Page name: Philosopher's Asylum [Exported view]
# of watchers: 11
Hopeless| Hypocritical| big-Headed| assHole|
[sorry guys, that's all I'm willing to put on the net. I'm really pouring my soul into this, and I want to get it published.
] Getting that out of the way, as I write more..I may put a teeny weeny bit more on here.
The main character is a guy. The main character is an arrogant insane hypocritical asshole.
I'll be adding parts as I write it.
constructive criticism appreciated.
I'll divide each section I add with a line for viewer convenience.
Warning: I may only put 1/3rd of this stuff on here. Apparently putting stuff on the internet makes it an internet copyright. If I ever want to attempt to publish it, the publisher maybe irrate if I published it first on the net.
Without Further Adieu:
Sometimes I think I’m lacking in that blind optimism that makes life tolerable. All the mornings crash into one great grey ball of nothing. I think I need coffee. The darkness, I can see a whole universe inside. Vision fades in and out, disorientation, dizziness. “I’m not a morning person” would be an understatement. My mind demanded my body to wake up, the body rebelled. Ah yes, the letter.
I am speaking in a guild of affected philosophers. The logicians are death-threatening the obscure paradox philosophers. As usual, the nihilists are driving everyone mad. Then again, even a madman needs an occupation. Can’t take that away from them. This place is unbelievable. I’m never bored, but I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. No, don’t bitch at me for being thrown in here. In advance, I will mock the haircut you will have shortly: it looks like you’ve scooped some unfortunate road-kill off the road and placed it on your scalp.
-I’ll inform you once I decide to leave this place,
Cheers or Fears (whichever you prefer),
-You know who (or What)
My roommate thinks he found the meaning of life. He says it’s a recipe he found in a cookbook. He’s having his laughing session. Earplugs thank you. Thirty minutes and it will all be over. Stupid recipe, driving me mad. After the laughing session he will have a weeping session. He must weep. Mercifully, he is blank the rest of the day. No, I did not alter his recipe. There’s no change if nobody notices.
Bill is such a smug bastard. He's located in the room across my roommate and me. He calls us all a bunch of loonies whenever we have our 'why sessions'. The 'why session' starts with a question, it is answered by a question, and that question is answered by another question. The process of answering a question with a question can last for hours. There is an end to this game. The end is always the same. "Why are we playing this game?" Whoever says it is the loser of the game. As soon as the person drops that line, all players taunt synchronized: "The point of this game is that there's no point." Bill always bangs his wall to try to get us to quiet down. We are in the lounge area near his room. I yell at him to shut up. He calls us a bunch of loonies who should be shot. It's laughable.
Bill acts like he's smarter than all of us. He declares himself 'the king of paradox'. Bill wrote his PhD on paradoxes. His paper was exactly one page. It was filled with the number one. The whole page was full of ones. When the professor rejected his paper he flew into a rage. Bill tried to gouge out the prof's eyes with a pen. Been here ever since. Stupid asshole. He calls us a bunch of loonies.
I hate Dr. Lates. Always bothering me, even when I'm writing. Can't she understand the only reason I remain here, in solitary, is because I do not desire to be disturbed? One day I'll fling my feces at her. This act will serve two functions. It will get those stupid creationists to shut up about the bad comparison between humans and feces flinging monkeys and it may cause Dr. Lates to not want to visit me. Ever.
So the session commences, and I don’t even know why Dr. Lates bothers. I’m not mad.
“What was your childhood like?” inquires Dr. Lates.
“Perfectly fine, except for the fact that I was taunted and belittled every single day at every single junior school I ever attended. The teasing ended after I graduated high school,” I said in an even tone.
“How does that make you feel?”
“Like I give a fuck.”
“Look, Dr. Lates, most geniuses get either ostracized or teased. Yes, it can be mutually exclusive, but most of the time, the two go together. Hell, it’s a badge of honour. Chances are, if you weren’t teased, then you aren’t worth a damn. Now can you piss off?”
“I’m glad you are more talkative in this session, so I don’t mind ending it early.”
“Thank you lack of god.” I say relieved.
Solitude calls to me. It’s a blanket of serenity upon my soul. Peace, quite, free time to dedicate to my writing; this is the reason I’m here. I’m not insane. I chose to come here, and I chose to stay here. The other patients call me insane because I want to be here, while I call them insane because they were forced to come here.
I should have been Fredriech Nietzsche’s son. I am living his life. His life of solitude. I want his inspiration. I want his genius. His concept of the ubermensch has always fascinated me. I want to pave the way for such a worthy human. It’s too much to expect to become the ubermensch. To be an ubermensch, one must transcend ideals and conventions. It is not meant to be, not yet. Perhaps in a millennia, there can be a possibility.
