Chris Martin's Journal
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
I'm still going to be using this journal for stuff, but it won't exactly be my journal anymore. I'm thinking along the lines of random parodies, if I have the kind of time to put into that sort of thing.
Monday, February 9, 2004
7:14PM - The Epilogue (optional)
And they all lived happily ever after, except for that guy. He jumped off of a bridge and ended his life.
6:53PM - The Final Portion!
We discussed obscene pornography today in Goverment class, so I figure I should provide all the fine folks who know of my journal with some examples of just that. Thereofor, I shall dredge the darkest depths of the internet in this journal entry...
The Darkest Depths of the Internet
I'm sure you've never heard of a guy with the screen name "Eli the Bearded". Until very recently, I never had. It turns out that he's a famous, though. He is the leading creator and collector of profoundly sick shit on the internet, and this is his personal collection.
If you don't believe the entire intraweb knows this man's screen name, just type that handle into google and see how many hits you get. It's all the same guy, too.
There it is, folks. I'd advise you to dig into the "pedo" section first, since it contains the worst stories out of all of the categories. He is a brief review of some of the shit I found on this FTP:
The Devil's Cock (pedo or snuff, could be in both folders) - Written by Eli the Bearded himself, apparently, this is a heart-warming tale about Satan raping a woman to death. It touched me in ways I've never known before, inflicting a sort of pain upon me that a root canal could never aspire to. The part where old Lucifer causes the chick's bladder to explode almost made me cry tears of vomit while vomiting big salty tears.
In conclusion, I fucking hate this story, I fucking hate the guy who wrote it, and I fucking hate everyone who has ever read and enjoyed it.
Any One of the "Belly Butt Carnival" Stories (snuff) - I can't recall which sick sack of sad wrote these for the life of me, but the sheer number of them is horrifying.
Basically, imagine women dying in horrible pain while they're being raped by some guy. Then, imagine that they're enjoying it even more than the guy. Then, imagine that you still have faith in the human race. Then, imagine world peace. Use the idea of world peace as a stark contrast the ideas contained within these stories.
Daddy's Love (pedo)- This thing has sub-plots that serve a dual purpose. They make the story much, much worse in a literary sense; and they also make the content of the story that much more godawful.
I really can't describe this one, nor can I tell you how much I hate it, but it's probably one of the most awful things in the universe next to Cambodian child prostitution and Good Charlotte.
Hear that, folks? That's Ben Franklin and George Washington slowly clawing their way out of their graves to re-write the 1st Ammendement.
The cutting device on the poster-machine at BHS works. It works really, really well and what is left of my thumb can attest to that. The wound resembles an incredibly deep and lengthy paper-cut, but doesn't hurt that much.
I aced the test on memorization of the Preamble to the Constitution, which should make up for that 53 I pulled off on the Declaration of Indenpendence. Considering I started studying for that miserable fop the night after we were suposed to take it, though, I think I pulled off a marginally-less-terrible-than-expected grade.
Now, onto something vaguely interesting...
Some folks might have noticed a big chunk of missing time around September of last year, when I had a week off from school. I'm sure that's been long since forgotten, if ever it was remembered, but it's an important pre-face to what I'm about to ramble on and on about.
I went to St. Louis, Missouri in order to visit Washington University in St. Louis...which bored me to death, just like any other college I've ever visited. There is nothing worth mentioning about that part of the trip, I can wholeheartedly assure you. I really liked the city of St. Louis, though.
While I was in Missouri, though, I met this girl. Her name is Courtney. We really, really, really got along well almost instantly. I was getting tired of the big city and my tiny hotel room rather quickly, so I drove out to her house in the middle of nowhere a couple of times.
I know that sounds a little odd, but it seemed like the best idea at the time. She's something of a homebody and I need to see some goddamned trees and some smog-free air to feel like I'm on the planet earth, so doing stuff in the huge metropolitan sprawl of St. Louis didn't seem like the best idea.
