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I read Flowers for Algernon today.
There are all kinds of things it brings to mind that I so intensely want to share, discuss, or at least get out in the open, somehow. I do a good job of putting all those ideas together in my mind, but memories are so fleeting. I often forget what it was I intended to write in the first place by the time I actually get to a computer. I don't write by hand anymore unless it's lists, something menial. I write far too slowly.
For those of you who haven't read the book, Flowers for Algernon is a novel about a man named Charlie, 32 years old. He is retarded, apparently with an "eye-q of 68", or so the book tells us. The thing that makes Charlie different from other adult 'retardates' is that he is very determined to 'become smart'. As such, he becomes the first human to undergo an experimental surgery that allows him to become intelligent - a genius, in fact. He soon outpaces his friends, then his teacher and the professors and doctors who allowed him to become this way.
Watching him progressively gain intelligence and apply it given his still child-like emotional state was exciting for me. Rarely do I read fiction, and even less frequently do I find myself rooting for the main character, or even caring about him at all. Charlie was different.
I have always been rather open about my dislike for - and fear of - people with unusually low intelligence. I oftentimes have trouble restraining my contempt for people who are of perfectly average intelligence, so you can perhaps deduce the extent of my dislike. I'm sure this all reads as very egotistical, but please bear with me. I do try to be honest as much as possible, but in my Livejournal I make it a policy to be honest all of the time.
Charlie starts off as somebody who I can imagine being irritating, perhaps not actively but simply by the merit of his existence. He describes himself from footage taken as 'open-mouthed', which right off the bat is a pet-peeve of mine*. However, early on in the book I was taken by the fact that in his simplicity, he noticed things that people such as myself often pass over - the pattern in which a man lowers and raises his eyebrows in relation to how and when his mouth twitches, for instance. It reminded me of the sort of things a friend of mine, Ski, often notices. He believes so earnestly and purely in old aphorisms like "It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all" that I begin to wonder if perhaps he is the smart one, able to clearly see the bigger picture while I am the slow one, caught endlessly in a pointless tangle of details and second guesses. I also wondered this about Charlie and his purity of belief - in the value of friendship, the importance of the company of others.
Even so, it was his progress that was the biggest thrill. He spoke of the unquenchable thirst for knowledge that I have had come and go so unpredictably in my life. His joy in learning was so identifiable that I felt, somehow, less lost and alone.
The story is told through a series of 'progress reports', and watching his spelling and punctuation improve after the surgery was a joy. I noticed when he began to use metaphors in his writing. I thought to myself, "The author went to a lot of trouble to do this." I find myself wondering what was going through the author's mind in 1959, when he wrote the story.
Inevitably, Charlie finds himself looking down on others when he reaches the apex of his intelligence. He realizes that he has become selfish and antisocial, too introspective. I am nowhere near as intelligent as we are made to believe Charlie is in the book, but I know that folly well.
I am selfish.
I am asocial, though perhaps not antisocial.
I am too introspective.
I understand the feeling that perhaps learning and knowing is more important than friendship and other sundry types of relationships we have with others, and alternately I understand the driving need to feel associated with someone, and yet not quite have what it takes to make that happen, whether it be because you are too absorbed in yourself or simply afraid of failing.
In the fifth grade, I can recall asking my teacher (I think her name was Mrs. Owens) whether she thought I was ready to go on to the sixth grade or not. Middle school was a big deal, I recall. I don't remember exactly what it was that prompted me to ask her, but I do recall that she said "No." I know that I had an inkling of what she meant at the time - I knew it had something to do with how poorly I got on with my classmates, because it certainly couldn't be about getting straight As up until that point in my school career. I'm sure at the time I was sort of hurt, and it only served to confirm in my mind that I was misunderstood and under-appreciated. This, of course, was true to some extent. I was misunderstood. What others saw as me simply being strange and unwashed and pushy about the things I found interesting - while being completely uninterested in whatever it was they liked - was in truth simple ignorance of some of the most basic, unspoken rules of social interaction. I did not know, and I did not know that I did not know. But Mrs. Owens knew very well that I did not know. I'll never know whether I should have been held back or not on account of being emotionally and socially retarded, but at least now I can look back and recognize what was going on.
