You know how the colloquialism 'No more!' means basically, "Stop, that's enough!" or "I don't want that!" or "That's too much, quit it!"? You know how 'no more' means that? Yeah?
Well, get ready to have your mind blown. Get ready! Are you ready? Huh? Are You ready? I'm assuming that you are ready. You're ready, right?
Alright!
Ok, check this out. Literally, that is... grammatically, which in this particular case means the same thing as literally... the opposite of the phrase and expression 'No More' is 'Yes Less'.
Therefore, 'NO MORE' literally means the same thing as 'YES LESS'.
'NO MORE' equals 'YES LESS'.
Although the individual words on each side of the phrase equation are the exact opposites, both phrases equal each other.
To say 'NO MORE' means the exact same thing as to say 'YES LESS'.
Right?
Am I right?
Are we clear?
And we all know what the word 'opposite means', don't we?
We don't have to get into that discussion, right?
About the meaning of the word 'opposite'?
Do we?
No?
We are all in agreeance now, right?
Right??
Great!
So. Take this hypothetical situation. Say for instance, that you were strapped to a table and were being tortured with electricity by an imminently and inexcusably logical... robot, I guess. And say, hypothetically, that you were to scream out, "NO MORE!", right in the middle of having a gigajoule of electrons scrambled precisely through your most sensitive and vulnerable bits of yourself.
And say, for instance, that your torturer was especially sadistic and wanted to trip you up into actually asking for - that is, REQUESTING - more torture, by trying to twist around the meanings of words and saying to you, for example...
So the insane robot replies to your scream with this little gem:
"What did you say? Yes, LESS torture?"
You see, by screaming 'NO MORE!', the robot is being purposefully obtuse in construing your meaning as, 'NO!' That is, screaming no for the sake of the word 'no', because no is the perfect word to express your feelings toward getting tortured right then, and then screaming 'MORE!', as if you'd just changed your mind in the middle of it and decided that you actually wanted more torture after all. You see what this little shit heap of a robot is trying to do? He's purposefully misunderstanding you, with the hope of confusing you into actually asking for more torture by pointing out his supposed mistake verifying what you had just screamed, by correcting him and saying, or screaming, "NO, MORE!" since that's what you actually did say, but in the new context fabricated by that crap snacking robot dick head, by merely correcting what you would have naturally assume that he'd misheard, you would inadvertently be asking for more torture by reiterating the opposite of 'YES, LESS' with your original scream, which as I've hopefully explained sufficiently, in its new context, conveys the meaning of actually asking for more torture. Insidious.
But say, instead... say you recognized that bastard ass robot clown testicle munching butt shoveler was trying to trip you up into requesting more torture by replying "NO, MORE!" to his query for clarification, naturally... but INSTEAD, replied, 'YES, LESS!'... Why, that overweight, greasy blob of mindless philosopherizing would...
Why, that would... why... what... why would it... uh, he would totally, completely... what? What was I talking about?
And it would only be a couple of nanoseconds before something imploded!
Isn't that frikin' mind blowing??
Saturday, August 22, 2015
Friday, August 21, 2015
My evil, black bones
I guess if I'm looking for a place out of a dream, this is it. This is the place.
You know how you're always kind of hoping that the improbable will happen? That it'll just be right there around the corner, pristine and unexplored? Don't you have an idea of the unexpected, of how you imagine it might be, just up ahead and barely out of sight?
How can you imagine the unexpected, though? It's never really there, is it? You turn the corner, or you top the rise, and it's just what you expected the whole time. It's just another place that you know. Another where you are about to be, another where you are now, another where you just were.
First, before I go on, I have to ask a question. To you, ok? Whoever might be, or is reading this, if anyone. If it's anyone, then that means it's you... but probably just nobody, because that's more likely just about all the time. Wrap your noodle around that and choke on it nobody, otay?
Anyway, it don't matter who's getting asked because I'm the one asking it, and there ain't nobody here where I am right now to answer it... except you in the maybe future of things, which I don't give one and a half shits about, so shut up and let me think. Geez...
Anywho. Do you think that magic is real? Do you think that it's possible for reality to defy your logical thought, and to actually manifest? Manifest as a verb... to become, to be real. I didn't look that up, that's just what I think manifest means, ok? From here on out, manifest means to coalesce, to condense, to become a happening in a strange way, OK? OK!
Why are you so touchy anyway? I dunno, why am I so touchy? I'm a touchy feely kind of guy, I guess. MOVING ON.
