autumn boy

CSI Fanfics and Others

Thu, 22 Nov 2007 23:33:10 GMT

Yep, I'm a CSIfag. And I'm a 'fic writer.
So do not be surprised to see all of this verbose, copyright infringing shit come tumbling out of this account because BWAHAHA. I can. Or something.
Grissom won't even be able to solve this one OH WAIT I ADMITTED IT ALREADY fuck.

Well months have passed obviously and a lot has happened, not all of which I want to talk about. As always I've been very chaotic because nothing wants to be stable in my life, you know?
Whatever. I'll be posting stuff here soon.

Mon, 19 Mar 2007 01:37:41 GMT

I fell off the face of the Earth.
Well, I should tell you, I have an apartment now, small and cagelike as it is, I am provided with the key to my self-imposed prison. Like a leopard, I return there at night to curl on my floor-based futon and wait for the next afternoon.
At which I rise, consume as much tea as my stomach can handle, and continue my day.
What is my life at the moment?
Relaxation.

I have been through a struggle and I'm taking some time off.
But, as big cats always do... I'll return to the hunt.

Fri, 02 Feb 2007 03:58:48 GMT

Thank you, navigatorsghost for sending me that cashola.
It was greatly appreciated. It went to ID, and food.
And a bottle of strawberry wine.

Thank you, so much again. Your kindness will never go forgotten, and I will indeed, write you some letters.
Thank you again. You have done a lot to ease my "OMGF"ness.

Illiterating on the Highway

Fri, 26 Jan 2007 23:46:48 GMT

Passionate pressing of petal to pilium?
Or wistfully wathing of wat'ry wonders?
Sumptuous silkiness of strong, supple sundries?
Or maybe, milky misgivings of the moving man...
Frivolous, fast touches of finger to frock
Undressing unhurriedly, undone bodies undulate
Beneath burgundy bed-covers, breaths begotten
Of opulent orders, whispered omnipotently over
Alas, allure allows for arousal, albeit aggressive
Culminating in a crashing crescendo of crisp corruption!

Wed, 24 Jan 2007 01:14:02 GMT

Well, fan-fucking-tastic. Just got over a 'haxx0r attax0r' or something.
Whatever.

More updates when I can be arsed.

flowers

Wed, 17 Jan 2007 23:07:08 GMT

I have nothing of simple, cool relevance to say right now. I've got nothing but a flow of repetitive bad luck.
I've got no words of comfort, no sultry movements, no bottles of wine, no, no, no.
It's gonna change.
It's never gonna change.
It's already changed.
Nothing's changed.
I changed my underwear.

Shit.

Wed, 17 Jan 2007 22:49:38 GMT

Time for the fop to be emo. This is a boy hating things.

The money order that Kelly and her mother sent me, bless her heart, can't be cashed. The Post Office changed their policy when it comes to cashing money orders, requiring I have two pieces of identification. I don't have two pieces of ID, and that money in the order was going to be used to purchase me new ID.
I can't get ID because I can't access my money, I can't access my money because I have no ID.
The bit of ID that I did have, my SIN card, Coast Capital Bank card, and my BC CareCard, have gone missing along with my wallet. I think it's somewhere in Winnipeg, and now I can't even go to look.
I just want to fucking cry. I am so tired of things getting in my way, and of my own personal fuck-ups.
There were things I did in Victoria that in the end, helped fuck me over.
There were things beyond my control that helped fuck me over.
There were things others did that helped fuck me over.

Thanks mum, for fucking me over so badly by losing my birth certificate, and abandoning me when you knew I needed help the most, and never answering the multitudes of phone calls or calling me back. I hate you, you useless sackrash. The very fucking least you could have done was call me back on fucking Christmas, when the phone line was free ALL EVENING. I hate you because, like a foolish child I loved you even through all of that shit you put me through, and believed you when you told me those lies that you'd accept me for who I was and that you loved me. It's quite obvious that you don't. I'm no longer convenient to you, and now I'm out of the province so it's easier for you to ignore me. And now you want another child? How about the one you already fucked up with? You cow. You know it hurts me to spout these bitter words, but for fuck's sake.

