On the current state of Greece, the referendum, fear mongering and theworld economy in general

It never ceases to amuse me how people, even exceptional ones, tend to rationalize everything according to their expected gain or loss. It also never ceases to elate me when I stumble upon the few stubborn or decent enough to struggle against that natural urge. Right is might, but might is not always right.

A love story for the ages.

Boy meets girl, girl meets boy. Girl spends next decade effectively changing boy according to taste. Girl is then sad and ultimately breaks up with boy because "he's not the man she fell in love with anymore". Girl goes away, boy drinks and struggles to find former self. Boy meets girl. Repeat sequence.

All my friends are dead, X-mas edition

Rx feed - Ho Ho Horror.

The Truth, As It Has Been Foretold, Pt. I: Signs of the Endtimes

"Let every emotion be capable becoming an intoxication to you.

If what you eat fails to make you drunk, it is because you are not hungry enough."

- André Paul Guillaume Gide. French author, Nobel prize awardee, married to his cousin.

In layman's terms, a philosophical leeway to first starve oneself, then commit acts of unspeakable gluttony. A concept thoroughly depraved; then again, one would expect no less from the French, the people who invented perfume just so they could skip bathing. I assure you that when the world ends, it will have been single-handedly brought about by none other. One day the French are going to do something so unspeakably obscene, that whatever higher entity is running the cosmos is going to go "Oh hell no" and drop the curtain on us all. Sure, everyone believes it'll be the Jews that get us there; meanwhile, no one's minding the Frogs.

I have become ascertained that the Antichrist shall be of Belgian/Jewish descent. Kosher waffles are the herald of the Apocalypse. And all of his minions shall be, guess what, French.

Rx feed - Truth. The kind that comes in dissolvable capsules.

Freeware

For any Greeks left out there that are still capable of thinking for themselves and retain half a shred of dignity. Use accordingly.

All my friends are dead

Rx feed - it's a dead scene out there.

On Mondays (Redux)

The following piece was written by yours truly quite a few years back, out of no apparent necessity and for no real reason whatsover; at the time it seemed to be the last of this pointless urge that has only recently resurfaced in the form of, well, whatever this is (I could say "blog", but I'd rather take my time and coin a fancier and less demeaning term). Its existence had since been forced to latent memory for practical and sanity-related reasons, until it found its purpose, which I guess is to serve as filler until I sort out the ominous voices in my head and write something of relative meaning. So here it is, the literary equivalent of meat in a can, almost the same as it was the day it got shelved.

Monday morning.

It is an indefinable amount of time to seven when I finally force my eyes to gradually open. Deep from within the cavernous vastness of my head I have been hearing a repeating, urgent sound. I can now safely identify it as either an alarm clock, or a freight train racing towards me. Neither case is particularly pleasing. Initial efforts to get up have brought to my attention that what was once my head has in fact been replaced with what feels to be a seven-ton monolith, give or take. I'm pretty sure sand has crept down my throat as well. In my still half-asleep mind an all-too-familiar dialog plays out; "Alright kids, what did we learn today?" -and the answer always comes in chorus; "Drinking feels good at night, but reeeally bad in the morning!". By now I could have muttered the all-time classic "I'm never drinking again - ever!", but let's face it, lying to yourself never did any good. Instead I opt for another classic: "I really, really don't like Mondays".

Now, you can ask Sir Bob Geldof and he will assure you that I am not alone in this. However, since I lack the crazed determination of a gun-toting sixteen-year-old to act on it, or even the knack to write a hit song about it, I'm simply stuck with disliking them. Not that Mondays themselves are to blame per se; they did not ask to be put right after Sundays. This is how things go in the Great Walk of Life, where no one is really innocent. So Mondays are called upon to bear the burden and blame of opening yet another week and perpetuating the cycle. The concept alone is absurd, starting what you've already been done with; then again, everything in the Great Walk of Life is.

History reference: in 1979, the Geldof-led Boomtown Rats had a hit song with "I Don't Like Mondays". The Dubliners' song tells the true story of sixteen-year-old California high school student Brenda Spencer. On a fateful Monday morning, Brenda grabbed her father's gun and opened fire on her school from a house across the street, injuring eight students and killing the school's principal and custodian. When later asked why she'd gone on the shooting spree, she simply responded "I don't like Mondays". Since then the phenomenon of school shootings has been a recurring one around the world. State officials, sadly enough, have never been proactive about banning firearms, let alone Mondays.

Be aware.

Rx feed - because all the other drugs just don't work anymore.