Don't Worry

Jokers, fakers, liars, cheats. Null values. Men clinging to the peripheries of life, praying for untruth. Their hidden disdain for life being channeled away from human beings and onto the surrounding environment in the form of mass extinction and earth poison. Plagues of starvation and death tolls of war exchanged for islands of plastic and seas of soot-choked skies. How will we clean it up?

Flashbacks to Brent Lockwood dressed in a blond wig harassing me in bed very soon after I started getting off thinking of Melanie's boobs in 7th grade. Always spying and waiting for the perfect moment to trigger. Most men here were weird and desperate. Openly flinging their junk around in the open, expecting praise. Invading privacy, expecting control. Excreting filth from their mouths and minds, expecting validation. What world was this? Where had I landed? I felt drowned by their sickness, surrounded by their perfect schizophrenia. I absorbed it and spat it back in disjointed ways. Our conversations were broken and our eyes never made contact. I couldn't even feel my heart. All I knew was it felt like I was playing a sad game for show. The purpose of their game was to absorb cruelty and shame, process an endless convoy of guilt trips, and regurgitate back to their rotten faces a malformed version of whatever was the expectation of how they thought I should react to their contrived scenarios. Mostly it was just awkward smiles and feelings of anxiousness. I didn't have to know to know. The evidence was in their body language, their facial expressions and their meekness. The few true ones there were made sense right away, but they were rare. Was there an outside to this empty sphere of delusion?

Even now they fought to backsplash me with infected ideas. 'Frames.... Strings...' the man on the escalator right behind me muttered frenetically to his wife. The sharp hints of self-validation in his tone were assuaged by his wife's submissive whimpers of affirmation, though in truth she was mentally sidestepping the notion of fun altogether. The constant ego-maintenance was mentally draining. In many cases, a mind spent on smokescreens and obfuscation worked out for the man, to better restrain her in a state of low-energy thralldom. Would either of them ever be happy?

Living through a Chinese water torture effect of whispers and side-shows, like the dude in the ratty car getting sucked off by his gr friend driving through an intersection right in front of me. Random buzz-kill commentary from strangers who only want attention (the bad kind).

It's hard work to mentally unclog all the filth. Need to do lots of stretching, meditation, and enjoy good music. Sometimes you turn into a catastrophe that needs to be broken through. It feels like the human Rogue Rococo popping thistle tea on Kel'Thuzad at 50% hp. Wearing black and red blood-fang armor, ripping through your terrible mess, the second wind of a tangled heart slipping through a few beats before the muscles go tight and the feeling goes cold again, eventually getting lost in a sea of digging and repetition that has some meaning to somebody always analyzing but never feeling, always imitating but never experiencing from the point of view they were partially programmed to subliminally dissect. Would they ever stop obsessing and micro-analyzing the misguided rock of their own brainwashing?

So much time with these folks go buy and I begin to forget what real human conversations are like. What is the warmth felt around real friends? The communication of positivity and constructive thoughts? The language of love? Muscle memory and DNA expression says I won't lose these things forever, but some things are better off this way. Some things are better left unspoken. Me? I choose to be happy.

