Chili

I thank God for chili. Chili is even better than a shameless self-promoting blog. It makes up for being only almost as good by being completely honest. But honestly, when I moved to New York, my room was so small the bed bugs were hunch-backed! But honestly… ahem. Gotta find a better line of gab than this…
Alright. I could live on chili. I love it. It’s spicy, it makes me fart all day, it gives me garlic breath… no vampire from one of these ‘young adult reader’-books is ever going to even approach me. I exude an aura of unbitableness.
Listening to Le Pop from Katzenjammer, by the way.
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Don’t You Get Your Hopes Up High

Dash ‘em down, those hopes, for fear they will be disappointed. Keep your head down, baby, flak will fly. Don’t dare rely on anyone else, even if they have tried never to disappoint you, because, no matter how often they may have proven they love you, they just might throw you in the ditch after all. When it comes down to it, they won’t be by your side, will they? You are alone. Never ever trust.
Why can’t I do this? Because I can’t. I believe it is better to be fucked over by the ones you love than to distrust them. Without that trust, life is meaningless.
Of course, this makes me victim to every single human being who doesn’t adhere to the same ideal. All those damaged women I’ve met, who would actually like to believe that I love them… can’t. They’ve met too many men on the way, men who have used them, or men who simply didn’t give a fuck one way or the other.
You simply can’t imagine the energy I’ve expended in the effort to make a woman believe that I love her. All the crazy things I’ve done, just to prove it… just a waste of time. I can prove it again and again… it’s no use. They will never ever believe it. Damaged.
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And the more damaged people I have to do with, the more damaged I become. I try to love and protect them, I try to convince them, desperately, that it doesn’t have to be that way… and I fail. I begin to wonder if they are not right.
I hate righteous people, but nevertheless I feel a sort of righteous indignation when I am confronted with this lack of trust. It hurts me deep inside to think that someone I love might not trust me. I give them my trust, I lay it on the altar like a sacrificial animal, and say, take it. They take it, but it it is not reciprocated. I put more animals on the altar, and say, see: do you now believe? No. Like jealous little gods, they want bigger animals yet. More. Insatiable, never satisfied.
Well, alright, I’m willing to lay something on the altar, now and again. Keep the flame glowing, that’s only right, for Christ’s sake. But the basic trust must be there. That would be a matter of renewing the trust, not of establishing it. For me, it’s established in the moment I say: I love you. I don’t say those words lightly.
Agh. Fucking blog, I hate you. You seduce me in to saying what should be left unsaid, what should be understood without saying. But it isn’t understood. People don’t understand. I have to say it aloud. Again and again and again.
Listening to Doina-Sirba-Hora, from Das Blaue Einhorn.

Writers? Liars.

Always remember that all writers are liars. Every human being who ever wrote anything down distorted it in doing so. It’s the Heisenberg uncertainty principle: anything you observe is influenced by the observation. God save you from the observation of a writer (damn, I can think of at least three different ways one might take that sentence…). Every one of them has their own slant.
They’ll wrap you up in their little words, a little present for you, only for you. Writers can turn even a truth in to a lie. Shakespeare said, kill the lawyers first. I say, kill the writers. The most dangerous species on Earth. They spread IDEAS! OMG! They’ll drive you fucking insane! The landing of non-benevolent Martians is nothing against this. Writers are among you!
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The weirdest thing is, nobody knows quite what they want. Nor do they, it seems. In fact, hardly anyone seems to care what they have to say. But, nevertheless, as if everyone were after them, they have become experts in camouflage. If they have any truly resounding ideas, most of them have concealed it very convincingly up to this point (your dear blog-writer included, haha).
Of course, they do tell a wonderful tale, on occasion. Don’t discount that so quickly. Sometimes they manage to tie you to the mast and lead you through the channel of sirens, and that’s a fine thing. Very helpful against stress, I’m told. They might even get you to thinking. So pick up a book, and read some sensible lies, instead of dithering your time away reading this silly drivel. Bah, shame on you.
Driviality. It really is too bad I didn’t invent that word. Anyone who can give me a genuine quote with the word driviality in it has my respect.