Thursday, May 28, 2015

the ideology of misadventures just being adventures.

violet beauregard was sent to boarding school, for he was an unbearable brat. you would do the same thing if you knew him.
his only interest was winning awards for being an asshole.
at boarding school he sold pills. he also snuffed stimulants, such as whatever amphetamine he could get his paws on. he took them because in order to learn, when you've never learned anything that seemed worthwhile before, you have to take shortcuts-which are culturally encouraged.
"my life is going to turn in prozac nation!" exclaimed violet. but, violet, consider prozac nation already happened- and was very much so a nineties thing to talk about- so the movie about your life already happened, violet.
eventually he got off of amphetamines for a minute because of rehab, and this was when violet became close to adjusting to a sense of what is called 'normal reality'. since he was born without a sense of this normal reality, he just slept with every guy whenever he thought of it. he thought of it often, without pleasure. (there was lots he thought of, seeking pleasure, without getting it.)

excerpt from his idea based on his life (idea titled "pawn star"):

"I went right for the hottest, richest, most popular senior and was blowing him in his car in three weeks flat. Social climbing through sex has always been one of my specialties. I don't fuck for love, I fuck to put my name on any given particular New York map.

after rehab and stuff, he often prostituted himself to sketchy people with power. sketchy people with power have the best shit except dicks. he continued to do this because he had done this before. he felt like he would go crazy if he didn't maintain the ritualistic process of immeasurable desperation. so he went along with it, very obviously wishing for results though they weren't to be. there needed to be something. there never was or is going to be something.


since violet was rich, he eventually found himself superimposed across a divan. his "love me", super-retarded big fat doe eyes shut just barely, becoming sophisticated, seductive bedroom eyes. the lighting was upward, but there wasn't much of it. it was in black and white world, except violet's gorgeously dancing red suit he was wearing, and the angry red frame of the analog clock.

"but how did that make you feel.
"but how did that make you feel.
"but how did that make you feel.

these were either echoes, or three people speaking in a quick procession. hypnotism can work on anyone as long as they believe in it.
if you believe in anything, it will speak to you.
soon violet remembered childhood- the chunk before boarding school.

"feelings are for the weak. feelings are for the weak. feelings are for the weak," violet responded, also either echoes or just saying it three times. it seemed formal.

excerpt from "pawn star", no. 02:

"I started visiting plastic surgeons to book fake nose jobs and things, because when you book a surgery you get your painkiller scripts written in advance to fill pre-surgery. Then I would cancel the nose jobs. Easy!


then violet beauregard, a sort of local posterchild for seriously exploited problems, learned to turn his life around after a near-death experience (of course), when he got his head bashed, bashed bashed bashed and bashed by prescribers also known as drug dealers.  (they were fed up with their reputations being transparent to anarchists and took it out on a vulnerable person that just wanted to be loved.) he now learned he was scum to them, but also to the policemen at this point as well, so he had no place to go but the pavement. there were no more connec[tion]s.

"cry for your daddy who fucked you. i'm your daddy now."
"cry for your mommy for telling you boys aren't allowed to cry."
"cry to see how much of a baby jane you can be on the spot. you like that. you believe it."

three against one. the gang had violet surrounded.
but strength never comes in numbers....

he did feel like he was on the verge of crying out to mom and because of mom. and so what if he did? he also worried that if he held his tears back too hard, which he was, than they would hear this restraint in his throat, and he would then cry very powerfully. and so what if he did that, also? he wasn't taught what else to do in life, except from dangerous people- but the dangerous people had turned their backs on him now. fuck them. cry, violet. fucking cry until your balls turn blue for peter's sake.
in a flash of white light, violet saw that the one solution- ever, for anyone- was to impress all of them; all of the dangerous people. he could do it. he knew he could. he had to do what he had to do but he probably did it before anyway. ("just act like the boy they fell in love with," he advised himself.)
but violet's eyes dilated, for he saw god of a sudden. this is what god told violet to confess to himself:

"i've never been involved in a meaningful relationship before."


after the white light he flew backwards from this prayer, passing out mid-flight, and woke up in a meadow.
saved by a presumed atom bomb, he walked in the meadow for quite some time.
although he worked hard looking around for baggies, there turned out to be nothing to self-medicate with. violet figured, "well if i stop looking, it will just appear." violet did stop looking, and i give us all a lot of credit for that whenever we do that- but he couldn't stop thinking about it; couldn't stop hoping for baggies. (hope is bad.)
on a tree stump, he settled for a second.
his head was empty, except for charred indeterminates, which sometimes don't count. burnouts don't always count. it's because their math is off.
see, a burnout believes in the power of prayer, but only when they can get something back from them. since this only works out the first couple of times a burnout prays, out of frustration, the burnout stops praying. this is an apparently subtle form of a tantrum.

