Friday, December 31, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
With one quote.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
"This is a masterpiece."
"A Lyrical Thrust Into the (Blac)est Heart of Modern Darkness: The Mixtape" by Mr. Blac Garner will be officially released to the public on January 1, 2011. I was there for most of the recording and I must say, you all are in for a treat.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
“The people must have a voice!”
Alexander Nelson had to kneel quite a bit to bang his gnarled fist on the desk. He was a tall man but this action made his anger seem small and a little forced. Had the man on the other side of the desk been facing his direction it would have been this action that made his entire argument ineffective. As it stood, it was not. And he did not move his fist.
The cheery mahogany wood stood in defiant contrast to his rather violent motion. In fact, everything in the office of Mr. Pierce Spencer seemed to be mockingly pleasant. The lamp in the corner whispered a dull yellow across the ceiling that reflected onto the simply furnished field of deception below. Three walls opened up to a colossal window that Mr. Spencer often, as he found himself doing now, gazed out of with wonder. Spencer liked to pretend the button on the side of his chair, which he used to call his receptionist, was a remote control that if he wished, he could press and change the channel of his 24 hour view of the New York City skyline. He knew it was that easy. Reminding himself of this made him feel mighty and feeling mighty was of utmost importance to him, though to admit it would’ve made him quite uneasy. The curtains on each side of the window wall were black with white trim. Spencer hated to be too extravagant. He found it distastefully obvious. His desk, though almost as wide as his room, was as simple as the things on it. A silver, translucent paperweight shaped as a pyramid stood calmly on the slightly fluttering sands of paper beneath it. A small radio muttered softly, filling the air with a slight touch of Beethoven. A laptop, a pen, and a small box of tissues all sat patiently in the middle arranged in a fashion that seemed carelessly neat.
Nelson hated it. All of it.
And since his ego would not possibly allow him to see his hatred for himself in these items, he directed all of this energy towards the man sitting in the chair, staring wistfully out the window.
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
Spencer said these words slowly as if he could taste each one and regretted not keeping them in his mouth longer. He had not, at one point in the conversation, turned to face his attacker. He received a silent thrill overtly showing that he knew Nelson knew he was beneath him. All those who knew Spencer would describe him as a strange and quiet man. Spencer enjoyed this and he knew all those who knew him were idiots. He enjoyed that as well. He began to stroke his mustache, as he always did when he knew for sure his actions tormented someone.
“Have you not been listening? You cannot shut my newspaper down! We are the only independent source in this part of the city. By destroying us, you are destroying the voice of the people. I warn you Mr. Spencer…”
Nelson stopped talking when Spencer suddenly turned his chair around. As they locked eyes, Nelson could feel the hair on the back of his neck rise to meet his collar. Nelson was not an easily scared man but there was something in the look that Spencer now gave him that made him want to go home, pack his things, and leave for the other side of the world. Recognizing the desperation of easy prey, Spencer slowly clasped his hands together and staring directly through Nelson he began to speak in an even tone, similar to how one would speak to an angry child.
“You seem a little confused, Mr... eh, Nelson is it? In order to have a voice, one must have a mind. The people do not have a mind. They think whatever I want them to think, whenever I want them to think it. They are all totally plugged in to me. I could get it in my head that I want the sky to be pink and by tonight I will have everyone all over the world convinced beyond reason. You think your little shit newspaper matters? The average human being barely spends enough time off of the web to wipe their ass correctly let alone read a fucking paper.” Spencer cocked his head to the side. His lips slowly extended into a wide smile as a look of shocked anger began to spread on Nelson’s face.
“But, you know this already... Yes, I can see that. You understand that I hold more power in the tip of my pinky finger than you will ever have in your entire life. And yet, you cannot bring yourself to stop fighting. Well consider it an early Christmas gift. I’m putting you out of your misery, you blind, spineless twit. You’re no better than the rest of these idiots. Now you’ll be unemployed, just like them.”
Spencer liked watching his words settle amongst the furrows of the now red face of Mr. Nelson. But he turned his chair around anyway.
“You may see yourself out.”
Nelson almost shook with rage as he brought out his .50 cal Magnum.
“Go to hell,” he said.
“I’m looking at it,” replied Spencer.
He said his last words almost whimsically, with a satisfied smile on his face that told the crushing story of the human spirit.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
I've invested my time in shit that's fell through, most of the people I've incorporated in my life don't matter to me and don't give a shit about me... I'm beginning to suspect that secretly they've been plotting my demise.
I'm either on the verge of an epiphany, a breakdown...
Or I'm showing symptoms of schizophrenia.
Either way, something's up.
So I've decided to fall back on my ego. But to the extreme.
Sounds like a Pokemon.
Or the name of Freud's son.
I am God.
That's right you fucks. The creator of all things is....
Now I know what you might be thinking right now... So shut the fuck up. Nobody asked you. You don't matter. I'm God.
I am the creator of all I see, hear, taste.. You know.. sense and shit. There is nobody but me. All of you are merely the creation of my very powerful will and imagination. I was lonely. So, I decided to create you fucks. Now knowing that having puppets would do nothing for my loneliness, I made it so that all of you act seemingly independent of my will. And to convince myself, I made myself forget that I was God. But, in the words of one of my more brilliant creations, I've "misunderestimated" myself. So I've remembered.
Being worried about what you think all the time was getting extremely bothersome. I had to figure out how to live amongst you and matter to you. Now none of that matters. It's like a breast of fresh air, a fuckload off my shoulders.
God smiles on you today.
You see I've been assuming this whole time that I am like you.
I've assumed that because you all die. I, too, will one day die.
But now I have nothing to worry about. Why worry about something that I can never know? ... Something that just doesn't exist to me.
Yep, that's right... Not. At. All.
I'm free. And it feels good. And Yes..
You should be scared.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
I will claim...
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Can I not enjoy those precious moments inside my mind?