The Obscure

Assuredly, we live in a society peopled by idiots.

Today we had a small get-together in commemoration of the birth of one of us. By "get-together" I mean, "Me and Erin dragged Tim to Providence and force-fed him for a few hours and then got lost."
It was a good time had by all. Or... just me.
I found a hardcover copy of Dune, by Frank Herbert, on the bargain rack at Borders for 6 dollars. That is seis dollieros, to the Spaniard.

What kind of mindless dithering is this? What sorry state have we come to, when the sole purpose of Man's living is to escape from the pressures and conditions of life? Medicate your mind! Alter your spirit with the Doctor's lying juices!
I entered a trance some months ago, and I continue it out of spite for the intelligence I was born with. I am not a pompous man, I simply desire to bake my mind to pieces. I ask all of you, is that so wrong? It is my mind, correct? Can I not do with it what I will?
Is it enlightenment, or teenage rebellion? Is it fun, or is it suicide?

All you sorry souls read my selfish words, and I will never understand why! Do you know the mind these shallow thoughts spring from? If you did, you would abandon me like frightened shadows fleeing from speeding headlights.
Have I lost my mind? How is it that I can communicate with a keyboard, how I can philosophize with a computer screen? I talk to it like it is a lover, or a friend; or perhaps a psychiatrist. I seem unable to overcome my fear of Doctors enough to attend counseling, so self psychiatric evaluation, diagnosis, and medication seem to be my only options.
And I go on, I go on and on, I tell this fragile world all my vile secrets.
And lo, a light shines in the darkness, but the darkness chooses not to comprehend it.

I have always maintained that happiness, like sadness and loneliness and love and so on, is a conscious decision. What then is insanity? To me it seems to be simply a chronic flaw in a person's ability to choose the tone of their own life.
Take me, for instance. Right now, I am malfunctioning mentally so much that I am bordering on hallucinations. Yesterday at this time I was sleeping happily, and dreaming of sexually aggressive daffodils.
They were very attractive, for daffodils; but that does not change the point. Unfortunately, as solid and defined as the point may be, it is entirely beyond my grasp. Your guess, dear reader, on the state of my cranial union is as always as good as my own.
Hemingway agrees. My apologies to Mr. Lacrosse, but I never had much love for Hemingway.
Of course, like most of my opinions, this opinion is a pre-conceived crock of hanky-panky that I had concocted after taking a very small dose of what Hemingway had to offer and declaring myself an expert.
That, my friends, is why no one should listen to me. These things, my dear fellows, is why I am not an intelligent man, why I shall never excel. Too much of my life thus far has been ruled by my anxieties. If I could count all the lies and fabrications I have made to date, then perhaps I would have some mental capacity to brag about after all. Unluckily for me, I cannot count all of my lies and fabrications. I cannot even count half of them, nor a third. Of course, I do not know that for sure. If I cannot count the number as a whole, then I do not know how large a half or a third of that number is, and therefore cannot say whether I could or could not count it if given the opportunity.
But why get caught up in technicalities? A mathematical genius I am not, and it seems that even the basest of brilliances is beyond me.
That is another one of the all-too-numerous depressing things about this world. Not everyone is above-average. The majority of the people in the world are average, obviously. For every main character in every story ever told, there is a countless multitude of background faces who do nothing but add colour to the lives of the important ones.
What is this I am writing? I take some sort of perverse pleasure in sticking words together, even words as mindless and directionless as this. I have used the phrase "..take(s) some sort of perverse pleasure in.." about twenty times in the past three days. Funny how you do that, sometimes. You find something you like to say, and it suddenly seems to fit into way too many situations. Soon people are making fun of you for it, I walk into a room and I hear an angelic host proclaiming aloud, "John takes some sort of perverse pleasure in walking into rooms!!"
Roars of heavenly laughter ensue. Red in the face, I flee to fight another day.

This reminds me of something that happened when I was young. I had heard the phrase, "I am aware of that." in school, someone said it in some dumb argument, and it stuck in my head for some reason. I used it at every available opportunity for the next three or four weeks. I would be arguing with someone and they would raise some point, and SHAZAM! I'd whip out the big guns. "I am aware of that." I'd say, and I would go on to pummel them with my counter-point until they fell to their knees before me and begged for mercy.
Then, one fateful day, my older sister took me down a peg. I do not remember how it happened, or when it happened. I remember that it happened, and I remember WHAT happened; but that is pretty much it.
It went a little something like this...

John: Hey, (raises some arbitrary fact)
Maria: (Replies with some kind of counter-fact)
John: (opens mouth to say "I am aware of that.")
Maria: (Pre-empts John's use of "I am aware of that." by saying it before he could in a mocking tone, forever rendering him argumentatively crippled.)

Don't get me wrong, I bear Maria no ill will for this exchange, I am more than positive that I deserved what I got, and far, far more. I am merely expressing a point.
Learn good phrases, dear boy, learn them as hard as you can--but be careful how you use them, and use them sparingly, or one day it could prove your undoing.

I am supposed to be cleaning my house right now. Of course, I am not cleaning my house. I will clean it sometime tonight, as I am currently an insomniac psychopath, but I will put it off as long as I can by writing this crap.
I don't know what strikes me, that makes me write these kinds of posts. It's not like I think anyone would be interested in these words, I just get in the writing mood, and for some reason, despite all the "ideas" I have for cool stories or essays or exercises in journalism or whatever the hell it is I think of, the only thing I ever actually genuinely enjoy writing is this strange, introspective bullshit that does no good to anyone but myself. All it does is release the pressure in my head. I have a lot of pressure in my head, chums. You are lucky that I am not releasing all of it, or you would probably be dead.

Today is Easter. I get to see Maria, Keith, Teresa, and SAMMY! I am very excited. I think I want to have Katie over for a little while during our family Easter celebration, just so that my family can meet her. Ha, she'd probably have a conniption and die if she had to meet my family, maybe I won't make her do that.

I am going to go clean my house now. I apologize for this post, to anyone who was offended, I also apologize to those of you who weren't offended but may have a lower opinion of me now. Believe me, I could lower it a lot more, if I weren't so ashamed of my vile brain.
Anyway, goodnight one and all.

*Edit*
Furthermore, I am god-DAMN sick of being out of the loop! I am always out of the loop! Society moves on and leaves the socially crippled little dropout behind and I am sick to death of it. I have never in all my days been in the know about anything, people laugh and talk with their inside jokes and their friendly companionship and their understanding and it makes me sick, I hate every person alive, if it were up to me, at least seventy percent of the population would be dragged out into the street and shot twice in the face.
Go on, live your lives, I don't need to know about it, do I? I don't need to know anything, this time next year I'll be gone, and I won't have to sit silently next to these living people and watch them smirk and giggle and mock me.
Why do I even bother? Why do I try to live in the same place as everyone else? I will never be able to feel comfortable in society, I will never be able to feel like I am on equal footing with all of my companions. Sometimes I just want to cut my goddamn throat.
Make of this what you will, I'm totally blasted out of my head right now, and I really don't see a point to censoring myself.

And I STILL haven't cleaned the damn house!

*Edit Again*
Eh, who am I kidding, I'm just another wannabe-enlightened dumbass. I guess my retarded angst can't be helped, right?
Yeah.

*Edit YET a third time*
Alright then. My late-night phobia fest has once again come to a close. As usual, now that I have spent a good eight hours in sociopathic agony, I feel footloose and fancy free. None to worry, my friends, all is well in Johnny town. Now, to go clean the damn house.