wasted-life-musings

Latest Posts by wasted-life-musings

https://fredarctor.newgrounds.com/follow

I was once on newgrounds more than a decade ago and decided after just playing some games sleeplessly there I’d make an account, feel free to stalk me on different medias.

“ Sometimes i feel so happy, sometime I feel so sad.  Sometimes I feel so happy, but mostly you just, make me mad, baby you just, make me mad. Linger on, your pale blue eyes, linger on, your pale blue eyes.  Thought of you as my mountaintop, thought of you as my peak, thought of you as everything, I’ve had but, couldn’t keep, I’ve had but couldn’t keep.”

I tell Nicos flowered backside how beautiful she is, how sweet she is and how much I need her. Her skin and hair. To make it last, because this is the only time I can say it. Because the moment this is over, we'll hate eachother. The only person we'll hate more than eachother is ourselves. These are the only few moments I can be human, just for these minutes, I don't feel lonely. And riding me up and down, Nico says, ' so when do I get to meet your mom?' And ' never ' I say, ' That's impossible, I mean. ' ...Ask any man about his mom during sex, and you can delay the big blast forever. And Nico says, ' So is she dead now? ' and I say, ' sort of. ' Anymore when i go to visit my mom, I don't even pretend to be myself, hell i don't even pretend to know myself very well, not anymore. My mom, it's like her sole occupation at this point is losing weight. What's left of her is so thin she has to be a puppet.... The next time I go to visit my mom I'm still Fred Hastings, her old public defender, and she keeps me yakking all afternoon. I tell her I'm not married, and she says that's a shame...The next visit I'm still Fred, but married and with 3 children. ' Three is too many, people should stop at two ' she says, the next visit I have two. Every visit there's less and less of her under the blanket, in another way there's less and less of Victor Mancini sitting in the chair next to her bed. The next day I'm myself again, and it's only a few minutes before my mom rings for the nurse to escort me back to the lobby. We sit not talking then she says ' Victor ' she says, ' I need to tell you something....Fred Hastings was here, you remember Fred don't you? These days he has a wife and two perfect children, it was such a pleasure ' my mom says ' to see life work out for such a good person. ' ' I told him to buy land ' my moms says ' they're not making it anymore ' I ask her who she means by they, and she presses the nurse button again

Chuck Palahniuk, Choke

Having overcome seasickness, and having found my sea legs, I now take great pleasure in climbing to the crows nest at sunset and enjoying my ration of rum heaving to and fro in the waves.  The wind is already starting to chill at night, but in a most refreshing way.  I still know no one on this ship, many people speaking languages unfamiliar to me, and have consequentially often been lost in my own thoughts.  The vast unending sea still seems a foreign visage, however I am slowly acclimating to it, and between anxious contemplation of the wide open spaces find it to be aesthetically pleasing.  Looking out at the wild blue yonder I cant help but contemplate what secrets it holds, and what fates lie on its varied shores.  No man is an island they say, perhaps we are simply archipelagos, and the sea is our only binding commonality.  

I never could think of prostitutes as human beings or even as women. They seemed more like imbeciles or lunatics. But in their arms I felt absolute security. I could sleep soundly. It was pathetic how utterly devoid of greed they really were. And perhaps because they felt for me something like an affinity for their kind, these prostitutes always showed me a natural friendliness which never became oppressive. Friendliness with no ulterior motive, friendliness stripped of high pressure salesmanship, for someone who might never come again. Some nights I saw these imbecile, lunatic prostitutes with the halo of Mary. I went to them to escape from my dread of human beings, to seek a mere night of repose, but in the process of diverting myself with these 'kindred' prostitutes, I seem to have acquired before I was aware of it a certain offensive atmosphere which clung inseparably to me... I had, quite objectively speaking, passed through an apprenticeship in women at the hands of prostitutes, and I had of late become quite adept. The odor of ' lady killer ' had come to permeate me...I remembered now clumsily written letters from bar girls...with all of them I had been extremely negative and it had gone no further. But it was an undeniable fact, and not just some foolish delusion on my part, that there lingered about me an atmosphere which could send women into sentimental reveries. It caused me a bitterness akin to shame to have this pointed out by someone like Horiki; at the same time, I lost all interest in prostitutes

