Horrible story of failing death fail.

This story is utter shite.

Disease.

“Life is like watching TV”, a person once said, “a rubbish channel full of unendurable sitcoms and saturated with commercials blipping by every twenty seconds. You cannot record it to a tape or a DVD; you can’t fast forward or skip any segments. You have to endure it all. But at the end of the ride you freak out and look for the rewind button, but it’s far too late and before you know it, it’s all over.” Maybe it’s true; maybe it’s just a heap of rubbish that doesn’t really mean anything. Then again, what exactly isn’t a heap of rubbish that really doesn’t mean anything? Any meaning is purely illusory. Any purpose is purely a figment of mans imagination, a fictional adventure that never quite takes off.

You don’t know who you are, and no matter how many things you might come to try, you never will be sure—except that time you manage to convince yourself that you do know, that it is no longer a mystery, that it all makes sense now.Or maybe life is more like a gigantic roundabout, twenty different roads to take and no signage or signals whatsoever. You can guess, take the fast lane, take the lane which most people take, you can do whatever feels “right”, but in the end, it does not matter, it makes no real difference; all the roads are lined with deadly traps and other dangers, all the roads offer views of the exact same vista, picturesque flower gardens full of homeless people and withering trees poisoned by the salt-saturated ground. And you mean absolutely nothing.

As the Jante law commands, so shall you live:

1. Don’t think that you are special.
2. Don’t think that you are of the same standing as us.
3. Don’t think that you are smarter than us.
4. Don’t fancy yourself as being better than us.
5. Don’t think that you know more than us.
6. Don’t think that you are more important than us.
7. Don’t think that you are good at anything.
8. Don’t laugh at us.
9. Don’t think that anyone cares about you.
10. Don’t think that you can teach us anything.

No, it’s not up to you. It does not matter what you want. Your want is unimportant; it’s as foolish and ridiculous as religion. I want to destroy you. I want to make that very clear; my heart will only be at rest when my work here is done; my work, my work to destroy humanity. Hateful, bigoted; a narcoleptic masturbates and ejaculates on the third floor above the smelly store selling fresh fishes while watching TV in his room, lit by the neon on the opposite side of the street, neon advertising prostitution—“liberty”, you say, “liberty was always the most important thing in the whole world” – let the drunkards get drunk till their livers collapse, it’s their choice! “It’s their body, their decision,” you say, I say, shut up, kill yourself. Spare me the effort of having you eradicated.

No more, mother, stop this, no more, not another second, unendurable, my eyes they itch, I claw at them with the ferocity of a wild beast, help is none, my thought patterns make no sense, an endless stream of suggestive imagery, erotic grotesque nonsense; imagine laying on a deserted beach at sunrise and have your throat slit by a masked man in a diving suit. I really cannot form any sentences of any coherence today. Excuse me. Kuomintang wins Taifail elections, U.S. war with Iran draws closer, all the presidential candidates for the U.S. election are absolutely deranged psychopaths – Halley’s Comet, meteor fragments, Tunguska, M5, M34, Inner Ring Road, Manchester, Massachusetts, Extinction Events, ANC sucks, Zuma is one crazy idiot who believes showering after a rape will shield him from HIV—

A disgusting “market” in India burns, and I rejoice. India needs to burn, the entire nation set alight, a beautiful fire, a blazing show, such a gorgeous inferno. I could make love to you while we’ll watch a DVD collection of George Bush’s stunning public displays of his oratory skill. Tony Blair’ has run out of anti-aging pills since he became an enemy of Weiner, oh that pesky Weiner and his World Control Scheme – there’s no NWO, there’s only a Weather Control Device and a Time Machine – Weiner does no longer need the services of Tony Blair, as such, he no longer has access to the secret medicines needed for him to stop aging. His true age is now obvious. Sixty eight years counting, a grey-haired and weathered wreck of a man, once a strong figure with strength behind his words reduced to a mere lame-duck puppet—

Reality, reality, nonsense. Get a life. You say that a person that is not a virgin has nothing to say. To lose ones virginity is maturity, you think so? Kill yourself. Die in a fire. All hope is lost. Hope is per definition a delusion. Negativity, oh my, never would have guessed. Taifail, Tinfoil, conspiracy nuts, death to Ron Paul, 9/11 Truth movement, oh so many idiots abound, will it ever end, this avalanche of dreadful failure, intelligent design no way, ha-ha!

