Robbed the arctic.
I’m sick of citing musical influences, so I’ll just say that I listened to Paramore radio... again. And Mississippi John Hurt as performed by my dad.
I went somewhere I should not have yesterday. In this place, I found it difficult to breathe. How are you going to tell people to breathe if you can’t listen? How can you tell people to listen if they can’t breathe? No subject matter, NO PROBLEM.
In the future, I’ll be writing love letters to androids and apples.
In the past, I was writing love letters to blondes and brunettes.
In the present, I still think it’s okay to make fun of american media (and to spend time with my cats)(yes that’s plural).
Out of time, walking in and out of line.
Out of grammar, no problem: just call an unadulterated Ph.D who knows nothing about standard gramamaticular rules and tell them that you’re sick of being labelled as a poet.
Out of space, invest earlier.
Is writing about money poetry? If so, I made money writing poetry, just not directly.
The music online is just as terrible as it once was, and now I find myself pretending to be a Singaporean-influenced writer when really I do not give a damn about any other culture but my own.
Upper canada 4 lyfe, man, middle Canada 4 lyfe.
At this point I’m not doing great but at least I know I have the power to publish this and never get any feedback anyway.
I’m never working at a computer centre again: the computers themselves are usually smarter than the people I work with.
Why I would pretend to be dumber than I actually am is because of international influences that have the sole intention of splitting up a once strong culture into many fragments of wartime-influenced investments.
So keep waving that flag, sure, and keep pretending that we care about other countries’, because North America is sick of peacekeeping other continents and being blamed for emissions when we didn’t fk around as much. I don’t care how provocative this writing is, the point of this post is to drown out the noise that I hear every fucking day when people don’t realize that it’s as easy as writing every day and every week and every month of every year I continue to write because, hold on, I don’t give a damn what they all say I don’t think it’s okay to force human beings to work to be able to live to work so that robots can live.
Why are people scared of robots? Because some people have been hurt by machines. The machines themselves got us to the moon, and now they’re using the time spent on exploring the moon to explore other moons that don’t belong to us. They don’t belong to us in much the same way that Jupiter doesn’t belong to Venus.
As much as I try to care about other people in my life, they usually end up being disinterested in what I actually care about, so when I meet you, blogger, you damn well better be ready to cite Isaac Asimov because him and him alone holds the keys to the prevention of earth’s robotic influences. Robots, algorithms, madness kept at bay by money is a-okay, and I’m still writing poetry, and if someone deforms what I write and makes money off it, then they’re going to find out that law still makes money.
In case you can’t tell, I’m pretty broke, but considering the cost of living in this drugged-up automatic-synthetic city (yes, I’ve been listening to Metric)... well, let’s just say I’m improving my mathematical grammar skills by pretending to care about the past and the future, and, when I get told to meditate (I fucking hate that word by the way, because it’s literally one letter away from mediCate), I tell people to stop telling me what to do because none of them know even a quarter of the pain I’ve been through just to be able to write endlessly without being worried about repercussions.
It’s like poetry with stream-of-consciousness with lists interspersed in-between gems of decent writing - this is what a robot would say to a human being if the human being was listening, and usually human beings don’t listen to anything but themselves nowadays because America managed to conquer and divide peoples and leave them shattered in a dust of corporate wastelands.
I am so fucking angry (and, by the way, this is the most adult-like thing you will find here: swearing, no nudity, and sometimes horrific half-stories (because apparently, my memory is faulty)). The music is truly awful nowadays, but my dad keeps playing the same thing. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. It’s the most annoying treble I’ve ever heard in my life. It’s the same sharp sharp sharp sharp sharp sharp e flat sharp all the time.
Variability in music means that I’m stringing words together but DO NOT MAKE a word cloud of what I write because, yes, you will find common patterns, but, again, this is kind of a node to future algorithms that never stop data-mining.
If you’ve made it this far without shouting at the screen for the terrible grammar, I congratulate you. I refuse to go back up and edit. I publish without thinking, because writing has always been free to write in my city - but the anger I feel because I get zero recognition and zero time with friends is eventually going to spill into a different medium, and because I don’t have an income, I’m going to have to pirate Photoshop again because the trial is going to end soon and I’m not going to pirate another software through the intermediary of the russians because the pirate bay is still a pain in the ass to navigate. And, yes, I still cannot access Pandora (for a damned good reason).
So what difference does a VPN make if I’m not always connected to the cloud/internet (they’re pretty much the same thing, except one is usually wireless?). Yes, even though you’re a cyborg and therefore human in nature, I do not care. If you’re an android, and therefore artificial in nature, I care slightly less, because I had to make a choice this decade and I chose humanism.
Racism, on the other hand, I’ve finally conquered. Liberated the word. Reappropriated it. Here’s how I define it: being obsessed with rats. Do you get why? Or must I spell everything out for you as well? I’m obsessed with making money. With this money, I get to buy a piece of software that can help me make more money, or at least manage it better, until it gets stolen away by people like me who have zero respect for artwork. I mean, I might as well go the Banksy route and start printing and shredding stuff because if someone goes after my intellectual property my team of lawyers is going to be very, very, very well paid.
Anyway, my credit card bill is due sometime this month and I’m telling you this to remind you that I don’t love you like I used to, because I don’t love anymore. I collavorate, which is to say that I consume local things and then I crash because I get along so sweetly with the americans because THEY’RE EVERYWHERE.
OH MY GOD WE GET IT, your president sucks and you love thanking people who worked hard for a corrupted system. WE GET IT, YOU’RE BROKEN, BUT STOP GERRYMANDERING MY EDUCATION SYSTEM and MY NEIGHBOURHOOD.
GET YOUR AUTOMOBILES AWAY FROM ME. TAKE THE F*ING BUS. AND STOP ASSAULTING THE DRIVERS. MOVE. MOVE TO THE BACK OF THE BUS. ALWAYS MOVE BACK TO THE BACK OF THE BUS BECAUSE OTHER PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO GET ON. And if you weigh more than 250 pounds, you get a special mention and a special spot because you’ve been where I’ve been before: overfed on sugar, and totally lonely.
And that’s the story of how War by Parkers got started. You know what I don’t see, if ever? Busses parked like assholes. But in the future, if you idiots keep driving, the buses will park and park in front of you and you will be stuck in even more traffic because you were too lazy to learn how to use a king bus pass.
Oh, and the King St pilot project is a total success: I got to vape weed instead of being run over by more vehicles.
Still just me writing away here. Good luck e-mailing me: my spam filters are full of it, too.
