Somewhere between childhood and adulthood things went wrong. I thought things would just fall into place. I thought I was “gifted” and I thought it would all come to me as promised. Never thought I would be this fucked up. Never looked at myself and thought I would be this weak. Never thought I would need a “crutch”. Never thought I would need something just to get through a day. Never thought I would need this just to get out of bed in the morning. Never thought I would be addicted to something. Never thought I would be this crazy. Never thought I would need to do this without the structure I imagined in my dreams when I was a child. Never thought I would be able to. Never thought I could manage any of this alone. Never knew I could be so strong.

(It was) dark like night with occasional blue lights. Somewhat festive like a party. A bunch of us, standing in a line. all different characters really, everyone having one defining personality trait, like the seven dwarves. Really we are all me, or I am all of them, although we are apart. We are waiting for something, worried.

Then I fell out out time and space.

I realized the universe has a limited life span, maybe it’s only 15 billion years (or about twice that is what they estimate, right?) and then when I reach the end of time, I get to go back and start from the beginning. infinitely. so, armed with this knowledge, I transcend time and space, and more importantly, my worries about it.

I fall back in to time, in the same place. In the time of my choosing, which is just a little bit in the future. like 50 or 100 years or so ahead of where I dropped out. I am no longer worried, as if a burden has been lifted.

It’s an exciting time because “an alien” is about to visit us (earth people) for the first time. (I know this because I know all of history.) The different characters react appropriately, but I am just a little excited, anticipating its arrival. It arrives, and the shock, the surprise is less than I thought it would be, especially after the first few moments. Which is when I realize that the alien is essentially just like us. although it is has very thin limbs, is somewhat tall, and is a pale blue color, I can see that it takes on essentially the same humanoid form that we people from Earth take on.

I welcome it, we all do. I try to greet it, as though it might even understand a greeting or even the concept of a greeting. I wonder if it will feel threatened by a handshake or even a gentle wave of the hand. I do this, though, and it doesn’t seem bothered by it. We begin the process of communicating, of interacting, of teaching each other.

FUCK MYSPACE. FUCK HIPSTERS. FUCK EXTREMISTS. FUCK CONSERVATIVES WHO CAN’T EVEN EXPLAIN THEIR POSITION WITH A LUCID ARGUMENT. FUCK REACTIONARIES. FUCK CENSORSHIP, STILL. FUCK OPPRESSION. FUCK THE HYPOCRISIES LARGE AND SMALL THAT INUNDATE THIS WORLD. FUCK NOT FOLLOWING THROUGH. FUCK POVERTY. FUCK MATERIALISM. FUCK 99% OF WORLD LEADERS. FUCK IGNORANCE. FUCK LYING FOR PROFIT. FUCK THE POPE. FUCK DUMB PEOPLE WHO HAVE TIME TO DO THIS. FUCK POLITICS. FUCK MARKETING. FUCK JOURNALISM. FUCK THE RICH. FUCK BEING POOR. FUCK PARENTS. FUCK THEIR ANNOYING KIDS. FUCK PEDOPHILES. FUCK DEPENDENCY. FUCK BUZZWORDS. FUCK SELF-RIGHTEOUS PEOPLE POSING AS PEOPLE WHO CARE. FUCK DOGMA. FUCK ORGANIZED RELIGIONS. FUCK A LACK OF SLEEP. FUCK A DUCK. FUCK THE OVERALL LACK OF TRULY FUNNY THINGS LATELY. FUCK THE DISCONNECT. FUCK INDECISION. FUCK THIS CONFUSION. FUCK FUCKING. FUCK ME. Otherwise, I AM TRULY FUCKED.

From the LA Times:
Web Scout exclusive! Rick Astley, king of the ‘Rickroll,’ talks about his song’s second coming : Web Scout : Los Angeles Times

Play it!

Pro·spi·cience
n.
[L. prospicientia, fr. prospiciens, p. pr. of prospicere. See Prospect.]
The act of looking forward.

Per·spi·cience
n.
[L. perspicientia, fr. perspiciens, p. p. of perspicere. See Perspective.]
The act of looking sharply. [Obs.] Bailey.

I returned to the same spot daily for three days, or was it once annually for three years? … with a few of my artist-compatriots, to dig up the bones of Marcel Duchamp, who was laying which were lying in a shallow grave made only of dirt, next to the driveway in front of my Grandmother’s house. The first time, I dug him up, displayed the bones properly, and solemnly read a passage from an impressively-bound volume of what I must assume were writings of Mr. Duchamp. I then re-buried him, simply putting the bones back and shoveling the same dirt over them. After the third time, my colleagues seemed rather put out and bored by the whole process, which had sort of a religious overtone, rather than the humor I can only assume Mr. Duchamp had intended when originally requesting this post-mortem procedure. At which point I conceded, “O.K., it’s time to let this go.”

“… So all of these emotions are just basically a mixture of chemicals and electrical impulses? Neurons firing, like circuits turning on and off?”

“Yes …”

“That means we’re all really just robots … but that doesn’t make us any less human.”