quicksilverlining

Friday, August 04, 2006

if...

... I need you more than you need me, what does that make me?

Thursday, August 03, 2006

For no apparent reason, I'm already sick of university. I do not comprehend it at all. Monash is a pretty relaxing place. Quite comfortable and all, what with the campus-wide internet connection (sort of), and the multiple food places, and a few nice napping spots and plenty of greenery and lots of curious things (like the Boob Lawn). Lectures aren't that bad. If anything, only one or two fascinating-as-potatoes-grow lecturers, and the occasional senseless assignment. Nothing I can't handle, and nothing I haven't come up against.

I think I'm just pretty sick of the pointlessness of it all. What happens AFTER uni? In fact, what's the whole doodad during that long tenure have to do with after? And then, what of it?

Right now, all that morbid musing about dropping out of uni and becoming a rent boy has to be put on the back burners. Plans for an uprooting and planting of the motherplant are in the pipeline. I think. Lots of things to figure out and lots of things to sort.

One of the most infuriating things is when people find it amusing imagining you in any sort of sexual/romantic situation. I mean, is it really all that funny considering that I may have some sort of sexual proclivities? Yes, yes. That big fat guy having any sort of sexual urges must be amusing indeed. Very funny. Har har har. It must be hilarious indeed even placing a possibility that I am anything more exciting than a rock. Just because I'm fugly as Michael Jackson's nose doesn't mean I have no needs you know. Even non-existant appendages of fallen culture icons have feelings you know. The dead kind.

If I really was all that asexual, at least half my current considerations could be junked. Half of them are too complex to discuss, and the people they concern are exactly the ones who are best not knowing, and they would most likely not want to know at any rate. All this, and an ongoing cocoa overdose has been driving mental images not unlike hentai with the pixels on. Intriguing, but frustratingly obscure.

I did think of going to the student health psychiatrist the other day. Then I did a double paracetamol and vitamin C infusion with 5 grams of peppermint cream chocolate.

Saturday, July 29, 2006

so...

...it's not that there isn't anything happening recently. Quite the contrary, too many exciting and randomly fun things have been happening. So why HAVEN'T I be writing about them?

Ask me to my face, it's a simple "can't be fucking bothered to anymore". Seriously, too many things are happening for things to be a simple "Yay! This is some randomness I can write about and receive tons of comments about and increase my readership by a bajillion-fold! Yes, yes. Even the improbability of that happening is not enough to faze me from my piss-shitted stupor on the grandeur of things-I-don't-have-words-to-describe-anymore!" No, no. Indeed not.

A more honest answer would be that I can no longer be bothered about chronicling a life anymore. When I started recording things down, DESPITE the earlier "gawd-I'm-so-gonna-fucking-die-every-day-next-week-except- Sundays-because-I-won't-work-weekends",
I seriously thought that I'd amount to something more then a few pennies and a some copper wire.

The only person I recall truly telling me I was worth what I stopped thinking I was worth was my geometry teacher in ICPU. I don't think I've ever told anyone else this, but she said something similar to "You know, I envy your mom so much. If my son would become half of what you were, I would be so proud." At that one point, just after that period at the end of the second sentence, I was like, wow, someone who had no real preconceived notions or internal biases believing I was gonna be something great. In my yearbook, she signed off "... and I know you'll be a great man one day."

Now I can smile something less than what you'd think I would be. It's a blasphemous crossbred mockery of a flit of happiness with a vengeful smirk, and that smile you see people jumping off buildings have plastered on their already hollow eyes. The mouth is that of a genuine glow, the cheeks a portion of smirk, and the eyes hollow.

As I was walking back up the hill just now, I was just muttering to myself, how fortuitious should some murderous bunch of juvenile street thugs a foot taller than I was armed with dangerous utensils should chance upon me and felt like beating me into a pulp. I doubt much of a resistance would have been put up. Not even reflexively. Or if I accidentally strode out onto a road with rushing and unstoppable traffic. Or if I fell onto the train tracks. Teehee. How positively delightful.

I was wondering. What happens at the end of this five years? Three decades of mindless servitude in some soul-sucking corporation earning big bucks and stomach ulcers? Or that same three decades spent at some back breaking self induced indentured servitude for a posh apartment filled with IKEA furniture and the sound of silence? And I have more to fix before I'm technically done with my life contracts. Damn these things they make you sign in blood. And all before learning how to write, too.

Someone told me that this path of one-ness that I'm walking isn't something that's imposed on me. Oh definitely not. If it was, I would have most definitely broken it. No, a simple inventory take shows that I have no capacity to take care of anyone else. Not on any remotest sense of permanency. Money I think I can manage. Time, maybe so. But I have nothing inside me to give anymore. I think I burnt it all. That happens to pyromaniacs. You sometimes forget that fire can bite you. And I don't have an extinguisher.

Did you know that slashing your wrists won't really kill you? It will probably just cut a tendon and render your hand limp and disabled and shit, but you won't bleed enough to actually die.