Her family was more than a little pissed, for obvious reasons, but nobody threw me out. Mostly, we just stayed in her room and cuddled while messing with her GameCube. She's a lot like me in the sense that she has more than a passing interest in videogames, but also has interests in being a perfectly normal human being and taking a bath more than once a month.
This is pertinant now for one simple reason. We've kept in touch very well, and after almost six months I'm really starting to miss her. I'm will probably be returning to the relatively cold, somewhat Godforsaken land of Missouri during Spring Break to see her again.
A waste of time? Definitely. However, I can't think of anything better to do and she really wants to see me again.
As it stands, I think there are three possibilities. One is that I'm going, another is that I'll find something else to do, and the last is that Bobby Jennings will keel over right then and there so as to fuck humanity (and me, in particular) one last time.
We'll see which one pans out in roughly a month.
I went to see Mrs. Scott and her new baby, Ally, on Saturday morning. She's breast-feeding the kid, and I found that out the hard way.
Since she lives well attop the mountain in Guntersville, I got to drive though some Asbury-esque portions of the country before reaching my destination. Once I saw the neighborhood she lives in, though, I came to understand why it was located in the middle of nowhere.
The Scott family lives in a sub-division full of house-shaped castles. I swear one of the homes there had ramparts for a group of archers or gunners to use in fending off the poor folk that periodically come up from the trailer park to invade.
Mrs. Scott is doing fine after the pregnancy...but it feels really weird calling her "Mrs. Scott" as opposed to "Charnita" after seeing her breast feed one her baby while her son (Cade, around five) attempted to tackle me because his father wasn't around.
It also snowed Saturday. It didn't stick, but the little snow goblins that live in God's pants still get credit for effort. You tried hard, little goblins, and I'm sure you'll suceed some day!
Sunday, February 1, 2004
If anybody can figure out the point of my last entry, could you please tell me what it is? I read it back to myself, yet did not understand it. It either makes no sense whatsoever, or I went over my own head entirely. I'm pretty sure it's meant to be moralizing, but that's about as far as I got.
OK Computer is Radiohead's best album, I'd say. It turns out that Thom Yorke actually knows how to rock. Until today, I did not know this.
7:11PM - You're your Problem.
I could be incredibly content. I could prance though life on a series of clouds composed entirely of sheer joy, hopping from one good experience to the next while overflowing with jubilation. I could happier than the host of any given kids show pretends to be, even.
But...there are stupid people...These stupid people do, you know, they do stupid things. That really brings me down.
There are extreme cases that depress me just by existing. There's Bob, he fucks babies. There's Ted, he sells drugs to kids in kindergarden. There's Auriovelo Nightshade (used to be Peter, had his name legally changed), a sad and sorry fuck who thinks he is a dragon.
Then, there's that every day hedonism that's weight collects upon me like a fine mist of smog collecting on my windshield as a drive down the interstate. There's Jimmy, he drinks excessively because he's too fucking dull to actually have fun. There's Suzy, she's had more cocks in her than any chicken house in county because she feels it makes her more likable. There's Harry, he prefers girls who are in Middle School because...well...I can't explain that one.
Let's say these people have lives like mine, good lives. I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that they still whine oftentimes, bitching and moaning about nothing and everything and anything and things in general. Going after society with a pointy stick like it's some kind of monster that wants to eat them alive, sometimes.
I just can't help but wonder...What in the gay blue Hell are they moping about? The folks in the latter category are society, so how could it possibly eat them alive? Not that I'm against them eating one another alive, but I just don't see that happening.
I'm not condescending here, I just don't see why somebody can't come out on top. If you're shallow, ammoral, and act without thinking; smile. Smile big and smile bright enough to hurt a blind man's eyes, becuase you don't know you're the problem.
Because hey, somebody has to be happy. I could do it, but folks like Suzy and the sick-fuck-formerly-known-as-Peter are really bumming me out. The kids in Ethiopia could do, but they're dying of hunger and AIDS. So, that leaves folks like Jimmy and Harry (Bob should be unhappy!) to carry on with the joy.
