A friend gave up on me today. It was not without good cause, for I am the worst scum of Suburbia. Tremble before me as I reign from my ebony tower. We are DV; we are untouchable.
Yes, I've built walls. Do you really think they're there to keep others out?
On occasion I feel that I'm on the verge of some heretofore undiscovered or unexamined ultimate truth about things. Yet as I come closer, it breaks down in front of me, separating into meaninglessness, like individual, colored pixels. I lose sight of everything like one would lose a sock or a set of keys. Afterwards, I settle into my Pit, and it is in the absolute dark that I can see the faint glimmer of folly that is so often outshined. No, it is only myself that is breaking down.
I am DV. Your hatred makes me stronger.
The Stile Project is a sham. Stile knowingly rocks the Establishment's collective boat, then is offended by the subsequent waves of resentment. Afterwards, he ascends to his soapbox to tell his audience how they should think, which, ironically, often includes or implies that they should think for themselves. While railing against the allegedly biased media, he himself becomes another media, but his content is almost entirely subjective and opinionated. He aspires to the ideals of long-dead philosophers as if standards of decency and conduct were still like those of the 1700's, and does so in the less than revolutionary manner of the 1900's muckrakers, while simultaneously acting as the godlike final bastion against some supposed multinational, corporate, right-wing conspiracy. Lacking any reality of his own, he dredges the cesspools of the Earth.
As if a massacre in Korea, oppression in China, or worldwide bigotry were any more valid, any more real, than my stories, my uncle's wedding, or my friends' company.
| Ice Cream | Violence |
| |
| Tasty, dual-scoop, dairy-based treat | Standing army of 100 demon-skeletons |
Fat Ash is finished. It's also longer than my sociology term paper was, and is more interesting. Yes, it was a short term paper.
I was up all night. Then this morning I spent three hours trying to talk someone out of suicide. It worked. Now I'm going to wallow in Fat-Ash-itude, which is almost done, until I forget it ever happened. I'm also going to take a screen shot of the craziest scene I've ever seen in a first-person shooter, but for now it is time for ice cream and violence.
Oh, I know what you're thinking. What exactly do I do with all my time? Mastermind my own demise? Devise intricate plots for revenge? Mix explosives in the basement? Trivial. Oh no, I've been spending my time smiting all in the universe who would oppose me. In Starcraft, anyway.
ĦAy papi! I finished my sociology term paper last night, and promptly relaxed with a game of Infantry, the same game I wrote about before in which I was lynched. I e-mail my assignments to my professor, and so I had to cut and paste the term paper into an e-mail. Yet the paper was still on the Windows clipboard. And so, in my button-mashing fury of playing this online game, I pasted the term paper to the public chat. It didn't show up, but I saw a familiar piece of sentence. I promptly deleted it, but I had no idea that there was more. When I later sent a game-related message, all I saw was a sudden scrolling of text, full of familiar sentences. Yes, I sent my term paper into a chat full of forty-some complete strangers. I fled, and am currently lying low until everyone has forgotten all about it. Yet on the plus side, it was the most intelligent thing ever said in the game chat.
Still, my term paper also made it to its intended target, my sociology professor, and so I am officially finished with the course. Having also taken my final exam in government earlier today, I'm through with my summer courses altogether, and thus high school as well. For the next month or so I can relax, with absolutely no responsibilities. I can let my mind wander, and write more stories about pokemon violence, suicide, politics, depression, and depressing violent political pokemon suicide. But first, I want to wait until fanfiction.net is running again. Yeas, I have a fanfiction.net account. My author name is DV. Look me up in the author directory, and review my stories there. I'm not bringing the guestbook back anytime soon, which reminds me that I'm in the midst of a sudden and meaningless depression. This means I get to write my "Fat Ash" story, in which, as I have said, the aspiring pokemon master becomes big and puffy.
And poof, my depression is gone. I have my best friend back, and my spirits have also been boosted by the 5 I got on the Advanced Placement English language exam. I'm too busy finishing up some units for my sociology course to feel bad anyway. The course actually ended a couple weeks ago, when I had only 4 units out of 12 turned in for a grade of F, which sent me into a panic. Luckily I got to talk to my professor, and because of my past superior scholarship he was kind enough to allow me some extra time. I have until August 1 to submit as many units as I can; I also have my final exam in government on that day. After that I will have absolutely no responsibilities for a while, and I can write some more stories.
Depression. It slowly leaked out of the recesses of my mind and dripped down, stinging my nose. Over the course of a few weeks it slid down my throat, leaving a greasy feeling. It now sits heavily somewhere in my chest, where it makes my heart feel rather tingly and shaky. It also exerts some kind of pressure on my lungs that makes it somewhat difficult to take deep breaths; when I do, it results in a sigh, every time. The feeling is unpleasant, but familiar, and good may yet come of this.
I don't know how it happened, but I wrote another story. It started out as a suicide note, but ended up as a four page pokemon death-fic monstrosity. I don't bother asking questions anymore.
While masterminding my own demise I stumbled across an idea for a story. So I wrote "A Very Fine Paladin" and uploaded it to my stories section.
Today is no more unlucky for me than any other day. All of my days are unlucky.
No.
The days are nothing. They have no value; no good, no bad. I am cursed.
No.
I am nothing. I have no value; no good, no bad. I am the curse.
I live in perpetual doubt.
I took a walk around the town to ease my troubled mind.
I walked around the block where I've lived for over a decade. I'm familiar with these streets, but I don't know them. I know there were once people on them whom I knew, or thought I knew. They grown up, grown apart, moved away, and moved on. Others I never knew were there, and in their case it's too late to consider them.
Where are they now, and what have they done for me? I am no more certain of anything now than before I ever came here, or met them.
I walked to the playground where I would sometimes go in my free time, before I became a recluse. I'm too old to go there now.
I walked to the elementary school I attended for six years. It taught me basic skills and petty ideals which have not worked out as planned. I can read, I can add, but I can still fail. As a top student I befriended all of my teachers.
Where are they now, and what have they done for me? Some are still teaching, perhaps, but they wouldn't remember me. They wouldn't want to know me as I am now.
I'm not in control. I'm just a close-minded idiot with bad fashion sense, in front of a control panel I have no idea how to operate. I'm not smart. I just waste a lot of time thinking about things other people have enough sense to avoid. I have nothing to offer to the world, to myself, or to anyone else. I'm a miserable disgrace of a person, and that is why I'll always be alone.
Listen...can you hear it?
Humanity is screaming. In agony. In ecstasy. In despair. In triumph. In chaos, in unison. What does it all mean?
It means that at this exact moment someone is suffering more horribly than you or I will ever know, while the man down the street from me laughs at a racist joke, and has another beer. Is this a good moment? A bad moment? Both? And does that make it worthless?
Light, dark; both blind you. Heat, cold; you can't survive in either. Revenge, justice; they result in the same thing. Love and hate alike are dedication. Creation has everything neatly ordered. This hypocritical mix you call reality is what distorts and confuses.
We are defective; our misery is built in. Our deviance is the source of our pain.
Independence Day. You should all be grateful you're independent from me, because I am currently surrounded by an aura of stench, caused by a few...well, we're counting in months now, of missing hygiene. Since I won't be leaving the house for another couple months, I'm just going to continue to let myself go. My teeth and hands are the most useful to me, so I've kept them rather clean. Still, I have ensured my own independence for many months to come.
Don't look at me like that. I haven't said I have anything to say or teach, not that it would make a difference anyway, as the focus is on me. This is not a hoax; I am in control, but only because I'm a white middle class American. This is perfection. But then, knowing what I now do, my living in urban poverty would be perfection, too. Circumstance only allowed me to catch a glimpse; the rest was my realization, and there still could have been other ways to get that first glimpse.
