Monday, 31 March 2014


[–]cagedmandrill [+1]   ago (3535|1133)
As someone who has worked at nightclubs for years as a bouncer, I completely believe OP. I have told people not to go to nightclubs repeatedly on this site, and I am usually downvoted for it, but I'll say it again. Nightclubs attract extremely shallow people. Not saying that they are always going to be shallow people, but at the point in time that they choose to attend a nightclub, they are shallow. It's not just the women. It's the guys. It's the management. It's the bouncers. It's the bartenders. It's the owners.
The dudes/bros just wanna fuck a girl in the bathroom. The girls just wanna be seen in their newest stupidest looking dress and most uncomfortable shoes. The management just want to over-serve their customers, get as much money as they can out of them, and then kick them the fuck out into the street. The owners just want to show up in their Ferraris and snort a rail of coke off the ass of a 21 year old girl upstairs in their "private mezzanine". The bouncers just want an excuse to hurt someone physically, usually someone smaller than they are so that they can validate their manhood without risk of harm to themselves, and the bartenders don't give a fuck about anyone or anything as long as they are adequately tipped.
TL;DR: Stay away from nightclubs.

Thursday, 27 March 2014

What if the healthier people are, the more stupid they become?

In a year at this rate I'll be Lifting like 30 G's Bruv

i'm actually proud of this wtf

Nutrition test

You have scored 51 points, you are eating a well-balanced diet, well done.
You can congratulate yourself on eating a diet that's as balanced as most people find it practically possible to eat. Remember it's important not to get too obsessed with eating healthily though; there are no good and bad foods - only good and bad diets. So, if you want to let your hair down occasionally with fatty or sugary foods, go ahead.
N.B. Whatever your diet, if you are drinking excessively, your health is at risk.
Our top nutrition tips
  • Include starchy foods, e.g. wholemeal bread, pasta, breakfast cereals rice at every meal. They are low fat and provide protein, B vitamins, minerals and fibre as well as energy.
  • Eat five different servings of fruits and vegetables a day (including fresh or frozen, juices, salads and soups). They are the best way to get plenty of fibre, vitamins and other antioxidants - the basis of a strong defence against cancer and heart disease.
  • Eat a couple of servings of protein a day to maintain healthy skin, muscles and tissues. Choose from lean meat, fish, poultry, eggs and soya.
  • Eat one or two servings of dairy products daily. They provide calcium for strong bones, as well as B vitamins and protein. Try to stick to lower fat, e.g. skimmed or semi-skimmed, milk and yoghurt.
  • Cut down on fat. Trim fat off meat and take skin off chicken. Throw away the deep fryer, swap butter for low-fat spread and aviod accompanying your foods with mayonnaise or cream. 
  • Go easy on sugar. Eat less sugary foods and confectionery like chocolate, sweets and full sugar fizzy drinks. Keep your alcohol intake within healthy limits (2-3 units daily for women, 3-4 units daily for men).


IQ Test for Free
IQ Test for Free

Monday, 24 March 2014

The Role of Trauma in Learning for Students with ASC

Learning the hard way is arguably the most effective way to learn, albeit the least pleasant. It is when a child falls off their bike that they realise the means by which they can ride the bike: i.e. not doing what they did before.

The autistic child learns about people and reality itself by means of trauma. The child riding the bike, for example, may cry and try again; however, the autistic child may possibly feel 'cheated' by the promise of learning and may create false associations with the bike (thinking of it as evil, for example). This irrational response, whilst obviously not a general response to events that go against expectations, is indicative of many of anxious students' responses, especially students with ASC.

Each moment in my workplace, a child experiences some degree of trauma (by which obviously I don't mean actual mental harm) and this trauma leads onto learning. This minute trauma is part of the everyday experience. Each moment of socialising with another student leading either to a fight or a rejection of some kind is traumatic. Every person as a child has experienced these to some degree, and hopefully matured over time as a result. To paraphrase the adage, what doesn't get you expelled makes you stronger.