Sorry about that, I haven't been getting much sleep lately and as a result I'm super pissed off and irritable right now. It's the way I am most of the time though, so I don't know why I'm even apologizing for it.
OH HELL! Screw it. The dream feeling is long gone, and so is my inspiration for writing any of this. Man. Being me is such a complexified fiasco of hateful, painful, unutterable secret and shameful layers of self pity and self loathing that I wish I would just catch fire so it would all peel up and sail away, so that my ugly black bones could lie there and bleach in the sun, the SUN DAMMIT, FUCK YOU, AUTOSPELL!
I want my evil Black bones to purify in the Sun. I'll be in a better mood tomorrow, and I'll finish this thing. I actually did have something to say. However, now it's time for another session of insomnia.
You know how you're always kind of hoping that the improbable will happen? That it'll just be right there around the corner, pristine and unexplored? Don't you have an idea of the unexpected, of how you imagine it might be, just up ahead and barely out of sight?
How can you imagine the unexpected, though? It's never really there, is it? You turn the corner, or you top the rise, and it's just what you expected the whole time. It's just another place that you know. Another where you are about to be, another where you are now, another where you just were.
First, before I go on, I have to ask a question. To you, ok? Whoever might be, or is reading this, if anyone. If it's anyone, then that means it's you... but probably just nobody, because that's more likely just about all the time. Wrap your noodle around that and choke on it nobody, otay?
Anyway, it don't matter who's getting asked because I'm the one asking it, and there ain't nobody here where I am right now to answer it... except you in the maybe future of things, which I don't give one and a half shits about, so shut up and let me think. Geez...
Anywho. Do you think that magic is real? Do you think that it's possible for reality to defy your logical thought, and to actually manifest? Manifest as a verb... to become, to be real. I didn't look that up, that's just what I think manifest means, ok? From here on out, manifest means to coalesce, to condense, to become a happening in a strange way, OK? OK!
Why are you so touchy anyway? I dunno, why am I so touchy? I'm a touchy feely kind of guy, I guess. MOVING ON.
Sorry about that, I haven't been getting much sleep lately and as a result I'm super pissed off and irritable right now. It's the way I am most of the time though, so I don't know why I'm even apologizing for it.
OH HELL! Screw it. The dream feeling is long gone, and so is my inspiration for writing any of this. Man. Being me is such a complexified fiasco of hateful, painful, unutterable secret and shameful layers of self pity and self loathing that I wish I would just catch fire so it would all peel up and sail away, so that my ugly black bones could lie there and bleach in the sun, the SUN DAMMIT, FUCK YOU, AUTOSPELL!
I want my evil Black bones to purify in the Sun. I'll be in a better mood tomorrow, and I'll finish this thing. I actually did have something to say. However, now it's time for another session of insomnia.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Memories of what happened
Here's what happened, for anyone who doesn't know... and you should know, because to have this knowledge is to be forewarned. I don't know if that actually means anything, by the way; to be forewarned. Probably not. Not if you're young and stupid, anyway... like I was when what I am about to describe happened. I think that maybe if I had been forewarned about all of this... regret, at this place in my life and at the age I am now... it might have made a difference with things then, and things wouldn't be the way they are.
But I'm probably confusing the regretted experience with the wisdom to avoid the experience in the first place. I didn't have the wisdom then, but I have the regret now. It's the same information, but obtained in different ways. Are you following me? Does this make sense? Because I'm about to give the warning now to you, whoever is reading this. I'm going to confess the regret of having blundered through these events of my life with no critical information arriving at an opportune time; with no warning from my future self to avert the impending tragedy, and no special awareness for anything other than myself and the all-important few cubic meters of personal space of my immediate surroundings.
All of this sounds melodramatic whenever I read it back to myself... but when I remember all of it, and think about it, and silently re-live it, I feel the actual thing that I'm trying to communicate. It's not a feeling or an experience that I would wish upon somebody, but maybe the information is valuable. Like understanding something horrible by reading a book about it, as opposed to being balls deep in the happening of it.
So, where was I, and what was I saying? Oh yeah.
Here's where I go on to describe the moments which contained the unforgivable events that I had a major hand in helping along. The two separate suicides which I encouraged and helped to craft, however unintentionally, like blissful ignorance armed with a jackhammer.
One of a friend and one of a brother.
The suicides, that is, those are.
I'll just jump right into the meaty gristle of it. The juicy, parboiled but bloody rare memory of those deaths, carefully nurtured over the years to a savory, succulent feast of nasty, overripe, rotting memories... ah, screw it. Now I'm being melodramatic.