In more ways than one, Charlie Gordon's plight in Flowers for Algernon made me think of my own life and how so often feel as if I am miserably drowning in it, an unwitting passenger on a trip I never asked to take. I know exactly how it feels to have the capacity for knowledge that should, by all rights, allow you to do great things and yet constantly feel haunted by the spectre of once you did once, of who you once were and are no more. I know how it feels to have your social and emotional immaturity hold you back. I know how it feels because it is happening right now.
I did not stop feeling as if I understood Charlie when he began to lose his intelligence just as fast as he gained it. This is the only thing which sustained me against my deeply ingrained bad habit of switching off the TV or closing the book when it hits too close to home**, or when a story is predictable and that predictable thing happens to be something horrible and painful and guilt-inducing. I said to myself, No, this is something you have to do. You have to read this book from start to finish, no matter how painful the inevitable may be. It wasn't as if I'd predicted incorrectly. He did revert back to where he began, all of his "enoughs" as "enuffs". And the trip from genius to subnormal intelligence was as painful as I'd thought it would be.
I know it's hyperbolic but I feel that way. I've felt that way for a long time. I've often wondered why it is that I don't just remember everything I read in books anymore, because it used to be automatic - not even a question of 'easy' or 'hard'. I wonder why it is I was able to take and understand an algebra class in the fourth grade, but when I took the class two years later, I failed it. I wonder why it is that I was able to hold it together well enough to make good grades in elementary school even though things at home certainly weren't better then than they were later in my life. Why did I fail later? I often feel as if I've lost my capacity for learning, or perhaps even intelligence itself. When I was young I never imagined that intelligence was a thing you could lose, barring some kind of terrible accident that left you with permanent brain damage. That first F in a course left me broken and disbelieving that it had truly come to that. At that point - what was it, the seventh grade? I already suspected I was doomed to failure, and there it was, finally staring me in the face. Then I knew I was a failure, and nobody could argue that fact. The idea that I am a failure has stuck with me to varying degrees ever since.
Fatalism is a trying master to overthrow.
I often feel as if without that extra spark, there is little to drive me forward. I tell myself that I will be a doctor just as I used to tell myself I would be an animator or an illustrator, but every attempt in any direction inevitably leads to the natural little hitches that arise in any plan, except to me these feel like crushing failures. I think that if I became a doctor, I would no longer be so afraid of failure because by that point I would have obviously proved that I was able to overcome the insignificant events of my childhood. But is that right? It is hard to imagine not living in crippling terror of failure. I occasionally experience little bursts of bravado that allow me to pretend for just a little while that I have confidence at all in my own abilities, and that I will succeed someday. When I have these I feel encouraged that maybe I am finally rising out of the depression that has clung like humidity for the last... what is it? Eight or so years of my life.
At the end of the book, not only is Charlie no longer able to read his own paper on the theory and surgical procedure that he underwent, he is no longer able to read and understand Robinson Crusoe. He wets himself when cornered. He forgot the intense romance he had with his former teacher during his brief, shining moment of genius and returns to her class as if nothing had ever happened.
He is startled when she runs from the room, crying. He has even forgotten the angst of knowing that with each passing day, he was growing less intelligent. He is gone. Charlie is Charlie again.
I have to take my medication so I can sleep without waking up every two hours.
*I am consciously well aware that there is no rational reason to dislike mouth-breathers and other people who are slack-jawed all the time, but something in me that lacks a conscious voice is very insistent - it's just something I can't stand. Now, of course, working in a hospital I do see this from time to time in the elderly. I don't really hold it against the senile, no matter the reason that senility was brought about.
**Oddly enough, while I have a lot of trouble having most emotions - much less identifying them as painful in my own life - when it comes to fiction, I'm easily guilted or angered or left with this lingering, urgent awareness of my own emptiness. It is always such a sharp and startling difference from how I usually feel that it typically overwhelms me and I have to remove myself from the situation, which is easy when all it takes is closing a book. I do not know if this disconnect stems from the knowledge that dealing with all of my own real-life problems would be unbearably painful if I were to acknowledge the emotions it could cause, or if it's because I am a diehard roleplayer. I suspect they are both related, even if only in that I am a diehard roleplayer because of that little issue.