Most of the students in my class play video games, or at the very least, games of some degree. Games in themselves are depictions of what I call 'acceptable trauma'. Student A and I have played a particular card game over the course of several months; it goes without saying that were I not convinced of the importance of this event, I would have stopped playing a long time ago. What learning takes place? Learning to lose is the most obvious response. Learning how to lose is the other response: and it is in this case that I present my own carefully regimented method of pointing out students' flaws.

So, for example, I lose badly, and as an obvious joke, I act like a petulant student: indeed, for the most part, I act like how the student acts during periods of stress or when deciding simply to be petulant. The student laughs, and learns - but, more importantly, takes on this method of 'ironic anger' when playing other students, causing (vitally) the same reaction of amusement. The circle is complete: the trauma is managed, as are the responses.

Sport is the outlet for all of our frustrations: and by sport, I do not simply mean physical sport. I mean games in general. It is the acceptable trauma-space that is necessary for a human race that is learning to cope with having several evolutionary facets no longer required. One of my own more outlandish ideas is that autism is a left-over evolutionary advantage, as is psychopathy - both of which would provide a tribe with (at least) two members able to delegate and manage tasks in their own unique way. The trauma and anxiety now experienced by the autistic is that of 'being left behind', literally in this case. The autist feels both ahead and behind their peers, because of this combination of advantage and disadvantage - sometimes, it's hard even for NTs to be able to say with confidence which is which.

However, in the world of gaming, which is for some of my students preferable to real life ("it has buttons" to quote one student recently), the combination of anxiety and tunnel vision focus is largely an evolutionary benefit.

How is anxiety a benefit?

The idea is that the anxious live in a world that is perceived as hostile. Almost every computer game is made up of hostile threats. Puzzle games require puzzles to be solved in order to progress. Mario is apprehended by apparently deadly mushrooms. The list goes on, into more obvious territory such as the Grand Theft Auto series, which creates a Borgian map of reality in which the threats are 'more real than real' - based on reality, but ultimately hyperreal owing to the ultimately logical mode of their solution. The uncanny valley - whereby the closer to reality a simulation gets - applies to these new, hyper-realistic games. Most gamers nowdays will point out glaring errors in seemingly minute details when comparing graphics between consoles. They miss the wood for the trees. There is no perspective, no personal zooming out into the bigger picture.

Sound familiar?

Gaming and autism go together. The best gamers have, if not autism, certainly some aspects of it. However, this is veering into a larger picture which can be explored another time. Returning to my point about the relationship between anxiety and computer games, I have a theory every time my students sit peacefully playing, or talking about computer games: it is the sharing of a collective trauma.

The veteran returning from war thinks their trauma is theirs alone. They are lost in their memories, in their inability to get over things, to gain perspective, to return to the present. The past and present are one - they are trapped within their own memories. The anxiety-ridden ASC student goes through a similar thought process. However, if the veteran meets other veterans and shares the experience - is able to verbalise and see their own experience as part of a greater shared experience - it helps them to heal. The ASC student who can share their own experiences (both 'negative' and 'positive') of playing a computer game - of managing their own emotions and failing within that schema - benefits from realising that their own experience of frustration is not only normal, but integral to their experience.

And from this experience we can see that there is a starting point from which we can approach their thinking towards life itself. Life is traumatic, life is full of suffering, life is frustration. But we as NTs are able to verbalise, contextualise, and share our experiences in a manner that provides us with not only perspective, but something resembling happiness: the happiness of the commonality.

I once wrote a story as a throwaway joke in which a soldier with PTSD is subjected to a programme of computer game playing, a barrage of defeats, kills, and enemies, until his real trauma is replaced by a fake trauma - but one that is ultimately considered more acceptable. The initial treatment is based upon a (real-life) condition called Tetris Syndrome, in which the soldier plays so much Tetris that he ends up seeing Tetris in everything.

I went to the supermarket with my girlfriend and I nearly had a panic attack because the boxes on the shelves were supposed to collapse but they wouldn't collapse. 

Displaced trauma - when the reality is replaced by the fake - perhaps was the start of my attempt to lay out the theory that we need to experience the fake in order to recreate and begin to talk about our real experiences of trauma, in order to talk, ultimately, about our feelings.

"The point about Tetris," said the doc the next day, "Is that it employs many of the same areas of the brain - to do with visual processing and coordinating thoughts and actions - that are involved in laying down memories."

Ultimately, our experience of trauma is defined by a single moment that is recreated over and over. One student who is traumatised by another student's actions during his stimming chooses to depict this student as a demon, making the particular noise the stimming student makes. The trauma is re-experienced and turned into a demonic, over-exaggerated threat. This leads me to wonder whether the student doing the drawings might benefit from attempting to complete Battletoads. Then he'll know what real irritation is.

Tuesday, 18 March 2014

doesn't quite work


Dr. Horace Scabbat, pioneer of the Sectrum Analyis Theorem and Tadpolar Blazetrail Conundrum, has decided he will die precisely at the age of 85 years and seven months. Scabbat, in keeping with modern day recluse tradition, has elected for his body to be frozen “post-cryogenically”, a technique whereby a body is frozen to -272 degrees (one degree before absolute zero) before being thawed and left to decompose, with the belief that the body’s decomposition is “post-life, and therefore ironic” . Both quotations are taken from Scabbat’s latest book Die Trennung und der Letze Tag, his only work to date written entirely in German at the behest of its author, “never to be translated to any other languages, because the weight of the topic requires a language as solid and reliable as ham.”

When asked during a lecture whether he had deliberately meant to substitute the word ‘ham’ for ‘German’, Scabbat nodded to his aides and left the grounds of Stanford University “for a bit”. Such behaviour only serves to increase his new-found popularity amongst the students of the West, some of whom take even stupid things like this particular theory seriously and who appear to have spawned their own teachers to match these students’ own tiresome adherence to such eccentricities.

Evidently, Scabbat’s ‘Germany is  Ham’ theory is currently in vogue amongst controversial and problematic scientists such as Warren Meccano and Beth Splazz. Scabbat’s newly-published study in etymology, Word Trails, is marred only by this current, bizarre viewpoint provided as part of the entry on ham:

                1. the back of the thigh, or hock of an animal.
                Old English ham, hom (originally denoting the back of the knee), from a Germanic base  meaning ‘be crooked’.

                2. The basis of the entire German language.
                Germs - (always) -  Ham (2nd c. AD?) - Hamman (1?? BC.) - Herman (9AD) - Herman the German (probably 1800 AD) - German (1900 AD) - Germany (1871 AD) - Germany. GERMANY.  HAM

Further adding to the controversy, this passage has now been hailed as “fucking amazing” by Hawking.
Scabbat first found fame after a series of short-lived electrical faults in his home prompted half of Vienna to lose power in 1999. After a raid on his home from Viennese police, it was discovered that he was attempting to recreate in painstaking detail the entirety of Dexter’s Laboratory. Evidently, the task was beyond even a mind such as his when it was found, upon closer inspection, he had constructed no more than a table.
Real fame emerged upon Scabbat’s publication of Shut Your Fat Mouth, a faintly authoritative work of 2009 debunking popular myths about Western fad diets, and Western food in general. Following on the trail of McKenna’s I Can Make You Thin, Scabbat uses meta-studies gathered from over sixty years of research taken from his field work in Guatamala to provide a holistic and overarching metanarrative regarding the West’s obesity crisis. The book’s final summarisation of five hundred pages of flow charts, Gaussian distributions, and pictures of fat people provides a damning verdict on the current state of affairs, as well as an equally damning solution:

                Fat people need to eat less.

The wider scientific community took umbrage at the “overly simplistic and frankly offensive” conclusion. Less wide scientists took less umbrage, whilst the non-wide scientific community voted with their feet and provided enough five-star reviews to guarantee Scabbat’s first spot on the #1 Bestseller’s list. Scabbat’s comment of “I deliberately wrote a long book because lifting it up can cause weight loss” was met with laughter at a recent press conference, until his stony face caused awkward coughs and mutters.

