I was crazy before anybody else. And then everybody got crazy.
— Charles Manson, Geraldo interview

It was a fabulous misunderstanding. I put my fingers on her thighs and squeezed and they had to take me away. I fought and it got pretty bloody, but it was okay, very, very okay, you see, because the sun is so bright inside my head. Those people don't really know much about anything.

Look at the people everywhere! Parasites! They don't care, those laughing, greedy bastards! I am so happy to be one of them. Anyway, the music is going damn loud in here and someone is pounding on the door for me to leave but I scream "no way, man," and I say I'm gonna kill myself, stay away, and they just think I'm kind of bonkers and eventually bust down the door and I have to go through this fake emotional shit of how I'm so glad they came in and saved my life. Everyone watches me after that one.

If you are not careful of what you say people take it wrong.

You can do so many things with an extreme personality. That's probably why so many poseurs adopt "way out there" images for themselves. They establish a character just so they can be cool. Yeah. Let's all be slackers now, let's all be ravers. You got something cool, I want it. Let's hang out in the lounge. Or, let's go watch some s&m, some wannabe Noir Leather dancers. I hear that this is the hot thing to do this week.

What do you do?

The only way is to let it go. Trying to be somebody, that's just fake. Being somebody is just that; being somebody. Be yourself. Don't follow a trend. There's not much originality left so you'll have to go deep.

fill my inner being a girl with flesh as white as cream and hair as black and eyes as blue as the bruises left when love is through . . .

— iwanna see pretty people doin' ugly things, by Möl Triffid

So Betty says (I don't remember her name, I don't know why, I just don't, I just remember her half naked with panties pushed to the side with her one finger rubbing her vagina, yeah, okay) and I mean, it wasn't Betty Boop or even Betty Page, and this Betty says she reads Danielle Steele novels when it rains and other stuff too and watches movies but she only remembers Danielle Steele, doesn't ever realize what else she reads, only knows she does read a lot when the weather is wet outside.

Let's say we turn off our cop shows and try not to feel nervous and crank loud our Nine Inch Nails and agree with him, yeah, about wanting to fuck everybody in the world, go further and decide to fuck everything in the world, now that would really be something, no angry victim at all but an actual participant.

The creation of second-hand biological madness offers no hope to the idyllic dreamer and the road runner will always fuck over the coyote, you know, the corporate idiocy ACME industrial brainwashing . . . poor coyote, too far gone with tv drug apathy neural input to remember he could run and use teeth and kill with animal cunning. Instead, he finds only the sharp tearing metal pain. Kind of like chewing on tin foil.

The only funny thing I ever saw was a comic of the coyote holding a machine gun over the smoking carcass of that strangely odd beep-beep bird. Perfect that the coyote got him that way. Guns are the answer for everything.

Jeff mumbles, "You are mad" and I believe him. What a cool thing to be. Mad. Angry, crazy, both? I'm eager to find out.

When your fingers die and your eyes die and you can't taste sugar Corn Pops anymore do you call Kevorkian up on the phone for a chat or do you connect yourself to a vegetable machine and dream? Dreaming can be good; sometimes I try not to wake in the morning so I can dream, or finish to dream, so maybe that way you would live forever, following dream, especially when dreams seem to last a long time in that hazy rapid minutes of waking and you feel as if you've dreamed for hours and you know it's only been minutes when you look at the real world's clock.

Good, fresh, chewy licorice is what's needed in most cases of bewilderment. Avoid the ones at Meijer's or other bulk food places since only occasionally are there the soft ones that aren't at all like a Gummi Bear.

Something is unfinished so I take matches from my pocket, strike one, count to ten as it burns, then singes my fingers. I let the matches fall, a burst of sulfur fire tumbling to the ground. You can burn the earth, you can really do that, with your conscious choice to destroy. Maybe everybody should all die in plague or lava flow or huge asteroid impact and let the earth crumble us into a ball, throw us into the garbage, and start over. If the planet gets too attached to us, we'll kill it with no regrets. I mean, what else is there to do?

