Reverenð Dauðafærð

QUID SUM MISER TUNC DICTURUS?

Well, I'm not the kind of individual particularly unfamiliar with being bluntly referred to as a "monster" or even a "slithering creature" by people who might otherwise claim their misappropriated love and affections. If indeed they are correct by identifying me with such entities, I feel as though I'm at least in good company. God only knows what my adversaries must then think. Other frequent adjectives people have used to describe me include words like disappointment, sick, sicko, psycho, pervert, weirdo, abrasive, loser, and the list of wildly ingratiating terms extends on ad infinitum. Could so many people from sometimes wildly different perspectives be so off the mark or have they all merely misinterpretted my stark behavioral eccentricities as some sort of debilitating moral impairment? Whatever the case maybe, like the alchemic transmutation of lead into gold and the arduous extraction of blood from stone, lately, I too have been looking to turn my own piss to wine, while riding the pungent spiralling fumes of the spirit molecule toward the kaleidoscopic astral gates above; among other things. The highly sought profundities of pre/post-cosmic gnosis that remain inperceptible to our pale myopic reasoning lie just beyond the pulsing amber celestial membrane, the expansive honeycomb mindgrid, through which only an acutely sharpened pineal gland, the old cerebral glandular tusk of illumination itself (Luciferian Light), may pierce to at last perceive the exact angles of the hendecagrammical shroud that encloses the acausal paradoxes implicit within o' holy OmegA. Keep in mind, the pineal gland is apparently not subject to that frustrating brain/blood barrier stipulation and happens to be the only unpaired organ within the brain and in certain lower animals, even capable of perceiving light. Though, the light I seek is bourne from none other than a 'seditious star' that shines with the blinding, soul-scorching luminosity of a thousand suns. Speaking of glands however, (what about the GLANDS??), it would be quite appreciated if I could perhaps locate a fresh andrenal gland... (to chew on). Volunteer donors, please contact me! Though, it is my understanding that, at very least, your 'fight-or-flight' mechanism would be severely impaired without one. Also, the old Swiss lycergic-25 catalyst is likewise a much preferred medium of transcendental preparation for admittance into the enigmatic domain of the 'spirit world', which of course should always be administered under the strict auspices of pursuing reckless self-indulgent destructive excesses and live bohemian performance art at the underlying risk of severe personal consequence with the primary expectation of deeply tormented and lifelong revelation. Therefore, the so-called, 'black trip', as many of you call it, is not something to be necessarily shunned but rather, embraced heartily and introspectively valued to whatever extent possible. I've also found great solace in delving into the obscure and rationally deviant sciences of numerological reductionism and the subsequent attempted recognition of the corresponding iconographic manifestations implied therein. This claim in no way however represents any tendency or inclination to assert the legitimacy of an empirical quantifiability of existence. Also, any other pharmacological acronym referring to a profoundly disorienting accelerated mode of consciousness expansion is likewise of particular personal interest and therefore, knowledgable chemists should also seek direct correspondence at once to begin alchemic formulations. Specific knowledge pertaining to exotic tryptamine production would be preferred. In fact, I've recently determined that such pursuits are actually more cost effective than a Friday night Rock 'n Bowl experience, which to the chagrin of an unidentified individual, was by me mercilessly vanquished via the repeated invocation of the patron saint of bowling, Mr. Jeffrey Lebowski.
Ingemisco, tamquam reus culpa rubet vultus meus

On a more mundane note, in terms of other engrossing passtime recreation, I've practically made a lifelong career out of a seething, almost now paranoid and dissociative misanthropy, with a distinct specialization in a, dare I say, rare form of unabashed, politcally uncorrected, and exceedingly counter(re)productive mysogeny. Yes, in the vein of such accomplished men like the premier nihilist, Karl Hungus, I must admit to treating objects much like women and why not? My luck, if such a thing exists, in this regard would change little even if a difference of approach were to be undertaken. In any case, while most people of the pseudo-sensative ilk are blindly fixated upon the objectification of women (which in itself is fundamentally a falacious premise in that all things are objectified in relation to, or rather, distintinguished from the self that perceives that which is deemed other than than self and is most obviously apparent in the basic linear structure of language we use with the possible exception of altered psycoactive states), my concern, although steadily decreasing in significance, insteads rests in the unfortunate and far more pressing issue of the feminization of the object. Take the majority of popular beers these days for example; hopelessly emasculated into weak, marginally carbonated soft drinks! I ask you, where are the fucking hops and whose worthless motherfucking agenda is this anyway?? The vast popularization of so-called 'beers' including Michelob Ultra, Coors Light, Bud Light, and other similar testicularly abandoned unmentionables underscore the extent to which American culture has been self-castrated and has occured in startling coincidence with the "guys in girls' pants" phenomena and emaciated emo pasification of today's so-called regressive youth culture. In any case, the prevalence of modern colloquialisms that effluviate from the street gutters of hip-hop culture (now introduced into the general lexicon by middle-class white suburban kids) are also the object of my extreme, patently self-righteous abhorrence. If you hear me making use such terminology it is only to howl mockery at those who actually use this as a legitimate means of communicating in English. This hardstance also lends itself to an ultra-orthodox approach to Scrabble playing, in which only words appearing in the complete & unabridged Oxford English Dicitionary (OED) are ever admissible. Understandably, there are few who wish to engage me in such fervently austere verbal warfare.

As is on apparent display here, I have a tendency to be rather long-winded on paper as well as in digital formats, to pontificate at agonzing length, and then steadily digress into pure protracted bloviation that no doubt stretches the very limits of human endurance, resulting in possible stress fractures in the fixed joints of the cranium. Why use ten words to express what you could otherwise do with one hundred or even a thousand decorative, indirect, or amiguously metaphoric ones? As for my part in this, it's clear that darker waters always run deepest and I'll be the first to admit that both my mind and my eyes are steeped in the murk of the foul gutter. I've therefore decided that the sole purpose of this 'about me' section will be henceforth exclusively devoted to expounding exponentially in a spatially expansive, spirallingly autobiographical direction, which is not necessarily intended as cathartic avenue but rather to serve an ongoing written testimony of the extreme dementia caused by willfully induced state of psycho-spiritual derangement that has yet to have reached its climactic apex. The tone here has been set firmly to an alienating, self-exploratory pride that has but one origin, which is clearly not derivative of the progeny of Abraham. This could possibly be seen as a direct byproduct of the utterly soul consuming adherence to the rock 'n roll lifestyle, whereby the 'more, more, more' attitude is held as the cornerstone ethos. Moderation, on the other hand, is a virtue of the hopelessly complacent and existentially fatigued among us. And although my stare might convey the deceptive gaze of a two millenia old Aurelian Stoicism, my outlook is surely steeped in a still earlier hedonistic Epicurean depravity that harkens back the decadent images of Caligula era Rome. In fact, I do recognize a number of similarities between myself and the long dead emperor. However, unlike Mr 'Little Boots', I have yet to successfully contract syphilis, nor do I own or ride a white horse that has been appointed to Senate. As you can see for yourself, carnality and criminality are mere drops in the bucket here...