Thanks dad, for refusing to buy food when I lived with you as a minor. Also, for in lieu of spending time with me even at my repeated request, fucking off to go bang your "big-breasted blonde," which, let's not kid, that's how you referred to her when she wasn't around and when you thought I wasn't listening. Oh wait, in fact, you even joked about it in front of me once or twice. Great, so you don't even respect the woman you're forsaking me for. Goes to show how much of a shit you really give about me, doesn't it? You didn't even stay home at nights anymore. You wouldn't spend time with me, either you were working (which I can understand) or you were too busy spending time with her. You were never around, even when I fucking lived with you.
Story of your life concerning me, ain't it? Never around. When you heard I was starving, your contribution to me was a toonie and a can of cheap tuna. For your only child. Who was starving. I'm not even exaggerating either, dad when I said I hadn't eaten in four days, I FUCKING MEANT IT, and you wouldn't even have me over for dinner.
Also, for being a fucking nasty bastard to me when I dropped out of school to work for my own money to feed myself and do your job for you. In fact, I remember when James was staying with us, paying rent even, you tried to pawn the responsibility off on HIM. My FUCKING FRIEND. When I later moved out with Icarus, you tried to tell him that it was his job to feed me. I was sixteen and seventeen, dad. What the fuck. I know you think I'm some raging failure-case, and that I "never listen" and that I should "be reasonable" and go and live with the one person whom around which I genuinely feel suicidal. No, I'd never do it. But it sure is a comforting thought. "Gee, it's a nice day today, why don't I off myself in mum's room?"
Why can't you ever just accept that I didn't fucking go to some University and become a goddamned doctor or whatever. It's like the only me you'd ever love is the me you see in your mind, holding a stethoscope. I'm not going to be a doctor. But I'm always going to be your child. Why won't you love me for who I am, like you always swore you would? Why do you forsake me for who I'm not? In fact, why do you AND mum do the same thing?
Probably because you never wanted me anyways. You even said so yourself.

I'm done.

for my love

Sat, 30 Dec 2006 09:39:37 GMT

Serpents are swimming in powers that be
Windless and aching are timbers and trees
Silvery flowing in night skies above
Casting a feathered light across cobblestone
Last fading thoughts of the evenings eternal
Lasting an eon and passing less memory
Smoke writes a message unto unseeing eyes
Don't you forget me when darkness unties

tchaikovsky, violin concerto in d, op. 35

Sat, 16 Dec 2006 01:13:38 GMT

And never let anyone tell you I haven't good taste in music.
Tchaikovsky was wondrous, this piece was my favourite. At the time, it was described by a critic as being 'A stink to the human ear.'
And he was gay.

All hail to the underdog.

my dream

Thu, 14 Dec 2006 23:33:52 GMT

I got a text message from a number I didn't know, on a cellphone that in life I do not have. The message was from Korea, and it went on to explain that it was some Asian guy who was coming down there to rape me, and how he'd possibly bring his friend along. Apparently, I knew this guy, and I was supposed to be afraid of him. My only response was a sarcastic grin as I tapped out the keys.

"Why yes, it would be lovely if you would bring your friend, and find me here. I'd greatly enjoy you slipping inside of me, pounding me like the small slave-boy that I am. You know my only reason for existing is to be fucked over and sideways. Please, I accept your offer, come down here, meet me by the traintracks in two days at three. I'll give you what you so desire, and I'll ache in anticipation until you arrive to satisfy and dominate me, so lower than you."

Apparently I was involved in a tight net of several individuals who had the ability to transform into dolphins at will. This boy, a slender Asian fellow of approximately twenty-three, was a Rough-toothed Dolphin with a penchant for bullying, and apparently had me singled out as his object of 'difficult affections' as they were known. I was a Short-Beaked Common Dolphin, and had a reputation of infamy amongst the group of about twenty-five as being a slippery, fellow of artistic inclinations.
It was my intention to kill him.
He was causing too much trouble to be ignored, and encroaching upon my territory with such a mocking threat could not go unpunished. The few who called themselves my pod were threatened by his presence.

When he arrived, I don't remember much after that but in the end, I stood overtop him as he lay splayed on the traintracks. I leaned forward and gave him a kiss, and backed off just as a train smashed him apart.
It was too bad, he had been pretty. His friend that he brought was nice though, and eventually was inducted to the pod, after some swift domination sex on my part, telling him with my cock what low rank he was.
I don't know. I guess it was some kind of mafia arrangement or something, but our existance was threatened.

Whatever. I'm still fantasizing about the dolphin sex and the domination of the Asian boy. I think his name was Kazaworu. He was Japanese, not Korean.
Dude who got the splatz0red was called Jin Song. Kazaworu was a Spinner Dolphin, if I recall correctly.

Sweet. Fucking.

that i wish i could care

Mon, 11 Dec 2006 23:17:41 GMT

So a friend of mine recently wrote in her LJ that she's popped pills and whatnot, and how lost she is, and... Well I just cannot be bothered to deal with this shit anymore. I try and I try, and each time my solutions or hypotheses are not good enough.
She says she's going to be homeless and such, well, jesus H, I offered her a place here. She's defeating herself and summarily closing off any option that there is.

She's been depressed for a long time, and if there's anyone who can understand and furthermore even respect that, it's me. But I give tough love, and it's fucking tough to for me to give said love when it's just cast a blind eye to.

She's got to weigh her fucking options here.
Street;
Or be a guest in my home for a while whilst she gets on her feet.

Again:
Street;
Or be a guest in my home for a while whilst she gets on her feet.

I have spoken to one of the workers here, and I can get on Social Assistance without waiting for any sort of period of time to elapse. Because this worker is awesome.
So, in addition to my commissions and the business that's starting, I'll have that.

Thing is... I don't give a shit.
I don't care how she's feeling right now. I'm numb to it. I don't care that she's feeling depressed, I don't care that she popped pills, I don't fucking care and I feel horrible for not caring.
I don't understand why I don't care, and yet I do.
But I don't care.
And I feel bad about it.
I'm holding my head right now. It's throbbing. It hurts.

OfFeR yoU SheLTEr aND You REfuSE mE,
OFfeR YOu sANcTUaRY aNd yOU MaKe EXcuSeS
I FELl FrOM SKIEs FoR YoU;
I lOSt mY PRiNCe'S cROwN fOR yOU
I CaME HeRE To-DaY FoR yOu
StILL yOu wAnT SOMeThINg yOU cAN NeVeR haVE
SHakIng mY hEAd, I dESCenDED
aNd gAVe yOU aN ANsWEr
wHY do YOu BrEaK ME?
I mADe MySELf pRiNCE aGAIn
oF ThE FoRest yoU Can cOmE To
IcE iS mY ONlY cROwN NOw
LeAVeS mY ONly pArCHmeNT
hAVe My RoYAl sEAL,InvItaTIOn iN FORm OF a SnOWstaR GarLAnd
iN aWaY FRoM lANDs oF tWiSTED pAIn
PoUnD, pOuND, POuND
WiNGs
HeAD

time travel

Mon, 11 Dec 2006 00:04:57 GMT

Listening to the Donnie Darko soundtrack currently. It very much describes my state of mind.
I wish my fingers could dance across a piano, I wish I could romance the notes and make them my own.
I can't really describe what I'm feeling. A general sensation of dysphoria, of broken aura.
It's raining inside my head, and I'm watching from the apartment I have inside my own brain, the rivulets of silver.

