I Guess I Think About A Lot Of Things But That Really Don't Make Me Special. I Like To Think That I Have
I guess I think about a lot of things but that really don't make me special. I like to think that I have no illusions about what I am.
I'm nobody.
I'm a scared boy.
I'm faking it just like you. No, I'm not a serial killer, you sick fuck. Fuck out of here with that.
I guess I'm glad to be alive. Thing is, nobody taught me to live. Not really. Does anybody get taught?
Sometimes I'm filled with dread. I think about all the things I'm not gonna be able to deal with that day. That tends to suck. That's a fucked up thing to do but I do it sometimes.
More Posts from Mistahsojourner and Others
This track always goes right to my heart for some reason.
“The borders should be illegal instead of the people / That were here before the Bible and all of its sequels.”
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I had nothing so I typed the same word over and over and over again. That really didn’t get me anywhere. Seriously, all I accomplished was typing the word ‘fuck’ over and over again. That is all I have to show for it. Maybe that’s all I have to show for this entire day. A single word.
Fuck.
A word uttered when shit gets real.
A word uttered just because.
A word she whispers when you’re doing it right.
The last word before a sudden fade to black.
A word when you got nothin’ but the rain, your sweat or your bones.
A word that’s just way too motherfuckin’ honest
for some people.
Wanted:
The people I can use it liberally with.
---
Fuck. That was kinda lazy.
Yo. I didn’t get too much of an intermission between crises. Sick dog and then corporate office warfare. Johnny on the spot with the duct tape, the kind words and the bullshit.
What Happens
What happens is the machine
goes through us
too damn quick
til we got nothin’ but fun size Milky Way wrappers
in a Halloween treat bag.
-
What happens is sometimes you find yourself ponderin’ what hell is.
It’s geographic region.
The shit that goes down there.
Always in the same ZIP code you’re in.
It’s Monday eternally.
That deep, polar bear cold you feel all over your body
never quits
and everything you got to do to eat that day
is gonna kill you.
-
What happens is sometimes you live
and you’re happy enough to (almost) thank god.
Your walk has swagger to it.
Maybe the air that slowly kills you tastes sweeter.
You think maybe it’ll all be okay
till it all wears off like a crack hit.
-
What happens is life.
Yeah. So.
I don't think I got myself too many human followers. I guess I'm going to be dusting off this blog a little. I don't know that anybody is going to be paying the least bit of attention but if you are, hey. Don't be a stranger.
My name is Paul. I'm 40 years old. It stands to reason that I'm probably too old for all this but eh. It is what it is.
I've spent a lot of time in the Twitter roleplay scene writing various original characters. If anybody from that scene stumbles across this then hello. What's up? Obviously Twitter is quite fucked up these days due to the machinations of the muskrat.
It occurs to me that people I may actually know in real life might stumble across this. I think that is unlikely but I guess I find myself in a bit of a "not giving a fuck" era.
I play guitar. I started playing right at the end of 2020. I'm not that good but I play every single day. I primarily play acoustic.
I run a decent amount for physical and mental health reasons. I'm at almost 300 miles this year.
I'm a stoner at times.
I'm an ex-evangelical that was raised Catholic. At the current time, I'm coming to terms with the fact that I don't believe. It's only very recently that I've been honest with myself about that. It sounds clichè as fuck to say it's been quite a journey but it has.
Yeah. Aight. Later.
The inner-city crack epidemic is now giving birth to the newest horror: a bio-underclass, a generation of physically damaged cocaine babies whose biological inferiority is stamped at birth...[This is] a race of (sub)human drones ... [whose] future is closed to them from day one. Theirs will be a life of certain suffering, of probable deviance, of permanent inferiority. At best, a menial life of severe deprivation ... [T]he dead babies may be the lucky ones.
-Conservative columnist Charles Krauthammer in 1989.
People like to pretend there was a time when the American conservative was sane and not possessed by cruelty and a special kinda crazy.
It’s not a myth. It’s a lie. It’s total bullshit.
That’s so called respectable (and soon to be deceased) conservative writer/thinker/fantasist/whatever the fuck Charles Krauthammer condemning an entire class of people when they were fetuses back in the much simpler and much more innocent year of 1989.
Only difference now is there is less sophistication. Less subtlety.
