Earth, you are a stupid fucking excuse for a world.

World, you are a stupid fucking excuse for an existence.

Existence, you are a stupid fucking excuse for a God.

God, you are a stupid fucking excuse.

—

Flashback to 1992:

Indignation Trilogy

I.

i am hate / i eat power
help me cleanse / give me colors

TO SEE MY GOD

give me brush

TO PAINT THE FEARFUL FACE

to put the innocent in jail
to writhe

i need you / my cross

II.

Take me / I need
I need
What your revolution gave you

What I need
Is what you got

Revolutionary
Revolutionary / You

You got the politics
You got the blood

Take me / Your worship / My love

More to the government
More to the cause

Feed me / my pistol
Political blood

Superdog

III.

Give your politician’s young blood to the cause
Dog
You eat your own
to gain your fat
I would shoot
Dog
If I wasn’t starving
Give you mind to gain solution
You value his riches

Give your politican’s young bood to the cause
How I love you
Dead on the corner
Dead to the world

—

Skill-wise, I’ve gained a lot since I was sixteen. But I’ve lost something, too.

I just wrote the thesis proposal that I will actually use. It’s everything Kevin wants — it’s theoretically grounded, it sets out to resolve an interesting and detailed social problem, and most of all, it’s impressive. More importantly, it’s everything I want — I’m really familiar with the topic (so it will be very easy to write) and I’m also very engaged with it (so I will be motivated to actually do it, and to do it well). It’s also something that’s relatively under-discussed thus far. There’s one dissertation out there on it, according to WorldCat, and it’s from a significantly different perspective.

Now when I write my thesis, I will feel like I earned a real graduate degree, rather than just a few classes here and there, kiss-ass, kiss-ass, kiss-ass.

Also, I just had a Duchesse De Bourgogne.

All of the best work I’ve done on this campus, I’ve done either at The Pub or in my disaster-area womb-like I-House room. And all of the best work I’ve done while drinking. This probably says something about me.

—

Tee hee, I have a hematoma. 😉

No, you can’t rub it, it’s mine. (And anyway, it’s still a little tender.)

Two flavors: good and bad. And somewhere after your mid-twenties they start to bore the living fuck out of you, but that’s all you get in life. That’s when you get tired and sigh a lot and hear all the pedants you ever wanted to kill explaining preciously and with peach flavoring that “you gotta take the bad with the good.”

Of course you fucking do, that’s all there fucking is, Romeo.

Some nights it’s so fucking mundane you can’t stand to see it, it makes you want to tear your hair out. Excitement is mundane. Hell, death is mundane. James fucking Bond is mundane. Everything’s been done and done again. I alone have made this insufferably trite entry about a hundred times already, and anyone who reads it is groaning already, but if I don’t do it yet a-fucking-gain right now, I’ll have room to continue thinking about whether there’s any point to anything. I am gazing at my navel. Look at me. I am fucking gazing at my navel. GAZE, GAZE, GAZE.

Malraux: “All art is a revolt against man’s fate.”

Frankl: “For too long we have been dreaming a dream from which we are now waking up: the dream that if we just improve the socioeconomic situation of people, everything will be okay, people will become happy. The truth is that as the struggle for survival has subsided, the question has emerged: survival for what?”

Some sort of existential social upheaval that puts us all on the streets for the people of CNN-Europe to fixate on while they munch their significant others would not go amiss right now, it’d keep us all chattering like Artaud’s beggars’ teeth. Like a whiny, samey little asshole, I’m sitting here dropping the names of abused masturbators and waiting yet again, desperately, for nothing in particular.

Camus: “What is a rebel? A man who says no!”

Dostoevsky: “It seems, in fact, as though the second half of a man’s life is made up of nothing but the habits he has accumulated during the first half.”

Kafka: “Every revolution evaporates and leaves behind only the slime of a new bureaucracy.”

Kierkegaard: “I stick my finger into existence. It smells of nothing.”

—

Setlist.

Rule.

—

I don’t know. Perhaps I am overplaying my hand? Now that I think about it, I’m sure of it. I take it all back. I am going to bed.