Saturday, 15 March 2014

Intense World Theory

Okay, so think about working with kids as working with little drunk people. Moreover, working with little kids who are autistic is like working with people who've just taken a drug and are starting to whitey.

Just now I experienced a degree of nystagmus owing to the fact that I have consumed a lot of alcohol. I do so because I am so bored and alienated by my current existence I feel the need for drugs to intervene in order to wake up this mind of mine which I am aware is hiding away - living with parents and having structure tends to do that.

Talking about structure... the children I work with actually resent structure, at least in the terms presented by those who do not understand what structures are beneficial and which ones aren't. Let's just assume I know what I'm talking about for a minute here, but bear in mind I'm pretty much I haven't got a clue... never mind that the teacher the other day said "You're usually right about things", let's just take that one out of the loop, let's assume non-knowledge because, as I have recently discovered thanks to Socrates, assuming you know nothing is the best way to go about things.

Okay, so I know nothing.

The situation: a beloved teacher is leaving the school. I know it's going to happen, but the kids don't.

My idea: to let them know and see beforehand that someone will be there even when she's gone. My way of going about it? To be the geek for them. To let them know it's okay to be into games. To be 'safe'.

I achieved that. And now I've been asked to stop doing that. Looking at it from the detached perspective of the drunk, I understand that they did it because they think it exhausts me, having kids asking to see more information on stuff that interests them and me. It was a little exhausting, bringing up the same pictures of Zelda baddies and Sonic baddies and giving the kids a little speech on my favourite or least favourite Zelda bosses. But it made them so relaxed. They will never quite get that... hearing a teacher talk about a game they play is cathartic as fuck.

I asked Matthew the other day, "Is it ok that I talk about Zelda and stuff."
"Yeah... it's cool. Even though I don't play it, I can see you're doing it because it's your way of showing everyone that you know what they know and you're a teacher who understands everyone."

Because I'm a little drunk, a tear slipped from my eye. Don't ask why. Maybe it's because, out of everyone in the department, that one kid identified why I did what I did. I let the kids there was someone who would be there for them even after their favourite teacher had gone. It was a warning, almost. But also a signal to let them know there was someone who would be there for them when they felt lost and prone to panic.

George - the insufferable anxious kid who screams when he feels things are beyond his control... his world falls into pieces, and all is wrong... I can't deal with him because I can feel him, if that makes sense... when he kicks off, every word he says, every scream - it goes straight into my frontal lobe and I want to panic as well, I want to start punching and kicking walls, because nothing makes sense... instead, I walk out. I walk out when he kicks off. Fortunately I work with lovely people who are okay with me doing that. Point? The point is that when I bring up old games on the Mega Drive, NES, Master System etc, he goes into paroxyms of pleasure - evidently his dad played those old games... it's fun as hell talking to a kid like that about the Virtual Boy, and hearing his laughter as I describe just how fail it was to have to put your head onto such a thing... it's like bringing out the canon itself and showing it to those who 'get it'... kind of funny how I never played the Virtual Boy but that doesn't matter.

Point being...

I'm not sure what the point was...

Oh yeah. I indulged in almost painful regression to a part of myself that I've kept locked away most of my life because it's 'wrong', and shown it, brandished it, shown my allegiance to the God of Geekery, and realised that maybe I'm a little bit messed up, but the point is that I'm aware that a 29 year old adult talking about video games is 'wrong', but I'm doing it for a damned good reason, and fuck them if they don't realise that. I just want the tutor group to feel like they're safe when Laura leaves.

Because when Laura leaves, they're going to feel like their entire world has fallen apart. I'm not exaggerating. Laura is the be all and end all for these guys. She doesn't know it, because she's lovely and modest, and doesn't get them like I do. Sounds weird, but I subscribe to the Intense World Theory, which suggests that autists cut themselves off from peoples' emotions not because they don't care, but because they feel too much. I'm probably more on the spectrum than most people, let's be honest. Even if I'm not autistic per se, I definitely share some aspects. Helen pointed that out to me, and Helen is a definitive authority on these things, having worked with autistic kids all her life (including her brother). So yeah. It's not a big deal. It just means that my understanding is sometimes painfully augmented by myself.

