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[02 Oct 2009|01:16pm] |
New LiveJournal: urchin_caliban
I can now live in 2004. Add it, for up-to-date current news and top style.
ADD IT, THIS LIVEJOURNAL WILL DIE
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[25 Sep 2009|03:58pm] |
My birthday: October 2nd.
Why pamper life's complexities when the leather runs smooth on the passenger seat?
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[25 Sep 2009|02:21pm] |
Irish Struggle for Independence Mix CD
1. Irish Blood, English Heart (Morrissey)
2. Sunday, Bloody Sunday (U2)
3. This Is A Rebel Song (Sinead O'Connor with No Use For A Name
ad infinitum
Will be distributed upon completion.
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[25 Sep 2009|02:20pm] |
STOP HAVING SEX
YOU
RIGHT THERE
YES.
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[18 Sep 2009|11:19pm] |
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music |
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The Shins album. |
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Stolen from the Affected Provincial's Quarterly. Find yourself and wallow in your affection or guttersnipery.
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[16 Sep 2009|05:39pm] |
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music |
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Spheres, duh. |
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(my first essay for English Honours)
Tigger: Man or Myth
Having received the assignment informing me that I should choose a character from literature and write upon it, I fed the corresponding data into my magical machine. The results are most curious, as I have been found to resemble that paragon of boundless energy, Tigger, from A.A. Milne's marvelous and highly witty "Winnie the Pooh" series. Tigger, the Prometheus of the Hundred Acre Woods, that most excellent striped dandy.
Tigger has a powerful sense of identity and consciousness. He surpasses the opiate-grog and the faux-intellect of the Wood's natives, as do I, except one might substitute Woods for California. When Pooh asks, "'Who is it?'", upon Tigger's first sorte into the Hundred Acre Woods, Tigger answers, "'Me.'" He does not simply hand off his name as a defining characteristic, quite to the contrary, he presents himself as being himself, and so it is for myself. I am not Dylan, I am not that gallant cavalier of the IRA, nor that immigrant who came onto our shores so recently cast from the wartorn isle of Ireland, nay, I am all of these but more, I am a Me! What defines a Man, a Woman, an Adolescent? These statistics are death! Billions of numbers crunched! There is no little square to mark on a survey or a census for Soul! These tags are ephemeral and fleeting, but Me will last forever. Terms like Teenager and Honors Student and Lower Class and Artist are all dust in the howling hurricane of Temporality! I will lose all identity, I will lose all discernable traces of body, mind, and soul, I will commit my body to the fire and become ashes that will be blasted by the desert winds into the cracks of our crumbling earth, but nothing can destroy the Self! The Self remains mutable but undestroyable! As the Venerated Philosopher says, "Behold the pond surface. Does not the Moon fill it, the great Moon, and the pond is not burst?" But during our short lives, we have strengths that propel us to great heights, and Tigger is crammed full of that strength.
The orange enigma disdains the levity of Rabbit and Owl, instead effortlessly flying on the wings of enthusiasm and sheer elan. To quote the esteemed Mr. Pooh, who has (to much appreciation among the academic community at large) put certain thoughts on Tigger into verse, "'But whatever his weight in pounds/shillings, and ounces/He always seems bigger because/of his bounces.'" Mine (and Tigger's) physical composition is not a factor in determining our threat to the Square Community. Tigger uses his endless store of aerobatic energy to intimidate and impress the staid timberland settlement. I, somewhat similarly, have trained myself to use the power of my mind to instantly turn any target within my immediate vision into fine ash. I can also make fire erupt from my fists by feeding from the thermal energy inherent in my environment. I am especially adept at canoeing swiftly towards my enemies and firing thick arrows into their bodies from my longbow, rendering them vulnerable to my signature coup de grace, instant internal combustion, sometimes referred to by awed bystanders as "burnination." The greatest trait that both Tigger and I possess, however, is that of destiny.
Tigger and myself both share the same spiritual fate: We are both going to Hell. For does it not say, "You shall not lie with a male as with a woman. It is an abomination," and does it not also say, "Nor shall you mate with any animal, to defile yourself with it."? Hark ye as the horror unpeels like a banana of sin! Eeyore accounts to his shocked but curious cronies his odd and disquieting experience, saying, "'Somebody BOUNCED me. I was just thinking by the side of the river...when I received a loud BOUNCE.'" After receiving the bounce, Eeyore relates that, "'It's wet.' If you know what I mean." Yes, Eeyore, it is indeed wet. After a few more minutes the meeting degenerates into a petty masturbatory game of Poohsticks, but the point has been made: Tigger is a gaudy homosexual, and all homosexuals are bound for the flames, albeit those who engage in convenient interpretation of the Scriptures. I myself am not numbered among that cursed brand of sodomite, as the school policy clearly states that all homosexuals are dirty and wicked and against the rules. However, I have deigned from believing in the Christian God, and this alone is enough to hurtle me into the path of the Four Horsemen, where I am sure to become as chaff in the wind. And are not all sins equal in the eye of God? We are both tanning in the nearby fires of Hell, and our dip in the pool of brimstone is but a matter of time.
