Thursday, September 30, 2004
Were you to peer inside my head, you might see...
...more or less an approximation of this.
Oh, come on. It no more constitutes "copping-out" than those of you who punctuate every blog post with a lyrical quotation of dubious relevance ;)
...more or less an approximation of this.
Oh, come on. It no more constitutes "copping-out" than those of you who punctuate every blog post with a lyrical quotation of dubious relevance ;)
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
*draws existential "tally" chart*
That's three times.
That's three times.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Ack, that's it: come Monday, I'm not even going to be able to speak to her. You cunt; you motherfucking cunt. And, if ever there was a "case in point" for your superficiality, this is it. What the bloody hell does he have that I lack? No: don't even bother. Alright, so perhaps I am being somewhat irrational; a little reactionary, maybe - but honestly, can you blame me? After all that you said, a metaphorical "fuck you", I am able to take; but not in conjunction with an almighty boot to the bollocks - self-esteem notwithstanding.
God, people make me so bloody exasperated (turn of phrase: I don't believe in God).
God, people make me so bloody exasperated (turn of phrase: I don't believe in God).
Saturday, September 25, 2004
En route home from work today, my progress was impeded by a suave, preppy-looking interloper whose appearance I could liken only to that of Willem Dafoe, circa Spider Man (post-hobgoblin transformation). It was only too evident that, upon seeing me sporting what I affectionately refer to as my "hair" (and thus concluding that I was a sub-denomination of human being whose freedom of movement was therefore his to infringe upon - brackets denote superfluity; take note), he decided upon reviving that perennial prank so beloved of cosmetically better-endowed teens who enjoy nothing more than flaunting their (ostensibly) superior genes, seemingly for the singular purpose of reinforcing the insecurity, futility and disillusionment of those human beings whose inheritance was - albeit, marginally in this case - more inducive to spontaneous projectile vomiting. In addition to assuaging their own deep-rooted social inadequacy and chronic self-loathing in the process, of course:
"Hey mate, you know my friend over there?"
"What about her?"
"She... well, she wants to know if she can have your telephone number."
Of an ample array of ripostiaries, I could have chosen any one of the following:
"Ah, so she's in need of an upgrade? Well, I can see why."
"You know, you look surprisingly mature for your mental age."
"Sorry: I wouldn't want to lower my standards."
"Actually I'm spoken for - although I appreciate your concern."
And what did I say?
"Leave me alone."
Guess I neglected the metaphysical gear-shift from "passive" to "assertive" before I left. I must be losing my "edge".
"Hey mate, you know my friend over there?"
"What about her?"
"She... well, she wants to know if she can have your telephone number."
Of an ample array of ripostiaries, I could have chosen any one of the following:
"Ah, so she's in need of an upgrade? Well, I can see why."
"You know, you look surprisingly mature for your mental age."
"Sorry: I wouldn't want to lower my standards."
"Actually I'm spoken for - although I appreciate your concern."
And what did I say?
"Leave me alone."
Guess I neglected the metaphysical gear-shift from "passive" to "assertive" before I left. I must be losing my "edge".
Adapted from a comment on Regan's blog, post-dated 25/09/04:
Potential is incorporeal; it does not exist until it is realised, at which point it is no longer deemed to be such. Insofar as the officially endorsed criteria for the certification of death entail a cessation in all cerebral activity, it is, by virtue of that same precedent, impossible to suppose human consciousness - "life" - to have come into being until cerebral activity is detectable. So long as our standardised, realised (agnostic) conception of "existence" denotes only that which is perceptible and/or empirically quantifiable, we cannot legislate on the basis of hypothetical values with no foundation in reality. A formation of cells is not a baby, and the potential for life is not deemed to be "life" by or in itself. If this policy is deemed objectionable by those proponents of the notion that to eliminate a faulty embryo equates to pre-empting the existence of a human being, then one may safely counter-argue in "potential" terms that, were the elimination of said embryo to ensure the demise of a genetic condition which might feasibly go on to cause the deaths of a hundred, or a million, or a hundred million other "potential" human beings, three-hundred years down the line, then such pre-emptive measures would be quite justified. Of course, they might then trot out the perennial retort that the formation of cells "we" just withdrew from the gene pool may well have gone on to become an award-winning scientist or author of the sort whose discoveries could have evolved our perception of reality; however, under this same predicate it is possible to theorise tangibly that said formation of cells harboured equal potential to evolve into a genocidal terrorist madman. Semantic arguments such as these do have the tendency to pan out, and thus we must fall back on what is scientifically verifiable to plan the most feasible course of action; in this case, what is certain is that genetic diseases can and would be eradicated via the means stated in your post, and thus it is arguably a policy we should implement.
