Sometimes you just wake up to this uncannily tangible feeling of utter malaise. The kind where your very spit tastes of pure aggravation. Now, since I didn't actually have anything to be irritated about, I found the whole episode a bit comical. And as per usual with these types of things, the whole feeling of destroying something left as soon as I started smiling about it.
How annoying. Can't even muster a decent angst these days.
To my surprise, this general annoyance had made an appearance in a few other homes as well. As the 24h random entertainment facility that I am, I had been summoned by Ladybird to spice up her supposedly tedious afternoon. Annoyingly, I actually did find it in myself to devise a cunning plan to rid us of this boredom. So we grabbed captain Haddock and set full sail for the public's hometown, Myllykoski.
An odd combo for this sort of trip, but we totally turned the Kouvola nightlife inside out. I think even Ladybird had a good time, even though she insisted our tales of IRC, cars and women were pointless and dull.
Ex tempore trips outside your regular rat race life give you a chance to forget some of the daily worries. I guess that's what I needed the most, and probably still do: getting away for a while.
On the return leg, the roads had frozen up and I was going a bit above Godspeed. The moon shone brightly, the weather was clear and my reactions were top notch, as I'm nearly superhuman. But even my confidence was unsettled, after seeing two trucks, that had evidently found the winding motorway too hard to handle, with their noses in the ditch. I had promised to take care of the coughing Astra though, and I wasn't about to break that promise. Especially not if it meant spending my morning freezing my ass off beside a car crash, explaining to the authorities how fast Godspeed really is.
Saturday, 24 November 2007
Thursday, 22 November 2007
quod erat demonstrandum
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has DON'T PANIC written on it in big friendly letters.
Now it is such a bizarrely impossible coincidence that anything so mind-bogglingly useful could have evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as a final and clinching proof of the nonexistence of God. The argument goes something like this:
"I refuse to prove that I exist," says God, "for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing."
"But," say Man, "the Babel fish is a dead giveaway, isn't it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don't. QED."
"Oh dear," says God, "I hadn't though of that" and promply vanishes in a puff of logic.
Today's Hollywood evidently has also adopted a less Bible-Beltical view of the big G, and made him a star in blockbuster hits like Bruce Almighty and Evan Almighty. Morgan Freeman as God seemed a cool enough concept, so I punched "play" on my DVD player.
You'd think the U.S. has had more than its share of semi-Jesuses with all the W. Bushes running around. And you'd be wrong. Because there's always room for one more religious wholehearted wackohead to fill the void in the empty hypocritical American mind. Not to mention ruining peoples' movie nights. Tonight's allotment of religious propaganda consisted mainly of the Noah and the ark-story. An original idea for a movie, I suppose, so how the hell did they manage to make it rank so high on the retard-scale? Bird guano, silly clothing, lameass bedside praying, Evan getting hit over the head multiple times? And not to forget the complete Disneyland attraction-type execution of the whole "huge fuckoff flood"-episode.
"Do you believe in God?" they said. I hadn't heard that for a while, until last week, when a friend asked me. I never really understood how I'm supposed to answer that. Biased towards atheism since forever ago, I found it tough to even create serious debate. So instead of taking a possible beating, I put on my diplomatic hat and answered something on the lines of "No, I prefer a more nonchalant approach to this whole religion thing".
I personally find it easier to stay at the shallow end of the conversation pool when it comes to religion, just to avoid being involved in an involuntary Jihad. So I ended up staying quiet and shifted onto another subject. Mostly because I didn't have a lot to say in the area, but also, as I noticed in the previous edit of this blog entry, you have to be damned careful if you're gonna tread into someone's religious beliefs. 'Cause I promise you, choosing your words carelessly regarding politics or religion will cause some grand hellfire. And unintended hurt, for that matter.
Having said all that, I don't think you need to be an atheist to realize that Evan Almighty was a pile of divine horse shit.
Now it is such a bizarrely impossible coincidence that anything so mind-bogglingly useful could have evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as a final and clinching proof of the nonexistence of God. The argument goes something like this:
"I refuse to prove that I exist," says God, "for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing."
"But," say Man, "the Babel fish is a dead giveaway, isn't it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don't. QED."
"Oh dear," says God, "I hadn't though of that" and promply vanishes in a puff of logic.
Today's Hollywood evidently has also adopted a less Bible-Beltical view of the big G, and made him a star in blockbuster hits like Bruce Almighty and Evan Almighty. Morgan Freeman as God seemed a cool enough concept, so I punched "play" on my DVD player.