11:24AM - I can't think of a subject.
Bobby Jennings is in the hospital, recovering. Where's the fun in that?!
I'm working to re-organize my clothes. I have them divided into several piles right now. The "clean shirts" pile is in my clothes basket. It's sub-divided into two categories, T-shirts and "not T-shirts", with the former making up 95% of the pile.
The "a little bit dirty shirts" pile and the "white shirts slowly turning brown" pile are sitting on my mother's bed, because I want her to notice that they need to be washed. I'm pretty sure that she'll just move them before settling in for her 12 hour nap this afternoon, but it's worth a shot.
The "discard" pile, gathered from various other piles, rests happily behind my computer desk. Again, I was pressed for space. While they are a profound fire hazard amongst all of the electrical cords, I do not have to look at them while they're back there. I plan to give them to the Salvation Army, or maybe Bobby's trailer-spawn.
On that topic, here's a rough breakdown of the points of origin for my wardrobe:
Hammer's General Store: 25%
Band Shirts: 25%
Websites that I Like: 15%
Salvation Army: 15%
Profoundly Weird Shit that was on Sale because Nobody Else Wanted it: 5%
Leftovers from my Youth: 15%
That last category is what I'm working to eradicate. It contains one pair of black demin jeans and a few shirts with the phrase "No Fear" printed somewhere on them. They keep hobbling into the wash and then sneaking into my clothes basket, and by that time, it's too late to stop them.
Maybe I should just burn the pants...they already smell like they've been flame-kissed, though, so I'm not sure if fire would effect them.
Well, that was dull. Sorry. I promise I'll do better next time.
Sunday, January 25, 2004
Bobby Jennings is sure that the time of his death is upon him. Death, however, is no more anxious than any other individual in this universe to accept him.
He does this periodically to get attention for all of his family, friends, and well-wishers. They crawl from beneath rocks all over the world just to come and send off another who has failed at life, unaware that he will just fail in death as well.
In actuality, he has a few horrible years left in him. A man like Bobby Jennings can not go out in a brilliant flash of light, like a rocket. He must slowly twitch out his last over a long period of time, like a poisoned cockroach.
If I stop by his humble abode, I'll give you folks a report on the crew that has assembled. If not, I'll just make stuff up based on what I do know.
Capstone scholar's day was a lot less dull than most of the college events I've attended recently, though it was significantly longer than normal.
The actual sessions, as usual, were the typical Q&A sessions dominated by questions about Greek life posed by people who have seen the film Animal House one time too many. Real Greek life? You live in Greece, see a lot of olives and even more olive oil, and eat pitas. At least, that's what I assume goes on in Greece. They could fuck goats for fun and profit, for all I know.
The mock-class was a nice change of pace, though. The adult clinical psychology professor was really clever, and also inadvertantly fired up about the class because the presentation he had planned fell though. He sounded excited about psychology because he was pissed, but he still sounded excited.
Now, onto the somewhat interesting part...The kids there.
I ran into one of the aforementioned guys who asks about Greek life. I thought he was being facicious at first, talking about hardening his liver and such, but no such luck. He turned out to be an honest-to-goodness drunken fuck.
I met the guy with the gayest voice on earth, though he is straight. His voice was about twice as high as that of the average girl, and he had a lisp that would make Rue Paul call him a flaming faggot. He's insanely conservative, though, so I assume he does not actually like cock.
I met one girl who actually annoyed me by not having anything notable wrong with her. She was an aspiring political sciences major, however, and I could pick out every aspiring political sciences major there at fifty pages. How? The psuedo-intellectual banter going on between that person and the other nearest aspiring political sciences major.
This girl wis the true embodiment of that principle. In around seventeen years are so, you folks had best be ready to vote Heather Rainwater for President of the USA!. I'll admit she is already far more competant than most people who hold public office, but isn't that setting one's sights just a bit too high?
