Objectivity is dead.

[Chapter 6] Dreaming.

2010-03-01T02:10:00.005-05:00

To dream is to bestow obscurity, for dreaming is not intended to exuviate perspective. Dreams encrypt our psyche while unequivocally embellishing our deepest reveries. The primer, hidden deep within our subconscious, is the quintessential missing link.

.:.

My gaze is transfixed. Paralysis has clinched victory over myself and my body reeks of insecurity and unease. I try to look away, to look away before she senses my ineptitude. Staples clasp my eyelids to my brow. A droplet of blood trickles down the posterior of my nostril, crying freedom as it drops into a blissful oblivion.

I’m elevated, not floating, merely elevated. My stomach wrenches, either infinitely or finitely, I’m unable to tell as I prepare to become one with the earth. The earth rudely evades me. A lonely gray surrounds me; #999999 in its consummate essence. I’m only able to sense the earth floating below me as vertigo waits to settle in for the evening.

What a treat it is to see that Death has come rapping upon my chamber door, only to dash my pessimistic hopes and prayers once more.

“But why not me?” I implore.

“After you I am not, it is Her you are for.” Death responds as the shrouded black hole sanctimoniously diverts its stare thievishly upward.

Her chestnut locks compliment Her hazel eyes. Floating graciously above me, she stares ostentatiously through me. I want to look away, to close my eyes; crimson tints my vision.

Her mouth opens as if to scream, but instead a stereo of heavenly melodies is exuberated into the air about me. She sings. Oh does she sing! To say that Her aria brings warmth to my soul would be to belittle each striking note. My pain is diminished and my gray incubus gives way to a blessing dressed in the bluest of skies.

As swiftly as bliss rises, bliss sets.

Men from all angles are drawn. They are drawn from thin air, from above, and from sides all around. Doctors, lawyers, architects, and stockbrokers; they surround Her. They approach from above me. I try to fly but I am grounded. I outstretch my arms, but the length of my reach falls short by a distance that would otherwise be deemed negligible.

Silence.

She stares at me. I stare at Her. A moment of understanding. Is this emotion that she bequeaths? Longing? For fear I will never know, as she is engulfed by the offspring of everlasting dreams.

I’m falling; Death has granted my wish. Whether ‘twas a moment or an eternity, ‘tis not for me to know. Purgatory has relinquished my soul.

My blue is trumped by my gray which gives way to my familiar black. Hope of waking is confused with that of dying.

---
Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith

[Chapter 5] Revelation.

2009-01-26T03:02:00.004-05:00

She’s lying right next to me.

Another one. Another lonely girl, another lonely night. A night fueled by absent lies, bitter drinks, and impermissible moral principles.

How many is that now? Such a conjecture is not one I dare to cloud my disarrayed mind.

I can’t take it. Hypocrisy thy name truly is thyself. But dare I risk sounding cliché?

Such is too late.

I preach. I preach to my socially ascending siblings. I preach to my depraved friends. I even risk preaching to those who truly know me best. Those of which who have stood by me since the beginning. Those who have never questioned my motives, but merely given me insight toward an outside perspective.

I preach to you.

My readers are all that I have, and what is it that I have given you in return? I certainly have not made you more intelligent. I haven’t given you anything you can sell for profit. All that I have given you is a metaphor for a life that is beyond control. One withstanding conformity and humility.

Far be it for me to practice that of which I preach on a daily basis.

Not I. Not the one seeking sexual annexation, nor the one wiping each tear away as his best friend kisses his girlfriend goodnight.

It couldn’t be… me.

I roll my cheek onto her forehead. She’s staring at me.

She stares at me as the other breathes deeply into my chest. Her eyes gaze gently down upon me; she is mocking me. Her glazen blue eyes, soft mysterious lips, and her Gibson acoustic guitar bolstered on her nurturing bosom. She is everything I want, and nothing I can have.

Colbie Caillat is a metaphor for the life that I want and the woman I’d give anything for. She once said that her song, Bubbly, wasn’t written about her crush but rather her dream guy. She is my dream, and I keep waking up.

“Why do you do that?” whispered a voice, emanating from what seemed to be right within my own ear.

