Life has been very displeasing. I have had to grow up more then I’ve cared to in the past three years. Many of the important people in my life are gone now. Some left of their own accord, some I’ve left go, and some have been ripped away from me.

I’ve attempted to branch out both socially and in my current career. Both of those ended in unpleasant fashions. I have had to accept something. I probably can’t save the world. “Well no shit Robert” some of you will say. Life is terrible and we just die and so on and so forth. A lot of you people seem resigned to the fact that life won’t change and you wallow in self-pity and the fact that the inevitability of your situation means you can be as big of jackass as you want, destroying yourself and the others around you. Enjoy your self-fulfilling prophecy and the fact that I fucking hate you.

            I still believe things can get better. But I don’t believe in dreams anymore. I don’t believe in love. I probably don’t believe in God anymore either but am too much of a chicken-shit to admit it. I dream every single night now and it drives me insane. I want to let it all go and just hide somewhere but I’m a big boy now and big boys don’t hide. I’ll probably never write again.

Not for me and certainly not for you fucks.

But claptrap is funny.

Why is it that all fine literature must deliver a blow to the genitals/ovarian delight (the ovarian delight is when you headbutt a chick in the ovaries. Best way to accomplish this is to create the illusion that you are about to propose to her then you grab her legs and lunge forward). Farewell to Arms (Spoiler Alert)” In the last five pages his wife dies and his baby dies. Everything is 100 percent peachy until the very end when the shit hits the fan. Yeah, excrement occurs and it has more impact, but I still say Hemingway or whoever the fuck wrote that was a douche-bagge (Just pronounce that-It sounds classier)

I have a theory that all the great writers were sociopathic pricks. Their dog died at a young age, or they were made fun of, or they somehow got a nasty case of gonorrhea in the eyes so they became dark and bitter. They were probably total douchebagge’s to everyone they met, but back in the day when your just hoofing it everywhere and the internet doesn’t exist, it’s pretty tough to circulate your inane spite amongst the masses. So they figure published writing was a good way to get their evil spread across the world. See pissing someone off is ok, but it’s crushing someone which really illicit’s satisfaction.

Try giving a friend a cute puppy. Or an enemy. An enemy works better. Allow for one month to pass then kill the puppy. Or take it away. Whatever works. They’ll be an emotional train wreck for a little while and you get your laughs you petty fuck.

Same thing works with writers. They publish books where things seem to be going ok. The readers begin to build levels of fondness for the characters. They usually make underdogs the protagonist to really rally support. Then they reveal that he married his mother (cosmic grossout!) and he stabs his eyes out in tragically dramatic fashion (great big no-price to whoever can guess what fine piece of literature that is)

(It’s Oedipus Rex…go me…)

Of course the school boards all consist of meglomaniacal ass-biters who can’t really exert power within any other field with the exception of the education system. So they get back at the children they loathe by forcing them to read bodaciously bag-biting books. They win and their douche-bagge author friends win.

It’s a conspiracy I tell you.

but my brain is like “…because I hate you! Haha! Suck it! Think about penguins on fire!”

You never see animals having trouble sleeping. Dogs beating their heads against walls to induce sweet, sweet unconsciousness would be kind of funny…

I had this crazy dream once where I was in hell…It didn’t quite match the modern notion however. Imagine the shittiest neighbor hood ever. Harlem and Jersey and every ghetto from every bad cop movie molded together. Crappy shanties were on fire, there was incessant gunfire in the distance…and all my friends were there. hmm…Horrible things would happen from time to time, like one guy getting stabbed in the neck with a syringe. Glory…I got stabbed…one guy got hit by a car…It kinda sucked…

Maybe God is trying to tell me something…or maybe i’m bat-shit fucking keraaaaazyyyyyy (woo!)

The other dream I keep having is where all my teeth fall out/shatter. It’s kind scary. There’s lots of blood, its gruesome…maybe my subconscious is telling me to lay off the apple-os

Could probably sleep easier too…

We long for any answer
to our perpetual perplexities
but our query’s causation

Psh, isn’t that emo….

The problems with sanctioned anti-drug movements are vast in nature.

1. They don’t understand their audience.
2. They can be insulting
3. They are “holier-then-thou”
4. They fail to realize they are dealing with a society which no longer cares.

Everyone is so caught up in their own bullshit that they don’t really care if smoking kills brain cells, stunts your growth, or gives you brain plague or some other horrible affliction

Give a smoker a sensible reason as to why they shouldn’t smoke and they’ll generally produce some horrible sob story about how hard life is, how their mother they told to go fuck herself doesn’t love them, how the rent for the apartment they couldn’t afford in the first place is due, how their cat has down syndrome and various other bullshit which every other human being endures. All of that amounts to an excuse for why they “need” their five minutes of feel good time. Thats fine I suppose, but many more people are much more honest and blunt with their answer.

“I don’t give a fuck”.

How quaint.

Cancer won’t scare a guy who doesn’t give a fuck. At least they don’t engage in denial or possess the notion that their special making their ass bulletproof. Instead, the guy who doesn’t give a fuck believes that his self-inflicted degeneration gives him a certain aura of coolness. His tough guy antics make him unique.

I, on the other hand, don’t see that.

Let’s say I vigorously beat myself with a crowbar.

I don’t give a shit that it hurts, which it does. If I keep at it, lasting damage will inevitably occur. Maybe it will be brain damage or a neurosis or some sort of deformity occurs.

Beating myself to death with a crowbar does not make cool, nor does it turn me into a tough guy.

It makes me a moronic jackass.

Maybe i’m exaggerating a bit, but when smoker enters my field of vision, all I see is jackass clubbing himself to death with a blunt object. If you don’t give a fuck that your destroying your life, why not cut the middle-man out and simply brain yourself with a pickax?

“Well I don’t want to die now”

Fair enough, but does that mean in ten, fifteen or so years you’ll be ready to die? Or maybe when you have an electronic lung, your dick is cauliflower, and you can barely bring yourself to squeak from your little sqawkbox for fear of remembering your voice you will be ready to die.

                   The man!

                                      The legend!

                                                               The enigma!

Robert Alexander Pelaez!

That would be me. I have decided to start a blog so I can practice my writing, and get some criticism/advice, as well as exposure. Whether or not I will make anything out of this is a debate I leave to the philosophers.