Osamu Dazai, No Longer Human

" Is murder ever justifiable? " is a standard sort of philosophical question, and with all philosophical conundrums there is no right answer.  We all have individual morals, based mostly on learned and observed morals, thus rendering our own individuality in the endeavor inert.  But i was asked this recently and actually gave it some thought, and here are my long winded results you wont read:

Concerning antiquity:  The Vikings had what they called "justifiable Murder" in where certain social norms and or laws were broken, and rather than the state executing, as we now as a "modern" society do, it was left to the individual.  in such a case, a family member felled unjustifiably, a family member raped, etc, murder was legal, however there were stipulations, you had to pay for the burial of said killed party, and if i recall correctly had to pay 6 months of their lost wadges on the farm ( despite the reputation, most Vikings were farmers and not warriors per se ) and this was because the death without said stipulations would punish innocent parties, IE their families.  This also meant, like in most cultures, the rich got away with murder moreso than the poor, go figure, but thats a whole different tangent.

We, as Americans or, modern westerners in general tend to be biblical in our morals, of course we dont really read into that.  In the Jewish Torah for instance, thou shalt not kill was only applicable in ones own tribe, infact in the torah ( and feel free to research this ) only sons of Abraham ( jews ) were even considered people, and murder or enslavement of non jews was, not only fine but encouraged to a extent.

Native Americans, on the other hand, and of course this isnt applicable to all tribes, native americans are as diverse as any continent, when someone didnt contribute, or acted in reprehensible ways they were laughed at, everyone just laughed at them, and if they didnt change the behavior they were then thrown out, essentially a death sentence.  

Now we teach people murder is always wrong, and if you do it, we'll kill you by injecting you with chemicals ( lethal injection goes very wrong often, btw, its not the peaceful death they claim ) we'll teach you killings wrong, by, killing you.  Now, you cant reason with a rabid dog, some killers we let out and they immediately kill again, its important to TRY but not everyone can be saved, just trust me.  In the case of a rabid dog, you put it down, not to just save others but really to save the dog from himself, watch some interviews with killers, they almost always know theyre damaged and are somewhat grateful for being stopped, because they cant stop themselves.

Do I PERSONALLY believe in murder, of course not, I feel that 95% of people can change their mind, and be to some extent rehabilitated, I also, again to some extent, feel life is precious, even damaged life.  Perhaps the murderer writes a book in jail that is published and influences a person to save lives as a career, one can never predict the butterfly effect of the cosmos.  

I think, ideologies and religion asside most people have a nature to not want to kill, perhaps hurt, but not kill.  This could just be my bias because i see so many pictures of hunters smiling with their kills propped in their arms, I only kill ( obviously i havent killed people ) when I have to, rather its to eat, or disease prevention or, what have you, and everytime i feel bad.  Hunters now arent hungry, they just like the thrill of killing something, that they then happen to eat, to me thats different entirely, but im off on a tangent from the original tangent...

All things are subjugate to perspective and scenario, no (sane) person kills and likes it, but (most) sane people will kill if their life is threatened.  I dont like tear jerky philosophical questions like this, any black and white question has no place in the spectrum of philosophy really.  If you aim to kill me, and i know it, ill kill you, in that moment, and trust that i mean this, ill kill you without a thought whatsoever.  Thereafter i will feel bad, and have nightmares and become a drug addict and blow my brains out or what have you, but in the moment, its justifiable.  

No man should have the right to be judge, jury, and executioner, however if you know, and i mean really know that unless you kill person A, person B, C, D, and E will die, thats simple math, blow that prick away, feel bad later.  This rant seems like its about murder, and it IS but more loftily this post is about all pseudo - philosophical questions, when is it ok to steal, when is a lie a good thing and when is it a bad thing, etc etc.  Is murder ever justifiable, of course it is, and more lofty still if reality is subjective, anything is justifiable at a given time, the difference is the intent, I think.  