Anywho.
I'll talk about Jim Bob first. Twenty-four years ago. I knew him. What I mean by saying that, is that I was comfortable around him. I was a shy kid... still am a shy kid, and back then being comfortable around someone meant a helluva lot more to me than actually just knowing them. It meant a good thing... a victory. I knew Jim Bob, and what that meant to me was more than just the sum of what those words add up to. I knew him... God, so much less of a thing meant so much more then. I didn't know him at all, but I knew him, and at that time in my life, that was more important than just about anything else.
His name was Jim Bob, and he parked his car on the railroad tracks one night right after I'd talked to him. He had just bought a new guitar, and he was excited about it. He wanted me to tune it for him, but I was playing pool and I didn't have time for him that night. So he parked his car on the railroad tracks and pressed a gun against his head and blew his brains out. That's what happened to Jim Bob.
I went to the funeral for this guy who I knew and was comfortable hanging around with, but didn't really know. I went to Jim Bobs funeral, and after the service, his brother made a bee line toward me. He marched right up to me, right through the crowd, and right up to where I was. I didn't know it was Jim Bob's brother until he was right in front of me. His name is Neil. Neil came to me after we had buried his brother... and I didn't really know Neil, except that he was a couple of grades younger than me in high school. I didn't even know that he was Jim Bob's brother until that day.
After Jim Bob was in the ground, Neil came up to me. He was crying, the way one cries for a brother who has just been swallowed by the dark. Neil stood in front of me and the activity of sobbing - grief stricken and blatant - happened right there in front of me, inches from my face. This thing I'm describing really happened, and most of the time I can hardly believe it, that it happened. Who would want to believe it? I've spent the last twenty four years not trying to believe that I remember it. On with it, Ash, you frikin' coward.
Neil said to me... no, he blubbered to me through a torrent of half choked sobs... "My brother was always talking about you, Ash," and then he embraced me, the way friends and loved ones embrace each other.
And that was like.. that was like, getting throttled by a pure white light. Choking on the essence of all that might be good and wants to be good, but instead succumbs and fails and withers and dries up and dies. That was the twenty ton foot of truth stomping down on top of me, flattening me and spreading my worthless guts and slimy essence into the dirt of all those graves... because I knew right then that if I'd just taken the time to share in his excitement, if I'd simply acknowledged his existence, if I'd just taken a few minutes to treat him like a friend and showed him how to tune the damn guitar, the night that he shot himself ... that Jim Bob would have still been alive.
And I'm too tired to go on about Jerral right now.
But I'm probably confusing the regretted experience with the wisdom to avoid the experience in the first place. I didn't have the wisdom then, but I have the regret now. It's the same information, but obtained in different ways. Are you following me? Does this make sense? Because I'm about to give the warning now to you, whoever is reading this. I'm going to confess the regret of having blundered through these events of my life with no critical information arriving at an opportune time; with no warning from my future self to avert the impending tragedy, and no special awareness for anything other than myself and the all-important few cubic meters of personal space of my immediate surroundings.
All of this sounds melodramatic whenever I read it back to myself... but when I remember all of it, and think about it, and silently re-live it, I feel the actual thing that I'm trying to communicate. It's not a feeling or an experience that I would wish upon somebody, but maybe the information is valuable. Like understanding something horrible by reading a book about it, as opposed to being balls deep in the happening of it.
So, where was I, and what was I saying? Oh yeah.
Here's where I go on to describe the moments which contained the unforgivable events that I had a major hand in helping along. The two separate suicides which I encouraged and helped to craft, however unintentionally, like blissful ignorance armed with a jackhammer.
One of a friend and one of a brother.
The suicides, that is, those are.
I'll just jump right into the meaty gristle of it. The juicy, parboiled but bloody rare memory of those deaths, carefully nurtured over the years to a savory, succulent feast of nasty, overripe, rotting memories... ah, screw it. Now I'm being melodramatic.
Anywho.
I'll talk about Jim Bob first. Twenty-four years ago. I knew him. What I mean by saying that, is that I was comfortable around him. I was a shy kid... still am a shy kid, and back then being comfortable around someone meant a helluva lot more to me than actually just knowing them. It meant a good thing... a victory. I knew Jim Bob, and what that meant to me was more than just the sum of what those words add up to. I knew him... God, so much less of a thing meant so much more then. I didn't know him at all, but I knew him, and at that time in my life, that was more important than just about anything else.
His name was Jim Bob, and he parked his car on the railroad tracks one night right after I'd talked to him. He had just bought a new guitar, and he was excited about it. He wanted me to tune it for him, but I was playing pool and I didn't have time for him that night. So he parked his car on the railroad tracks and pressed a gun against his head and blew his brains out. That's what happened to Jim Bob.
I went to the funeral for this guy who I knew and was comfortable hanging around with, but didn't really know. I went to Jim Bobs funeral, and after the service, his brother made a bee line toward me. He marched right up to me, right through the crowd, and right up to where I was. I didn't know it was Jim Bob's brother until he was right in front of me. His name is Neil. Neil came to me after we had buried his brother... and I didn't really know Neil, except that he was a couple of grades younger than me in high school. I didn't even know that he was Jim Bob's brother until that day.
After Jim Bob was in the ground, Neil came up to me. He was crying, the way one cries for a brother who has just been swallowed by the dark. Neil stood in front of me and the activity of sobbing - grief stricken and blatant - happened right there in front of me, inches from my face. This thing I'm describing really happened, and most of the time I can hardly believe it, that it happened. Who would want to believe it? I've spent the last twenty four years not trying to believe that I remember it. On with it, Ash, you frikin' coward.
Neil said to me... no, he blubbered to me through a torrent of half choked sobs... "My brother was always talking about you, Ash," and then he embraced me, the way friends and loved ones embrace each other.
And that was like.. that was like, getting throttled by a pure white light. Choking on the essence of all that might be good and wants to be good, but instead succumbs and fails and withers and dries up and dies. That was the twenty ton foot of truth stomping down on top of me, flattening me and spreading my worthless guts and slimy essence into the dirt of all those graves... because I knew right then that if I'd just taken the time to share in his excitement, if I'd simply acknowledged his existence, if I'd just taken a few minutes to treat him like a friend and showed him how to tune the damn guitar, the night that he shot himself ... that Jim Bob would have still been alive.
And I'm too tired to go on about Jerral right now.
A big problem I have
I've got a big problem with this this "Yoo hoo, big summer blowout!" dude in that movie, Frozen... the huge Swedish sort of guy who runs the Wandering Oaken's Trading Post.
He's a real butthead. I do not like that guy at all. He comes off all nice at first, but he charges Christoph four times as much as what he wanted to buy was worth! I mean, it coulda been life or death for Christoph and Sven, his reindeer, what with the freak eternal winter that just got turned on and everything, but this trading post guy, he just... man, he just makes me sick!
I mean, he throws Christoph out into the freaking storm, and why? Because Christoph called him a crook? Which he is, by the way... but Christoph didn't call that big lug a crook, anyway! He was talking to Anna, not that smiling lunkhead!
Oh, that big ass Swedish meatball pisses me off!
And then he tries to sweet up to Anna by throwing in a jar of fish heads for free, and with his family watching from the sauna and everything? Oh, I do not like that guy!
Him and his big summer blow out. I mean, yeah, it's summer and everything, but there's a freaking snowstorm going on in July! If there's a big freaking snowstorm going on in July, you don't say, "Hello, yoo hoo, big summer blowout!" to everybody who walks into the store, even if it is summer, because nobody is going to want to buy whatever you had for sale for your big summer blowout if there's an eternal winter going on!
Geez, I hate that Swedish meatball big summer blowout lunkhead from that movie, Frozen!
He's a real butthead. I do not like that guy at all. He comes off all nice at first, but he charges Christoph four times as much as what he wanted to buy was worth! I mean, it coulda been life or death for Christoph and Sven, his reindeer, what with the freak eternal winter that just got turned on and everything, but this trading post guy, he just... man, he just makes me sick!
I mean, he throws Christoph out into the freaking storm, and why? Because Christoph called him a crook? Which he is, by the way... but Christoph didn't call that big lug a crook, anyway! He was talking to Anna, not that smiling lunkhead!
Oh, that big ass Swedish meatball pisses me off!
And then he tries to sweet up to Anna by throwing in a jar of fish heads for free, and with his family watching from the sauna and everything? Oh, I do not like that guy!
Him and his big summer blow out. I mean, yeah, it's summer and everything, but there's a freaking snowstorm going on in July! If there's a big freaking snowstorm going on in July, you don't say, "Hello, yoo hoo, big summer blowout!" to everybody who walks into the store, even if it is summer, because nobody is going to want to buy whatever you had for sale for your big summer blowout if there's an eternal winter going on!
Geez, I hate that Swedish meatball big summer blowout lunkhead from that movie, Frozen!
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