“Do what?” I asked, jarring out of my daze.

“Why do you detach yourself? You detach yourself from these girls who have deeply fallen for you, from your friends who would do anything for you. Trey, I’ve seen you detach yourself from your own family.”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

I’ve been asked this before, but only through Internet commentary. Never have I had these words directed toward me in such an abrasive manner. Surely this is just playful banter.

“I… I don’t know” were the only three words I could stutter.

She sighed, adjusting her head onto my chest as she closed her eyes. I could feel the warmth of her exhale running serenely down my ribs, diffusing itself across my stomach, as if a slow stream wallowing down a hillside into a mellow pond.

It’s true.

My eyes are transfixed to the sharp ridges of the ceiling above me.

What am I hiding from? Why is it that every time someone tries to get close to me, I unceremoniously show them the proverbial door? I’m certainly not afraid of being hurt. I’ve been there and back ten times over. My heart may be callused, but far from the cause.

What’s the differential diagnosis? Quick.

Perhaps you’re afraid of letting such a catch down. Disappointment can be a real deal breaker these days. But no, that’s not it at all, is it Trey? You’ve known all along, you just couldn’t admit it.

No, no it’s not. You’re afraid that she’ll let you down. You’re afraid that she will disappoint you. She’ll take every single thing that the two of you worked so hard to build, the trust, the compassion, the love, and she’ll make one tiny mistake and it will all be gone.

You’ll crush her, but you don’t care. You won’t give a shit, all because you’re safe now. You’ve got yourself, you’ve got your words, and you’ve got your future. You have your future. There will be no our, there will be no we, it will just be you.

You stupid, narcissistic, son of a bitch.

“You have to go.”

“What?” she asked wearily.

“I’m sorry. You have to go.”

---
Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith

[Chapter 4] Envy.

2008-12-12T22:02:00.001-05:00

Perspective construes reality. It is an inevitable force that is unable to be faltered. Each passing moment of each passing day of each passing year, each changes the course of my future, the course of your future, and the course of our future as we adjust to accommodate to its obstinate errand. It has the propensity to force us all to qualify our life decisions at will.

.:.

Here I am.

Here I am, I’m leaning. I’m leaning over the same old counter, in the same old house, unable to stand upon my same old feet.

I’m staring absently into this cracked old mirror. I wonder how this mirror came to be cracked. I’m sure it did nothing to deserve such a morbid penance. Some asshole like me indubitably threw his fist in a fit of rage as he helplessly watched his reflection mock him from the other side. Mocking him for being such a failure. Mocking him for his loneliness.

The grass really must be greener.

My hands hurt. My palms on both of my hands hurt. The sharp edge of this cheap plastic laminate digs deep into my skin, but in a way it feels good. It feels good to feel. After all, emptiness succumbs to pain.

This has all become so visceral.

Two days ago my best friend of my distant youth had a baby. He had a beautiful baby girl. He had a beautiful baby girl with a beautiful Mrs. Best-Friend-to-be.

He’s always held it together.
He’s always kept his cool.
He’s always been the man that I’ve longed to be.

Lover at 22. Father at 23.

I don’t want a child. In fact I’d be willing to endorse Trojan right here in my own little blogging world, as long as they threw me some advertising dollars; or some free condoms.

I’m not fit to be a father. At 23 I’m not fit to take care of anyone. At 23, I’m not fit to take care of myself.

I don’t want a baby. I’m still not sure if I want to deal with the encumbrance of a romantic relationship.

I’m lonely. I’m lonely and my best friend just had a baby.

It’d be easier for me to host a conference on chaos theory for a group of physicists than it would be to wrap my head around fathering another human life.

I don’t know how he does it. I don’t know how he stays so calm. I don’t know how his demeanor is so confident and his swagger so cool.

Everyone loves him. I wish everyone loved me. I wish someone loved me.

.:.

My perspective changes every day. My perspective on life changes every day. My perspective on love, it changes every day. My perspective of my body, my perspective of my body changes. I am a self-loathing narcissist. I can look at myself in the mirror and wish that my abs were harder, my penis was bigger, and my face, well I can wish that my face wasn’t my own. I can also look in the mirror and think I’m the sexiest man alive. I can change my hair, throw on some new clothes and I can think, I can know, that a new piece of ass will be waiting for me at the door.

