Posted on 09/05/2015 7:54:51 PM PDT by fhayek
Opus. Screed. Manifesto. Here is your chance. No need to shoot up the Five and Dime in Burlington, Vermont. Post it now. ONLY, it had better be at least 1000 words, and it had better be dripping in vitriol. Best screed wins. Don't hold back, and don't hold me accountable.
So out there that you are eligible to the avant garde honorable mention. Unfortunately, coherence counts here. Look, throw me a frickin’ bone.
“DRINK!”
Doin’ that! For cryin’ out loud, it’s Saturday nite!
Hey, gotta run, glass empty! But politeness requires me to ask...what are you havin’?
Darn you reminded me, I missed a screed about how FR was destroying “Mother Gaia”.
I guess you have to deduct points for that as well.
I’m good with anything from aftershave lotion on up.
A thousand words? Each of us? Jim might not like all that bandwidth used on such a thing as solicitations of manifesto’s...
Well you gain back 10 points for getting honest with yourself and admitting your shortcomings.
SHUT THE HELL UP! Look at all the bandwidth you wasted!!!
The internet is people...all kinds. You don’t have to pass a test to get on or post stuff....not yet.
I guess we’re all broken up over that Joe Paterno disciple departing our august forum.
A thousand words, and nothing to say
My hands have spent the last few minutes hovering over this keyboard; poised like a tidal wave, just before before it crashes back into the turning sea.
There are things I want to say, yet I don't know how to say them. I'm unsure of where---or how, to begin. Me, with all the words in the English dictionary, and I can't string enough together to tell you what I'm feeling in this moment.
Where do I start?...
Maybe where everything begins.
Change, uncertainty, but most of all: fear.
It seems that my trials in life are mental, rather than physical. Everything I've dealt with to this point has tested me emotionally, rather than physically. I can vividly remember points during my adolescence, when I was overcome by a darkness I cannot begin to describe. If I had to choose a time when I felt the most broken, it would be this. My very being felt invaded. I carried a sickness in my heart that others couldn't see; yet that was more real to me than anything I've ever experienced. It pulsed in my throat as though it were an organ pumping vile acid through my lungs. At times, I would lay on my bed, and cry that If I could only dig it out I would feel better. It felt so physical to me, so real. There was something inside me, physically filling my chest so that it made it hard to breathe. It made it impossible to feel anything other than the murky darkness that became my constant companion. I felt fear then. Real, human, fear. Fear, that this sickness would never leave me---and that I would spend the rest of my life under the disbelieving gaze of those around me, while my soul pleaded for silence.
However, I was saved. I suffered so much during that time, yet the moment I surfaced from that nightmare stands out to me the clearest. I can remember the day I no longer felt a crushing weight against my chest. I cried and cried---not out of sadness, but out of absolute joy. I felt free. I was free. Something had removed the darkness from me, and for the first time in months, I could feel the world around me.
I don't know what you would call this. Depression, insanity, hormones---it doesn't really matter to me. All I know is that I would rather cut my own legs off than do it again. I met with a force in that time that I never wish to meet again.
I did grow from this though, despite how painful the lesson was. I grew a lot in empathy, and in understanding. My blog was even born because of it! So, good things do come from hard things. However, these past few months have my philosophy on that. I think for the second time in my life, I'm about to meet something bigger than I feel I can handle.
College is just around the corner, and with that rides the host of my childhood fears. I can remember being fourteen years old, and freaking out over thoughts about leaving for college.
I feel like I shouldn't be reacting this way, I feel like the normal eighteen year old girl takes a cake walk to college without any second glances. By that definition however, I'm certainly not the average eighteen year old girl. I have never been so absolutely terrified of anything as much as I am of leaving.
On one hand, I feel a glimmer of excitement. I'm getting older, I can feel it now more so than ever. Something inside of me is bored with my life, and myself. I crave excitement, I want change. I want to have an actual selection of friends I can choose from, and feel like I actually belong somewhere socially. I want to have fun---in a different way from the kind I've had on my own. I want to go to parties, join friends as they nerd out over the new star-wars movies. I want to stay up late talking with my roommate, I want to have someone I can connect with as much as I connect with my sisters. A best friend, a boyfriend, I don't care. I just want someone in my life that will bring color to the drab walls of my comfort zone.
On the other hand, is my fear. It would be presumptuous of me to say I love my family more than anyone does. ---but I'm gonna say it. I really love my family more than anyone does. A part of me believes that If I leave, I will lose the relationship I treasure with my parents, brother, and sisters. I think of coming back after having a horrible experience at college, and realizing that things are no longer the same at home. That I don't fit in like I used to.
The thought breaks me.
Somewhere subconsciously, my doubts and anxieties are taking their toll. I've been having panic attacks frequently as of late, and my left eyelid goes into spasms daily. (Which, according to my eye doctor, is a sign of abnormal amounts of stress on the body.) I've woken up three times in the past month, just sobbing. Sometimes I feel so stressed that I feel nauseous, and shaky. I can't do this, is the thought that persistently haunts me. What if I really can't do this? What does that make me?
One month left before I leave. One month left. One. The thought fills me with equal parts of dread and numbness. How am I going to survive this? Unlike before, my family wont even be an option for support. I will be alone, just like I was so long ago---stuck like a prisoner, inside my head.
So there. I've said it. Everything I'm feeling now. I've spoken the words of my heart, and now have nothing left but hollow questions.
I'm so scared.
So, so scared.
I don't want to be alone again
Those look 100% natural.
Nice eyes.
I am flip. I live for irreverence. But, man, life if better, and worse, that what you think you know. Stay the course. Don’t let douchebags like me get you down. Go for it. I like you post.
What’s the point of going abroad if you’re just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - “Oh they don’t make it properly here, do they, not like at home” - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney’s Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White’s suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh ‘cos they “overdid it on the first day.”
And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they’re acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you’re not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners.
And adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there’s an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney’s Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing “Torremolinos, torremolinos” and complaining about the food - “It’s so greasy isn’t it?” - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday’s Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres.
And sending tinted postcards of places they don’t realise they haven’t even visited to “All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an ‘X’. Food very greasy but we’ve found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watney’s Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays ‘Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner’.”
And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can’t even get a drink of Watney’s Red Barrel because you’re still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you’re thirsty and there’s nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it’ll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of “unforeseen difficulties”, i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody’s swallowing “enterovioform” and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn’t there to take you to the hotel that hasn’t yet been finished.
And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there’s no water in the pool, there’s no water in the taps, there’s no water in the bog and there’s only a bleeding lizard in the bidet.
And half the rooms are double booked and you can’t sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you’re plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers’ wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out.
And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn’t like Franco.
And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone’s comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free “cigarillos” and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on “Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich” and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody’s talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane.....
Why? Is that where that commie-revolutionary/nutcase Ted Kaczynski was from? I linked to his manifesto so that "fhayek" would have what he wanted: a lunatic's manifesto. He was apparently hoping that someone here would say some stupid, possibly incriminating, stuff.
Who are you, Jack Kerouac?
She gets my vote!!
Good music - thanks for the link.
Disclaimer: Opinions posted on Free Republic are those of the individual posters and do not necessarily represent the opinion of Free Republic or its management. All materials posted herein are protected by copyright law and the exemption for fair use of copyrighted works.