Democratically, we are obliged to incorporate the national perspective when legislating matters with such inherent and seemingly intractable semantic complexities as this one. Thus, I would esteem that a referendum is in short order; we must establish a consensus, if any progress is to be made.
Potential is incorporeal; it does not exist until it is realised, at which point it is no longer deemed to be such. Insofar as the officially endorsed criteria for the certification of death entail a cessation in all cerebral activity, it is, by virtue of that same precedent, impossible to suppose human consciousness - "life" - to have come into being until cerebral activity is detectable. So long as our standardised, realised (agnostic) conception of "existence" denotes only that which is perceptible and/or empirically quantifiable, we cannot legislate on the basis of hypothetical values with no foundation in reality. A formation of cells is not a baby, and the potential for life is not deemed to be "life" by or in itself. If this policy is deemed objectionable by those proponents of the notion that to eliminate a faulty embryo equates to pre-empting the existence of a human being, then one may safely counter-argue in "potential" terms that, were the elimination of said embryo to ensure the demise of a genetic condition which might feasibly go on to cause the deaths of a hundred, or a million, or a hundred million other "potential" human beings, three-hundred years down the line, then such pre-emptive measures would be quite justified. Of course, they might then trot out the perennial retort that the formation of cells "we" just withdrew from the gene pool may well have gone on to become an award-winning scientist or author of the sort whose discoveries could have evolved our perception of reality; however, under this same predicate it is possible to theorise tangibly that said formation of cells harboured equal potential to evolve into a genocidal terrorist madman. Semantic arguments such as these do have the tendency to pan out, and thus we must fall back on what is scientifically verifiable to plan the most feasible course of action; in this case, what is certain is that genetic diseases can and would be eradicated via the means stated in your post, and thus it is arguably a policy we should implement.
Democratically, we are obliged to incorporate the national perspective when legislating matters with such inherent and seemingly intractable semantic complexities as this one. Thus, I would esteem that a referendum is in short order; we must establish a consensus, if any progress is to be made.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
'...Then English, someone please save me.'
Ah, yes: English; once the highlight of my timetable. The very mention of the word had been sufficient to engender nostalgic recollections of a golden era of sunshine and frolics, in which the dissemination of illuminating and insightful critiques on all matters literary was very much de rigeur. Prior, that is, to the burgeoning realisation that I am all-but constrained by a metaphysical fist of iron, wielded on behalf of the reactionary, neo-Fascist régime which has lately been established in its place.
In this particular instance, I was instructed to "shut up", as a result of having exercised my vocal chords for a duration in excess of the arbitrary time limit (imposed, of course, at an arbitrary time), and, as rationality gradually - yet inevitably - conceded to the almighty Steamroller of Prejudice, I found myself repressed into insignificance without even having been provided the opportunity but to clarify my point. Of course, in the event that I am yet to have cited sufficient evidence to convince you of the validity of this postulate, one may be moved to consider the fundamental composition of the set in itself: a distribution wholly reflective of the political spectrum, divided as it is into "left" and "right", with the "right" wing employing any and all means afforded them to effect the repression of the "left" (as befits their status as a snobbish, retrogressive clique). Said repression is achieved, usually via stentorian means: namely, "shouting-down" the opposition; and the verbal "rod of iron" is typically applied by one Tom Gough, a man so consummately middle-class that, were one to cut out his heart (not that such a venal notion could conceivably appeal to me for anything other than argument's sake), one might find the very words emblazoned across the quasi-industrial monstrosity embodied in his twin ventricles. When he comes to pass - the tragi-comic conclusion to a life-long love affair with his stomach (although, ironically, it is only his liver who ends up getting screwed) - it would be only right of me to recommend that his carcass be requisitioned by the state, and donated to the cause of ending World Hunger.
