Blog For Free!
Archives
Home
2005 February
2005 January
2004 December
2004 November
2004 October
2004 September
2004 August
2004 July
2004 June
2004 May
2004 April
My Links
Kendy's Grey happiness
Mad Process's Love Shack
Ana's Little Spot
tBlog
My Profile
Send tMail
My tFriends
My Images
Sponsored
Blog
|
| Last one, honest. |
| 02.12.05 (12:37 am) [edit] |
I'd bow or curtsey, but I doubt anyone's still here.
I've shared thousands of feelings, hopes, inspirations, songs, and events that have shaped me as a person ever since Night got me into this damned thing, some ten months ago. Since then, a few readers and friends grew with me, watching me mature from a young marine to a bitter, disenfranchised twenty-something. Yeah, it happens.
I've talked about life, love, social drama, politics, religion, music, art, America. I'm sure there's more. Point is, I no longer feel qualified to give my personal point of view on these topics on these matters. Not that I dont love to write, trust, I'll continue to write privately and dole my words out to friends and family, and not that I don't love the community that I've met, solely because of the blog.
It's because, finally, at twenty-two, I'm seeing what the world is really about. I don't really want to share this morsel of info. It's one of those things that you'll have to come into on your own good merit.
To be perfectly honest, I really hope that when you see what the world is about, it's nothing like how I see it. I pray to God, Himself, that you see a happy place where your dreams are a plausible, tangible thing. I pray that each and every other person out there finds his or her niche. I pray that you find happiness. In some ways, I need you to find happiness.
It truely has been my pleasure, writing post after post, hoping to see what you had to say, and in someways, I will miss this type of interaction, but it doesn't seem real anymore. The reasons we do our day to day things just don't seem legitimate. Perhaps I've stumbled in to extentialism. Maybe what I see is what is truely going on. Either way, know that I hope that you, Reader, don't end up where I am now: a broken depressed sod who can't see a good way out.
To everybody who read this, I'll miss you.
As always,
--Avarice
|
|
|
| |
| Crosses and dollar signs. |
| 02.07.05 (9:08 am) [edit] |
What I meant to say was: Good Superbowl, everyone. I had a great time. I suppose the earlier post was a great deal too random and slightly premature. Sorry. I was hella fucking drunk. I needed to vent, and no one was on. I suppose it could have been worse.
I could have posted the Paul McCarteny halftime show and looped it.
I find that we ask the questions that we want to answer. Not so much as to get the answer, unless, of course, it's critical to you. I mean, in a social circumstance, when talking to people you barely know or what have you, for the most part, we ask the questions we want them to ask. We're dying for a "and you?"
We're dying anyway. Keep that in mind. It will be on the quiz.
This doesn't apply to everyone. Just the honest ones. This is the modern "me" "greatest" generation. We are the completely self absorbed, self absorbing, self defeating rulers of the country we're running in to the ground in the name of the dollar, yen, pound, sex, whatever your currency. You are not allowed to love your country without being a religious prick. Patriotism is anti-patriotism. We, the needy, selfish creature that we are, have done this. We, the same people who named a stationwagon after a condom after a gun. We, the makers of porn and smut and snuff. We, the divided species.
Yes. I came to this conclusion at the club. Watching thirty-six year old nobodies, going nowhere. Looking for a cigarette and a blowjob. The American dream. Conversations, completely meaningless, pointless, and obtrusive. Waiting for the two magic words.
"And you?"
--Avarice
[i]Avarice is a nationally syndicated hack that hates his mother.[/i]
|
|
|
| |
| I can breathe fresh air. |
| 02.06.05 (10:02 pm) [edit] |
God, so many times it feels like life is a series of memories that is being played out while I try my damnedest to narrate. Fuck you. I spelled it wrong. Trust me, tonight, you'll prolly find a lot of errors. This is me, too drunk to type properly and too fucked up to care.
