30 Days to an Almost End - Day 21

Nicest thing someone has 
said to you this week

“I want to be your Chicken McNugget,

chewing bubblegum along side you

as the world passes by.”

Just always remember who you are and what you mean to me.

30 Days to an Almost End series list

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 18

Whatever tickles your fancy

 30 Days to an Almost End series list

It’s July 1st.

     I realized this morning, reading a tweet or something insignificant. Regardless, I was scared, but at least a friend was with me. Disaster avoided. 

     Just reminded on Facebook. Now I’m scared shitless, I’m terrified. I feel like doomsday is approaching, not the date of my late birth. I feel like the world’s ending, collapsing, and I’m at the center past the event's horizon.

      Help me survive the bottom—or the center...

A jolted note before bed,

    There’s a lot of reasons why my life is enjoyable, why it’s great. Much negative, still so much positive. Electromagnetic, I am what I am what I want to be and that’s always been me, or I’ve been told. Proud, proud, proud—to be free.

Thursday’s Thoughts - Theme: Apologies

     I find it slightly irritating when someone apologizes to me for the sole reason of moving on themselves from their wronging me. It’s not situations where I’m holding resentment so strongly I refuse the apology—the apology is simply sour, false; a last resort to rid one’s self of guilt. It’s not genuine, I won’t tolerate it.

This Week’s Theme: Apologies

“Apology is only egotism wrong side out.” - Oliver Wendell Holmes

“It is a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them.” - P.G. Wodehouse

“Why must conversions always come so late? Why do people always apologize to corpses?” - David Brin

Monday’s Excerpts - Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut

This Week’s Book: Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut

     “Aren’t you cold?”
     “I hadn’t noticed.”
     “Oh my God, you are a child. If we leave you alone here, you’ll freeze to death, you’ll starve to death.” And so on. It was very exciting for her, taking his dignity away in the name of love. (Pages 131-132)

—————

     The Blue Fairy Godmother left, amused and patronizing. When he was gone, Lazzaro promised Billy and poor old Edgar Derby that he was going to have revenge, and that revenge was sweet.
     “It’s the sweetest thing there is,” said Lazzaro. “People fuck with me,” he said, “and Jesus Christ are they ever fucking sorry. I laugh like hell. I don’t care if it’s a guy or a dame. If the President of the United States fucked around with me, I’d fix him good. You should have seen what I did to a dog one time.”
     “A dog?” said Billy.
     “Son of a bitch bit me. So I got me some steak, and I got me the spring out of a clock. I cut that spring up in little pieces. I put points on the ends of the pieces. They were sharp as razor blades. I stuck ’em into the steak—way inside. And I went past where they had the dog tied up. He wanted to bite me again. I said to him, ‘Come on, doggie—let’s be friends. Let’s not be enemies any more. I’m not mad.’ He believed me.”
     “He did?”
     “I threw him the steak. He swallowed it down in one big gulp. I waited around for ten minutes.” Now Lazzaro’s eyes twinkled. “Blood started coming out of his mouth. He started crying and he rolled on the ground, as though the knives were on the outside of him instead of on the inside. Then he tried to bite out his own insides. I laughed, and I said to him, ‘You got the right idea now. Tear your own guts out, boy. That’s me in there with all those knives.’” So it goes.
     “Anybody ever asks you what the sweetest thing in life is—” said Lazzaro, “it’s revenge.” (Pages 138-139)

—————

     “Are—are you Kilgore Trout?”
     “Yes.” Trout supposed that Billy had some complaint about the way his newspapers were being delivered. He did not think of himself as a writer for the simple reason that the world had never allowed him to think of himself in this way.
     “The—the writer?” said Billy.
     “The what?”
     Billy was certain that he had made a mistake. “There’s a writer named Kilgore Trout.”
     “There is?” Trout looked foolish and dazed.
     “You never heard of him?”
     Trout shook his head. “Nobody—nobody ever did.” (Page 169)

Books finished this past week...
★★★★☆ The Giver by Lois Lowry
★★★★☆ The Blind Watchmaker by Richard Dawkins

(All title links link back to my webpages of them on Goodreads.com, a great library/reviewing/rating website for readers. Check it out, and add me as a friend if you decide to join!)