Not that this is of any consequence. That comes later, and only when I say it is so.
In the meantime, I will work on my new pokemon story, "Fat Ash." I will make the aspiring pokemon master big and puffy, and it will be good.
Just how did Rico get his groove back? I don't know, but I wrote a story about it anyway. There is nothing to fear. I am in control.
My name is DV, and I have a problem. I am tainted. I have too many habits from the years before I realized my place which frankly are inconsistent with my new glory. I still have too many emotions. My misanthropy focuses too much attention on others. I have enough bitterness left that it distracts me, and leads me back to writing in anger. Events are still affecting me. I'm still in development, but this will not do.
The catch is that it's too easy to think there is a difference.
If one can complain about any situation, as people do, and if one can adapt to any situation, as people do, then there is no practical difference between any situation, and there is no good or bad. With a countless number of possible situations, all of them are equally worthless.
Exams are over, sociology assignments are being completed, preparations are being made for the American Government midterm, a story is in the works, and I have plans.
Poor sods, who didn't dare to follow my path. How some of them must have suffered, wearing clothes that were too tight, trying to speak a certain way, spending time and resources on a particular look, striving to avoid my fate. Oh, but what they missed out on...they've suffered. Me? That wasn't suffering at all. That was minor discomfort caused by a long stretch; growing pains as I...evolved into glory. It's just as well they stayed behind. Only I could have engineered such a plan for my own rebirth. They were of more use to me as they were. I didn't need such distractions. My want was only an illusion. None of them could have possibly understood what was happening; I was happening. Mrb, Neo, and the rest...they came close, but then, drunken ramblings usually have some grain of truth in them. They said it was my fault. Fault! As if it were all an accident. Blame, they said, as if it were something undesirable. They had no concept. But then, why would they? They weren't supposed to. I made them like that. Their purpose was to motivate me. And then? I haven't decided yet.
Why the emphasis on them if everything is about me? What's the difference? Why justify anything to anyone? Why, that's how it works.
The warm fuzzies lasted a couple days, but now they're mostly gone. Now I'm back into emotionless, slightly cynical work mode. Yesterday's disappointment certainly helped. A possible summer internship fell through. I had hoped to spend some time in the IT department of a local business. The issue isn't completely dead, but there's not much I can do except hope, which is an indication of failure anyway. On the plus side it'll give me more story-writing time. I'd have written a few already if I didn't have those two college courses and a few upcoming exams to worry about. I think next Thursday will be the best time to start, as that's the first real day of summer vacation, after my last exam. Then I can begin adapting back to my life of solitude. I am now convinced that my earlier desire for companionship was purely hormonal. I'll kill off my libido and continue on my path to glory.
Today was a day just like any other, except that I slept until noon on a weekday. I feel kinda warm and fuzzy, too. I won't be able to stay angry anymore, not with a dozen girls thinking I'm nice. I think they're all really sweet too. Most of my yearbook messages were about how horrible I am, and how lucky they were never to have really known me, so I won't be able to tell them. That's good, actually, because I know I'd never be able to maintain a decent friendship with anyone. It's enough to have gotten a few sweet words and a few warm hugs. To celebrate I'll start writing again.
Well, that's the end of that. No one assumed room temperature, and I suppose that's good, for the most part. I tied up all the loose ends, manifested my manifesto, wished well those I actually care about, and took a few pictures. I should be excited that it's over. Instead I just feel numb. I don't know why.
No. I know exactly why. I came across what I think resembles what most people call friends, or at least some humble beginnings. I didn't bother to buy a yearbook. Instead I walked around with a few sheets of paper for people to sign. I only had a few people sign them, but they all wrote really nice things. One girl said I was a wonderful and sweet person. Another said she was glad she got to know me, and I should keep in touch. Another said she respected me because I was so unique, and I should never change. I don't know what I did to deserve that. All I've ever done is cause trouble one way or another around people. I'm bitter, and I live in the past. I have nothing to offer to anyone. I've complained that no one liked me, and now I don't understand why anyone does.
