131 lines
7.0 KiB
Plaintext
131 lines
7.0 KiB
Plaintext
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Purpose
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-------
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I have no snappy intro, so pardon my lack of a professionally written
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essay.
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Lately, having been on the F.U.C.K mailing list for a little while, it
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seemed to me that the files F.U.C.K once had has been reduced to angst
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driven generation x'ers whining about how bad their life is, usually
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dealing with depression, chemical or not, first and foremost. That's
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what my shallowest thought was at first, at least, and I rebuked
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myself for thinking that.
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Everyone gets depressed, sure, and I'm not one to argue. I've got
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depression, yes, chemical, and in the last year it's become a large
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chunk of my life. But in the past few years, I've also gotten to be
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close friends with many people who's depression far surpasses mine.
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To me, my depression seems to be small mood swings (although I'm not
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manic), while they truly seem to be on the brink of killing
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themselves at a moment. Most everything about yourself, you'll find,
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can easily be dwarfed by someone else, somewhere else.
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Dragging someone back from the pits of suicide can take quite a toll,
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and it's an experience that I've re-lived a few times, that I care
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not to repeat. Saving someone's life is not the glory the movies
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make it to be, not the beauty that the books say it is. Keeping
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someone alive was one of the most difficult things I'd ever attempted
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to do, and even then, the very concept was thrust upon me suddenly.
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And this is what I realized, among all these emotional shards, and
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after wading through the bullshit about myself. You let someone into
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your life, and you care for them, and then whatever deity you happen
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to worship takes this person in your life and threatens to have them
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leave forever. Right then, you find that you'll do something at all
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costs to keep them with you.
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"I'm alive, I'm alone, but I never wanted to be either of those."
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-Chemical Brothers
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Many of you out there reading this have sat in a room for days,
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dark, silent, brooding upon whatever went wrong in your life.
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More often than not, you're by yourself. No one is going to sit
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in a room and brood with you, for days, with no food, no light,
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no words. So you don't want to live. Too bad. You're alive.
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Now, the secondary things take effect. You're alive, yes, and let's
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say that you don't have the guts to take your own life; to just
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flush it all away in a tidalwave of pills or with a few delicate
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arcs of a razor. How are you going to live?
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Do you want to live alone?
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When I asked myself that question, my mind, of course, threw
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myself back into the past where many, many people I've let
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close to me had hurt me, scarred me in ways that still affect me.
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"Of course", I had decided. "Alone sounds beautiful at times."
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It hasn't been all bad experiences, however. Think down your
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past, or present, perhaps. There's been a person who, at one time,
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gave a damn about you, and possibly still does. Human companionship
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is something that's kept me alive a few times. It's time to ask
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yourself why you're not dead yet, but you want to die.
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Well.
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So.
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You're still alive.
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Unconsciously, you're living for something, whether you like it or
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not. Something is making you get up every day, and making you walk
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past the loaded .44 that you have in your dresser drawer, and making
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you pass by the large steak knife that has had no sole purpose in your
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kitchen otherwise. What is it? In most cases, it's human
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companionship. Perhaps you live for the injection of the needle into
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you, every morning. Perhaps it's for the sex you can get with just
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a question. Something is keeping you alive.
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Sometimes it's never a fun thing to question who you are, to dig
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deep and analyze what makes you a person, but it's apparent from past
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issues that many of you already know who you are, and that you're not
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afraid to dwell deep into yourself when the moment calls for it.
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So. Analyze what keeps you alive. It's something. Once you can label
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what it is, keep that thought. Kindle it, keep it close to you and
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shield it from any possible damage. Because if you lose that, then you
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lose everything. Literally. All of it.
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Maybe the bleakness of death hasn't exactly looked you into the
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face yet, or for some of you, maybe you awake finding death looking
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at you. Either way, you're either foreign or familiar with it. Do you
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fear it? I do. I believe there's nothing after death. No pretty
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afterlife, sorry, no bright lights and angels. So I've made up my
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mind that if I want to be happy, I'm going to go out and make myself
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happy. I'm not about to sit on my ass and wait for a clown to walk
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through my door and start tying balloon animals in front of my
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face, while I sit, amused. Those sorts of things really don't happen.
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I promise. And sometimes, I find that one person is the only thing
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that makes me want to live. The fact that I have someone. At all.
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And maybe I don't know what true happiness is. Everyone has a
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different definition, but some people are fooling themselves while they
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drown in their own pool of denial that they've made for themselves to
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escape their reality, and to avoid the fact that there's still options
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open.
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So, are you sitting in front of your monitor, thinking of
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ways to die? Ways to get laid? Ways to be loved? Ways to have sex?
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Ways to get high? Ways to avoid someone? Ways to confront someone?
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Ways to spend the rest of your existence?
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Whatever makes you "happy".
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flood
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= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, Submissions =
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= Mail: jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
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= To receive new issues through mail, mail jericho@dimensional.com with =
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= "subscribe fuck". If you do not have FTP access and would like back =
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= issues, send a list of any missing issues and they will be mailed. =
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= AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
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= FTP.SEKURITY.ORG/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
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= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
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= FTP.ETEXT.ORG/pub/Zines/FUCK =
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= WWW http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
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= http://www.reps.net/~krypt/fuck.html =
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= http://www.simunye.com/fuck =
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= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author. =
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