Superfluous Third Wheel

Courtesy of Internetdj.com:

Profesh - Bass Holes
Profesh - Deeplace
Profesh - Tetris Addict

Open in Winamp, and ready thy opinions.

Exhaustive surveys conducted amongst the U.K.'s teenage demographic have served to establish a revolutionary new barometer for intellectual prowess, which looks set to supersede the more traditional "I.Q." test as an altogether more reliable, cost-effective and economically viable means of gauging comparative mental aptitude among those whose scores are listed as being either on, or below, the tenth percentile. Referred to within scientific circles as the "iPod Quotient", this particular "I.Q." examination is not nearly so convoluted as its more cerebral cousin, instead opting for a simple, two-stage process, more conducive to optimum efficiency: firstly, the target specimen undergoes an intensive preliminary evaluation (effected solely by way of ocular analysis) in order to determine presence (or otherwise) of iPod on the subject's person. Should test results be deemed positive - taking for granted, concurrently, that the subject is a certifiable, grade 'A' hick of the "pot-swilling yokel" denomination - further testing is then undertaken in order to discern the particular model of iPod on display, and, in doing so, to establish, in more precise terms, the true extent of the impairment.

In stage two, the subject is then assigned to any one of three, distinct boundaries, commensurate with their performance in the aforementioned "first stage". These categories are listed as follows:

1. Moron
2. Fucktard
3. Semi-Sentient

Wherein "Semi-Sentient" denotes the lowest classification (as would be facilitated by the presence of a 40Gb model), whilst "moron" is conversely indicative of the highest attainable rank (as would be facilitated by the presence of an iPod Mini) within the trio. Subject to these constraints, the scores are then moderated according to certain, specific criteria; for example, evidence which might illustrate the original earbuds to have been replaced by a recognisable variant of alternative colour-scheme (that is to say, anything non-phosphorescent) - presumably so as not to garner the attention of every aspiring Dodger within a visible radius (estimated approx. ten miles) - is taken as proof of the fundamental instinct for self-preservation - a primitive indicator of intelligence - and thus warrants bonus points. Other criteria may be subsequently introduced and incorporated at the examiner's discretion - including, but not limited to: capacity to walk upright; masticating gum whilst in locomotion; ability to close mouth and respire simultaneously; ability to close mouth, and so on (nevertheless noting that presence of gum negates qualification of the latter point).

An inverse quantification is also rumoured to be under development. Known by the decidedly cryptic monicker of the "iRiver Quotient", it is said to comprise a similar, three-point scale, albeit one intended to delineate comparative intellectual potency amongst certified genii; being, at entry-level, roughly equivalent to a score of 150 on the traditional "I.Q." scale. Stay tuned for further elucidation.

Ryan's Survival Handbook for the Righteously Aggrieved and Disenfranchised Intellectual in Society, Chapter 8 - Offensive Weaponry (or what to say to when confronted in the street by a constituent of the burgeoning iPod cohorts):

"Aha: I see that you purchased a pre-faded mp3 player; no doubt in order to complement your pre-faded jeans."

Of course, feel free to exercise your prerogative to personalise this critique by appending further invective, as is deemed appropriate to the situation (yet another instance wherein you may once again be obliged to exercise your modicum of discernment; a commodity in which the typical iPod-laden fashionista is, self-evidently, lacking). "Troglodyte" works particularly well, although the more cavalier amongst you may also consider "fucktard" to be a viable alternative - particularly upon discovery of the famed 40Gb model, at which point your nervous system may well be primed for entry into "twitch overdrive".

Despite the relative inevitability of a four-knuckle riposte, it should be noted that broken bones heal over time, whereas broken egos do not. Happy hunting.

Expands...

A spectrum of your splendour
Shone through love's prismatic eye
Pin-prick pierc'd the pantheon of my heart
Converged upon a singularity

Radiant apparitions
Attending transition
Diverge to fill my World.

And the gravity of that moment
Would feign constrain the diffuse phantasma
Existential plasma
Of dissolute forms

Impart your oxygen
That I might respire
Kindle this fire

Or else,
Expire.

I feel like Sisyphus; truth be told, I have done for some time. However, unlike Sisyphus, the prospective futility of my own endeavours is not assured by way of divine edict - my prognostication yielding sufficient ambiguity to facilitate a notion that laws of precedent need not apply, in this case.