on the tree stump he got as existential as possible. he only did this because the only song he could think of was the music during the opening credits of "beverley hills, 90210"...and it wore off after a while. violet viewed himself from a camera that was viewing this as a threatening commercial promoting the war on drugs. drugs feel embarrassing for a second when you realize you really do have a sense of shame (which is a link to normal-reality) hard-wired into your subconscious. (i say subconscious right now, which would otherwise seem very belittling to the mind as all parts of the mind are on the same level. however, there is no other word for when a dormant thought would awaken very frequently, except only when sober- which only happens in rehab. "subconscious" is a word that comes close.)

it was in this violet found peace in, within those meadows- except it was a total waste of time.


in a neighboring city, another bomb went off. violet kept walking. he said he was not searching for lost baggies on the ground between clusters of pollen dust cigarette butts lost things leaves, but he was. his body fell apart and, for the first time in human history, admitted to reproducing asexually.
his arms and legs had came off and became other people- crack babies.



due to the death of inner-rainbows and explainable trauma, violet beauregard did drugs some more and found a new guy. he was a nice a guy that she was going to fuck with the aggression of his entire trust fund. his name was doctor on the phone- now, from the phone, was where violet was going to view the rest of his life from. the doctor was probably listening, so this was incentive to appear perfect, which we all do to each other. the doctor's specialty was assisted suicide.

but violet beauregard wanted a pet squirrel which was quaaludes [SIC:

  1. Methaqualone
  2. Methaqualone, brand name Quaalude in the US and Mandrax in the UK, is a central nervous system depressant of the quinazolinone class that acts as a sedative and hypnotic. Wikipedia
  3. Molar mass250.3 g/mol
  4. CAS ID72-44-6
]- which was a stranger from the seventies that came to the present because the seventies were being marketed as "cool" at that moment. it was predominant in violet's chemical make-up to be curious about things that he didn't think up first, which meant he really really wanted it; really wanted to overpower it. he couldn't get the quaaludes because he wasn't into the seventies throwback trend. he wasn't into anything much anymore.
he expressed all of this while viewing everything about his life from the phone, which he made a point to not keep out of sight.

the phone and violet were lost at sea on a piece of driftwood with thinspiration magazines.


the presence behind the phone materialized. it was a doctor that agreed with the einstein quote "Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.
”, which means he was very cool. while violet was paranoid, the doctor unexpectedly knocked on the door as in he was an arab of death. violet allowed the doctor to kill him by way of lethal injection, which took a while.


even in the afterlife, if your bodies urine sample is sad enough, you have to go to rehab. there are different levels of rehab. the following was the level of rehab to which violet had arrived after he died (which he didn't notice):

violet arrived on a shore, to which he did not react strongly to. (violet was a "been there, done that" type). a ferryman stood there, readying himself to drag him along on a boat ride through the river ahead of themselves.

violet remembered he had been on boat rides before (his heart now grew- which is accomplishing step number one). the enigma which is the superego muttered yet another echo- all violet caught of it this time was:


the ferryman was way more of a "been there, done that" type than even violet, so he didn't even notice the echo, or three voices. he said to violet that he is coming along for the ride, but he must pay a price first. violet never had problems paying for anything.
"how much?" asked violet.
"answer this trivia question.
"what starts off on four feet in the morning, two feet at midday, and three feet in the evening?

"piece of cake," boasted violet, "the answer is man. i almost graduated from school this one time. of course i know that."

"all right," charron the ferryman said to violet as he continued assessing her hellishness, which she was perfectly aware of. "know shit about dante's inferno?"

"of course. i skimmed through it in school this one time i went to school that i told you about a second ago. it's an oft revered work of writing about hell if it was a tourist attraction. but you know, the world is crawling with tourist attractions. i live in the biggest tourist attraction of them all- new york city. 
"but when you think about it, everyone is a tourist. everything is attractive if it is a fact that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. what i think is beautiful is when people aren't tourists. and we want to be those people- those that are cool with their surroundings. and i'm no tourist. not even to here.

"whatever you say," sighed charron. they went on the ferry and swayed, dolores or violet or iris or whatever the fuck his or her name is happily being analyzed by charron the ferryman who really wanted a nap. ("i'm too old for this shit," thought he.)
charron's guest noticed the surroundings. they were in a new big city...he was being born again. 

"where are we?" asked violet.
charron tossed violet either a copy of rumi's complete poems, or those of rilke's. "read this," he ordered her around, "and everything will change colors- into whatever you associate with mysticism. probably a wonderfully pink and sparkling snow cavern or a german black forest, i'm going to guess."

he rolled his eyes.
he rolled his eyes.
he rolled his eyes.

since violet wasn't interested, he didn't notice any changes. they travelled until the climax of the inferno. lucifer changed his name to violet. and thus earth made the addictive gene a law. it is the color violet (a rich and throaty purple).