True Story

I played some music, and it's like the same old shit. People hear it for the first time and think it's soo cool. Since the RIAA and Ticketmaster took over our "music industry," and decided who gets to be played on the radio, there have only been a few great bands make it. Yeah, it would be great if we had a massive cultural upheaval again, but instead we're sliding into oblivion. We're surfing down a mountain of garbage purchased with credit cards for 1000 times their real value, paying interest on bubble gum purchased in 1996 (which would now be worth $45 a stick if it hadn't been stuck under a theater seat by a girl with genital herpes).

It doesn't matter if I take down the eviscerated versions of my drug hallucinations at Angelfire. There's surely thousands of copies and caps by now, done by people who want a piece of destroying someone who has basically moved on. If I really cared enough I could just scan the originals. All the "poesy" bullshit is just a historical curiosity to me now. I haven't written anything new like that in 6 years (except maybe once or twice).

I imagine that at this point if I wrote a novel, and I thought it was good (which hasn't happened yet), then I would be happy even if I didn't make money. For me it's always been about the art. I must be one of a dying breed, or a race that became extinct. The commercialization of art is what has destroyed the inspirational progress of our society.

Rituals, below this post, was written when I worked at a very nice retirement community. It was a good job at the time. I made $4.25 an hour, and I slept through most of it. I was the night security guard. Wanna know how it ended?

A lady who lived across the parking lot killed her son late one night/early one morning. She stabbed him multiple times. She was on the phone with 911 while her child, who was still alive, was bleeding to death. She wouldn't tell them where she was, or couldn't, and tracing calls was extremely limited.

The baby boy died. I worked 250 feet away. She had neighbors in apartments on either side of hers. Nobody could save that child because nobody knew it happened. I couldn't take seeing the apartment door after that. It was in my line of vision unless I turned all the way around. It looked like the door to hell from where I sat.

Her maiden name was Mahoney. Her brother's name was Patrick Mahoney. He was involved in Operation Rescue, and was the primary organizer in 1992 at Delta Women's Clinic. Mahoney preached anti-abortion while his sister cut up her living child, until the child had no more blood left in him.

If that doesn't scream sanctity of life then I don't know what does. Squirt 'em out and dice 'em up. Thanks for the hatred and hypocrisy, to all the coward christocons who think the Bible is a manual for genocide against intelligent people.

I was going to post something for a sexy party, since I'm never going fully to sleep again as long as I live. That's not true. I'll probably be passed out within an hour. That's why I didn't want to look for something that was supposedly me on the Internet -- I would probably get a little ticked off if there was tape of me passed out while somebody wrote semen poetry on my face or some shit [yeah, I know that's gross. No shit.]

I guess what I'm saying is oops. I shouldn't have changed the blog header until I actually wrote something sexy. Cars, baseball, shedding dogs, key scratches in side of car - voila, no more sexy party.
Subscribe by Email. . . RSS. . .
Creative Commons License
Symbols of Decay is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License..
Related written works at Angelfire, Sex Symbols, Cymbals of Silence.Repent or Die