Updated!

Date:	2003-11-15 10:19
Subject:
Security:	Public
Mood:	morose
Music:	Sole - Uck Rt

Alright, talked to some people and looks like I might be able to get a short film going.

On top of that, Doug and are ripping through a business plan for a small alternative media store - hopefully the over-head won't make it impossible to pay the god damn rent.Oh, and clothes for boys! Our targets at the moment are the Canadian Youth Business Foundation and the Business Development Bank of Canada, so we'll see where that goes. Quite a bit more market research to be done and lots of footwork to be done (mostly scouting out possible competition), but here's to hoping.

As for the next sprained-soul.com update, it's on the way and shaping up to be a bit more of a return to scathing social/philosophical contimplation, of course with my usual morbidness and self-loathing. It will, of course, be not nearly as great as I'd like to assume it could be.

Calgary? What about it? I soil it's women with post-modernism! I overhear it's businessman chatter! I spit on it's street and put my cigarettes out on the side of it's buildings! Currently enjoying Doug's company, talking shit with this englishman DJ about past and present states of literary nirvana, as well as setting myself up with two cougars (read : women considerably more mature than girls) in search of the ever-elusive threesome that lies just beyond your bedroom's grasp.

I stopped to look at the update dates on sprained-soul.com and I see that I haven't been writing as regularly as I should be. 3 months for a shitty half-ass story? I can't respect myself for that. It is time that I start writing regularly again and allow myself to dredge shitty things within myself, to talk about things that are important, not just seem important and perhaps a bit more fucked up then people would expect (like 'slitting someone's stomach open and fucking the hole' is not fucked up enough?).

I am going to try a schedule of *at least* one story per month, and if I can slip into that grove easily enough (and more awesomely depressing and traumatic things keep happening) I will switch to one every two or three weeks, though I will have to battle to draw out the usual inspiration that seems to push my peices forward.

And just so no one, including myself, is taking me too serious, I'll say something embarrasing. Yesterday I was grating cheese and I'm so un-coordinated and oblivious that I took two grater hole sized chunks out of one of my knuckles. This in itself is not too stupid, but I wasn't paying attention and didn't really feel it, so I looked into the little plastic dish that caught all the cheese and it's filled with blood. I had to throw all the cheese out and start over. That's still not the bad part. The bad part is, had I not been cooking for someone else, I probably would have eaten it.

Thank you, goodnight.

It's the pure and blatant misandry of liberal media that makes honest, blue-collar joes like myself pushed into doing stupid things like voting republican.

"Males are, in many ways, parasites upon their partners," Jones writes. "Their interests are to persuade the other party to invest in reproduction, while doing as little as they can themselves. Like all vermin, from viruses to tapeworms, they force their reluctant landladies to adapt or to be overwhelmed."

I've seen people write "time of the month" bitch articles, but an entire fucking book? And what's really amazing about this whole thing, is the irony that our friend Steve is DOING IT FOR THE FUCKING PUSSY. I guess he has the right to be some over-zealous feminist's shitheel and watch him destroy his own integrity for the oppertunity to have some catty douchebag pat him on the head and say he's been a good, spineless and dickless boy.

It's funny that %99 of feminist theory is based on men. It's ironic how "gender issues" on any stage translates into man bashing. Of course, it's under the guise that "this is how X relates and affects women", but X almost always equals "omg men are pigs".

Now articles like this should be taken with a grain of salt as well, but they tend to be a little less extreme.

And then there's paternity fraud, but I won't even touch that. Family values by law, fuck the father (even if he _isn't_ he's not allowed to use DNA testing to free him of any responsibility) and shit all over the rights of the blue-collar joe. The family court system and the media propagate nothing but the treating of people, based on sex, as second class citizens. Feminism is nothing more than blatant sexism, not the fight for the right to be equal.

So maybe Aristotle had something going in his work called "Politics" on how Ancient Sparta was destroyed by feminism. You know, demanding special rights while baring none of the responsibility. I guess that's equal rights for ya.

Hmm, suddenly I fell SO much better about myself.
THIS thread came up in GBS about THIS train wreck of a girl.

Good fucking lord it's great being me for once.

So, after a long drought, I wrote something. It was a SA forum topic challenge, centered around summer/heat/etc. Bleh.

Oh yeah, new design.

Sprained-soul.com

This is what lies in all your hearts. Make no mistake about it, everyone is capable of doing something like this. To me and to you.That's what flashes through my mind when you ask for a hug, it's why I keep my eyes straight forward and am quick to throw punches. Don't view my anti-socialness and sheer contempt for all of you as personality flaws or improper social quirks, it's merely the first line of defense against man's inhumanity to man and your inhumanity to me.

