Topics

286

Aneristic Illusions / SOMEONE REASSURE ME THIS IS TERRIBLE

« on: March 28, 2013, 03:25:53 am »

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/cheerleader-must-compensate-school-that-told-her-to-clap-rapist-2278522.html

A teenage girl who was dropped from her high school's cheerleading squad after refusing to chant the name of a basketball player who had sexually assaulted her must pay compensation of $45,000 (£27,300) after losing a legal challenge against the decision.

There are asshats in another forum trying to defend this decision and it's overloading my rage circuits.

287

Apple Talk / Apricot Bastards

« on: March 22, 2013, 11:10:07 pm »

Don't know if I posted this here before

I once made a batch of cookies called "Apricot Bastards"
They were supposed to be Apricot Pinwheels
But the wax paper broke
And they turned into a homogeneous mess
Of walnuts,
apricot jam,
and dough
I rolled them up anyway
And shipped them away
They were so delicious, someone got shot at.

288

Or Kill Me / Unpleasant things

« on: March 22, 2013, 10:15:59 pm »

*Note* not sure if this may get used elsewhere, no copies for now

I'm afraid to open my mouth
I'm afraid if I open my mouth, this scream will come out
No, not a scream
A sob? a wail?
Yes, that's it, a wail
Like a banshee
That's what the ghost of my mother called it
In the dream I had last night
We were talking about something
And I don't remember the words we used
But it was great and terrible and real
It was the gavel that said it was worse to violate a website
Than a sixteen year old girl
It was the sound of shipping lines
That drowned the songs of the deep
It was the waterhose in the Maldives
And the pepperspray at UC Davis
And the sticks they brought to Dewey Square
It was the weight of the world
And it was on me
It was mine
I knew it was mine because of what was written on the whiteboard
I opened my mouth to say something
About how we couldn't ignore this
And we weren't going to
And something was going to be done
And I was going to do it
But the words got caught
And what came out wasn't them
It came out loud and ragged and incoherent
It shook my shoulders and forced out tears
Like a baby
And I couldn't stop it
It tore through me
It ravaged my throat
Like the dream where I vomited glass
And she smiled
And said
"That's a good wail."

289

Literate Chaotic / Suicide Notes

« on: March 21, 2013, 01:42:45 am »

*Note* I am not sure if I may want to do something with this in the future, so the following is not available for copying/bending/folding/mutilating at the present time.


This is a piece of paper. If you examined it carefully, you would notice that it is ruled with blue horizontal lines marching down the page in neat half-inch steps after the inch margin at the top, and a faint red line down the left margin that borders on the pink range of the spectrum. You would also notice that along the left edge of the paper there are two separate areas that have been torn unevenly, indicating that this paper was once part of a larger notebook, and that the person who removed it therefrom was not overly careful about following the perforation when the time came to do so. You would notice the small area near the bottom where two of the blue lines have become diffused and the paper slightly warped, as one might expect if a small quantity of clear liquid had fallen on the page and been allowed to dry.

If you examined it less carefully, you would see that it was a note. The contents of the note might lead you to make some assumptions about the haste with which it was removed from the notebook, or the evidence of past spots of wetness.

The note is being held by a man with a gold shield sitting on his belt prominently displayed. The man does not wear a uniform, although there are other men around him who do. He holds the note with a gloved hand carefully, making note of the handwriting and mentally judging the mental state of the presumed author. He shakes his head as he eliminates the impossible and decides that whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the truth.

Earlier this same day, the same man stood in a different room surrounded by uniforms and men and women moving quickly and with purpose like only those who have missed the climax of a confrontation can. That room contained two dead men. One of the dead men had lead the man with the shield to this room, where there were no dead men but only this note, and all the things that the man had to believe were true as a result.

Pictures are being taken, just as pictures were taken in the room that stank of blood and old cigarettes. Files are being created, filled with reports and photographs. Two dead men lie in refrigerated boxes, awaiting people with scalpels to slice them into causes of death and certificates. There will be paperwork, the man knows. There will be analysis. The case will be closed. He puts down the paper and prays for sanity. Later, he settles for alcohol.

This is what the note says:

I'm sorry. I'm sorry to whoever's reading this. I probably should have taken care of this myself, but I don't think I have the nerve and besides, I need to make sure he goes with me. I can't let him do this to anyone else.

I didn't know what was happening at first. I think we all sometimes do things that we later regret. But it wasn't that I was regretting things, no, I was doing things that didn't make any sense at all. I'd be standing there in the middle of an argument, thinking "why am I doing this?" and all of a sudden other thoughts would be in my head and they weren't my thoughts but I didn't know it at first so I just made excuses. We all make excuses for ourselves. That's probably how he got away with it for so long.

