the keys of death and hell

epic, epic fail

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.
  • Current Music
    screw you fucking hippies
the keys of death and hell

The bounds of human decency

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.


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.
  • Current Music
    Let your love flow
the keys of death and hell

Wanted To Buy

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.
the keys of death and hell

Stray Cat

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.


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.
  • Current Mood
    Can you see the fiery light?
the keys of death and hell

Southern comfort on the rocks

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.
the keys of death and hell

Kohlberg's stages of moral development

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.
the keys of death and hell

A role model (for the children)

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.
the keys of death and hell

You may be drunk, but I might be ugly

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.