But do abandon the thought that murder dooms you to hell, as if there were such a place, and if a fear of a hell is your only reason for not murdering, you're a terrible person and i hope there IS a hell, just for you.   We take for granted that our minds are our own, and that all minds are not like yours, and your reality isnt real at all, some people can kill for fun and not feel bad, theyre crazy, or, am i crazy because im not like that, its just my word against theirs, and the majority rules, which is a shit endeavor because the majority has group psychosis and shit taste in every and all things.

" That which is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil. "

Who says Germans arent poetic

The previous night brodie dreams hes in a jail the size of a continent, rolling hills of barbed wire, he dreams that the inmates sleep stacked like firewood wrapped in shroud, on different levels of raised platforms in one open room, he dreams of a rec time only held on the roof, men marching in circles, he can see the snow laden fields housing a grizzly sea of endless rooftops.  He watches the smoke roll out of the chimneys and crash to the ground as he feels the cold play xylephone with his bones.  The smoke below joins and dances in a wispy procession of some grotesque marching orgy, it smells of salt and rust.  He dreams of scaling down the wall  and sneaking off, dreams of draining small amounts of his blood into stolen jars, he buries each only elbow deep in the frozen ground with a stone hes named pell mell.  he dreams he cuts off a finger here, and a toe there, with a single stolen knife from the kitchen and hides them in various locations, so that when he dies his spirit can recall his steps and rebuild his mortal coil.  He dreams of a great tube fluttering down from the sky, driven into the ground on one end with force, he sucks on the other end and siphons the sickly pink hued souls of unrest through the tube into a coffee can.  The coffee can fills too full and the slime spurts out with such force it flings him high into the air, as the land comes crashing forward, he wakes.

Ive said it a million times, and like all my thoughts they are either ignored or chalked up to me being an asshole, asshole is an easier title than " mind set i cant fully understand " humans love a witch hunt but...

12 step programs will never work, their very basis implies that you are too stupid and weak to fix your life and you need some random theological third party, and a contact book of sponsors to stop yourself.  When you relinquish power to a higher power, you assume no responsibility, you assume no control, and whats left of your will power flutters away.

Much like a confessional in church, you then fix nothing about yourself, bottle shit up til it explodes and then apologize on sunday to a sponsor who will do nothing but tell you it isnt your fault and that your struggle is in jesus' hands or, whatever.  If you take this approach, you will always be a junky, whatever the substance, heroin, alcohol, sex, whatever.  You are nothing but your mind, the whole world is processed and interpreted through your mind, if your mind never changes, if you relinquish responsibility, you will always see the same world, because the world is what it is, its just how you feel about what it is that changes your perception.

I may be an asshole, but atleast im not a victim.

Just give me a million dollars and I’ll take your thetan count (OT) and when you reach OT 9 ill tell you you had it in you all along, the enlightenment, but you needed those other 8 steps to realize it, so my payment is justified.

