Journal Streams of Random Consciousness

[Elephantom]

#1​

Sometimes, I feel grateful for having the gift of sanity, the best and worst parts of sentience, and the awareness that I am such. Speaking with integrity, I am a semi-hobo, though I don't travel much, who revels in his ego and stupidity, and who, of course, thinks himself as beyond the reach and means of animals, or plants, or even fungi.

Do I like animals? I probably don't. Do animals like animals? Friendship is probably incomprehensible. That's why I like being human. I'm at the top of the food chain, and writing is my game. You ever seen a raccoon write? I know you haven't.

I'm also a low-key narcissist. Is narcissism good? Probably not. Then again, I've been answering all my flaws with a 'probably', no? Might as well be that I can't comprehend my own problem. Sometimes, sentience is a bugger-all in your rectum that hurts like a Chinese pepper kowtow raging in a bonfire. Think about it for a moment, good voyeur. We can comprehend shit. Anyone can comprehend shit. But, we pass it on, along with many more gifts, as the next big, mundane thing. Well, it's shit-use to our sentience — wait a minute, we ARE talking about sentience.

That's double-edged hypocrisy, pal.

Animals can't comprehend shit. I've seen it and I know it. They'll hump anything, they'll hump you, and in these ways, they're almost like us. But they can't comprehend shit. They can't do that shit. I've said it three times. Get the gist of it. I've seen dung beetles, scuttling around in their tortoiseshell, dung houses. Trust me when I say that any sort of shit is shit. Any sort of organism is supposed to recognize shit. And they're supposed to dispose of it with fleet feet. That is, to say, immediate haste.

But, dung beetles (fuck dung beetles) revel in them as much as I bask under the shade of my own personality. Though, there are dogs, and certain types of humans, who can't comprehend the reality of shits. Still, all in all, shit is evil. It smells bad. It's a hive of inedible, stomach-eating bacteria.

Look, I may or may not love you, or I may or may not secretly love you, but I don't want a swarm of roundworms stuffing up your intestines like rotten spaghetti, because that is wholly disgusting. Let me repeat it again: wholly disgusting.

Then again, animals are probably better off than me. Particularly the raccoon next doors — at least, from my perspective, it always tends to attack from the leftmost side — who lives freely off of my pitiful scraps, and occasionally, actual food. Mind you, I'm a selfish, avaricious, capricious, atrocious arsehole — sharing is not within my veins, neither do they reside inside my arteries. You put that together with the raccoon, and you can probably guess what happens.

So, I *could* be half-heartedly, and null-mindedly (mind you, raccoons don't have an iota of sentience), happy, if I were an animal other than human. Unless it's a dung beetle. I would just be, you know, very shitfaced. I hate shitfaced arseholes. I may be an arsehole, but I'm not shitfaced. At least, that's what I tell my mirror everyday.

Yet, my mirror does not agree with me.

Safe to say, my incidents with the shitfaced raccoon, as I'm going to so call it to curb my fury, came to a standstill. Around autumn, I think. Do raccoons hibernate? They probably do. Those were the happiest, if poverty-wracked, days of my life. But, it returned, the raccoon. Believe me when I say it: the raccoon has a pair of claws, sharpened and what claws should be. Hooky, curved, flabby? The latter was and is definitely not true.

I freaking hate raccoons. Fuck Raccoon City. Fuck Nobita's robo-raccoon from the future. Fuck Japan. Fuck everything.

 

[Elephantom]

#2​

When I write anything, anything, I try to do it without thinking about it too much. Ruminations are for the devil; mephistopheles's big hobby, if you're feeling fancy. He'll, or she'll, or just damn it'll, turn your arse into a shivering husk of evil. Pure, purity, purest, pontificating evil. You just pen it out, fuck forethought. It would be a bit of practice here and there, it expands the creativity, and, it doesn't get me stuck on some kinda writer's limbo. Will not get you jammed straight into your personal form of purgatory, that's for sure. Unless, of course, you're hooking for an illustrious meeting with Mephisto.

Well, to be fair, the writing does end up stiff, sometimes flowery, sometimes flat. 2D bullshit birthed by a kindergarten bulletin board. That much ugly. That's why I edit it. And I don't edit it once, I edit it until it's straight up edited. You'll know it. Hell, everybody'll know it. Shit that has been edited, it's got that thing to it. Watch me use curses like I'm a fucking fourteen year old who just learned how to use them. Fuck your motherfucking mephisto, fuckface. That glamour, that blazing sheen. You'll know it when you see it. And that which has not been edited, you'll know it too. Just a glance, is all needed. Piece the rough messages together, and voila, you've got the message.

The message, prose, whatever. Fuck you.

Look, man, this here thing ain't supposed to make sense. If it did, then we'd all probably be some motherfucking bird's fifty/fifty kestrel-e-hawk hybrids. Picture this, moron: a couple of flatheaded idiots wandering about and trying to get a glimpse of the big game, and thing is, they only look like humans. Green ichor, gilded skin, and wings that look like a bat's leftover molting. Bats don't molt, man. They don't. Ruminate on it.

By yours truly (fuck you I always wanted to use it fuck you fuck mephisto and fuck your fucking forethought)

[SUM TOTAL = 12 FUCKS IN YO FACE]