Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Anarchy is dead, I shot it in the head.

While we are presented with many different factors that contribute to the idea that Anarchy seems to be a clear and present danger, it will never rise to the systemic culture that it did nearly thirty years ago. The simple fact that to organize yourselves as a group that chooses to actively oppose government policy makes you a member of a paramilitary terrorist group, eligible to be watched and made examples of by Federal powers.

The logic is very plain and simple. Mickey Mouse is dead.
The government is always going to be a foreign body to it's people, as it will represent the country to the world although still remain faceless to it's citizens. Not faceless as in no representation, we all know who "leads" our great nation, however in day to day life, the drones will only encounter Police as representatives of the government.

To leave the narrative for a moment, there is without question a sudden spike in the page views for this blog. I lay blame for this upon a certain Social Networking website. It's interesting how people can become "interesting" and worth several minutes of your time each day based purely on how pseudo-intellectual, mysterious or inane and insane you are. The more vague the better, it seems.
However the bend in the trend is when it all falls apart, the inadequacies of your mortal toil, coiled up beneath the radiator, shaking back and forth. Muscular cramps, sleeplessness, irritability and agoraphobia.

I think the people from Voiceworks are onto the fact I despise them to the ends of the earth. Searches from Google bearing names of certain somebodies have landed them here, for extended periods of time.
Ectopic pregnancies in my daily head space.
These vultures of pop culture fed more readily on radiation than on anything with substance and low fat sweeteners.


And to have this, this farce, this post apocalyptic haze of disgusting spoon fed Orwellian trash, thrown at my visceral windshield is enough to make my colon explode in a shower of shit. Up with the noveau riche, down with the proles. The time is nigh, that's why we stay high.
149th Street.
How many dead junkies are sleeping forever in the dumpsters of Broadway? How many ways can one choose to pass on their genetic code? Could simply telling someone how much they smell like cat piss, really change their life? Would some Sliding Doors situation unfold, and the dumb stay dumber?

I resent the people with the money, the power and the women.
But if I was to have money, I'd pay for empowerment classes for women, only to lay in wait outside each meeting with a sawn off shotgun. Some argue with the naysayers, and I can only say nay.
Neighbours is on each week, each season, each time they play that song, the author receives a royalty. If Rupert Murdoch or some such bought each theme song to every show that they ever screened, they'd be making money for jam.

And I bet they owned the rights to that theme song too. Wouldn't of made much, see how long that shit lasted? The GFC, the recession we had to have. IMF, CHOGM, Roche and Pfizer. Perform your own rehabilitation, only to see the world through your bloodshot third eye.

A pyramid is one of the strongest shapes that can occur.


But people choose to live through other means, surrogates of their own reality. Famous magazine. Facebook. Blogging. Cosplay. Anything to denote a status. Update your future, not just 140 characters. By having character, you are making yourself visible in the fourth dimension.
Am I getting through to you?
If the answer is 42, and it's a catch 22 situation, then why do I smell nothing but arson wafting in through my open window? It's sickly sweet, pine and jarrah, that reminds me of bushwalks and camping. Although the reality of it may be more sinister, it still smells good.

I hate the smell of spaghetti sauce in a jar. I hate the smell of Tuna. It was the eternity of living off Sirena in Oil that made me appreciate flavour. The gourmet cheeses. But do you know what? I want to go back to my squalor of a life. At least I enjoyed it. The constant worries about rent, the never settle down aspects of day to day life, my constant descent into madness, nude and down a spiral staircase. When 2013 comes around, I will be standing atop a burnt out car in the middle of Gnagara Pines going "I TOLD YOU SO. NOTHING FUCKING HAPPENED."

Then 2014 comes, the wind blows and this gentleman goes into early retirement.
I pry open my skull with a corkscrew, to show the world that it pays to be a screwup.

People will tell their spawn about you. People will look back at photos of you. People will remember you, for you were everything they weren't. If you are hanging in a cliqué of lookalikes, noone will remember you. Break on through to the other side and race the chicken while you are at it.

The only difference between me and you is I'll actually do it.

It's really depressing when the only emails you receive are spam.
And that sometimes you actually read them.

Some people do this for fun, I'm just a cunt.

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