I have a building inside my brain. It houses all the people that live there, my subconscious, my different facets that make up myself.
I'm in room 237.
My walls are a royal red, ceilings are off-white. Carpet is black. Furniture mahogany. Shelf with paper, parchment, ink, feather pens, regular pencils... And a large window with red velvet curtains. It overlooks a forest and a courtyard with cobblestones.
Drums are playing somewhere inside, it's probably my subconscious. He's always liked that kind of stuff. Very primal.

My gaze passes to the crystal vase on the desk, and inside of it is a red rose, a yellow rose, and white rose. They never wilt.
I smile.

key lime coolers

Thu, 07 Dec 2006 03:41:48 GMT

That's written on a tin box beside my head.
I put it as the title of this post since it makes no sense to me. There is no link between the words, 'key,' 'lime,' and 'coolers.' I suppose I am just inexperienced at drinking.

I have been wandering around in Manitoba, living here, existing... Whatever.
And I have come to discover this:
I hate cold feet.
I hate the feeling of cold feet.

I got some decent leather boot/shoes, but always my feet are cold for hours. Never do my feet warm up unless I burn them against the glass of the wood stove, begging it like a child begging its mothers' teats, after she scolds him 'Shouldn't you be over this by now!?'
I wish I could cure myself of the addiction of breathing.
It's possibly one of the only addictions one cannot irritably rebuke by saying 'I can stop any time I want to!' and then mull over, in a panicked tone inside their own head, that they've been "found out."

I read somewhere that the most frightening words anyone can say is to whisper, "I know everything" into a man's ear.
Yes, true.
But not if you're happy.

I've been drawing more. I should get a Photobucket, or something.

The house is wonderful. It is sparingly, yet liberally enough for my taste, decorated with dead things.
In the entrance hallway, there is a large dead steer skull staring vacantly out at you. Best welcome home ever.
"Hello death, you have such a pretty face!"

I'm listening to TaTu. I absolutely cannot get over how much Russian tickles my fancy. Tickles my fancy, tickles my dick? What's the difference in the phrase? Yeah, I'll be blunt.
The language makes me hard.
And now I'll make a confession to you:
When watching movies, in the segments in which Russian is spoken... And I mean real Russian, not fake-ass American actors reading lines stiffly in an effort to vaguely emulate the true accent, but when real Russian is spoken... It doesn't matter how ugly or old the actor is, but I close my eyes sometimes and imagine someone else more attractive speaking the language, and... Oh my. It can be angry, sad, or anything else and still. It gets me every time. Every. Time.
I also find English spoken with a Russian accent to be sexy.
I need to learn the language. It'll be vocal masturbation.

My toes are actually numb inside these boots now, and I think my left thumb has nerve damage.
Whatever.
Off to eat, or something.

the tiniest town in hicksville, life

Wed, 29 Nov 2006 03:51:43 GMT

So I'm all moved in, and shit.
Fired my first firearm. Actually blew the hell out of some of my friends' beer cans. I am now, officially, a prairie hick. Arguably, this is the best breed of hick because it's only the Appalachian mountain hicks you hear bad things about...
...
So I'm sitting in this re-vamped barn after a short, -29C walk from the house, to here.
It's 28k dialup. Whoop-de-fucking-dee. It seems that broadband will be coming soon, and then I can get my own machine working in the little room I have.
It has bunkbeds.
I have never felt more overjoyed.

It's not the juvenile 'squee' I am experiencing, but rather the sudden, brick-smashing realization of 'stability' 'squee.' There are varying degrees of the 'squee' effect, which I will explain someday, when I am not summoned into the house to DM a session of D&D between a half ogre, half orc, and a small blue dragon.

@_@
Ferrets?
I want ferrets.
Have ferrets?
I take ferrets!
...?

little shells

Fri, 17 Nov 2006 11:14:41 GMT

I finally acquired food. Shells! Little pasta shells and Ragu sauce of an undeterminate, but nonetheless delicious kind!
Stuffing my small, starving belly with it, I shall then depart for bed.

