TheWorldsOfficialCritic's Xanga

I cannot come to reason with myself.

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 00:45:04 GMT

Honestly, I can't.

I simply have no explanation, because every aspect of who I am, how I think, what I believe, and how I feel contradicts and verifies itself at the exact same time.

Absolutes happen both never and always in my head. It's a collision and peace of the grayscale, fantastical color, and the light and darkness that cannot be understood. My mind knows more and less than it informs me of.

I just want to talk. Writing words, tapping a key, holding a freaking pen makes me feel better. I don't want to notice anything around me. I just want to create and destroy in the confines of my own fairytale. I wonder if God is clinically depressed. It must suck to be him... the souls, lives, hopes, shouts, sobs, torment, joy, and sin of billions, before, after, and now. How is not insane by now? I can hardly handle my own mind. He has to handle all of ours, AND his own. I wonder what God dreams of.

I'm listening to Monster by Skillet for at least the twentieth time in a row. I can't put into words how true it is.

Don't mind my rambles. Meandering the English language is a hobby of mine. It's also pretty destructive. A lot of hurt and a lot of hope come from language. It's up to you to decide what you see. To be pretty honest, it's everyone own stupid choice. They can see reality or see a fairytale. You can't have both, no matter what the romantics and the writers say. Don't you dare let the cynics keep you from striving for it, though, because hope often comes most from a hopeless cause. Why do we strive to be perfect people when we never will be? Because we have a hope, that which comes from a righteous ignorance, the kind that is actually correct.

But hey, my name is Joseph. Nice to meet you.

You will find that most things I write are either giving fairytale or reality a big, philosophized version of the finger. I strive for both, I scream in hatred at both. Meh, that's just me. Running in circles is not a crime, it's just stupid. If it's not wrong, don't stop it. Bwahaha. Circles.

That reminds me of a rhyme I once read in a book. The book was called The Riddles of Epsilon.

"Ours is for the Ouroborous,
Ours is for to be empowered,
Head to tail we chant in chorus,
The innocent will be devoured."

T'was sung by the Solemn Choir, a group of men holding onto the will to bring back Cimul, the Lord and Prince of Inversion, to bring back the jewel stricken from him, and to, yes, devour the innocent.

It's an interesting topic, to say the least.

"The secret side of me
I never let you see
I keep it caged, but I can't control it, so stay away from me, the beast
Is ugly, I feel the rage, and I just can't hold it"

As Stalin said, one death is a tragedy, but millions is a statistic.

"It's scratchin on the walls
In the closet, in the halls
It comes awake, and I can't control it
Hidin' under the bed
In my body, in my head
Why won't somebody come and save me from this? Make it end!"

If you think about, we're a supreme irony. A creature design to companion Perfection, but we slay it. ^_^

"I feel it deep within
Just beneath the skin
I must confess that I feel like a monster!"

Also, we are an irony in that we live, but we die. Opposites, but all experience them. All humans start at the North pole, a frigid land yet vibrant, beautiful and full of life you find no where else. You travel, travel, trip, trip, experience, experience, fail, fail, and you reach the South pole: cold enough to freeze your bones, this is the end of the trip. There is no where left to go but down, down, there. You can see the big metaphor. Hey, death isn't that bad. At least it has penguins!

"I hate what I've become
The nightmare's just begun
I must confess that I feel like a monster!"

It's tragic, isn't it? Life, dies. Oh, dear. This, is an end. It's an escape, or is it a trip to a different world?

"I FEEL LIKE A MONSTER!"

You can't always win, though. You have a right to the pursuit of happiness, not to happiness itself. That's locked up, and not for the likes of you, street urchin!

"My secret side I keep
Hid under lock and key
I keep it caged, but I can't control it, 'cause if I let him out,
He'll tear me up, break me down
Why won't somebody come and save me from this? Make it end!"

Life is too short to not notice that quotation marks resemble pencil erasers. I holds words, BUT, then, BLIP! It's gone. Like life.

"It's hidin' in the dark
Its teeth are razor sharp
There's no escape for me
It wants my soul, it wants my heart"

And then you feel so lonely when you realize what the word means. No one else is you, there's just one person inside that soul. Sure, there's everyone outside of you, but does that count? Everyone is separated, ironically, by a vehicle that creates contact. You just want to break free, don't you? Heheha. DON'T YOU?!

