I feel so horrible when I listen to Jordan Peterson telling his students that they are capable of reaching their goals because if they weren't they wouldn't be in university. I'm not in Uni, never been close to even being considered for it. I'm jealous that his reassurance isn't placed on me. The voice that keeps playing in my head is saying "You're not the people he's speaking about, you haven't worked hard ever. You're the type of person he talks about when informing people of the chaos to avoid" I sag into my chair and just stare into nothingness while the voice continues droning on. The realization dawns on me that I will always be a step below the average joe. My ego takes from that thought to mean I should stop trying, my fates been sealed. If I can't be above people in status then I'm a nobody. How noble. I struggle with social anxiety, and it's been a fair amount of time since I quit my last job. I keep making excuses for myself, the scenario is never perfect enough for me to take action. I get intensely motivated and then crash into the ground hard. Despite what people say about failure, I find it of little use. I don't learn from it important lessons, instead I learn of my inability to live a life of worth to society. I've always been a failure, at school, at work. I'm the guy who drops the product on the floor, who miscounts and has to make everyone recount because of my mistake. The guy people have to watch over because they're worried I'll fuck things up. I try so hard to try and persuade myself that I'm capable, but I've never been able to actually perform in such a manner. The things I'm "good" at I'm mediocre at best. I've played guitar for so long, but can barely play anything correctly or fully. Writing is one of the subjects I was able to perform at a college level with a decent grade, and I'm still mediocre at best. I don't even know how to structure this fucking rant. I'm guessing where each period and ever paragraph should be placed or end. The more I reflect on myself the less hope I feel. I could cherry pick some quality about myself that I think is good, but they've never been put to the test. I say I wouldn't bully people, but I was never popular enough to really know for sure. I say I would defend others with my life, but I can't know for sure. My arrogant mental construction of myself is some holly wood movie star. A ranger riding into town, stoic and uncompromising to the rule of law. What a pathetic joke. Maybe this blog and my rantings will cause some change in my thinking. Maybe putting these feelings into words will help alleviate the symptoms. But so far, there's been little progress. God speed.
Summer breeze don't feel so distant, now that the hours past Early morning, I close my eyes to die. Then all these memories, start coming in followed by the cold November winds all again. Summer heat is paralyzing, coaxing me to sleep I'll find a place where the sun isn't blinding me. But all these memories start plaguing me awaking from my reverie, to the cold wind and snow. The unrelenting November wind, again.
I can't stop feeling angry at the display of hostility I witnessed while watching the debate on political correctness. Jordan Peterson was once again the target of a group of people so far up their own asses it's a wonder they can't smell their own shit. The most controversial point in the debate revolved around pro PC speaker Micheal Dyson, who by his own babble will inform you within seconds of his race, and Jordan Peterson once again on trial for thinking. Dyson proclaimed to the audience that Peterson was just an angry white man, whilst mockingly repeating words and thoughts Peterson conveyed in a disgusting display of childish disdain. I have never seen such a blatant display of racism so proudly applauded in what was supposed to be a civil debate. Simply for being white, Dyson prescribed to know everything about Peterson. His justification for his slander was more an attack, mocking that someone could be offended by such a thing, especially a privileged WHITE male. I'm no fucking scientist, and hell I'm probably not that bright. But that line of thinking to me would seem to be something that would create a perpetual circle of racism and division. The very thing people like him claim to want to end. Someone has to stop the cycle, you can't expect to exact revenge on a group of people for the actions of their ancestors and expect the next generation not to do the same! Not even accounting for the fact that the majority of white people had nothing to do with slavery, and were themselves oppressed individuals under monarchy's and tyrants! I can't even articulate the amount of bullshit spewn from the mans mouth, I'm so angry that society accepts these views as rational. Like saying people of color can't be racist. It just baffles my mind how anyone could accept that as being true!
Explorer's Journal Entry We should never have disturbed such a sacred place, I feel within me a divine guilt which threatens to stain my soul. These tunnels twist and turn unnaturally the further we venture. In my heart, though I dare not express it to my companions, I fear we shall never again see the light of day. We've exhausted our supply of grog, and morale has taken a noticeable decline. Fredrick still radiates hope, and if not for him the expedition would have fallen to mutiny long ago. Strict rationing has begun, and we spend most of our time in the darkness, following a single dim torch cept for our daily communal around our supply cart where the remaining food and water is portioned out, and where we can feel like men in each others company and not a pack of rats skulking in the dark. What relic is worth traversing such a place? I cannot shake the feeling that we may be descending into hell itself, but such is a testament to Fredrick's leadership. Many say they would follow men there, not many get the chance...
