S.O.C. 09/29 (for the sake of it)

… I write this for the sake of writing, and because I’m ready to accept that I have a real problem with authority of any kind, and I think that’s the one thing that makes me an emblem of my generation. The majority of us are supposed to feel entitled. Like our B.A. degrees are supposed mean we don’t have to start from the ground up. Our M.A.’s are supposed to make us smarter than the people with 10 years of industry experience, and not simply certified proof of another wasted 3-4 years on “higher thinking,” that would actually be better thought of as tunnelled confusion. I’ve never actually felt this way. I pissed off to every icy port I could find during my academic years, instead of actually attending a class. Got that piece of paper, though – great. I remember sitting in an English class, one of the few times I actually went, in fourth year while some girl babbled on about how she wants to do an M.A. in English, but also go to Law School…at the same time… Fuck off, seriously. Why the fuck would anyone waste their time on both? If you’re going to be a lawyer, then save some of the bullshit wasted on analyzing yet another Margaret fucking Atwood for whatever dusty courtroom you wind up in. Some people. Why are the intellectuals always so terrified about life? Though, I’m one to talk. I go through life floating on a storm cloud, hoping to get as far as I can before the rain comes and washes away everything I ever thought I had or had done. The difference is I don’t use the lack of destination, or end game, or magic white light in the distance to stop me from going. From trying for the sake of trying, even if I don’t know what I’m trying for. Sometimes I wish I knew what I wanted, but I can never be sure if I want everything, or nothing, or death, or immortal life. But I’m rambling for the sake of rambling. My point about authority is that I can’t respect idiots. Or, I can respect them, but I have to let them know when they are being absolute retards. That’s another thing. I like to be offensive for the sake of being offensive. I reclaim epithets and transform them into flexible and interchangeable adjectives, nouns, and verbs. Cunt is the new fuck. And a retard, or semi-retard, is never a disabled, or abled, or whatever the colourless PC’d are calling them these days. They are assholes, and dicks, and lousy fucks, and Capricorns that have to, at some point or another, be made aware of the inferiority of their superiority. “Umm your collarbone has been enticing too many men. Find a way to cover it up.” Unfuckingbelievable. I wasn’t aware my collarbone, you know, the thing about 1/2 an inch South of my neck, and a good 5 or so North of any possible hint of shrouded cleavage, was some sort of sex organ. Mind you, I’ve lost my mind more than a few times when two lips have happened to find their way along those particular peaks and valleys. How does a normal person react to such ludicrous lunacy? I think they smile and nod, respect authoritahhhhh, and protect the job they clearly give more than two fucks about. Why can’t I be the doormat that can welcome bullshit with a smile and sunbeams streaming out of my ass? “Yes sir! I’ll start wearing a sensible muumuu, and scarf, and snowsuit, and veil, and a man’s body if you prefer, Mr. Authority, sir! I’d hate for all my cock scented coworkers to get inklings from the recesses of their fragrant junk trunk.” No lie, I don’t know how often I encounter the smell of penis in one day. Like actual cock smell. Not balls. Dick. There’s a difference. A connoisseur, like myself, can identify the apple-ish undertones within the greater man-cider that is the universal smell of cock. Maybe I’ve given this too much thought, or maybe it’s because I tend to fuck for the sake of fucking, like some 17 year old that exists in a town of 20,000 with chilling -45oC winters, and no Tim Horton’s. The cock smells of my life are never friends. My male friends have been humanized beyond the point of spikes and handcuffs. The last time a guy told me he loved me, I laughed and kicked him in the chest. He would try again one more time, but it was really more of a whisper before his words trailed off and disappeared into whatever dimension or lifetime that would consume him as well not long after. I don’t want to sound… whatever… but there’s something profoundly wrong with anyone that finds themselves thinking of the likes of me with any sort of affection. I don’t know, though. He was a Libra, so I guess that explains it. Oh shit, today is his birthday. Happy fucking birthday wherever you are, and whoever you are. Speaking of Libras, one thing I’ve noticed is that guys fuck like their zodiac signs, and I can honestly say I’d be a very happy nun if another Capricorn never put their hands on me again. Libras, on the other hand, really are a Gemini’s perfect mate. I remain undecided about Scorpios, but, if you ask me, their reputation is falser advertisement than the falsies stuffed into the hollow chests of your least favourite golden Thanksgiving trophy wife. Are the wealthy flashy for the sake of being flashy? I’ll never know. But I do know it’s never the good that die young because only the rich can afford to feed the hungry… worms. And, please, before that PC crap about the rich being humanitarians, and all that stuff, save it. I know that’s true for some. “But do you expect me to believe that the women that grow up and groom themselves to Stepford status are anything more than the human embodiments of Vanity and Greed?” cries the pointy finger of Lust. The mandatory charity dinners are the veils no one wants to see through. And what of the man that drops millions of dollars to pay for aesthetic love? How does he think he looks? Like a hotshot? Like the lowly paupers all wish they were him? If anything it makes his life look like a sham, and that he wouldn’t know a good blow job if it bit him on Vesling’s line. But, hey, I told you I like to be offensive for the sake of being offensive. I judge people by how they handle the stream of blue profanities that roll so easily off my tongue, and taste as comfortable as an evening alone with an extra large pizza and the TV remote. And, truthfully, I’m totally zen about the trophy wife thing now, but sometimes I get all activisty for the sake of being activisty. The truth is, I don’t like things, and jewels, and fancy cars and shit, so why do I care if fake tits over there is enjoying the setup she’s got with the rich and famous? Obviously, he’s not the man I want. Besides, there is some security in being middle class. Like I said, only the rich can afford to die, the poor go through life chipping away at the debt they can’t saddle on their loved ones, and it’s almost like as long as their bankbook is scarred and scarlet, they’ll always be alive. I think we go through life being colour blind, and not in some lame PC early 90’s kind of way. Oh, just a quick aside, everyone always says to me that the Japanese think the English colour green, is actually the colour blue. Somebody explain this one to me, please? If we say “green,” they don’t say “blue.” They’d say some friggen Japanese word, which should, to them, signify green, no? Maybe I’m too dumb to get my head around this concept. I’ve lost a lot of braincells to margaritas and good company. Anyway, back to my point about colour blindness. I think we are confused into thinking life is all things green, when really living is so many shades of red. However, death is never open to interpretation; it’s always in the black, black, black, black, black…

2 Responses to S.O.C. 09/29 (for the sake of it)

  1. symmer says:

    I can’t believe I read the whole thing.

    Apple-ish under tones? Really? Haha.

  2. Mathew James says:

    This seemed very honest; however, what I say amounts to ant farts, just like my college degree did. How strange a trend I agree. Somehow I don’t ever recall smelling my prick (the shitter is a much different story). Cunt juice; on the other hand, can stay on your face and legs for days. All of that just for the sake of being perverse.

    With… Admiration?

    A complete stranger.

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