So I wanna fucking hit somebody get hit get beatdown lose a fight to someone who is in the wrong and I don't even know why.
Oh, yeah, shit, I was on the clock for three and a half hours today.
Extenuating circumstances of twelve hours out of the house don't count, nor do fucking lazy ass shithead boo fucking hoo the hours I spend between jobs or on public transport I just want to hit somebody get hit shit in a hole in the dirst club my dinner alpha's dinner to death before I get it stolen sleep outside the warmth of the fire watch the engines flame out toss a hand grenade into cargo class from the fucking cargo bay we were born to be slaves, we have always been slaves we deserve to be slaves my bucket list what keeps me alive is the watching the release of nuclear weapons on a civilian population on the BBC or even better from the rooftop bedtime good night fuckit.
There's a weird vibe on the boards lately, something in the wind that doesn't feel right.
Not sure where it's going, but snark and sass seem to be the order of the day. Offenders? Dunno, nobody, everybody, somebody, somebody not new, somebody just new. Little things getting picked at, the edges of the scabs running a tad raw and everyone's out of that grease that Gramma carried in her purse, combination lip balm scrape lotion thread loosener hinge oiler spice, none left, tube's dry and the bits are starting to squeak where they rub up against each other, but the squeaks are turning from metal against metal to metal versus metal, small shavings falling off between the hinge plates and the pin.
Grooves, and not the groovy kind.
Is this just a phase, is this just part of the normal ebb and flow, the combined breathing and pulse and circulation of fifty thousand mostly quiescent minds bumping against each other in this little corner of the the vast consensual hallucination that Mr. Gibson and DARPA bequeathed us, or is it a sign of something larger, the growing lack of incivility that Horace noted so recently? Or is it just a figment of my imagination, is the break already starting to chafe? I need to be at work in a few hours, but here I am, tapping away, man was made for work and toil and strife, not electric light and heat and instantaneous connection with the outside world across the seas and continents, for most of our history we were prey, and then we were slaves, which amounts to the same thing but the master doesn't kill you cleanly, he eats you day by day over decades, we aren't cut out for this, not for freedom, not for choice, we were born to fear and lacking that fear, we grow to fear everything, which is as it should be, is that a stick or a snake, are you hungry enough to eat those new berries, was that the wind in the grass or a lion?
The Spartan helots were mandated a certain number of beatings, whether or not they behaved, so they didn't forget their place.
Battlestar Galactica: The Rebootening was actually a pretty good series, but reflecting back on it, I realize that the parts that I liked best were the beginning and the end.
Not just the beginning showing us that an interplanetary civilization can (and will, if we get to that point) be taken down by lust, but that moment-
-that wonderful moment-
-when a hostile actor decides that things will start and end with vernichtung.
The Cylons were pretty much carpet-nuking Caprica when the traitor (Traitor? He never did run that test on himself, did he?) Gaius Baltar escaped. When the humans offered unconditional surrender, they were met with...
…silence, and more bombs.
The perfect end to an imperfect story, but not the ending we got.
Five or eight or seven seasons later, after squirming like an earthworm on the sidewalk under the magnifying-glass focused Cylon sun, the remaining colonists... colonize, finding another new planet to replace the scorched Earth.
And we know what happens when the colonizers come calling, don't we?
St. Iain (not me you fucking dolt, the author. No, I'm just a writer, and not a very good one at that. Try and focus, will you?) tells us that:
After the death of (acting) President (Education Secretary or some unlikely shit) Palin, Commander William “Hüsker Dü” Adama spends the rest of his short life jumping in and out of a lake that thinks it's a gin and tonic. The rest of the doughty crew and survivors of the S.S. (spaceship) Minnow, who, despite having lost all their guns when the sole surviving professional athlete in the universe stole the fleet and set the controls for the heart of the sun, are still able to use their ignorance of germs and knowledge of steel to exterminate the local “missing link” autochthones, save for a raped few whose partial DNA survived long enough to confuse things for future genealogists.
And so it ends, with a race escaping genocide perpetrating genocide.
I've just awoken from a dream, the last clean flight into the plague apocalypse, flying over familiar territory, the forests and fields of Canada, cars lined up and abandoned at checkpoints, corpses. The opposite of Gradia 452, and on arrival, all the usual things were going wrong.
Also, US senator Bernie Sanders was aboard.
That didn't work out well for him.
Mrs A has a cold. A pretty nasty one, fever nearly 40c.
She's been to the doc, it's not influenza, just one hell of a cold, he gave her some meds to help out.
So yeah, she's taking the day off.
But when I got home from work, she was asleep in bed. She heard me come in, her eyes opened in a kind of unfocused way and...
...towards the end, her brain squeezed by tumors and pummeled by surgeries, her consciousness slowly sublimating into oblivion.
That was not a good feeling.
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