My perspective changes.

I love blogging. I love microblogging. I love social media. I love social media because of its boundless efficacy.

@Carolyn helped change my perspective. As quoted in the comment section of [Chapter 3] Muse from Objectivity is Dead:

“So, T, what is it that you're looking for that you are so firmly convinced you will never find? Methinks you may be a ‘petrarchan lover’…

…Or, is it merely that your standards are so unjust that no human could ever fill this void you lug around?

Perhaps a bit of both?

Don't take yourself (or life) so seriously…”

It’s like taking punches and not being able to say stop. All I need to do is say stop and the pain goes away. All I need to do is say stop. I can’t say stop. Does this feel good? Does it feel good to feel?

Oh my God. I am a masochist.

My standards are smothering me. My back aches from lugging this burden around. No one will ever be good enough for you. I’ll never have a chance with her. Don’t let yourself get close to her. I can’t hurt her again.

It’s the chase. I’ve figured it out! It’s the chase that I love. My mind is a paradox. I don’t want to be lonely, but I know once I break down her wall of subconscious I won’t want a fucking thing to do with her. It’s a dangerous game I play. I can’t have what I don’t want, and I don’t want what I can’t have.

I’m fucked in the head. Don’t try to convince me otherwise. Either we’re all fucked, or I’m the only one. There is no happy medium. There is no common ground. There is no shade of grey.

.:.

Here I am.
I’m staring at the same old mirror.
This mirror is cracked, and his hands are bleeding.

It hurts.

“There is no life without love, none worth having anyway.” -Hank Moody, Californication

---
Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith

[Chapter 3] Muse.

2008-11-26T17:35:00.005-05:00

Regret, albeit an undesirable manifestation of one’s darkest hour, is an inherent state of despondency that we perpetually tempt through misguided judgment. By no fault but of our own do we continually seek to fulfill the immediate self-gratifications resulting from our repeatedly mistaken decisions, only to leave but a bitter taste of penitence in our mouths.

.:.

There she stood, her beauty emanating from every pore on the surface of her delicate body.

Sarah, who in spirit of the Halloween gaieties, had opened the door upon my arrival with an air of embellishment. She was garmented from top to bottom in the night’s darkest clothing, leaving little to be imagined.

Her lustrous black stilettos reflected the light from the full Hallow’s moon as her voluptuous legs made way to a tattered frock that nestled the curvature of her body ever so perfectly. Her exquisite complexion was tainted only in the slightest by three perfectly beaded droplets of blood, which were resting serenely atop the apex of her chin.

As I stood upon the stoop of her home with an awestruck gaze, it suddenly dawned upon me that the doorway by which we were separated was effectively serving as a metaphor for our storybook affair.

“Hi Trey,” she said with an elegant smile, just as my agape jaw began to twinge.

The amiable tone of her voice shocked me, as I had expected her diction to match that of her assumed persona; a Vampiress she had become indeed.

As my internal monologue proceeded to bate the resilient feelings, she spoke only to end what I assume to have become an exceedingly uncomfortable silence.

“Are you ready to go?” she asked.

“Yeah, let me put the rest of my beer in your fridge and we’ll take off,” I said, shaking out of my latent state of mind.

Having become aware of my invitation to the forthcoming party only this afternoon, I had been given very little time to creatively prepare a costume; as my original plans for this evening merely consisted of drinking myself into a coma. Alone.

As I drove to the costume shop, feebly hoping that inventory still remained on the shelves, I was blessed with a rare moment of inspiration.

Clicking through the presets on my stereo, I momentarily settled upon a local indie station that was currently playing “You’re So Last Summer” by Taking Back Sunday.

Having had the misfortune of discovering the band at a concert several years prior, I have ever since abhorred their name and the culture to which they contribute; the emo culture.

And so at that moment, I begrudgingly decided to transform myself into that of which has become the bane of my existence. All that I needed to successfully fashion the character was a long black wig, an assortment of makeup, and some gauze to cover the blatant scars riddled across both of my arms.

