2 sentences a day for professor Lindenberg
Listening to Eminem, I sit pondering my own veritably limited options; – that along with an almost infinite set of theoretically plausible options. I guess it was Sartre’s theory though, that although we, –each and -every one of us, are pre -programmed, engineered and designed for the achievement of any number our dreams, — still, we feel a need to convince ourselves otherwise. We tell ourselves that we can’t do it, emphasizing each other’s nick -names rather than last names; valuing experience over legacy, security overreach. I’m not sure why.
I always write better whenever it is I’m loaded. An illusion, or self -deception, you’ll say. But I disagree. Look at Charles Bukowski, O’ Neil, Jack London, Kerouac, Burroughs, Freud; the list goes on and on. All drunks, pill heads, and/-or friendly with needles. And a great many others, I presume, simply withheld this truth inside a merely, hidden regard. Wallace, I know, had had highly obsessive tendencies, including the habitual use of marijuana. But take Stephen King-, for example, -: a living subject, picturesque. Sure, he’s a natural story -teller; but, not once, has King ever produced the truest quality of line, except while on the bottle. I heard recently that he’d written the entire manuscript of ‘Cujo’, -all while blackout drunk. We’re all, -all of us, -born natural slaves to condition; and are nothing more, hardly, than the substances we’ve chosen to cling to; even more -so the ones we’ve kept up with. For me to call it depressing would qualify only as arrogance. My human mind may disagree all it wants, it still won’t change my reality.
On the other hand, David Foster Wallace was a genius, but I despise him for his inherited wealth. He could’ve lived a lot longer, had it not been for all that undeserved privilege. Nothing is better suited to combat against chemical depression and encompassing ills than actual, hopeless depression. Such hopelessness to a level that nothing else comes near to entering the mind, besides reactive laughter in the face of absurdity. Wallace was pretentious and needed to suffer. I would’ve liked to have given him a portion of mine. That way, I would’ve been helping him, as he would be helping me.
I don’t know if I’m sad right now. Probably not. Sometimes, I wish I were more -sad, for any feeling at all, it seems, would suffice to defeat such apathy. There is no love, professor; especially for guys like us, the ones who care for success. Hell, the only reason we probably attempt it [love] at all, is for the sake of success. To attempt to steal away, some applicable line of feeling, to tie all the rest of it together.
So, I’m still sleeping on an air mattress, but I did get a desk! My sister bought it for me, for Christmas. Now all I need is a chair!
A week or so ago, my next month’s rent was due. I only had six-hundred dollars left to myself at the time. The monthly cost of rent here is five -hundred and sixty. Therefore, I found myself placed within a uniquely dueling position, being torn between two, equally viable alternatives. One, I pay my rent and be broke. Or two, I buy a 40. Caliber Glock and put a shell in through my temple. I agreed with instincts, last minute, and settled upon choosing the former. I swear the only reason I ever attempt at staying alive is for a book.
And only cigarettes make me think. This, easily observable, fact, I find, is rather incredible. I’m only able to write level -headedly whenever it is I’m actively smoking cigarettes. Yes, you’d assume that medical science would prove otherwise. ‘Your memory should be stronger; your health should be better -don’t smoke cigarettes’. But that’s just not true for me. For, whenever it is I’ve ever stopped [smoking cigarettes], sure, the pecker stands up better. I don’t lose my breath. But nothing else is better. In fact, I -actually, -feel very lost and -trapped inside of my own universe, while -off -cigarettes; – and I recognize inside myself an inherent lack of identity. But I’m twenty -two years old, for Christ’s sake, haven’t I suffered enough already? And yes, I’m well -aware, that I could attain, any number of identities. Business guy, Religious guy, Funny guy, Learned intellectual. Well, I had gone my way, a while, in pursuit of a Learned intellectual; but my home situation got off track. And whenever thus happens, I displace my own aggression. Like this last semester, I failed an Advanced writing course, because, on my every composed essay, the basic, premised assertion I wrote in was that professor to said the class of mine was nothing more than a product of inherited wealth, and so that I despised him.
So, I think now that I’m gonna stay on the cigarettes awhile. There’s nothing left to spite this world of outward depravity. The only thing an easily acquired identity would give me is an equally depraved sense. People’s perceptions, though, most often mistake depravity. I had someone tell me once, the only difference between a depressed person and a not depressed person, is the depressed person is able to see themselves within a scope of how other people view each other, -which is, essentially (as any hygienic mind might view the average, typical man or woman), with utterly shameful reproach, disgust; a nausea, so viciously pathological in form. The filthiest beast of the fields shows, on any given day, twice the manner of respect and due courtesy than the average, typical man or woman. So naturally, the worst of all elitist beasts, in their Honda civics, cruising along in the morning rush, show half the observable class than most any walking bum, of which they shamelessly pass in their cars at the corner with beggar’s sign, without a second thought. If they’re, -actually, -one to curse the bum, you almost can’t get mad at them, for you know they’re the lowest of the low in all matters of theory and intelligence. No, it’s not them I loathe, but the countless others who- simply drive on past. For they have failed to ever truly live outside the restrictions of their own comfort.
And we’re never, -none of us, -satisfied, no matter what we say or do; no matter how many lies we tell. To ourselves and others. Physics? What’s there to study, an inherent lack of time and space? An incurable sense of infinity in a perpetual duel with all evidence pointing toward the rapid -advance of personal oblivion? My father’s oblivion, in utter permanence.
Black and white thinking is what my therapist calls this. My therapist is a little entitled bitch; came of inherited wealth. I wouldn’t mind the thrill of objectifying her, in way of every perversion imaginable. In grad school now, for Sociology (whatta’ field), she’s really taken on a bitchy, elitist, tone. The slut. Gosh, see? I want to love. But love requires money! Fuck, maybe I just ought’ta get back on the anti -depressants.
So now I’m sitting here petting my cat, listening to some country -folk ass music that depresses me. But what the hell, tonight I just feel as if the world is an entirely separate entity. How does a writing professor, I wonder, manage to juggle such a bureaucratic field of profession while still -keeping his writerly values in tact?
So, I’m writing for the sake of writing, to keep myself from smoking yet another cigarette. I just want to love but I don’t know what it means. Thus, was in-fact a lie. I know exactly what it means: a lot less than what was shown in all those Disney movies they showed me, growing up. Reality can never repay the divided expectations, thoroughly commit to my psyche. Know what I mean? So, I’m gonna feel sorry for myself, and keep feeling sorry for myself, for all the rest of my days. Thus, is the life of the truly great writer. All I sense is cancer.
But I’m not yet a truly great writer. And if anyone out -there desires to become a truly great writer, here, I’ll provide them with the formula. One, cigarettes. Two, Adderall. And -finally three, either soda pop or alcohol. Pick your poison. What we do here as writers is nothing more than a simple embrace of vice and leisure. The only difference between un and non-writers: being, we do it alone, and hence are driven by our vanity to produce sheaths upon sheaths of self -love, along with contempt for all things beautiful.
The cigarette poison. The mindless poison of light and sun; and day,
and of those who live to rise anew, reborn for bureaucratic victory.
I was partly a bully in middle school, but my main -focus was directed
toward conformity. I fucked with this one kid who never bathed, maybe
a handful of times in the 7th grade. Michael Howell, his name was. Truth
of the matter was though, that I, -in reality, -was jealous of him, for he’d
gotten perfect grades in both our – [mine and his]- ‘s Math class, while I
could never achieve anything greater than a C. He smelled so bad though;
and I put a broomstick between my legs one day inside the family
living -class we also shared together, and, standing before all my friends;
so the whole class could see it, I thrusted that broomstick in a sexualized
motion up toward Michaels’ buttocks, jabbing at the rectum. Poor Mike.
But hell, I’m sure he’s doing much better than I am now; therein must lie
some large consolation, that the cliché is true. Nerds win in the end;
along with all stinking, wretched, victims of circumstance, who still -continue to
go on, despite jerks like me. -Scott H. Louis
So I went to court today in connectiont to my boss’s shooting. I was there for hours, then the case was adjourned until the 26th. So yeah, now I’ve gotta go to work a few hours, help people find their blu ray rentals, check them out and all. I think that I’m pretty self -actualized at this point. I recognize that I’m nothing. It makes me want to kill myself.
And so, today there’s nothing to do. I have zero dollars, and future -prospects.
Humanity is such a joke. I’m not as good an oppressor -thus, is my biggest problem. And I’ve been smoking cigarettes. I’m a better oppressor, whenever it is that I’m on antidepressants. Because that’s what depression is: lack of an ability to oppress others properly. I’d feel better if I at least had just a little money. But no; and I’m forced to walk 1.5 miles to work every night, at a job which pays me nine dollars an hour, and never offers me enough hours, so that can afford food, even. Meanwhile, I wait for an EBT card, which should have been coming by mail, but that never came. These people don’t know what true suffering is, but they love seeing me, as they pass by in their heated cars, of course, walking to and from work each day, and give their smug looks of assumedly supreme intelligence. It’s so pathetic, that they actually -believe themselves. Have they read all of Nietzsche’s works? Bukowski? Wallace? Are they published? Have they been IQ tested inside of the 98th percentile? One couldn’t say for certain, but it seems rather unlikely. I wish I had a way of hurting these people, to where I wouldn’t get into any trouble for it. I tell people this all the time; I don’t believe this feeling makes me a dangerous person. I’ve told it to my therapist. If I never talked about it, then it might very well make me a dangerous person. Why else would I write, but to prevent myself from killing myself or others? I don’t think thus makes me a bad person. I think it’s everyone else-: the liars, – who are the bad ones, the dangerous ones, the monsters. So yeah, nothing on earth would make me happier, than to sit as a witness to a non -ethnic genocide. I just won’t take part in it at all, unless the law is on my side to allow me such autonomy. And if I were to become a victim of it, well, it certainly wouldn’t be at all surprising. They’ve already essentially done it to me, indirect or not, resultant my social class and overall reading. They sabotaged me, with poisons and lack of consideration. They poisoned me by leaving me to my own devices, inside of a cage. They’ve given me Adderall (cocaine), and I’m just the rat inside of their cage, taking my cocaine to numb myself from having to consider the fact that they’re literally killing me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. They’ve poisoned me in every way humanly possible, and it’s because they’re leveling out terms with the black man. Fair enough, let them; the black man deserves it. But there needs also to be another leveling out, on a much larger scale; one much further, reaching up into the pockets of the one percent. To be honest, I respect the man who shot my capitalist boss, a lot more than I’ve ever respected my capitalist boss. I’m glad he got shot and would’ve preferred it if he’d died. After all that’s he’s stolen from his employees, the ones who’ve given him their health and youth hours, yeah, the motherfucker deserves to die. Give me the gun with total impunity, and best believe I’d pull the trigger. I don’t think thus makes me anything besides a man of ethically sound principles. There is no depression, besides of the entitled. Rather there is oppression, direct and indirect (which can be equally severe), and then there’s repression, which is a tool used to achieve oppression’s means. Adderall is a tool of repression. EBT cards are a tool of repression. But both are part of an overall system of oppression. Problem is, I’m always too far behind in the discovery of this shit. But I guess that it doesn’t matter. Maybe someday this world will make someone useful.
Author: Kyle Scott