God bless high cholesterol - Amen.
Ah, yes: English; once the highlight of my timetable. The very mention of the word had been sufficient to engender nostalgic recollections of a golden era of sunshine and frolics, in which the dissemination of illuminating and insightful critiques on all matters literary was very much de rigeur. Prior, that is, to the burgeoning realisation that I am all-but constrained by a metaphysical fist of iron, wielded on behalf of the reactionary, neo-Fascist régime which has lately been established in its place.
In this particular instance, I was instructed to "shut up", as a result of having exercised my vocal chords for a duration in excess of the arbitrary time limit (imposed, of course, at an arbitrary time), and, as rationality gradually - yet inevitably - conceded to the almighty Steamroller of Prejudice, I found myself repressed into insignificance without even having been provided the opportunity but to clarify my point. Of course, in the event that I am yet to have cited sufficient evidence to convince you of the validity of this postulate, one may be moved to consider the fundamental composition of the set in itself: a distribution wholly reflective of the political spectrum, divided as it is into "left" and "right", with the "right" wing employing any and all means afforded them to effect the repression of the "left" (as befits their status as a snobbish, retrogressive clique). Said repression is achieved, usually via stentorian means: namely, "shouting-down" the opposition; and the verbal "rod of iron" is typically applied by one Tom Gough, a man so consummately middle-class that, were one to cut out his heart (not that such a venal notion could conceivably appeal to me for anything other than argument's sake), one might find the very words emblazoned across the quasi-industrial monstrosity embodied in his twin ventricles. When he comes to pass - the tragi-comic conclusion to a life-long love affair with his stomach (although, ironically, it is only his liver who ends up getting screwed) - it would be only right of me to recommend that his carcass be requisitioned by the state, and donated to the cause of ending World Hunger.
God bless high cholesterol - Amen.
Saturday, September 18, 2004
The Piteous Lament of N. Reynalde Thrimpulle:
Sleep?/What's the point? I'll only end up awake again a few hours later/with my dreams shattered/they're unrealised/and look set never to be/so long as she can't/won't see/grades and 'prospects'/the prospect of getting yet more grades/perhaps being paid to get them... but the premise remains the same/hoop after hoop/what's the use of success when you've no-one to share it with?/a whole life which promises not to be necessarily any different from what I've been through so far/all these good grades; achievement; the appreciation others give me for making them laugh... it's only a temporary panacea/a substitute for actual fulfilment/emotionally? no, it's not/psychologically, it is... to a limited degree/I can only judge myself by generally accepted standards, and my problem may not seem insoluble to others, but then those 'others' aren't me/it's easy to say 'you'll find someone' and wrap the whole issue up in a neat little package, then move on to the next lost soul/yes well, there are exceptions to almost every rule/except gravity/saying 'you'll find someone' as if it's going to be some self-fulfilling prophecy; that the cosmology will simply orchestrate itself, the planets will align, and everyone will be happy/they're not the ones who actually have to go about the whole damned business of finding said 'someone', and fretting over the prospect of not living up to those expectations/I'm surrounded by shallow, worthless people, who supposedly represent the cream of the cream of what society has to offer... and even they can't see beyond outward appearances/I never supposed I was that ugly, but it's difficult not to make such a judgement/mm-hmm./that means so much to me, it really does... ironically enough, the people who say it are, more often than not, the ones who reject me/'yes well, as a general rule you're obviously very attractive... you're just not my type'/what 'type' am I, then? the witty, intelligent, attractive, mature, understanding, conversationally adept type.../who nevertheless remains completely and utterly devoid of prospects?/judging purely from what I've been told/by those people for whom those values don't seem to hold any appeal whatsoever/because they still can't get over their sophomoric fantasy about the dumbass guitarist who lives next door/mm... case in point./yes, and for precisely what reason?/WHY?!