As Sarah and I began walking down the street toward the house of our destination, I started to realize to what degree my contempt for the college community had risen. With each intoxicated outcry emanating from the passing houses, my enthusiasm for the night’s events faded ever so slightly.

Stepping into what I suddenly realized to be a house of the fraternal community, I was immediately consumed by regret.

As I moved through the doorway and into the foyer I was approached by what appeared to be a gentleman dressed solely in a pink woman’s thong. I make mention to the fact that he appeared to be a man because, while my avidity to glance down was clearly nonexistent, I couldn’t help but to notice the banana in the hammock was in its very early stages of ripening.

“Hey bro, you can’t be here if you ain’t with nobody,” the mook intelligently snarled.

“It’s okay Lance, he’s with me,” Sarah gestured as we walked past him, making an extra effort not to make contact with his impressively well-developed love handles.

“I see you’ve made some… Good friends,” I said audaciously, just as she turned to burn a hole through my skull with her austere stare.

“I see you’ve learned to not judge everyone you meet,” she snapped. Her tone was dry and I could sense she was starting to second guess her decision to invite me. I decided to back off a bit and try to enjoy myself to the best of my ability.

“Here’s to a great night,” I said, looking at her with a half-assed grin on my face and a beer raised to eye-level.

Before she was able to decide if my previous statement was genuine, the beat to “Lollipop” by Lil’ Wayne kicked in and everyone in the closet-sized room began moving simultaneously.

Almost immediately, what appeared to be an oversized hairdryer walked up behind Sarah and put his hands on her hips to start dancing with her. Before I could take a step forward, she looked at me with a glare that said: “I’m fine, go dance.”

As I stood in the corner, true to my emo nature, and watched her dance with what I later found out to be a giant keg, I began to realize that the inebriation had started its onset.

Cue impaired judgment.

Cracking open another beer, I watched Mr. Kegman’s hands slowly make their way down Sarah’s slender waist, well past the ridge of her hips for the second time in the past 10 minutes.

This time however, she grabbed his hands, threw them askew and began to walk away. Just as he reached for her shoulder to pull her back, I found myself sprinting at him without the slightest amount of consideration.

I don’t think I’ve ever been in a fight, at least not a notable one. At best, I remember punching my classmate in the stomach in the sixth grade for slamming my locker shut.

The adrenaline that pumps through your veins just before making contact with your aggressor is, well, orgasmic at the least. The room was at a standstill as I took a third person’s point of view, watching the events play out from above. It felt as if my enduring dream to live my life through a camera was happening right in front of my eyes.

Watching my fist make its way across the keg’s upper left jaw, the room spun back into motion as I dropped quickly back down into my body.

Mr. Kegman was lying on the floor in front of me while onlookers from all angles stood perplexedly.

Before I could interpret what had happened, I felt a firm pull on the back of my hoodie and realized that I was being dragged quickly out of the house; I assumed that payback was about to ensue.

As I turned around, half-expecting to see Lance in his barren state with his fist cocked back and ready to swing, my eyes were graciously surprised.

Sarah, having a surprisingly stronger upper body than I remembered, had pulled me out of the house just before I was able to learn the true meaning of getting one’s own ass handed to him.

Before I could apologize, in hope that Sarah wouldn’t give me a lesson in ass-handling herself, I felt her soft luscious lips embrace my own.

What happened next was far be it from what I had envisioned to be in tonight’s docket.

.:.

Lying naked on my back in Sarah’s uncomfortably small twin bed, her resting head nestled between my shoulder and chin, I couldn’t help but to stare at the ceiling and ponder how lonely I truly was.

Sex had begun to fall short of its gratifying reputation. Pleasureful value aside, the worth of one night encounters regardless of past feelings had all but vanished.

Unable to move my eyes from the slow spinning ceiling fan, my mind began to long for the one soul in this world that it knew it could find solace in. The one entity, the one human being, the one female that without a question I knew I could love and be loved without the inherent complications of sexual arousal.

She is my muse, and I will forever be in longing.

---
Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith

[Chapter 2] Wakeup.

