How to kill the pain

The world we live in is constructed around our lives. The adornments of the house are beautiful, artistically swirled vases with purple flowers, the aroma of oranges wafts through the vast arabesque hallways. Each room is vividly colored, different furniture decorating each. As we move through our lives, we forget the rooms that used to be so sweet, our past times and our refuges. Their chairs and cushions are left to gather cobwebs in darkness, to be reentered later on the search for lost keys. 

Some rooms you have never been in, mostly because you are afraid to enter them. Or you have stood at the threshold briefly but retreated when a light switch could not be found. There are no windows in this house; or rather you cannot see what is outside. Objects just seem to appear, possibly from the attic, yet many more are misplaced and lost over time. You stand in this house, wondering why you are currently alone. You remember that this house has entertained; people have entered and spent marvelous times with you, some staying for months on end. Reflecting, you realize that these people are not with you now, nor were they really with you then. Has anyone ever been with you? Possibly they are in another room, gathering cobwebs with the cushions. 

Yet this house is built on paper. You miss a step one day. Then the paper breaks and your universe begins to fall in around you. Collapsing into the void that your foot tore, or was torn for you, or was it already there? All the rooms that you counted on are being destroyed, the half remembered residents of rooms long forgotten collapse into this expanding abyss. Eventually you are sucked in too. As hell swallows you, you look up to see this house you lived in for so long. It is so small from underneath that it’s hard to decipher from the emptiness around it. It is constructed of rotting wood and rusty nails. It's missing a wall! How did anyone live in that house?

As you descend the sorrow swallows you, you are being squeezed everywhere and it is hard to breathe. The shattered reminisce of the house lose their beauty. The vase can be seen falling beside you. It is not so beautiful any more, it is gray and all the flowers have wilted. Perhaps that vase never had bright purple flowers... The only thing that you are positive about is that you’ll never know. You loose site of everything as your eyes eventually become enveloped in nothingness. 

The house is gone now and you are still falling... wait, no you’re not. You’re standing in another room, of the same house, or a similar one. In this room there is just a wooden bar stool. After a short time you sit on it, and ponder how you got there, or if you’re even still alive. There are voices in the room across the hall; they beckon you over to come join the party. You enter bring up the recent destruction of your life. You ask if this has happened to anyone else.

The whole room smells of oranges. But now, somehow, they seem bitter.

Emotional Roller Coaster

Previously just an improv game.

No more!

with one easy divorce and a shortage of money, you too can experience the excruciating pain of your parents suing each other. Now, your saying, surely these two adults won't jockey for you to pick a side, thereby destroying any stability within your psyche. Yet I can assure you that they will! 

As a bonus, you will get a complementary fear of physical and emotional intimacy with the opposite sex!

Talk about a bargain!

Plastic Surgery has come a LONG way

Say hello to the first recipient of skin grafting, Walter Yeo:

The after picture may look like something out of the twilight zone. But the before picture may be the scariest thing I will ever see... Plus he smiles in the after picture

Cheese!

George Widener

About George Widener

I had been hiking the Appalachian trail for 3 or 4 days with three good friends of mine. We ended that evening at a larger then unusually wooden shelter and camp site. When we arrived there was already a man sitting there by himself. That man was George Widener. He broke the ice of our relationship by explaining to each of us all of the things that had happened on our birthdays throughout history. George was somewhat socially awkward, yet was enthralling with all of his esoteric knowledge. He handed us a wrinkled piece of paper with his biography that had a section ripped out of it. 

George can see special patterns throughout time and has created magic calenders that aresimilar to cosmic sudoku's. He completely blew my mind and has recently created some amazing works of art. All of his stories throughout the evening were extremely existential and inspiring. Though his mannerism were not as common or deliberate as a normal person, his stories and conversations made any social oddities regardless. 

When we had returned from our trip, we investigated George's biography. George has Asperger syndrome and is a highly functioning autistic. I wish I knew him better and would love to get my hands on some of his awesome art work.

Nothing Like Capitalism

I don't think there is anything more American then the Idea of Diet Coke Plus. For all of us unhealthy ass holes that want to get healthy, all the while maintaining our state of unhealthy assholeness. 

Those who enjoy the splendid taste and refreshing burst of vitamins and minerals delivered from a Diet Coke Plus not only get the benefit of great flavor, they also get the good fortune of living in a world of retartdeness that makes Narnia look plausable.

Unia? Dreams darkness

I have had the CD UNIA by Sonata Artica for a while now, and it still gives me the same feeling that I got when I first listened to it.

 

Unia reminds me of being in an autumn field. A dark clouded noon with a chilly breeze. In this field, I am standing in a room of a house long abandoned. The walls are covered with dark maroon wallpaper, worn all over and beginning to tear. No direct light enters the room, only the visibility allowed by the grace of the air. There is a rocking chair by the wall made out of white painted oak and a baby's cradle in the corner. Cobwebs connect both to the wall. Dust covers the room like a light snow. There is a painting on the wall, a black and white photo with a rustic ornate frame. There is a blond haired woman with gentle features and a hooknose. Her face is slender and young, yet her dress is a relic. Expounding designs typical to an 18th century ball gown... but the meaning of her dress has faded long ago. She is holding her daughter and gazing out of the picture with an emotionless gaze.

 

I am standing in the middle of this room. My eye focused on a random section of the wall below the picture. It is a place that I have left long ago, and yet never forgotten. I feel bittersweet nostalgia. Yet though this place belongs to me and is my memory, I don't fit here... In fact, I never have. I am alone in this room and there is never going to be a way to get out. I am an owl in an sewer. My thoughts cannot escape this place, as I am trapped within this room. Though I am trapped, I am not afraid. I am accepting. I am filthy. Yet I am real.

 

Anyway… This uncomfortable feeling always revisits me when listening to this CD, thus I think its good.

Did you know...

When I get really nervous, I get an uncontrollable hiccup fit? I certainly wasn't aware, but last night and this morning I couldn't stop hiccuping because of my stress about getting a paper turned in on time. It actually got to the point were I became nauseous from all the diaphragm contractions.

This may be the pussiest response to stress that anyone has ever had.