 METAPHOR FISTS · Tue Sep 25, 2007 @ 03:15pm · 6 Comments |
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Medicine is not the answer. Medicine is a temporary solution to a problem nobody wants to address.
This doesn't just apply to pain, of course. It applies to SSRIs, mood-altering drugs. It applies to the time-honored application of alcohol and street drugs to everyday problems, you know, self-medicating.
A little over a month ago - well, maybe almost two months ago - we had our first Battalion Run. From my short experience in the Army, Battalion Runs mean an easy day of PT. Battalion Runs mean everybody's happy, everybody's peppy, and we run slow so everybody can call cadence. Battalion Runs mean a good day. If that were the case, of course, I wouldn't be posting about it.
This new Chain of Command - the battalion, as it now stands - does not understand the meaning of "Battalion Run". Even the most sycophantic of NCOs has had a hard time denying that this new command is not in the business of raising morale. Instead, they prefer staging pissing contests with the Infantry battalions up here on Kelly Hill. Truth be told, we'll never win it - we are a Support Battalion, and as such, we aren't meant to outrun the Infantry. It's okay if we don't run as fast, or as far. It's okay for us to not do PT in our Individual Body Armor, or to carry sandbags while doing so. That is not what we are for. It isn't part of our job. But this battalion says no - no, we will run faster. We will run farther. We will give those Infantry boys a run for their money, and that will raise your morale.
I took it personally. I took a three-mile-run becoming a six-mile-run as an insult. After the third time of running up the same hill, I broke somewhere. Can I run six miles? Yeah. Is it hard? At a fast pace, yeah. The difficulty wasn't the point, though - something about how I was lied to about something so trivial, something about how it wasn't what I was led to expect. It ruined one of the few things I liked about the Army. I started screaming
this is bullshit
i ******** hate this s**t
******** this
i can't believe this bullshit
i want to go home.
That's all I wanted right then. I couldn't feel, if that makes sense. I wasn't like, sad. I assume the feeling is anger, but I never realize that I am angry until after the anger has subsided, it's more of this hollow burning, a meaningless sense of urgency. I didn't have the sense to be embarassed until later on.
I've been going to what passes for "therapy" up here on the Hill ever since. Once every three weeks or so, I spend about an hour talking to a very tall, awkward man who has a face like my friend Michael. He knows a whole lot about psychology - I don't doubt this at all. Very knowledgeable man. Problem is, he seems more interested in emphasizing that he understands his subject matter than he is actually helping me out with my problem, for some reason. Maybe it's because he sees me so rarely? Maybe he's too busy to work on my case? Maybe he doesn't think it's not that big of a problem because I haven't resorted to snorting cocaine. Perhaps he doesn't know that I would kill myself before ever doing something like snorting cocaine. He is a curious man, but not at all about me. What should I have expected? In the end, occupations are most fulfilling if your own ego is served, and I suppose he wouldn't still be here if he didn't like what he was doing, if it wasn't feeding his ego. And thus, here I am.
I just wanted to let you know that I've run out of my Zoloft, and I am feeling the burn. The Army is not about solving my problem. The Army is about maintaining manpower. The Army needs me to be a functional medic. The Army needs the only person of below-NCO rank who can give an IV in the dark with a red-lens flashlight in the whole 203rd to be functional, god dammit, who gives a ******** if she wants to be shoved off a ******** cliff as to not be responsible for her own mundane and unfulfilling death?
God dammit, I need that Zoloft.
METAPHOR FISTS · Sun Sep 24, 2006 @ 02:02am · 4 Comments |
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A few months ago, I went to get a new laptop from this custom computer builder dude. We walk into his store, and it's just s**t strewn everywhere. My boyfriend's dad described the guy as a "stinky hippie", but the actual case was that the owner of the store was a former Marine (you never call them ex-Marines). He got to talking about his career while showing us his overpriced, underpowered wares. My boyfriend pipes up and mentions that I am "military as well', and the guy just laughs, before continuing on with his boring explanation. He stops a minute later, looks at me, looks at my boyfriend, and goes "wait, what?"