I can't seem to sleep at the right times, and always seem tired at the wrong times. I thought I finally got myself back on schedule, but after waking up to see only a half hour had passed I gave up wasting another night thrashing back and forth in my bed. Sometimes I try and convince myself I have some medical condition that's causing it. I try to convince myself a medical condition is causing all my issues actually, but I digress. The truth is that I don't want morning to come. I don't want that alarm to go off, I don't want to groom myself, I don't want to walk out into the world again. I hate it out there. I'm inadequate, unworthy of the life I've been given. Shame, that's what I feel the most. If you're beginning to pity me, please don't. I'm not a good person, in thought or in action. I'm petrified of being judged yet I judge everyone mercilessly. I judge how people look, yet am afraid to show myself. I judge peoples endeavors yet never dare to try myself. I'm a coward. The troll behind a monitor spewing fake knowledge and morality from a throne built from shit and failure. My issues all stem from being an absolute ASSHOLE. But any time I repress what I am I know I'm just being fake. I just want to stop hating people for no reason other than my own paranoid delusions about them. Even those closest to me aren't immune to it. I think terrible things about people I love sometimes, and in my moments of clarity it tears me apart. End of Captain's Log, Stardate 43125.8.
"Hello! Is anybody hearing this!? please respond!" Emily's voice quivered in unison with the moaning and thrashing of the older man outside the door. She couldn't help but stare in disbelief at the mans face. Thick coatings of blood stuck to his mouth and cheeks, and his nose was completely removed, exposing a cavern of gore which would have in regular circumstances made Emily throwup the entirety of her body. But to her surprise she couldn't feel her body, the fear had rendered her numb. Her hand reached again the to speaker which coiled to the cruisers radio. "Please..I don't know what to do, I'm in a police car on Ennersdale and I'm trapped, I'm two blocks west from the R.P.D. Is anyone out there?.." she whispered as loud as she could As her fingers released the push-to-talk on the small radio a sickening smack of flesh on the passenger side window sent her quivering and sobbing lower into the seat. The man, if she could still call it that, looked pristine compared to the rest she had seen, until she noticed the gaping hole in his cheek exposing red muscle and yellowed teeth coated with crimson. His dark beard concealing the monster he has become at certain angles. She dared not look at the torn ragged flesh of the faces that surrounded her now, mindless husks mutilated and... hungry. It was hard not to logically conclude that this was but a dream, a nightmare in her mind. These people were acting like the undead in the movies, and that just wasn't possible. "It's just a dream, it's only a dream! Wake up! Wake up!" she screamed, trying her best to mute the moaning and the smacking of flesh on glass. "Ok, think just think!" she whispered, steadying her breath as she glanced around the cabin, careful not to look directly at the bearded man outside the passenger side window as she opened the glove box. A new wave of hope emerged as she glimpsed the pistol resting within. Without hesitation she grasped it in her hands and savored the safety it seemed to radiate. Emily hadn't noticed how bad she was trembling until she saw the gun in her hand shaking. She couldn't keep her hands steady no matter how much she tried, and any progress calming herself was soon unraveled as another body clashed against the cruiser. Finally peering around to assess the situation fully she noticed that there were now four of those things clawing at metal to get to her, and a dozen or so slowly dragging dead limbs closer to her position. There was no way she could get out, even if she could outrun these things the fear paralyzed her completely from exiting this safe haven. Like killing a spider, her body would freeze right before she could pull the trigger. She set her eyes on the gun in her hands, the shaking still sending its barrel every which way. She had seen enough movies to figure this out she thought. As she pulled back the slide,her shaking hands losing grip and in her panic her finger squeezed the trigger. The loud deafening boom was soon replaced with a ringing so loud it left her dazed. She could see the cracking glass in front of her, as another body reached over the hood and smacked its arms against the windshield. The cracks emanating from the round hole the bullet had produced. Tears began streaming uncontrollably down her cheeks, her trembling hands still grasping tightly the only hope left. The dozen or so undead husks turned quickly as the minute passed into a horde, attracted no doubt by the loud bang. Emily had seen what these things did, the way they grasp and tear away at flesh. The screams of pain let out by the victims. She could still hear his screams. The man she had left her home for, her family for, the man she left it all behind for to come to the god forsaken place. She could still hear his cries for help, and she remembered them growing louder as she ran. The tears subsided and her hands steadied, as she stared into the lifeless crowd before her she accepted what she had to do. She didn't deserve a quick death, but she didn't deserve to be torn apart either. She placed the barrel on her chest, where she knew her heart to be. She took one last breath which was tainted with the acrid smell of gunpowder before pulling the trigger. The shock sent her aback, gasping for air and she dropped the pistol. Her ears once again rang, deafening her to the dead outside. She began thinking of home, as the world around her faded to darkness. The world appeared once again from the darkness, hungry it smacked its body against the door.