/he has nothing going for him whatsoever/even by your own admission/he's emotionally dead, intellectually dead, conversationally dead/that means precisely fuck all if the man pressing the keys is an automaton/the emotion isn't his/it's borrowed from Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, whoever/for the duration of the performance, until he stops /this all makes me very, very angry/you put him down even more than I do/and you're still besotted with him/what's the point of having any of the qualities I supposedly possess when all it gets me is friends and sympathy?/you're not me/freedom to... be alone?/live through the same monotonous cycle over and over?/I'm alone because I don't have that one person with whom I can share absolutely everything/virtually all my friendships are highly superficial, catering only to my ego by providing me with people who will laugh at my witticisms and appreciate my augmented sentence structure/I can't share literally everything, you know that/it's an instinctual, inherent and utterly human need/as far as I alone am concerned, my perception is all that matters/I'm not valued or appreciated in the capacities that I need to feel valued and appreciated - as do all people/delude myself?/optimism can't be conjured from nothing/that's idealism/and I'm too cynical for that/then you're very fortunate; your experience of people in relationships is one which reinforces the notion that people are happier alone/and it makes you more comfortable/but people who separate from one another never stop loving one another... they separate because it causes them more pain being together than it does being apart/that's experience, is it not?/second-hand experience, perhaps, but experience nonetheless/I do not judge my own prospects in terms of other people's failures/I have the confidence in myself to believe that, were I in a relationship, I would make it work/I'm not my Dad/but I haven't even been afforded the opportunity/how is that any comfort whatsoever?/I'm exasperated because there is no logical reason why I should be alone/I see the girl who rejects me fuck up her life with consecutive guys, all of whom are shallow, vapid and utterly worthless/and she tells me this, and then projects the idea that we could be together, and then excuses herself from making good the promise by informing me that she's not looking for a meaningful relationship, and has other guys on her agenda/so she'd sooner make the same mistake, over and over again/than take a chance with someone who is - according to her - 'a rare breed'/yet another friend... friend after friend... I've solved every problem I can ever hope to solve with 'friends'/the river of my discontent runs a much deeper course/I hurl my problems out into the open under the vain delusion that they will all be resolved by some divine providence/people ARE ruining it for me... how else could I come to ruin, but by people?/bloody people/people who who can't see beyond their own noses/and make the same idiotic choices for the same superficial reasons time and time again, refusing to practise what they so ardently preach as if it somehow does not apply to them, and yet they presume it will apply to someone else/when they say 'don't worry; you'll find someone'/they really mean 'you'll find someone else'/they can absolve themselves of responsibility/it's like emotional pass-the-parcel/and I'm the fucking parcel/like screaming at someone over the internet is going to change anything... I'm expecting a solution to problems that can't be solved by words alone/you can't solve my problems; you wouldn't want to... perhaps 'someone else' will at some point; that's certainly a prospect I can rely on/yes, it's hard, bloody hard/the only rationalisation I can devise for my being alone, is that humanity consists of vapid, fatuous, hypocritical, morons/and that, by their arbitrary standards, I am found to be 'lacking' in a respect in which it is impossible for me to change myself/I'm a completely different man to the one I was before year 10... I'm funnier, I'm more sociable, I'm more understanding/it makes no fucking odds, because they're still looking for the same thing/perhaps when I'm 90 and the playing field is more even; we shall see/you wonder how many girls have told me I'm the funniest guy they've ever met in their entire lives/at least five/but nevermind/it adds up to precisely nought/that's entirely understandable/I've been tired for so very long.../and I'm not merely talking about tonight/I tire myself/tired of idiots/shallow, stupid, idiots/tired of being unappreciated by people who are supposed to appreciate me, and wondering why they can't take that next, logical step/and then realising that it's because, underneath the pretence, they're equally shallow/only they dress it up with fanciful motives and complex justifications/of course you'd say that; you're bored now, and you want this sorted before you go to bed so you don't have to sleep on it, because that would make you worry/so, with that in mind, I'll be perfectly fine/come Monday, it's business as usual.