You'd think the U.S. has had more than its share of semi-Jesuses with all the W. Bushes running around. And you'd be wrong. Because there's always room for one more religious wholehearted wackohead to fill the void in the empty hypocritical American mind. Not to mention ruining peoples' movie nights. Tonight's allotment of religious propaganda consisted mainly of the Noah and the ark-story. An original idea for a movie, I suppose, so how the hell did they manage to make it rank so high on the retard-scale? Bird guano, silly clothing, lameass bedside praying, Evan getting hit over the head multiple times? And not to forget the complete Disneyland attraction-type execution of the whole "huge fuckoff flood"-episode.
"Do you believe in God?" they said. I hadn't heard that for a while, until last week, when a friend asked me. I never really understood how I'm supposed to answer that. Biased towards atheism since forever ago, I found it tough to even create serious debate. So instead of taking a possible beating, I put on my diplomatic hat and answered something on the lines of "No, I prefer a more nonchalant approach to this whole religion thing".
I personally find it easier to stay at the shallow end of the conversation pool when it comes to religion, just to avoid being involved in an involuntary Jihad. So I ended up staying quiet and shifted onto another subject. Mostly because I didn't have a lot to say in the area, but also, as I noticed in the previous edit of this blog entry, you have to be damned careful if you're gonna tread into someone's religious beliefs. 'Cause I promise you, choosing your words carelessly regarding politics or religion will cause some grand hellfire. And unintended hurt, for that matter.
Having said all that, I don't think you need to be an atheist to realize that Evan Almighty was a pile of divine horse shit.
Thursday, 15 November 2007
Actual Fantasy
I've been on more than one occasion accused of living in a fantasy world with a perverse fairytale outlook on life. I, for example, shouldn't try to fulfill my dreams or carry out my prospects. I shouldn't take risks to reach huge rewards at the expense of intermediate losses. I'm told the best thing for me would've been to study for a diploma engineer, with my head attached the right way round, compiling code for a living. No real imagination, just endless routine.
In Laberinto del Fauno, a tiny girl tries to escape the horrors of civil war by immersing herself in a fantasy reality. Cutely embedded into the events of the "real world", the fantasy characters help Ofelia cope with the cruelness of her surroundings.
I couldn't help but feel sympathy for the girl: after all, her world wasn't too different from my own. Now, I'm not saying I leave at night to play with a 3,5 metre tall faun, but oh yes, you'll find me immersing in, for example, music just about 24/7. I also find it comforting to fill my head with, well the thought of success for one thing, but also the nutty idea that the world might not always be as fucked up as it seems. Really, show me someone who doesn't create fantasy worlds for themselves and I'll give you a cookie. It's a natural bloody defense mechanism, isn't it?
This latest fuckhead offed 8 kids at a nearby school here in Finland. You probably read about it, or at least you should've read about it. If you haven't, please crouch, so I can use the back of your head as a landing pad for the anvil about to fall from a good height. Anyway, now that the whole thing's blown over ('scuse the pun), the government is making huge efforts to prevent this from happening again by forbidding handguns. And big guns. And other weapons like hand grenades. And also IRC, youtube, the internet, schools, bad people, good people, Ford Mondeos, etc.
What are they really trying to accomplish? Forbidding everything even remotely related to the incident? Too bad the really can't forbid the one true reason these types of things tend to happen: human nature. Indeed, at the end of the day, even the people running the country are nothing more than a bunch of grownups in smart suits, not knowing how to handle the cruelty and evil of human existence, and doing what they can to regain control by immersing in a fantasy world of their own.
So yes. I paint the world in my own colours. And bloody well so, I couldn't handle the real world if I tried.
In Laberinto del Fauno, a tiny girl tries to escape the horrors of civil war by immersing herself in a fantasy reality. Cutely embedded into the events of the "real world", the fantasy characters help Ofelia cope with the cruelness of her surroundings.
I couldn't help but feel sympathy for the girl: after all, her world wasn't too different from my own. Now, I'm not saying I leave at night to play with a 3,5 metre tall faun, but oh yes, you'll find me immersing in, for example, music just about 24/7. I also find it comforting to fill my head with, well the thought of success for one thing, but also the nutty idea that the world might not always be as fucked up as it seems. Really, show me someone who doesn't create fantasy worlds for themselves and I'll give you a cookie. It's a natural bloody defense mechanism, isn't it?
