Inspiring fear since 1983
Lots of little kids are subject to the social misfortune of being labeled "weird" or "strange" or "an unhealthily convincing blend of David Koresh, Ted Kaczynski, Ernie Keebler, and Ronald McDonald." [Thankfully I wasn't stuck with Ronald McDonald's hair.] Some consider themselves lucky when they're able to escape those labels, suppressing deviance for the sake of acceptance. A few are institutionalized for exercising their grand imaginations. Others learn to thrive outside of normalcy, embracing their quirks (until institutionalization or death).
I spent my formative years drawing pictures of guns, dreaming about the arsenal I'd one day acquire, and writing stories where it wasn't uncommon for me to slay 1000+ enemies with my bazookas and uzis1. For several years, my main sources of nutrition were paper and bookcovers [I think the Indian was hiding in the cupboard because I was eating my way into his universe], rubber bouncy balls, wooden pencils, and their erasers. I chewed holes in the neck of every shirt in my wardrobe, and a few of my brother's, one while he was wearing it, a manifestation of manic unrest. My mom affectionately calls me "OCD boy" -- a major step up from "little shit," so I'm not complaining -- and still has frequent occasion to update her catalogue of stories to entertain and embarrass, instances where I've immediately noticed a book out of (my) order or a picture frame that's been shifted slightly; my friends play a game where they take or rearrange my possessions to see how long it takes me to notice, and because they enjoy tormenting my ordered universe. I'm a compulsive liar sometimes, prone to exaggeration always, and, not coincidentally, an occasionally entertaining storyteller. And even I'm not convinced my apparent stability isn't just honed deception.
I thirst for revenge, backlogging even the most trivial of wrongs committed against me, wrongs of which the perpetuators might never have been aware. During IB testing during senior year of high school, Colin stole from me a couple of Jolly Ranchers and a Hershey Kiss. I made an immediate note to myself, one I still keep in my dresser drawer as a daily reminder, that reads verbatim:
On my (if you're counting) third hand, and I'm going to assume this is a rare request even on a universal scale, I've had two or three friends2 make me promise, "I won't kill you when I go crazy." If they were joking they've concealed that fact well. Their wish certainly didn't bother me, and while I know I'm not capable of exploding on a murderous rampage, their doubts reassure me about the reputation I've barely worked to build. I'm awesome. Not cocky, confident to be sure, but definitely awesome.
In addition to daydreaming about sexy ladies and revenge and substances and the appealing liberation of unadulterated, unrestrained insanity, I'm also a well-liked babysitter and youth soccer coach, and so surprisingly responsible I've thrived working as a camp counselor for the past 5 summers. I have a multitude of great friends and family who keep me grounded, somewhere close to reality. A very little of the insanity I exhibit, I think, is me playing up to expectations; however, it might be irresponsible to disregard Howard Becker's labeling theory; and it might be plain stupid to assume my mental state isn't actually deteriorating. Whatever. It's all so much fun.
Everything I've written here definitely falls into the category of an "utter fucking ramble." Focus I lack, but you already knew that. I would apologize but I've decided to give up ever being sorry. It's much easier on the conscience. This also seems a good point to intrude with something so entirely unrelated to everything else here I can't preface it. At least not well.
A pinch of abstraction, a dash of pretension, and a whole bunch of metaphors:
1I long ago lost interest in guns and such. I now enjoy a more creative approach to wreaking havoc.
2Those two or three individuals may want to remind me of my vow, to ensure their demise isn't a tragedy of hilarious misfortune (i.e. forgetfulness).
While I'm wondering why in the hell you're still reading this, I'm impressed you made it through.
I spent my formative years drawing pictures of guns, dreaming about the arsenal I'd one day acquire, and writing stories where it wasn't uncommon for me to slay 1000+ enemies with my bazookas and uzis1. For several years, my main sources of nutrition were paper and bookcovers [I think the Indian was hiding in the cupboard because I was eating my way into his universe], rubber bouncy balls, wooden pencils, and their erasers. I chewed holes in the neck of every shirt in my wardrobe, and a few of my brother's, one while he was wearing it, a manifestation of manic unrest. My mom affectionately calls me "OCD boy" -- a major step up from "little shit," so I'm not complaining -- and still has frequent occasion to update her catalogue of stories to entertain and embarrass, instances where I've immediately noticed a book out of (my) order or a picture frame that's been shifted slightly; my friends play a game where they take or rearrange my possessions to see how long it takes me to notice, and because they enjoy tormenting my ordered universe. I'm a compulsive liar sometimes, prone to exaggeration always, and, not coincidentally, an occasionally entertaining storyteller. And even I'm not convinced my apparent stability isn't just honed deception.
