Chinese New Year's Break

Not a whole lot to talk about.
I took the train home just last Friday.
Somebody stole my seat, and I didn't bother telling him it was my seat. Thankfully, he got off at the second station.
I spent the rest of the ride reading Francis Schaeffer's The God Who is There.

(Idea-pooping:

Dada is really amazing, isn't it? "Art is dead; long live Dada!"

Punk rock, as well--I don't believe many people quite understood the implications of punk. Punk wasn't about the music or the fashion. Punk was to people what Dada was to art. Punk was heroin needles and razor blades and anarchy. Punk wasn't stupid--and they knew perfectly well anarchy would never work and heroin would never heal. But they didn't care; if it existed, it could be destroyed--and it, the punk subculture, the ideology, was a fine catalyst.

And hippies, perhaps--they believed in a society in which rules and commitments and expectations are naught, believed in the goodness of human nature, believed in the benevolence of the world. And it was so stupid, so naive, and thank God I wasn't born then, because I sure as hell would have been the first to join it...
And I shall try making the boy from Rise and Fall a little more hotheaded--it's quite odd: when we grow to love a character with some of the same flaws we have, we love ourselves a little more.

Done! And alas!--not even a few ideas worthy of musetime in this post.)

Ah!, I should be finishing up on my late research paper, but I don't have quite the motivation to start...

Sports

My brilliant friends have, perhaps, invented the first, the second, and the only existential ball games in the entirety of this little island-nation Taiwan.
The games--as follows:

The first goes by the name of Insanity Ball.
The rule goes: "You must have a ball."
This ball, then, represents life.
With the ball, one can do absolutely anything, but when the ball is gone, the game is over.

The second, invented just yesterday, is Ball Ball.
Ball Ball is a variation of baseball, played on the school plaza with two teams of two.
Among the rules is this: "You can use anything but a ball." The absent meaning in any individual's life, then, is replaced by whatever they choose to be meaningful.
The players then continue the game as a baseball game would continue, but among the rules: "At the end of the game, the two teams of two players choose a separate side of the coin and flip it. The team who guessed correctly wins the game." The game, alas, shall end with the hand of chance choosing the winner and loser, and all previous efforts at meaning ultimately are reduced to naught. But the game itself, as you played, it had meaning.

Braindeath

We were joking about how it would be nice to have a dick that grew a few inches every year. And I was like, You know, it actually wouldn't...
Let's consider: by the time you're 90, you'd have a hard time standing up. Don't even think sex would be any more fun--every time you get an erection, all the blood would be drained from your body into a lump of meat several feet in diameter and you'd have nothing to keep those synapses in your head going and then you'd die.
So then my friend was like "NTML, man. Not too much language."

On determinism, value, and why abortions suck

I read up a bit on Schrodinger's cat and determinism in the lab after school, and my teacher was talking about how old people are a burden on the economy and we should just support them ourselves or let them die.

Let's consider: Whether determinism is true or not is really irrelevant. We perceive ourselves as having free will. If we didn't have free will, and we've only been programmed to think we have free will, it would make no ultimate difference. The claims that we don't have free will by those evil humanists (God curse their existences!) they feature on The Truth Project are completely impertinent to whether lives have any meaning.

Let's consider: Economic conservatism claims social security doesn't work because population sizes are often unpredictable. What began as 500 some guys supporting one is now down to three guys supporting one. In the year 2017, the ratio will be 1:1. So here's what we do: let's have tons of unprotected sex. Abortion is for anarchists.

Let's consider: Some claim that without God, there would be no ultimate value in anything. I say even if there was a God, whatever he thought valuable could be completely invaluable to you. Value is judged by the individual. Adolf Hitler's morality is every bit as valuable to him as yours is to you. There is no such thing as an ultimate standard for morality, and even if God existed, there couldn't be an ultimate standard for morality because morality is in itself dependent on respecting whatever the individual considers valuable. Unless God was illogical, he could not create such a thing as objective value, could he? Now, I'll accept arguments that we can't live fulfilling lives in our sinful condition and apart from him, but claiming objective morality is silly.

"The soul proves the existence of a you that transcends your genes and your culture and your neurochemicals."

Is a soul that part of you that acknowledges your own existence? An electric shock firing between two synapses does that.
Is it your own sense of value and ethical principles? Your genes and your environment that.
Is it an immaterial part of you that somehow includes these qualities, and preserves them upon your braindeath,
a hope which men in the face of death mass upon like fornicating frogs in the autumn?
God, where are you?
Please punish me.

somebody awesome makes me happy.

I usually think of them before lunch. It must that a hungry stomach feels so much like a stomach in love that I often can't tell the difference.

My brain wants to poop:

Everybody wants to change the world into the way they want. Power is the ability to cause change in the world. Power over other people means the power to use them as a means to achieve your dream end.
How can you possibly say the past exists in time and space?, saith Mr. Tall Guy in 1984. The past exists in records and in human minds. Perhaps reality itself exists only in the mind. One's reality is their mind's interpretation of the sensory input they're recieving.
The mind is everything. Consciousness is your perception of your existence. If you could get a machine to believe it exists, what difference would it have from all us beings with "souls"?

my mind is unusually cluttered today.

God, are you there? I need you for my missions class.

Melodrama

I told him that afternoon: "If I was a kind of movie, I'd be a melodrama. I cry, and I laugh, I flaunt myself to the world, and I've rarely got a solemn, serious sorta moment, but I realize how frivolous it all is, and my mind, I'm watching it all, detached, sort of... Like all the people, I rarely get myself tangled into their messes. It's all just a sort of mock-eloquent performance..."

"It sounds like the subject of a bad Facebook quiz," he said.

He'd be a black comedy.

"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth."

A little more of the War on Drugs...

It'll begin on a winter day.

The old man enters a vegetative state soon after a failed operation on a brain tumor.
A robot stands by his side every morning of the winter of that year,
telling him the stories of their travels, conquests together,
and the boy had been so intent on fighting the world,
had wanted to die fighting, kicking, screaming,
in tears, was sure there was a meaning,
even in the search itself,
but now,

the IQ of a one-month-old infant, immobilized, catatonic...

So the robot hopes to wake him up, and near the end of their travels, the robot tells of this concert where the boy screamed, to the world, to everyone, and he was laughing for almost 3 minutes, nonstop afterwards, and the robot himself starts to scream, and he begins to scream-cry, because he didn't see any meaning in life, because all his emotions were built from the programmed simulation of neurochemicals, and they were every bit as real, or perhaps more real, than the boy's, and the boy was more of a machine than he, and the boy would die not-fighting, and he would be right in saying there was nothing at all in the end, and...!

Oh, I need an ending!
What should happen to the robot? I'd like something ironic, like the robot entering a vegetative state after an operation going wrong, or... in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, the main character turns into a vegetable, but I wouldn't like to copy them, see...

How about fireworks? It's night, and the man's fallen asleep, and the robot realizes he'll die eventually anyway, and the robot pulls the plug on him, and it rains and it rains as he does so, and the lightnings light a million shadows around the boy, and his arms look like the arms of Shiva, spread around the robot, and the boy-god is staring at the robot intently now, peacefully, and the robot falls asleep at the foot of the dead god. The next day, it keeps raining, and the robot realizes he's lost the argument, and the boy fought in the end, and so he decides to leave for Seattle to work at a bookstore. As he leaves,

See, I suppose I'm pretty skilled at coming up with stories on the spot... What should come next?

As he leaves, he stops by a robot repair shop, because he never wants to die, and being human really sucks. The music playing there is some crazy punk band singing about killing people and themselves, and he laughs, because merely existing was amazing, and suicide was stupid, and he would never die, and he suddenly feels horribly guilty listening to the song, so he leaves for lunch.

The scene switches back to the band so long ago, and the boy is screaming wildly and cursing onstage and laughing himself silly with a childish grin, and everyone else is jumping up and around because they're pretty much high on E...

I think...
Tis almost as corny as PSKT,
and a whole lot worse than Ken...
and so I really must revise the story sometime....

I'm beginning to doubt my own writing skills, as are many, many teachers,
though I mustn't quit! I really do want to become a sort of text-heavy comic book writer...

ENFP again, naturally.

A story idea!

The future:
!Fluorescent paint and see-through clothing are in!
Parties are life! Pink is the new black!, Ecstasy is the new pot! Don't be caught dead without your scooter modded, and shinto has washed the masses with incense and mock-shrines. Hip-hop and electronica make love to reggae and industrial music in a godly, bizarre sort of somethingorother. Radiohead and Nine Inch Nails are the gods of today.

The story:
The travels and times of a band !THE WAR ON DRUGS!, as narrated by an immortal robot Bren who is quite glad he's not human...

The characters:

A boy,
with pink hair and a scooter doodled over in sharpie, eternally bubbling over with enthusiasm, rebellion, never-seriousness! Accepting, warm, softspoken, narcissistic, impulsive; decides to tour the country with a guitar and his best friend after he gets out of high school. ENFP.

His best friend,
a girl who wears fluorescent devil horns, rides a pink scooter with Marilyn Monroe's face on it, plays a red devil sort of guitar. The world is beautiful, everyone! And she secretly likes him, but, of course, he has a girlfriend... ISFP.

The girl's childhood friend,
whom the guy invites on the trip, despite never getting along with him. Bold, raucious, chill. He drums, with a kabuki mask. Rarely, if ever, serious. Just here for the good time. ESTP.

A robot they meet in a restaurant,
who has a passion for 7/4 and 5/4 timing and synthesizers. Plays the bass, wears a nail-studded Mickey Mouse hat and WAR glasses. Silent, blunt, chill. The band's music turns into something a bit odd under his direction. Smokes when upset. Thinks the band completely blows without his own ideas. Usually right. Fragile, INTP.

A pet street guitarist they adopt,
a sort of mother-figure, counselor, amazing cook to whom the ESTP gets quite attached... They leave him in Seattle with some money college for one night. He writes great lyrics, and he cringes at the band's love for vulgarity and shock theatre. Wishes he was a ghost sometimes. A saintly sort of INFJ.

An idea is born!,
Fight for air!
Don't die so soon!

And also my writing sucks these days.
I wonder....
Terminal Man.

Terminal Man

Perhaps we're all born into this world like a hard drive with these preinstalled somethingorothers that release certain chemicals so you don't feel much of a need for change in your environment, and you think "perhaps this is the right thing to do," and so you seek more of this thing to get more of this chemical to get more of this feeling, and then perhaps the adults all come along with their rules and to get a little more of it you'll have to do what they all tell you , and then in the end you're nothing more than preinstalled programs and postinstalled programs and cells and currents and chemicals... isn't it all so gross?
And your flesh! It bleeds when you poke little holes,
and it rips, and it burns, and it bruises!
And the vegetables and the fruits
and the animals and the insects...
But machines!
Machines are so nice, aren't they?
They're cold, silent, calm...
Wouldn't it be nice to be a machine,
or maybe a ghost?
I wonder...

Premature aging? Stress?

I'm half serious, too... Just the other day, I couldn't spell therefor or rythm and I wasn't sure whether to say "skeptical of" or "skeptical to." And then it takes me forever to remember what we're learning in history or stuff...

Anyway, I should really teach a class on how to be invincible, you know? "Today, we shall learn the glories of lying down!" or "The ethics of rock-throwing!" or... just kidding. :P
But wouldn't that be nice? I think the whole world should learn to chillax a bit.

I've got a girlfriend, and then I've got mom and dad, and then I've got the rest of the world all to myself... how wonderful...

Senile dementia.

Lying down!

The ultimate act of defiance to this beautiful, stupid, empty, infinity world!

"Come and get me, world!, like I'm all over your back and enjoying every moment of it, like you can't do a thing about it!"

Resistance is futile, Planet Earth!
The loudspeaker is twice your diameter!

And also a family is a wonderful thing--
Someday, I shall be a father!

"It'sthesameoldthemesincenineteensixteen
Inyourhead,inyourheadthey'restillfighting
Withtheirtanksandtheirbombs
Andtheirbombsandtheirbombsandtheirbombsandtheirgunsandtheir gunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirguns
gunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirguns
gunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirguns
gunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirgunsandtheirguns
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FIGHT THE WORLD! THE WORLD IS THE ENEMY!

The haibane came into Glie without memories, and they lived for a few years, and they left to God knows where,
and Hamlet stood alone in the end, vanquished the world and all its little mice-men, but the wound on his side--twas all for naught!,
and Macbeth, from his castle, saw the forests of the world rising up, and "Life is but a walking shadow," he cried,
and Chiyoko stared up into the black void from her hospital room rocket ship, and,
and after all, it was nothing at all!,
and after all, they knew it wasn't ever anything, except for when they were so young, shone like the sun, but now their empty, black hole eyes,
and yet they stood, and they groped-swung-stabbed at the nothingatall, the empty world, the invincible, the infinity!,
And that's exactly what I'd like to tell every person to do,
every stupid victim of the stupid world:
"FUCKING FOREVER FIGHT INFINITY!"
Though you never find out what you're looking for, you looked harder than anything!,

And so when I get enough money, I'll make a giant FIGHT, hundreds of feet high,
So people can go next to it.
( . )<--And a person will be that tall, the size of one of these periods.

Essential definitions in the world of moi.

Life (sing, n.):
1. That horribly chaotic time between your birth and your death when you try to discover why everyone exists and how everyone can keep on existing while you simultaneously try to make yourself and everyone else better and happier.

Happiness (sing, n.)
1. Sex, drugs, and everywhere and everyone new and dangerous. (see “partiness”)
2. Surges of electricity that pass from someone you love to you when you come into physical contact with them. May also pass through telephone wires and emails, however weaker. (see “love”)
3. Ramen on a cold day. (see “satellitiness”)
4. When you will not and cannot die until you squeeze something amazing out of life.

Emotions (sing, n.)
1. Shallow, annoying, uncontrollable creatures that show up at all the wrong times and go missing when you need them most.

Art (sing, n.):
1. Lame, supermarket-frozen, concentrated juice of emotions.

Nose

The more you rub your nose, the more you're convinced that there really is something hanging off in plain sight of all spectators to your Divine Play, so that by the time you leave the class, you feel the overwhelming urge to rush to the bathroom, hide in a stall and check to make sure there's really nothing there at all.

I have internet connection!

If
I
could
create
aholiday...

I would make it out of home-made masks and gloves and boots and silence!
As soon as the sun sets, you run silently into the silent streets with paper lanterns and cause trouble and spend money-money-money!, cuz if you're really silent, no-bo-dy will know who you are atall!
And then near midnight, you put paper wishes over your lanterns and the heat bloats them up like hot air balloons or lactose intolerant stomachs,
and when the clock strikes 12, you let them go into the forever sky,

and then you make as much noise as you can until your throat is hoarse!

Banano!



And I think I saw Haruhi Suzumiya at McDonald's yesterday, only she had fob glasses.
Mygodsomanythingstowriteabout! but I'm lazy so I won't.