Clay, did you ever love me?" I'm studying a billboard and say that I didn't hear what she said. "I asked if you ever loved me?" On the terrace the sun bursts into my eyes and for one blinding moment I see myself clearly. I remember the first time we made love, in the house in Palm Springs, her body tan and wet, lying against cool, white sheets. "Don't do this, Blair," I tell her. "Just tell me." I don't say anything. "Is it such a hard question to answer?" I look at her straight on. "Yes or no?" "Why?" "Damnit, Clay," she sighs. "Yeah, sure, I guess." "Don't lie to me." "What in the fuck do you want to hear?" "Just tell me," she says, her voice rising. "No," I almost shout. "I never did." I almost start to laugh. She draws in a breath and says, "Thank you. That's all I wanted to know." She sips her wine. "Did you ever love me?" I ask her back, though by now I can't even care. She pauses. "I thought about it and yeah, I did once. I mean I really did. Everything was all right for a while. You were kind." She looks down and then goes on. "But it was like you weren't there. Oh shit, this isn't going to make any sense." She stops. I look at her, waiting for her to go on, looking up at the billboard. Disappear Here. "I don't know if any other person I've been with has been really there, either ... but at least they tried." I finger the menu; put the cigarette out. "You never did. Other people made an effort and you just ... It was just beyond you." She takes another sip of her wine. "You were never there. I felt sorry for you for a little while, but then I found it hard to. You're a beautiful boy, Clay, but that's about it." I watch the cars pass by on Sunset. "It's hard to feel sorry for someone who doesn't care." "Yeah?" I ask. "What do you care about? What makes you happy?" "Nothing. Nothing makes me happy. I like nothing," I tell her. "Did you ever care about me, Clay?" I don't say anything, look back at the menu. "Did you ever care about me?" she asks again. "I don't want to care. If I care about things, it'll just be worse, it'll just be another thing to worry about. It's less painful if I don't care." "I cared about you for a little while." I don't say anything. She takes off her sunglasses and finally says, "I'll see you later, Clay." She gets up. "Where are you going?" I suddenly don't want to leave Blair here. I almost want to take her back with me. "Have to meet someone for lunch." "But what about us?" "What about us?" She stands there for a moment, waiting. I keep staring at the billboard until it begins to blur and when my vision becomes clearer I watch as Blair's car glides out of the parking lot and becomes lost in the haze of traffic on Sunset. The waiter comes over and asks, "Is everything okay, sir?" I look up and put my sunglasses on and try to smile. "Yeah.

Bret Easton Ellis, Less Than Zero

Hellraiser Directed by Clive Barker (1987)

How many selfies can one take before they’re considered a narcissistic nightmare anyways?

an observation on the sexes by no one, IE me.  Women appear to be small children always, always needing validation, attention, affirmation they are alive via pretty nailpolish and well groomed hair, what have you, however when one is to observe this, they are reprehensible, terrible people, and are surely just sexist. 

Women dont lead the statistics in cutting and bulimia because men demand that of them, thats their own fuckin looney minds at work, and i refuse to be the scapegoat for womens fuckin hysteria, both sexes are damaged, your sex is just damaged in a very vocal fuckin, look at me sort of way...charming.

“ Im a hot junkie girl, all my bills are paid for me and my life is SO tough...”

having written two books prior, both i threw in the trash ( one was well over 200 pages ) i started one the other day that im fairly sure of, and by sure of i mean im sure it needs to be written, not sure that people will read it, but people believe in jesus and 12 step programs, what the fuck do people know?!

A man, perhaps even you, sits one day on a rockface high above a roaring sea.  He lights a cigarette, and watches as the water batters the rocks, as he watches, for hours the waters rise and fall, he contemplates that fate itself must work in much the same way, he inserts himself into this concept and continues contemplating his existence.  

A small child happens upon the man, the rock face though precarious being easily reachable by a certain means, and pulls from her pocket a small collection of shells and rocks she has found, and how proud she is of them.  The man speaks with her awhile, about her collection and how its a wonderful collection, the only of its kind in all of existence, and produces his own pretty rock he found on his walk, and places it in her hand.

The mother, finding lost child apprehensively calls to her, seeing she is amongst company of this strange man on the rock face.  As it happens, it then comes to pass a strong breeze hits them and the frail girl is sent hurtling towards the edge of the rocks, and the man grabbing her coat, stops her from tumbling down the cliffside.

The mother frantically runs towards the man and flings herself onto him, latching on in unbenounced appreciation and depth.  The man not anticipating this, loses footing and the man and mother topple down the rocks and the child is left an orphan, just her and her rocks.

No good deed goes unpunished, as they say.

It is really a puzzle what drives one to take one’s work so devilishly seriously. For who? For oneself? One soon departs this world, after all. For one’s contemporaries? For posterity? No. It remains a puzzle.

Albert Einstein

(via

entheognosis

)

I still think Russian rap is THE rap linguistically, and yes that includes english, however, German rap, though often terrible, also flows very well to my ear, and I think Maske might be the best rap album Europe has to offer over all.

