Where do you go every time Friday rolls around? Do you spend so much of your work week spamming up the Internads that when it gets to the afternoon hours on Friday, you're left frantically cramming everything you should have got done into the four or five hours you have left in the week? Do you check out early, and hit the mall for some Bullshit™ so you can feel "normal" and recharge for the next week?
Where do you go? Do you sit down in front of the tell-ya-vision and receive your weekly digital communion? Or, maybe you just check out of the Whole Damn Thing until Monday morning, and cower under your bedsheets, repeating to yourself that somehow, by the power of some benevolent deity, you'll fall asleep and never wake up again?
Do you join Occupy for two and a half days of empty gestures and pointless posturing? Do you hand out fliers to people who can barely read a stop sign, hoping that they'll be enlightened and move out of your way so you can jump in and take their god damn place in line for the slaughterhouse?
WHERE DO YOU GO? Do you file like cattle into dingy bars and thump-bumping night clubs, looking to skate through another forty-eight dreadful hours of your dull and meaningless existence on the thin ice of cheap cocktails? Do you try to hit up every attractive and equally comatose potential mate in the place, trying to find some kind of squirming flesh to help you warm up the growing chuck of ice that used to be your soul? Where do you go?
Do you slide secretly into a worn out pew in an old church, lying to yourself that you're just observing weirdos in their natural habitat of impotent faith, while you scour every word broadcast from some filthy bastard's mouth, who just sobered up 10 minutes before you showed up, looking for a glimpse of hope that you won't end up at the chop shop like everyone else? Do you mutter heartfelt but embarrassed and incoherent apologies to God under your breath, for saying so many callous and offensive things about it, just in case?
The fact of the matter is it doesn't matter where you go. It doesn't matter what your routine is, or what helps you sleep at night. The Long Winter's coming, and there ain't a worry or a care in this world or any other that will help you stay awake long enough to see it through. No matter where you go today, you won't need any sleeping pills to help you pass the time where you're going. And you'd better bundle up because it's already October and the chill is setting in.
PREACH ON, BROTHER VEXATION!
Where do I go? Right here, watching people brilliantly not post funny or thought-provoking shit. Watching the sweat o' me brow sink down the page getting views, which are nice, but not a single response. I write them not because I want an AUDIENCE, but because I'm BORED and I want to talk to someone that isn't some po'bucker $40k/year republican. Also because my head is full of STUFF, and I have to let it OUT.
And I faithfully stay here until quitting time, when I depart the office - and the interbutts - for 2.5 days, to minister to My People. I have an hour and a half to go, more or less, and I'll spend it waiting in this horrible fucking bus station, full of people that love to GAWK, but not TALK.
This is why I hate you all, with every ounce of poop I have.
It isn't that this bus station is old and rickety. It's no Grand Central, but it isn't exactly a roofless stop across the street from a Starbucks and three pot dispensaries on the wrong side of Denver, either. Lots of people come and go, but it seems like they're running out of space to scratch their mark on the walls or something. The chatter barely makes my ears bleed these days.
Yes, lots of people. But more and more, they're apparently just waiting for the bus. Like that's any kind of reason to be at a bus station. And then the bus comes, and they hop on, and they sit down and they shut up. Well, they remain shutting up. And they scoot down the road and over the horizon, just minding their own business and doing what they're supposed to do.
The bus stop's all out of space, Roger. Nowhere left to spray-paint. And it's just a concrete box, anyway. Just a box where you wait for another box, which takes you to another box, where you live until you don't anymore. And there's a box for that, too.
Quote from: vȝx on October 12, 2012, 10:14:48 PM
It isn't that this bus station is old and rickety. It's no Grand Central, but it isn't exactly a roofless stop across the street from a Starbucks and three pot dispensaries on the wrong side of Denver, either. Lots of people come and go, but it seems like they're running out of space to scratch their mark on the walls or something. The chatter barely makes my ears bleed these days.