2008-11-14T16:51:00.003-05:00

Father Time is a precarious entity. He possesses an innate penchant to surrender no regard for his constituents who live and die by his every passing breath. With the clout to speed up or slow down each moment of our lives, his sense of humor is truly satiric.

.:.

I awoke to the familiar and yet astonishingly brash sound of my half beaten in alarm clock resonating throughout the small space that I pay to call my bedroom.

I could tell by the warmth at the foot of my bed that the time was well past noon, as the sun had already begun to shine in through my westward facing window.

As I attempted to open my eyes, which were currently glued shut by way of my contacts, the events of the preceding night slowly began to reconvene in my mind as if by the onset of a slow creeping fog. Fortunately, the consequences of my actions left me with a migraine fit for that of the noble class, forcing me to dwell with the lesser of the two evils. I’d be a happy bearer to physical pain over psychological turmoil any day.

While the machine at which we prompt to do our bidding each morning oscillated each high-pitched screech with a sense of pride as if it were a child at his first kindergarten Christmas pageant, each permeating tone made my head feel as if screws were being tightened down upon it by some cruel form of medieval torture device.

As I stumbled out of bed to silence the intrepid alarm, my Blackberry (which was currently perched inconveniently upon the nightstand opposite my bed) decided to join in on the unsolicited fun, alerting me of an inbound text message.

After maneuvering acrobatically around the disarray of shit littering the floor on which I attempt to make a living, I was finally able to silence each of the devices that claim to make my life easier.

Sinking back into my desk chair, as the echoing tone in my eardrums faded to silence, I warily engaged my mobile phone only hoping to find that my apparently now full inbox would not contain any urgent messages requiring me to make my already half-wasted day a productive one.

“New message from: Twitter
@facemakerkaj: Overheard: I'll pray for you. Person 2: please don’t. God hates me and it will only further complicate it.”

“Where the hell does my roommate find these people?” I muttered to myself.

“New message from: Twitter
@ijustine: My flesh is burning off my body right now it's so hot out.”

“That’s actually, really hot; in a weird, sadistic type of way.”

“New message from: Sarah F
heyy, what ru doin tonite? we’re havin some people over for a halloween party.. you should come ;-)”

“And that, my friends, will make for a very interesting night.”

You see, Sarah is the type of girl who tends to have a limited base of reasoning for contacting me. While her stated intentions may appear to be rather insipid, most of the time they are ambiguous as well.

Sarah, being an ex-flame who is yet to be fully extinguished, the history between the two of us could honestly be summed up, written on a flashcard, and then proceed to be tossed in the trash.

Let me contemplate how to put this, bluntly.

We met.
We fucked.
I met another girl.
She cried.
We made up.
We dated.
She left me for her ex.
I cried.
We wiped the slate clean, and we agreed to disagree.

If only it were half as entertaining as I tend to make it sound.

It’s become a vicious loop that swings full-circle year after year. At times, I feel as if I’ve been sucked into some C-list teen drama on the CW with nothing short of self-indulgent high school characters played by 22 and 23 old actors.

There are times when Sarah will begin a conversation with a simple ‘hi’, and by the end of that same conversation I will find myself driving asininely to the liquor store to buy her and her underage counterparts a bottle of Bicardi Razz.

It’s that same rather annoying self-will leading me to believe that if by doing any favors for a seductress, such as herself, that the likelihood of sexual compensation will increase exponentially. Unfortunately, the truth of the matter is that 0 raised to any power remains aught, and regardless of my non-existent batting average in such situations I’m continuously swayed by my most primeval of instincts.

Yet, for some incomprehensible reason, again will I try. My persistence may be admirable to some, yet to others a sense of impetuousness reigns forth; and as my world begins to spin wildly out of control, I react the only way I know how.

“Compose SMS Text: Sarah F
Hey. I’ll see you tonight.”

I’ll be the one dressed as the dog, my tail concealed between my legs.

“I need help.”

---
Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith

[Chapter 1] Life.

2008-10-30T14:27:00.004-04:00

I’m fucked in the head.

