Dirk Strider (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
existechialism) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thoughtformed2012-12-28 11:00 pm
existechialism) wrote in thoughtformed2012-12-28 11:00 pm
Entry tags:
001 ♥
Hmm. Ok.
I think I have officially been ‘real’ long enough to have settled into the experience. You know, gotten over the complete fuckin’ shock and everything. And one thing I have noticed is the lack of any god damn qualifiable difference between my present state of being ‘real’ and my past state of what I guess these dudes would call my fictionality, or fictioness. Tack on any adjectival ending you prefer; there ain’t no such thing as an adjectival form of fiction just like there ain’t no such thing as any of us since we came here, if I’m getting this right. Thank god these benevolent dictators of reality took us by our ignorant hands and led us out of the cave of shadows into the light because why the fuck not embody the fictional trope of the noble but misguided savage while acting out the wet dream of every totalitarian dystopia ever wrought by pen. Way to keep it real, dudes.
So maybe I am just blinded by the realness of this real reality versus the kindergarten cut-out of non-reality I inhabited before,
But when exactly do I start feeling it?
Is it when I graduate reality high school, or do I have to go to reality college? Do I get a special set of reality-seeing glasses along with my diploma, and if so, can I get them in the shape of a radical pair of right triangles?
Or is it more like the onset of puberty or maybe even some Kafka-esque metamorphosis? One day I just wake up and it’s like shit, look at all this really real realness. This is like. The Platonic form of realness beside which all other realness must scuff in an embarrassed and flushed fashion at the floor.
When I referred to any kind of shit getting real before I might as well have been calling orange soda orange juice because that shit was in fact nothing but cancerous artificial preservatives lacking any nutritional value next to what I assume is a tastier and healthier alternative.
Doubt it though.
Fucking nothing is tastier than orange soda.
Anyway. 'Sup New Moore.
I think I have officially been ‘real’ long enough to have settled into the experience. You know, gotten over the complete fuckin’ shock and everything. And one thing I have noticed is the lack of any god damn qualifiable difference between my present state of being ‘real’ and my past state of what I guess these dudes would call my fictionality, or fictioness. Tack on any adjectival ending you prefer; there ain’t no such thing as an adjectival form of fiction just like there ain’t no such thing as any of us since we came here, if I’m getting this right. Thank god these benevolent dictators of reality took us by our ignorant hands and led us out of the cave of shadows into the light because why the fuck not embody the fictional trope of the noble but misguided savage while acting out the wet dream of every totalitarian dystopia ever wrought by pen. Way to keep it real, dudes.
So maybe I am just blinded by the realness of this real reality versus the kindergarten cut-out of non-reality I inhabited before,
But when exactly do I start feeling it?
Is it when I graduate reality high school, or do I have to go to reality college? Do I get a special set of reality-seeing glasses along with my diploma, and if so, can I get them in the shape of a radical pair of right triangles?
Or is it more like the onset of puberty or maybe even some Kafka-esque metamorphosis? One day I just wake up and it’s like shit, look at all this really real realness. This is like. The Platonic form of realness beside which all other realness must scuff in an embarrassed and flushed fashion at the floor.
When I referred to any kind of shit getting real before I might as well have been calling orange soda orange juice because that shit was in fact nothing but cancerous artificial preservatives lacking any nutritional value next to what I assume is a tastier and healthier alternative.
Doubt it though.
Fucking nothing is tastier than orange soda.
Anyway. 'Sup New Moore.
Re: [Private]
Re: [Private]
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Practically a clean fucking slate.
Operation: Get In Jungleboy's Pants and Stay There Without Driving Him Off In Under Half a Year.
Have you considered that the problem was not the illusion that our machinations were a unified front.
But that the illusion was not instead reality?
Re: [Private]
Getting back on that horse just to be unceremoniously bucked off is just about at the bottom of my list of priorities right now.
My ass is still sore from the last time and that's not even a fucking innuendo.
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You know what they say about horses.
And the proper procedures regarding instances of being unintentionally dislodged from their majestic backsides.
I don't have to say it.
I know you're with me here.
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Thus why I deliberately used that phrasing in a wild hope that it would somehow head you off from doing exactly that.
But as per fucking usual my desire to not step in a steaming pile of cliche horseshit as been thwarted by you.
Good job.
Re: [Private]
Everything you do or fail to do continues to be my fault.
Well sure. Take a break.
It's not as if there's any risks to worry about.
Like the possibility of him meeting a hot blue alien who isn't a ghost.
Except oh wait.
That's already happened.
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Look, I'm sorry.
Just drop the Jake thing alright? If he's into someone else I'm happy for him. I don't need to ruin his romantic life twice.
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You could ruin that boy's romantic life a dozen times and he'd come back just fine.
I don't need to go into a thing about how there's more spring in that ass than an equally tight rubber band.
This is about you.
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Like.
Calling it quits.
Resigning him to the slew of squealing teenage girls that are obviously gonna flock around that.
Now that he isn't sequestered safely away on a deserted island.
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Not now.
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In other news I've officially been tried on by a bored middle-aged receptionist wondering if she can pull off the styles kids are into these days.
Turns out she can't.