Yes, lots of people. But more and more, they're apparently just waiting for the bus. Like that's any kind of reason to be at a bus station. And then the bus comes, and they hop on, and they sit down and they shut up. Well, they remain shutting up. And they scoot down the road and over the horizon, just minding their own business and doing what they're supposed to do.
The bus stop's all out of space, Roger. Nowhere left to spray-paint. And it's just a concrete box, anyway. Just a box where you wait for another box, which takes you to another box, where you live until you don't anymore. And there's a box for that, too.
Maybe for you. I'm going to have myself blown up.
And the great thing about the bus station is that the walls are LIMITLESS. There is literally no end to the amount of writing or speaking or howling that you can do. If you can be arsed to, anyway. Or if you're not so crippled by performance anxiety that you can't get your e-dick up when Tia Tequila is shaking her artificial tatas right in your unshaven face.
I mean, what the hell is the penalty inflicted on "substandard" responses, anyway? What the hell is there to be afraid of? We have NEVER shat on anyone for that sort of thing...Just for being a dick, or substituting word salad for communication (which is a different thing entirely).
Those low-landers are weak and pasty, Vex, and they know not the way of the Sailing Stones and we desert-dwellers who corral them.
Well, shit. I'm outta here, I guess. Nothing like hanging out in an empty bus station.
I sit in halls where hundreds focus their attention upon a single bipedal whiskerless thing, who in return emits the sounds it considers worth sharing. Then I sit at the typing-light-box in my cave and perform various interactions with the data therein and the projections thereof, mainly according to the pleasure-sparks in my cells. Then I go out among the masses of gyrating, drunken fleshthings enveloped in flashing lights and clamorous explosions of airwaves. Once there I proceed to enjoy myself, occasionally looking out for the enlightened among 'em.
I guess that matches as choice #4, but I refuse to call my existence dull, as far as I experience it...and since it doesn't matter what you do (you say), what I do is a perfectly justified doing.
The churning soup of Human DNA, the sloppy and accidental dance of evolution, boils over the heat of inevitable decay. You do what you want. I'll do what I want. Together we'll circle the drain for a few years, and then plunge to the depths of anonymous history, and join the rest of the bones at the bottom of this poisoned well.
Apparently, in the meantime, I will feel very Goth about things.
I cram hours at work into my fridays. Then 7pm rolls around and i jubilantly say "friday time!" then i get on a train. Then i get on another train. Then i either go to the tavern or to my laptop. Then i go to sleep.
I watch the clock slow down. Slower and slower, like it's approaching Absolute Zero. Then it's 5PM, and I blink, and it's Monday again.
Friday is a very anticlimatic end to what is usually a week crammed full of meetings, negotiations, machinations, and other stuff. Fridays are slow in my world. 4:30 pm rolls around and it becomes family time. I take one hat off and put on another, though, in reality, I never really take either completely off.
Monday to Thursday is useless to me. I shit away my life, doing meaningless crap that I have to in order to live. I log on here to touch base with some reality, something to keep me sane. To take my mind off the empty husk I endure because I have to and for that I thank you people from the bottom of my heart.
Friday rolls around. From now til monday I'm alive. I hit the wilderness. I get the fuck away from this bullshit "civilisation" that I hope I get to see going up in smoke, one day, before I die.
This weekend I'm stuck at home, drinking and smoking and watching some crap on teevee. So I log on here, group therapy for folks like me who'd burn the whole thing down with a manic grin on their face.
Next weekend you won't see me. Real life is calling, I'm headed for the islands. Who needs the internet when there are places to go, drugs to take, life to live. Far away from the living hell that everyone tells me is the "real world". Fuck the real world - it's inferior bullshit that doesn't make the grade.
@OP I'm missing the meaning of "the long winter"
Quote from: Epimetheus on October 13, 2012, 12:15:51 AM
@OP I'm missing the meaning of "the long winter"
"The Long Winter" is any protracted period that is inevitable and inescapable. In this case, death.
