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Month: July, 2011

dog eaters are cruel motherfucking cheebyes.

Hi world.

I had never once thought of myself to be a saint or ever feel sanctimonious to anyone. In fact, my dismissal of orthodoxy morals and right wing virtues are so apparent that although the consumption of dogs(and I do adore dogs) are widely to be deem inhumane I hardly comment on or condemn it. I might not necessarily appreciate the exotic cuisine, but least I do respect it. I understand human’s history of animals consumption and try not to distinct between a man that boils either a dog or chicken for dinner. To rationalize strictly, there is no rigid dichotomy between so. Although needless to say, the former is much adorable than the latter and it’s only biological for us to develop a protective maternal instinct for it. However, our affection for furry beings doesn’t dismiss the crude fact that what delicacies are to us is largely subjected on the culture in which we are nurtured in. If you can’t morally revile a fishmonger that shares the occupation with his dad, I don’t think it’s fair to revile a man that consumes skewed dog for dinner if that was what his neighborhood served when he was a kid.

As much as I love dogs of all shapes and sizes, I find it impossible to rationalize with the visceral side to me. Spice your dogs as you wish China.

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random thoughts.

1. I find it almost astonishing whenever I see folks of my age whine unabashedly on facebook or any other popular online social platforms. Do they have any idea that’s the first place employers forage through(no, not your scrawny portfolio) the minute you set your foot out of that interview room? *facepalm*

2. I am 2hrs into disappointment with Dazai’s Magnum Opus, “The Setting Sun”. I wouldn’t want that same disappointment from reading yet another Japanese novel, at the same time I wouldn’t want to read a heavy European novel, or a Russian one that mingles itself too much with politics, or an American one that’s drips with witticism. Bad lord, as I stare at my newfound literature collection, I realise, Schwartz is really right, more is really less.

3. Not a gung-ho solider but … I can’t wait for the 5klik morning run tomorrow! Recent nights, I keep having recurring dreams of myself being a marathon runner. And by marathon I literally mean the 42.125km run. I wonder how much of gearing and oiling do I need on my muscles for me to get there.

4. I would dread the mundane lectures on safety precautions after it though. Imagine being confined in a room with comfy chairs, dim lighting and air condition that kisses your skin every now and then, at the same time, being told not to sleep at all cost for 8hrs daily. I rather be part of the casting of Human Centipede.

5. I am highly skeptical of happiness “set points” being genetic, however I can’t find any substantial source that supports my skepticism. Calling nerds to arms to provide me with some. I inquire, doesn’t that then mean that for a large part of our lives, our happiness have long been decided by our biology algorithm. Or am I misunderstanding the function of these set points?

6. If there’s an unfortunate woman that happens to be my wife in the future and we happen to copulate and fortunately have a baby boy as our offspring. I would most definitely name him “Dan”. Apparently loads of modern intellects share that name, or at the very least, many of my favourite ones do.

7. Although I will prefer a baby girl to a baby boy. No pedophilia on my part, I swear.

8. I need to stop my mindless rampage through my fiction collection, calm my ass down and start reading Jared Diamond’s “Guns, Germs and Steel.” Smells like a deadly interesting read through the history of Europe that can prove itself useful when citing relevant anecdote against god knows what verbal war I will get myself into tomorrow.

9. As very usual, I better be making this into 10 bulletin points, no more, no less. It’s what George Carlin calls mockingly an authoritative number. Oh and speaking of Carlin, I am very tempted to ship his life long literary achievements via Amazon. Much lovessssss and RIP to that guy 😦

10. I suspect that some part of my pre-frontal cortex is screwed. Sores on my forehead have been perpetual for weeks already and I can’t seem to focus on anything these days. Also, a brilliant excuse to have a good look of my MRI, something I have yearned for since my discovery of Oliver Sacks.

That’s all. Time for more ingenious directing my Roy Anderson. Ciaos.

they can, i can’t

Liyun says: (2:02:28 AM)
they survive with love, friends, facebook, powerhouse and a job.. they can stay alive for 200 years.

good if you can, i fucking can’t.

more extracts of my dear polina

“Not at all. I have told you that I find it difficult to explain myself. You are hard upon me. Do not be angry at my chattering. You know why you ought not to be angry with me–that I am simply an imbecile. However, I do not mind if you ARE angry. Sitting in my room, I need but to think of you, to imagine to myself the rustle of your dress, and at once I fall almost to biting my hands. Why should you be angry with me? Because I call myself your slave? Revel, I pray you, in my slavery–revel in it. Do you know that sometimes I could kill you?–not because I do not love you, or am jealous of you, but, because I feel as though I could simply devour you… You are laughing!”