Yeah. Death is cool. I know it's real. You can learn so much from fragility, so much. Fear creates, fear persuades. No one wants to give anything up.

Stains on the neck, bloody slash of a single fingernail, female, frantic, screaming, death and raunch and blessed religious nightmares . . . yes, whispered the virgin, yes, yes, yes!!!

Breaking all boundaries, even the one of your God, enlightens in those frightening moments when there is no control, just honey dreams, mumbled words, spread thighs laughing, forever fucking, forever knowing your truth. Secrets, secrets, never kept or nothing . . . nothing breeds and wanders the world in search of breasts and anger. Breasts for their sweet softness, anger for its sweet pain. Anger lies but breathes with strength, and taut, straining limbs.

People will see female breasts or think about breasts and most of the time not notice their pure intrinsic beauty. Perhaps they become distracted by an understandable human lust, but most times people will degrade, say the image is dirty, do something to make the image dirty, make the woman whose breasts they are do something dirty, make breasts victims when really they are innocent warriors, proud, sure of their connection with the land and the spirit world. Kind of like Indians.

I ate a candy bar the other day and knew it was part of that grand plan to wipe me out, it is afraid of what I'll say, what I'll reveal. It tasted like McDonald's fries, like goddamn cigarettes! Who are these people fooling? Who do they want to buy this stuff?

Pigs, screaming, like unborn lions in the crypt of mass extinction. People don't care, it is all survival and predatory, perhaps ole' Woody is right and natural born killing answers many of the questions of life. Fuck, man, you are out of the main stream and forging your own path! The dreams of insanity play too much with the common mind, you know, they fucking shock, and people can't deal with that. Not horror glam SHOCK value, BAM, SMASH, IN YOUR "NO FEAR" t-shirt FUCKING FACE, but true anger and insanity that steps beyond bounds, beyond imagination and drills right through with a scream of desperation unheard, wept over by knowing monks in remote regions perhaps, but largely ignored. Carelessness, people don't care, they are beyond that now, immune. It makes sense in an individualistic kind of way. Fuck future generations. The time is now. Let's grow, who cares about life and death. Be free, fly away, yeah, there you go, strapped to that wonderful metal beast in the sky.

Stupid people and drunk people and sad people sometimes utter wise remarks into the structure of society. Of course they are laughed at, or told that everything will be okay in a moment.

So today I bought an axe, a good, fucking, cheaply made replica of the quality-crafted ones they used to make when people cared about that kind of thing, making things that lasted. This axe I raised high above my head, wavered it wildly like a madman, and struck it dead center into my tv. Then I pulled the buzzing electrical slimy mess apart and pounded the blade into my computer and its connection to virtual information, because that is almost as big a lie as the force-fed Dan Rather, Hard Copy, Hostess food cakes shit they've been feeding us for years. The Internet is a big lie. Or at least it soon will be. A death of anarchy.

The clipper chip, ha ha, yeah right. It is more than that.

What is with these people? Do they all need to be smacked?

You should go check, man, I've beaten up your mom. So quick, and you didn't even notice, not one whit. Okay, so this doesn't apply to everybody. But it does apply to you. If you listen.

Making little kids evil is a joke and just shows our collective inherent fear of youth as we age and get closer to that whole death thing. Watch it, watch that moment when you start paying attention to your health, or whether you can be hurt. You give up your immortality, at that exact millisecond.

Wham!!! The skyrocket to your grave is fueled partly by self-destruction, partly by self-survival. Guess why we like rollercoasters so much? Guess again! Yes, yes, there you go.

Interactive feedback into the heart and soul of the innocent. Innocence fades quickly, more quickly than any of the rest of the magic in the world. Our society is staged, totally set up to make innocence go away. Bright-eyed curiosity? Wondering about something new? Here's a white jacket with straps, man, go sit in a corner, you fucking psycho.

the boy said, 'what you wanna see?' she said, 'i wanna see pretty people doin' ugly things i wanna see pretty people doin' ugly things you see i've seen enough of true love, and all the pain it brings and now i wanna see pretty people doin' ugly things!'

— iwanna see pretty people doin' ugly things, by Möl Triffid