I’ll play you against one-another. It’s all in the game. There is no life after death.

I’d sooner slit my wrists and risk discovery of hell

than stay another moment here where certain devils dwell

Vanity.

When deciding what to write, it’s important to sit down and contemplate what one really wants to have said. I find this very difficult, because there is nothing I want to have said, there is nothing I want to have done other than humanity completely eliminated. Consequently, finding a subject which to treat is exceedingly difficult, as I rather not deal with some inane personal travesties. Writing about oneself would be even more uninteresting than what I am currently writing, you know, more uninteresting than crazy political commentary and wacko fundamentalist anti-religious hate-songs mixed up with endorsement of historical authoritarian leaders. However, lately I have had the misfortune of observe the communiqués of some shallow sex-fixated people, and thusly, I’d like to take this moment to discuss with you the unimportance of sex.

Western society is extremely fixated on the concept of sexual intercourse. In fact, it is often seen as an introduction into adulthood to lose ones virginity; and amongst the degenerate youth, the number of sex partners is directly related to the social status: the more sexual encounters, the higher the person will be found in the social hierarchy. Being a prostitute is not so much frowned upon as it used to be, though thankfully the act of offering vain services of pleasure for a charge is still heavily stigmatised; there is however a repulsive number of pro-prostitution lobbyist organisations, representing some brain-dead harlots that gladly sacrifice their bodies for the sexual gratification of others in order to receive material rewards; either money or simply enjoying the act of sex.

Pleasure is irrelevant. Pleasure brings nothing; enjoyment is unimportant, undesirable even; continued reproduction and creation of new offspring is the most disgusting and diseased act to dedicate oneself to. Every child should hold his or her parents responsible for the most atrocious of crimes ever, the birthing of new life, the creators of pain and unendurable suffering. Abortion needed, not voluntary, a requirement, a must; no child shall ever again be born, no new human life upon this planet shall be created, artificially or naturally, no difference, loathsome all the same; I reject it, I reject sexual intercourse; the retards say that I am “just jealous”; they can think whatever they want, I hold my principles dear, and I do not part from them in any way apart from in frenzied fantasy.

Last night I dreamt of a dark world subdued by endless raining and war, murderous legions of the undead, Zombies, were walking all over the world, and in the mines and on the beaches I had to fight my way through a mindless shooting game with a rubbish Ayn Rand Rifle that constantly would jam. It looked similar to a Sturmgewehr 44, in general, though it did not feature automatic fire and its magazines contained only 12 bullets. As I shot down the zombies I heard Ayn Rand’s annoying voice, unintelligible at times due to her horrid accent, ranting on about how atoms don’t exist because she personally thinks man is a holy creation that cannot really be made out of tiny parts. “Tiny parts forming a whole is a collectivist notion”, she said in my dream, “each part insignificant on its own, but together forming a functioning whole; this simply cannot be! This is the work of rotten Marxist criminals!”

Anyway, back to the subject of sex. Sex is loathsome. Why? Pleasure is loathsome. Emotional or physical fulfilment is loathsome. You do not matter. You make no difference. Your work, your actions, they mean absolutely nothing, you are temporary, insignificant, you have no real impact. Your thoughts and your philosophies, they mean nothing, and all things ever created amount to absolutely nothing. And while I at times wish for better things for the world, for myself, and for all people in the world, I know this is not the way to go; nothing can cure my situations, nothing can correct my bitterness; they tried to put me on anti-depressants, but it did not make me feel any better.I don’t want sex.

I reject sex. I reject existence, all of ours existence, I reject human nature as an evolutionary mistake. Just my personal delusions, you say, just another one of those attention whores, one of those pesky “emo-kids” or whatever, I’m just some “holier-than-thou douche bag”. But I’m not holier than you. I’m a deranged lunatic, I’m a failure in every way imaginable, I’m a transsexual, a cross-dressing wacko, anti-religious psychopathic; and did I tell you that even I sometimes give in to the sick desire for self-satisfaction? We are all rotten. We must be destroyed. We must be cleansed. We are apples full of worms rotting in the summer sun; we are intestines full of worms and deadly micro-organisms; we are disgusting, we deserve no existence.