The page is dirty and hard to read This dilapidated city has long overstayed its welcome to me now. What's really changed? This chaos has been here all along, hidden from view to most, but it was always here. In some ways I'm relieved to be rid of the illusion, and this wave of solace cannot be put into words. I've spent many days in this garden..but I've never been able to really appreciate it until today. Life blooms in this dying city still, amidst the moaning voices of the dead.
A single page seems to have been torn from a journal April 5th 1998 It's been a long time since I set pen to paper, but I'm resolute on making this a habit. I had read somewhere that its takes 30 days to make or break a habit, and it just so happen that I can test this out for myself with my current endeavor. I'll keep things brief for now, I don't wish for this to become burdensome just yet. It will be two months tomorrow since I moved to Raccoon City and I can hardly believe it. It feels like only a moment ago that I arrived. Working at the R.P.D has certainly been interesting. It's tough work cleaning that behemoth of a building, but I get the perk of pretending to be a cop every now and then during the late nights. There's always a few officers around on night shift but the place is so massive that you could feasibly go the entire night without seeing another living soul. I asked around and Luke, my dirt fighting partner told me the place used to be a museum before the city re-purposed it as the new Police station. Supposedly Chief Irons has a lot of influence in this town and by the decorative nature of the station, seems to be a real art freak. I'm sure he had some part in making this their new home. Well, the suns finally up and that means it's time for me to sleep. Night shifts can get a little depressing, but I find the city is the most beautiful when the rats that infest it huddle in their dwellings. Farewell for now.
The past few months I've been listening to a man called Jordan Peterson about a plethora of subjects, it developed into a YouTube rabbit hole binge watching spree daily as he would always seem to be in my feed. Browsing the comments I would see cries of gratitude over how Peterson had changed their lives. One after the other they seemed to be born again. So why am I not in the group of people that gets motivated to change my life when I watch and read Petersons work, or anyones work for that matter? Why am I just as apathetic after as I was before? Destiny? Am I not supposed to move yet? Am I "lazy", and if so what makes me lazy and apathetic? What I ( IT) discovered is that no one can truly claim ownership over greatness, you did not make yourself who you are, you simply are what you are. It's in ones nature to be what they were meant to be. I'm disconnected enough from the great deeds of my life to know this now. Free will is an illusion, even as I write this I have no real agency. I don't choose which words come to mind or what emotions dictate if I delete a sentence or add another. We are adrift with very little, if any agency over what we do. So well is the system designed (Or so horribly) that we cannot truly prove or disprove free will. Our belief is determined by things outside our control once again, like how "we" feel about the subject. Why do I feel a certain way about one thing and another way about another? Why does history interest me and bore you? Pre determined interests influenced by the actions and teachings(Programming) of people who themselves have no agency over how they feel or act..and so on and so forth and back to the start. In closing I would like to simply allow whatever comes to mind to be written upon this canvas, and as I really have no say over the matter because I is an illusion, here it is. Actually, what is I? If what I proposed is true it would suggest that the I is literally...an EYE, an observer. Does this observer truly have no control over what happens? Of course not, instead my argument should be that the observer CAN have agency over its actions but biology is it's master and it rules supreme with an iron fist. It would take tremendous mental fortitude to break free of its rule and live "free". But then the question remains, what is I? Where do the interests and the narrative come from. Can we truly claim ownership over random connections and sparks of the brain? I don't believe I can. I have no agency in this department, language is being thrust forth into my "vision" to place down to describe the train of thought my brain has been on for the last little while. I certainly didn't choose to be interested in the question that arose to myself that led me to start writing this bizarre, definitely pretentious piece of shit. I lost my place, or did whatever it is try to sabotage me because I was close to the truth......paranoia?