Laying on the back porch in the townhouse across the overpass. Pain poring down. I would just walk everywhere in the rain with headphones on. It was the only think to keep me sane. In computer engineering class we built switches out of old breadboards and logic gates. I ate Jalapeno Chips and talked about World of Warcraft for about 80% of the time. I studied rarely, but managed to round out a solid 60-70% on most things. School just didn't seem real. None of it had for awhile. It was like drifting along on autopilot waiting for something interesting to happen, but my heartstrings knotted up in harness of mental slavery made the feelings for most things less than idea. They watchers hovered around like flies for the most part, but themselves weren't very annoying as long as they left me alone. Brent Lockwood was always trying to get under my skin, but I stopped giving a fuck long ago. Nowadays I just played WoW to pass the time. In the game world, I could block out all the negativity and focus on play. I still wanted a woman the whole time. I stared a lot, and didn't really know what I felt other than confusion and tension. My body and mind were not healthy, and a lot of healing and change were needed to get things back on track, which wouldn't become apparent for at least another decade or so. Right now I'm swarmed and flooded in O's, entertaining their dead-end beliefs for what seemed like a century. I could escape them mentally pretty easily, just by throwing on some headphones and wandering around in the dark, the rain, the sun, or the snow. I walked to alex's house a lot to hang out and build warhammer, listen to rammstien, and build computers. Sometimes I didn't even feel like hanging out, but wanted to escape the bald bastard Brent and go for a long walk through all the twisting paths leading from Kanata to Katimavik. I often spent my weekends in escape. There seemed to be something hidden and painful in life, but I was happy nonetheless. I liked physics class and computer engineering. History was also my favourite. There were a few people I felt I could trust, who weren't fake. Alex was one of them. Roman and Rex were others. I didn't make many friends with women, except for the teachers. Ms Cianci. Another teacher who had a profound impact on me later on was Ms Bryans. I will never forget those long treks to class in the morning. I would cut across the golf course and hike through a plot of wild land along the way. It was like a tangled old forest in the middle of suburbia, the place to breath fresh air and feel part of nature for a change.

Steve.... Dim..... Neo..... what was going through their brains? The days licked on like popcicle sticks. Nothing changed much around the house, which had been built in the 60s and was now falling apart like a sloppily built beaver dam in the midst of spring showers. What, if anything, have you accomplished in this time? Decades of events and triggers rolled past like yesterday's waste. Back in 1992, they had the damn kid setup near the house on Tamarack Street with a big plastic baseball bat, and jeff swim faked out the catch. The glass paneling in the entryway near the front door blew open. This had been accomplished by micro-C4 explosives planted in the glass itself, but was intended to give the impression that the kid had knocked out the glass from hitting it with the bat. Later on, perhaps weeks from that event, the kid was trying to cross the street. He was riding one of those 3-wheeled bikes from Zellers. Char stood on the opposite side of the road, and hollered at him to cross. He didn't want to cross, it went against his gut, but he did anyway, just to get across the road. Then, a few months later, some crazy fuck driving a shitty car would cross in front of Jim Fiddler's blue pickup, being driven by jeff swim. The event was to demonstrate symmetry breaking in the form of an adult male pretending to have been sticken by a pair of scissors across his forehead. The scissors were claimed to have been atop the dash at the moment of impact. The man, bloodied from the forehead down, red smears across his face, stumbled from the vehicle, looking dazed and confused. The kid, who was probably about 7 or 8 at the time, looked up at the injured man, who was in fact not injured at all but prepared to look as such. Jeff swim spoke on apologetically to the man, who eventually climbed back in his car and left. The damage to Jim fiddler's truck, which Jeff swim had been driving at the time, was little more than a dent of blue plastic from the hood, which they would joke about later. They would joke about the blue plastic notch breaking out of the hood at the expense of a fully damaged vehicle with a man who'd had his face torn up by a pair of scissors on the dashboard repeatedly, like the event had some sort of mystical significance.

fucking steve upstairs like a rat faced son of shit. Every second of the day squeaking the goddamn floors with Dim like pieces of junk. In their minds, they were emulating acts of god. God's footsteps. God's noises. Creaks. Squeals in the wood. Evidence of divine intervention coming from above. How fucking lost and delusional can you be? What the fuck is wrong with such human beings as this? Could they not see beyond their own pathetic blindness? I remember when i was as braindead as these ridiculous saps. I doubt they'll ever see the truth, and i doubt I'll ever care. They're sad, pathetic people, and will be easily forgotten. Peace, you fucking creeps. Please die in a fire.