I know, now, that the kids who killed my wife were no more responsible for their actions than I was when I quit my job at the University. I didn't know it when I hunted them down, and I am sorry to their families for everything I did, but that wasn't my fault either. I never would have done that. I would have called the police, I would have seen them arrested and sent to prison. The things I did to them... it makes me sick to think about it now. I know that sounds like one of those fake fucking politician apologies, but I mean it. I'm sorry. He's fucked us all and we didn't even know it. How could we?

He killed my wife. He killed her off because he wanted me to be a normal man pushed over the edge by grief. It's not even a good story. He killed my wife because he had a statement to make about vigilantism and the impotence of the state. He killed my wife because he wanted to be Batman, and the closest he could get was writing me into him, but he fucked it up anyway. I didn't know until I saw it there in the bookstore, mocking me from the display stand. It was a fast read, I'd already lived it.

I have to hurry, I think he's taking a break before he starts on the next book, I haven't felt any of those moments where I wasn't in control for a few months now, but I know he'll start up again soon and when he does I won't be able to stop him. I have to stop him. I found his house and that's where you'll find me, when this is done. I'm going to make the police take care of me. I don't think I have the balls to do it myself. He made me a murderer. No one should have to live with this. He won't do it to anyone else.

If you're the police, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to come into this. I hope you understand why I couldn't live with the memories of the thing he turned me into. I wasn't always like this.

Please forgive me.

This is a piece of paper. It has been folded repeatedly and hidden away somewhere that a niece is sure to find, but the police will not. The note is shorter than it's counterpart. It says:

I'm sorry, I've made him a murderer again. I swear, I didn't know until I saw it in the newspaper. Please forgive me.

290

Or Kill Me / Bosses

« on: March 16, 2013, 02:43:33 pm »

He had the moral fortitude of a ham sandwich.

His sense of empathy, likewise, was comparable to that of deli meats - although it is important to note that such comparisons would likely fall in favor of the meat if it had been in the fridge long enough.  His business sense, aesthetics, emotional depth, critical thinking skills... really when it came right down to it if it weren't for his hyper-inflated sense of self-importance it would have been very difficult to discern his mental abilities from those of any given inanimate object. He was, in short, an asshole.

At length, he was a gaping, cavernous sphincter from which nothing of value had - or ever would - emerge, which greedily consumed all within its immediate vicinity regardless of sanitary concerns or the physical limits of muscle and flesh, which permanently and terribly defiled everything in its direct presence and for miles downwind, coating everything in its influence with an invisible layer of filth that seeped into cloth and flesh and only grew worse with the attempts to scrub it away. He was the kind of man who took it as a compliment when you called him an asshole, because he didn't understand the fundamental difference between "someone who gets the job done" and "someone who ruins everything he touches by virtue of being morally, intellectually, and emotionally bankrupt."

He thought that ADHD was an adequate excuse for a transcript only a short-bus parent could be proud of, and blamed his privileged upbringing for all manner of personal failings. He fretted over the people and families that depended on his business for precisely long enough to inflate his own ego before scrapping them one by one, devouring his business from the inside out by insisting on cutting not just corners but whole sides, funneling his personal wealth into vanity projects which he coerced his ever-shrinking workforce to add to their existing load.

He challenged her sense of identity, as there were many things she would like to claim that she would "never wish on anyone" that she wished upon him on a daily basis. There were few things in the world that would have made her more happy than him getting hit by a bus,  and most of those things were along the lines of "him getting hit by a train" or "him getting hit by several buses consecutively."

291

Or Kill Me / I think my eyes are broken

« on: October 29, 2012, 03:02:36 am »

Could someone get me a new set of eyes? These ones don't seem to be working right anymore. I mean, they're fine for general use, traffic signs and menu options and whatnot. I can even force them to work while I'm writing if I'm very careful and take breaks every couple or words. But sometimes it's all too much and they start to lose definition in the periphery and then the cone of blurry darkness tunnels down and I just have to reboot them and try again. I haven't been able to find anything in the users manual to troubleshoot this problem.

I think my eyes are broken, because they won't read things anymore. Short things, maybe, but never long ones. Two sentences in and it all smudges together into incoherent syllables of gibberish. It's a shame, I really liked these ones. I know they've had some problems from the get-go, but it's hard to find ones in a shade that's got some depth to it. I hope they don't stick me with grey for the replacements. They'll replace them, right? They have to, these ones aren't working. I can't go around with eyes that aren't working.