My boyfriend, obviously aggravated that the man didn't take me seriously, said "She's in the Army. She's a medic." The man stares at me nervously.
We quickly leave. It is very awkward.
That kind of s**t happens to me all the ******** time. Yeah, sure, I don't like being in the Army, but it's very insulting when people just don't believe it, like I'm not good enough for the Army or something. I promise you, I'm not just good enough, I am more than adequate. I'm sorry I'm not a buttertroll! Would you be more apt to believe me if I was?
METAPHOR FISTS · Mon Sep 18, 2006 @ 01:50am · 3 Comments |
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Holy ********, dude, that's not what "scene" means *at all*: GD |
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The Iconoclast Where did everyone suddenly get the idea that being a "scene kid" was some kind of slightly-more-fashionable emo, minus the depression and plus crack-cocaine? I'm not saying it's never that, but what "scene kid" actually refers to is a person who spends a lot of time at "the scene", which usually refers to venues (places where "the show" happens, or concerts). People oftentimes mistakenly use "scene kid" to refer to fashionxcore people. It's not the same - fashionxcore is all about the hyperironic appropriation of trends and retro fashion, and taking it all very seriously. "Scene kids" could be anybody - and there are many different "scenes" a person could belong to - what about the BDSM scene, or the Goth scene, or the Industrial scene? There's also the Hardcore scene, and the Indie/College Rock scene, in additon to the Noise scene. I could go on and on. All the aforementioned groups stereotypically dress differently - which is to say that there is no set way for "scene kids" to look, simply because there are far too many very different scenes for this to be a possibility. I just thought I'd point that out.
METAPHOR FISTS · Tue Aug 15, 2006 @ 06:12am · 5 Comments |
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PLANES R SKARY (Unedited) |
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Hello, I am back from Basic Training for Christmas Holidays. Do any of you remember me? Probably not. biggrin Anyway. I know you all love it when people tell you inane stories that should probably go in their journals, especially dangerous ones!
Well, you probably prefer masturbation stories, but I don't have any of those. So I'll go with "Nearly Dying on a Small Plane" instead, and you'll just have to shut your trap and cope with it.
So. I got on this small plane at Charlotte, North Carolina, after taking a short bus trip from Fort Jackson, South Carolina. The plane was supposed to take us from Charlotte to Houston, Texas in about two and a half hours. "Not bad,", I say to myself. "I've been on a plane once before. It was an hour's trip from Houston to Dallas. Nothing bad happened. The ground looks awesome from an airplane." This coming, of course, from the person who is frightened of elevators. Don't ask me how my subconscious works, because I don't know, either.
Most of the people on this aircraft were military personnel, including myself, and including the fellow sitting next to and across from me. While staring out the window, the guy next to me made the comment that the wing appeared to be missing some bolts or something. This was a small (dual-engine, smaller than a school bus) plane, so the wings were short enough for you to be able to notice that sort of thing. I noted that the safety manual said the plane had been manufactured in Brazil. Brazil was then jointly damned.
The instant the plane took to the air, we knew there was a problem. The plane was shaking a bit for just a take-off. The higher up we got, the more the plane shook. I told myself it was just turbulence. We all told ourselves it was just turbulence; after all, it was a bit windy, and the plane was small, easy to toss around. The turbulence gradually grew worse, and we heard a loud whine from the left side of the plane, followed by loud "PUT PUT PUT" sounds.
Nobody said "Oh s**t", but you could tell that it was what everybody was thinking.
Oh s**t.
The captain came on the loudspeaker. "It's um, nothing serious, but we have experienced a small fluid leak. The plane is leaking fluid. We are going to make an emergency stop at Birmingham, Alabama, just for precautionary reasons. It's nothing serious. We should be in the ground in about ten minutes, and um, I'll be in touch with you once we're on the ground."