"No one can hear me scream
Maybe it's just a dream
Or maybe it's inside of me
Stop this monster!"

Two hundred years ago, and all the up to the Victorian Era and beyond, doctors could not tell the difference between a dead man and one in a coma. Thus, people being buried alive was quite common. To solve this, coffins were invent that had a string inside it that went through a pipe in the ground and to the surface above, where it rang a bell to alert the grave keeper that you had been buried alive, and he could quickly dig you up.

*ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding!* ^.^

Heheh, monsters.

“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” - Friedrich Nietzsche

The abyss and I know the very color in the other's eyes. We have gazed quite thoroughly.

My name is Joseph (a second meeting, haha!) and I fought the monster among me so much that it has become me. It was better left untouched, I guess.

I would ask that you not tap into the depths of your mind. Everyone is capable of the abyss; this you must never keep far from mind. It must have been interesting to be Jesus, because every human temptation was thrown at him. I wonder how that felt...

Bye. -_^

Chill, you spazerts.

\,,/~Joseph~\,,/

Regardless, I woke up.

Mon, 01 Jun 2009 20:32:37 GMT

Yeah, like, I've totally been sleeping this entire ti- no.

Yeah, I took a break. When I have something to say, I blog. When I don't, I don't. So, for quite awhile, I had nothing to say at all.

But, I've decided that people need to be properly informed of the world around them, so, I'm here, now.

Yeah, GM declared bankruptcy. Now, see, the state of the company leaks into the state of the CEO. The state of the CEO leaks into the state of the slightly lower heirarchists, and so on and so forth. Eventually, this leads to the supervisors. The state of the supervisors leaks into the state of the assembly line employees. The state of the assembly line employees leaks into the product, being the cars. Obviously, everyone is depressed over the state of everything in GM, so, the cars are bipolar and clinically depressed. If you buy a new Chevy and you find your tires slashed the next day, yeah. The car did that itself.

So, what shall I do now that I have exhuasted the only joke I could think up in the ten minute span that I am writing this in?

Uh...

Dictionary of Happiness?

Today's word: Believe

Dictionary.com's entry for believe: "To have confidence in the truth, the existence, or the reliability of something, although without absolute proof that one is right in doing so: Only if one believes in something can one act purposefully."

So lacking in personality.

The Dictionary of Happiness entry: To think you're totally right. Believing is something that commonly happens on internet forums and chatrooms. "I believe your argument proves that you're really Hitler DISGUISED as Twilitegrrl236."

Example: "It's a good thing that motivational speak believes in you, 'cause no one else does."

That concludes today's entry.

Oh, on a final note, listen to the bands Bloc Party and Otep. They are simply marvelous.

Remember: "All credibility, all good conscience, all evidence of truth come only from the senses." - Friedrich Nietzsche.

And: "Nietzsche was stupid and abnormal." - Leo Tolstoy

Chill, you spazerts.

\,,/~Joe~\,,/

P.S. To my facebook friends (if you are not a friend of mine on facebook, you're welcome), if you had not noticed, this was originally posted on Xanga. I think you should have gathered that much. Writing notes on facebook is for squares and the occasional misguided hexegon.

If you were an FDA approved drug, what would your possible side effects include?

Sun, 10 May 2009 19:26:38 GMT

Well, considering that the suggested dosage would probably be something of an overdose, it would probably be beautiful colors which eventually give way to sudden, painless death.

And I'd be fantastic as a steroid!

I just answered this Featured Question; you can answer it too!

My head is a drum.

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 16:36:21 GMT

Or, at least, it will be.

I have beats and rhythms pulsing through my head almost every second. I move to my own groove, as basic as that beat it is.

It comforts me to write something. Just simply punching down each word warms me. It's bloody hot out, but that hasn't stopped me from feeling cold. I'm sensitive to heat, and I cannot stand the sun or hot air. It's all around me, though, I still feel chilled. So frozen that you could stick my heart in your drink and it would be perfect. It would give "on the rocks" a whole new meaning.

