As a child I could recall that methane smell of the Southside. Something that was ever present coming from the tank farm by the canal at Cicero. Going south of the newly constructed expressway meant that smell or occasionally smouldering potatoes. Now it’s Sitting on the main thoroughfare in front of a little bar. Two dollar bottles of beer on a pleasant weekday afternoon spending eight dollars in a six dollar world playing Siddartha. Recovering from a third world moral animatronic wet dream fulfilled by endless ghetto rangers asking what your sense of ‘better’ is? Neocon wrapper flavored Jooooz repetitively pulling their same old schemes. A sensation of expectation that has no defined rational beyond a feeling. Not so extraordinary in terms of so many times before experiencing the same. Need for the sake of arcane nerd speak. Reality being belief based upon the habit of belief. The consensus of belief. The need to look behind the curtain and take the left handed path. Not just to believe for the simple sake of believing.
The usual crowd of the mentally down and out. Petty political complaints fill the air. Set the boundaries of discourse. Who can find a fit topic to bespeak to strangers outside your immediate circle? Everything abounds in demoralized Ruralpeans and professional victims! Social destruction on an unprecedented global scale. And you wanted to hear about relief from same? The way that Society is currently configured is that everyone no matter how grievously misshapen who pitches in the shekels from weekly labor to purchase the latest glad rags on the customary sale racks get to expect respect from their circle of miscreants following the same regimen. No one asking question is allowed to awaken the the sleepers as that might hurt the otherwise perpetually fragile economy. But the truth remains that a pig is a pig and someone who is a self-centered self-empowered miserable human being who has nothing better to offer than the latest sports scores or who wa on last nights Late Show is damned to enslavement in Hell of this ongoing social fiction.
The measure of a person is their actions and their grit to be themselves in the best sense of same and not just another passive sycophant to the Kabbalah of modern online I-phone marketing. All the other products of the commercial empire are skin deep and don’t amount to a hill of beans when they hall your corpse to the bone parlor. The simple sense that we are all here for more than to work in the factories and provide new bodies for the meaningless wars of a society that do nothing more than find new enemies, defeat them, and then turn them into consumers to spend the rest of their existence buying useless crap. You are either yourself alone or a member of a runaway consensus that promises a feel good existence but never ever reaches the mark. All that counts is your family and those who really love you.
The growing weed patch of stoners wiped out spiritually by the proclivity of grass. A fucking passion play of suckers in a growing world of no self respect. No moral fiber or courage. As a child I took in the fumes of prosperity. Now I gag on the reek of despair. Absolutely nothing is out of bounds if it demeans the notion of a unified wholesome culture. Lets split the perceivable world into a rainbow of labeling and invite the imbeciles to cut themselves off from any hope of a meaningful consensus. Be fucking rude at every opportunity and turn ourselves into a half-breed fuck gutted Obama milkshake Neo-phobe. Loving everything so much that we are compelled to destroy it on a knee jerk whim hailed from above. World Socialism and the feel good of being part of the good people that all of a sudden have to think twice about sucking our beverage through a plastic straw. “Where are the paper ones!” Morons! What social fetish will it be tomorrow. ‘WE’RE KILLING MOTHER EARTH!” Well then why not just kill one’s self to make room for the Third World industrial baby makers? Sooner or later all of you that might survive will be carrying a sidearm. America the beautiful and the home of misandry.
“Back to those two dollar beers you old White Bastard!” How dare you speak the truth. You truth. And that IS true. An individual makes the world that they live in by the set of words they habitually speak. Society above demands that all popular music sound like an out of balance washing machine. “Simon Sez!” The ad nausem culture of deflection. You can’t shoot through a plexiglass ceiling! Especially when all you see is high heels above! Gather up all you self-empowered people and congeal your many petty tales of irritation in one smoking pot. Embrace your own self-created destruction with open arms! Medicate your undeniable urges with it as it it is a balm! A world culture where unseen Archons feed upon this distress! I can no longer believe in a material universe!