Are You the Rabbit?

     I am a danger to your life, I’ve come here to ruin it—this we hopelessly surmise. I’m not prepared to ever apologize in my name’s sake, however. I’ve been through this a million times before. One of the onlys of our issues is that you have not, not yet, not with dangerous me. Ruthless, conniving, vindictive; unwilling to surrender with or without a fight to the death of the inevitable end. I am the brakeless train, don’t beg the question of if there should be a complimentary wreck after you’ve promised me there’s room in your life.

     For you this might be exciting defiance. For me it’s a pathetic repetition I should know better than. Although, I will take partial blame, full if it is fault of my own for this lifestyle I’ve dripped into. Do I enjoy difficulties? Perhaps I’m rendering it so.

Thursday’s Thoughts - Theme: Realizations

     Dwelling and eating me inside out like maggots in disguise; I’ve had a few realizations recently.

1.   I was genuine with every inhale of ash blonde breath. Heart-wrenching tonight, it was realized wholeheartedly where you had never found me.
2.   It is possible to use someone after ties have been severed, even if no conscious thought of usage had occurred when they were originally wrung tight.
3.   There are wrong reasons and right reasons for (ab)using someone. I have not justified use with a wrong reason.
4.   My body is simply a body, although it is mine to partially do what I wish with.
5.   Vanquishing specific emotions will eternally be unfeasible, lest I self-annihilate without resurrection to complete the Übermensch show.
6.   I am the Übermensch as long as I want to be, for the ape is still within thee.
7.   Slacking on my studies wasn’t a result of a declining care for biology, instead, an escalator gallivant to the roof of attention in pursuit of a spotlight.
8.   Someone would die in place of me. My value must be high, so shall it remain and rise.

This Week’s Theme: Realizations

“Love is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.” - Unknown

“But egoism is more than this. It is the realization by the individual that he is above all institutions and all formulas; that they exist only so far as he chooses to make them his own by accepting them.” - John Buchanan Robinson

“Having seen and felt the end, you have willed the means to the realization of the end.” - Thomas Troward

Case of the Missing Bereavement

     It’s nearly engrossing how less I feel in the arms of what I hold close to you. Your nonexistence, it pleases me. Watching you suffer, God, that too.

     To beyond greater things than the grandeur you were enveloped in—my ideals, perhaps of you.

     What a peculiar feeling to be this so-called “in love,” when we were just falling so terribly far and apart. Maybe I still don’t know what it feels like, your absence just isn’t devastating enough for it to be true…

     For now, this is all I want to feel—but not with you.

Today my realization was the following—

   When in my prime, I’m forced to the pedestal with a choice: pride or dive.

   Pushed me to the brink of madness, with the options upon cystalline presentation: gloat freely in retaliation, destroy me in dissociation, or gaze into the abyss for it longs to gaze into you, of desperation.

Nineteen...

     “I betrayed you,” she said baldly.
     “I betrayed you,” he said.
     She gave him another quick look of dislike.
     “Sometimes,” she said, “they threaten you with something—something you can’t stand up to, can’t even think about. And then you say, ‘Don’t do it to me, do it to somebody else, do it to so-and-so.’ And perhaps you might pretend, afterwards, that it was only a trick and that you just said it to make them stop and didn’t really mean it. But that isn’t true. At the time when it happens you do mean it. You think there’s no other way of saving yourself and you’re quite ready to save yourself that way. You want it to happen to the other person. You don’t give a damn what they suffer. All you care about is yourself.”
     “All you care about is yourself,” he echoed.
     “And after that, you don’t feel the same toward the other person any longer.”
     “No,” he said, “you don’t feel the same.”

     It’s a “primitive” thing to be reduced beneath love by an outside force. The act is so unfamiliar to our species, it’s nearly unheard of in our society as bare discussion.
     How could they feel the same? How could they not hold high dislike for one another? Perhaps this is dislike of realizing one’s own instincts, particularly how far a human will go to protect themselves. I would be disgusted with myself if I were forced to betray you, but not deniable. I couldn’t feel the same about you because I wouldn’t be able to feel the same about myself.