It's amusing to me how hard it is for me to quit a job. To quit is to take the easy way out is it not? No, each time you quit you bump the difficulty of everyday life up a notch, it's a cruel world. Respite for a moment, torture for many more. I've been here before, jobless, aimless but never as old as I am now. Inspiration floods in for a moment then vanishes without a trace, how can I stay on a path when I lose sight right before a hidden turn? I'm so tired, a part of me wants to live so badly and I don't want to hold it back anymore. But whatever I am in here just wants to sleep, I want to escape into a fantasy world and live the rest of my days out in peace, whatever peace may be...At this point I'm unsure if peace equates to apathy or some feeling I've never experienced or have long forgotten. On the bright side, it's a new day and most things remain possible. I think that's the scariest part of it all, no obstacles in your way but unable to win the day. That rhymed and was simply divine, would you mind if I continued to Rhyme and bust a rap so epic and fat? I'm a mountebank, living so large like I am a bank, I argue like a sophistry but I never got nothing from it I ain't no Socrates. 29.99 and you're living the dream, I swear it on your mother you'll love my disease. Open wide and shut your eyes time to make my millions on your demise! SON YO! SHIT THAT WAS TIGHT SON. Fuck this shit I'm going to bed.
I liked this comment I made, I think it belongs in my blog for nobody to even see anyways. DERHGEJHEJOB Wake up, start ruminating over working in the factory alone for 9 hours. Can't hear, cold, feet hurt. Get home, so tired that I can't enjoy anything but laying down. Wake up, start all over again. Friday roles around, asked if I want overtime. I need it, I need the money I need it to move out of here. I say yes, I'm a broken man for the next week on the edge of ending it all. I say no, I'm a mental wreck, beating myself up over lost opportunity and being a little bitch. The extra day off is wasted anyways. There's no winning, when you have no plan or prospects other then living and dying in a factory you might as well just be dead. Yeah sure, people have it worse, and I'm really sorry they do but I just can't hack it. Waking up with dread, looking at the clock tick by waiting for another work day dreading every second. The truth is, if you didn't wise up in high school the system dumps you into a well. If you got family that loves and supports you ( You need both ) they can lift you out, if not you're shit out of luck. You're going to have to claw your way out, and the walls are so slippery that one bad day or week can send you down to the bottom again. I'm making progress, downward. Every job I get is worse then the last, I burn all my bridges because I'm a miserable asshole every second of the day. I make it impossible for myself to turn around if I make a wrong turn, instead I'm forced to trek deeper into the dark tunnel hoping it leads to the surface and not deeper into the dark. I can't remember the last time I was happy for more then 30 minutes. Must of been back in high school, I thought I had it all worked out then. Friends I thought would be there by my side through this journey tucked tail and ran when I started to crumble, people I loved I found out never loved me. Family thought it was just a faze, so they left me to rot and decay. So now here I am, struggling with the age old question I'm sure my ancestors all asked. What am I living for? I know for a fact there's suffering ahead, but what I don't know is if it will end when I reach the peak or continue for flowing down the other side for an eternity. Shit..... 10/10 IGN -Haunting, this guys so unhappy it makes me happy 3.5/4 Roger Ebert -Truly a rotting tomato 88% Rotten Tomatoes
I'm getting all misty eyed thinking about the past. My life, who I am is trapped back in the mid 2000's. I'm convinced the best part of me died sometime between then and now and will never return. What remains is a shadow of my former self, I lost the leader and now I'm left alone at the helm facing rogue wave after wave. I feel like I'm inhabiting the mind of someone separate from myself, I have these memories but can't relate to them or believe that it was me that did the things I remember doing.(Sound the horn from inception, we're going deeper) Time has quickened, there's no debating it with me. A year passes at a pace unlike any other in my memory, I don't care if it's false to the world because in my subjective reality it's truth. Time keeps speeding up and I keep slowing down, not a good combination for personal growth. Actually it's more like I enter different zones of time, any suffering is prolonged, and any joy is fast forwarded through. It's driving me insane, I'm morphing into a monster...but maybe that's what I am, what was left behind after the death of the Captain. I don't even want to change, change will mean the death of me and the birth of a new entity. Whatever it is will look back at these memories of me with hate and disgust, and I'll forever be stuck in suffering and fear. I don't believe we are the same people year to year, we hold onto the memories of that which came before us but are just taking our turn at steering the vehicle. Soon I'll be dead, but this body will still be walking. Like one day whatever takes over as "me" will open its eyes in the morning and won't have a clue that it isn't me. Crazy idea, and hard to articulate but I'm about 49 percent convinced it's the truth. Anyways......it was a dark and stormy night.....and this blog post was fucked up mate.