Looming visage noble American colonel. Courageous, renown of history, Colonel Sanders, image forever accompanied odor of sacrificial meat. Eternal flame offering wind savory perfume roasted flesh...Seek midday nourishment. Visit memorial acclaimed war hero Colonel Sanders.” " All object printed: Love me. Look me. Million speaking objects,begging. Crown American consumer with power of king, to rescue choose and give home or abandon here for expire.

Chuck Palahniuk, Pygmy

I think humans take the disarray of nature, the winding path and make it into straight lines, we take clutter and sort it by descending heights or contingent colors because we fear the chaos of ourselves, nature being chaotic and us being a product of said nature.

I think we obsess over pretty things because we are so very ugly inside, and we hoard items because we are forever left so very empty.  I think we live our lives in fear of everything real, our nature, our demise, that we strive to fill our lives with only the fake, we live our lives in accordance with these fears and these fears all stem from our need for immortality, which comes from a selfish nature to be special.

I think everything in our lives is the fear of death, which is just nothingness, and we fill our lives with constant trivialities of somethingness, and that is the thing we should fear, we work jobs we hate and go through bizarre rituals to impress those around us that we dont really even like because we dont even really like ourselves.

Watching nazi shit lately, Anne frank made it til something like 3 weeks before the war ended, she and her sister died of typhoid, shall we then assume that despite good or bad, we are to make it right up until we may make it, and die short? Do we all simply live JUST to die? what is life, is life truly contingent on those around you that allow it?  Is life forever a witch hunt?

Are you only heard when some crazy force silences you?  if anne frank, despite her words that should have been heard, were ugly, would her diary sell as well?  Many many MANY deep thinking minds were destroyed in ww2,i find it strangely convenient that the stories that sell best are the ones with a good face that are edited well, are all stories contingent on how we sell them to the tribe of man?

What makes a story you want to read,is it the thoughts therein or is it how pretty the thoughts are worded, do the sounds need to come out of a face you somehow remotely relate to?  what IS it you consider depth, and more importantly WHY is it considered depth?  Have you any questions to ask?  Is the editor of the story really the one that makes ya dick hard/ginny tickle, do you even know what it IS that really tickles you? Questions Questions.

Shall it then forever be a battle of who has the prettiest words,or is it, supplementally the one who says the words closest to your own thoughts?  Do you strive to relate to people or do you strive to find those who would mirror yourself in your small view of the world and tiny endeavors therein?  

shall you then punish those who would deny your instant gratification?  should a stifling word become you antithesis?   Have I done too many mushrooms in my life?  Probably...

Do you really know what it is to be alive before you face death?  How many people do you have to bury do you think before youve outlived enough people?  what is it you want from life, what the fuck IS it you want?!

Do you imagine death as some floating experience in the clouds, do you see it as the end?  Are there truly any ends?  What IS it to end?  are not all beginnings some other end?  Can your tiny brain even conceive of not being?  If not, is that some copping mechanism?   Are you just stupid?  what IS stupid?

Are the victims of the world the only voices that matter?  Do we all not suffer our own hell, Is the winner not really a loser? Has not every action we should do have repercussions of which we cant comprehend, can we even comprehend ourselves?  

Will our spouses that cheat on us, or our self involved children save us from such fates?  are we just dooming those around us to suffer in our fate, to drown in the tides of our own raging waters?  Why is it we only destroy that which we hold dear?

Are you breathing right now?  Are you sure?  if you were to wake up tomorrow after that 8 hour death and find out there were infact no life to return to,would YOU be any different?  Do you cry out of pain or do you cry for attention?  What IS it to cry?....

I think tumblr proves you dont need substance, but tits, even tits you’re never gonna touch, sell super, super well...how, cartoony.

when i filled out my required draft card i ended my signature with a big smiley face, call me to war and find out how quick i become canadian....

I will say, if you need your job title, be it cop or military, to include hero in the title somehow magically youre not a hero youre a fucking small cowardly publicity whore, you know what makes a hero?  someone who rejects that title...