Right, so, it doesn't matter whether you go to a party and try to make the grandest old time you can, or go and stand in the corner saturated in misery. I mean the party's going to be over in the morning, right? :kingmeh:
Quote from: Epimetheus on October 13, 2012, 12:45:32 AM
Right, so, it doesn't matter whether you go to a party and try to make the grandest old time you can, or go and stand in the corner saturated in misery. I mean the party's going to be over in the morning, right? :kingmeh:
Pretty sure that wasn't his point.
Quote from: Man Yellow on October 13, 2012, 12:55:25 AM
Quote from: Epimetheus on October 13, 2012, 12:45:32 AM
Right, so, it doesn't matter whether you go to a party and try to make the grandest old time you can, or go and stand in the corner saturated in misery. I mean the party's going to be over in the morning, right? :kingmeh:
Pretty sure that wasn't his point.
It wasn't where I thought it was going until the last paragraph, which seems to say exactly that.
That is not what the point was. It's just a friendly reminder that the clock is ticking. I have a dim view of every possible activity we can engage in to pass the time until our time is up, but that's on me. You should, naturally, prefer something to something else. There's no wrong answer, and there's no right answer. The clock is ticking. It's getting cold outside.
Get up. Get moving. Warm your bones.
Winter's coming.
Ooh.
Now I like it.
Quote from: V3X on October 13, 2012, 03:15:48 AM
That is not what the point was. It's just a friendly reminder that the clock is ticking. I have a dim view of every possible activity we can engage in to pass the time until our time is up, but that's on me. You should, naturally, prefer something to something else. There's no wrong answer, and there's no right answer. The clock is ticking. It's getting cold outside.
Get up. Get moving. Warm your bones.
Winter's coming.
The tick tock tick tock never ends.
A girl with a nice ass walks past you, your eyes go south....
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock
Left cheek up
Right cheek up
Left cheek up...
What does it matter?
Isn't there something more important that you should do?
October is sometimes a horrible month.
Bass
Snare
Bass
Snare
It's so cold. It's so cold nothing that I ingest will warm me.
Nevertheless, her butt goes ticktockticktock
Everything is in tempo, at about 135 bpm.
Don't believe me?
Your sense of timing is fucked then. Tap it out.
I walk home as quickly as possible.
Bass
Snare
Bass
Snare......................................
Blood drop
Blood drop
Blood drop
Hey, dude. That's an egg timer. It's got blood in it thought.
Drip
Drop
Drip
Drop
That's my blood you know.
Yours too.
I'll die sooner, but ah.... try to convince that guy to reset it when you can.
And Paul said, "It's later than you think it is...."
Paul said that a long time ago....
Paul said that before he really should have.
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock
Yeah man, that looks good... clockwork.
My glass is progressively draining, like sand in the hourglass.
I'm happy. I think. And if I am not, don't tell me.
Drip drop drip drop
Tick tock tick tock
:aaa:
Shit yeah
Brainstem's taking a shit I guess.
Quote from: Nephew Twiddleton on October 13, 2012, 05:10:08 AM
Brainstem's taking a shit I guess.
Mine does that.
Cheap American-built shit that it is.
Where do you go?
Today I saw an asshole in a truck plastered with campaign stickers. He stopped his truck in traffic, popped his fat ass out of the driver's seat, and waddled in his overpriced suit to a lawn by the road where he stooped and removed a competitor's campaign sign. He tossed it in his truck and got going again, but it was too late for any of the 7 or 8 cars behind him to make it through the green light. He got through, just barely, on the yellow, the lucky bastard.
For him, there are no rules. And that's an important thing to remember because he's one of the guys whose job is to make the rules. They have it figured out. It's all bullshit. Well, all except for one fleeting detail. This bullshit train, like any train, has a caboose. He knows where he goes: wherever the fuck he wants. Where do you go?
Quote from: V3X on October 13, 2012, 05:22:22 AM
Where do you go?
Today I saw an asshole in a truck plastered with campaign stickers. He stopped his truck in traffic, popped his fat ass out of the driver's seat, and waddled in his overpriced suit to a lawn by the road where he stooped and removed a competitor's campaign sign. He tossed it in his truck and got going again, but it was too late for any of the 7 or 8 cars behind him to make it through the green light. He got through, just barely, on the yellow, the lucky bastard.