“No, I am not,” she retorted. “But I order you, nevertheless, to be silent.”

She stopped, well nigh breathless with anger. God knows, she may not have been a beautiful woman, yet I loved to see her come to a halt like this, and was therefore, the more fond of arousing her temper. Perhaps she divined this, and for that very reason gave way to rage. I said as much to her.

“What rubbish!” she cried with a shudder.

“I do not care,” I continued. “Also, do you know that it is not safe for us to take walks together? Often I have a feeling that I should like to strike you, to disfigure you, to strangle you. Are you certain that it will never come to that? You are driving me to frenzy. Am I afraid of a scandal, or of your anger? Why should I fear your anger? I love without hope, and know that hereafter I shall love you a thousand times more. If ever I should kill you I should have to kill myself too. But I shall put off doing so as long as possible, for I wish to continue enjoying the unbearable pain which your coldness gives me. Do you know a very strange thing? It is that, with every day, my love for you increases–though that would seem to be almost an impossibility. Why should I not become a fatalist? Remember how, on the third day that we ascended the Shlangenberg, I was moved to whisper in your ear: ‘Say but the word, and I will leap into the abyss.’ Had you said it, I should have leapt. Do you not believe me?”

“What stupid rubbish!” she cried.

“I care not whether it be wise or stupid,” I cried in return. “I only know that in your presence I must speak, speak, speak. Therefore, I am speaking. I lose all conceit when I am with you, and everything ceases to matter.”

reccomend me a better book

than this!

lazy me

I am lazy. I wish not to meet anybody. But for diplomatic reasons, I have to. We all need to be people pleasers once in a while, or rather, most of time actually. Ah crap, too much of existential reading prior to this meeting, I can’t be expecting myself to talk like a snob. I need to get into character, of a bourgeois man, to shoehorn myself into one of those amiable banter loving sociable earthlings in the name of building strong connections for future endeavors. Fuck no, but yeah. I rather be home with the accompany of my books, but I can’t. I need to better work towards my happiness and harmony for the coming 2years. Urghhh, leaving home now and weeping.

a brief rant on dystopian novels

Spoilers alert.

I am three quarters through Orwell’s 1984, struggling through a really banal part on the origins of the three countries, or should I call it colonies? Basically on the matrix of how these colonies function and possible loopholes in enabling a revolution. It’s like a book that the fictive revolutionary leader has written and while the protagonist reads it, you have to read it as well, just in a different font face. Even at the risk of it being inaccurate, I really hope this part is more schematic, 40 full pages on the “brief” history of the story’s setting is a fucking nightmare. Not to mention it’s insipid and mechanical narration. Also, I believe the “aim” of these 40pages isn’t to give the reader a clearer idea on the story’s backdrop but instead to conceal propaganda towards a certain political ideology. This is exactly what I hate about dystopian novels, they never hesitate to smear political allegories by adding in unnecessary content that doesn’t quite help develop the plot. And they hardly get slammed for doing so, instead applauded for. Inevitably, you find yourself dancing in circles reading these propaganda at the expense of coming into a complete halt as far as the story is concerned. Although I must defend that the problem doesn’t lie with the writer, George Orwell is a marvelous writer, it’s just the nature of the genre. I suffered the same crap with Bradbury and briefly, Huxley even though they both are great writers. But even condoning it’s nature, there must be some kind of line to be drawn as not to crossfire at the mood and progress of it’s story. The part that I am slogging through now is fucking killing the story. Once more, I nag, 40pages is fucking ridiculous. Makes me nerd fucking RAAAAAGGGGGEEEEEEEE.

But bwahhhhhhh, I can’t possibly drop the book first, by considering it’s a immutable classic and second, I am only a little less than a 100pages from completing it. That is to say I am glued in a grim swamp in the good way because I am almost out of it, if that made sense. Whatever the fuck, back to reading.

PS: And on a completely irrelevant note, I find myself missing loads of my friends recently. Bwahhhhhhhhhhh.

Polina

Although she knew well that I was aware of a certain circumstance in her life of something which might one day cause her trouble, she would speak to me about her affairs (whenever she had need of me for a given end) as though I were a slave or a passing acquaintance–yet tell them me only in so far as one would need to know them if one were going to be made temporary use of. Had I not known the whole chain of events, or had she not seen how much I was pained and disturbed by her teasing insistency, she would never have thought it worthwhile to soothe me with this frankness–even though, since she not infrequently used me to execute commissions that were not only troublesome, but risky, she ought, in my opinion, to have been frank in ANY case. But, forsooth, it was not worth her while to trouble about MY feelings–about the fact that I was uneasy, and, perhaps, thrice as put about by her cares and misfortunes as she was herself!