William Matheson (nova_one) wrote,
William Matheson

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coffee, the legal hallucinogen

The weight of the world is upon me. I drank too much coffee. Black coffee, too - a fast friend of a friend told me that hot water and milk make up a natural sleep inducer, which neatly explained why tea would not only relax me, but also put me to sleep. Today I drink both beverages without milk, and I've always drank them without sugar because I feel that sugar is for people who would also feel the need to put ketchup on their potatoes.

I could be sick; I could talk about sexual juices of all kinds now, but as an "artist" one must always weigh expression against consumption. There's really no point of being graphic because it will just turn people away, and unless your name is Steven King, your numbers are so razor-thin that you can't afford to turn anyone aside from your own personal path of righteousness. Then again, what is a cult if not for its exclusivity? Would I still love They Might Be Giants if they were on the US charts?

I'm not sick in the physical sense of the world, but I am uncomfortable. I am sensitive, however, and in this I very much indeed mean physically and chemically because emotionally I am either oblivious or dead or both. My soul is trapped at the bottom of a deep well, and my body is a ventriloquist dummy, and the ventriloquist has no sense that he is playing for any other reason but to amuse himself with flaying arms and strange resting positions. Apparently, for instance, it's not very masculine to have one's legs crossed. But some other dummy was doing it, a very nice sort of dummy, and dummies without souls can only "learn" by imitation.

So you can imagine that this dummy is not very Sensitive, though he is sensitive. Don't offer him a drag, whatever you do. He'll be eager; he'll jump at the opportunity. It must be fun because everyone else is doing it. Can I discover the meaning of life? Unfortunately, we can't all be George Harrison - there's a good reason why there were only four Beatles, the rare sort of people that could cope with their own talent. How rare are these people, you ask? Consider the case Mark David Chapman: he couldn't even cope with someone else's talent. Of course, few people are this far gone, and I am fortunately not one of them. In the realm of talent I see the brightest stars, like Colleen Jones, whom I would definitely make love to, but I am not interested in documenting and/or destroying her. Are celebrity crazed people more full of envy than admiration?

Here today I shake with caffeine, though my coffee has been in me a few hours ago. I rrrrolled, but didn't win. I can still use the activity as proof of Citizenship, though. Did I tell you that I believe everything I see in commercials? Did I tell you that I combine self-deprecating humour with exaggeration in order to win friends and influence people? I am Restless.

The hardest realization of all is that we are, all organisms, all things in the Universe, created Unequal. This doesn't mean that we ought not to leave opportunities open to all human beings, but it does mean that capitalism is the only way we can prosper and grow. It's not even about money - it's about competition over a finite supply of resources. We may be fortunate enough not to have any more World Wars, but we are not all going to be well fed, educated, successful, and (especially) sexed. And what good is Canada if there are no Ethiopias?

Really, there is no peace for the living unless you chose to live blindly. There are many merits to this, to the point that I don't want to waste my energy on attempting to disillusion others. I have little reproductive stature to gain from such an endeavour, and, moreover, I almost envy such people. There is a downside in that they don't ask enough questions and can be suckered into almost anything. But they are happy, and somehow a lot of them survive, make love, and have babies.

I started out wanting to write creative non-fiction, but now I'm mired in political crap that has no relevance on anything (especially not on achieving a career and finding a semi-permanent sexual partner, which are the only important things when it comes right down to it). What's worse is that I'm an ignorant ass about things like this. Some people call Aspergic children "little professors," but this is probably with most emphasis on the "profess" and little emphasis on actually knowing anything. One of these days, I'll learn to keep my feelings and opinions to myself.

So here it is, a diary entry that has no relevance to anything. Just like the rest of LiveJournal. They should just call this place FriendsTalkAboutEachOther.com ("YAYY! I saw my name! YAYY! I got a comment!") and be done with it. I'd probably visit even more, then.

PS: The cause of all this, for the curious, is my 90-minutes-to-spare finishing of Christopher Isherwood's Goodbye to Berlin. Communists, Nazis, capitalists… that sort of thing. I will probably become a bagist, not so much because I slightly embody the ideals of "Imagine," but because may end up living in a bag someplace. It's my responsibility to go down fighting.

PPS: Whatès with Word XP all of a suddenÉ A bunch of my punctuation keys arenèt working right, and itès not like I pushed ÈAlt CharÈ or anything - this keyboard has no such buttons. Anyway, after nearly twenty years of Windows, youèd think theyèd have figured out how to make the standard settings offer the least annoyance.

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