But, in a less literal examination of my title, each thought I have hurts in some special way or another. I want to slap myself over the head, and move those gears back into, eh, gearing right. The way they are gearing at this point -which is also how they have been gearing for quite awhile- is just about unbearable.

In other words, I just got back from my friend's service. The actual funeral was private to family, but this one was to friends and loved ones. I doubt he even remembered me. I definetely remembered him, though.

Moving on...

Dictionary of Happiness Entry: Poetry.

Dictionary.com definition:

–noun

1.	the art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative, or elevated thoughts.

2.	literary work in metrical form; verse.

3.	prose with poetic qualities.

4.	poetic qualities however manifested: the poetry of simple acts and things.

5.	poetic spirit or feeling: The pianist played the prelude with poetry.

6.	something suggestive of or likened to poetry: the pure poetry of a beautiful view on a clear day.

How uninventive.

Dictionary of Happiness entry:

1. A tree belonging to Edgar Allan Poe.

2. A common synonym for angst.

3. A word usually associated with skinny, pale people who haven't been outside in years.

4. The result of tears, broken innocence, word magnets, and a blender.

5. Mixed with alcohol or other mind blowingly incapacitating substances, it is the main cause of FUI arrests. (Fruitcaking Under the Influence)

6. The main way little children can let the world know that daddy is a masochist and mommy is a sadist without getting caught, however, it's usually too late by the time the poem is translated out of shakespear-ian.

Example: Little Sally work for months on a poem which detailed her pain ridden childhood and how everyone would make fun of her. She then sent it to a poetry magazine to be published within it. The magazine sent it back saying that it seemed like she just put a few words together meaninglessly. She was heart broken, but ewas determined to get the magazine to publish it. She modified the poem from censored to uncensored, detailing her rape, diagnosis of cancer, the euthinization of all her pets in one day, and the suicide of boy she loved. The magazine accepted it, and filed it under comedy.

Heh, I really do not like myself. ^_^

Chill, you spazerts.

\,,/~Joe~\,,/

Suicide is painless.

Tue, 21 Apr 2009 16:18:46 GMT

One of the closest friends of my childhood and preteen years took his life on Sunday, so, yeah. I'm going to deal with it the best way I know how: I'm going to hate myself, everything else, and let the music fuel my anger.

That said, at the strong, strong, strong, strongstrongstrong advice and wish of my counselor, I removed my stories and poetry from Xanga, except for the ones I wrote to be posted on xanga. *balloons, parties, cake, ice cream, joy and ponies abound*

“You must realize that one day you will die. Until then you are worthless.”

- Chuck Palahniuk quotes

If you hadn't figured it out yet, I've had a pretty bad week, so far.

On the face of the AOL homepage, today, there is controversy, scandals, scantily clad women, anger, hatred, misfortune and consumerism. I don't even know why I use the internet anymore, honestly. There's so much wrong with it, and very, very little that's right. Also, the right stuff has it's own secretive wrong side. Why bother having something correct if it's only going to be incorrect in it's own special, devious method?

Meh. It'll burn some day. It'll be like fireworks, and the birth of a new nation. Some 4th of July, we're going to have an America free of capitalism, free of socialism, free of drugs, free of razor blades, free of eating disorders, free of rape, free of murder, and it'll be the new Declaration of Independance. We'll be a nation with a clean slate and free of sin. Some day, we'll be independant from what America is now. I know what day that will be.

The one on which Hell freezes over.

Today's Dictionary of Happiness entry: Dreams.

Dictionary dot com states:

1.	a succession of images, thoughts, or emotions passing through the mind during sleep.

2.	the sleeping state in which this occurs.

3.	an object seen in a dream.

4.	an involuntary vision occurring to a person when awake.

5.	a vision voluntarily indulged in while awake; daydream; reverie.

6.	an aspiration; goal; aim: A trip to Europe is his dream.

7.	a wild or vain fancy.

8.	something of an unreal beauty, charm, or excellence.

How wrong. ^_^

The Dictionary of Happiness entry:

Dreams:

1. A nightmare, otherwise known as screams in the night.

2. The thing that makes children believe for sure they are going to be a doctor, a rock star, a ballerina, or an astronaut.

3. The universal term for a dark comedy.

4. Aerosmith album covers.

5. Something that little boys have and try to cover up with a roll of papertowels and tears.

6. The kind of thing someone has during childhood, like being president or a supermodel. It continues to the day they day, even when they are conveniance store janitors and prostitutes.

7. The number one cause of fear in the United States.

8. The single most flammable object known to man.

"This is the year that hope fails you." - Slipnot.

Sure freakin' is.

Chill, you spazerts.

\,,/~Joe~\,,/

The Dictionary of Happiness Poem edited out

Mon, 20 Apr 2009 11:56:53 GMT

So, as you all know (like, the those of you that actually read this thing; if you're still there), I am here simply to brighten your day. That's all I'm trying to do.

Also, an estimated 18% of adults in this world are illiterate. [citation needed]

To change your low, depressed selves and save you from illiteracy, I have decided to start doing a word every post for however long I feel like it, in order to save your day and make you smarter.

Today's word is: Reattach.

OoOoOoOoOo.

Such a very special word.

Dictionary.com states this on the word Reattach: "Re`at*tach\, v. t. To attach again."

How boring.

The Dictionary of Happiness definition of this very special word is such as this:

Re-ah-tach. Normally referencing limbs lost in fights or accidents, reattach generally means the maddened scramble that the doctors have to reattach said (now foreign) limb.

Example: After tracking the small dog down and bludgeoning it with brick, little Billy both became a man and retrieved his Grandmother's hand, which the doctors attempted to reattach in a maddened rush.

That's the Dictionary of Happiness entry for today.

Again, my single utmost desire is to make you cheerful. ^.^

Chill, you spazerts.

\,,/~Joe~\,,/

EDIT: I still have no freaking clue why all the i's and l's are a different shade of green. o.o

I owe myself three shiny, pretty pieces of commercialism.

Wed, 08 Apr 2009 16:22:50 GMT

Three people in their twenties died since my last post. I picked a bad time to put my dark idea into place. XD

But, deceased youth aside, I am here to talk about politics.

*ahem* I would like to say something to the major news networks:

UP YOURS WITH A TENNIS RACKET.

They would have to be biased tennis rackets, though. If you shove a tennis racket inside your rectum, it would probably be a good idea to match to your personality.

So, basically, I'm just saying "NBC, CNN, FOX NEWS, ABC, ETC. YOU'RE ALL BIASED."

I want NEWS, not your bloody opinions! Tell me what's happening, without you're view on the situation. I will sooner sit down and learn about the world from Entertainment Tonight than give you my viewership. One day, major news networks, one day you're viewership is going to go down like the economy you "report" on and you're going to go in the corner, turn the lights off, cry, search your soul for some scrap of significance, find none, and you will deside to sing silently to yourself, meanwhile tossing yourself off a bridge.

Then, the world will have a party with lots of cake and ice cream, and your cold, drowned up corpses won't be invited. Ha. Ha. Ha. ^_^

But yes, again, tennis rackets. Tennis rackets to all biased networks.

So long, and farewell.

Chill, you spazerts.

\,,/~Joe~\,,/

Dark hobbies.

Fri, 03 Apr 2009 23:02:57 GMT

A short, sweet little update. I am posting it here, because posting it anywhere else would result in people inquiring on a mental ward for me.

But hey, to the point. I have decided how to break my love of shopping. ^.^

Yes, yes, I am male and I love(LOVE) shopping. It's not right, yes, I know, but I shall change! I found a way where I won't shop but I won't die because of the lack of shopping!

My first idea was to only shop on holidays, but those are too far apart and I just might snap.

My second idea was to only shop when I'm at the mall, but again, that barely happens.

BUT THEN I TOOK THE EXPRESS TRAIN TO GENIUSLAND, THE PLACE WHERE GOOD IDEAS ARE GIVEN BIRTH TO.

See, I am going to time my shopping by the obituaries. Sure, it sounds sort of icky, but hey, it works.

See, basically it is only senior citizens that die. People that range from sixty to even a hundred years old. However, there, once in a blue moon, young guns listed on the sad paper page. So, what am I getting at?

Anytime someone under forty dies, I go and get myself something nice.

So, I'm set! No more going broke! ^_^

So, with that, I decree toodles to you all.

Chill, you spazerts.

\,,/~Joe~\,,/

Hollister is the cause of the US recession.

Sat, 21 Mar 2009 19:51:11 GMT

They make the public pay fifty dollars for something they can pick up at a thrift shop for $5 and destroy a bit.

http://www.hollisterco.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/product_10251_10201_422277_-1_12589_12551

I mean, come on! I could seriously MAKE those. Bleach them slightly, go nuts with an art knife, drag them across pavement, and BOOM. TRENDY.

I would also like to point out that I am male, and last time I checked you usually don't win the heterosexual populace over by presenting half naked men on first sight. The only thing I can see that's product related is a surf board, so, A. 80% of the states are not touching the ocean B. You cannot buy surf boards at Hollister. I don't care how So frickin' Cal you are, because 49 states of our 50 are not Cal, jerkhole.

http://www.hollisterco.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/product_10251_10201_474511_-1_16419_12551

I swear on my life, I can pick this exact pair of shorts up at Kohls for ten dollars.

But how, you ask, is Hollister putting us into this recession? Well, those pants are $50. Those shorts are $44. And you know what? Everyone is wearing those clothes. Coincidently (ENTIRELY COINCEDENTLY, WE ARE ASSURED), everyone is broke. ^_^

These clothes are also the product of, for lack of better words, Communist bastards, the UN, and the spawn of the Anti-Christ. See, they are trying to take away our individuality! We are becoming all the same. So, honestly, things cease to be cool when everyone starts wearing it. And who wants us to be uncool? The UN, duh, what with their forcing of these ~~humane~~ boring rules upon this nation of ours. And who does the UN represent? Well, the Anti-Christ of course. The Anti-Christ has taken away our guns, our money, and our coolness.

Who is this Anti-Christ, you say?

This image has been inserted to make this post at least somewhat politically correct, but we doubt it will help that much.

Obviously, this economy should be controlled by the master race, because they know best.

Who is this master race?

I am not even kidding.

Fraggles know how to have fun. They have those little guys that know how to work, too. And I am most sure that they own at least some form of firearm.

So, Hollister can suck it; Fraggles rule.

Chill, you spazerts.

\,,/~Joe~\,,/

And my face looked like it had been put through a wheat thresher.

Fri, 06 Feb 2009 18:30:21 GMT

I really couldn't see, honestly. I stumbled around quite a bit, looking for the door, desperately. No one around me seemed to care, but I guess it was interesting for them to see my face dripping red. It was on my hands, too, and my shirt. I think it was my buzz lightyear shirt. I loved that shirt, but I guess I really couldn't help the stains. It stung my eyes. I'm surprised no one screamed. There were some people laughing behind me, laughing at my pain. I was dizzy. I went stumbling for the door, as I said, and I really did not know how I could fix all this...

