... aren't the most perfect of mixes, but, DAMN, are they a FUN mix!
Moving along, I've discovered that people can lose their spark of humanity just by being in certain lines of work or service. It's strange, but some of the very work that we do to serve humanity actually strips it away from us in the course of it. Amazing, non? The service sectors of hospitality [hotels, resorts and the like that exist to give you comfort and enjoyment away from home], home defense & security [the police and other domestic defence agencies like the fire fighters, paramedics and the like], health [hospitals with their doctors and nurses and assorted staff], civil service [must I really state the obvious???] and media [with the assorted amount of near garbage shown on TV and all sorts of morbidity in the papers, any wonder that we're dehumanitized as well as desensitized?], just to name a few. My God, it's amazing how callous, unfeeling, cynical and jaded a person in any of these lines can get. The treatment that one receives form them is horrendous, like we're not really alive or something along those lines. It's downright depressing.
And what is it about shotguns that is just so, I don't know, satisfying? I mean, have you guys ever seen a zombie movie in which the shotgun just doesn't seem to run out of ammo until a really critical time? And usually in such a dramatic way, after blasting through half the zombie horde? Even soldiers love the shotgun, for totally different reasons, of course. Let's just ignore the mess it akes when a slug make contact at close range with your skull. Let's forget the cloud of buckshot that shreds bodies in just one salvo from a single shotgun. But, then again, who am I kidding about the insanity of shotguns? I freaking love them, they're real good in a pinch and let's face it, they're a cult classic. LET ME AT THEM ZOMBIES, SON!!!
Hahahahaha, well, that's my obligation of a weekly update done and a release of thoughts to cybernetic logs over and done with. I'll be moseying along now.
Have a good day now, y'hear?
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Monday, June 04, 2007
>>> Of stories and the pathological-slash-psychological
Okay, so it's not exactly Sunday night if you want to be completely and anal retentively accurate, but it's definitely the night that follows Sunday. But, I digress...
... there must be something pathologically wrong with me somehow, like I'm how I'm allergic to carbonated drinks. However, that's psychosysmatic, but maybe it crosses over into the pathological as well. Or maybe it's all just psychological and I'm just mixing up terms. *shrugs* I'm once again straying from the subject at hand. Mayhaps it's due to the [latest] Linkin Park album that's playing on the stereo that is messing up my thought process. Or maybe it's caused by being sick, down with the fever, flu and its kin.Oh, by heck, who am I kidding? Excuses, excuses, by any other name...
Getting back on track, I think it must be pathological or psychological, this unusual occurences of being absorbed by the novels that I read, so much so that I feel that I am somehow involved yet unable to act or interfere in events, mentally screaming my self hoarse. Just like life, sometimes. But, it's getting worse as it takes longer and longer to get a story out of my system, which also results in a spike in my smoking and nervous "twitches", as virtual "memories" of the stories pop up in my mind. Like a ghost coming back to haunt its old roost. *shudders* And not so much of twitches as shivers, like someone ran a dead cold, numbing hand down your back and you're left wondering wether there was a scalpel attached to the said hand. Brrr~....
And, alarmingly, I tear through books at an alarming rate as I usually end up finishing thick novels in roughly a day or two. Cripes. So, you can just imagine how many stories are jammed up in my head, crammed in with all the random bits that comprise the contents of the vaults of my mind.
I wonder if I'm alone in this kind of strange suffering. Well, not suffering, per se, but albeit strange circumstance. Or is it a subconscious reaction, to lose one's self in stories, the worlds of fantasies and vivid imagination, just to escape the mundane and banal existence that we eke out in reality?
Well, no matter the answer, I know that my sleep tonight will be plagued by the visage of a young cherry-red-haired French girl who hung herself with a nylon strap from her backpack.
GODDAMMIT.
... there must be something pathologically wrong with me somehow, like I'm how I'm allergic to carbonated drinks. However, that's psychosysmatic, but maybe it crosses over into the pathological as well. Or maybe it's all just psychological and I'm just mixing up terms. *shrugs* I'm once again straying from the subject at hand. Mayhaps it's due to the [latest] Linkin Park album that's playing on the stereo that is messing up my thought process. Or maybe it's caused by being sick, down with the fever, flu and its kin.Oh, by heck, who am I kidding? Excuses, excuses, by any other name...
Getting back on track, I think it must be pathological or psychological, this unusual occurences of being absorbed by the novels that I read, so much so that I feel that I am somehow involved yet unable to act or interfere in events, mentally screaming my self hoarse. Just like life, sometimes. But, it's getting worse as it takes longer and longer to get a story out of my system, which also results in a spike in my smoking and nervous "twitches", as virtual "memories" of the stories pop up in my mind. Like a ghost coming back to haunt its old roost. *shudders* And not so much of twitches as shivers, like someone ran a dead cold, numbing hand down your back and you're left wondering wether there was a scalpel attached to the said hand. Brrr~....
And, alarmingly, I tear through books at an alarming rate as I usually end up finishing thick novels in roughly a day or two. Cripes. So, you can just imagine how many stories are jammed up in my head, crammed in with all the random bits that comprise the contents of the vaults of my mind.
I wonder if I'm alone in this kind of strange suffering. Well, not suffering, per se, but albeit strange circumstance. Or is it a subconscious reaction, to lose one's self in stories, the worlds of fantasies and vivid imagination, just to escape the mundane and banal existence that we eke out in reality?
Well, no matter the answer, I know that my sleep tonight will be plagued by the visage of a young cherry-red-haired French girl who hung herself with a nylon strap from her backpack.
GODDAMMIT.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)