SOME THOUGHTS ON HATE

I can watch 2 movies over and over and never get bored. The first is American Psycho, and the second is One Hour Photo.

Robin William's character becomes obsessed with a family's fiction, their photographed happiness. He believes in it, and it is his shield against the harsh reality that is the actual world. When that shield is shattered a beast is let loose.

American Psycho is supposed to be a satire. The character of Pat Bateman is supposed to be comical. I don't see a single fucking comical thing about him. I think his world, the situations he finds himself in are comical. Pat Bateman himself is a real character, a perfect and valid reaction to his environment.

Empty... flat...

"I have all the characteristics of a human being..., but not a single definable emotion, except for greed and disgust."

How can we feel anything else? Aren't these the only two emotions that are true and valid? Isn't anything else pretentiouse? Illusiorary? Doesn't the capability to feel anything else necessitate the beliefe in intangible ideals that have NOT proven true?

I'm sick. No, not physically. I'm sick of this disgusting world full of disgusting vile creatures. I'm disgusted by their lack of ability to empathize and in the same hand I'm disgusted with my ability to empathize so easily. From the movie "Closer" 'What does a man have to do to find some fucking intimacy!'

I know a man that has chased a woman he loves for 2 years. She finally professed to love him as well, and she continually shits on him to keep him hungery and test him I would guess.

After all, something that comes too easily is never appreciated, right?

Go jerk off to internet porn and stop whining, buy sex and experience, intimacy is a dead fad. If people could see themselves through my eyes, just for a day, they'd end it. I want to end it for them.

I'm sick. My hatred is becoming so complete and unforgiving that I can no longer find joy in every day situations. I still laugh, I still smile, but it comes only with great effort.

Sometimes it doesn't come at all, and when something incredibley amusing has been uttered, and I know it's funny, and I just don't laugh because my hatred has consumed all of my love and joy and I just don't care enough to pretend to set my present company at ease, it's these times that I know something is wrong with me.

Life was not intended to be this way. And I can't bring myself to laugh anymore. It's fading. It's almost all gone.

I'm sick. I am never happy. There is a void in my soul that is growing. Painting is my only outlet and it can not keep madness at bay forever. Every painting I make is a cry for love, It is my soul crying out, "Love me and respect me, see what I have accomplished, look into my mind with wonder and adoration at my honesty and show me something honest, give me reciprocation! Please!" It rarely comes, my work rarely consumes. Everyone that likes me now likes me because of what I paint, for my talent and my mind. But I begged fate for a wife and I am blessed with a stable of whores. Housewives want to fuck me and betray their husbands, they want to risk all for a fling with me, because I paint. What the fuck is that? If they understood anything about me and my work they would know how disgusting I would find that, and when they admit their obsession with me and their intentions of disloyalty to their husbands they may as well be saying, "Please kill me because I am vile and represent everything that you hate."

I'm the fucking secret now, I'm the bohemian rebel to satisfy you and make you feel like your alive, so you can have a secret and not be completely absorbed by your husband and your hum-drum life.

So you can be mistreated and taken for granted by the man that supplies you with a fucking boat and vacations and a house, but be sustained with the knowledge that your fucking that sexy guy with the long black hair that paints outrageouse pictures, a human that's in touch with himself.

If I shaved my head would I still be in touch with myself and sexy? If I painted roses and horses would I still be bohemian. Yes, but I would get another class of bored housewife. the Thomas Kinkade crowd.

But my work rarely consumes in totality. Housewives do not want to leave their husbands for me, they just want to fuck me, they just want a taste.

Fucking obsess! Worship me! Worship me and I'll give you everything!

I'm sick. Madness and anger have deformed me, and as my hate and emptiness grow it becomes physically painful to go about my day.

I'm sick. The last time I experienced complete happiness was a few months ago when I got myself in a fight and I had another man at my mercy. I wanted to snap his neck. I tried, they pulled me off. I don't even hate him, I don't think I do, not especially anyway, it could have been anyone to be honest. I just wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill something. I wanted to hurt something. I wanted to feel that I had power over what disgusts me and what causes me pain every waking moment of every day.

I'm sick, and no one is held accountable for their actions, for their stupidity, for their maosochism. I'm sick, and I'm sick of it.

I go through my day shaking hands and smiling and "mulling over business propositions, examining opportunities, spreading gossip..." I talk to and about Steven Leyba and what I think of the situation with gallery owners and CoS afficianadoes, but I don't care, not in the least. I flirt with certain ladies but I have no interest. I read poetry that makes my blood boil but I'm not interested in where it came from or why it was written. And I'll never read it again or go through the trouble of following the artists work. I'm just going through the motions. I go through the motions so I have a life to speak of, because I fear death. But that fear is leaving me. There's so little to live for. Dreams have vanished. Sometimes now I just don't bother fitting in and smiling and talking. I tried really hard to achieve what I wanted and it didn't work, and now I just don't care. I make eye contact and smile warmly, and I am looking through them. I never remember a face, never remember a name. Humanity has become a shuffling parade of meat. Meat and claws. All mouth, no eyes, no nose, no ears. Everything is oral. They eat, devoure, taste, ingest, without discrimination. They are bloated on their own feces. Rotting innards under perfect skin and expensive clothes... and am I really any different? Only that I can see. That is all. I am a mouth and eyes. I have hands instead of claws. But I too consume, I am bloated on my own shit.

