158 lines
9.3 KiB
Plaintext
158 lines
9.3 KiB
Plaintext
_____________________________________________________________________________
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---------------------------- I Bleed for This? ------------------------------
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------04.07.96-----------------------------------------------------#045------
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Please Let me Out
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by Jason Farnon
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"... because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones
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who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be starved, desirous
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of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say
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a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow
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roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in
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the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes
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'Awww!'"...
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-- Jack Kerouac
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I'm old. Really fucking old. I don't write anymore. I don't want to. I
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don't want to do anything anymore. What I swore would never happen to me
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because I would never let it, has happened. Again I will impose my
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experiences on you because I am too feeble to fight my own perspective and
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imagine that others might have different experiences; I impose and at the
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same time excuse my failures by saying that the same exact thing will
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happen to you; and there isn't a fucking thing you can do about it. Suicide
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is still the only noble cause. It will happen to you because you will
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never expect it to, because my warnings will fall on deaf ears, and because
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you were never brought up to fight such a powerful force - that is if you
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even bothered to fight in the first place. Or if you ever thought it was a
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force to begin with. I used to write long essays about trying to stop this
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from happening to other people, and in the meantime the cancer has spread
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to me.
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Now, my only vices are a few good friends, making plans that will never
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happen, a replacement cat (yes, Kiesa is dead), alcoholism, and fleeting
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impulses of wanderlust. Even those will eventually fade, and I'll be left
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with my old decrepit body as a trophy for my accomplishments in this world
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run by people who band together in fascist groups to clash against
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something, anything, when in reality they accomplish the same exact goal;
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absolutely nothing.
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Apathy has set in. The desire to burn is seeping out, and I am slowly
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being assimilated into the society I swore so fucking loudly I would
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have no part in. How did it happen? As expected, very gradually.
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Things happened I can say I had no control of. I needed money for
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school. I needed school so I could get a job and make more money to
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support myself. "Money is important", Dad said. "In America you don't
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get anywhere without money. I'm getting old, I won't be able to
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support you for much longer."
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Let me make something clear: I had full control over the things that
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have destroyed me. I just didn't have the courage or self confidence
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to fight my life sentence. It was much easier to agree with what they
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said was the next course of action in my life, then doing what I
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wanted to do. I guess I figured making everyone else happy was more
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important, and I'd learn to like my situation eventually. Well I
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didn't and all I'm left with are sleep deprivation and the prayer that
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my liver doesn't give out too soon. The world is a scary place when
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you are sober.
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So I got a job making decent money for a boy with no chest hair. Dad was
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very proud. He told everyone how accomplished his son was, and for a
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second I wasn't the loser who dropped basketball at the peak of his
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"career". I was something dad could be proud of. That held me up for a
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while. But I hated everyone at work. The stupid people didn't deserve to
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live, and the few smart ones weren't kicking any ass with their
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intelligence, so they were a waste too. As you can imagine, when I entered
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the work-force, over the years I had accumulated innumerable social skills
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hunched over an 8088 laptop at 3am with a bowl of ramen spilled on my
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unwashed pants.
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So I either mumbled or growled at everyone I saw. "How was your weekend
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Jason? Do anything interesting?" was a question I hated. Why the fuck
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would you want to know what I did this weekend you stupid motherfucker.
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"You don't care about me or anything I do, and the person who taught you
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that should have their asshole expanded with a frisbee" would have been my
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choice response, but I usually got away with "Fine". They were amazed
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that I didn't complete the mindless circle by asking them how their
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weekend was. When I finally got the hang of asking them, I just couldn't
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fake the fact that I didn't give a shit. My voice was generally some form
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of sarcasm, as I was hoping that they wouldn't start telling me some
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story. Did I look like I cared? I was being paid to program, not to have
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people try to convince me that their lives had some shred of significance.
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I got by because I had computer skills; plain and simple. I didn't know how
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to dress; I didn't know how to make presentations at meetings; I didn't know
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how to make a customer feel welcome; I didn't know how to take a compliment;
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but I sure could make that computer do stuff! Writing code, alone, all day
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is the kind of work environment I strive for, so all was well. I got away
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with my sarcasm and sneers because my workers lived vicariously through me;
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at the time, a young punk. They were young once, and missed those days when
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they actually had some choices. Now there is that god-awful home life they
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have to come home to. Their only excitement is the porn they find on the net
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(believe me they found a lot), and calling phone sex hotlines on their
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cellular phones when they are stuck in traffic during the rush hour commute.
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They are pathetic asses, and at least back then I kicked some ass. They
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watched me at least begin to question how things worked around there, and I
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was cheered on because it was something they would never dare to do. Less
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out of fear and more out of plain, disgusting apathy.
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But working fifty hours a week, sometimes more, finally took its toll. I had
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more money than I knew what to do with, and I didn't do anything with it.
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Eventually it will go towards my pathetic college education, where I will pay
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more than seven thousand dollars a quarter to not go to some classes.
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Eventually I'll get some piece of paper and they'll have to pay me more at
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work. Yay!
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At first I didn't change how I lived, but exhaustion slowly set in. I didn't
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have the energy for both worlds, and I definitely could not disappoint the
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working one. A long, long time ago, I used to watch my friend's parents come
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home after work, lie down on the couch, and watch their brain leave stains on
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the carpet as they blankly stared at Webster and Family Ties re-runs. I
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always wondered why they didn't do something interesting after work. Now I
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know why.
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I just didn't have the energy to do anything. I was pissed at the world, and
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I knew what was wrong, but I just didn't feel like doing anything. I just
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didn't care that much. I was becoming a pathetic pseudo-intellectual (the
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fat ass comes when you enter your 30s), and the awful thing was instead of
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being sickened by myself, I was becoming content with my situation. Better
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than the morons who don't know what the fuck is going on, right?
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Everything else followed. Take their jokes. Goddamn their fucking jokes.
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They were never funny. They were just stupid. Failed attempts at humor.
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Stupid fucks. I always hated their sad struggles. And one day I found
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myself making their stupid jokes. Jokes I knew were stupid but I knew we
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would all enjoy. I laughed along; I even thought they were funny. At least
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I had the decency to bash something in that night. They probably came home
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and retold the jokes to their fat ugly wives.
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I wouldn't have been able to write any of this unless I had started drinking
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when I did. Thank God for the bottle. It is another one of their poisons,
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but I will take it over indifference any day. Luckily I have warped my mind
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enough that a good amount of cheap vodka will have my mind reeling into a
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time when everything was a possibility, and I still had the hope that one day
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I would be happy. Now I can look forward to a short trip to Europe before I
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leave college. Having my own place will be cool, but the novelty of that
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will wear off too quickly, and I will be right where I started. I could take
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satisfaction in my job, but there is no satisfaction when you look at the end
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result.
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And while I'm sitting here laughing my fucking head off at an obscure
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Simpsons reference and feeling like hot shit, the world is rotting quicker
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than ever and the stench doesn't seem to even bother me. Do you even
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remember when you smelled it everywhere, it was so fucking thick you could
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cut it with a knife, and you spent restless nights plotting against it
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knowing nothing would make you happier than to destroy it? Do you remember
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when you didn't laugh at IBFT? Immaturity, hardly. Fuck You.
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==============================================================================
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IBFT: No matter how hard you laugh with or at it, you'll NEVER get it.
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http://www.amherst.edu/~mcspinks/ibft/ibfthome.html
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email: mcspinks@unix.amherst.edu
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ftp://ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/IBFT The Eleventh Hour (617)696-3146
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==============================================================================
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