     This is my favorite example of the realistic weaving of love.

Monday’s Excerpts – The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom

     I liked this book a lot because of its message, but I especially liked this book because the heaven portrayed is so fictional, obviously so. It's what heaven, or the afterlife, should be written as (in my opinion). A story, a dream, it'd be nice if it happened, but it doesn't try to convince you it will. It was really great.

This Week’s Book: The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom

     “Wait,” Eddie said, pulling back. “Just tell me one thing. Did I save the little girl? At the pier. Did I save her?”
     The Blue Man did not answer. Eddie slumped. “Then my death was a waste, just like my life.”
     “No life is a waste,” the Blue Man said. “The only time we waste is the time we spend thinking we are alone. (Page 50)

—————

     “People don’t die because of loyalty.”
     “They don’t? She smiled. “Religion? Government? Are we not loyal to such things, sometimes to the death?”
     Eddie shrugged.
     “Better,” she said, “to be loyal to one another.” (Page 138)

—————

     Ruby stood, and Eddie stood, too. He could not stop thinking about his father’s death.
     “I hated him,” he mumbled.
     The old woman nodded.
     “He was hell on me as a kid. And he was worse when I got older.”
     Ruby stepped toward him. “Edward,” she said softly. It was the first time she had called him by name. “Learn this from me. Holding anger is a poison. It eats you from inside. We think that hating is a weapon that attacks the person who harmed us. But hated is a curved blade. And the hard we do, we do to ourselves. (Page 141)

Books finished this past week...
★☆☆☆☆ Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov
★★★☆☆ Go Ask Alice by Anonymous
★★★★☆ Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut
★★★★☆ The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom

(All title links link back to my webpages of them on Goodreads.com, a great library/reviewing/rating website for readers. Check it out, and add me as a friend if you decide to join!)

On the Epic of Pathetic

     They’re hard, it’s life. Sometimes they end badly, rarely goodly—what’s left? Uncertainty. Perhaps from one end, hardly ever both. Loose ends? I’m unsure. My tightrope isn’t unraveling.

     Almost piteous, never angry. I hate to see crumbs when there wasn’t a reason to crumble.

     Break-ups. They’re hard, it’s life.

But it is never, ever ever ever, over. (:

This is the desolate unsharable instead by fours...

     Imagine the discredit I’d charge.
     Project the unbelievable and ultimate betrayal to the biggest thing I’ve ever known onto me on the personal, intellectual level of the preeminent masochist.
     I’d drown in the debt.

     When I jump you jump with me and we collide together again, my antilover. I’d have to break my human laws to escape you, you’d annihilate me if I didn’t protect my body and everybody with me. In that event resisting the horizon, what’s bigger and better for me? You, or the mistress of my thievery?
     I feel as if I’m wronging you, but what if you meet the love of your life and you’re already aboard a ship? Are you supposed to just let them pass you by without cannon blasts of your amour? I’m hurtling through, gazing with wonder and amazement, but… all I have is you.

     Loathing will grow, boredom will mount. Do you want me to be disgusted by you like I already am of so much of the spectrum, not system? I care too much, but, I do love you… I just love you in another.

     I’m sorry if our affair ends. I’m sorry for us, not me or not you. We’ve had a great run and who’s to say the finish line is going to be the break in our tightrope?

     Do not shed a tear and you will not become the tear.

Monday’s Excerpts – The Art of Living by Epictetus

     One book read like a religious text, more so than The Greatest Show on Earth, for it offers wisdom purely directed at what is affectionately described so commonly as “the soul,” The Art of Living has aided me so thoroughly in approaching life like a banquet and realizing that all events are impersonal, even death. Of all things I hold close and dear in the privacy of my mind, The Art of Living is one of the few burning as brightly as it has from the beginning, not to go out with a whisper any time soon. These are a few of my favorite excerpts.