One year ago, right after my 20th birthday, it was a common summer. I was, as usual, brooding or on the computer. I was some university dropout. Parents were disappointed (what’s new?). I was working on my radical sceptics website. Then it dawned upon me. I didn’t need to be at home. I’m above mediocre chores. I have no desire to get my own food or to do laundry. The solution dawned upon me. I didn’t have to deal with my own life if I was a ‘threat’ to society and ‘civil’ people. There was no hesitation, the planning was straightforward. I spent more time making it humorous than anything else. Two words: Parliament fire.
I didn’t pick a day of significance like I should have. But when the idea came into my head, it was ecstasy. I needed to do it as soon as possible. Black was not the colour to wear. I chose white. I wore a ridiculous white suite. I said: Time to establish a criminal record with a flare!
12 o’clock midnight, I was there with my happy Molotov Cocktails. There were perhaps a few nervous glances back. It was when I was throwing my third cocktail that people in the park nearby started to notice. Well, I set fire to the building and brought out my chair. I had marshmallows roasting over the flames for a few good minutes. Them marshmallows were the best I had ever tasted in my life. Then the cops came. You should have seen their faces. I was laughing like the madman they thought I was, all the way into prison.
I only know of negative attention. The news was all over it. In court, I was the only criminal to be flat out honest and they didn’t want to believe me. I told them, I threw Molotov cocktails at a parliament building because I wanted to go to prison. My lawyer ran on the platform of ‘my client is not mentally sound.’ At the time, I ran with it. In retrospect, it may have not been such a grand idea. I’m stuck with a bunch of irritating loonies.
The court hearing was relatively short. My lawyer was effective in getting me dumped in an asylum. All he had to do was read five pages of my forty-page documentation of “The Creative Nothing” to the judge. I was a bit offended really. It wasn’t part of my plan. What I wrote wasn’t madness. Idiots, they are all idiots. They couldn’t possibly understand my genius. I was merely expanding on the thoughts of the philosopher Max Stirner. He probably rolled in his grave over that outrage.
He’s having his crying session. How irritating.
“Shut up Jeorge.”
“Make me,” he retorted.
“I would if I could, I’m going to set fire to your stupid recipe one day.”
“You’re just jealous because you don’t have any direction in your pathetic life.”
“I think your recipe is telling you to put yourself in an oven at max temperature,” I replied scathingly.
“Go worship Christ!”
“How dare you!”
Even Jeorge knew he had gone too far. He backed off slowly and fled into the drawing room. There aren’t many things that I find more detestable than Christianity. Everyone is aware of this. Take the fervour of Nietzsche’s “The Anti-Christ” and multiply it by four and you get me.
Speaking doesn’t appeal to me all that much, but I would very much like to shoot the idiots who call me ‘anti-social.’ Well, I’ll rephrase that one, speaking to idiots doesn’t appeal to me all that much. Unfortunately, that’s approximately 99% of the human population. Trite bird-talk doesn’t do anything for me either. Then again, one gains nothing by talking. When one observes and listens, one tends to learn more. Setting all discrimination aside (if that’s really possible), I prefer written word to speech. When one speaks they’re supposed to change their pitch and volume to emphasize. There are also hand movements with ‘effective’ speech. I have always despised rhetorical speech. Rhetorical speech can make idiot ideas sound reasonable. All one has to do is vary the pitch of their voice and flap their arms about and they’ve got everyone convinced of one plight or another. This is the precise reason why I despise politicians, they are, at best, a bunch of sophists.
This place if full of ‘genius failures’. Bill’s room mate is a very good example of one. He graduated with a master’s degree in modern philosophy. Sadly, his teaching job didn’t work out. Kyle had the ideas in his head, but he couldn’t get those ideas into other peoples’ heads. He got stuck doing clerical work in some godforsaken office building. I can see how constant filing could drive a man mad. Strangely, this was not the reason he went insane. Kyle is an existentialist just like myself. Once in a while, an existentialist will experience a moment of pure being. It’s hard to describe, much like ‘The Creative Nothing.’ It comparable to detaching one’s self from one’s own consciousness. Viewing reality outside of one’s self. Much like taking one’s whole life and the world they live in and placing it in a glass box. Then staring into the glass box. For a brief moment, everything is meaningless; staring at the things around me, the buildings, all erected for some grand non-purpose. After meaning leaves, one begins to fade. At this point, sanity should kick in. Fear pulls one back. For me, it is an icy clutch. When I feel the icy clutch, I am afraid. Emotion rushes back in, all mortal concerns return back into one’s body. Well, one day Kyle had an experience of pure existence, but for some reason the safety clutch didn’t kick in. They found him in the office, flat out on the floor. He was babbling nonsense about how his atoms were melting into the carpet. He kept on repeating that he was to ‘become one with the universe.’ Kyle has been here for a year or two.
