d1rtyf1lthy

I find that thinking of liquor in the feminine sense really does help me felicitate a genuine, open and honest relationship with the booze that I drink. Me and mistress smirnoff, we is gonna have us real good time tonight. She never rejects my clumsy advances. She doesn't care if I haven't shaved for a few weeks, or showered for the same. A true and steady friend.

Guess it's 'bout time I stepped up, or else I guess it's 'bout time I bowed down, I mean: seriously looks like it's 'bout; That Time Again. I seriously live for this shit. Like I can't find any internal motivation but give me some kinda new challenger, some kinda street fighter stylez sudden death contest , and then suddenly somehow I shine like the moon through some goddamn shattered window.

Are there any limits to my limits? Let us, we could, please, discover that together. Just sayin. Just putting forward the possibility. My fists are full of flame, and envious organic gardens. I can show you the light of those insane stars still not, as yet, registered on even the most sensitive of beradio-telescopes.

I'm not really interested in you, as such, per se, but you do seem like at interesting person, and as such I'd like to get know you, Interesting people bro, honest to go oddities are few and very far cherry blood between.

Fuck me! Fuck you! Fuck me, for continuing, for some insane reason, to still like you, despite all advice to contrary, despite the comprehensive proof presented, to find my self helpless in spite of this, this heartfelt evidence, this fail is all I have to show for everything, everything I ever felt. Still! still if you add, our actions, my actions, their actions, still! still it is zero sum. still the sum total is absolute nothing.

Aw please. Lets not call in any international authorities just yet, Until you've swept the bristles of my fist with the bristles of your nose I sincerely suggest you shut the fuck up for the moment, My capabilities are measures in the kilotons. Can't believe I ever liked you in the first place.

oh yeah, thanks to nationelectric I am syndicated at d2rtyf2lthy

che bro

---

going to endeavour to read lj more often, since many of you people r00l

re-activating account so I read friends-locked entries -- don't plan on throwing any more of my pearls before the swine, not here at least, new site www.dirtyfilthy.net

sup?

Awaking to the unrepentant sunshine, a vicious, savage, big black bruise of a hangover, an hour late to work and then the shattered fragments of last nights emotional violence staring me in the face like a mirror full of busted teeth. Surveying the damage it looks like I can never return to Christchurch.

Ever.

Normally at this juncture I would perform my usual punch and judy show of repentance, say how very sorry, how really truly sorry I am, make all kinds of rash and ultimately meaningless promises to change and have a good cry and a sniffle. There's a certain special morning-after mix of guilt, nausea and general wretchedness that rolls over in the bed to greet you with a sour bee sting kiss, unexpected yet strangely familiar, like sleeping with a close relative. I say “normally” but we've been through this tired old routine before so I'll just let you imagine I'm saying all the right things and that I, in all sincerity, actually mean them.

Sick as a goddamn dog and with a great deal less self-respect, hell's aqueduct , an artesian well for demonic forces. In the gnostic texts the demilurge who created the world was evil, soul poison, a false and deceptive ruler of a false and deceptive heaven. I am poisoned and poisoner. This ground is tainted and nothing good can grow here.

- - -

In retrospect two double and two triple shots of bourbon back to back may have been a bad idea. Want to throw up.

5-MeO-DIPT, 2C-I, 2C-E, amphetamine, amyl nitrate, nitrous oxide, BZP, cannabis, codeine, diazepam, DMT, DXM, kava, LSD, MDMA, methamphetamine, mescaline, morphine, opium, psilocybin, quetiapine, ritalin, salvia

Anything but booze. I want the warmth of honest skin and bare conversation -- or it's closest chemical substitute.

- - -

Please join me in my crusade to leave the failed experiment in democracy that is the Policing Act 2008 Wiki a burning radioactive wasteland of lolcats, racial slurs and bacon jokes.

That's it, enough pussying around. Time to man up. I'm going to present at kiwicon:


BRIEF: One Fat Fuck vs Foucault: Game theoretic approaches to gaming
social networks

Have you always dreamed of becoming the most popular (or hated) boy in the
global village? With only the barest minimum of code, a modicum of balls,
and a tiny sliver of good luck you too can become notorious on your choice
of social network. Measures, countermeasures and workarounds.