Could you help me with my eyes? They're not working at all like they used to, I can't seem to do anything with them any more, it's just a mess. I think I hit a dog with my car the other sau,. nut O dpm't know/ {;ease hel[/me/ I'm dalling apart and I con't know how I can dix it/ Upi cam dox o. eohjt? cp,espme jas tp dox ot/ O camt sp pm like this. O cam
t/ O can't fp arpimd wotj nrplem eues

292

Or Kill Me / Love Letters

« on: October 19, 2012, 01:31:14 am »

Dear sweetie,

I love you. You know I do. It's the love that exists like the sunrise and the mountains: reliable and easy to take for granted but spectacular when you remember to look up. I love you like no one else is worth making out with. I love you to the moon and back.

But goddamn are you The Loudest Guy In The Room.

No, no one on the other end of the phone is having any trouble hearing you. Absolutely not. I have been on the phone with you, sir, and your phone functions quite adequately for the task at hand. Stop yelling.

No, you do not need to talk at full volume when my ear is actually resting on your chest. You know, that place where your loud-as-fuck lungs live? Yeah. Stop shouting at the TV. Seriously.

No, you are not "being assertive" when you bully people out of the conversation like that. Yes, you bullied them. No, they were not agreeing with you. Stop pretending to be a retard.

I love you.

SHUT THE FUCK UP.

293

Or Kill Me / An Ode to the Hole in the Bottom of my Foot

« on: October 16, 2012, 03:57:25 am »

Fuck off
Go away
No one ever liked you
No, not even me
I don't know why I put up with you for so long.

Don't pretend you didn't see this coming
I never mattered to you, either
Just a safe place to hide
From the cold
You didn't even ask to be let in.

I should have listened to my friends
When they said you were no good
But I was too proud
And too dumb
And too trusting.

So I let things slide
And I hoped that you'd get better
That if I was patient
And kind
Things would resolve themselves.

I was only a kid.

I remember that night,
The light by my bedstand
When I finally had enough
And tried to make you leave
And found it hurt too much.

I was ashamed
Of myself
Of you
Of the pain
So I hid it, pretended it didn't matter.

And you dug your fucking heels in
Bastard that you are
Wheedling your way into my life
And my body
Like it's a thing you already own

No more of this bullshit.

I will boil you in acid
And I will drag you out by force
I'll cut you down
And throw you out
With the rest of the morning garbage

And it will hurt,
I know it hurts
And this hole you leave in me
May never, ever heal
I just have to hope it will.

Because I'd rather spend my life
Walking around
With a goddamn hole in my foot
Than spend one more minute
With you.

294

Or Kill Me / What I was up to

« on: October 14, 2012, 04:03:34 am »

I{ have|'ve}{ been|} {{working|thinking|writing} too long|spending{ entirely|} too much time {thinking|writing|working}} {with|in} spinner{ syntax|}. {The human|A} mind is{n't| not} {intended|supposed|meant} to {function|work} {like this|in such a {ridiculous |{patently |}absurd |}fashion|this way}. A sentence {is {intended|supposed|meant} to|should} {have {a single|one} path to follow|only follow one path|{progress|move} in a {single|straight} line|be singular}, word choices {are not supposed to|{ought|should} {never|not}} be random.{ Phrases should{n't | not} be {left out|dropped|removed} {at the whim of a random selection|on a whim|wholesale}{, nor should {whole|entire} sentences|}.|} It{ is|'s} enough to {make you{r brain bend| {scream|cry out}| {begin|start} thinking in {complex|branches|onion skins{ one thought inside another{ {more and more|further down the|piling on more|delving into more} layers until {you can't even tell|it's not clear} where you {began|started} or why{ and the end{ing|}s {arrive|show up|come|happen} long before {the words are done|you finish writing}{ and you get {stuck|caught up} in the {fjords|branches} of infinitely complex borders{ like in a dream where you {begin|start} to look at something and the more attention you pay to it the bigger it gets until you{ just| simply|} can{ not|'t} focus on anything else{ and everything becomes so intense that you just want to run away but you can't {get away from|escape|elude|hide from} it: it's everything around you and everything you are|}|}|}|}|}|}}|r head hurt|r mind {break down|malfunction}}|drive you mad}{ under the {strain|pressure}|}. It's {not meant to be that way, written in branches|perverse, {abusing|muddling|mutilating|violating} {the |}language like that}. It's like a quantum multi-paragraph{, seen from above|}, the way you see {all {potential|possible} paths|every possible path|all the paths that could have been} in {a single|one} {muddled|incomprehensible|incoherent|mixed up} whole. Enough to drive {a {wo|}man|{some|}one} to drink.