This latest fuckhead offed 8 kids at a nearby school here in Finland. You probably read about it, or at least you should've read about it. If you haven't, please crouch, so I can use the back of your head as a landing pad for the anvil about to fall from a good height. Anyway, now that the whole thing's blown over ('scuse the pun), the government is making huge efforts to prevent this from happening again by forbidding handguns. And big guns. And other weapons like hand grenades. And also IRC, youtube, the internet, schools, bad people, good people, Ford Mondeos, etc.
What are they really trying to accomplish? Forbidding everything even remotely related to the incident? Too bad the really can't forbid the one true reason these types of things tend to happen: human nature. Indeed, at the end of the day, even the people running the country are nothing more than a bunch of grownups in smart suits, not knowing how to handle the cruelty and evil of human existence, and doing what they can to regain control by immersing in a fantasy world of their own.
So yes. I paint the world in my own colours. And bloody well so, I couldn't handle the real world if I tried.
Tuesday, 13 November 2007
Hypergeek
At some point it just feels like there's nothing more to gripe about. You've got your poker, which gives you a steady and plentiful income. You've got a nice home and the neighbours don't give any trouble. There's so many women in your life that you hardly find enough nights in the week to sleep with them all. Life at university goes in such a fantabulous manner that you hope it'd never end.
Yeap. Then you wake up and let the cat out.
A non-poker player would probably feel the déjà vuic effect of someone hanging on to the aft-railings of the Titanic during its last descent towards the abyss if they heard the size of my current downswing. I wish I would tilt or accumulate some sort of negative energy so I could explode in a ball of frustration, but it just isn't happening. I'm just continuously getting my money in as a decent favorite (for you poker player types, that'd be more than a 60% favorite) and I get outdrawn. Yes, I do realize a good poker player isn't only about playing well, but also playing within your bankroll, which I haven't exactly been doing lately. I admit, I took a chance to make some huge money. So shoot me for failing.
Whoever fired up the rumour of the glamour in being this nightly gambler-type anyway? People look at you like some sort of freaky society-reject drowning his problems at the roulette and craps tables. It's a common misconception to believe that a true poker player rides flashy cars filled with naked women and gets to see the tournament action first hand from exquisite casino locations. A load of crap, I say. All you get is walking in the snow after 3 am, after a rough night at the tables, trying to catch that last bus towards home. And every time you make a slight mention around new acquaintances about the fact that you paid your rent playing poker last summer, people *gasp* and awkwardly change the subject. The only thing worse than being a fucking degenerate gambler is being a shark at the tables and still losing respect. And money, for that matter.
I woke up before my alarm went off today. My 2h of sleep was cut short by the overly considerate neighbour upstairs, who, in the recent weeks has indeed taken it to himself to use a gas powered angle grinder to splice up steel girders at 8 o'clock in the morning. I feasted on the image of launching a blunt object at high velocity towards his Peltor-covered head, which would've clarified my point of letting people, who don't exactly follow the normal business hour-sleep rhythm, get some fucking sleep. I thought better of it though, as, after my incarceration, someone might open up my blog and make the evening headline about all bloggers being degenerate gamblers with recurring psychopathic issues.
Women. Those lovely things with .. oh who am I kidding. I get shoved into the friend zone faster than people can say "wazzap". This makes into an annoyingly vicious circle, where my failure amongst the female population is turned into frustration, which takes me further into the world of internet porn, which, in turn, makes the jump to actually making conversation with a woman virtually impossible. And when I finally do gather the courage for such a feat, I get ranked into that degenerate gambler eternally stuck in the friend zone-type.
School's ok though.
Yeap. Then you wake up and let the cat out.
A non-poker player would probably feel the déjà vuic effect of someone hanging on to the aft-railings of the Titanic during its last descent towards the abyss if they heard the size of my current downswing. I wish I would tilt or accumulate some sort of negative energy so I could explode in a ball of frustration, but it just isn't happening. I'm just continuously getting my money in as a decent favorite (for you poker player types, that'd be more than a 60% favorite) and I get outdrawn. Yes, I do realize a good poker player isn't only about playing well, but also playing within your bankroll, which I haven't exactly been doing lately. I admit, I took a chance to make some huge money. So shoot me for failing.
Whoever fired up the rumour of the glamour in being this nightly gambler-type anyway? People look at you like some sort of freaky society-reject drowning his problems at the roulette and craps tables. It's a common misconception to believe that a true poker player rides flashy cars filled with naked women and gets to see the tournament action first hand from exquisite casino locations. A load of crap, I say. All you get is walking in the snow after 3 am, after a rough night at the tables, trying to catch that last bus towards home. And every time you make a slight mention around new acquaintances about the fact that you paid your rent playing poker last summer, people *gasp* and awkwardly change the subject. The only thing worse than being a fucking degenerate gambler is being a shark at the tables and still losing respect. And money, for that matter.