For him, there are no rules. And that's an important thing to remember because he's one of the guys whose job is to make the rules. They have it figured out. It's all bullshit. Well, all except for one fleeting detail. This bullshit train, like any train, has a caboose. He knows where he goes: wherever the fuck he wants. Where do you go?
He may make the rules, but I key the fuck out of his car.
It's all about the small victories.
Quote from: V3X on October 13, 2012, 05:22:22 AM
Where do you go?
Today I saw an asshole in a truck plastered with campaign stickers. He stopped his truck in traffic, popped his fat ass out of the driver's seat, and waddled in his overpriced suit to a lawn by the road where he stooped and removed a competitor's campaign sign. He tossed it in his truck and got going again, but it was too late for any of the 7 or 8 cars behind him to make it through the green light. He got through, just barely, on the yellow, the lucky bastard.
For him, there are no rules. And that's an important thing to remember because he's one of the guys whose job is to make the rules. They have it figured out. It's all bullshit. Well, all except for one fleeting detail. This bullshit train, like any train, has a caboose. He knows where he goes: wherever the fuck he wants. Where do you go?
You think that you know where you're going.
And that's how everyone ends up on the subway rather than Amtrak.
Funny thing is, how the hell did you get on Amtrak?
If you started out in Boston, I can offer you a couple of possibilities.
Thing is Boston is not America. Boston isn't even Providence, even though there is little to separate the two other than Southern Mass, where we think EoC lives, but really, should we take his word on the matter? No. Boston's a phenomenon. If you've never lived here, you won't understand. And we're not trying to compete with the weirdness that is Providence, or Tucson, or Portland Oregon. No. The only thing we can compete with there is the permanence of Tucson. Where Tucson is a whole being, Boston and Providence are twins. But which twin are you getting? I don't even know half the time. I only know that I am a Bostonian that enjoys being in Providence.
Sometimes, when I can, I go home to my family. We sit around and crack jokes and talk about the week and make food together and then eventually we all drift off to bed, grateful that we don't have to rise to the alarm in the morning.
Sometimes, when I can, I go out with my friends, and we drink a couple of drinks and eat some food we didn't have to make and talk about people we know and what's been happening in our lives.
Sometimes, when I can, I go to a house where a child who has been either abandoned by a parent or who was taken away from a parent lives, hopefully a good house but often not such a good house, and I listen to the child talk about events in her life. And then I come home and I put my arms around my children and I sit on the internet and type things and then I try to go to sleep.
Quote from: Nephew Twiddleton on October 13, 2012, 04:39:36 AM
Tick
Tock
True story: This is written over the door to my room. That way when I leave I can remember that my time may be finite.
But I can't anyone where I go when I leave. It's just not something people understand.
Click clack click clack
I pass by everyone else. I'm that asshole in the car that's constantly changing lanes going 95 down I-95.
Except the wheels are my boots, the same ones that I fixed with tacks and a piece that fell off, now in a place where it doesn't belong, so my thin bit of sock isn't the only thing separating my toes from the cement.
Except that I'm walking at a brisk pace.
When I walk alone my pace could be likened to a jog. My shins hurt from the strain, but not as much as they would if I walked at yours.
I stride in between people and mailboxes, and as I pass them, the tail of my long coat slaps their shins to punish them for being so slow.
Click clack click clack
A man taller than me swerves around, fear in his eyes, his posture frozen in indecision between fight and flight, then cautious uncertainty as I shoot him a look that says, "what the fuck spooked you, dude?"
He thought I was on an intercept course.
I am. But not for him.
Sir, your laces are untied.
I know.
Click clack click clack.
He calls after me, well aren't you going to tie them?
No! I'll tie them when I get there!
Where are you going in such a hurry?
Fucked if I know. I'll know it when I see it. All I know is that I'm late.
Click clack click clack.
I'll tie them when I get there.
I've been going nowhere slow for so long, I have to get somewhere fast 15 minutes ago.