Beyond that, she is the classic over-achiever. She almost has a 4.2 GPA, wore a pants-suit and heels in the place of casual attire, and generally feels that humanity was judging on her on how much she knew instead of how likable she is. She pulled it off better than usual though, and came off as strangely endearing.
I was with a guy from Cullman named Will McKraken for every single session, and he was also the political science major that typically spoke with Heather. He was, however, also socially function and pretty normal. Pretty clever guy, and I found out that that his class in Cullman is even more ambitious than mine in Boaz.
I am nineth in my class with an average of 96.5 and he is thirty-fourth in his class with an average of 94.5. There are thirty-three people in his class with grades above a 94.5. That just doesn't make sense, does it?
University of Alabama seems like a good option to fall back on if I don't get acceptable scholarships to Emory or Washington in St. Louis. Also, thank goodness that I'm not going to be a political sciences major. In fact, I'm not even going to vote now.
This song conjures up horrible yet horribly funny images in my mind, like a sumo wrestler seducing a thin and attractive blonde. Crush that gal...Huh!...With a ton of love!
Sunday, January 11, 2004
11:15PM - Do salesmen call these things?
I got a new toy today. It beeps a lot, lights up whenever I go within ten feet of it, and makes a lot of annoying sounds. I think it can send and recieve phone calls as well, but I'm not so sure about that.
Saturday, January 3, 2004
4:43PM - Don't worry, I'm happy.
Even though this journal typically ends up being a big mess of discontent, I can assure you folks that my pleasently innane thoughts will always outnumber my negative ones.
For all the ideas I've had about beating person X or person Y to death with a frozen tuna, there are at least twice as many ideas running around about the stupidest concepts known to man.
Like...Earlier today, after I had just woken up, I must have spent the better part of an hour wondering why Chinese food appeals to me so much, and why it tastes so good. Yes, I was wondering. That implies I perceived the subject as some sort of question or enigma.
I've also recently began thinking about the hardness scale used for various minerals. You know, the old "diamond scratches steel scratches copper scratches sandstone" scale. I want to know if there is a similar way to test liquids or gasses. Because, really, I want to know if the tinkling noise when I pee is urine scratching water or water scratching urine.
Also, are more people right-handed because sabertooth tigers tended to approach our ancestors from a particular side, or because of simple genetics? Wait, genetics isn't a simple science...
I'm still basically out of my mind. However, not in the same fashion as a serial killer. I am, however, geeky as all undying fuck.
Also, I highly reccomend the group of people who play instruments and sing that is known as Since By Man. I have really weird taste, though, so you should probably just ignore this.
For the first time in six months, I can see my chin clearly.
Hello, Chris's chin!
Oh, wise Oracles! I implore you, all four and a half people who actually read this, to answer my question of greatest importance.
What the fuck is a fitted T-shirt?
It just occured to me that this year, these 365 days which will fall in rapid succession, has begun. It is begining with sleeplessness, being more bothered by my mother than ever, and being pretty grouchy because of those two things that I deal with every single day.
I'm hoping the former subsides, and maybe I can tolerate the latter once that comes to pass. It just feels like she needs to do something with her life other than dedicating it to constantly annoying me at every opportunity. I'm glad she has my uncle Bobby to harass and annoy, because he takes up a lot of her time lately.
The mood I acquire from not sleeping is comparable to a bruise. All of the little pokes thoughout the day that I would not even notice otherwise suddenly hurt like nobody's business, and any touch that would normally feel good now causes mild discomfort.
I hope this will not prove to be a re-occuring theme. If it does, I'm going to track down that New Years Baby and put his tiny body in a meat grinder. No, not for any particular reason. I'm just saying that I'll be pissy enough to derive pleasure from grinding up babies; that's all.
Friday, January 2, 2004
4:16AM - Upon recieving the Jackass of the Year Award, he said, "...
...I'd like to thank Google for providing me with the link fodder I stuck in the two updates from earlier this morning.