But hey, that's what happens when you have your 6th birthday party at McDonalds. Family rules: Birthday Boy smashes his face in the cake. In the spiderman cake, to be exact. The frosting was gooy and it stung my eyes, but I was laughing all the same. As I sort of dazed around, trying to find the bathroom door so I could wash the cake off my face, off my buzz lightyear t-shirt, out of my blonde moptop hair, and my funny blue eyes. My spider sense was tingling and told me that the employees behind the counter were grinning at the sight of me. I eventually found the bathroom and washed my face in the sink. The guy coming out of the stall looked puzzled and asked "You bleeding or something?" and I said "Nope. Just cake." He smiled and went on his way. I remember that birthday party fondly. When you're six years old and male, McDonalds is the awesomest place ever. Especially a McDonalds with a playground in it. I remember that it had a place for birthday parties in it. I'm pretty sure it's gone, now. It's just simply a McDonalds with playground that I'm too big for; a place without a birthday place, a place where poor people like me can get chicken sandwhiches for a buck. It had a robot Ronald McDonald robot thing where you pressed a button and it said "Happy birthday!" and sang a song. It never worked for us, no matter how much we pressed the button and willed it to work. I only remember getting two things. I got a Rescue Hero motorcycle toy (which I loved to death) and a big toy truck that had a trailer that held other cars (which was equally as awesome, but you can imagine the abuse that toys go through when they belong to a 6 year old boy. I remember the big truck breaking pretty quickly, and I got really upset over it. I used to be able to cry at the slightest things. A stern look from my parents when I did something bad and I'd be in tears.) At the McDonalds, my best friend would take the motorcycle and push it down the big slide on the play place, and I'd catch it at the bottom. We had a lot of fun. Those things don't happen anymore, though. When you get older, you don't have birthday parties, at least, not like you used to. They aren't exactly about having innocent fun anymore. The last birthday party I went to was, don't get me wrong, awesome and fun and filled with awesome people, but it wasn't like they used to be. At the party there were a thousand and one flirty conversations and a thousand and one sex references. That's wasn't the entire party, obviously, but you could tell we were all teenagers there. Even Christians dream about getting into each other's pants all day, unfortunatly. It leaves very little room for nostolgia. When you're six years old, the worst part of the world that you can see is first grade homework. From that point on, you grow up and learn that people kill each other in this world, that old men kidnap little girls and rape them, and that most people don't get along that well. When you're six years old and male, you day dream about being a knight in shining armor and rescuing a princess who's in danger. Maybe I was just a pansy six year old, but that's what I day dreamed about, and to show just how much I dreamed about that, I actually day dreamed about the knight/princess thing just as much as I day dreamed about being batman. Every six year old boy dreams about being batman 24/7, so, that should give you an idea of just how much of a hopeless romantic I was/am. I remember when people started taunting me because I wasn't as thin and athletic as they were and because I was just so weird. They called me weird so much that I honestly believed that I couldn't be human, and that I must be from another planet. I remember the depression, and how my world wasn't as bright as it used to be when I was younger. I remember when books were my comfort, how I could read better than all my friends and how I was silently proud of that fact. I remember how I was defiled by one of my best friends (the one that pushed the motorcycle down the slide) and what he made me do, and how it has haunted me ever since and makes me question who I am and why I'm still here on this planet. I remember the innocence that was stolen from me at age ten and how that threw me into depression even more. I remember when I started cutting. I remember my first crush, and how she hated my guts. I remember the anger. I remember the bitterness that I had towards the Church. The Baptist Church that never realized my pain, that always treated me like everything was okay, that shunned me because of how I wore my hair and how I dressed. I remember the people coming up to my parents and demanding that my hair be cut from my playful mohawk to a nicer, more respectable fashion. I remember my new church, and how the kids there didn't treat me any better. I remember them saying they wanted to kill me, and when I told them what I wanted to do with them, they feared me and ran to mommy and daddy. I remember the concerned phone calls from my pastor to my parents. I remember how this all went on behind my back and how angry it made me that they couldn't just talk to me. I remember everything. I remember how the world ceased to be a place of wonder after that birthday, and became a place of simple survival. I remember how much I hated God and how much I couldn't stand his "people" because of the way they treated me. I remember my own perversions, I remember my sin, I remember each horrible dream I had about other people. I remember hating myself because of what I thought and how much I embarassed myself and how fat I was and how all the other boys were muscular and girls liked them and how much I just simply sucked and how even my best friends gawked at me. I remember how I hated God for making me different than other people. I remember the first poem I wrote in fifth grade. How my English teacher liked it and how proud that made me. I remember how I put one of my poems on the internet for all to see and how they laughed and thought it was rediculous. I remember all the work I put into that poem. I remember the Tylenol I took because I hated myself and how they had to take me to the hospital, only to find out that I couldn't even damage myself correctly. I remember how life has a tendancy to punch you in the face when you're trying to stand up. I remember everything, everyone, every dream, every scar, and every tear. I remember them all.

And most of the time I wish I would stop remembering altogether.

Life isn't how it was at 6th birthday party, anymore. It's hard to remember that and try to keep living the way I do.

If I ever write my autobiogrophy, it's going to be a pretty laughable book, I admit.

Chill, you spazerts.

\,,/~Joe~\,,/

TheWorldsOfficialCritic's Xanga

I cannot come to reason with myself.

Regardless, I woke up.

If you were an FDA approved drug, what would your possible side effects include?

My head is a drum.

Suicide is painless.

The Dictionary of Happiness *Poem edited out*

I owe myself three shiny, pretty pieces of commercialism.

Dark hobbies.

Hollister is the cause of the US recession.

And my face looked like it had been put through a wheat thresher.

The Dictionary of Happiness Poem edited out