I reject love, I reject emotions, all emotion deranged fantasies, I see people hugging and being affectionate and I want to destroy, I want to fire up the ovens and I want to burn. Such vitriol, such bigotry, such spiteful ignorance and intolerance I present, and I am so absolutely aware of it. To destroy is much easier than to correct and work out in other ways. It is a simple solution to a problem of such a massive scale and scope that no other solution is even possible for our feeble minds. A race of superior alien intellects could possible do a good job and master us with collars of thorns, but the likelihood of this ever happening is basically zero.

Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we are creating? It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old reformers imagined. A world of fear and treachery is torment, a world of trampling and being trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but more merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world will be progress towards more pain. The old civilizations claimed that they were founded on love or justice. Ours is founded upon hatred. In our world there will be no emotions except fear, rage, triumph, and self-abasement. Everything else we shall destroy, everything. Already we are breaking down the habits of thought which have survived from before the Revolution. We have cut the links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between man and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and no friends. Children will be taken from their mothers at birth, as one takes eggs from a hen. The sex instinct will be eradicated. Procreation will be an annual formality like the renewal of a ration card. We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are at work upon it now.

There will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the Party. There will be no love, except the love of Big Brother. There will be no laughter, except the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy. There will be no art, no literature, no science. When we are omnipotent we shall have no more need of science. There will be no distinction between beauty and ugliness. There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always — do not forget this, Winston — always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face — for ever.’ –Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four

Visions of Dreamscape.

And suddenly in front of me there is a huge lake; never was there a lake here before, this is in the forest on the way home from school, and now… a gigantic lake. We stand on the path which once used to take us home, but now there is only a large lake, hundreds of metres across, along the shore of which children play with their kindergarten teachers, and on the quiet surface a boat passes by, sending waves in our direction. What the hell happened here? Was Al Gore right after all, did the ocean surface of the world rise forty metres overnight? We walk a long the shore and catches a glimpse of a group of drunken youths sitting by a campfire. The sun is high in the sky above, it’s April, maybe May, and it’s still too cold to go swimming, but here on the beach which was once a local ridge in a vast forest, a group of chavs sit and drink like it’s the Friday evening at the end of time – and maybe, just maybe, that is just what it is.

I am in a car. It’s raining. “It’s been raining for two days straight…” my maternal grandmother says. “It just never seems to end.” And from the puddles, and from the lake in the forest, I can’t help but wonder if it has been raining for three years. My grandmother drives like crazy, splashing through puddles, lakes, on the road and taking turns at far too high speeds. It’s a winding mountain road, unlike anything I have ever seen before; the road looks anything but Swedish. Paradoxically, our surroundings are bucolic villages and unexploited forests and rugged cliffs; houses painted Falu-Red, roads lined with country stores selling goods from local farms, this is not 2008, this is 1904. My grandmothers old 50’s car is a time machine. From the floor I pick up a telephone book. “1904?” I say. I didn’t know they had concrete and asphalt paved roads in the early 1900’s, but nonetheless…

A telephone call from a stranger, my grandmother picks up her cell, says something I don’t manage to hear, I guess I don’t care, but while doing so she misses a curve, we head out over the edge, through some wet rain-soaked bushes, and onto… onto a concrete roadway, a 1930’s autobahn hidden in a Swedish 1900’s forest; time paradox if anything, where the hell is it we are? The most important question, when are we? – A fragment from Back to the Future, reaching back through the ages. The road has clear white road markings, but seems to have been closed off, but there are other cars on the rainy road today, this rainy grey day, lightning lights the sky, it’s evening, maybe four or so, still May I’d say, and my grandmother says, “Don’t worry, it’s going to be alright, I was aiming for this very road.”

We get off the 1930’s rustic concrete autobahn with no central barrier and road markings stolen from Nagoya, pass by a 1940’s rural post office, and turn up a muddy unpaved lane to a big red house. Falu-Red again, brick excess. Three people stand at the door, apparently ringing the bell, as our car stops. “Who the hell are those?” Axel says. Axel is here? What the hell? I cannot help but feel so extraordinarily confused. What the hell is this insanity unfolding before my eyes? We get out of our car, it’s not raining anymore, but the sky is still ever grey. “Must be some telemarketers”, my grandmother replies to Axels query. “Well, door salesmen, I guess. Telemarketers don’t exist yet.” Tell me about it.

Something faintly familiar about that dress, that timid smile, such a confused out-of-place look on his face, and as it falls upon my heart like some asteroid or minor planet impact, I find myself so very confused. Kei? The black hair, the matching black and white dress, the stockings—I know where this is going, and I don’t like it very much. I try to say something as we walk up towards the figures at the door, but it’s impossible.

