The mere idea

 

Remember this? Remember when we did that moth thing with our hands? Good times, we were really annoying and life was great. Your soul was a little colder than mine, but your soul was good and I could see it in the way you saved that mouse from pain.



Everybody's so fucked up and crazy. Lately I've been feeling like there's no sane people in this world at all. The president is crazy, the politicians are crazy, the drunkards are crazy, the psychiatrists are crazy, the scientists are crazy, my family's crazy, everybody on the street is crazy, I'm crazy. And at the same time I have a weird feeling like maybe other people have figured something out, something that I'm unaware of; that maybe they've found some sense and logic in this thing, but then, once again, I understand that the reason why other people aren't confused and panicky is quite simply that they are dumb and lazy, too dumb and lazy to wake up to the fact that everything's fucked up; and if they one day do realize this, they just shrug and carry on, because the mere idea of this fucking mess makes their brains hurt, just like the universe makes my brains hurt.


So anyway. I'm not doing very well.


 

If you torture animals and cram them into nightmarish little cages and after several months kill them with electricity, you're an animal abuser and a criminal. But if you get MONEY from doing this, you're just doing your JOB and they tell you to carry on. This is how the law works, this is how society works, this is how we work.

I guess it would be easier to live if I just tried to forget that stuff like this happens; I mean I already deliberately ignore the fact that Las Vegas exists

There is something deeply wrong with the combination of humans and money; the mere idea of money makes humans idiotic and irrational, money fucks them up.

And maybe this is the main reason why I've decided to ignore money completely. If I ever manage to get a lot of money, I'm gonna give it all away to the ones that truly need it. I hate money; I have enough of it if I'm able to live, eat and shit in peace.


So anyway...............


Flesh was (and is) the best book I've ever tried to write. It had honesty and wrath and sorrow and laughter and love and pain, it had me: the 16-year-old me is trapped somewhere inside those sentences. When I was writing Flesh I gave it my all, I gave me, I wasn't constantly thinking how this and that would seem to this and that person............... This is so fucking sad, now I'm writing about banging Marilyn Monroe and masturbating Oscar Wilde and stupid shit like that, it's not me, it's not honest, it's not painful; it HAS to be painful to be good, this is so fucking sad. Or perhaps it's good already, I think it's good, maybe not the best I could deliver, but still fucking brilliant, I mean I'm a prodigy you know.


AAAAAAAAAAARFGHHGJKDHgkjdhgkjLDGHLKGHDLKJGHhjdhjdhgkhk. Will ANYONE ever read this 'blog'? ANYONE? I hope so; at the very moment the counter says this place has been visited 791 times; I hope that some day those three numbers will have three 0's next to them..........


I spend more time writing this crap than writing my actual 'literature'. After all, THIS IS my literature. THIS and the OTHER blog are my books too. Now it's official: these blogs are my autobiography, the autobiography I wrote when I was 17-19 (I hope to stop doing this pretty soon, but fucking fuck, who knows). And there's still so much left to tell. Yeah, so anyway.......