I thirst for revenge, backlogging even the most trivial of wrongs committed against me, wrongs of which the perpetuators might never have been aware. During IB testing during senior year of high school, Colin stole from me a couple of Jolly Ranchers and a Hershey Kiss. I made an immediate note to myself, one I still keep in my dresser drawer as a daily reminder, that reads verbatim:
"Kill Colin, or otherwise get revenge. don't forget, he stole hershey kill. (haha, I meant kiss) make him feel your pain (mike tyson)"Yes, it was entirely accidental, but very revealing, that I replaced kiss with kill. On the other hand, it's likely I'm a total pussy. One time I accidentally inflicted a mortal injury upon a giant caterpillar, then started crying and apologizing when the caterpillar began, or so I thought, alternately screeching and whimpering in agony. This was before I'd ever experimented with any mind-altering substance.
On my (if you're counting) third hand, and I'm going to assume this is a rare request even on a universal scale, I've had two or three friends2 make me promise, "I won't kill you when I go crazy." If they were joking they've concealed that fact well. Their wish certainly didn't bother me, and while I know I'm not capable of exploding on a murderous rampage, their doubts reassure me about the reputation I've barely worked to build. I'm awesome. Not cocky, confident to be sure, but definitely awesome.
In addition to daydreaming about sexy ladies and revenge and substances and the appealing liberation of unadulterated, unrestrained insanity, I'm also a well-liked babysitter and youth soccer coach, and so surprisingly responsible I've thrived working as a camp counselor for the past 5 summers. I have a multitude of great friends and family who keep me grounded, somewhere close to reality. A very little of the insanity I exhibit, I think, is me playing up to expectations; however, it might be irresponsible to disregard Howard Becker's labeling theory; and it might be plain stupid to assume my mental state isn't actually deteriorating. Whatever. It's all so much fun.
Everything I've written here definitely falls into the category of an "utter fucking ramble." Focus I lack, but you already knew that. I would apologize but I've decided to give up ever being sorry. It's much easier on the conscience. This also seems a good point to intrude with something so entirely unrelated to everything else here I can't preface it. At least not well.
A pinch of abstraction, a dash of pretension, and a whole bunch of metaphors:
Some overall case in point: A good friend just IMed me, "and you're scaring me with your writings..." Hey, at least it's feedback. You're actually free to criticize, critique, or compliment my writing without fear of reprisal; in fact, I encourage and appreciate it.I tend to think in detached bursts, a tendency my writing usually reflects; because of this, constructing a consistent and comprehensible draft (or paragraph) can be a grueling mental exercise. As I strive to snare fleeting thoughts from my spastic pendulum of concentration, my metaphor is inevitably invaded by thoughtless grenades whose explosions disrupt concentration, leaving me straining to commit to memory those brief bits of brilliance amidst the assault of distracting flashes. In my world of mixed metaphors, I’m in the Matrix but I can’t quite catch the ammunition whistling by.
My writing, always linear and sensible in conception, inevitably emerges a heaping casualty; a wicked, mocking maze of shattered, twisted structure, violent hemorrhages of distraction, and that final sigh of frustration. Guided by the hand of a clumsy coroner, no idea is ever fully autopsied; the end rarely unearths the truth that, when initially glimpsed, must have inspired action, though it produces ten accidentally provoked but gaping, rushing, floods to investigate.
While I'm wondering why in the hell you're still reading this, I'm impressed you made it through.
posted by Mr. Pibba at 4:45 PM
2 Comments:
haha what the FUCK? "maze" is pretty accurate. it feels like there are riddle phrases with multiple meanings almost every sentence. too bad i cant read.
or too bad I can't write
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