The guy next to me, who had been occupying his time by biting the s**t out of his nails, turned to me and said "That's kind of one of those things you never want to hear when you're 30 thousand feet above the ground, isn't it?" I laughed nervously. He laughed nervously.
Thirty minutes later, we were still in the air. We had seen the airport a few times (it's a small one), but we were too high in the air and going too fast to land. The pilot was circling around and around to try and lose altitude without dropping the plane out of the sky. Here's why this was an issue: We were tilted at a 45 degree angle to the ground, and the plane was shaking around in the sky so badly that the stewardess, previously confident, was gripping her seat and had her eyes closed tightly. I had my arms around the back of the seat in front of me. The plane got louder and louder, either from the shaking or the strange put-put sounds occasionally heard from the plane. This was not just turbulence. I cannot put accurately into words the fear you feel when the plane is shaking around so badly it feels like some ethereal baby has grabbed it and is using it as a rattle, or possibly chew toy. It was much worse than a very bumpy road. The plane was constantly tilting and jolting us around. We could hear the things in the overhead compartment being thrown back and forth, and the beverage cart was not successfully restrained and came rolling down to rest at the back of the aisle, near the lavatory (though not before smacking a small boy in the head. :[ ).
I didn't cry. I don't know why I didn't. I really wanted to. I wanted to scream. I didn't understand how or why this was happening. When you're in the Army, don't you think the lamest way to die would be in a civilian plane crash, on the way to Christmas vacation? I just kept thinking about how lame it was. I was fairly sure I was going to die. I couldn't believe that this was the way I was going to go. I wouldn't ever see my Goat or Drew again. I wouldn't get to wear my civilian clothes again or be able to talk to my buddy Z or... anything. My drill sergeants would be sad to hear how I'd died. I could have done so much more. I felt like my life was finally back on track, because... you know. I was in the Army. I was going to be a medic, and someday, a dermatologist. Life was finally working out, and now, I was going to die in a plane crash. How dumb. How ******** ridiculously, shamefully dumb.
I was about to cry when we finally started losing altitude and actually landed rather well. (I discovered later that the pilot had to use a hand pump mechanism to bring down the landing gear. I cannot imagine the stress that man was under.) We sat on the plane for quite a while, as the pilot informed us that the mechanics were going to take a look at the problem, and then we would be off on our way to Houston once again. I wanted none of that. I never wanted to step foot on that plane again. I couldn't even feel a sense of relief from being alive, because I thought I would be forced back onto that plane, and would surely die that second time. None of us wanted to stay on. But after a few minutes, they let us off. Even more strangely, the luggage was being removed from the cargo hold. The fellow next to me and across to me, my newly aquired Battle Buddies, all wandered over to the smoking area so they could have a smoke. The pilot came up to us, bedraggled.
"Normally, I wouldn't say this, but I feel like I should because I served too. Uh." He looked apprehensive. "It wasn't just a hydraulic problem (referring to the "leak" wink . The left engine failed."
We all just kind of looked at him and nodded, unsure of what to say to him, but before we could, he quickly walked away. We were eventually herded back to the ticket counter, where the men behind the desk were rushing to figure out a way to get us to Montgomery, Alabama to get on a plane back to Houston (lest we be stuck at the airport overnight).
"Hi, I'm off the plane that had some um, technical difficulties. When will a plane be leaving?"
"Hahahaha, um, technical difficulties, right." They all looked at each other and laughed. "Technical difficulties... technical difficulties." They repeated it a few times, laughing.
The man in the middle leaned over, the other Army personnel crowding around the counter to hear what he would say.
I remember him chuckling, then coughing. "You're lucky you made it... down." The other men behind the ticket counter suddenly grew serious. "What happened almost never happens, and never should."
It's nice to be alive, for once in my life.
METAPHOR FISTS · Wed Dec 21, 2005 @ 08:29pm · 11 Comments |
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Well, for those of you who were looking on, I have successfully made it into the US Army. Regardless of my eye problem - my vision is 20/200 in one eye - I was able to find myself a position as a 91w, or Medical Specialist. I am hoping that from this beginning, I can maybe someday be a dermatologist or reconstructive surgeon. I've always been fascinated by dermatology, and as I've aged, cosmetic and reconstructive surgery have become a stronger and stronger fascination. I have the Discovery Health Channel to thank for this.
