Messages

You need to work on your depiction of sarcasm in writing. It comes off to me as emo nihilism, and your choice of subject makes it something I can't relate to at all.

Thanks, I'll try to do so in the future

You could try giving up smoking if they have such a bad effect on you - downers for the down under hunh?
If nicotine gives you nihilism - just say no!

Haha, I really wouldn't say it gives me nihilism, more so something that helps me through it when I'm feeling that way. I'd consider myself as more of an absurdist anyway.

OKAY CRITICISM YOU ASK WE PROVIDE

A pile of cigarette butts higher which reaches me knees

seriously? that's pretty impressive.

unless you're a midget.

in either case, PICS PLEASE

(and if you're a midget, include yourself on the pics)

along with the discoloured and sodden crap of I don't know what.

did you find out what it was?

WHAT WAS IT

ENQUIRING MINDS NEED TO KNOW

(also you could have totally used something impressively symbolic instead of "I don't know what", missed opportunity, really)

The concrete which creeps ever onwards along the ground

is this in your room?

problem with the carpet? i thought you said you're the manager, so why do you live in a room with shitty carpet where the concrete shows through?

the rusty brick walls surrounding me

how can brick walls be rusty?

"rust" is generally known as oxydized metal, usually iron. "brick" means stone, lacking metal and/or iron.

the sickly smog which i'm breathing - it's all a wound. It's the typical shit which those damn hippies whine about, "we're killing the earth man, it's like bad for the planet".
Suck my dick.

this is a straw man.

This cancer's gone beyond critical, we've come too far to heal this wound. I say embrace it. I hate to sound like Mr. Durden here, but hit me as hard as you can. Litter, corrupt, destroy, whatever, it makes no differance. Just do it. Come, heap fire and heap petrol 'pon the pyre! Enough of this shit, let's go out with a bang. Oh, i'll probably wake up tomorrow happy as a baby, but while i'm sucking down these tubes of death i'll bring the end along for a ride...

and this appears to be the entire point of your pathetic little rant.

perhaps you should read up on "je ne sais quois", because your writing doesn't have ANY of it.

see, us Discordians (I know the others don't like if any of them speaks for anyone, heheh), we don't mind a littlebit of fire, we LIKE mr Durden (he's our little bitch, you see), littering not so much, corruption is a really sharp blade so be careful, and destruction sure thing. going out with a bang? it's the only way.

BUT THAT DOESNT MEAN WE'RE IN A FUCKING HURRY IF THERE'S FUN TO BE HAD ALONG THE WAY, nononono it's the fun first, you see.

otherwise you're going to be "that guy". you know him, Brad Pitt was Mr Durden, but he also was "that guy" in 12 Monkeys, who was laughing and laughing when everything was going to shit, but he WASNT HAVING FUN, no he was laughing cause he didnt know what else to do, finally everything was going to shit and ... hey fuck NOW WHAT DO I D--glrbrbgb the end. SUCKER.

so what now do you do?

you woke up happy as a baby the next morning and ... what did you get?

an evening feeling shitty about yourself and screaming at the digital internet world that some non-existant straw hippies could suck your dick and some people to corrupt, destroy, set shit on fire.

WHILE YOU COULD HAVE GONE OUT, GOT YOUR DICK SUCKED BY REAL HIPPIES AND CORRUPT, DESTROY AND SET SHIT ON FIRE AND HAVE A REAL GOOD TIME (it makes no "differance", phah!)

now, fuck off or start being interesting.

It gets cleaned up every month or two, but i'll take a picture next shift.
The I don't know what is the general crap you'd expect to be in an lane way - empty drink bottles, fast food packaging, general rubbish. As for the walls, they're rust coloured.
What says I don't go out and do shit instead of whining about it though? I guess yeah, I could actually do something more with any ideas I have, and I am continuing to build that up.
Thanks for the response though ^_^

Yep.  This guy's a bozo.  End of story.

Am I going to get any actual criticism though? Or will this just stay as a big HURR DURR from the sidelines?

So then what exactly is the point of your rant?

What is the point of my rant then. Well that's a good question. What do you see as the point of my rant? Personally, I see rants as expressions of an idea or feeling, so I guess the point of this rant to me is to get out what I was feeling at the time it was written.

IOW you are a poor writer who does little to convey your meaning to the reader, and you want to lay all responsibility at the feet of the reader instead of improving your communication skills.

Instead of bitching about it then why don't you tell me how you think I should do that, give me more of a guideline to write in a form you'd think I'd be better suited to. Or not, because hey, it's the internet.

Oh, come on guys, he called it himself; he's pulling a Palahniuk.

Just go with the nihilistic flow.

thanks man, glad to see a little support. Also, thanks for reading into it a bit.

Are you saying rants don't say anything? If you don't have anything to say, best keep it to yourself.

No, I think that rant's have no meaning unless they are given to it. Someone (ie. those who've replied) can go ahead and not give any relevance, meaning, etc. to a piece of writing, whereas someone else could use it as gospel. Not only that but the relevance words have is also determinined by the context, etc.

Your whole "rant" was akin to Christian rapture talk. "It doesn't matter because it's the end of times and the Lawrd will save us anyway".

Quite the opposite, it's intended as a rage through use of sarcasm.

Are you saying rants don't say anything? If you don't have anything to say, best keep it to yourself.

No, I think that rant's have no meaning unless they are given to it. Someone (ie. those who've replied) can go ahead and not give any relevance, meaning, etc. to a piece of writing, whereas someone else could use it as gospel. Not only that but the relevance words have is also determinined by the context, etc.

A rant that sounds like you're telling people to go ahead and shit all over my planet.

Fuck you. You shit up your own hole. Stay the fuck away from mine, dickface.

No, a rant that tells people to go ahead and keep shitting over my planet.

@nigel: ... i was gonna bitch at you, but cadaver sounds like an idiot and i have no idea what his point is.
As long as i dont know wat he is trying to say i wont bother defending him.

@cadaver: lrn 2 communicate clearer.

who said i'm saying anything? it's just a rant

You can smoke at work?

Being a manager, I can do what I please. Including taking smokos.

Newsflash: "The Earth" could give a flying fuck about us and will be just fine after we've shat where we eat and poisoned ourselves out of existence. You think it doesn't matter, and that you should accelerate the poisoning of our environment (by "our" I mean "human" and by "environment" I mean "where we live")? You go to town and die as fast as you can, man. Just stay the fuck away from me and my nice green state, because I plan to live a while.

How can the earth give a flying fuck about us, that's assuming some kind of sentience isn't it? I don't think that it dose matter, but I also don't think that it doesn't matter. Now hit me again.

So i'm sitting in the shithole behind the other shithole where I make my living, 28 hours awake and sucking in cancer sticks like there's no tomorrow, and shit I can't help but feel I'm sitting in a wound. A pile of cigarette butts higher which reaches me knees waits by my side, along with the discoloured and sodden crap of I don't know what. Shit, it's a fucking wound on the face of the planet. But it doesn't end there. The concrete which creeps ever onwards along the ground, the rusty brick walls surrounding me, the sickly smog which i'm breathing - it's all a wound. It's the typical shit which those damn hippies whine about, "we're killing the earth man, it's like bad for the planet".
Suck my dick. This cancer's gone beyond critical, we've come too far to heal this wound. I say embrace it. I hate to sound like Mr. Durden here, but hit me as hard as you can. Litter, corrupt, destroy, whatever, it makes no differance. Just do it. Come, heap fire and heap petrol 'pon the pyre! Enough of this shit, let's go out with a bang. Oh, i'll probably wake up tomorrow happy as a baby, but while i'm sucking down these tubes of death i'll bring the end along for a ride...

Hi.  Nice first post.

Thankyou.
Though 'pon re-reading what i've written, i'm thinking it probably should be noted this is rather a piece of angsty whining rather than a rant. Oh well.

I'm not many things that I appear to be

From what I'm told, I'm strong and proud.
The only thing that's strong about me is my insecurity.
It's just a mask which I prop up, and stuff it full,
So others won't tear it down.
Speaking of which, I'm a fucking complexity of masks. Maybe we all are.
Each time I think that I've found me, or that I've thought I understand how I change to me,
The facade is torn off. Kind of like the way a fingernail is ripped from finger with a pair of pliers.
Bloody, painful and fresh for what's underneath.
I could understand if it was a nice veneer for others to point and stare at.
But truth be told, I'm unknown to myself, and lots of things are unknown to me.
There's so much people take as given, and holy shit I don't see how. Maybe it's the acid.
It scares me though, this huge void of the unknown. As a certain Mr. Nietzsche would put it, I am one who does "dance at its edge", though my leaps are in terror.


I've also been told I'm kind and loyal.
My ass I am.
I am the most selfish person I know. Most of my actions are performed well in the knowledge that I benefit from them.
And when it really comes down to it, I couldn't care less about a lot of their problems, they have such potential, but they are so painfully human and do so little about their issues.
I could not care less if some of them went off and topped themselves. Hell, I'd do it for them - if they were so nice as to ask.
I fully feel every urge, to killrapepillagemaimanddrinkblood
Maybe even add some bites and bondage, And:
In
Everything
Between.
A prince of excess, the more I get, the more I want, the more I hold back, the more I crave:
Masochism at its finest.


Maybe that's why I get the feeling I don't belong.
My friends - or rather, lack thereof - consist of several circles.
None of which I really feel comfortable in. So I just drift. And instead of friends, there are just people I know the name of.
I wouldn't even call them acquaintances. They don't know me, nor I them.
Wait. Step back a bit.
There is one person who knows me. At least a little.
But the closer we've become over time, the further we've come apart.
Time. Mother mercy, end mine now. Just make it quick, and I'm pretty sure I could find peace.
But I don't have the balls to do that, so perhaps I should just lighten up and enjoy it all.