Goodnight.
Sleep?/What's the point? I'll only end up awake again a few hours later/with my dreams shattered/they're unrealised/and look set never to be/so long as she can't/won't see/grades and 'prospects'/the prospect of getting yet more grades/perhaps being paid to get them... but the premise remains the same/hoop after hoop/what's the use of success when you've no-one to share it with?/a whole life which promises not to be necessarily any different from what I've been through so far/all these good grades; achievement; the appreciation others give me for making them laugh... it's only a temporary panacea/a substitute for actual fulfilment/emotionally? no, it's not/psychologically, it is... to a limited degree/I can only judge myself by generally accepted standards, and my problem may not seem insoluble to others, but then those 'others' aren't me/it's easy to say 'you'll find someone' and wrap the whole issue up in a neat little package, then move on to the next lost soul/yes well, there are exceptions to almost every rule/except gravity/saying 'you'll find someone' as if it's going to be some self-fulfilling prophecy; that the cosmology will simply orchestrate itself, the planets will align, and everyone will be happy/they're not the ones who actually have to go about the whole damned business of finding said 'someone', and fretting over the prospect of not living up to those expectations/I'm surrounded by shallow, worthless people, who supposedly represent the cream of the cream of what society has to offer... and even they can't see beyond outward appearances/I never supposed I was that ugly, but it's difficult not to make such a judgement/mm-hmm./that means so much to me, it really does... ironically enough, the people who say it are, more often than not, the ones who reject me/'yes well, as a general rule you're obviously very attractive... you're just not my type'/what 'type' am I, then? the witty, intelligent, attractive, mature, understanding, conversationally adept type.../who nevertheless remains completely and utterly devoid of prospects?/judging purely from what I've been told/by those people for whom those values don't seem to hold any appeal whatsoever/because they still can't get over their sophomoric fantasy about the dumbass guitarist who lives next door/mm... case in point./yes, and for precisely what reason?/WHY?!/he has nothing going for him whatsoever/even by your own admission/he's emotionally dead, intellectually dead, conversationally dead/that means precisely fuck all if the man pressing the keys is an automaton/the emotion isn't his/it's borrowed from Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, whoever/for the duration of the performance, until he stops /this all makes me very, very angry/you put him down even more than I do/and you're still besotted with him/what's the point of having any of the qualities I supposedly possess when all it gets me is friends and sympathy?/you're not me/freedom to... be alone?/live through the same monotonous cycle over and over?/I'm alone because I don't have that one person with whom I can share absolutely everything/virtually all my friendships are highly superficial, catering only to my ego by providing me with people who will laugh at my witticisms and appreciate my augmented sentence structure/I can't share literally everything, you know that/it's an instinctual, inherent and utterly human need/as far as I alone am concerned, my perception is all that matters/I'm not valued or appreciated in the capacities that I need to feel valued and appreciated - as do all people/delude myself?/optimism can't be conjured from nothing/that's idealism/and I'm too cynical for that/then you're very fortunate; your experience of people in relationships is one which reinforces the notion that people are happier alone/and it makes you more comfortable/but people who separate from one another never stop loving one another... they separate because it causes them more pain being together than it does being apart/that's experience, is it not?/second-hand experience, perhaps, but experience nonetheless/I do not judge my own prospects in terms of other people's failures/I have the confidence in myself to believe that, were I in a relationship, I would make it work/I'm not my Dad/but I haven't even been afforded the opportunity/how is that any comfort whatsoever?