the bookworm's curse is cast upon thee as thou readeth more. it's all been said and written before, so why bother? it's all there. when i grow up i'll have a dog, and i'll call him google, and my dog will know everything, literally. i mean man, chesterton wrote the damn thing in nineteen oh eight, and i could have sworn it's written like yesterday.
meanwhile life happens on metrolink, in traffic, in a half-deserted apartment, in between beers, whiskey half pints and silver patron shots. pointless, everything. and one "can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of his own exactitude" in predecting the absurdity of adulthood. not that i predicted any of this of course, i mean what is there to predict? just feels good saying it. literahigh.
short stories in farsi, anyone? it's safe to state with six sigma confidence that ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent of them are pure crap, too dull, banal, trite, etc. what bothers me is that it doesn't sound like they're even trying. someone's gotta do something, someone. the other ten percent are either too abstract or too old, or both. whatever happened to hedayat's disciples.
recent hobbies include cornering people in personal arguments that could potentially excite myself out of my own comfort zone and observing their defense strategy, if any. funny how insecurities surface almost instantly, no interference required, just the initial trigger. also interesting how i could identify similar behavioral traits like those of my own, especially the annoying ones. heck we're all bunch of pathetic hopeless funny creatures, of course some are less funny, they have 'beliefs'; in what?
the struggle is over. i can feel it. this is it. life, my life, right here, right now. hello convolution. hello genesis. hello the end. utopia is hell and hell is utopia, and here i come. let's rephrase, here i am, where i've always been.