$225.16 or so to get me to Manitoba on a Greyhound.
I got sacked again, big surprise. My first week surrounded by smiling employees telling me I'm doing a great job, and then I get the sack. I call on my day off to ask what time I'm in, and the dumb bitch on the other end says, "Oh I think they're letting you go."

What's more, I kept offering them my SIN number, but they'd never take it, saying they'll have it later. They gave me a form to fill out at home, saying to return it to them after my days off.
Well.
My fucking days off last forever, don't they? I sure hope they pay me.

bile (or, "How Do I Mine for Fish?")

Mon, 06 Nov 2006 10:28:38 GMT

I sit here in this apartment, alone. It's 2:16AM now, despite what anyone else says. It's raining, I can hear it on the roof, on the glass... It's millions of fingertips tapping at the walls and glass, like spattering touches on the skull of something whose brain is still there. Still listening, even though the sockets are empty.
But I've got pretty eyes. Pretty eyes, and no stupid skull's grin.

There's bags under them though. I sit, or more or less lay on that couch thinking of menial things, like chocolate... Cigarettes... Fucking... God, how I hate cigarettes. My eyes slide into the centre of the room and my body jolts.

A cat. It's the most starkly beautiful cat I've ever seen, it's... Holy shit. It's white, with spots of black, and... red... Mi-Ke, the words from my other tongue float into my head, which pounds with travelling blood. I notice its funny, rabbit-like tail. A cat of luck. A genuine Mi-Ke, with yellow eyes and rabbit tail, looking up at me with its slanted beauty.
I love felines.

I close my eyes and open them in the standard action one would call a blink, and it's gone.
I've been seeing this cat in my apartment for days, now... It's wandering, hopping onto counters and always I only see it until I blink. When I close my eyes, the cat is gone.
The cat always is just walking, or leaping on or off a countertop. I know it's not "there," but my senses others would scoff at, my sixth and seventh I suppose, tell me otherwise.
The Mi-Ke is there... It's just beyond the delicate layer of misted glass of a dimension that this is, that we fool ourselves is real. The true reality is the one that cat is wandering around in, and bless that cat, shows it to me in its exalted little form every now and then.

The answer is a question, and in the question lies the answer.
Silly little people with no idea how to interact. Begging for money, for "XP," for shit they don't need, in a world they can't see. I think I'm going to ponder that, and stroke my little cat that isn't there. I need food.

Fri, 03 Nov 2006 09:55:44 GMT

Well I got some feckin' JUICY news today.
Seems some bitch in the building got knocked up and is squishing one out, so this apartment is on a waiting list. She wants this one so she can have another bedroom for her kid.
So like... I gotta try and get her old 1 bedroom.

And I'm like "NO GOD STOP SENDING ME NUKES WRAPPED IN PRESENT PAPER!" and Iehovah's all like "FUCK YOU DRAEDEN YOU HERETIC BASTARD."

guitar flecks

Fri, 27 Oct 2006 05:26:24 GMT

I haven't got much to say, except that I'm still alive.
Under a lot of stress, more interesting shit tomorrow. Ish.

Fuck, I need a lay/wank.

the six of swords

Tue, 24 Oct 2006 21:07:35 GMT

I spent the night crashing at my friend's place. I slept the night curled up on the floor, on top of three blankets with thin ones curled around me.
God, I felt like crap, but then I came to the awareness that it was raining outside. Not only raining, but pouring. I only had that night... But I seriously hope the sky got all its raining done for a while last night.

Sipping at a bottle of VEX Hard Black Cherry Pear Lemonade. With peppermint Schnapp's, it tastes like I'm drinking Christmas.
Drinking bloody Christmas.

I liked the Nightmare Before Christmas before it was 'cool' to like it. Now all the kids in this city, and probably everywhere else, have a Jack Skellington everything.
It makes me hate the movie. Burton is overdone. Take him out the oven.

eating cement

Tue, 24 Oct 2006 05:23:20 GMT

Well, it's all that the hypothetical, and somehow famous she-bitch wrote.
I'm hitting the tarmac, folks.