Tigger and I have souls that are intertwined by the hammer of identity, the sparks of energy, and the metal of sin. Together we forge an unstoppable force of similarity, which I call Voltron, Master of the Universe. For purposes of this essay, however, I bestow upon it the title of kinship.
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[13 Sep 2009|09:20pm] |
New mobile number, kids: (8 0 5) 5 8 7-4 4 3 1
Learn to love it, assemble the ways, now, today, tomorrow, and always.
Note: All contacts on my phone list will have a unique and personality-oriented ringtone to signify their inimitable and lovely presence on the cellular airwaves. Or until I run out of ringtones, upon which there will be minor acts of repetition that will go unseen due to my crafty and cunning demeanor.
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[30 Aug 2009|04:46pm] |
Thursday: Slept over at Kenta's with Donnie and Kenta, raved hardcore, jammed on our massive electronique ensemble of instruments and tweakers. We have: A mixer, drum machine, turntables, keyboard, two guitars (one acoustic, one electric), and a sweet synthesizer. I stayed up all night, my nerves frying on multiple instances of caffeine drinks.
Friday: Left Kenta's house and dined with Donnie at Macaroni Grill. We went outside for a while and enjoyed the fountain. Now, this fountain was on a fairly regular cycle. It would turn on, weaken, and then turn off completely. So as it shuts off I happen to lean down on the side of the fountain wall, and I hear this lady behind me say, "Excuse me, did you shut that fountain off?" I turn around and say, "Yes. Yes, I did." She asks me to turn it back on, and I refuse, making some comment about the water bill. She gets all up in my face and I dick with her some more until someone tells her that I'm just fucking with her. Fun times.
( Photo extravaganza inside!!! Click! )
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| Rien |
[25 Aug 2009|05:05pm] |
So apparently everyone in the world was invited to and went to the City Walk extravaganza tonight except me.
Eternal heartbreak.
EDIT: ETERNAL HEARTBREAK
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| Becoming Clouds |
[21 Aug 2009|08:09pm] |
Your words are plain
but your voice is in italics,
You bring your head up,
And the hair gets smeared against the glass.
This purple-white streak is like a bone bursting out of a violet,
This worse for worser trade is like a home for the truly violent.
Living inside a swap is hellish and the enemy is the merchant
The enemy is the merchant and he is near.
If the currency is in tears
Then inflation is shameful.
Value is dropping for valuable things
And someone's getting paid to shoot at the wings
And lock you in the wings
And make you make scenes
And make you carefully and deliberately rob yourself.
The vertigo is rising at ground level, the mana is drying out on the sand, the hair is matted on the glass and the pulse of everyone but yourself is coming up fast,
You are losing velocity.
They are gliding overhead, they are making shadows like the clouds over the plains where you used to walk,
But now they are all becoming clouds,
And you are the last grain of sand in this straitlaced asphalt square foot of grass broken gravel hilled in populated hermitage tall houses with closed doors and lit windows
hourglass
of a city.
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[19 Aug 2009|02:12pm] |
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music |
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Killswitch Engage |
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In this post we tell jokes!
_______
Two gentlemen olives are on a stroll in East Devonshire when they come upon a bar of goodly repute. Percy, the second olive, says to Harold, the first, "I do say, old chap, fancy a drink!?" Harold replies: "Absolutely, old puff." They enter the establishment and hang up their walking canes, savouring the odour of fine spirits served at proper temperature. After some idling small talk with some choice acquantences they migrate towards the vicinity of the bar, ordering some of the districts' finest whiskey. They proceed to imbibe the jolly liqueur, tossing back shot after shot of the delightful brew. However, at one juncture in this fine evening an unfortunate incident occurs! Harold, having had a tad too much than might be advisable for an olive of his age, keels right jolly well over onto the, I am saddened to say, regretably ill-scrubbed floor, where his head meets with a resounding bump! Percy leans over the bar stool, and inquires with great concern, "My word, Harold, are you quite alright?" Harold looks up with a wry grin on his face, and replies ruefully, "Olive!"