So I see a kid sulking and I know that actually he/she thinks the entire world is shit.
So I see a kid shouting and kicking a door and I also want to do that because the world is so chaotic I just want to give up.
So I see a kid saying swear words and I know it's because the anger sometimes is so overwhelming that not even swear words can summarise what's going on inside your head.
So I see a kid asking me about the worst bosses on Zelda and I know what they're really asking is "make my day better by reaffirming something certain".

I don't do that shit because I'm lazy or because it's fun. I do it because it's what they need.

Either way, I've been asked not to look at random Google images of Zelda and shit during breaktimes, and it's annoyed me, although I completely understand why. Laura says the kids need to experience their breaks as though they were in a canteen (i.e. no computer stuff to look at) and that's fine. It's just a shame.

My problem is I can't see the big picture. I only ever experience life by what I enjoy in a moment, and I can't see beyond that moment. All is sensory. I drink because it feels nice and it awakens a part of me that hitherto was dormant. I play games because it activates the limbic system, earning the reward of dopamine. If I had the option of heroin, knowing it wouldn't kill me very quickly, I would do nothing but take that. If I had the money, I would get the best heroin possible, and just enjoy. Because if all of life is nothing but chemical pleasure, then why not get the best possible hit?

Of course, I'm being edgy now - I wouldn't be so ridiculous as to actually take heroin, ever. But the fact that for a moment you believed me shows that I'm able to summarise the dark side of myself adequately enough for at least a moment's belief. This dark side - this urge to give in to nothing but sensory pleasures - this dominates the autist's mind. If everything is sensory (which officially it is...) then you need to think about what exactly that entails. Hence the overwhelming obsessions, with gaming, with seemingly meaningless things. It's all sensory.

Give an autistic kid heroin and he'll die within a week because he'll have filled the gap in his head that's been waiting to be filled all his life. What's missing is the part of themselves that can provide a human explanation as to why that's wrong.

Thursday, 6 March 2014

Mummy, What's a Psychopath?

Johnny came home from school one day. He felt angry; Michael had taken the food from his tray and thrown it on the floor. He couldn't remember much of what happened next - he went into his Other Place.

Once he came out of the Other Place, he was in a room with two teachers, Mr. Pike and Mrs. Pickle, both of whom were sitting there with him. The wall had a hole in it, and there was red stuff around the hole.

He had looked down at his arm, and it had lots of blood on it.

"I did something bad, didn't I, miss?" he said, as Mrs. Pickle put a bandage around his hand.
"It wasn't great, son," said Mr. Pike, expelling a short laugh that sounded like a bark. Mr. Pike's hands were shaking. It must have been something bad.

"What's wrong with me, miss?" said Johnny, ignoring Mr. Pike, who never understood him properly and never talked to him in a way that showed he cared much.
"You're a psychopath, Johnny," said Mrs. Pickle calmly. "We haven't told you this before, but I think after today, it's probably a good idea to let you know."

Johnny went into the Other Place for a while. There were pictures in his head:
The Earth revolved, and he was at the centre.
People moved in a town, little ants scurrying to and fro, and he was in a crane looking down at all of them.
A cinema full of people all watching a film. He was the star of the film. Michael was the bad guy.
The bad guy got hit. The bad guy fell down.
The bad guy

"What happened to Michael?" said Johnny.
Mr. Pike cleared his throat. Mrs. Pickle's breath on his hand felt warm. He liked Mrs. Pickle. She listened to him properly and understood him and did his bandages for him and smelled nice. If he was older he could get married to Mrs. Pickle. When he was sixteen he would ask her to marry him. She was already married but that wouldn't matter because he loved Mrs. Pickle and she would love him as well because he loved her so much it would make her love him too.
"Michael... is in hospital, Johnny."
Johnny gulped. The Other Place tried to call him back, but it was important to hear this just in case it meant he would have to do something about it. He would do anything for Mrs. Pickle.

"Is he going to get better?"
"He's in a coma," she said. "The police are outside, and they want to talk to you."