There’s no denying it. I’m the case study a psychologist will dream about his entire career, only to read about in trade journals. There are even times when I question my own mental stability and actually concede to the notion that I very well might be schizophrenic. It’s a difficult pill to swallow when my ulterior state of mind is the one telling me that I might want to consider seeking professional care.

Allow me to put into context the progression of my self-degradation.

It starts with anger issues and the inability to cope with the most innocuous of offenses.

A simple “fuck you” directed toward a teenybopper as she veers three feet into your lane while chatting it up with her BFF Chrissy about how big of a slut LC is for sleeping with Brody during last night’s episode of The Hills, even though they are totally just friends.

The infirmity progresses when you realize the innate desire to quite literally cut each person you see on TV who disagrees with your moral fiber in the slightest degree. Perhaps it’s the latest Abercrombie and Fitch commercial which exposes each airbrushed abdominal muscle with the utmost of glistening glory. Or perchance it’s the desire to know what Victoria’s secret really is and how said secret is keeping her hips so narrow and her breasts so disproportionately large.

Through a culmination of intolerable malfeasances, your mind slowly begins seeing the world through a crimson veil. Bitterness and cynicism start to set in with a harsher reality than the moment you came to find that Santa Clause was merely a timeless illusion that slowly transformed into the greatest marketing scheme of all time.

Notions begin to perambulate through your subconscious that one of the religious sect might consider to be the work of the devil. You find it impossible to hold a normal conversation with your mentors, superiors, or even friends without the propensity to tear into them with each of your extremities just to see what degree of complacency each blow to their head holds.

I told you I was fucked.

.:.

Every child holds a certain magnificent sentiment for television and radio as they grow up. A charismatic aura that the production behind everything we see and hear is miraculously and superlatively created only for our own enjoyment. Even as adults, our idea of perfection behind-the-scenes of our favorite entertainment medium remains tenacious. Our beloved personalities are immortalized.

Perhaps my immersion into the field of radio and traditional media can be blamed for the contempt that consumes every fiber of my essence. Perhaps knowing that every word each egotistical, self-consumed radio jock and news anchor mutters is contributing to the self-righteous politically-driven advertising machine.

While every jock claims to be altruistic, between each commercial break and behind every back, crude humor, promiscuity, and an avaricious desire for money consumes their innermost selves. Less thought is given to the wellbeing of their listener base than is to which pair of socks they wear each morning.

These role models we live vicariously through greet you with open arms and will feed you every indication that they are interested in hearing about the time you were listening to their show while getting ready for work and fell in the shower because you were laughing just oh so hard. The moment you walk away, hang up the phone, or simply let your guard down, every detail about your encounter is being critiqued and ridiculed.

“Did you see how big her ass was?”

“I never thought he would fucking shut up!”

“I would love to bend that over.”

Our perception of those who we idolize is plagued with falsifiable hopes that lead us to believe there is an ounce of pure-hearted entertainment left in this world. We are sadly mistaken.

The question is not whether my accusations are equitable or whether they are unjust, as I have experienced first-hand the tasteless behavior of even the most notable of media personalities; the question is would we, would I, be happier if that glint of innocence still twinkled in my eye as if I were a child once more? Would every preceding word, every preceding post, and every life chapter to come be nullified by the ignorance due in part to the masked personas of our media showmen?

Maybe I’m the only remaining sane member of this species, or maybe I’m just the one who is perfectly insane.

The ice I tread is growing thinner as the proclivity toward madness continues to grow.

This is my life.

---
Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith

[FOOTNOTE] In Response to: bordarx454

2008-10-26T18:13:00.019-04:00

On October 23, 2008 at 5:04 PM, OpenID user bordarx454 was quoted in response to my blog post ‘Hate Me. Or, Well, At Least Don’t Like Me’ stating:

“First off, my apology's if this is not grammatically correct, Your so called kind witted words are kind of ignorant, You are starting to see outside the box, but not to its entirety. The intellect thing to do is not think,nor care about the ignorance of others. I am another Extremely intellect person not in college, working, paying all my own stuff.... Living " LIFE" independently. Ignorance is everywhere. It's a part of life. You have to get over it. . . Wait until you experience a harsh moment of enlightenment... ( if your ever lucky enough to) You will then see things in an even broader spectrum, far more depressing I assure you. P.s I feel bad for you . . . .”

