day 3. stayed in last night, was raining, so went to ancient mayan civilization instead. apocolypto. humans are fucking scary. the movie made passion of christ seem like a romantic comedy. I am so pussy. the pussiest. wouldn’t last 5 seconds in a rape and pillage combo by angry mayans. fsst, even docile mayans scare me. hell, I’m scared of most filipinos. I am not a man. I am writer, comedian, philosopher, microwaver. not a fighter, a lover of fight club the movie. watching humans kill each other in the face with stones makes you feel silly for worrying about your career.
I still worry about my career. lessness.
let me not fool you O’ 401-k-er, I have worries, yes, even on the road. I don’t want to come off like the tie dye wearer who mocks society for a month and then returns double fisting application and fake smile, uh uh, nope. I don’t mock society. I mock society, there’s a difference. I mock it knowing that I am a mockery. I am what I hate. everything in society that makes me bleed, bleeds inside of me. this fucking fight. this life. this run for our lives. and yet, we don’t have mayans chasing us. but then is that much better? to run and run and find no one chasing you? that almost seems worse. that is our generation. we are running, not in a forest, being chased by human sacrificers, no, we are running on sidewalks, down hallways, from voices in our head. but don’t they sacrifice us? don’t our voices reach down deep into our hearts and rip our beats from us, holding them up towards the gods, which is really the sky, which is really nothing? are we not waiting for a solar eclipse to save us? am I not giving away the plot to the whole movie? this morning, day 3 of our great adventure inside someone else’s living room, I am grateful for having my village not raped. and isn’t that what it means to be happy? to think of how great things are that they are not not great? to think, hey, at least we don’t have boils on our ass. sorry if you have boils on your ass, nothing personal. i tried to pick something obscure so you wouldn’t have it.
all happiness is relief from unhappiness.
hence our obsession with unhappiness. we are addicted to sad. we instinctively know that if we smoke the sad, it will take us higher, because when you’re down, all you have is up. and so we down down ‘til we drown, only so we can save ourselves and become god. then we sacrifice ourselves to our selves in the most ironic act of life—life itself.
how else can one experience the resurrection?
we beat our hearts with our own hands hoping we will stop the annoying rhythm of our guilt which stems from beating our hearts with our own hands.
guilt, guilt. guilt, guilt. guilt, guilt.
but maybe there’s something to ripping your own heart out. don’t knock it til you try it? maybe? maybe human sacrifice has been the most progressive manifestation of humanity, only we’ve been sacrificing the wrong people—other people. maybe the sacrifice of oneself to nothingness is the ultimate gesture to a god who is obviously not there.
one day, I shall make this sacrifice fully, and not bit by tiny bit, because it hurts way more that way. one final rip of my heart, is better than tiny increments of brain sacrifice.
I am my own human sacrifice. I give myself to me. I am worth my own martyrdom. I only wish that large quantities of morphine be present during this sacrifice. amen.
I am risen.