I woke up before my alarm went off today. My 2h of sleep was cut short by the overly considerate neighbour upstairs, who, in the recent weeks has indeed taken it to himself to use a gas powered angle grinder to splice up steel girders at 8 o'clock in the morning. I feasted on the image of launching a blunt object at high velocity towards his Peltor-covered head, which would've clarified my point of letting people, who don't exactly follow the normal business hour-sleep rhythm, get some fucking sleep. I thought better of it though, as, after my incarceration, someone might open up my blog and make the evening headline about all bloggers being degenerate gamblers with recurring psychopathic issues.
Women. Those lovely things with .. oh who am I kidding. I get shoved into the friend zone faster than people can say "wazzap". This makes into an annoyingly vicious circle, where my failure amongst the female population is turned into frustration, which takes me further into the world of internet porn, which, in turn, makes the jump to actually making conversation with a woman virtually impossible. And when I finally do gather the courage for such a feat, I get ranked into that degenerate gambler eternally stuck in the friend zone-type.
School's ok though.
Saturday, 3 November 2007
Follow The Hollow
I've been demoralized, discouraged and utterly exhausted of motivation. Also, this was cluttering my head and I needed to get it out. I apologize for the abstractness.
The undisputed futility of it all:
Why
You please them. Wrong. You hurt them. More wrong. (wrong*) You work to find an average approach for each encounter, why? Is it not to create personal happiness? Is it not to fulfill your own needs? How about after these needs are met? Does the quest for happiness continue? Is some state of total happiness the result? Is that what we are looking for, eternal bliss?
Some people serve others. Is that not hypocritical? They please their own needs by doing what comes natural to them: serving others. They call themselves unselfish. They gain their own personal happiness by doing this. Would only suffering while serving others be the ultimate of unselfishness?
*The presumptuous use of the word wrong must be excused in this context. I use it to describe what is commonly defined as unacceptable.
Who
Is there one collective of people who help in your quest? Does everyone have a unique personality type to help fill that certain spot in their personal jigsaw puzzle of goals? Or is this helpful personality trait only found in certain types of people? What if that type of person becomes extinct? Will everyones' goals eventually cease to be fulfilled, lacking the helper to push towards those goals? Or is the helper-type the fittest in the evolutionary scale, meaning they are the only ones who eventually reach their goals and trample on the lesser types?
Do the helper types, assuming they are the fittest on the evolutionary scale, require the lesser types for survival? This would mean all thoughts of equality are false propaganda.
When
How long will this go on? The same questions of life, the universe and everything have driven mankind for millenia. Every time someone reaches an answer they either get killed by their own people or they drop dead because of old age. How long before medicine advances to the state, where old age isn't a problem and these types of thoughts can be taken to completion?
-- Internetpoker shows $1979 --
The undisputed futility of it all:
Why
You please them. Wrong. You hurt them. More wrong. (wrong*) You work to find an average approach for each encounter, why? Is it not to create personal happiness? Is it not to fulfill your own needs? How about after these needs are met? Does the quest for happiness continue? Is some state of total happiness the result? Is that what we are looking for, eternal bliss?
Some people serve others. Is that not hypocritical? They please their own needs by doing what comes natural to them: serving others. They call themselves unselfish. They gain their own personal happiness by doing this. Would only suffering while serving others be the ultimate of unselfishness?
*The presumptuous use of the word wrong must be excused in this context. I use it to describe what is commonly defined as unacceptable.
Who
Is there one collective of people who help in your quest? Does everyone have a unique personality type to help fill that certain spot in their personal jigsaw puzzle of goals? Or is this helpful personality trait only found in certain types of people? What if that type of person becomes extinct? Will everyones' goals eventually cease to be fulfilled, lacking the helper to push towards those goals? Or is the helper-type the fittest in the evolutionary scale, meaning they are the only ones who eventually reach their goals and trample on the lesser types?
Do the helper types, assuming they are the fittest on the evolutionary scale, require the lesser types for survival? This would mean all thoughts of equality are false propaganda.
When
How long will this go on? The same questions of life, the universe and everything have driven mankind for millenia. Every time someone reaches an answer they either get killed by their own people or they drop dead because of old age. How long before medicine advances to the state, where old age isn't a problem and these types of thoughts can be taken to completion?
-- Internetpoker shows $1979 --
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