Change of scene. It’s a dark room, and we are alone. Him and me. No one else. I say something, I don’t know exactly what, but he can’t hear me. He turns his heels, sets course for the big double door. He increases speed, he runs, and I run after him, I scream something, but he does not hear, he ignores; it’s all the same, always, never nothing real, nothing matters ever, all boil down to the same churning pain, the same pressure in the chest, like a submarine volcano hides in there, building up pressure, soon we are ready, eruption my friend, spoil the world with hot lava, let the larvae burn. The doors close before I get to them.

I’m back at the car, outside the red house. It’s only me this time. He stands alone at the door, he looks at me, smiles; maybe he does see me after all? I walk up to him, but being unable to say anything, I just hug him. I cling to him. He walks without any trouble, I’m just a pestilent tick; a tiny nuisance. It’s as if I don’t exist. I cling to his back as he walks in to the kitchen and talks to my grandmother who sits there; apparently they also had plenty electric lights and kitchen appliances of the same kind as in the 1990’s in 1904. I whisper in his ear. Where do you come from? Take me with you. Take me away from here, I beg you. I want only you.

And he disappears. One second he is there, the other not. Gone. Not a single trace to be found. I look at their faces; I ask my grandmother and Axel something, they just say, “What are you talking about?” He was here, now he never was.

I’m back at the car. At the door, he appears again. The second time. I run towards him. I close my eyes and run, hit my head in something, and open them. A dark steel wall now towers up ahead of me, thirty stories tall and longer than eternity it stretches, impassable… everything so impossible, hope the first step on the road to disappointment; why do I bother even, why not just resign from life, give up, give in to the S in Suicide, so to say; references, references, The Torture Garden, vicious is life, six billion brain dead lunatics burning pictures of themselves in effigy, salvation just a joke, everything is nothing, importance of axioms…

I am at a table in a shopping centre in the downtown of my City of Dreams. The city which has no name; all names I can think of does not fit it, it’s Swedish in nature, it looks Swedish, all the districts have Swedish names… but something is different about it, it’s urban structure is nothing like anything Swedish ever was, there’s none of that mediocrity, none of that half-done and resigned atmosphere; along the industrial harbour a elevated motorway passes, nothing like that would ever have gotten past the drawing board in real Sweden. The city’s large and this shopping centre is bustling with life, I’ve been here before, in a past dream, It’s great to be back, it’s just on the edge of the old town, a few blocks east of the City Hall. We’re at a cheap McDonalds or something similar, a burger bar, and he is with me, on the opposite side of the table he sits, handsome as ever and no matter how gloomy reality is I feel fine for a mere fifteenth of a second.

The U.S. Elections does not bother me any more, there are no more worries of what mentally sick Ron Paul fans might do, all I feel is… ethereal fulfilment… temporary satisfaction… mortal sins in my book, but I just don’t care for that short second. He looks at me, so playfully, so not-real… a tear in my eye he wipes off with his silk gloves, he smiles and the world collapses in on itself, a gravitational singularity of awesomeness, kiss me, I say, kiss me, kiss me now and he does, he does, he kissed me, we kissed, and the world emerges from primordial soup and misty meteor shower… different, somehow, every colour enhanced, so clear, so alive, never so alive before, and I peek out the window, and despite the still falling rain it is the best day on dream-earth ever, may it never stop, may it never change back to reality… may it always forever be recurring…

The water rising in the forest lake, I don’t care, the world on the edge of nuclear war, and I just don’t care, I’m apathetic, you deserve nuclear war, you mortals from the realm of reality, your sensibilities offend me, you and your pesky Marijuana habit, you and your sex-addiction, you slattern, your trivial job piling boxes at Wal-Mart and testing rubbish games for Activision, you mean nothing… I am nothing… but for just one instant, I don’t care. Then the wondrous dream-word dissolves: the glittering green glass of the skyscrapers of downtown Dreamville, the commieblocks of the suburbs and the McDonalds and his pleased smile… it dissolves, dissolves into nothing, dissolves into reality.

And I wake up. It’s 03:20 – three in the morning that is, in case twenty-four hour clock confuses you – and I go to my computer and write it down, a horrid story from start to finish, a nightmare undulation throughout the universe; it’s time for New Year celebrations, it’s the last day of 2007… and I long to 2012, when Cthulhu again shall awaken and rule over his subjects and remove the pesky humans from power.