At this point a lusty wench is jostled by a passing coxscomb and the result of this disorderly jostling of which no decent young man should be a part of is that the carrying tray of which she is mistress of is shaken at an angle, giving the unfortunate gin and tonic upon it no other choice but to spill all over poor Sir Harold! What a calamity! Sir Harold starts up in a flash, and his face is quite rubicose from his intoxication and no doubt his well-concealed but assuredly vicious temper. "You slagging cunny!" he shouts, grabbing at her skirt. The barmaid shrieks and prances off, as he chases her to the door, stopping to grab his trusty walking cane. As she darts out, she slips upon a murky puddle of which the fair city of Devonshire is known to harbour, landing with a kersplash and perhaps a splooshydingsploosh! Harold, his forehead throbbing with a single vicious vein, rains down blows upon her like a veritable Mr. Hyde! Blood fountains from her exposed temple, the white of her skull exposed to make her head a mirror to the cruel moon that shines above with the fierce lunar light that makes madmen of us all.
God save the Queen.
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| THOM ATE MEAT!!! |
[30 Jul 2009|06:09pm] |
THOM ATE MEAT TODAY AT 6:08 PM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Taylor and I went to Quizno's and picked out a deliciously tasty Classic Club with Bacon, no tomatoes. Then we drove down to Simi and entered Thom's house where he was innocently, peacefully enjoying a simple flash game on his computer. We then slyly asked him if he wanted a sandwich, and he said, "Sure!", a cherubic and unsuspecting smile breaking out on his honest Austrian face. We handed it to him and he chomped into it, but after four bites he started shrieking, "I've been tricked! I've been tricked! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!", the stench of roasted bacon igniting his nostrils with forbidden passions and unbearably sinful thoughts, and he started melting. (maybe not melting but you know) His vegetarian vow had been broken!!! Now he has to start all over. He is now weeping for his lost and mispent youth.
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[27 Jul 2009|04:01pm] |
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Sparklehorse-Pig/My Chemical Romance-To The End |
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Never use a word you've ever used before
Settle the score with the door
(it's all that's left)
You know they win when they get the last word
So to save your pride
Jab and deride
Use your mouth to stab
Spit out nails and crucify their jaw to the floor
Get in shit before you get tossed out
The more tears you make the more you save
Pretend that we have a community pool of sadness
And we'll keep this all in the family
We'll circulate it and keep it flowing
Flowing flood of hate
It's all right
This is safe hate
It keeps us fresh and roasted
So use your tongue and your teeth
Slit them beneath
The belly
Where they can bleed out their spite into the long hot night
Out onto the sidewalk where you imagine passersby walk by and look at yr house and think, "Thank God I don't live there with those screaming maniacs"
So use your fingertips to make insulting indentations and your tone to modulate incredible condescensions
If you make them bleed and stick them like a pig you're halfway to the hate
All you need is the middle of an enraging phone call and the order to wait
And hold
And put them on hold
And fill the telephone wires for miles around with hate
Kill the crows as electricity fuses with the brimming vitriol Their breath on the receiver crawling hot and in flames into the holes like demonic worms,
Oh, it's so pretty
Watch the phone start to melt in your hand
And then slam it down
Before their rage streaks in a bolt through the hole in your brain
This is all there is
To hate
To hate
To hate
This is to hate
This is to waiting for their hate to build and rise
This is to killing crows.
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| SEX FACT AND MYTH |
[20 Jul 2009|02:20am] |
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mood |
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And do I dream again? |
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music |
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Nuclear War (On The Dance Floor)-Electric Six |
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SEX FACT AND MYTH
Vaginas are filled with lava.
You do not necessarily have to throw villagers into your vagina to appease it.
The vagina has a coconut orchard. (still not proved, but suspected)
The penis ejaculates bullets.
This is why no one ever survives sex.
The bullets impregnate the woman, and as she dies the metal robot explodes from her chest cavity, feeding on her blood.
This is why you must masturbate with a sword to toughen up the muscles.
Then you will be able to crunch down during sex and blow that penis to kingdom cum and harvest the steel filings for your factory.
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| Mango vs. OS |
[19 Jul 2009|11:41pm] |
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The Phantom of the Opera-Nightwish |
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Asparagus, grapefruit, mangos.