By the way, if you're interested in cosmetic surgery, I strongly suggest Aesthetic Surgery, by publisher TASCHEN. It's an excellent, informative, entertaining book with some fascinating historical information on the practice.
Enlisting in the Army was, for me, a difficult and lengthy process, if only because I had to come back on a seperate date for my eye consult before I could be approved, and because I truly despise MEPS and all the waiting it entails. Trust me, the Golf Channel is worse than usual when you've got no choice but to watch it.
I was really going for PSYOPS or Graphic Designer/Multimedia Illustrator, but neither position was available - because PSYOPS is largely Reserves and because I'm not even sure the GD/MI job ACTUALLY exists, because it's so rare. I think one would actually have to somehow transfer INTO this job to get it. It's too bad, too - I drew a picture for the Army because I was concerned they would want to reject me because of my eye. No worries, but unfortunately, it did not make my liason go "WELL THEN, IF YOU'RE GOOD AT IT ALREADY, HERE YOU GO!", like I thought it might. I might scan that picture at some point, as it's a good self-portrait, but I gave it to my recruiters office, and would have to somehow finagle it back from them, or find out if they had their own office scanner I could make gratuitous use of.
I will be shipping out on November the third, going to Fort Jackson, South Carolina. This is where I will take on an 11-week boot camp, followed by 16 weeks at Fort Sam Houston in Texas for my medical training. I will recieve the first seven thousand of my 11,000 dollar bonus at this point, the rest will be dispersed throughout the rest of my four-year enlistment. Hopefully, at this point, I can buy a Vespa. I've always wanted/needed one of those.
Perhaps I will be able to visit my family. Perhaps, perhaps a lot of things.
While my three year long relationship with my boyfriend is likely to remain stable, I do worry about it a little. I assume this is natural. We've done long-distance before and been fine, but I'm sure you can understand my concerns regarding the college girls who will have him all to themselves while I am away.
METAPHOR FISTS · Wed Oct 19, 2005 @ 09:41am · 6 Comments |
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Maturity and GAIA ONLINE. |
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So.
Zahir's pretty old.
I'm pretty old.
Of course, I don't really mean old. I mean that we're over 18. I'm 19, I think he's between 23 and 26. I forgot the exact number.
I would always get frustrated or frown in distaste when somebody would ask another user, "Why are you here? You're too old to be on Gaia, at least I'm only 14, what are you, 18?", as if users have a reason to just up and stop being here when they turn 18. I've never been a fan of that school of thought. You can curse on Gaia. You can be fairly open about sexual topics (though frankly, it's only the children who really take advantage of that, I've observed). There are a good number of other users who are my age, though they are completely overshadowed by users who are something closer like 3/4ths of my age.
But lately, I've been wondering. Maybe I'm not too old, but too mature to be here. I don't mean this as an insult. Clearly, I'm in the same boat as most of you; after all, I'm here and not somewhere else. But you all like making these really lame-assed threads all the goddamn time. Like, threads about masturbating. What person over 17 gives a ********, honestly? It's masturbating. Most everyone's done it and by the time you're 17, the novelty had better damn well have worn off. Heck, even when I was 13, I wasn't exactly AMAZED by it and would probably have respond just as disgustedly to masturbation topics as I do at 19, and I'm not a masturbator, frankly. It's not a sex issue, though, it's the fact that someone is LAME enough to think it's COOL to make threads about - and the real b***h is that a lot of Gaia agrees wholeheartedly and only encourages more people to do it.
Also, a lot of you guys have INCREDIBLY SHITTY tastes in music, yet think you're some kind of musical punky badass! What the hell is up with that? I'm not generally the type to judge people for the music they like, but I do judge people based on the attitude they have towards other people based on their music, and whether they hold themselves in higher esteem because of it. Now, I have to admit that even people my age make a big deal out of the music they listen to, and most of it's incredibly shitty, but I don't like them, either. Maybe it's why most of my friends are a few years older than I am. Who knows.
