The old nursery rhyme, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me” must only apply to children. There are too many sets of pointless standards and morals we are taught as I know I’m not alone when I read the irony and hypocrisy in Twain from works well-over 100 years from his passing*. If words aren’t dangerous, then what’s censorship exist for? Dangerous, how?
Why, I thought you’d never ask. Oh, you didn’t ask that? Well I’ll fuckin tell ya anyhow.
Fuck shit ass cunt bitch nigger gay faggot gook cracker anus dick pussy queer hoe are all examples of words you should never say around women or children. They’re okay to say among men. I have been told that I need to watch my language… okay, I’m just asking… or else, what?
I’m a 31 year old man sitting in my rented bedroom on a desktop PC with a bootlegged operating system. The shirt and socks I’m wearing have faded and have tiny holes. I read as much as I can and when I’m not writing about anything I’m probably thinking about what I should be reading or writing.
I’m not out to hurt anyone, I’m just here for the dialogue. Or is it only cool when it’s on TV and dickfucks like the Kardashians prance around and tear this society apart by its psychological seam because people statistically mostly not like yourselves make it happen. I say not like yourselves because if you’re reading this far you’re my caliber of people and I love you and thank you.
I keep to myself but I think and I read others and learn… what’s so dangerous about some fucking letters strung together that sound awesome together: e.g. F-U-C-K FUCK FUCK FUCK!?!?
I live in a city that’s investing billions into the downtown/waterfront section of town, but my amigo and I avoided 6 car accidents taking Columbus Dr from 15th St to fuckin’ Dale Mabry. Who is in charge, something is fucked here, let’s please start spreading the wealth out more. Oh, AND the book store was closed when we got there… ironically, it was closed because the building didn’t have internet capabilities. A store that sells books closed because there wasn’t internet? You can’t make this up, folks, I’m sorry, you just can’t. Even though we still made the best of the trip and beer and pizza was involved, I said “fuck it, I’m off the diet, the universe wants me to be happy tonight” because you know happy or sane, pick just-one? anyways, that was last night and I chose happiness. Today, I began my 3-day-long fast to carry me to the full-moon with super powers, thus I have chosen sanitythis time. You do the math. Don’t be discouraged from trying to wrap your mind around that. It may require thinking, it may not, but I hope it does. For more information on the power of fasting, see: Dick Gregory. I digress…
So… I was outside smoking this afternoon, soaking in the sun when I noticed a peculiar honey bee floating by like a drunken blimp operator, like- one who has been secretly getting drunk on the job but he’s so good at what he does and he’s so drunk always that he’s what some doctors would call a ‘functional alcoholic’ who happens to always sticks the landing on the flowers with such amazing grace and beauty, one yellow flower to the next. It was so imperfectly beautiful.
Then- I thought- my God, I’d give my middle nut for an easy schedule like the one a honey bee has, so that so I didn’t have to care so much about human life and what all it takes to get by in this society. Can you imagine the difference? 1. Wake up– check. Or do I just not ever sleep and sip that honey mead bees probably get drunk on in the hive most nights. Either way– check. What next? 2. Fly to some flowers? K, so- go drag my nuts across a bunch of flowers while I ‘fly amazingly through the air’ to a bunch more flowers for what I assume is all day long? Do we know for sure if these bees are not slave-driven? Are they seriously programmed in such a way that they love flowers so much that they’ll risk getting swatted or eaten just so the queen is happy? Are we aware if possibly the bees are addicted to what I would call getting some of that good ol’ bee-pussy, there can’t be anything better than crawling around on a flower that’s the same size as your whole body [as a bee], unless that mead sizzurp is really that good, either way, do we know what’s going on in that hive of theirs? I digress…
Then- I thought- but are they so unsober, are they so un-intelligently programmed by some greater being intentionally on a molecular/chemical level, so unaware of the dangers they face in their journey outside the gates of the proverbial Hive, do we know for sure there isn’t some super-addictive euphoric bee-feeling that they get from flying around to giant flowers all day? They’ll risk their lives for that high so the queen is happy? She gloaks inside the walls sippin sizzurp all day, maybe it’s a fair trade but what makes her so special? I imagine that they probably don’t have any idea that by simply watching one of them buzzers fly around today, it literally made me think about all of this specific content you’re reading right now that comes from sharing this free-written writing session. I like to think the bees are happy doing what they do because when ya put it on paper, it doesn’t sound like such a bad gig, but I think we’re missing part of the bee-hive story. But that’s in my perfect world, so assuming that isn’t the case on account of I can promise anyone with my life that this is the furthest thing from a world just that, promising you that it’s not a perfect world– I’d like to propose that maybe bees have a serious flower addiction and I think they need our help. I digress.
But then- I thought- it’s not up to me to decide what’s best for the bees. That’s up to the bees. We have to fix the human things first then we can help the bees. To stay on the Louis CK subject, it’s like we’re in a plane and the plane’s about to have an emergency happen and the fuckin’ airbags drop down with the tube and the mask and all that shit, or like in the military when we used to have to do our gas mask tests in case we were going to unknowingly engage in chemical warfare with people we don’t know, something like that, where you’re supposed to make sure you have a proper seal on your own mask before you stop and help others get a seal with theirs if they’re struggling to remain calm and cool enough to actually save their own life– to stay on that subject– don’t you just sometimes wish you’d rather pass out from shock and not being smart enough to save your own life by simply putting on a mask properly, and not-so-very-consequently your reward for not being able to put to figure something simple out is being unconscious when you slam into a fuckin building full of our neighbors with a giant aircraft, something like the World Trade Center if that helps? Sounds like a catch-22 if you ask me.
I’ve been to Hell and back and then some. I just don’t know why I keep coming back. Well, I used to know, then I used to not know, and now I think I know again. It’s nice to be back but not really. One day we’ll fix all of this, I’m sure…
I finally saw the movie Good Will Hunting the other night. I’ve read the book he references in the clip below two times. I feel like a broken record but one of these days, with any luck, people will start to take their veterans of war seriously. Till then… weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee*.
*/Shout out to Chris Joseph @FinsNation
Rest In Paradise, Ryan Muller. I’m doing my best in your name and I can only hope there is an afterlife that we can laugh about this all together sometime. I am sorry I did not listen. I’m still learning from that mistake.*