And yet I feel lethal. There's no shit there. In fact I am quite certain that if it wasn't for the imminent threat of jail from the boys in blue I would have sport fucked and killed a pedestrian this night. Just because inflicting pain would temporarily relieve me of my own.

There's really nothing to worry about. No need to lock your doors. I value my freedom too much, I am too afraid... I find it scary beyond beliefe that others are capable of doing to me the things that I do, or would like to do to them.

I'm sick. There's no art or poetry I can put to this thought, this overwhelming emptiness, this lethal disgust. What the hell are my paintings going to look like now? I just don't believe in anything anymore, I don't care about anything anymore. Except the act, the art itself. That's what post-modernism is all about.

I know beauty, and I know she is a fiction. Can I continue to worship fiction through aesthetic correctitude and classicism? Everything is in decay. Everything.

I want to tear through the walls and kill something, something that thinks it's invulnerable, someone that puts way too much faith in the boys in blue, someone that thinks, "of course, I'll live forever, and nothing bad will ever happen to me, because nothing has yet." I want to come at them and kill them with my teeth.

This night is cold and it promises a brutalizing hot day tomorrow. I will go and make a shit load of money shaking empty useless hands and smiling into uncaring and blank faces. And I will work 12 hours or so, and I will come home empty and unfulfilled to my very humble and decaying house, wanting more to fill it up, wanting more than this world has to offer. Give me more, more more! Do you know how much shit you would have to eat to give you the sustinence of one good meal? And how much poison would have to go along with that? Lead into gold? Ha! The fifth element? Elixer of Life, the Sorceror's Stone?

Lost....

All I see is shit, meat stuffed with shit, and claws and mouths.

All of my work is a fabrication, a thought whose original purity is now tainted by the absolute knowledge in the absense of all good. Every picture is a labor of love, and it's fucking running out. What will they look like now? It's almost exhausted. What do I have left in me? One year, ten? Ten paintings, fifty? Before I'm through and I just can't lie anymore. Before I succumb to what I see around me everywhere and every day, and I too begin to throw shit at canvas like a monkey throws shit at tourists?

I'm finished. Finished writing and calling and talking. Finished writing these fucking blogs. Finished responding to emails and calling freinds. Finished going out and pretending to have fun so I don't insult my company, finished making myself entertaining for your benefit, so people don't think I'm no fun to hang out with, so they'll stay interested. I'm tired of pretending to be interesting so you'll be interested. I'm not interesting and I'm not interested, I just want you to be interested in me so I can shit all over you and pretend I'm too important to pay attention to you, and that's the unadulterated god-damn truth. I don't love you, I want you to love me, it feeds me and validates my existence. I don't feel for you or care about what you have to say, I want you to think I'm listening so you'll listen to me. Love me, LOVE ME! Love me so I can hate you, ignore you, make myself believe I'm better than you through your grief and dejection. Lust for me, want me, need me so I can controll you and reject you. I want to make you feel empty inside, I want you to hurt the same way I do. I want you to wake up alone in darkness and wonder if you're still alive, I want you to wonder why you're still breathing. I want you to wonder what still sustains you. If you find that it's nothing would you die? Will I? If we have nothing left, not even our dreams, if we just no longer care, if we have achieved all that we care to achieve for ourselves and no longer care about praise and respect, when we no longer care about changing the world or the world in general for that matter, will our hearts finally give out? When we lie still in bed listening to the beat and wondering why it continues will it finally give out? Will it finally stop? When we've given everything that we possibley can, to life, to love, to freinds, to the world, and the world just doesn't care and gives nothing back, and we finally have nothing left to offer, will it end?

I tell you this, as a last sentiment before I just stop writing and I give up and all I do is paint my death, no one has given me anything worth while in this life, and everything that I acheved I did by myself without help, and I will die with at least the comfort of knowing that I owe nothing to nobody, we are members of a defunct race, descendants of a ragged house, and I feel no pity for humanity's demise.

I don't want to save you, because you don't want to be saved. I never did. Not even when you wanted it, because you don't deserve it.

I got off my ass and worked for everything that I have. I began with nothing. Born to a poor house and a non-name, without promise of a future and without support of any kind. I wanted money so I went out, and I lied so I could get it. I wanted to be a great painter so I taught myself how to paint. I wanted to see the truth so I opened my eyes and destroyed convenient lies. I wanted knowledge so I turned off the TV and read books. I wanted intimacy so I rejected falcity in favore of lonliness. I wanted fame, and now I just don't care enough to chase it. I don't need to be known by you people. The love of a maggot isn't love at all. To try and win you gives you importance that you have not earned.

I have achieved everything that I care to achieve. And I did it myself. And if you want to do something get off your ass, turn off the TV and fucking do it.

The only pain I have felt in this life has come from other people. My only dissapointments have been from others. I have never let me down, and I have done everything that I wanted and needed to do, almost flawlessly, as I do my every day near flawlessly. Perfection. I am what I wanted to be, who I wanted to be.

My only dissapointments in life have come from other people.

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