Also, the anime thing. Here we go. Um. Don't get me wrong, I like anime. I like animation in general. But some of you guys.
Cat ears. Cat girls. Stupid loopy eyeliner s**t. Ugh. Grow up.
Come on.
I know a lot of this could come back on me because maybe it's silly to judge people for things like that, but it can't always be a coincidence that the people who do these things are always the lamest human beings on the face of the planet. You know, the kinds who draw pictures of themselves having sex with Inuyasha. That kind of person. Or the kind who is incredibly overweight and wears a PVC bondage costume with cat ears to an anime convention, chasing away everyone in a 50-foot perimeter with her persistent scent of bad cheese. Why is Gaia full of these people? More importantly, why the hell do I spend so much of my time occupying the same Internet space as you?
Sometimes, I think, perhaps I shouldn't be here at all. Maybe Zahir shouldn't, either. But there is something about the lot of you that keeps me here, enthralled. I stay here even though 75% of the threads make me want to punch myself in the face.
Maybe it's just because I like to help. There are a lot of Gaians I really, really like, and I have busted my a** to try and keep GD and ED clean for those people (though mostly GD these days). I was aware of the admins before Gaia existed. My ex-girlfriend was in the same artist's group as they were. Maybe I'm just sticking around because I want to have a figurine of my avatar made of swappable parts, sold at your local toy store. But maybe it's just the same reason I lurked on Stormfront.org (a white nationalist website) and did a bunch of research on the Black Panther Party and the KKK, or why I am absolutely fascinated by people's sick fetishes.
Perhaps you're all the biggest social research project I'll ever engage myself in.
METAPHOR FISTS · Mon Sep 26, 2005 @ 09:53am · 8 Comments |
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Sex posts make my blood boil. |
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Some of you guys.
The things... you say... and do... for popularity. It's irrelevant that it's Internet popularity, because regardless of what people like to think, it's about the same damn thing as popularity elsewhere, but that's aside the point.
Why the hell would you want to tell Gaians about your fapping experiences? WHAT THE CRAP IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE.
WHERE IS YOUR SHAME. Now, I thought I was pretty shameless, what with being blunt and all. Being blunt is what I do. I'm okay with all the posters who have pictures of themselves in their sigs, I'm okay with boob sigs, I'm okay with the fact that half of the cool users in GD have Frotteurism sigs. I've got one too. If I had a problem with it, I'd definitely let someone know. I'm blunt like that.
Well, I'm letting you know.
If you tell Gaia about your masturbatory trials, you have a problem.
If you tell Gaia about every freaking thing that goes wrong in your life, particularly if it has to do with being LOL GAY LOLZ SPESHUL (or otherwise some other societal "endangered species" that Gaia has taken under its wing), you have a problem.
If you support people who air their dirty laundry all over Gaia, if you get your kicks from it, if you think it's clever, if you think Gaia is the place to talk about fapping or other sex acts that get described in a fairly explicit manner on Gaia daily, you have a problem.
I'm tired of hearing about your sexual escapades. It's especially sick because I'm 19, I've had plenty of sex, and the vast majority of you, whether you are actually 12 or not, sure as hell act like you are when it comes to sex. FOMG SEX, GUYS, IT IS THIS HUGE DEAL. LET'S ANNOY THE s**t OUT OF ALL THE MATURE PEOPLE BY TALKING ABOUT IT [******** CONSTANTLY. I don't want to hear about sex from little 14 year old girls who give their boobie pictures to GD's favorite manwhores. I don't want to hear about sex from GD's crossdressers, I don't want to hear about it from GD's drunks, I don't want to hear about it from GD's angstwhiners, I don't want to hear about it from ANY OF YOU. The vast majority of you are either TOO YOUNG, or you'd might as damn well be, for how incredibly immature you are.
I know this comes off as unnecessarily angry, and I'm sorry for those of you this doesn't apply to at all, but I really hope that someday, you all GROW UP.
Jesus flippin' Christ.
METAPHOR FISTS · Fri Sep 23, 2005 @ 02:10am · 3 Comments |
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