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Posted 26 April 2002, 1.42 am by Jake

Words fail me.

As of lately, it seems that I wasn't meant to be happy. Casual meaningless sex and drugs fill the void, but only for a short while.
Every conscious decision I make/have made comes back and slaps me in the face.

I can't fucking get it, for the life of me.

Life's kinda kicking me in the face and pissing in my ear lately, but what's new? That's how it's almost always been. But, I will stare down my obstacles, I'll tear down all of the walls that are in my way. I'll crawl through the red-hot plains of Hell, and I'll grit my teeth and slog through the shit that is accumulating around me.
Whatever fucking happens, I'm not gonna lay down. I'm not going to give in to any doubt. Maybe I'll have fits of anger and self-loathing, but hey. Tough shit.
It can only get better.


Make your own Virtual model!

Posted 25 April 2002, 3.03 pm by Craig

Visit Site.

Posted 24 April 2002, 11.06 pm by Shaggy

Nuff said.

Robert A. Heinlein's Starship Troopers

Posted 24 April 2002, 6.38 pm by Shaggy

Well, this is my first review, and I thought it very appropriate that I review one of my favourite novels. At once a stirring action novel, and at the same time a moving plea for world peace and unity, I enjoyed this book profusely. Not to be confused with the movie of the same name (which turned into the worst peice of gen X trash this side of SciFi), the novel is a very tasteful, very thorough piece.

Recommended to all who liked the movie, should the need for intelligence come in to play. If you hated the movie, you aren't alone, but that does not necessarily mean that you might hate the novel, for they are about as comparable as vodka and my ass.

That is to say, you cannot compare the movie with the novel.

You think you cannot communicate?

Posted 24 April 2002, 6.18 pm by Shaggy

I was thinking of how character interpretation is driven. I was wondering why I (and all other humans... come on, don't lie!) judge people upon seeing them, and how I can easily classify people and immediately have a huge picture of their character, simply by what clothes they wear. "Oh, he's a jock. He must be stupid."

Admittedly, most of my characterizations are vague and tend to not be as restricting as the above quote. Yet, I often wonder how many wonderfully interesting people I have missed talking to, merely because they dressed a way that proved irksome to me, or in a fashion that I found was not very representative of the characteristics that I enjoy in people.

However, I find comfort in the fact that I surely must indeed come off as a socially inept and disturbed individual. Let me explain myself:

When I first met my present girlfriend, I ended the night with: "I had fun. We should hook up together sometime. THAT IS, ahem, we should you know, get together... uhm... you know... that is to say..."

That was the first night that I smacked my forehead and called myself an idiot. The second time was when her father and his fiancee were driving me home. I had an interesting night (her father is a rather interesting bloke that never ceases to surprise, for better or worse), but I didn't want to seem too eager to return. After all, from what I have learned from television about dating, a man must not seem too eager. For some reason, actually wanting the woman is creepy. So I told him that I would see him later. I immediately thought that the comment might have been perhaps a bit too committal, so I immediately returned, "that is to say, I MIGHT see you later."

My life is filled with these moments. Moments when I feel so intolerably socially-inept that I wonder how I manage to function in a social environment at all. Sometimes I just don't function in a social environment, either making someone angry at me, or what other negative event I can manage to stir.

And yet, people still tell me how smart I am. That is to say, they still think that I actually have an inkling of intelligence. This sometimes puts a lot of pressure on me. I look back at those I love and feel like I owe them something somehow. And dagnabit, I like feeling smart. A little self-deception is helpful, or at least in moderation.

So I guess my point is that, as long as people will falsely judge me as smart, I will try to beat insurmountable odds to actually live up to that expectation.

However, the one thing that only a select few have actually commented on is my compassion. And yet, I still find myself somehow motivated to be as compassionate and helpful as I can be. The motivation is innate, and unspoken.

I don't want much. All I want is world peace and to be as smart as people think I am.

Oh and I want to be rich and famous in the meanwhile.

My Entire Ass

Posted 24 April 2002, 3.22 pm by Berly

Wanker and Zarous. These two make me laugh. I hope they make you laugh too.

Don't expect the world. This site is inconsistent with the updates at best. Generally, there will be a couple of months of non-activity, followed by daily activity. Right now we are seeing some daily activity - with a chance of continued daily activity.

At one time, they had a poll. I wrote in to say it should be called "Poll My Finger". Can you believe they vetoed that? I'm not bitter. It's not like almost a year ago is a long time, or anything...

Go ahead, look at My Entire Ass.

“Obfuscation!” -- “Bless you.”

Posted 24 April 2002, 3.50 am by Berly

The Roach: “I’m going to buy a scanner today.”

Berly: “Oh, really? Fry’s or Best Buy?”

The Roach: “Neither.”

Berly: “Where then?”

The Roach: “Electronics Boutique.”

Berly: “I didn’t know they sold scanners?!”

The Roach: “They don’t.”