BIO:

Hailing from the primordial forests of Little River in New Zealand's
lesser known South Island, Abdul Alhazred felt the lure of Auckland's
bright lights and running water. Swiftly climbing the corporate ladder
thanks to his work as an embedded software developer, he now has the time,
motivation and money to pursue his dreams in Next Generation Trolling.

(subject to change)

I'm in good company, list of other presenters here.

Some cunt's gotta represent for the South Island. Looks like I'm gonna be the only presenter south of Wellington.

- - -

Hanging out with Sass was mint. Sorry guys, no juicy gossip, but I had a good time, and Sass is good value.

Drinking southern comfort on the rocks normally makes my balls tingle and my cock crave cunt juice, but not tonight. Tonight I don't feel like fucking anyone. It's kinda strange, all the fuss I made about this girl, that girl, but now I just find myself tired of everything, people, everything, limp dicked and slumped in my seat. Not even the tender commerce of a prostitute appeals.

Outside, in the world, people go about their lives regardless -- and fair enough, I am, after all, after every bean is counted, mere text. Ordinarily I would whip my mind into a lather of rage, pick an opponent, go straight for the throat, the kill and the glory, but I am totally exhausted. They say, them, they do, that power is an aphrodisiac, but in the right quantities I find it is also an effective anaesthetic, a pain inflicted on others is a pain cleaved, surgically carved out like a scalpel, if cancer patients could by force of will gift their tumours to the healthy then I'm sure they would. It is a grim day indeed when not even the thought of psychic vandalism can give me a hard on.

Sometimes when I cough into my fist I find it covered in a thick black tar.

Eros and Thanatos, sex and death, the honey and it's venom -- I'm far too tired for any of these pleasures. I do not want any of you. I do not tip the milkman extra, or leave for him special instructions sealed in lipstick. I do not eat green eggs and ham, although I have tried them (in sandwiches) on occasion.

Outside it is sleepy, hazy with the midday heat and tired, so tired, so tired.

- - -

I'm glad Sass is coming to visit.

Ken lived in a bus and he drank ferociously. He bought the bus after a friend of mine, half-jokingly. suggested the idea when Ken was considering buying a house. The advantages of a mobile lifestyle quickly became apparent: “No court bailiff is ever gonna find me in this!” he would chuckle in a voice like rusted machinery. It's a little known fact, but an important one; traffic officers rarely (if ever) breath test bus drivers. Often parking for the night outside public toilets Ken had became something of an expert on the habits of those who frequented these “tea rooms” for the purpose of having anonymous homosexual sex.

“That one's a homo!” he'd say, with a pointed, knowing look, “Seen him go in there for twenty minutes yesterday, another guy came in after.” And then he would slowly shake his head, genuinely amazed that such things existed in the world.

Yes, Ken was definitely one of God's favoured children. Fired from a succession of manual labour and driving type jobs he'd always manage to land on his feet. A long string of restraining orders, an impressive collection of illegitimate children, an unmade bed and a hotplate and the simple homely pleasures of hard liquor and drunk driving, this was all his lifestyle required. Now some people might consider him a loser, and I guess by many standards he is, but I like to think he represents everything that is best in mankind -- Ken is a shining Christmas tree angel, he is the absolute pinnacle of all human achievement. What is best in life is to be free.

Rousseau's social contract requires your tacit compliance to be effective. All you need to do is nothing.

- - -

So Lucy & Michael are together. I guess the better man won.

Some of Gran's herbal remedy took the edge off the worst of the nausea and I crawled into work to be miserable. The mornings have always been for me a time of quiet introspection, a time for taking stock and surveying the damage. The combination of a hangover plus the final notice red stamp invoice for emotional costs incurred is a potent one, a heady pungent brew that quickly lends itself to intoxicating ruminations upon the bigger and more useless questions in life.

What have I done? Woe is me! I'm really going to quit drinking this time... I swear to God! Ha ha ha ! Ho ho ho! Just how wildly implausible, how clown-shoe ridiculous the idea had become was quickly brought home to me by an acquaintance of mine that I happened to stumble across at a party, I was sober (that day), and when I explained the reason why he said, “Caleb, every single time I see you you're quitting drinking!” It was true. Let us waste no more time on futile New Years resolutions.

I am not going to be a better person.

In a twisted kind of way I like causing trouble for myself.

Being convinced of the universality of the human condition I am certain that everyone is just as fucked, as black licorice stunted as I am, but it's impolite to peel back the bedsheets. These impulses should be sublimated, kept secret until they burst from the earth in the socially approved undersea volcanoes and geothermal vents. The snobby sneer of civility. How to kill with back rubs.

I've listened to you speak.

Aw, I'm really sorry Charlene, if I had only known I was in the presence of a saint I would have toned down my language, as per the pope's rather strict specifications. But, because, and, quite possibly, prehensilely, instead of, given my somewhat sub-standard country school upbringing I am left without the benefits of an extensive vocabulary, I had to make do with the words that fit.

Everybody thinks they got something, some little candle tucked away in some rotten corpse attic that makes their little light shine so much brighter than mine.

How about no. How about you don't, you ain't, how about underneath exactly you're the same as me, peel back your skin and you got the same worms gnawing at you as I do. Goddamn, holier than thou bullshit sweet jesus.

How about a courtesy?

How about a goddamn bow?

Did I scrape my crotch on the ground low enough? I hope the interview with "Women's Day" completely explains my position.

- - -

I should start ranking my posts by how many friends I lose.

“Don't worry, we're not rapists.”

“I've heard THAT before.”

The twisty little gin soaked alleyways off Queen St are the hunting ground for a certain type of thirsty thirty five year old. A lucky escape, she wanted to become a lawyer to regain custody of her nine year old son, I didn't know what to say when she showed me the photograph. Apparently her Dad owned a four point two million dollar mansion, I didn't know what to say to that either.

Sometimes it's good to be an asshole, to flex your muscles and exercise a little power, try and test your strength. A little evil, a momentary sting, the mosquito bite of minor cruelty but oh mother what a rush! I treated another human being like an object, manipulated her psychological levers and pulleys and her pain was like sweet white wine gushing from uncorked thighs. In the end my partner in crime was glad we didn't bring her home. On one hand, a simultaneous tag team spit roast with a well earned “high five” at the moment of climax would have been one for the record books and would have definitely cemented our friendship, on the other we would have to talk to her afterwards.

I don't think I'm really misogynistic. It's not just women, having the upper hand over people in general make me go all tingly. When you don't care about them, don't care about their feelings, when on the sliding scale of humanity they barely rate as a primate, when they are disposable, irreconcilable figures in the garbage column and their opinions are just generic templates you can swap in and out at will...
You can't be nice to everyone.

Here is my friend Jon "The Hell Bound Smoker" Adams' photo-realistic rendition of the nights events:





Should I feel guilty? Eight ball sez no.

- - -

Twittr: who gives a shit? seriously.

Dear Diary,

The two things you need to succeed in the big city: a briefcase and a bad fucking attitude. I'm still working on the briefcase. Drinking long island ice teas at my local bar, a regular, the bar staff call me by first name so now I guess I'm a lush.

At home; I get stoned, smoke a couple of fat ones (cos I got half an ounce and why? you know, not) and people think how come? Surely there's something productive, some positive contribution you could, he can be making; and absolutely, absolutely I agree but the thing is, the thing is that I am surrounded, penned in by mental blockades and razor wire fences, my head, it's is an Alcatraz, positively a goddamn prison island, I am stuck fast and the waters are cold and are patrolled regularly by carnivorous poisonous fish, six rows of teeth and sharp as mincemeat.

The only way out is by building yourself rocketship. The only way out is to achieve escape velocity. Aside from certain hard to refute laws of physics most restrictions are self-imposed. The aim of exercise is to stop caring about the consequences, of anything, of any of your actions, become like a beast immediate and speak the truth, a conduit for those oozing primordial impulses, thick black crude of raw animal instinct. It is written (and I've heard it said) that before the flood and fall of Babel we all spoke the same language -- Enochian, the angelic tongue. They say it was by one word and merest whisper of celestial speech that God Himself Almighty created the world. He by pure word of mouth alone separated the loins of heaven and earth and caused the stars to shine, and the birds to swim, the oceans to sing with fish.

If you know the true name of God, you are God, and His name reversed undoes creation. Most delicacies are distinctly unpalatable the first time you try them, most people are the same, but you soon develop an appetite.

Under maritime law ships in international waters are be under the jurisdiction of their flag-state. I'm not sure exactly what's supposed to happen if you're not flying a flag.

- - -

You know that feeling when you got this emotion but you don't want to be weak about it, become vulnerable and roll over and expose the soft fat of your belly to the butchers knife?

Dear Ma,

I hear they take letters pretty seriously.

I am, as usual, living a life of reckless self-indulgence. Have abandoned myself completely to over-the-top extravagance, am splitting my time equally between the sexual perversions of Sodom and various vulgarities of wretched, meaningless, and relativistic excess.

Hope you are well. Your loving son,
Caleb.

P.S. IMPORTANT! Please send more money for “miscellaneous”. One more photographic negative will be returned to you upon receipt of every deposit.

P.P.S I realise this puts us in a somewhat awkward position. Again, I hope your are well.

I'M COMING, I'm coming to tear shit apart with my bare hands. I'm coming; to write a scream, I'll smear my mouth, I'll paint: my lipstick on your tongue -- I'll bite your goddamn nose off. OH GOD I'M COMING speak! repeat: his name is Death, and Gin is not a breakfast tonic

In order! sometimes, to obtain, that primacy, communal commune with something (other? bigger? other than ourselves), that super super-mega kiloton exclusive, you gotta channel spirits, obtain inside yourself a fusion reaction and BLOW YOURSELF UP. Just walking down the street today I meet whole conceits of angels, a chorus, an entire concert of demons, often, nearly always, that is: far, far more often than is ever presupposed in any of the popular newspapers. Do not think just because you are a rational man you are beyond the reach of magic. My voodoo dolls (always exact replicas in every important sense) confound the laws of causality.

I have destroyed, wiped clean less scribbled slates than yours.

Everything is extremely precarious. Your center of gravity seems precisely low.

When it comes to self-sabotage, I am an undisputed grandmaster. If trouble is a bell curve then I will inevitably massage the arrow keys so as to hit the peak and inflict the maximum amount of pain and damage to everyone involved. Someone once described me as a “disaster waiting to strike” -- accurate and fair enough. So here I am, there I was: sans lucy, sans erin, sans everyone. Boy, I handled that incredibly badly. Deliberately horrible, horrendously terrible. It was, all things considered, a shitty thing to do, a despicable way to operate. It is eight in the morning. I am drinking screwdrivers, vodka and orange juice, attempting to chill out, attempting, sweet jesus, not to care.

Over the long course of my many experiments I have discovered that screwdrivers generally make for the “best” hangovers. Now, when I want to get serious about my drinking, I drink screwdrivers. I like to express myself, honestly and without restriction, and getting drunk has a tendency to drill down to the molten truth of me, which I like.

I'm sorry Lucy.

I'm sorry Erin.

Obviously there's better out there than the messed up likes of yours truly. I fail the turing test. I particularly apologize to you Lucy, you've been nothing but sweet and kind to me. I'm sure this doesn't make anything any better. I am arrested by an irresistible compulsion to tell the truth, publicly, unfortunately. The only way I have of processing anything.

( so lucy wants to hear the whole story )

I am clumsy. My hands shake. I lack fine motor-control when it comes to using my flippers at the best of times, and I've always had a problem with bras. Some guys, they can be drunk, they can be high as a satellite – as bent and fucked up as two refugee converging parallel lines from the trans-euclidian horrors of dimension X, they could be a goddamn quadruple amputee and still have more luck with bras than I do.

Generally I throw my hands up in frustration. Just... can you? Would you? Do you mind? Do it. Just do it for me baby. Oh yeah. That's the stuff. Yesssss.... yessss.... ok... ok... ok!, less! motherfucker! less teeth! Sweet jesus I'm bleeding like a fire hose.

Upon proper thought & considerable genuflection, this has been a very strange time for me. Breaking up with Erin, moving to Auckland, new job, new drugs, possibilities opening up like cracks in the shell of the earth, universe spreading her thighs like some coy wet schoolgirl, everything, everyone gone mad and crazy and senseless and sensual, the stench of sex and raw ink.

I managed to cut my drinking back to “not everyday”, which I guess is some improvement.

I tried to not let it affect me, the effects get to me, I wanted to become a hot pan full of oil, and let you be the water. Let you splutter over me, fizzle over me, burn and evaporate over me, and I remain steady, a constant temperature. a self-sufficient variable of independent means.

So yesterday I asked Erin what the chance of us getting back together was.

Slim to nil on a good day.

I am a horrible, terrible person. What with Lucy and all. And liking her. But yet still holding a candle... terrible. But I had to *know*, it was eating at me, it was nibbling at my intestines, gnawing at my guts, tearing chunks from both hemispheres.

I guess now I can move on. Hopefully.

- - -

Drinking heavily, that sounds like the ticket.

Being as hard, as cool, as brittle as porcelain, I have smashed, I have cracked (many times) and been repeatedly re-glued. Sparks still fly! The pistons still pump! and this broken emotion android of love, it still spins up it's flywheel, the torque of my force flies out like potters clay on a crash wall collision course. No argument: I am uselessly perpendicular, I am centrifugal to requirements, radial only, a circuit without load, a race without losers, completely disconnected from motion or movement.

As my friend John aptly put it, “the underground” is just people talking. A patchwork blanket of frayed threads sharing some fringe interest. There's no use discussing who is in and who is out, who is real, or a poseur, or on or off the bus. After the laundry's been done and things have finally come out in the wash in the final analysis you can always sell the gravy, but the real meat of the meal remains only for the cooks. Commodification inevitably misses the point. Essentially the essentials of the deal are forever tantalising and elusive, you can't sell participation, anything that can be packaged in plastic simply wasn't worth having in the first place.

The underground, a bunch of disparate social networks primarily routing information, and as a secondary effect hard-to-find goods and grey market services. I want to buy drugs of a particular type, I have a friend A, who knows a bottom tier dealer B, who has a connection with an importer C, abracadabra, alakazam and hey presto! I have my drugs. We build up our trust through shared history. No flying pigs in helicopters, not amongst true friends.

Still, I'm glad they burned the Man down early, it's about damn time. That curdled old milk was far and away well past it's expiry date. Reading all the endless rules and regulations it sounds as if the soul of the party had long since moved on, and left behind a pale calcified husk of a shadow of it's former glory. The soul, the spark of what made it wonderful still exists, is probably floating around Mexico, starting anarchic bonfires on the gleaming lustful sands of some (until recently) uninhabited south pacific atoll, eating forbidden fruit in the lost valleys of the South Americas, breaking down the boarded up windows in a graffiti littered warehouse somewhere in your home town. When you dilute hard liquor to become palatable to the common tongue you know those of us who like to drink our poison strong will quickly find another bar to go to.

That's the actual reason to fear popularity. It's not that it's necessary to feel unique, it's that inevitably with mass appeal the heart of the scene will wander some place else, or, more likely, the people that comprise the heart of the scene will leave for better things. No one worth a damn wants to stick around to buy the t-shirt.

“Being yourself” is a peculiar concept. One one hand, in one sense, we cannot help but be ourselves. Ultimately and unfortunately you cannot escape that, anyone who has ever tried to climb over the fence can tell you: the banal truth is all we have. And if “being yourself” means being someone other than who your already are then the idea becomes immediately much more mysterious. There exists a True Self, the Real You, trapped, somewhere, in here, and you can go digging through your chest to find it. When do you find your True Self, we are told, a miracle occurs, pavement turds will sprout daisies, peppermint candy canes fall from the sky. The Real You is, apparently, always a happy and successful person, having obtained from Colonel Sanders the names and relative measures of the eleven secret herbs and spices, the cocaine and baking soda recipe for unlimited success.

What of those of us whose inner beauty is unattractive and asymmetrical? Perhaps, perhaps your sole purpose in life is to serve as an example to others. Please, sir, madam; do not try and fight fate! You were chosen, picked out by the eye of God -- this is your destiny. As for the rest of us novelty paperweights, there is good and bad, often swapped around, in different places and in differing quantities, depending on the time of day, who's looking and from what angle.

Personally I doubt there's any such thing, it's all spunned around and shaken thoroughly, stirred and mixed, intractably tangled. We cannot extract the gold from the sand. But perhaps this is what it means: there is an image of how we see ourselves, and an image of how others see us, and how closely, or often, do the two coincide? The exchange rate on cognitive dissonance is particularly good for exporters, a little hypocrisy goes a long way.

- - -

In Hamner, out of touch, leave a message at the tone.

Let me give you one interpretation:

The first and most important task of any pauper worth his flesh is to convince the rainbow princess he can help her escape from the drudgery of the castle laundry room. Do not be deceived! These pitiful scraps, these tatters of skin and rag, they are merely my disguise! In reality I am the heir to a great empire, cruelly banished from my rightful caliphate by evil Mustafah the scheming grand vizier and his army of malformed goblins. Every so often when the moons align things with webbed feet crawl out from the cold, the dank, the merciful covering darkness of their holes and caves, sweet jesus, looks like some of these ...creatures... haven't seen the surface world in years and there ain't any amount of fire, not even all the brimstone in hell can wipe that smell away.

Everybody is always looking for the easy out. If you are polite, if you are tangentially genteel and casually empathic and cruelly deceptive enough – the warmth of a heartfelt embrace can be an easy cover for the knife-in-the-back, sure. Be careful sunbird, careful who's eyes you look into, you know mirrors only appear to be deep, touch one, try to reach in and you will quickly discover just how cool, just how shallow they really -- I am really am.

I fight to win, there ain't no other reason.

And I give money to beggars whenever I can. There are so few homeless here it's possible to do so, because of our strong social welfare system the people who slip between the cracks are generally genuinely fucked; solvent abusers, chronic alcoholics, long term and incurable suffers of tunnelling psychic parasites of various types and kinds, they often speak only in slurs, a thick gruel slurry of mashed up syllables and pre-conscious grunts, trembling hands.

There is much in the world that is cruel, but far more pain is caused by simple indifference.

Viva la revolution, roll on Armageddon, can't wait, let us each attempt in our own way to hasten the apocalypse as best we can, anoint the head of the initiate in lighter fluid and then strike flint, sow my thoughts in gleeful sparks, envelope, consume, sear me red meat raw and set your mind! to kill, on fire, blaze it rough, erupt! our skulls, explode; now; you lustful volcano in your holy terror halo crown of bluster, flame and dust. spit out your angel guts in spiritual, visceral cough and expulsion: then rise sir knight! become a sacred agent: of entropy you luscious cracked lipped priest, decay, disease, go rot, go blow up some shit, fuck up, knock out, beat down and ground to flour, sad cunts deserving -- a note from teacher: you can cause as much trouble as you need.

A friend of mine, she says to me tonight she don't want to go to my funeral, a presupposition, she stated plainly, of some lethal cocktail: of reckless drug use and riding untamed hurricanes, that my body simply won't continue to condone the constant beatings, the vicious domestic abuse I put it through, and eventually, teary eyed, it having finally decided her had had-enough! it throw up her hands in disgust and stop playing..

But I grow calloused, gloved in habit and insensitive, I am leather to my fear. Maybe, I think,weighing up the options, maybe... on one hand... but perhaps on the other I actually think that the alternative is worse.

A friend of mine, she says to me tonight she don't understand why I choose to “ chase the darkness”, whatever the hell that means.

But I say she only focus on the lows, and I say to her, I say,: oh say have you seen, my god! the heights! the frosty delirious highs I've witnessed, these cloudy vertigo vistas I have had the galactic fortune to cast my eye upon, a perfect snowcone blue.

- - -

To Lucy: I know you've been having some problems with guys and such recently, but these dudes, these poor guys have absolutely NO IDEA what they're missing out on. Seriously. Damn. Sucks to be them.

You're gonna break a lot of hearts.

I wanna quit drinking again. I mean: I know I've done this like a billion times... I don't want to go to AA or anything, I just... I just need you guys to have my back. Please?

I'm sick of it.

Things got worse since I got money. I can afford to booze everyday, and I do. I'm talking hundreds of dollars a week at the bar.

---

Well, I totally suck don't I?

---

Txt msg from Mia this morning: YOU OWE ME BIG TIME YOU USELESS SHIT

Which, I guess, all things considered, is fair enough.


---

Oh god, I got the guilts something chronic now.