I have not written anything in a while. I haven't thought of anything worth thinking about in more than a while. And...i have not met anyone worth meeting in ages. Good old friends, met years ago. That's it.
These are funny times- not in the sense of "making you laugh"- just funny. These are times never anticipated, with no defense mechanisms set-up, with no shelter provided. These are times where one stands naked before the napalm effect of post-meta-modernism. These are the times of the me, of the big, of the fictional reality of 1984 and of a voiced-over Metropolis. People short-circuiting left and right - myself included. People going crazy (i.e. departing from what is considered the norm as decided by the herds of know-it-all imbeciles)and women begging men they loathe to worship their aging asses- so that they can have their five minutes of heaven. Five minutes of a mental orgasmic rectificcation - to make up for a lifetime of frustration. Five minutes- "because they deserve it". Damn bitches.
People going crazy over mean motherfuckers ruling the intramatrix of this inescapable mosaic of barbed wire and landmines, posting their whereabouts on twiter and facebook. Worshiped by the "independent", "self-sufficient" women of our "dreams". Forming posses with the the male version of the previously described women and taking over the stage they inherited from their neandertal ancestry. The men and women of our time. The respected ones. The trend setters. What a bunch of horseshit. These people are real. They exist. They have manifestos (Cosmopolitan, Ok, Hello and more) and they have a communications network that supplies the mental plankton they need to grow. Their grey matter has been evolutionised into a rainbow-like magma of chewed and digested ways of thinking. Somehow these people beleive in their originality, in their uniquenes, in their freedom of thought. Yea, and i look like Rodolfo Valentino.. :) . Fucking clones of a prototype gone wrong- of a prototype that has been executed by its clones. Strong bonds of so called friendship propagate the art of cloning- masterfully directed by a motionless and yet restless and hyperactive endity of inexistence. The sublimity of this pettiness' is phenomenally profound and yet so inconspicuous- it gets in through the skin pores, penetrates the veins and boards upon the blood cells for a free ride to the welcoming mind. It sets up a control center and directs the host.
I wish i was an infected host. A part of something. A trash bag of meaningful and important nothings. I wish upon a lot of things but it ain't christmas and santa clause has been stampeded in to a bloody pulp by the Rudolf the Red-nose Raindeer and his posse.
Blue or red pill?