/I'm exasperated because there is no logical reason why I should be alone/I see the girl who rejects me fuck up her life with consecutive guys, all of whom are shallow, vapid and utterly worthless/and she tells me this, and then projects the idea that we could be together, and then excuses herself from making good the promise by informing me that she's not looking for a meaningful relationship, and has other guys on her agenda/so she'd sooner make the same mistake, over and over again/than take a chance with someone who is - according to her - 'a rare breed'/yet another friend... friend after friend... I've solved every problem I can ever hope to solve with 'friends'/the river of my discontent runs a much deeper course/I hurl my problems out into the open under the vain delusion that they will all be resolved by some divine providence/people ARE ruining it for me... how else could I come to ruin, but by people?/bloody people/people who who can't see beyond their own noses/and make the same idiotic choices for the same superficial reasons time and time again, refusing to practise what they so ardently preach as if it somehow does not apply to them, and yet they presume it will apply to someone else/when they say 'don't worry; you'll find someone'/they really mean 'you'll find someone else'/they can absolve themselves of responsibility/it's like emotional pass-the-parcel/and I'm the fucking parcel/like screaming at someone over the internet is going to change anything... I'm expecting a solution to problems that can't be solved by words alone/you can't solve my problems; you wouldn't want to... perhaps 'someone else' will at some point; that's certainly a prospect I can rely on/yes, it's hard, bloody hard/the only rationalisation I can devise for my being alone, is that humanity consists of vapid, fatuous, hypocritical, morons/and that, by their arbitrary standards, I am found to be 'lacking' in a respect in which it is impossible for me to change myself/I'm a completely different man to the one I was before year 10... I'm funnier, I'm more sociable, I'm more understanding/it makes no fucking odds, because they're still looking for the same thing/perhaps when I'm 90 and the playing field is more even; we shall see/you wonder how many girls have told me I'm the funniest guy they've ever met in their entire lives/at least five/but nevermind/it adds up to precisely nought/that's entirely understandable/I've been tired for so very long.../and I'm not merely talking about tonight/I tire myself/tired of idiots/shallow, stupid, idiots/tired of being unappreciated by people who are supposed to appreciate me, and wondering why they can't take that next, logical step/and then realising that it's because, underneath the pretence, they're equally shallow/only they dress it up with fanciful motives and complex justifications/of course you'd say that; you're bored now, and you want this sorted before you go to bed so you don't have to sleep on it, because that would make you worry/so, with that in mind, I'll be perfectly fine/come Monday, it's business as usual.
Goodnight.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
A week can be a long, long time indeed; especially when what lies in wait for you at the tail end looks set to be so very promising - perhaps even momentous.
Hmm. What fun I shall have.
Hmm. What fun I shall have.
'Chat-up line to a disabled person: "Well, it's a good thing that you're unable to walk - all the better to take you from behind!".'
'...'
'And it is at this precise moment you begin to think, "damn... I really wish I didn't know you".'
'...'
'And it is at this precise moment you begin to think, "damn... I really wish I didn't know you".'
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Damn, I felt witty today.
Friday, September 10, 2004
Today I was party to a most elucidating discourse:
"Fucking ginger bastard."
"Thankyou."
"Ginger bastard. Bastard. Ginger."
"Two-word vocabulary; but you use it well."
Is every bastard ginger? Are all ginger people bastards? Were those two, salient factors, or were they contributary? I draw the reasoned conclusion that he must've been a philosophy major (strictly on the basis of oratory prowess coupled with an exemplary facility for perceptive insight, you understand). Or alternatively, perhaps my judgement of character is somewhat optimistic.
Bloody troglodytes.
"Fucking ginger bastard."
"Thankyou."
"Ginger bastard. Bastard. Ginger."
"Two-word vocabulary; but you use it well."
Is every bastard ginger? Are all ginger people bastards? Were those two, salient factors, or were they contributary? I draw the reasoned conclusion that he must've been a philosophy major (strictly on the basis of oratory prowess coupled with an exemplary facility for perceptive insight, you understand). Or alternatively, perhaps my judgement of character is somewhat optimistic.
Bloody troglodytes.
Saturday, September 04, 2004
'I'm a black hole for limelight.'