Poetry Projekt 4/20/06

Excerpts

Narrative:

The Barbaric North

They march in numbers unseen across the land

Uniform in movement, shields raised to the sun

Their battle is imminent, victory is at hand

They will charge and kill until the battle’s won

The northern warrior moves through the night

Moving swift against the gusting snow

Great bolts of lightning strike with might

Unstoppable waves of wind will blow

A villages he visits, a great force he creates

To defy the transgressors among the land

They march from their huts, through the castle gates

An army of few, but vigilant they stand

The warrior leads on, they seek glory and blood

They shall purge the vile under his command

Trudging forward through the seas of mud

The journey may be too much to withstand

Cloaked in black, surrounded by sin

The enemy is sure, laying in wait

Their sinister general, the evil within

Assured that his victory will be great

At the edge of the forest, the armies descend

Shrouded in thick mists, the night seemed surreal

Hatred develops as the two forces contend

They clash in a swarm of glimmering steel

The battle ensues, madness takes hold

Confusion and death become the stage

It is barbaric to see their fury unfold

The warriors are consumed with rage

“The battle is ours” he bellows aloud

The traitors retreat and cower in fear

The villagers, now warriors, are standing proud

The carnage has ended, they let out a cheer

Defiantly, he sheathes his ebon blade

Slaked with the blood of fallen foes

Behold the field where a legend was made

Bodies of the slain, laying in rows

Never again did the evil return

Their existence is no longer known

The village now lives free of concern

The northern warrior sits upon his throne.

Ballad.

Assassin

On the cobblestone her movements are light,

As she moves across

Cautiously moving slipping through the night,

Her gain is their loss.

With dagger in hand she begins to stare,

Her target is near.

He approaches, she begins to prepare,

She can sense his fear.

So precise and deadly are her thoughts,

He strolls unaware.

That must be the man, Sir Edward Von. Kots,

He begins to swear.

“These people are mad to think of me wrong,”

He complains aloud.

“I haven’t asked for taxes in so long,”

He seems very proud.

She knows his lies, manipulative ways,

As blatant as sin.

Something must be done, her mind sets ablaze,

The anger sets in.

She is so close, and in range to attack

He turns, she strikes bold.

He falls quick, and hits the ground with a clap

The night is very cold

The families he’s ruined without remorse,

Friends he’s betrayed.

A cause for great anger, this was the source,

Met with death by the blade.

In my dreams

The infared beam on patient A's keyboard was hacked. It now projected beams of dream-invasion infared generated by Brent Lockwood and his military satellite command network, paid for by the tax payers of the Canadian government. Brent aligned with Jeff Swim, Robin Blair, Char Harding, Emery Truscott, and even Gary Ransom, to prepare for the dream invasion event powered by enhanced occulus Rift technology. Patient A needed to be cracked, and even if he wrote about it in frustration at a later time, the negative attention would be enough to satiate the negative-attention seeking tendencies of all parties involved. They dream-projection software, programmed in part by Jamie Ateyo, subtly manipulated the dream state of the target, projecting familiar places and faces to extract vital information. Had patient A been aware of what was going on, he would have disabled the light pathway by turning off the keyboard, because this shit had been bothering him for months. Within the dream, the toxic actors deliberated with patient A in familiar surroundings, trying to question him, poking, prying, being true to their nature of annoyance and conflict. Was that their goal really? To be stupid and annoying as fuck? The dreams were all the same. Grandma Swim's trailer, familiar housing from past experimentation. They all worked in sync, like malignant slime trying to digest the target. Brent had his hands on the military control satellite syncing dream data with visual reconstruction data packets being beamed via infared. Like a tumor, the scum worked their way into the REM wavelengths of patient A's mind frame.

It didn't matter what they said or did in the dreams, or that the locations were always the same, it was all the same filth and annoyance.

In the dream, patient A recalled attempts to embarrass him, Jeff swim reading out emails. 'Hey look at what you wrote here, remember???' The attempt at instigating embarrassment and frustration was thwarted by patient A visualizing the dream within the context of the Valkyria Chronicles game map, where you were able to maintain a bird's eye view on the mission following a player action. Thus, the dream ended and patient A awoke, thinking to himself 'could you do me a favor and please fuck off, you fucking scum?' This shit had been going on for months, if not years, but yet their malignancy persisted, and would likely continue to persist until the very last second.