When the OS kicks back online we have ninety seconds before the mainline virus elimination systems kick on, until then we have basic security hardware activations to deal with. We go out on supply runs during the fifteen minute downtime sequence that occurs every two days, at 12 AM on the 2nd such day. I hate grapefruit and asparagus, mangos are our lifeblood. We have all three growing in the hydroponic orchards and fields nearby: Biolot 37. 86% of it was destroyed in the Storms, but the hardy grow-bots keep the goods pumping up through the soil. The multibike skims across the ground, thrust-jets propelling us through the vast multilayered ghetto of Hard Drive H. The OS classified everything in technical terms, and now our only safety is within the five story structure called the Node. It's the only area of Hard Drive H not patrolled by lethality personified: the gunbots. The parameters of the OS saves us for once, as it once used all of the Nodes for network communication/relay. Now satellites orbit, we assume. Wonderful, a world of wireless, waved, infrared, invisible control. It isn't the standard computer-is-given-international-control-of-industry, etc, and then goes haywire, killing us through some malfunction or AI desire to help humanity by controlling it. The OS was masterminded by the Corporation, and given free reign over the troublesome part of the world. It has strict borders within which it must stay. North/South America, basically that entire land mass were blasted to halfway past oblivion, as was Africa, and the survivors try to fulfill their name. And the Corporation grows fat from the fruits of their subjugation. Presumably. But the only fruits that matter out here are mangos. The aspargus were only really needed when we had to trip some life sensors from afar, and our pungent urine did its work. Grapefruit are sour pink balls of evil. But mangos, they I love.
Flashing to our current situation, beams of hot hot heat pulsate overhead as we multithrust into the orchard, and they ricochet from pillar to pillar of the chemical tube clusters, fizzling off into the sky which is an incredibly diverse gradience of greys. I never imagined that there could be such a rainbow of gray hues, such complexities, but the evolution of radiation and pollution proceeds unchecked, and there it is. The grey caved in blown up slumping skeletal structures all fade into the sky, and the ground is a more well-worn version of the sky. And it doesn't rain acid. The lasers are silent. The gunbots have entered. We stalk among the trees, our ion shell rifles cocked. And then I stop for the sight that never ceases to give me some vestige of warmth. The mango trees, with their delicious yellow crop, the sharpest contrast I might ever see. Our faces are pale with the lack of sun and the floating ash. The mangos are like lamps. My team loads as many as we can onto the cargo dump in the back of the multibike, and then we start to pile back on. Maximum occupancy five. I turn and grab a ripe mango from the closest tree, the leaves coated with chemical rain, and they look rusty. A metal tree. Wonderful. I bite into the mango, the nectar spurting into my gullet, the sweetness giving me thrills and goosebumps after weeks among smoking craters and people coughing up sticky dust mixed with some random lung fluid concoction. This is a taste of Heaven. And then my veins start to tingle, because I can feel through my feet the vibrations traveling through the cracks of the fertile, soft soil. The others are still on the multibike, gesturing for me to come. I stand still and I just wait until their gradually growing cries become screams. And then a raindrop falls on my shoulder, hitting hard and trickling down my back. It must have somehow become a bullet on the way. The clattering death-spin of the gunbot's Turbulence 2600 automatic breathes a gentle wind among the mangos. And I turn, the rapidly converging locus of shots blowing away chunks of extraneous flesh as I spray a slew of rounds into its metal hide. Fire into the joints. My shots ricochet around inside the gunbot's armour, and smoke bursts out in thick noxious streams, until the gunbot collapses, and two more advance, firing after the retreating multibike, sending fountains of mango guts and juice into the air as they hit the cargo dump. Hyperkinetically-stimulated fountains of mango, painting weird erratic rainbows in the sky. I fall as their next shot tears through my right kneecap, and hit the earth, my blood merging with the mellow amber nectar.
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[19 Jul 2009|11:28pm] |
New cell which I shall have for five weeks: 805-7 3 1-7326
Harder better faster stronger!
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[18 Jul 2009|01:44pm] |
Featherbreaker,
Iridescent fluid spilled on the asphalt, particles crunching under the tires down traffiqueway 990, time setter pathway culler choice nuller divergence binder, di i o di i o, di i o,
Fender fighting the barrier, the windshield washing back over the dashboard, the glass feathering your head,
Glass dots insinuated into the marrow,
An x-ray romance, digging out the pieces, I'm your technician,
Featherbreaker
Shake down the wind, duck the short wave transmissions, the particles will outline your fractures fragmentations dislocations shattered bedrock of bone and blood, scream into the wind tunnel, fight sonic distortion, fight the atmospheric testing grounds until they've decompressed every vital organ in your body, but never give yourself back to the soil (forbid future generations of The Swine use your organic breakdown for survival)
Wreckage of feathers and broken weather beyond measure, this will be the last planned accident in a long repertoire of auto-cannibalistic acts. My palms are dirty with scores of disconnected brake wires.
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[16 Jul 2009|10:58am] |
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You have a problem balancin'!
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[16 Jul 2009|08:58am] |
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music |
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Noir-Canta Per Me II |
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Saw Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon + Braveheart, forgot to mark it.
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[08 Jul 2009|11:37am] |
My Best Friend is ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) 0paranoid0 | | Our 7 common interests are: beauty, computers, dreams, internet, kittens, movies, music | Who is your best friend?
| | Created by macoto |
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