Johnny went back to the Other Place, back to the cinema. He was onscreen, and everyone was the bad guy. He was in a street, and Michael was everywhere, being mean to him with the tray. Food was splattered all over the pavement and road. Someone would have to clean that up - probably Mrs. Pickle. Cars wouldn't be able to drive properly. It was all Michael's fault. So Johnny did what he had to do - get rid of Michael. So he hit Michael. Another Michael came along. He hit him too.

But this time round there were too many Michaels and they were too strong.

Darkness swept over Johnny.

His mind like a stone skipped over the river of time. Sometimes it touched down, and it hurt because he could see what was real and it wasn't usually very good. So it was better to bounce off the water again. Sometimes he could force himself to bounce up and up and up and not come down for ages. Sometimes he scared himself because when he came back it had been longer than he thought it had been and he sometimes thought he would never come back. The Other Place was so much nicer. Sometimes it felt like The Other Place was the real world, and the real world was The Other Place.

The next day Johnny was at home with his mum. He was sitting at the kitchen side whilst his mum washed the dishes. She was doing it fast and quietly so he knew that meant she was angry.
"Why are you angry?" said Johnny, as he drew a doodle of him hitting Michael really hard.
"I'm fine," she said.
"Then why aren't you turning around?"
Her face looked red, and her eyes were puffy. That meant she had been crying.
"Why have you been crying?"
"Nothing!" she said, continuing her washing up.
"Well, you know you always say to me to say what's on my mind. 'What are you thinking Johnny?' you say. Now I'm going to ask you the same thing: what are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking that I want to finish this washing up then have a long bath."
"When you're in the bath, I'm going to draw some more pictures of me hitting Michael. I hit him really hard, you know. He definitely won't mess with me again. Mummy?"
"What's a psychopath?"
The dish clattered and dropped into the dishwater. A splodge of water splashed onto the floor, leaving a dead brown stain on the chequered linoleum. "Where did you hear that word?"
"Mrs. Pickle said it. She told me I was a psychopath. What does it mean?"
"It doesn't mean anything. Mrs. Pickle doesn't know what she's talking about."
"That's probably not true. You're making that up to try and make feel better and forget about it. But, because you're lying to me, I can't trust anything you say about it. So I'm going to ask you again: what does it mean? And tell me the truth this time, okay? You know how I hate it when you lie to me about things."
She sighed.
"Don't do the sigh again. I'm not that annoying, am I?"
"Fine. Let's sit down on the sofa, Johnny."
"Wow, must be serious," he said, bounding and jumping onto the sofa. This would be interesting. It would mean he was the centre of attention again. It was fun being the centre of attention. There were those police people telling his mother this and that while he sat drawing pictures. They were cool looking. He had asked one of them if he had been on TV. The cop had ignored him. It would have made him enraged but he knew that was what the policeman was trained to do. Probably.