The one redeeming quality of this place is the library. It has an excellent selection of novels. Apart from that, most things bother me either half the time, or all the time. First of all, the place stinks of body odour. It smells like old sneakers in the lounge. Consequently, I never go to the lounge. I wish people would shower more. I’m glad they have mandatory hygiene procedures, or the situation would be grimmer. For the love of lack of god, IQ points do not make up for your stupid lack of hygiene. I posted a note to that affect in the lounge. The replies were Neanderthal at best: “Fuck off you poncey git.”
There is a limit to the amount of time one spends on the net here. It’s annoying. I’m on the verge of finishing my radical sceptics site. The site consists mostly of logical arguments against the existence of any and all gods. I’m quite fond of the opening line I’ve chosen: “Hitler was a Christian.” 666 effective ways to offend a fundamentalist is the most visited section. The best thing about my website is the amount of hate mail I get. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside to know I’ve offended Christians. Well, everyone needs to get their rocks off on something.
I used to spend obscene amounts of time on the net arguing with fundamentalists, but now I just make pages with my arguments. It got tiring to repeat the same arguments over and over again. I still spend tons of time on the net; one finds weird and wonderful things online. “I got kicked out of the library for putting all The Bibles in the fiction section” is a common quotation I see floating around the net. I think it’s silly. It’s lacking in tactic. I didn’t move all the bibles from one section into another (tedious, tedious work), I simply attached a label on top of the sign for religious texts that said ‘Mind Destroying Gibberish’. My library card was suspended. This was a catalyst for my discovery of ebooks.
Catcher in the Rye was a stupid book. I regret wasting my time on it, ‘modern classic’ my asshole. All the main character does is bitch and bitch and bitch. I mean, if you’re going to make a story about a bitchy teen, at least try to make it funny. He’s a ‘rebel without a cause’, which is one of the most idiotic concepts I’ve ever come across. I’m not even sure if he’s a rebel, he just sounds sexually frustrated or something. No, I’ve got it all figured out. He’s a closet homosexual and he can’t come to terms with it; thus he does random and stupid things. Everything points to that, his inability to sleep with a hooker (or anyone for that matter), and that one scene where he gets offended by those two lovers spitting water in each other’s faces.
Surveys are a farce here. I doubt they even read them. We’re too clever to divulge our secrets in this place. But, despite this, they think they’re clever by ignoring the surveys and observing how we react when we fill out the questions. If they are lucky, they may detect nervous reactions to certain questions. It is designed to get a rise out of the patient. I think half of the patients have already caught onto this. We never speak of it, obviously. I’m above it all. I always give them some generic bullshit answer and I’m impassive while filling out the surveys. In contrast to myself, Bill is very obnoxious filling out these surveys. 25 empty spaces equates to 25 ‘fuck you’s. This entertains me, Bill can be tolerable sometimes.
The paper consumes me. Letters, detached eyes, they are chasing me. I must escape. Black pit.
“Sherry I need you!”
“I’m in a well!”
“Rope you dumbfuck, I need a rope!”
“Can’t you hear me?!”
“You never did anything for me, not once, hear me!”
“Stop screaming you raving lunatic,” grumbles Jeorge.
“It’s just a dream you fool.”
I give him the finger. I hate dreaming.
“Who’s Sherry?” inquires Jeorge.
“My penis,” I say obnoxiously.
“Hmmm, you have some sort of penis inferiority complex. It all makes sense now. According to Freud, you have a sort of penis envy. Of course, you compensate for your lack of masculinity by being a dick all the time.”
“Go fuck Bill.”
“Ladies go first,” snorts Jeorge.
I grumble and give up. It’s too early for this sort of banter.
This day screams mediocrity. There’s no point to anything. I’m too tired to deal with the world today. Well, not so much the world as the people living in it. They eat, they speak (words without purpose), they mate, and thus, another generation of idiots are born. I would praise a robot takeover. I’ve watched some entertaining robot takeover films. On the other hand, I despise zombie films. They are retarded. Somehow the protagonists of these stories struggle to fight against their ‘fearsome’ foe. First of all, zombies are slow and dimwitted. How could they possibly have problems defeating such pathetic creatures? How does it even get to the point of ‘the whole city is infested’? Even a pathetic third world country has enough arms and brains to kill the zombies before they become a real problem. I’ve watched two of these terrible movies in my lifetime. There are only two pieces of information one has to learn from watching these films. Yes, it is possible to learn something even in these types of movies.