Hey, maybe I'm confronting myself. But that wouldn't be new.
Every fucking trip I decide I'm going to live, act, do, be.
That only lasts a few weeks.
I really am faltering under this weight. The burden that is an absence of warm and fuzzy feelings.
Oh well, not that it matters in any inherit way.
Maybe if I make a difference to the life of one person, but when they die so does that part of me.
I guess that's the reason I want to be eaten when I die. And then those eaters eaten, to create a chain of gods and prophets consumed by their flock.
What's the use of keeping alive the idea of a fake? Why should I care for something that's not the slightest bit me?
Or am I just becoming a ghost behind this image? I don't know. Once again it scares me. Time knows though.
Time always knows. At least, in time it knows. And too, time changes:
The days draw on, the nights slip past, a hit here, a hit there - it's all in the dark. Yeah, I've a new-found addictive personality.
Fancy that, all the freedom in the world and I'm still chained to myself.


I'm told...
I don't know what I'm told.
All I know is that it's all the same,
It's all in one ear and out the other. There's not that much that means a lot.
So many hollow words like so many hollow souls I guess.
I need to see stuff with blood sweat and tears, and tested by the years.
Something someone crafted, and something someone values, and someone's reasons for something.
So let's utter a plea for help, to all the broken beings - where is the meaning? I'm cold, stoned, tired, lonely and sick of all this shit.
Hold that thought. It really says something about this world, one in which six billion souls walk the land, that one can still be so lonely.
A little part of me just died inside 'pon writing that.


Money makes the world go round,
But who says it's spinning the right way, the rite way or the write way?
It's not. I do. I say. The drugs tell me so.
Maybe I am as I've been called, a junkie. I can live with that if it comes from junkies in denial.
I've read that a junkie may OD in an eternity of bliss while your average two parents and two-point-five kids spend 70 years working for nothing.
That same text asked me the question: "who lives longer?"
I'm not sure, and they certainly aren't either.
Though it's not, mine feels to stretch so far back.
I'm only alive this very instance for two very strong reasons:
My cowardly at attempt of my life, and some sort of path I'm following.
I don't know where the path goes, hell, I'll hop across a few of them, pause, and take several at once.
I don't even know why I'm following it, I should be making it, creating it, showing the path where to go.
A creator being forged. What a nice ring to it.
Pity I still can't live up to a poetic whim, a demand of a pure, fictitious language.


I'm pissed off, melancholy, seeing things, and what matters least to the world, lonely.
Yet all they pick at is "seeing things"
"This world on drugs is all just a hallucination", or so  - yet again - I am told
"As much as yours" to them, I said.
This shit is chemical. It's thick, hanging in the air. You can taste it. Choking on the sludge in the air.
This I preach to the gutters, the pale, watery dregs of once-muddied newspapers; but I must digress,
It is I whom is alone here. Here on this bleak, bleached-and-rather-boring rocky outcrop.
Yes, I think that's the problem with mankind, the epitome of the human condition: boredom.
So many fickle gods, so many same wars, so many false causes which could all be cast aside if there were simply something else to do.
I wish there were, but for now... now it's just a bowl of weed and a cold cup of tea.

I'm always told. As are the children.
Why not let them make up their own minds? Are we too scared, too insecure of what they may become that great height of glory!
I don't think it's too much to ask to let them mould themselves not make little clones. Give them love, give them support, give them hope.
Ah, but I've forgotten. Of course, this is the great cold world.
It seems both strange and foolish to put life in such a harsh, bleak, strange and uncaring hell of a rock. Well that shows any god's true nature - cruel and out of it.
I'd rather not be or be so connected to god.

In fact, I'd rather I believed in god. Some sort of unshakable pillar of faith would glue the world back together again, chain it to itself.
Alas, I cannot. My only pillar takes the form of a big red button, once which I am as of yet to discover how, when, where and why and with what to push.
Pity that.
It would be nice to push it now: when ones world is eternally crashing down.
The only other option really is to embrace suffering. Just lovely that, innit?
Ah, the human condition.
I think it really, genuinely, truly speaks to me that on a planet of six billion people, a single soul can feel so lost to the world.
For this, I genuinely shed a single tear. And so should the world. Should.
What determines that anyway? Nothing. Here we go, back to nihilism again, that beautiful, pathetic apathy.
And then it hits the noontide - the crooked path to eternity.
Back around to finish the circle.
Missing the button yet again, preparing for the next pass.


I should call a person from my past, just to catch up. Actually, I should call several people from my past. To catch up. I wonder though, come morning, if I will?
Probably not.
That's the cold harsh truth. When the sun rises and the day breaks, in all likelihood I'll be asleep, to awaken again with no sleep. But if it's so damn shitty, and I accomplish so
Little of what I set out to, how come I'm still here? Why haven't I pressed the button then? I still don't know.