Of course, I'm quite certain that this constitutes merely a transitory hubris; that, given the fullness of time, I shall once again come to abandon my misbegotten conceit. Nevertheless - for the present, at least - I would appear not to be in the acquiescent mode. So, let me endeavour to heal you; if not for my sake, then for yours.

God knows, I'm willing to give it a try.

http://profesh.deviantart.com

Perusing my archives, it's interesting to observe how far I've progressed since that fateful day, one lonely May, when Mistress Blogger came a-knocking and plied me with her emotive charms. That said, however, I'm still at a loss to explain the inexorable phenomenon of my "hit" counter, which measures in at a portly (albeit not princely) average of thirty hits per day. Have you all nothing better to do with your lives?

Rhetorical question - of course you don't.

These Words...

These words expand to flesh the mute
Lend grapes to my wrath's vine
Invective inflections, I make no retraction
Base vinegar ferments into wine

Vitriol incarnate, as I berate
You lie behind mine eye
And yet by a pin-hole inversion
That lie is true as I

I abhor me
Except after, see?

For were eyes ears
Not blinded by sight
And were ears eyes
That the lie became right

You'd lie
Before my eye

And no-where else.

"Hello, madam. I'd like a nice, warm, loving, stable, reciprocal relationship please."

"Certainly, sir. One face or two?"

I've taught her to despise me. Is this what I have to do in order to get on with my life? Selfishly and callously alienate the people I love, simply because they aren't able - through no fault of their own - to satisfy my intense emotional needs? Fuck, I can't stop crying. I'm falling apart. It's enough to turn someone to God... but I can't simply relinquish control over my fate to some convenient, omnipotent, omniscient force whom I am supposed to believe is acting in my best interests. It may be displacement, but it also strikes me as weakness.

I don't know what to do.

I value you so much. I need you so much. I just can't abide by the notion that you will never, ever, ever need me. It's a feeling I've experienced in the past, and every single time, I've had to move on when the pain became too much to bear. I've had no choice. Does that make me fickle? Of course not. It makes me a human being, with needs that cannot be catered to by mere friendship. If all I wanted was "a girlfriend", I know that I could have had one by now. But it's not a desire for purely physical gratification: that sort of thing doesn't break one down into an emotional train-wreck, nor does it cause month upon month of unremitting anguish until you finally collect your senses together and summon up the willpower to try again. It's a desire to be whole; to be understood; to be cocooned within a bubble of mutual warmth, respect and empathy; to know that someone relies on you; to know that you are part of something more than yourself; to know the purpose of life. Todd understands what I mean.

Don't hate me. Please.

"My God. She tripped over my bag. She was horizontal for only half a second, but I'm already losing any and all semblance of self-control. I wonder what that look implies? Is it 'fuck you'... or something more - perhaps 'I want to fuck you'? Oh, pernicious uncertainty! It wouldn't be so goddamned hard, were my vision not being obscured by Grandad's prescription bi-focals. Come to think of it, I didn't even need the bloody things until the Doctor told me that wearing them habitually had permanently skewed my vision. I've never felt so low... although I don't recall ever being this depressed before I turned Emo. Oh well - at least now I can drop the pretence and be genuinely suicidal for a change."

As I write this, I know that it can be only a matter of hours before my latest injection of Green Wing wears off, and I'm left plummeting headlong into a swirling morass. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take; I fail to comprehend how being able to make someone cry with laughter does not make you attractive - or at least, not sufficiently attractive to compensate for the "defects", whatever they may be. I was under the impression that the right personality could make an average-looking individual hot to the touch, and though I'm hardly "piping", I suspect that I would at least qualify as "mediocre" by the estimation of most; so, how can there possibly be that much wrong with me? Of course, it's not as if I can profess to place moot value upon the physical aspects; but really, I can't imagine off-hand a girl whose affections I would willingly decline, were their personality suitably engaging. Obesity is, by-the-by, my only real turn-off. If only everyone else could have undergone the same persecution that I have done, perhaps their minds would be more open; as it stands, however, I would appear to be pissing into the wind. And it doesn't seem to be getting any weaker.

I don't anticipate any commentary for this post, as it hardly sets a precedent for "angst"; I just felt a need to vent, and I have done.