"Yes, Mum."
"You know when you hit Michael?"
"He's in a coma."
"Yes, I know. Mrs. Pickle told me. That means he's gone to sleep for a while and won't come near me again even if he does wake up."
She stared at him. It was one of those stares she did when it looked like she was trying to understand him. "I see you don't understand me. Let me explain what I mean."
"No, I know exactly what you're saying..."
"Don't interrupt me, please. I hate it when you interrupt me."
"What I mean is that he was mean to me and I got my own back. He was the bad guy. I was the good guy."
"Thank you for listening. You can talk now."
"Thank you, Johnny. Right." She crossed and uncrossed her legs. Probably a sign she was uncomfortable. Maybe there was a coin in the sofa. It was quite hot in here. The oven was on, that was why. So she was uncomfortable because the oven was on and it had made the lounge warmer. It was good how he could read body language and understand people. "Right. So... you put him in a coma by injuring him."
"Yes, of course."
"Don't... you see how..."
"Please hurry up and spit it out."
"I am! Just give me a chance!"
"Please don't get angry, Mum. You know I hate that. You know how it makes me feel."
"Yes. Sorry." She cleared her throat.
"And stop clearing your throat."
"I only did it once."
"No you didn't."
"I did."
"No you didn't. You cleared your throat once before this."
She gave him the stare again. It scared him because she looked scared of him. "I... didn't."
She would pay for that later, but he let it go this time because it was a nice thing to do. "Okay. Go on."
"I'm going to talk now and you're going to listen."
"When you hit people and put them into a coma, that's wrong, no matter what they did to you."
"No it isn't, because - "
She held her hands up. "Please. Just listen."
"Stop saying okay."
Her face was going all red. Probably something really important she had to say. "Johnny. Just hear me out."
"I am. You ought to stop telling me to listen to what you have to say and just tell me what it is."
"I am telling you! I've told you! It's bad to hit people and put them into comas!"
"And I'm telling you I don't agree. Is that it? Can I go draw?"
"And your drawings! You draw blood! Everywhere!"
"I draw blood? I didn't get a papercut..."
She had never yelled at him like that before.
Johnny felt his brain begin to frazzle a little. Like paper held over a lit candle. Like plastic in a microwave. Like a cat trapped in a black box held over a cauldron. Waiting to drown or burn. Or both. At the same time. Cats were nice but sometimes they deserved it because of their stupid cat faces. Nice to just inflict a little pain on their placid forms, so docile and unassuming. How dare they not feel any fear of anyone or anything? People were like cats. Didn't assume anything bad would ever happen even though everything was bad, and everybody.
His mum was a bit like one of the cat people. A bit.
She was his mum though.
But she had yelled shut up, which is a bad thing to say.
"So you're a bad person then," he said.
"I'm not a bad person," she whispered.
"But you must be because you yelled shut up at me which is a bad thing to do."
"That doesn't make me a bad person..."
"Yes it does."
"You hit and kick and scream and cause nothing but pain on those who love you."
She walked out.

The anger
The pain
exploding star in his head
scream so loud
it fills the universe

grab anything
grab the knife
grab it

stab her in the back like she stabbed you
she doesn't love you, she said it herself
nobody loves you
you're alone
you're a bad person who's going to jail anyway
might as well do it


Little Johnny, staring down at the red blood on the floor, could only think to himself how the colour of it was very different to the blood he'd seen on the television.

Wednesday, 5 March 2014

man i'm in a weird mood

Crazy Dave blazes a trail across the sea-shorn plain of Dedication Valley, a rose-tinted nostalgia-tainted effigy of uselessness where ploughed motorbikes arrive to crash, diamonds arrive to dash, torches arrive to flash, and grown men weep at the sight of the ashes of their long-lost toy Star Wars figure whose whereabouts had been a mystery up to that point.

Dedication Valley is where the dead come to die. Where the salt devours all. Where the mind fails and burdens thrive. Obselete technology receives its final warrant as the officers of truth break down its door of existence. No room for politeness here. All doubts are exposed in the desert. The grandma who went on holiday to Peru is here. The cat who was sold to another family is here, its skeleton basking in a shady cave. Tears evaporate the moment they hit the ground. Flat tyres flail gracelessly over and under crevasses, seeking purchase in multiple fractals of friction; sand particles confirming the already suspected - that their job is done. All can come to an end here.

Time dies, crushed by space. Space dies, devoured by time. Screaming rest, anguished langour, satisfied terror. Film ran out way before - now the reel spins gleefully over and over like a sackful of rancid vegetation. The wind coughs. Grains pollute the pores, seeping in and through the bones, like gallium grasping onto alloys, a neurotic chemical, vampiric and leeching, casting song into doubt and words into screeches. The surface remains. Here there is nothing beneath, and no one knows it, for there is no knowledge here.

Endspace. Unjourney. Holes are bored into holes, spewing vomit and reference without cause, feedback loop mentality, resulting in a splattergraph plotted on a table without axes. You wait, you serve, to no deliverance. Caretaker packages remain unopened - nothing inside anyway. Unperturbed, Sisyphus holds the rock aloft, unaware it has no weight anymore. Gamblers' fallacy world that bet against itself and lost.