The bar was bumping. Granted, it wasn't always like this. 15 minutes ago, you couldn't tell it would have a spurge of young lust. Haute. Trust me. It was. God damn. You should have seen this girl. Fuck. Christina was the hawtest I've ever seen her. She even got the haute joke. If I could just get her to get over him... nevermind... she just went to dance with a 35 year old asshat with no direction.
This is me, completely rejected.
We left. We talked about a lot of things. God, I would love this girl so much. She has no fucking clue. This would be it for me. The only reason I need. Really. But she's too fucked up on some asshole who doesn't care. She knows this. I know this. I'm rubbing her feet the whole time. I'm her puppet. A week ago, I expected her to kill me. Now, I'm letting her crack my neck.
This is me, perfectly waiting.
Superbowl Sunday. God dammit, time travels with her. The drinks. The many drinks. Got Patriots. Good making it look like you weren't supposed to win. Good vodka and redbull's. Jesus. I didn't even need asprin to get me drunk. I didn't need asprin to get me fucked up.
This is me, hopeless to this girl.
This is me, passed over.
This is me, willing to be what she wants.
This is me, not good enough.
This is me, never good enough.
This is me.
This is me
--Avarice
[i]Fire is a good contraceptive.[/i]
|
|
|
| |
| The effects of asprin on alcohol |
| 02.02.05 (12:37 am) [edit] |
Breakdown, thy name is Avarice.
There's something to be said about the comforts that liquor can bring between my remedial spaces between happiness. Also, it's worth noting the fullest potential that can be obtained when you mix with asprin. Yes, the blood thinner.
Kids, do not take pills or drink alcohol. These are bad for you and are a sign that you're about to crash, and as such you should never EVER take them together. You know, I was a bit more convincing when I was ten, standing in front of the school, reading my D.A.R.E. speach that had been taken with good reviews. Fuck, I even got a watch out of the deal.
She. She is another word for devil. Let me tell you about myself, o' dauntless reader. I am twenty-two and I feel things slipping through my fingers every minute of every day. An unproductive minute is reason enough to expect failure, and as such, I see life slipping through my hands. I have this great idea. A wonderful idea. I could make it with the help of LB and God-dammit, I'm going to be rich.
Or, I'm going to die.
Self-loathing? No. I like me. The correct analogy was supposed to go here, but can't be found, due to the foggyness that has invaded my head. Uncertainty, you are my greatest and most horrible enemy. If only I could move the world like a chessboard. If only the next movement could be calculated and predicted and the movement would be clean, cool, unrushed.
Life is a game that no one knows the rules to, but whom everyone is forced to play, and in all honesty, winning is all based on luck. This applies to both real life and the game. Only in one of them, you're not guarenteed a wife, husband, or anyone else who will ride with you, high and low, for that matter. In one of them, a very few will be successful, and everyone who isn't will complain that it's because of a glass ceiling, and that you should have to pay more money than they do because you actually did something with your life, despite the fact that you are paying more money. In one of them, you will only be able to do what you set forth to do, while everyone you know would be willing to crush your hopes and dreams to see themselves get ahead. And in the other one, you get a stylish blue car to move from space to space.
Four asprin + two shots of rum = sexy.
Kids don't do drugs, or you will be immitating the most publisized successful person in America today, the Hollywood type. This, of course, includes musicians and actors, who, with seemingly very little (and an amazing deal of luck), are making more money than you will ever know, and thusly believe that they've got it all right when it comes to [art/politics/religion/ot her topic of heated discussion]. You will be acting like the person who makes millions being someone else or crying about how much they hate life. These are your role models, and you want to be just like them.
Don't feel bad, I do to.
Why else would I be here, 1:39am, half-naked, depressed because I'm starting to see that I'm not going to be one of those happy idiots? Angry, because I'm pretty much deemed worthless by the world around me. Mostly drunk, because I don't know how I'm supposed to take this.
Kid's don't ever drink. You don't want to be like this.
--Avarice
[i]It made sense at one point.[/i]
|
|
|
| |
|
|