There were dog whistles before but now the dog whistles are replaced by screams and shrieks.
You could say something wicked this way comes but you’d be wrong.
Something wicked was always here and just leveled up the wickedness. Just made it nastier. Just made it harder to look at. Just made it make your ears bleed faster so you plug them and tell yourself it’s all gonna be okay.
See, we all gotta confront the possibility that it might not be okay.
Day started all chill and then all of a sudden everything was on fire. Had excitable bougie folk to the left and to the right of me. I’ll spare you the details. It’s really not important.
I could pat myself on the back for surviving all that. I could say I’m tougher for having gone through it. Fuck that noise. I’m not.
I’m just glad that it’s over for the moment.
Tomorrow is the 4th of July. I’m just thankful for the day off of work. I don’t plan on celebrating. Fuck nationalism. The only thing I’ll really be celebrating is waking up and being aware of the fact that I’m not punching a clock. I’ve spent a lot of national holidays sitting at a desk in some ugly-ass, depressing office somewhere with a headset on waiting for phone calls. There is a tone in my ear and there is someone terribly surprised that someone is actually working. Some would even comment about how terrible it was that I was working on the 4th of July.
God damn it. I spent way too long answering phones. I will forever be bitter about that. I’m never getting over that.
My brain is fried.
Hi.
I'm the voice in the wildnerness.
I'm smart gone crazy.
I'm the prophet that's gonna pay
with his life
that lives in the hearts of those who wanted to live instead.
Day dreamed of spiking the **********’s [Redacted] Diet Coke with LSD.
Of course, I don’t know that that would do much good. Never done LSD myself. Some day. Maybe.
Was going to throw some lines out but nothing is really coming to me.
Plans. Plans of mice and men. Best laid.
Laid and paid. Can never get both, ya dig?
Gotta get outta this place.
Game, set, match, cowardice.
.Don’t play tennis. Never played it. Never watched it. Never think about it.
Dubious metaphor. Why reference something you know precisely dick about, dog?
That’s been on my mind.
What?
Appropriated blackness, ya dig? You want depth or whatever it is so you channel a voice that ain’t your own. That creeps into my voice both on the page and out there and I’m not sure how the fuck I feel about it. I mean, is that right?
I blacked out the owner of the Diet Coke due to paranoia. You can probably guess who it is. It occurs to me that the paranoia might be preposterous because who really cares what some loser writes on some blog almost nobody reads. You never know though. I’m not too keen on having a sit down with Feds.
Fuck.
God damn it.
Fuck.
Structure.
I need to read poems or something. Let that seep into me. Let it influence me. I learned not too long ago that the Vietnamese Communist leader Ho Chi Minh wrote poems. I read a few of them. I dug them, especially the ones he wrote while incarcerated. There was something really honest and pure there. There is something about the work of someone who is not noted for being a poet. There is something about the work of people you don’t ever study in some course in school. Example from Ho Chi Minh:
A COMRADES PAPER BLANKET
New books, old books, the leaves all piled together.
A paper blanket is better than no blanket.
You who sleep like princes, sheltered from the cold,
Do you know how many men in prison cannot sleep all night?
I mean. God damn it. That hits me.
CLEAR MORNING
The morning sun shines over the prison wall,
And drives away the shadows and miasma of hopelessness.
A life-giving breeze blows across the earth.
A hundred imprisoned faces smile once more.
See. Nothing too mysterious or abstract there. He’s just writing about his situation.
Yeah. I know. Blood on his hands. The French and The Americans had blood on their hands too. Not too many heroes there.
Or anywhere really.
Heavenly father,
One more day.
Have mercy on your boy
but if not on me, someone who fuckin’ needs it more.
Can ya do that?
Amen.
No irony here. The rise of this woman gives me hope. I remember hearing her name on Intercepted and Chapo Trap House. It’s trippy as fuck to hear a name in those weird podcasts you listen to and then see that person on normie TV.
Even if she never gets to Congress, she fucking won. I don’t think she’ll be the only one. She’s 28. Seriously, this lost generation is waking the fuck up. Some of us are pieces of shit but some of us get it now.
I want to write an essay.
What about? I don’t know. I think I can do it though. It is going to take some trying and some discipline from me though.