295

Apple Talk / Comic for Portland people

« on: June 06, 2012, 06:06:48 pm »

http://www.booksofadam.com/2012/06/tooth.html

and I suppose other people, but the guy's from Portland, so the girl in question is probably from the area too.

296

Apple Talk / America without the TM

« on: May 22, 2012, 03:38:04 pm »

I believe in America.

A lot of people who are currently being labeled nasty, unpatriotic things love America, too. We sit up at night and talk about it. It tries our faith and wears us down, but this is Who We Are and damned if the shrieking apes are going to take that away from us. They don't own this place. They don't own the land, don't own the history, don't own the hopes and dreams and promise of a nation or a continent.

I believe that this is a Special Place. I believe that this is the place (in some ways, the only possible place) where mankind comes together after millennia apart to learn from each other and to find out what the future will hold. I believe in the Clovis people, in the Aztecs and the Mayans and the Olmecs, the Inuit and the Navajo and the Abanaqi and all the rest. I believe in the ruins of Pumapunku and ancient Roman boats and Templar Knights and South Pacific Islanders and wandering Hebrews and Welsh explorers and Vikings. I believe in them all, not because the dirty brown people needed white saviors, and not because the noble savages must be magically better than us nasty invaders. I believe in them because this is a place that draws us in. Because this is Holy Land. Because when you have grown as much as you can in the place where you were born, you must explore, and nowhere else in the world is so separated from every other land, so likely to catch up explorers looking for the edges of the earth, and so kind to those who survive the trip.

The Americas are a land of exiles and adventurers, rebels and malcontents and deviants. We are the second siblings on too-crowded islands, set adrift. We are the refugees of famine and disaster. We are the eldest sons sent out to find their fortune. We are the well-bred daughters of poor families. We are the heretics and criminals, and we are the survivors of genocide. We are forgetful, because we spend so much time looking forward that we fail to remember our past in anything more solid than myth and parable. We are always in motion, accelerating. We are plural - always plural - because we never were one family with one origin. We are the mutts of the world, and we are never, ever satisfied. We sometimes commit ecological suicide.

I believe this is a land of apocalypses. I believe in Easter Island statues and abandoned cities and dust bowls. I believe that the only way to continue existing as the proving ground for new ideas is to periodically wipe away the old and start over. I believe the world is watching, because everyone likes a show, and no one gives a show like the Americas. I believe we are special because we burn brightly and lead the way for the others.

And, in time, their explorers will find this land again.

297

Techmology and Scientism / Nikola Goddamn Tesla

« on: May 15, 2012, 04:35:08 pm »

http://theoatmeal.com/comics/tesla

it is NEVER TOO SOON to educate your children on the doucheyness of Edison, or the awesomeness of Tesla.

298

Literate Chaotic / The Temporary People

« on: May 14, 2012, 02:08:52 pm »

They don't count, not them. They're Temporary People. They live in houses they don't own, afraid to touch the walls and ceilings lest their Masters withhold their precious savings. They huddle together in sad little enclaves, dreaming wistfully of the day they can leave this place or defiantly claiming the space as theirs. Children call the refugee camp "home." It doesn't matter, they cannot stay. They are forever outsiders here, outsiders everywhere. They will roam the earth forever, wasting away without an education or meaningful employment. The fringes of society. Human refuse. Periodic sweeps of the affected areas are necessary to scare the criminal elements and remind the others of how gracious we have been in tolerating them.

Real People don't live like this. Real People have their own fortresses, white picket moats. Real People don't co-habitate with mice and roaches and roommates. They call the exterminator like the good lord intended.

299

Or Kill Me / Never Enough

« on: May 13, 2012, 03:01:31 am »

You can get to the gym
lose a little weight
You can put that lumpy body back into shape

but it won't be enough.

You can buy some makeup
put it on like you care
you can get a pair of tweezers and pluck those nasty hairs

but it still won't be enough

You can read all the papers
Keep up with the news
You can join the revolution when it comes around to you

but it will never be enough

Because you were never pretty enough
Never smart enough
Never sane enough
Never nice enough
And you'll never be young enough again.


(apologies for the emo bullshit)

300

Apple Talk / I like your shirt

« on: April 29, 2012, 05:55:52 am »

The personal text in my profile has been "I like your shirt" since very shortly after I joined. It comes from my time being an activist spag, throwing random compliments at people sometimes helps get flyers in their hands, and even when it doesn't it amuses me.

So, as some of you may have noticed I've been in a rotten mood all week. Plans Friday night and Saturday afternoon got shitcanned, and I ended up grabbing some lunch with The Boyfriend and generally feeling like a grumblesaur.

After we sat down, a girl the next table over (maybe 8 or 9) turns to me and says "I like your shirt!"

And things were a little bit better.