I've not got a choice. I came out to my mother today, and got the foot to my back.
Can't say I didn't know it'd come to that.
For those who don't know, I'm a bi-sexual male with a leaning towards other males. I'm involved in a gay relationship. Yep.

I'm a faggot, and I won't allow my mother to ruin my dignity because of her closed mind.
Alright guys. I'm goin' to Manitoba.

pearls

Sun, 22 Oct 2006 08:28:54 GMT

The rich-man's city. Filled with pompous, soft families with their pompous, soft kids. Driving around in SmartCars and buying a new 'skin' for their iPod.
Fucking stupid.

They want you to fall out of that female who calls herself your mother with credit cards, references for jobs, references for apartments, cars and a conservative outlook on life. They want you to be the gender you're born into, to marry the opposite, and to work in an office building.
They want you to pay more than you owe in taxes, and never to jaywalk. Oh, and... Don't spit your gum.
So, like every conservative, pompous, limp-dicked family with iPod skins and SmartCars, they live their lives in their office buildings and spend their bi-weekly paycheques on the newest 2008 model of the new Chevy-Pontiac-Dodge-Sprint-Mercury when it isn't even 200-fucking-7 yet, or their new 4,000 inch platinum-plasma-space-age television on which they watch the fucking "Game" with its obligatory capital 'G.' They read the newest pseudo-psychological fad book like The da Vinci Code, and watch "deep" films like The Matrix and Fight Club and write up fan-blogs and rave about how deep and meaningful it all is.
No, you aren't your fucking khakis, that's true enough, but you aren't your fucking five star reviews, either. Fuck you. You and your hair-gel and your eyelash-lengthening powders and the latest "beauty" scam lipstick that drags the blood to your lips. Yay. You have a fucking erection of your lips. Congratulations, watch your calories a bit more, you're starting to look healthy.

--x--

So the bitch walks in on her birthday with her friends and suddenly, surprise surprise, it's time to bitch. Broken scissors. A pair of $2 scissors. Time to impress her friends by throwing a huge fit in her kid's face and blowing a pair of scissors out of proportion, all for the best benefit of her up and coming menopause.
It's true. I freely admitted I broke the scissors. I freely said I'd buy her a new pair for my accident. But HOLY GOD it matters how exactly it is that I broke the scissors, and what a terrible awful retard I am for breaking them, and how I should just shut up because obviously my head is up my ass, and I could never atone for a pair of fucking scissors.

Yeah. I know I'm legally an adult now (as of the 9th of this month!) and I am staying there whilst looking for an apartment. But shit. Scissors are a great reason to completely embarrass me in front of her friends?
Was that really a good reason to open her gob and be a colossal bitch?

Ah well. She's down in the basement now doing drugs and complaining about me to her friends. How me, the fucking layabout who never does anything except for walk her dog, do her chores and do her laundry for her, is the sole bane of her existance. How it's my fault there's no air in space, and how it's so damn rough on her that she works such gruelling 12 hours 60 hours a week, cleverly disguising the fact that she does work her 12 hours of gruelling shifts once a month and takes the other 48 summod hours off on paid sick leave to go smoke more drugs and drink more alcohol.

Yes, Alison, happy birthday.
Happy birthday, thanks for spewing me out of your gaping, toilet-bowl sized vagina.
Happy birthday to you.

yahoo chat

Sat, 21 Oct 2006 00:58:44 GMT

I haven't been on any wide-base Chat servers in a long time. Since I was... Maybe 10 or 12 and lying that I was 16-18. I remember it being flooded with morons. Morons using bright text, incomprehensible language, spamming for lame-ass Cam sites, filled with snarky, off-topic teenagers looking for ways to insult each other, and the occasional drama-whore.

Some things never change.

I went on there with the ID libranboynine, and I swear I came out of there one hour later with fifty points of temporary IQ damage.

department of semi-vital statistics

Fri, 20 Oct 2006 22:53:12 GMT

Age 18
DOB 09/10/88, or October 9th, 1988 for those who can't be bothered to read numerics
Name Draeden Tobias Cubbon
Gender Male
Pastimes Drawing, writing, taking the piss out of the world, reading, listening to music on my stupid iPod ripoff, slaving away at the corporate machine for the absolute minimum possible, learning languages
Enjoys, in No Particular Order Orange, The Beatles, tea, berry-flavoured things, pasta, red roses, (Shut up, a hopeless romantic in your midst) stationery, fancy pens, chains on pants, All-Dressed crisps, things with hoods on them, venereal pleasures, the look of cursive writing, walks, babies, Tim Horton's coffee, and those really tasty BLTs with their Chicken Noodle Soup and their tastiness, bats, horses, dolphins, animals, the smell of laundry, bed, pirates, collars, leashes, spikes, lovebites, sexbites, (Sounds like a delicious candy) nails down my back, those paperboy caps, chocolate, furries
Doesn't Enjoy, in No Particular Order Black licorice, Rush, spiders, furries, Christianity, pink, brussels sprouts, earwigs, carbonated beverages, drugs, people who can't spell 'doughnut,' pepper, people who think 'u,' 'ur,' and 'r' are separate words and use them in everyday writing, scorpions, people bitching about sexual orientations of others, control-freaks, Mondays

I'm a Libra, obviously, yeah.

species rejection

Fri, 20 Oct 2006 22:23:59 GMT

So much fucking drama it's ridiculous. Why do people constantly intend to cause harm to others?
I was sitting in a cafe the other day, spending my crap shrapnel on a Chai Tea, sketching and watching people go by. I noticed many of them were arguing. Sending themselves into conflict with one another.
Why?

I can't say that I've never gotten angry at someone, or that I've never had a disagreement, because I do. But I can't understand talking behind someone's back. It's just mentally impossible for my mind to fold around. I've always been of the opinion that if it's something you wouldn't say to someone's face, don't say it at all. It's one thing to say "Well, I think so-and-so is a bit abrasive," and it's another to go "Holy shit that guy is always so fucking mad about everything, he ruins everybody's mood all the time and he's such a fucking jackass I don't know what to do about him except bitch to you about his obvious crapsicle of a personality, demeaning both him and me in the process!"

It's like furries. I'm a furry, okay? My chosen animal representation is a bat. I think it suits me. That doesn't mean I copulate with animals, it doesn't mean I dress up as some freaky-deeky fox and have group sex with other people dressed up as rabbits and skunks, and it certainly doesn't mean that I weigh over 300lbs and live in my mother's basement.
(I weigh about 105lbs and I live in my mother's attic. I know that sounds really bad, like a hole in my argument but seriously, I have been out on my own before and this is a midway point.)
I roleplay online sometimes, (Not typefuck) I draw anthropomorphic animals, (Not porn) and my entire life doesn't revolve around it. It's a fun little thing, that's all. But the gods forbid, I mention that and I get cries of "Animal fucker!" and things of the like.

Furries tend to be scum. Most, not all, and there are the various interesting and cool ones. Yes, most furries are losers but as one can generally tell from my mannerisms and dress code, I am not a loser. I may be poor as shit, that doesn't mean I have to dress or smell like it.
Furries also tend to be what's commonly known as a drama/attention-whore. Somebody said somebody else doesn't like somebody! Somebody fucked somebody! Somebody has a picture of somebody fucking a cat! Somebody doesn't like cherry soda, holy shit what a jerk that somebody is!

Honestly it makes me sick.
People are stupid and honestly, I'm ashamed to be a human most of the time. I don't think I can ever forgive humanity for being so stupid, so hateful, so destructive and so nonchalant about it all. Humans hate everything, the ground, the trees, the animals, the fucking air we breathe and if that wasn't enough, humans hate each other. It's a ridiculous drama cycle and I utterly refuse to be part of it one second longer.

As of this day, I am no longer Homo sapiens sapiens. I'm a sub-fucking-species. I'm something else, distantly related to all of these atrocities merely by genetic code. I may look like one of them, I may scent like one of them, I may live amongst them - But I'm not.
I'm rejecting my species, anyone else up for it?
Crap, I think that's what being furry is all about. Oh well.

bittersick

Wed, 18 Oct 2006 23:17:53 GMT

I'm staring at a pop can in my loathe mother's room.
I hate being here.

I'm only here because I have no place else to go. I'm only here because of that damned apartment building doing its renovations. I'm only here because I'm too proud to sleep on the street.
Too proud.

The words are hollow in my mouth. It's as if someone coated them with a resin, and they get stuck inside. How can I claim to be proud when I take those words from her? I'm not proud. But the street isn't good enough for me.
I'll admit -- I haven't been doing everything I could have. I haven't been applying for eight jobs every half-second. I haven't been getting up at 7AM every morning, and I haven't been enthused about doing housework. That doesn't mean I didn't apply for any at all, and that certainly doesn't mean I haven't been doing housework in exchange for my board.
But shit. I don't feel like doing their work for them all the time and I certainly don't want to offer my time I feel better spent doing something else than doing work for people who obviously don't like me.
Let's be frank.

My mother never wanted me. She wanted me for the tax break, not for the child aspect of the whole thing. My father never wanted me at all - In fact, she went off the pill without telling him so she'd get pregnant. My mother wanted a clone of herself who would think just like her, and only think what she told it to. My mother wanted a perfect little "straight A" blondie, who'd bitch and fuss about hair barettes as if it were the biggest issue in the world next to starving children in Africa. My mother wanted a ticket so she could pay less to live.

She got someone who thinks for himself. She got the son she never knew she had, she got someone who was more concerned about actually learning what the world has to offer than sitting in a box reading lame, watered-down paragraphs about things other people had the actual balls to do. She got someone who sees the artistic value in a masterworked katana, not as an instrument of death but as a piece of craft. My mother sees them as weapons and chastises me for having an interest, claiming that she 'never raised me to think that way.'
As if I can't develop brain processes of my own, or something. Oh wait.

I spent my time drawing and creating art and works of written word, in the time that I "should" have been using to study. My mother calls it a waste to me, and yet in the same breath boasts to her friends about how good she thinks I am at my cartooning and written stories.

She calls me selfish, says I never think of anyone but myself. I know this isn't true. In fact, I've just come to realize over the past couple of months that it's not my fault that there's no air in space.
I've grown up quite a bit in the past while. It's something we all need to do - Except my mother of course, in her godly perfection. She justifies not taking any of my feelings into account because she "works her ass off" and I'm currently unemployed. As if being employed validates my being any more or any less. My existance is my existance -- What I do to pay rent or whatever is superficial and temporary at best.
My mother works as a nursing clerk. She takes every possible paid sick day and vacation time she can, and then bitches about actually having to work for a change. Sure, when she does work, she works 12 hour shifts... Four hours more than I usually work. She claims she can't walk her dog after work because she's too tired and 'work was hell,' but if I come home from a long day at work and say I don't want to do shit all of anything right now because of the same reason, she blows up. "The world doesn't stop because you get off work."
Yeah. Right.

It's impossible to get an apartment in this stupid shit-hole of an excuse for a rich-man's town. That's basically what it is... It's hard to find even a bachelor for less than $650, and that's with nothing included. You get... A room. Whoop-de-doo.
On the off chance you do find a place that's actually affordable, there's at least 60 other people vying for it who not only look better, but have credit, cars, references, six mansions and a unicorn better than you.
Fucking yay.

In short, eat me Victoria. Eat me hard. Suck me off like I know you can, because shit, you suck hard.
Bitching over and out.