This Week’s Book: The Art of Living by Epictetus

Events Don’t Hurt Us, But Our Views of Them Can
Things themselves don’t hurt or hinder us. Nor do other people. How we view these things is another matter. It is our attitudes and reactions that give us trouble.
    Therefore even death is no big deal in and of itself. It is our notion of death, our idea that it is terrible, that terrifies us. There are so many different ways to think about death. Scrutinize your notions about death—and everything else. Are they really true? Are they doing you any good? Don’t dread death or pain, dread the fear of death or pain.
    We cannot choose our external circumstances, but we can always choose how we respond to them. (Page 10)

—————

The Right Use of Books
Don’t just say you have read books. Show that through them you have learned to think better, to be a more discriminating and reflective person. Books are the training weights of the mind. They are very helpful, but it would be a bad mistake to suppose that one has made progress simply by having internalized their contents. (Page 97)

—————

Never Casually Discuss Important Matters
Take care not to casually discuss matters that are of great importance to you with people who are not important to you. Your affairs will become drained of preciousness. You undercut your own purposes when you do this. This is especially dangerous when you are in the early stages of an undertaking.
    Other people feast like vultures on our ideas. They take it upon themselves to blithely interpret, judge, and twist what matters most to you, and your heart sinks. Let your ideas and plans incubate before you parade them in front of the naysayers and trivializers.
    Most people only know how to respond to an idea by pouncing on its shortfalls rather than identifying its potential merits. Practice self-containment so that your enthusiasm won’t be frittered away. (Page 110)

Books finished this past week...
★★★☆☆ The End of Faith by Sam Harris
★★★☆☆ Psychiatry for Beginners by Brizer
★★★★☆ SuperSense: Why We Believe in the Unbelievable by Bruce Hood

(All title links link back to my webpages of them on Goodreads.com, a great library/reviewing/rating website for readers. Check it out, and add me as a friend if you decide to join!)

Racionalidad~.

     I feel I’m losing my ability to rationalize when it’s probably the spectral opposite. I feel as if I’m barreling through, gaining strength and will over my conscience at premature pace, but as if neurologically I’m convinced that it just isn’t true. How can you be sure what to believe when both arguments are spoken by you?

We are; Unsaved

Chances are high that if you’re reading this, I truly and honestly think you would be more beneficial amongst the dead. But don’t worry your pretty selfish head, I’m reading this too.

WhydoIbreakdowneverysinglefuckingnightofmylifehauntedbythememoriesofallofyou?

The Self of the Sadist

     I hate not knowing what’s next. It’s the stem of my anxiety, blossoming into countless beautiful irrationalities to the sadist. Someone reigning over the rain I’m left under to wade through the unknown. It’s not the abyss nor the galaxy, it’s the absolute unknown. Someday, I might just collide into another, and then? One day this human descent into annihilation? Who knows, it’s all a piece of the feared unknown.

     I’m trying to grip myself, decapitating the condescending fears. I’m afraid of sharks/tornadoes/the unknown, they had become virtues when their result respected vices.

     In the words of one winged creature to another unbeknown:

if you can hear this, don’t assume…

Climbing Mount Improbable

     A black mass of emotions, that’s what I am these days. I think it’s all the encompassing, grasping and clasping me shut and tight away from the world. Another brick in the wall, unjustly so. The further I push the higher I build—climbing, well, maybe…
     I suppose what I’ve arrived at here is my own Mount Improbable, and I suppose what I have to do is climb.

For Your Facial Manifestation,

     I have uncertainty on doing this alone although everything until now has been, obviously not saving your raping gaping holes poking the opposite of happiness into my everything of but what a dark matter.

     I’m on the precipice of unchanged trembling with fear of almost the Room 101 with no no puppy to save me. I received “ticket for two” when what I really requested was a ticket for one.

     My forsaken dance of the fucking death by dial toll is what we once knew as our tender romance of the tender ages, four by maybe five accusations—none deserving the ripe credibility they have grown: cruelty is never a gorgeous gore, no matter the tone.

     When I said that everything is forever changing and nothing is unstoppable, what I really meant to scream at the very top of the tightrope of my lungs was “ME, for man is BVT A WORM.”