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                   Could I Fit My Brain onto a Hard Drive?
                                  --------
                              by Fat Ugly Slob



       I've got to write something or I'll go crazy.

       It's sad when you don't have anything to say. You've got no personal
  value or merit. No one will ever have a reason or an excuse to look up to
  you. You'll never be admired, famous, heroic, beautiful.
       
       Wreak my brain. Or wreck my brain. I wish I could. I wish
  consciousness would leave me. This is so pathetic. Sputtering mindless
  bullshit, and where does it get me?

       I need plot, character, motive, action/drama.

       I need sleep. I don't want to be here, but once I get anywhere else,
  I stop wanting to be there, too. I've stopped feeling nauseous, but it's
  been replaced by a solemn, deadened, brain-numbed kind of inertia of
  thought. I've become vapid and worthless. If, at any time, I ever had
  value.

       I want everyone to love me, but I hate everyone. Poorly dressed,
  pedantic, gray-haired imbeciles spewing their head-stuffed bullshit at
  me, preaching about 'unskilled laborers.' I can't care and I can't leave.
  I'm stuck here. Things look grim.

       Your brain's gonna die, honey. Watch it, careful, you've got to take
  better care of that thing. Cease your incessant consumption of television
  and garbage drugs. Your head is not a dumpster; stop fueling syrofoam
  into it.

       I don't really think anyone means anything. No one matters. This is
  hard to read. This is easy to write. Thought is a disease. Oh, merciful
  ignorance, absence of friction.

       You're fucking useless. The world is such a vacant pit of piss. I'll
  never know what I want, never know it to look at once I get it.

       You want to be in a video game. So do I. I want to get drunk in a
  social setting. I want to scream and pound my fists into my skull.

       But I'm too plastic. I'm not weird. You can't make me. I could write
  forever, and I'd be no further away from this dank, reprehensible spot.
  Text is small. Words are easily compressed. Thoughts don't take up much
  disk-space. Could I fit my brain onto a hard drive?

       It boggles my mind that people are happy.

       I don't understand how this happens. How does this ridiculous state
  of delusion grip individuals across this ridiculous continent? What the
  fuck is up with them?

       I don't mean to say: "Look around you. Look at all the *bad* things
  happening to all the good people. Look at all the victims. Look at the
  rain-forest, you shithead. Look at the baby seals, encrusted in crude
  oils of resplendent hues. Look at the starving children in that hot, dry,
  ugly-looking country over there, across the sea. Just *look*, dammit."

       I'm sorry, but most days, I just don't give a shit.

       I mean, I *know* (or at least, people tell me, and I believe that I
  know) what happens to cows. I fancy that I know about the force-feeding,
  the restriction of movement, the brutal slaughter. But I just had
  Hamburger Helper tonight, too.

       So this isn't any call out for revolution. Where the fuck does
  revolution get you? Give me a worthy cause, and I won't fight for it.
  Hurrah, status quo!

       I just mean: who the fuck do people think they're trying to kid?

       People parading around, laughing, talking, looking happy. Happy
  people on billboards and on television and in department stores. Sure,
  those people are happy because of one damn good reason: they want you to
  buy their shit. But what about the rest of us, the rest of *you*?

       You can't seriously be happy, can you?

       This is such an alien concept.

       You're shitting me. I know it.

       Asshole.


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  +lukewarm@bbs.bplanet.com + + + + + + + + + + + ftp.etext.org/Zines/luke+
  + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
  + + + + + + + + + + + +-slaves to our own tedium- + + + + + + + + + + + +
  + + + + + + + + + +copyright? what copyright? (c) 1997+ + + + + + + + + +