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January 27, 2005
Arise my son, this place is not for you any longer
In this place, we stand gods, dealing judgment upon those who remain blind out of self-preservation
In this place, we stand aloft, overseeing the little pests scury about like cockaroaches in the light
In this place, we stand righteous, shuning what does not stand up to the weight of the BIITER, of our pain
In this place, we stand together alone, knowing when we leave this place the BITTER will always be waiting
In this place, we stand petrified, feeling so afraid of the BITTER's wrath breaking upon us
In this place, we stand honor-bound, stealing our tarnished broken pride to feel one moment of happiness and longing as one amongst our rank discards his robes and steps out from under the darkness to take his place elsewhere, to make room for the future, to leave the past where it's baried, to get on with it all....
To the only man I can justly call Father, Good Luck, and may the Gods be with you, for you will need more than one to keep from the BITTER's grasp.
Posted by Strange at 8:39 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
January 20, 2005
It's time.
I have labored long enough.
Suffered long enough.
Bled enough.
Cried enough.
Been pierced by the pain and the agony of the jagged steel enough.
I grow older, and things change.
For sixteen and a half years, this is how I have found my voice. Expressed the pain of a betrayal so large that it shattered a life, forwards and backwards through time.
But now… now, it is time to set it aside.
To let others take up the charge.
To let others boil their blood.
To let others rage into the night.
Today, Strange, my son, turns 20.
And to him, the Scion of the BITTER, and his generation, I bequeath this holy place.
To my stalwart colleagues, the two other stanchions of the triumvirate of disciples, it has been a privilege sharing the pulpit with you.
But as for me… it is time to remove the mantle. It is simply no longer my place to be the Vanguard Disciple. My path now lies elsewhere.
Power, faith, and rage, my brothers and sisters. The BITTER is always and forever, and it shall thusly be yours, so long as you submit to it, embrace it, understand it, and let it flow in, of, around, and through you.
The only thing left to say?
Goodbye.
Posted by scott at 8:00 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
January 19, 2005
Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream…
"I need a boyfriend who likes to cook."
And clean, and wash windows, too?
You also need a boyfriend who isn't going to rip through your psyche. Who is going to respect you. Who isn't going to molest your kids' friends someday. Or your friends' kids. Or your kids.
You need a boyfriend who is a thousand things and more.
Perhaps while you're dreaming some more, you can get him to be healthy, wealthy, and wise, too?
Or you can stop feeling sorry for yourself, get off your ass, and go out there and grab life by the throat and *find* someone.
Because there are no dreams anymore. They're all dead.
There are, however, some compromises which aren't that bad.
But you'll never find them while you sit back and sullenly lick your wounds, thinking about how good it never was.
The BITTER is smirking at you, wondering when you'll stop feeling sorry for yourself and finally do something about it.
Until then, the BITTER has a nice selection of herbal teas for you. Available with milk, lemon, and quicksilver.
Posted by scott at 5:52 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
The verve of the nerve
Wasting my energy on any of you? All of you?
Fuck you!
Time to take a step off the edge and find a new definition. One that leaves you all behind.
Because you do nothing but drag me down to my eventual doom.
And if I wanted that, I should have just pink misted myself when I had the chance.
To hell with you. All of you.
Posted by scott at 4:38 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
January 4, 2005
My Angel
I looked for my angel again today
She shines like a beacon far off in the sea
She shines from behind the mountains sharp
It seems the intwined paths of mountain and mist
They keep me from my saving grace
They keep me lost and cold
There she is, sitting so comfortably
Her eyes becon me as the warm sheets wrapped the past
Her eyes cut like warm razors
There she is again gentle smile curling her lips
I'm bleeding here and she's smiling there
I'm dying here and she's staying there
In the end it was all my fault
In the end, I let her go
In the end nothing will change
In the end our happy time won't matter
In the end.
In the end...
I stumble
I freeze
I bleed
Posted by Strange at 8:58 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Fuck THIS!
Why the fuck is my entire life the scrambled repetition of a single action.
Why is it that I have a supreme ability to fuck up anything that is even vaguely unclear.
Why is it that people always read what they want to read.
FUCK this, I am done, done telling people pretty things because I feel that I might have a snowballs chance in hell at warming this cold stone that is my heart.
Why is it that I am forever coming back to this cold lonely road
upon which I meet so many little specters and nymphs who want to seduce me just far enough
to eat the heart from my chest as a lie prone on the floor helpless as their bloody teeth grin at me.
FUCK this! FUCK THIS.
I am tired of trusting.
I am tired of saying to my self, "what are the odds this is going to happen to me again."
It has to be like getting struck by lighting in some regard. Much to my dismay I am only fooling myself, again and again I watch some hollow eyed ghoul tear apart my chest, snap open my ribs like a fucking can of Pringles and keep munching away at the tenderized tissue beneath it.
FUCK THIS!
Posted by Strange at 8:17 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack