warm fun, and bright eyes.

Thank you. I will be wary. Farewell Red Hood.

Hmm, needs work. Ah well. My think meats are too tired, so I'll worry about it later.

Warnings

Thu, 24 Oct 2002 06:06:39 GMT

On a further subject of travelling, I was recently presented with a packet of airline peanuts from someone returning from a trip. It was a solem and dignified ceremony, in which I reverently took possession of the shiny silvery packet of over salted goodness.

As I was about to tear into this manna from the skycoach of the gods, I noticed something. The something was a warning label. On a packet of peanuts. I was understandably concerned about anything that the airline company felt so strongly about that it required bold letters and a black boarder. It read as follows:

WARNING: May contain peanuts.

Needless to say, I was shocked. I held there in my hands a metaphysical dicotomy that would have Schrodinger reaching for the hemlock. A sealed packed of peanuts which may (and therefor may not) contain peanuts.

What could I do? Until I opened the shiny shiny silver foil and actually looked inside, it would exist in a state of quantum flux. It would be both full of peanuts, and at the same time full of not-peanuts. I knew that as soon as I opened the packet, and observed the contents, I would collapse the wave form probabilities.

But..... but.... what if something went wrong? What if I opened the gleaming metal skin, and somehow caused both states of potential to exist at the same time? I could very well destroy the entire space/time universe.

All because I wanted some nuts.

What could I do? What can I do? I'll have to carefully guard this potential disaster until I can get some astronauts to dump it safely into a black hole singularity.

and this is why you should never watch the discovery channel when you're drunk out of your mind

Ummm yeah. Anyway. It got me to thinking. Mostly about how amazingly stupid human society has become to need a warning like that.

What other warnings could they put on there to ensure the safety of the innocent people who might open a packet of peanuts only to be traumatized by finding PEANUTS in it? How about:

WARNING: May contain, ummm, stuff. We really have no idea. Oh god, we're so stoned here. Dude. There could be like, anything in this thing. I mean damn, Bob has no pants on. Maybe that's where they went. So yeah, ummm, you're on your own man. Good luck.

WARNING: May contain signs that your civilization is in rapid decline.

WARNING: The knife wielded by the psychopath sneaking up behind you may have been used in the preparation of peanuts.

WARNING: May contain the unspeakable one, the voice of star fathers and most dreaded of the elder horrors. He may have peanuts.

WARNING: May contain. ( let them puzzle over that existential nut-number for awhile )

WARNING: May not contain anything in any true sense, only your perception of peanuts. Any allergic reaction you have to these are therefor the fault of your defective mind, for which we can not be held legally responsible.

Any other suggestions are welcome.