*berly sighs*

I’ve been at my new job for exactly five days. Already, I know more about my co-worker than I do about my own family. I know she’s got issues with the IRS, she is divorced and she drives a car that somehow causes her to be pulled over by the police on a regular basis. I know that her mother is living in an assisted living home. I know that the mail man has not delivered mail to her mother’s old residence for three weeks now, which is horrible because that means the insurance didn’t get paid, and has been cancelled, and the guy they hired to repair the screen door (with a detour to: even though no one currently lives there, someone will someday) broke his wrist when he fell on the stairs and now he will sue for sure...[insert symbol for infinity here].

I asked her where I could find the pencil sharpener.

*berly sighs*

Communication with other humans. I am decidedly bad at it. I ask questions that give me precisely the information I asked for, when I expected more. I ask questions that provide me with superfluous information, when I expected less. I have not learned how to effectively manage the communication beast.

Why is it that telling someone they talk too much rates on the un-fun scale just below “you have horrible breath and you need to try that new deodorant invention?”

And how is it that I can, and sometimes do, get exactly the amount of information I was seeking?

And why do I feel somehow offended when I’m not automatically provided with all of the information I would have given in response to a question...but only with certain people?

I am perplexed.

Leaving Here

Posted 22 April 2002, 10.12 pm by Jake

The wall shook as he smacked her up against it. He was drunk again, and she had accidentally burned his steak. Such a stupid little thing to get angry over. Her face was throbbing. “YOU STUPID CUNT!” he screamed. “CAN’T YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT?” She felt so sorry, so bad for what she had done. She watched out of the corner of her swelling eye as he made a fist and reared back. She felt his fist smash into her face like a car wreck.

Cue forward.

Hospital bed. Fades in and out of consciousness. She looks over at the intravenous tube stuck in her arm and gazes up towards the contents of the IV bottle. Through a slight haze, she can distinguish the letters
Morphine. She reaches up to touch her face, through the drug haze it takes millenia for her fingers to graze her own cheek. She feels the bandages and gingerly touches the swollen cheek, feels the blunt pain of her broken nose. Bastard.
Five hours later, she wakes up. A little groggy, somewhat shaken, but still breathing. The doctor walks in softly, as if noise would hurt her. She looks over at him and he smiles and shakes his head in disappointment. “Lucky you’re still alive. That guy…is he your husband?” She replies, “No, boyfriend.” Her swollen lip makes the words unintelligible.
The doctor quips, “Maybe you ought to get some more rest, ma’am. By the way, your boyfriend is down at the police station being questioned. A restraining order will be placed on him if you wish. Do you want one?” She nods her head, and lays back down on the soft hospital bed.
As she tries to go back to sleep, her mind begins to wander. She remembers all of the times he had beaten her.

The beatings hadn’t started until she had moved in with him…and there was something different about him. He became more annoyed with her no matter what she did, and one day he went over the edge and smashed her over the head with a bottle of vodka. She suffered a concussion, and the doctors said that he had intercourse with her while she was knocked out. She didn’t file rape or assault charges though, she had only packed her things and left while he was at work…he came back a few days later, kneeling on her doorstep, looking like a saint. She moved back in with him, and they started with a clean slate. He had kept his composure and was looking well. They even talked about getting engaged. One day they got into an argument and screamed at each other for an hour. He ended up throwing her down to the ground, and she yelled until he left. She cried herself to sleep that night, and awoke in the morning to a rose and a bottle of wine with a card next to it. He apologized again and asked her to stay. That was exactly four days ago.

As she lay in the bed, she thought, “Once more….that’s all it will take.”

She returned home 2 days later, acting as if nothing had ever happened. He apologized profusely, and she accepted, half-heartedly. She had plans, though. She wasn’t going to be stupid, not anymore. He would pay.

Cue forward.

One night, he began to get irate. This time, she expected the blows. As he drew back his fist in anger, she pulled a butcher knife from the chopping block and jabbed it into his throat. The blood flowed forth like a fountain. “Release,” she said. He gurgled and staggered backwards, a look of extreme sorrow in his eyes. She stepped forward, tore the knife from the hole, and stabbed him in the head. He slumped to the floor as more blood pumped from the open gashes. She looked at the crimson liquid leaking from his head….reached out, touched it. It was warm and thick. She put her bloody fingertips to her lips and licked them. It tasted metallic. She liked it.

The taste of freedom.

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"New Orleans at Night" Acrylics on Canvas. I recently saw a shot of Bourbon street in New Orleans. I liked the shot enough that I wanted to paint something like it, to sort of reproduce the feelings the photograph gave me. I want to go to New Orleans myself and do another painting in the same vein.


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Hey Cris, it's as busy here as it was at the end - which is to say, not at all

I wish I could new you guys was here in the beginning of 2020 LOL

OMG I was feeling nostalgic and I can’t believe that AKP is still here! So how’s it going ?

Props to Green Mamba for bringing the weirdness


80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.


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