Oh where shall I start?

To my friend bordarx454, I would like to thank you for the words of endearment; I really would. Reading your comment was, well, it was really really exciting! It was precisely the anecdote that I needed to put my first post, ‘Hate Me. Or, Well, At Least Don’t Like Me’, into perfect context. So for that, I thank you intently.

Let’s go ahead and get the trivial issue at hand out of the way and go from there. Shall we?

Clearly, as you so made apparent, I can (and will) write circles around you all day long. That doesn’t bode well for you argument of intelligence. Ironically, your inability to choose the correct words plays perfectly into my assertion from atop of this oddly tall pedestal. Intellect, as it be, is the capacity for one’s acquisition of knowledge; whereas you so exemplified, intellect is not your most suitable distinction.

But allow me to be fair. Be it a gift or merely a talent I’ve grown into over the years, the ability to read and empathize with others has become one of my choice assets.

In all honesty, the perspective that I am given solely from your retribution is the sense that you’ve suffered from others’ wrongdoings in the past.

You claim ignorance on my behalf and yet you fail to realize that as an aspiring author I am inclined to exaggerate my words and provide the most interesting read for my audience. Now, one who may consider him or herself a native to the English language may have been able to interpret the subtitle to my blog, which can be found just under the undeniably large ‘OBJECTIVITY IS DEAD.’ at the top of this page. Please take a moment and review said text.

Allow me the opportunity of making a few reasonably fair assumptions. I’d like to believe that your lack of English literacy is due to the fact that English is not your native language.

To be very clear and to set the precedent for future postings, as a human being I am a very open-minded individual. I am not a prejudiced person, nor am I a racist. However, my point of view coincides with the US judicial system. You are innocent, until you are proven guilty. If you provoke me, I will retaliate. It is simply my nature.

I’d imagine that you are in your mid to late twenties, having come to America within the past decade or so; perhaps to study or even solely to pursue the American dream.

I’ll gladly be the first to admit, even as we approach the year 2009, it is not an easy task for any member of the minority class to find fair treatment, let alone respect, in the workplace, school, or in society as a whole. Equal rights may be written onto the parchment of our laws and bylaws, but they are most certainly not written onto the stone that this nation was founded. I’d be in great disbelief if you were to claim being fully liberated from these hardships.

It seems as if you are making the accusation that I live and die on the shoulders of the cruelty and reproaches of my peers. This is simply not the case. If I were to bluntly state that the text within my prior posting could be taken at face value, one would easily deduce that my surroundings are the cause for my bitterness and boredom. Having awoken to a new mindset, I was exonerated of the tyranny presented forth by society’s unwillingness to forgive each minute imperfection and realized that it is possible to live above the unbefitting standards which society has so begrudgingly bestowed upon us.

Does this mean that since having been given this divine revelation I have been relieved of the weight of unhappiness and sorrow?

Absolutely not.

You feel bad for me? Well that’s awfully nice of you! But guess what. I feel bad for myself. After all, isn’t that the mentality of a ‘self-loathing narcissist’?

Now before you go on living your life, such as we all will, let me leave you with a small task. Just a quick, little ‘eye opener’ to help you truly get acquainted with our culture.

I want you to go out into the world and ask 10, 15, or even 20 people, hell it doesn’t really matter how many; ask them if they are truly happy and satisfied with their lives, or if they’d rather have just that little bit more. Find out if being content with their lives as each day ventures from the future, into the present, and then vanishes into the past is the self-actualization that they are truly seeking.

Their answers might surprise you.

Contrary to what you may have learned in Mrs. Leebrick’s third grade English studies class, being content is not the ‘American dream’.

If one were to awaken each morning, gaze into the mirror, and not want to be any better than whom they see staring back, then their desire for self-fulfillment has faded.

Please don’t misunderstand me and assume the above means happiness is always one step in front of your next. Each of us has a happy medium that we confide in when our morale is low; whether it be our family, friends, or even our Pomeranian, Nickel. However, at some point in our lives that medium becomes insufficient and we begin to desire more. At that moment in time we do what our race, the human race, does best. We strive to make ourselves better.

