129 lines
6.0 KiB
Plaintext
129 lines
6.0 KiB
Plaintext
s$
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$$ .d""b. .d""b. HOE E'ZINE #1093
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[-- $$""b. $$ $$ $$ $$ -- ------------------------------------------- --]
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$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ss$$ "Am I Better Than This?"
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$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ by, Dagolith
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$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ 06/14/00
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[-- $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ -- ------------------------------------------- --]
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$$ $$ "TssT" "TssT"
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I entered this little reality that I'm going to call the spherical
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idiocy. I was walking around the spherical idiocy and wondering what I was
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really doing at 8:10 PM watching network television and trying in vain to
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sleep while constantly avoiding the cold touch of a renegade wallet chain.
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I just laid, tossing and turning. Turning back and fourth every
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little stupid indescrepency in the more or less scriptable life I lead.
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"How am I going to pass my class? Does this girl like me? Shit! She's not
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at school! Oh my god what happened to her?? She didn't call me! IS SHE
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DEAD??"
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You know... run of the stupid genericized teen stuff... the
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brandy-wine mix of paranoia and false optimism.
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And in the swirling tempest of insomnia, and a distant feeling of
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laziness, I conjured up a question that I really couldn't rip apart with
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the tin falsifications that I so dishearteningly bring upon myself when
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such hollow little inaccuracies smack right into the daze I call
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adolescence.
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But it was different... more solid, more stupid... more jagged.
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I'm not really sure about the exact structure of the question; it
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was one of those infractions that you can't sum up into words, but hell...
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Ill give it a quick try.
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Something like:
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"Damn it, what if you aren't the smart kid you always thought
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you were... and you're mildly above-average intelligence is being grounded
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by your drug use and almost total and complete vegetation in front of some
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sort of media source."
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Yeah, that's a pretty good summery... except I think when it came
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to me; I could have sworn that the word 'fuck' was present a lot. Oh well.
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I'm just strange like that.
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Well, as this spherical bit of reality was about to concave in on
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itself, as most things in my brain usually do, a quick flicker of reality
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touched me: "Maybe this is right? Perhaps this whole image of myself is
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the most flawed example of analysis that has ever been my duty to bring
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forth... perhaps everything that I have done is only seems better because
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I live in a falsified little world. Perhaps I'm just a total idiot..."
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Cold and puzzled, I got up and pulled my Che Guevara shirt down over my
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exposed mid-section, and walked over to my door.
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You see, my door is the magical barrier between totally dissension
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of reality and the shrapnel that is lobbed upon my lofty perch in the sky
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by the flack cannons of reality. What that means is this: every time I
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leave the cover of my room, I will most likely receive a healthy dose of
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flack.
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In this case, the flack was in the form of compost duty.
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I walked outside and found it pungently waiting for me on the porch
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bench. It always amazed me how compost was composed. It always had certain
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genotypes that gave it a mainstay, but there was always the element of
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rarity that would make each trip just a little more disgusting as you
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could never second guess the way it would fly out of the bucket and into
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the compost pile--sending little bomblets of coffee grounds and vegetable
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soup flying in all directions and ultimately ruining your favorite Che
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Guevara shirt.
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I walked outside and looked at the grass, it was looking green...
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somehow that was strange to me, but then again the sun is strange to me so
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my credibility on such subjects is greatly defamed.
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Splat.
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I returned to the cave and realized I was thirsty, I also realized
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that I had a big glass of water sitting on the computer case masquerading
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as a coffee table that sits in the center of my room. I then realized that
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I had been enduring this dehydration for some time... yet allowed it to
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remain while the glass of water stared mockingly at me.
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WAS I DELIRIOUS? AM I SICK? DAMN IT STOP THINKING! I'M GETTING TIRED
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OF THIS REALITLY#!@#$
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I woke up and took a drink. I woke up and took another drink. I
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got up and stared at the flickering blue screen, I saw more network
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television. I then saw more network television. Sensing that there was
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no end if sight I got up and pulled my shirt down over my mid-section.
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And approached my computers.
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Ow, my foot hurts.
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The screen was off, so I turned it off. This managed to turn it
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on. I was pleased.
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I opened a random text file sitting brazenly on my desktop: "I love
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you... but I must kill you..."
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Ctrl-A...Del.
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I started to type, at 1st in a haze and then slowly my mind began
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to clear, I can't say that I like the clearing, but it made more sense.
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And since sense is supposed to be better than haze. I figured anything
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is worth trying once.
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And I kept typing letters and those letters formed words and those
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words formed sentences and those sentences formed broken little thoughts.
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I began to type paragraphs but thoughts where better and I really think
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that if you want to expand yourself and you have the choice of expression
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or philosophical its really not going to work.
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There was more typing and some deleting, a sprinkle of doubting all
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baked at 350 degrees until proofread. But I forgot to cook and it just ate
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the dough.
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And now it's done and I'm sitting with a searching look on my face,
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looking at everything that I thought would be so clear in white and black.
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It's gone from expression to paragraphs. From reflection to impression,
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from everything a stupid tale about a white kid to a stupid tale about
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everything he thought was real.
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Real isn't a stupid white kid.
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[-------------------------------------------------------------------------]
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[ (c) HOE E'ZINE -- http://www.hoe.nu HOE #1093, BY DAGOLITH - 6/14/00 ]
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