...I'd like to thank sleep depravation for making me sound completely insane.
...I'd like to thank every human being who has ever dealt with me for putting up with me.
...I'd like to thank the Germans for making sausages. That almost makes up all of those Jews you guys baked!
3:46AM - I also pooped in my pants!
I remember when I was a kid...Everything was great. I either liked something or I didn't like something. If I hated that icky green stuff on my plate; I didn't eat it. If I liked the icky green stuff on my plate; I still didn't eat it, because it was icky and green. Kids hate green stuff.
Now, I have judge everything and provide a logical reason why I hate it. "Because I hate it..." just doesn't fly any more. I have to back up my criticism with valid facts and logical arguments, then present them in a proper fashion. Seeing as I'm predisposed to disliking things as opposed to liking them, this gets tiring.
So, why don't people have to justify why they like stuff? Take these fine folks, for example. They are an extreme example, but I'm tired and I want to laugh at someone's expense.
I don't need to give a valid reason for thinking these people are completely insane, do I? They dress up in giant animal suits, pretend to be animals, and have group sex. They don't do that last part seperately, either. It's one big package full of nuttiness.
Well, they don't have to give a reason for being completely nuts either. I'd like to see the burden of proof placed on people like these folks. They should be forced to provide fourteen page moral and logal dissertations on their life every month, providing rythme and reason for every nutty action that they undertake.
Sure, they can do it. I don't really care. However, I'd like them to give a good reason for doing it. If not, they should just stop. If "Because I don't like it..." isn't a valid reason for me to mock any given band, movie, television show, or other form of media; than I'm pretty sure that "Because I want to..." can't justify pretending to be a South African honey badger during sex.
Speaking of forms of media and things that need to be justified...These kids couldn't explain the reasoning behind their actions without using up the entire world's paper supply and most of the rain forest. Niether could these.
I'm probably coming off as a sort of right-wingnut here, even though I'm really not. I'd just like to see people required to explain their actions in a similar fashion that I'm asked to explain my abhorance for those actions. I don't even care who is in the right, really, I just like knowing that people can think.
I try to think about the stuff I'm doing in a fairly logical way. "I should do this because..." and "I should not do this because..." and that sort of thing. Most people, however just skip that last step altogether. That pisses me off.
3:29AM - Insomnia: Part XXVIII
Why can't I fall asleep? I'm tired, very tired. I have stuff to do tommorow. I woke up around eight this morning. I am also very tired, exeptionally so. In case you didn't catch that, I'm tired.
The moment my head touches that pillow, however, my mind decides that sleep will not happen. No, not tonight. Tonight is to be spent jumpy and nervous, and tommorow will be spent in a similar fashion. Bad decision, Chris's sub-concious. You've made mistakes in the past, I'll admit, but this whole "I want to be awake, because I'm a big poopy-head!" business is not doing anything for anyone.
The most annoying thing about this is how I'm going to be acting come tommorow. I'll finally get to sleep, some time after sunrise, and I'll wake up in about four hours. I will be jumpier than a crack addict in severe need of crack, assuming that crack addict has ADD and several nervous disorders. I can tell that I'm acting really weird, but I can't do much about it.
Right now, there's a homeless guy somewhere in Siberia succumbing to the warm embrace of hypothermia. I almost envy the poor, smelly, homeless, smelly, dead, smelly bastard because he can fall asleep. I have a knack for waking up that he will probably wish for; however, right now that seems like a minor detail.
Oh well...If I'm suffering, you folks should too.
This should make everyone who has yet to see it quite disgusted, if not miserable.
If that little wonder of the world does nothing for you, try this lovely story about a person becoming something more or this heartwarming tale of companionship.
Thursday, December 25, 2003
Saturday, December 13, 2003
2:21PM - Touche!
The badger's response, carved in crude block lettering upon my small intestine:
I must have made poopy forty-seven times in the last twelve hours. This is horrible.
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