So, I'm watching "Ghetto Brawls". I've decided to write down some reflection on it in no particular order and with very little sentence structure or correct spelling.

Fuck with racists say, if you grew up in a fucking ghetto, you'd end up pretty fucked up too. Color doesn't matter, being poor does. It's too much when you're poor and grow up knowing that the only way out is to either sell drugs or jail or death.

Police tend to be dicks, it's universal. Knowing your rights is awesome though, and a lot of black people know their rights better than white people, of course, that's probably because they are involved in crime or are used to getting harassed for being black.

Sinking into mob mentality is all too easy. I don't give a fuck if you're rioting because the police shot your mothers, you'll still be part of animalistic that achieves nothing. You'll be branded fucking degenerates because that's what degenerates do, destroy with no purpose. Don't do that.
Not caring about going to jail is pathetic

Crack used to go to fund Contras. Don't be proud to be a crack dealer, don't claim that your race "survived" a drugs and realize that a black crack fiend is just the fucking same as some white boy addicted to meth - They're both escapist pieces of shit.

Man, I gotta start hitting the weights.

Skin color does not debunk existentialism, though it's very hard to make something from nothing. Don't blame your problems on others, but don't fully blame them on yourself either.

Politically correct bitch liberalism may influence the government and media to protect your rights, or make sure you're called an african american instead of black or negro but make no mistake about it, they don't give two shits about what happens to you. Some bored democratic wife may make it her crusade to make sure your cultural heritage is remembered, but that same bitch just wants you to stay in your dirty ghetto, get stupid with TV, get diseased with AIDS, get killed by guns that they're making "harder to get!" and hooked on drugs that used to finance their daddy's private wars in other countries where faceless brown people kill other faceless brown people.

NEVER stand between two 200+ pound black women who are about to fight. You will die.

I have never been concerned with the wellbeing of people in general, and I'm not suddenly growing some kind of compassion for my fellow man or woman, but please...Don't get into a fist fight while you're PREGNANT.

THIS is why I don't trust you. It is why I keep few friends. It is why I carry a knife.

It's why I dream of stabbing you in the neck.

I have not had my own bedroom in close to 2 years. I've been sleeping on couches and floors and I don't even own a single piece of furniture. I have a lot of books, old worn-out shoes, some assorted computer parts, one pair of jeans and a bunch of t-shirts, all which easily fit inside of one suitcase and a backpack. I'm 21. I'm an ex-drug addict. I'm stuck in a city called Miramichi.

I have a lot of things that weigh on my mind almost all of the time. I consider myself a failure, I consider myself awkward to life, I consider myself unlucky to have not died during one of the millions of episodes where my life could be considered in peril. I try not to make any friends but feel bad because I have so few. I haven't trusted my mother or father since I was eight.

I can't go for much longer.

Dear Mr.Artist,

How has your summer been? Mine has been ok, I guess.I know I haven't spoken to you in a long time, but I am very busy with some important things. I read a lot, I listen to a lot of music, I look at pictures and movies and paintings. And I think I figured something out.

Mr.Artist, I think you purposely dilute and mask your true meaning or statement -if it even exists, in the hopes that the ensuing confusion will make your work appear "deep" and "multi-faceted". I think that throwing yourself on the mercy of the concept of subjectivity won't make up for lack of talent in the end.

The more I think about it Mr.Artist, the more I realize you're actually a very mean person. You like to lie to people, you like prey on people's good intentions and in return, you call their genuine and well-place confusion ignorance. Come to think of it, you're a huge asshole. If I saw you on the street I'd spit on you.

Go get fucked,
Me

For some reason I have the overwhelming urge to stab myself in the leg.

So I went and got some ink done, my first tattoo.

Linked for size : No longer a virgin

Interacting with women, especially those of whom I may have any kind of interest in is an extremely painful process for me.

I guess I've pretty much been forced into a-sexualism by circumstance and specific people. It's been close to a year since I've kissed someone and it is extremely rare for me to come into any physical contact with people that isn't in some way violent. It doesn't surprise me though, the girls I have chased had no real concept of things like compassion or tenderness - the exact things that would separate them from 'just a friend'.

Whenever I talk to a girl, my stomach tries to jump out of my stomach and I feel like an idiot for even talking to them. I feel like I'm wasting my breath even saying hello to a girl I'm interested in. Sometimes I will stare at the ceiling and think of all the effort and money I put into trying to share my life with a girl, it fills me with so much confused rage and a deep lost and lonely feeling that I can't truly express.

