So the new Lamb Of God album is fucking amazing. So the new Blind Guardian album is fucking amazing. So the new Mastodon album is fucking amazing. You know what's not amazing? The fact that the new Slayer album sucks cock. It really pisses me off when a band begins to suck when they shouldn't...
Ever meet somebody that you instantly fall in love with? Somebody who fills you with warmth and confidence in yourself? I met one last night. She's literally one of the coolest people I've ever met. Yeah, I have a huge immature crush on her...
I've always been a pretty avid classic rock fan, but lately it's been almost insane. I've been gettin' the Led out, listing to Rush, lots of Sabbath, lots of Iron Maiden. It's so not like me to listen to so much old shit...
At least it's all good shit, yes?
At least it's all good shit, yes?
I wrote this at work today...
***
Sitting on the couch in the living room gives me a perfect view of my surroundings. As I come down from the heroin, I try to take note of the things going on around me. I try, but only wish to shoot up again. Its truly a hell here in this den. This scum infested hole of a dwelling. As I cook another dose, I notice something for the first time. The walls are a disgusting brown. Its probably from the buildup of drugs, bodily fluids, smoke, and trash. I slam the needle home. The high grips me. I suddenly gain enlightenment. I understand why the house is like this. I understand the meaning of it all.
People are passed out in the doorways, making love on the couches, shooting up in the bathrooms, killing themselves in on the roof. Theyre trying to hit bottom, reach it so they the only way they can go is up. This is a great place to attempt a personal and absolute low. The house is a shit hole, pure and simple. The paint is peeling off the ceiling, falling to the floor, the tables, and the chairs. The walls are dented and brown from various illegal activities. The floor is so stained that you can hardly tell the original color if you could only survive getting close enough to look. The odor emanating from the carpet is sulfurous and metallic. Thats the smell of heated spoons, needles, knives, bullets.
The sounds and noises crying out through the structure would make even the sanest person crack. The low wail of a sobbing crack whore, the thumping bass-heavy techno, the moaning and groaning of sex, and the screams of bad trips create an atmosphere that causes an addict to use more to escape the hellish home of deviance. It makes the high worth the risk of death because it means getting out of the world for a few hours. The house gives dark inspiration to those who arent sure, to those who dont know what to expect, to the nameless souls without a place in life. Its almost as if the domicile itself is lending a hand in bringing a person down.
The air is hazy and filled with pollutants, all of which are probably deadly when inhaled. My gaze rises from the walls to the soft, unstable ceiling. Then a new sound makes its presence known. A gunshot rings out through the air. A gun falls to the floor above, followed by a body. The blood of the unfortunate suicide victim seeps through the carpet to the plywood underneath. The plywood gives way to drywall. Over the years of abuse, the drywall has been softened to a sponge-like state. The blood drools down the walls, adding to the sewer of crap that coats them. The walls really are a mess.
***
Sitting on the couch in the living room gives me a perfect view of my surroundings. As I come down from the heroin, I try to take note of the things going on around me. I try, but only wish to shoot up again. Its truly a hell here in this den. This scum infested hole of a dwelling. As I cook another dose, I notice something for the first time. The walls are a disgusting brown. Its probably from the buildup of drugs, bodily fluids, smoke, and trash. I slam the needle home. The high grips me. I suddenly gain enlightenment. I understand why the house is like this. I understand the meaning of it all.
People are passed out in the doorways, making love on the couches, shooting up in the bathrooms, killing themselves in on the roof. Theyre trying to hit bottom, reach it so they the only way they can go is up. This is a great place to attempt a personal and absolute low. The house is a shit hole, pure and simple. The paint is peeling off the ceiling, falling to the floor, the tables, and the chairs. The walls are dented and brown from various illegal activities. The floor is so stained that you can hardly tell the original color if you could only survive getting close enough to look. The odor emanating from the carpet is sulfurous and metallic. Thats the smell of heated spoons, needles, knives, bullets.
The sounds and noises crying out through the structure would make even the sanest person crack. The low wail of a sobbing crack whore, the thumping bass-heavy techno, the moaning and groaning of sex, and the screams of bad trips create an atmosphere that causes an addict to use more to escape the hellish home of deviance. It makes the high worth the risk of death because it means getting out of the world for a few hours. The house gives dark inspiration to those who arent sure, to those who dont know what to expect, to the nameless souls without a place in life. Its almost as if the domicile itself is lending a hand in bringing a person down.
The air is hazy and filled with pollutants, all of which are probably deadly when inhaled. My gaze rises from the walls to the soft, unstable ceiling. Then a new sound makes its presence known. A gunshot rings out through the air. A gun falls to the floor above, followed by a body. The blood of the unfortunate suicide victim seeps through the carpet to the plywood underneath. The plywood gives way to drywall. Over the years of abuse, the drywall has been softened to a sponge-like state. The blood drools down the walls, adding to the sewer of crap that coats them. The walls really are a mess.
So after a frisbee game at the beach, I have a hole in the bottom of my foot. I seem to be an unwilling addict for self-abuse of varying forms. Eh, so it goes.
I got new cds today! I picked up Aborym's Generator and Deathspell Omega's Kénôse. Both rock pretty hard. Oh how I love metal.
Pee ess. The finger's healing wonderfully.
Pee ess. The finger's healing wonderfully.
So I got wounded at work today. When slicing somebody's meat, the blade of the knife took the tip of my finger off as well. Take a peek at me mutilated digit...
So a friend of mine introduced me to Einstürzende Neubauten. 'Tis German industrial at it's finest, I guess. They use power drills, mallets, pipes, and other strange shit to make their music. Well, whatever they use, it kicks much ass.
Tonight was a good night. In Portland with friends and beer. Went to an open mike night where I read a poem written on the spot. Then headed back to Cat's place. On the way we met Brian, a cool guy which I had helped back to his house previously. Drank, smoked hookah, drank some more, and kissed a guy. All in all, a good night. The guy kiss was not needed though...