One: Kill the person who has a pet. They always get the group in trouble. “Lassie! No! Come back!” Shortly after, the group gets attacked and the idiot pet owner dies anyways.
Two: Be good-looking and not black. You have a higher probability of surviving if you have the right genes.
Abstract modern art does not deserve to exist. I have the most profound hatred for it. I got kicked out of my Grade 11 art class because of it. The section on modern art was intolerable, so I kept on making sarcastic remarks in class. The final straw (for the teacher) was the day we were supposed to bring in ‘found art’. I ‘found’ a spark plug-in and a plug. I brought those in.
“Very interesting, David,” said the teacher.
She didn’t expect me to bring anything in. I’m pretty sure she was hoping I was ‘opening up my mind’.
“So what does your found art represent?”
“The plug is my penis and the spark plugin represents a – “
“WHAT?” exclaims the teacher outraged.
“When I plug it in, there’s electricity which –
Awww what the fuck, I’ll just remove myself.”
Officially, I ‘left’ the class, but I think I would have been kicked out anyways. It was a Catholic school, attending that hell planted the seeds of hatred for everything Christian.
My reminiscence of happier days is punctuated. Stupid psychological rehabilitation. My psychologist has a sign on her office wall that says: “Don’t get MAD or SAD, get GLAD!” I will cherish the day when I actually lose it and strangle that useless condescending bitch.
“How are you today?” questions Dr. Lates.
“So not so good?”
“You know, your problems can be solved, you just need to give us a chance.”
“Is that all you’re going to say all session? If you cooperate, we can finish early.”
“D- d- …I want to go.”
“Good – “
I could have sworn she had almost said “Good boy.” Oh lack of god, I hope you die of infectious disease.
“What do you want?” I demanded.
“Did you have any positive relationships when you were younger?”
“What do you mean by positive?”
“So you had friends?”
“What did you do with your friends?”
“What did you talk about?”
“Look, David, I thought you were going to cooperate.”
“Okay, I guess we’ll pick this up tomorrow.”
I’m very good at infuriating people.
Contrary to popular belief, having a high IQ does not make one immune to basic biological urges. I couldn’t get laid in high school. I tried; I tried and failed spectacularly. Well, I attempted to approach it in the most logical way possible. I had studied the female species extensively. The female species is fascinated by expensive shiny objects. The female species needs emotional support and thus a dependable man. After examining all of a girl’s needs, I spent two months tediously deriving the formula for success. I was over-confident. I approached a fairly attractive girl in my grade that I had my eyes on for a good while. And it went something like this:
“If I buy you x amount of goods and provide you x amount of emotional support will you give me x number of sexual favours, please?” (manners are important)
I got slapped across the face. So I postulated that she was too high up on the ladder. I tried a less attractive female, same result. After painstakingly redoing some equations, I attempted it again. By the end of my escapade, I had gotten slapped across the face a total of five times. After that, word got around and every girl avoided me like the plague. I didn’t think it was possible to get more unpopular, but I did.
Apparently, it takes eleven airborne carrot sticks and two hurled puddings to start a full scale food fight in the cafeteria. The logicians and the nihilists were having another row. How immature. Since I’m one of the few with a few shreds of common sense left, I managed to escape before things got really messy. No pun intended. I don’t understand why they even have a cafeteria. It’s stupid to put a bunch of madmen together and expect them to have basic human manners (or maturity for that matter). They don’t really punish us as a whole anymore. Last time we had a food fight, they took away our internet and T.V. for a week. Ironically, that spurred us to start another food fight in protest. After that incident, they decided to make an appeal to our reason. I have to admit it was a clever move on their part. They hired a (sane) philosopher to write some logical proofs to show that food fights were pointless.
To the nihilists:
1. Everything is meaningless.
2. :.There’s no point in any activity
3. Food fights are an activity
4. :. Food fights are pointless
5. :. There’s no point in starting food fights.
To the logicians:
1. Nihilists don’t believe in anything.
2. If nihilists don’t believe in anything, they also don’t believe in carrot sticks.
3. Carrot sticks do not exist to nihilists
4. :. Throwing carrot sticks at nihilists will have no effect.
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