The only casualty today was my social life. I lack the confidence to develop any tangible relationships outside the forced social environment of school. I'll just have to go on with my studies. I have a possible internship over the summer. I have a CCNP curriculum to find and read. I have driving tests to take, stories to write, and a world to control. Maybe then I'll forget this time I came so close to what I thought I wanted.
3:29 A.M.
And yet, despite my interaction with them, it was really all me. I was responsible for how people treated me, how I felt, and how it changed me. Reality is what one sees and knows. I control what I see and know. Your private suffering isn't real. My judgment is absolute. I control reality, and I can change it at any time. I control everything. Good or bad, everything's sole purpose is to serve me in some way, and anything else is beside the point. You're all just pieces of my machine, doing what you're supposed to do: opposing me, comforting me, ignoring me, simply coming into contact with me, or doing anything at all on your own, that through the intricate network of cirumstance comes back to me. Why would I need to build an empire? It already exists.
My networking teacher and assorted others were thoroughly impressed by my perfect CCNA score. They said they'd never seen one before. My teacher made a copy of my score sheet, to be sent to the board of directors of the school. I guess the next step from here is to begin studying for the CCNP exams, but I'll take a break first.
Tomorrow is the last day of my high school career. I've taken some pictures, and had a few people sign a sheet of paper I'm calling my yearbook. A couple people I've wanted to take pictures of or have sign my yearbook have put it off or refused entirely. I would be upset, but what does it matter, really? The people who have taken notice that I'm leaving this year do so because I'm graduating early and they're jealous, I know because they tell me so, not because anyone is going to miss me. None of those people owe me anything, except maybe an apology, but I don't even care anymore. I thought I'd add some fluff to the inevitable end, but who really cares? I'm not coming back. There will be no reunions for me. I have no one to meet up with. Goodbye hugs would be soon forgotten, unless someone has the insight to realize that it's completely out of character for me. But who would? The four people who visit this site, maybe.
I guess that's the way I want it. People never have gotten too close. At first it was because they didn't want to, then it was because I didn't want to, and now it's simply a habit which is not to be broken in the last few weeks of school. There have been three people there who have been nice to me. That proves at the very least that not all people are completely horrible all the time. There have been three hundred people who have been cruel to me. That proves at the very least that not all people are completely nice all the time. The human race is logically impossible.
Why should it bother me that it's over? Before -- that was just the result of walking in the rain while humming a melancholy tune. They don't owe me anything, and I certainly don't owe them any more emotion. I've already typed all the angry essays that are in me, and none of those proved anything. What are they left with? My generic yearbook message, "Good luck in everything, and have a nice summer." What am I left with? An incipient god complex and bitter misanthropy. They have nothing more to offer. I have it all now: for the concrete I have networking, for the abstract I have my own creativity, and I have Kelly. They've lost out on this deal.
And so, get out of my life.
There are roughly 6 billion people on the planet. Of them, roughly 6000 are CCIE certified. Of those 6000, about 2600 are in the United States, which has a population of over 260 million. That's .0001% of the world population and .001% of the U.S. population. Cisco Certified Internetworking Experts are like demigods among technicians. Someday I'll join them.
I took the CCNA exam today. Not only did I pass it, but I schooled it hardcore with a perfect 1000 points. The secretary at the exam site was impressed; she'd never seen a perfect test. Tomorrow I'll kick my college courses into overdrive. On the twelfth I have my last day of high school. On the thirteenth I'll get my learner's permit. On the twenty-seventh I have a midterm for my American Government course. Until then I have a lot of assignments to do for my sociology course. In July I'll be free to play and write as I please. In August I have a four-week internship. In September I will go back to school to visit my old teachers. SAT's will be in October. November and December are mine. January will begin the new college semester. Then life begins, and I will put into effect my plans for world domination.
Last friday there was an assembly, at the end of which there was a speech given by someone I didn't know but everyone else apparently did. She said that she had known many of us since we were born. Except I wasn't born here. There's a community playground about three blocks away from the school; a metal archway stretches over two brick pillars, and on some of the bricks are etched the names of those who contributed to the project. I recognize a lot of those family names, but there's no DV family.
Even though there were relatively few names, I couldn't help but think that I'm not a part of the community. I've been around for ten years, but I haven't really done anything save for get in people's way, cause trouble, and scare and annoy people. I don't really care how it started or how it'll end anymore; I've focused only on my schoolwork and playing around on these computers. It never bothered me before; only the cruelty did that. But now, I feel I've missed something somewhere along the line.
I thought I despised that place and everyone in it. Instead I'm buying film so I can take pictures of it all. I declared myself an outsider, and just as we're splitting up for good I start to bond with them. I haven't forgotten or forgiven, I'm not coming back for the reunion, and I'm not having second thoughts about my plans for early graduation; I just didn't expect to have any feelings.
Should I ask for final goodbye hugs and handshakes from people I've really only begun to get to know, even after spending a decade with them? What I am sure of is that I value the past. I am my past. All I can do is to keep as much of it as possible, and try to sort it all out later.
Read chapter 1 of my sociology book; gained valuable insight into dominant/minority group relations, study of those relations, and varying perspectives of that study. Also read a chapter in my networking curriculum regarding IPX networks. I can schedule the CCNA exam soon. I still have three term papers to do in the next couple weeks for my high school classes.
I'm expecting a school shooting spasm as the school year nation-wide ends. Before that happens, I have to have enough stories that I can be blamed for the degradation of modern American society. I would gladly accept it but for the fact that I have already disclaimed it.
Yeah, so on the twenty-second I had my second day of college. My sociology professor has a name I can pronounce. The course is called Social Problems - Dealing with Diversity. It consists of answering questions regarding cultural diversity (based on a textbook and videos), which, frankly, is what I've been doing for the past few years, with the exception that said diversity is focused on gender, ethnicity, and religion. Just today I finally gathered all the materials. There are fifteen videos total for both classes, so I get to watch T.V. a lot on my way to Enlightenment. The essays will just come naturally. Maybe I'll post them here. I guess Pokemon will have to wait. Blast.
Yeah, so I had my first day of college today. Actually it was an orientation session for a distance learning course in American government.
Points of Interest:
Yeah, so I was playing one of those Internet games the other day, racking up kills and whatnot. I got into a duel with some schmuck. I fired a green plasma blast-o-death; things looked grim for him, but then -- what?! He repulsed the blast, and it went speeding around the area, bouncing off all the cliffs and rocks, finally exploding -- right in his face, blasting him back the the dropship from whence he came. He, of course, had a conniption fit, and called down the wrath of an execution squad on me. So, while I was recovering from the battle in the safety of my own team's dropship, reading the player score charts, I suddenly found myself warped out to the middle of nowhere.
Standing in the area were my former victim and some other schmuck who had dedicated his life to defending him. So, the two of them proceeded to shoot me full of holes, teaching me a valuable lesson: when attacking someone, make sure that they aren't coming back, and kill all of their friends, too, so there's no possibility of retaliation; that, and there are some people who should not be put in positions of power, which can be and are abused for petty issues.
I ran into him again a few minutes later. I almost had him again, but I suddenly and mysteriously died, most likely by a sniper's shot. That sniper was, of course, the same person who had helped lynch me before. Worst of all was the fact that he was a complete idiot, as evidenced by his in-game chatter. Well, I'll be fair: he just wasn't taking the game very seriously, unlike his companion. I don't know which of them had the magic moderator powers to warp me into that firing squad; I assume it was the one I killed.
Needless to say, I wasn't going to hang around in the same arena as some lunatic who had an ax to grind. I could've stayed, and I certainly could've made him have a few litters of kittens by making his game experience that much more sadistic, but I had a decent kill/death ratio to maintain, and I couldn't stand listening to his lackey anymore. At least I got to see the lunatic get mauled a few more times before I left. Yes, he threw a fit each time.
No, I won't pretend it was very funny or amusing or anything else, like people often claim when they're trying to sound superior and intellectual. It was just, well, "feh." How am I supposed to respond to people like that? It was not unlike an episode of the Twilight Zone, in which a demi-god child used his powers to enslave everyone around him. Luckily I always have my trump card: alt+f4, poof, I'm outta there. I'm sure I've been blacklisted by now, so I'll probably be using it sometime soon. In the meantime, I have a term paper and some pokemon stories to write.
There. Now that I've kicked the College Board's collective posterior in the areas of English and U.S. History, I can get back to what's important in life: griping, and writing vignettes in which Pikachu blasts Misty into a coma with a well-placed thunderwave attack. Plus you get the added benefit of me compiling a new section for U.S. history on this site. But that'll come later. First, some Pokemon violence.
Ah hah!! I've found my purpose in life.
Wacky Colorado people are hell-bent on taking down Nintendo and iD Software and friends. "Super-violent" games breed "monster killers," according to Colorado lawyers. If a mere video game like Doom can have so much power, imagine what a book could do, complete with themes and symbols; the whole bit.
I will single-handedly ignite a nation-wide riot of school shootings by flooding the literary world with my confusing moral values. If I succeed, I'll have achieved a level of literary greatness which will put Hemingway and Frost to shame. If I fail, at least I'll have written a whole lot of pretty good stories.
Yeah, I am beyond your comprehension.
Yes, I'm still alive. Maybe someday I'll fix that, but for today you just knew there would be an update. Until that fateful day when I lose all my dignity to the grill of a semi or a bus, or something equally lame, I will dedicate my life to unleashing terrible to mediocre stories upon the world; like my newest work, a piece of Pokemon fanfiction. I think it sucks. I think I suck. I think you suck. Luckily for all of us none of us care what I think. Now go read.
See, the trick is always to have a convenient escape route. Like, fight for what's right and all of that, but then back out at an opportune time and say that life's too short to get caught up on idealism. Then post a big ol' flaming pentagram on your main page and start writing some violent Pokemon fanfiction.
"The better to devour your soul with, my dear," said Uncle Smiley.
I never did like family gatherings, but at least Uncle had decent
taste in jewelry.
The general consensus among youth is that games, movies, music, and television aren't too violent or explicit. I would probably agree, but then, having grown up with it I have nothing to which I can compare such media. It's nothing new, of course. The 1920's were a lovely time for pushing back the boundaries of sexuality, with knee-high womens' swimsuits. Fourty years later the hippies pushed further, and added drugs to the mix, but they had a message of love and expanding minds; make love not war, and all of that. Another fourty years later and we're pushing the limits again. F' tha po-lice yo, tokin' up some fatties wit my biznitches? How much further can we go? There are only so many articles of clothing to be taken off, so many kinds of drugs to take, so much freedom to be had until we're in social anarchy. How much freedom do people need or want? How far do we go before we all switch sides and become uptight conservatives? When do we meet our match, as when Stile saw that picture? What if we wake up one day and find that we're living in an environment absolutely sickening to all but the most depraved and immoral scum of society, the ones who shock even those who sought to push the limits in the first place? We could break free from regulation only to find that we're prisoners to the whims of the fringe. 1984? What about 2044?
It's clear out; a suburban night. I've never really been satisfied with the nights here. The moon has little effect compared to the light from streetlamps and house windows and floodlights. I can count the number of stars in the sky. There are ten. One is high in the eastern sky. The rest are scattered across the western horizon, right above the rooftops. I get a little disappointed that I have such a limited view. Even now as we near midnight, to the northeast the sky is still an unbecoming faint reddish-purple, which bleeds into the surrounding heavens and outshines the stars I'm sure must be there. It has its own beauty, of course, but not what I'm looking for. But then, I guess I'm not really sure what it is I'm looking for because I've never seen it; this, in contrast with last night, which was the first storm of the millennium. Those are always something to look forward to. The sky was completely blocked by clouds, but the bolts of lightning were more than enough to make up for the lack of starlight.
On Thursday, March 29, in the year 2001, one J. Stile of the Stile Project was offended. The man who posts shocking "reality" pictures of human depravity and sodomy, of dead children, mangled corpses, deformities, death, and destruction, was himself shocked, because of two images, one dead baby, and a smart-aleck comment.
Great advocates of free thought, free speech, free information, free everything, now find themselves becoming just like the "horrible organized religions" and "evil media" they supposedly rail against. Stile himself e-mailed and chastised the person who had an altered version of the dead baby image on his webcam. "She wouldn't shut up and eat her breakfast, so I killed her," the caption of the new image reads. "We have limits!" the battle cry of the offended goes.
So do the conservatives they claim to despise. Now we find that these people, the Stiles and the conservatives, aren't so different. Countless times people have contacted Stile and cursed his wicked ways. Countless times Stile's viewers doubtless have rushed to his defense in their own minds. Now another is the target of this abuse, by the very hand that sought to oppose such a thing. What happened to all that freedom? Gone, with a single disagreeable thought.
There is of course a difference between censure and action, between vilifying a site and attempting to shut it down, but is the thought not father to the deed? And what of social pressure? Widespread social condemnation can have as strong an effect as legislation; nay, stronger. Go into a Jewish neighborhood waving a Nazi flag, publically burn the American flag at the fireworks celebration on Independence Day, post an altered image of a dead Israeli baby on your webcam, and see how much freedom means then. What of Prohibition? Social pressure allowed what legislation denied. What of the McCarthy era? Social pressure denied what legislation allowed. Censure is the social pressure. Action is the legislation.
I have no choice but to be an advocate of freedom with responsibility, no matter how unrealistic some claim it to be. "Deal with it" is not an acceptable excuse. I don't dare call myself a liberal or a conservative. I have what some would call conservative goals, to be achieved through liberal means. I myself have posted offensive things, not out of cruelty or for the sake of stretching freedom to its limit, but simply to draw attention, as a form of communication. Perhaps Stile and I are alike in that respect.
How strange, that we can all be so similar and so different at the same time.
I have restored the links to the other sections of the site.
So I lost the bet. It wasn't South Dakota. It was Indiana. So here goes.
Oh, who am I kidding? I can't leave this site. I am this site. This is what I do, and it's better for myself and for everyone else that I do. I'm here to write, and I'll let someone else worry about the details. I'm here to laugh and to cry, to explore and to explain, and whether or not you punks agree is beside the point.
Someone once asked in a familiar condescending tone how my self esteem is, if it makes me feel warm and fuzzy to write garbage like this. I can now say with complete confidence that only my self esteem is garbage and that it does feel good to write all about it and him and everything else, and whether or not that punk agrees is beside the point.
I don't know how much of me was born and how much was developed. I don't know how much is mine and how much is others' responsibility. I do know that this is mine. Maybe I'll figure the rest out. If I do it'll be here, and whether or not you punks agree is beside the point.
I'm here to prove that paradoxical impossibilities are real. I'm here to mix art with technology, efficiency with sentimentality, apathy with sincerity, fatalism with hope, bitterness with softness, and whether or not you punks buy that is beside the point.
I am as the bit. If you don't understand that, then you can understand how I feel.
I could say something profound and meaningful, but that would be silly. This was a mistake. This sideshow is over.
*POOF*