Self-actualization is a point few reach in their lifetime, but as long as we continue to reach for perfection, there will always be a reason to want more.

Oh, and bordarx454. Don’t question whether or not I have ‘experienced a harsh moment of enlightenment’. You don’t have a fucking inkling of what my life is like. That made it personal.

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Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith

Hate Me. Or, Well, At Least Don’t Like Me.

2008-10-23T03:07:00.009-04:00

Fuck.

I don’t advocate censorship. A lot of the time I don’t even advocate ethical behavior. But as so stated above, ethics in my opinion shares a neighboring grave with objectivity.

My name is Trey. I don’t like a lot of things. In fact I guess you could say I hate a lot of things. Original, oh but don’t I know it. I have a bitterly bleak outlook not of my own life, no no but of the lives around me. That pains me. I blame each of you for my high blood pressure at the ripe old age of 23.

Everything you do, every opinion you assert, and every unintelligent argument that you broach makes my head writhe. It’s like arthritis of the mind; it can’t be escaped. Don’t take it personally. I use ‘you’ loosely as the subject. Hell, I’m sure there are one or two of you out there reading my pilot into the blogging realm that will agree with everything that I have to say.

Don’t bother asking if I feel bad for you as well. I do.

So what the fuck is my problem? I get that a lot; honestly, I really do. I’ve been around; figuratively, not sexually of course. Ahem. Could it be the fact that I’m stuck in a town that supposedly promotes ‘higher education’? Just because you’re in college really doesn’t suggest intelligence is one of your most notable assets. Oh shit, harsh reality check, dude.

That’s most certainly one of my problems. I have an opinion, about everything really. I’m one of those fellas that thinks for himself. Scary isn’t it? I’m a self-loathing narcissist. Oxymoronic as it may seem, quite possible it is. Some may call it depression, some may even call it bi-polar disorder, I simply call it having a mind of my own.

Ultimately I’ll come to conclude that everything is the fault of traditional media, but for now let’s narrow the field a bit. You’ll hear enough about television, print, radio, and how I disdain all of the above in future episodes I promise you.

Before you go calling me a hypocrite, let me absolve the sins of my earlier days. Once upon a not so distant past I too used to enjoy going out to the bars on a weekly basis and getting as fucked up crunk shitty as the next meathead. God forbid me to entertain the idea that I could actually enjoy hearing Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” sung by each incompetent, inebriated fratbag in the bar time and time again.

So what happened one may ask? What benevolent force dawned upon me this revelation that there is so much more to life than being a part of the social norm? Why deviate from those of which I call my friends to explore this sobered sense of self?

I got sick. I’ll spare you the details. How sick is a matter of irrelevance which was deeply skewed by my impaired state of mind. Maybe I’m among the minority, but when all you know in your day is laying helplessly in front of the TV watching every possible recording on your DVR your mind begins to wander. It wonders if you will ever see another healthy day or if your death will be quick and painless. It wonders if Death himself will linger above you for weeks on end as your body and mind breakdown into incoherent dust before sifting away in the proverbial wind. Finally, it wonders if giving up actually is the best option.

At this point a person of the socially acceptable mindset would begin to appreciate all he or she has to be thankful for in this life, and as the symptoms begin to fade away so does the bitterness of having befallen victim to this affliction.

I didn’t.

Quite the contrary in fact. I began to concentrate and focus upon each individual iniquity that this life has shoved in my undeserving face. From petty bar fights to one night stands gone horribly wrong. It’s all meaningless and yet each instance thrives inside of me, growing as I helplessly take the backseat to the demon within.

A lot of things make me mad. There are few anymore that make me happy.

I’m not going to be the next culprit in a campus shooting. The fact of the matter is I stand firm in my belief that NRA stands for the National Redneck Association. My words are simply my outlet to express my anger and disdain for the world around me. I’m mad, and some may call me a wordsmith. Put the two together and I have discovered an identity that I didn’t realize I was entirely capable of.

This is merely a prelude.

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Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith