This is something I just sort of sat down and spit out; I've got quite a lot like it, and I'm genuinely interested in hearing opinions. Is stuff like this worth producing? What's wrong with my writing? How can I holistically improve it?
Thanks.
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I feel like a Knight playing chess with Death, a disingenuous cad breaking the momentum of Bergman’s tenuous dream.
“Hark, Sir Knight! How has a man of your distinction become so entwined in this hearty jest?”
This is a tough question I don’t think I’m really prepared to answer. I mean, fuck- we’re all locked in some marble strategy with a figurative opponent. And despite every cunning stratagem a delinquent of my intellectual fortitude can conjure, I know I’m ultimately boned. Perhaps the knight should sunder the board and leap into the waves, beating life, death, and chess all at once in their horrible tournament.
Hah! We’re a generation of beatniks and morons, writhing in some sort of ecstatic frenzy no dopeless bootlicker can imagine. Weed, weed, weed; bales of the stuff being hurled back and forth by red-eyed teenagers, screeching for money like vultures while coughing like a legion of vicious lepers. You know the night has begun because fresh air has long since left the room.
But shit. Politics mean nothing in a stupid and shallow life; I am utterly occupied with sex and drugs and school and couldn’t give two shits about our nation. Activism and the young has ceased to be noble and has instead degenerated into some sort of incestuous, nasal, circle-jerk. Beware of vegans, dreadlocks, and church groups; gangs of partisans hopped-up on cocaine have been roaming the streets, beating dissidents with bibles and gargantuan carrots. I skirt in and out of sheds and fuck my girlfriend in the afternoon and smoke menthol cigarettes. A man in my situation has no need for his brain.
That is an unfortunate fact. I am surrounded almost solely by idiots of the first degree and the entire concept of an intellectually stimulating conversation has dissipated in the marijuana smoke and Xbox tournaments. But what I find truly fascinating is that these twisted animals are, perhaps, the best examples of tolerable humanity it is within my capacity to locate. There is a genuine aggression and painful addiction that so permeates these angry motherfuckers you recognize that they are, as it were, legitimate. I am sick and tired of every pretentious faggot with a windblown haircut and bulky shitstain wearing a polo shirt, and I prefer a sap with whiskey on his breath and a joint clutched in his shaking hands.
I want to move among the people. My People. Our People. I have utterly lost track of that which drives normal society. After a time, normalcy becomes so far removed from your scope of reality people become mere abstractions. It is difficult for me to conceive how and why these people function. Are they mere derivations of their fried-chicken Sunday-dinner lineage, or have they discarded atavism in favor of some new shell? Are they terrifying hermit crabs or reflections of a cash register?
Neither. I’m not utterly insane; stoned, perhaps, or holistically inundated with marijuana and tobacco tar. But I understand that these individuals are not solely some sort of pretentious analogy for me to make some bohemian point with. They are every Fat, Skinny, Black, White, Stoned, Sober, Smart, Stupid person who wanders in and out of our capitalist tilt-a-whirl. There is a calm transcience about assimilation I appreciate more than anything else; I wish my hair was short, eyes were clear, my girlfriend was wholesome, and my bicycle used more gasoline. Perhaps not; but I appreciate the lifestyle.
Besides, hedonism is expensive.



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