People like to tell you when they're fucked,

"DUDE I'M SO FUCKED UP. This Molly get me rolling."

But I'm the opposite. 
I feel normal when I'm high, and really fucked up when I'm sober. 
And it's not really the same celebration.

"Hey, how you guys doing? I'm so fucked right now."

'You on something man?'

"Yeah, unresolved trauma! You want some? Yeah? Alright, tell you what. I'll betray you during your first committed relationship, leaving you with an indelible legacy of trust issues and a pattern of uncommitted, sex-based, ultimately dissatisfying relationships, when all you really want is the same love you had that you no longer believe in. And then five years later when you think you've finally resolved all that and your depression, and feel secure enough to move to another country to pursue your dream you put on hold for love, I'll hit you with a car and drive away leaving you alone for dead on a sidewalk. 

First one is on me."

Oatmeal Dave

Some of my favourite sounds that are out there today.

What Are You Into These Days?

Discuss the amount of times you've had to say, "Alright, well, touch dicks tomorrow, and if we don't get our foreskin in a tangle, we'll see each other on the weekend."

Ironic Homosexuality

Dave's alter ego, Baxter Davis, is interviewed on Question Time. Full episode to follow. 

Tell your enemies. 

Baxter Davis (teaser)

How I Feel About Smash Mouth

You Need Shit To Grow Vegetables

I would love to tell you I'm an atheist. But the fact is, I believe in nothing. Not even Not God. In fact, it's so difficult for me to ascertain what I believe with any certainty, when I'm asked to speak on subjects Holy, words evaporate from me like boiled water. What heated words once were become vapourous expressions of lost steam. 

What am I? Steamy, I guess. What does this have to do with anything interesting? Not much. Which is particularly my point. Absolute nonsense is a suitable guiding principle in a world filled with equal amounts of certainty and doubt. Madness, chaos, intense awareness of your definite lunacy, this may help. What it might help with depends on what you've mired yourself within. Like a squirrel storing nuts in an oak tree, you don't know what you've got until it's fall and you have to look within. 

Meditation lets you look at the foodstuff of your past. You'll notice it's mostly rotten and inedible. But, it's Fall. There's little vegetation and even less meat. It's time to eat the happenstance remains of what once seemed like acceptable nutrient. 

Accessing this metaphorical trunk is work. The rewards are not fruitful. If you're like me - someone who likes to think he is normal - then you're Afflicted. The mere assumption of normalcy is usually telltale unawareness of your probable inner nature of sheer, present, raging, schismatic pandemonium. The sages oft parley of the In-Dwelling Love, God, Ice Cream Velvetiness of Potential. And yet, what should be discussed more, is what's really within: the melting dregs of a spring shithouse. 

You're insane, probably. And the more you realize this, the greater your ability to maybe do something about it, or at least not be Dominated By Your Shit. Knowing there is a melting pile of detritus that's called You helps You navigate in a way that reduces your chances of slipping into what You Already Are and becoming more covered in your own shit. There is the chance of liberation. Yes, there are clean toilets. I've seen them. But you're in the woods, and there is nary a place to liberate yourself but unto that chamber of hell. So, here you are. This is a beginning. What you are. 

What can you do from Here? 

Wade, wade, wade. Do not fear the smell. Or whatever sensation pervades. Accept it. The resistance - the hemorrhoidal strain that contributed to this - will only slop further viscera about. Adhere to its surface. Know it well. Because this factory of fecal matter matters. This is your fuel. 

What happens with most people is they go, Oh great, I'm doing a thing, and just because i did that thing once or a few times everything is greattt now wow phew so easy, let's repeat our patterns now that we're relaxed. Complacency is failure to recognize failure or being so ok with it you fear the shitbucket within. What matters then is not Feeling Good, just not Not Feeling Bad Entirely. Complacency keeps you one thing. When what you are is never settled. It is not even that pile of discarded remains. It is what shits. It is what feeds. It is gathering. But what happens is you want to say, Look what I have gathered. But what is necessary is just enjoying gathering. Because once you get proud, and associate the gathered with what you are, you can't gather anymore. There is no food, but memories of meals you had before. And how good it was to eat. But now it is shit, and unless you want to eat shit, you have to learn how to gather again. 

In summation:
You cannot soak in the ass of Christ and "become Him." Christ is within you. No cajoling, no pleading, no confectionary sugar on the cock will persuade Him to be entered. It is only through the act of Surrender, Acceptance, and Non-Resistance you realize you're already Christ. Christ is already within you. Christ penetrates every fibre of your being, spiritually fucking your consciousness with such purity its smile is yours and His words cum freely. We are all Christ. 

It is He who pegs Us. 


Complacency, Meditation, and Soaking in the Ass of Christ

Without shame, I stride forth, wearing nothing but the cloth of skin given me par my rents, into the fray of Self-Help. Void of guilt, incandescent with glee, I, creator of mischief, insist on speaking of Ways to Help Thy Self That Aren't Sneezing More to Get People to Bless Thee. 

You are the charnel house. You are the necropolis. The house in the woods with rotten foundation. All this talk of Indian burial grounds - as if the territory we roam as Plumper Gatherers is not tilled with the degraded corpses of Iroquois and other Natives I don't even know. Where's Canada? Not only above America, it's also above millions of dead Native Americans. We've tap-danced this square of misery since time immemorial. We are the "Indian Burial Ground." The idea we've limited small sections of the land to vanquished corpses of dead native americans is itself evidence of the delusional atrocities committed upon these people. The whole planet's beset. The dead sleep all time, everywhere. 

Look within and see the amalgamation of wafflery you call personality. A collection of apocryphal stories as improbable as the Bible, with your Self crowned king amongst the slain ideas of time. 

Also, drink more water. 


Exorcisms

Man gets to my age, he doesn't want to live alone. He doesn't want to live with anyone else, either. 

Man gets to my age, he better learn to appreciate paradox. 

Which itself, well, is, you know. 

What to do with yourself? It'd be nice to be another pigeon in the park, a radio channel you're not really hearing. My daddy had trouble with that. couldn't be home without one thing or another announcing the present moment in no uncertain terms. Give me the muffled stories of burglary and dissent over sheer silence. Why's that? It's difficult to say. Sometimes I think the only reason I speak is to not hear what I don't have to say. There's fear in silence. Garsh, in my day, that's how you knew if one was worth wedding - if you could stare at your partner in stillness for more than a few minutes without some evident discomfort on their part, you knew you'd found someone healthy enough to be with when the selves you'd constructed for other people's pleasures broke and sagged with the body you'd inherited too. Not these days. "Here's another picture of me, here's another interest, some forgotten accomplishment, did you know I had persuasions towards indecency as well? Yes, I am fascinating. There's not room enough to describe the myriads of ways I'll thrill you. The mosaic is me. The tessellated walkway I am is woven in certainty." 

Rubbish. In my days, time didn't fly, it crawled, and you were lucky if you didn't mistakenly crush it in a ceremonial dance meant to encourage the rain coming. 

Old Man

Art is good, but pornography is a billion dollar industry. Why not a combination of both? Pornartgraphy.

fartsmellrr86

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