Sometimes I think it's my fault, that I'm not smart enough, not good looking enough, not funny or charming. I think that it's my fault because I don't have enough money, I don't drive and I don't appear interested enough. All those roads lead to conclusions that seem so self-depreciating that I start to feel bad about feeling bad.

I have to look in the mirror each morning knowing that I'm unlovable.

I am deathly afraid of women and I understand that I will be alone as long as I'm alive.

I say I'm a-sexual so I don't have to explain to anyone the deeper problems that exist.

I see myself as the only thing that's important in the world because looking out for myself only assures that I will, at least some times, feel better.

I often see friends as useless because they don't have the answers to my problems and can't possibly aid me in my most major of dilemmas - I am merely killing time in their company.

I'm a complete fuckup in a lot of ways.

I think about killing myself all the time but I'm too much of a pussy to just pull off and get the job done.

These aren't things I'm just saying, this isn't a fictional piece and I'm not joking around. I'm not feeling sorry for myself either, I've tried to grin and bare it by admitting that in order for some people to win, others have to lose, but no one wants to be a loser. Shifting sideways from that, some would say just running in any kind of race is enough, but in all instances they forget that : The end of the line, defines the line.

These painfully awful facts sit in my mind all the time, it's like having cancer. I'm sorry if I can't help but be heavy or intense, it's the only thing I can hold on to and it sure beats being truthful like this.

I have found in my life that I only show aptitude in the most basic tasks in life, like drinking or fighting; but my true strength lies in my ability to be lonely. My savant-like skill in being alone and lonesome continues to amaze me night after night as I look up at the ceiling before I go to sleep, I take to my isolation like a malnourished cat . I can cut a swath through thousands of days removed, I can balance years of lost lonliness on my nose for your entertainment and spare change, I can maintain seclusion and take to it with fevered deftness of an inspired artist's brush.

I can be alone like you wish you could sing.

Yeah, you see the way this finger bends? Seriously, that's as far as I can curl it. No it wasn't broken or anything, though I doubt you want to hear the whole story. Well, let me order another round first.

Alright, you see back in the old neighborhood there was this girl, she was the only girl our age for like 6 blocks and for some reason she'd come hang out with us. Now our little group being around that age where a real and steady girl could actually be you know, obtained, we were all pretty interested in her but at the same time, we all hated her. I told you it was hard to explain. Yeah, no, see, she wasn't amazing or anything it's just that she was the only game in town, you know?

But back to the finger. Me and her, we got to be ok friends, you know? She wasn't exactly what I had wanted in a girl but she got me through the day. So this one day, she turns and says to me "I'll let you touch my breasts if I can stab you in the hand with a fork." Swear to fuck, that's what she said. Yeah, I know what you're thinking but this is where it gets pretty fucked up.

I didn't bother thinking about it for like two days, and then I guess something happened with her folks or whatnot, and she ended up having to move. So, the night before she's about to leave she comes over to my place to say goodbye and that's when I go "Ok, you can stab me in the hand with a fork." or whatever, right?

So over to kitchen she goes, and she gets a fork and I lay my hand out on the counter top and clench my teeth. She brings the fork up in to the air and slams that shit right through my fucking hand! See, there's four little marks right here but can't you see the other four? You're fucking right she did! She stabbed me again.

So I'm bleeding all over my mom's kitchen, grabbing at paper towel and running my hand under some cold water and she walks right out my back door and I never see the bitch again. Yeah, see that's the interesting part of the story because I never did get to even touch her.

I know man, that's just the way things go and now I can't curl that finger past half way. So anyways, you paying for the next round or what?

Your dissonant voice on my radio, your undernourished and maladroit body on my stage, your ineffectual and uninspired peices of pretense in my field of view. It's better than destruction and apathy, but...What are you going to do when all art is signed anonymously?

What are you going to do when you can't take credit for your art? Your oft-shattered ego won't get the shot in the arm it needs when your signature doesn't exist anymore and the steely truth of art for art's sake bares down on you like an unpayable debt. Sounds and images will only exist as fundamental expressions of the soul and not as a source of rent payment. Once it's all anonymous, bad art will die and we'll be able to consider all work based on it's ability to produce emotion from those exposed to it or any other merits not weighed down with vogue preconceptions. Your Broadway dreams will drop when you can't see your name in lights and the art school drop outs will be able to wash your dishes and wait on your tables knowing that what they have to say is just as exposed as your haut couture mediocrity.

Your ego won't feed you art so your art shouldn't feed your ego.