Resurrection will be the death of innocence

So looking around this room I live in... One. Single. Room.

I notice that my home begins to look more like that of a crazed politico (not the kind that rallies for a candidate... the kind that shoots a candidate from the building across the street with a high powered rifle)

On my futon/bed alone currently there sits: a small pile of U.S. Army field blankets, a surge protector, a copy of "APOCALYPSE CULTURE" edited by Adam Parfrey, an air pistol, a pair of scissors, two empty beer cans, and a half empty bottle of whisky.

My life has become Le Samourai, without the... stylization.

My black Docs are muddy, scuffed, and finally broken in. I drink more often that I eat. I take my scotch with no ice, and less water. I've watched "Il Conformista" 5 times in a month. I want to kill.

My life has become a primal scream. I dress in clothes that would not look out of place at a gun show. I frequent gun shows. Looking for deals. On rifles.

I own more weapons than my entire county combined. I carry a combat knife in my boot. In my suburban neighborhood. I assess store clerks as potential violent threats.

I work in medicine. I save lives. I preserve the future of the youth, and keep the old from moving on. I want the old to die, and the youth to see through my disillusioned eyes. I feel that not one soul I see on any given day has any idea how fucked we are. How fucked this country is. How fucked the world is. How fucked humanity is. How fucked this state is. How fucked this city is. How fucked this neighborhood is. How fucking naive they all are.

I talk with co workers. And take my jokes one step over the line. I laugh, they stare.

I watch violent pornography and only the punching/kicking/slapping/spitting is worth my attention. Sex is not personal, it's nothing but biology. The only thing that makes fucking worth the physical exertion is the possibility of feel new sensations. Like chipping a tooth, or breaking a finger, or tearing a muscle. Sexuality is far less complicated than the blind romantic would have you believe. Love is chemical.

"I GRIND MY TEETH INTO FANGS"

My floor is covered in shit. Black shit. Dead matter. Dust. Clothes; I cover myself with shit.

"No one 'knows' anyone, ever. Not really."

I sedate myself with chemicals. Anti-psychotic-depressant-convulsant-anxiolytic-alcoholic chemicals. My blood:outside psychoactive agent ratio is 1:1. Cut me open and I would bleed white powdered pills.

Fuck you. Look what you've done. I've gone and written myself into a stink.