Saturday, June 11, 2011


Normally I'm not much for hip hop, but lately I keep finding some solid fucking gems. This next gem, or should I say this next Jeweler who has quite the plethora of gems, is Volume 10. Check this shit out, and be amazed.
The "N" word is used a lot...but that's o.k, I give you permission to enjoy.

~Xavier R.

p.s. So I haven't been paying much attention to the news lately. Has the world ended yet?

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Tell them that there is nothing to understand

Will the motivation, make it so. For something to be done, you must do it. God helps those who help themselves? Once I have helped myself, I have been helped. Since god has done the helping, by that logic, I am God. I was born at the end when it was the beginning.

That's nice to know, that I am God. This is why my religion is the one true religion. You may praise me, but I wont give you anything for it. I'll nod at you in passing, but if you want something, go get it. Will it so, as I have decreed. You do not need help, because you will take what is necessary, without even hurting others.

See how easy it is? I have helped myself already, so I return to the beginning, which is the end. I am God.

You are welcome, which you are not.

~Xavier R.

p.s. Call it blasphemy. Because it is. It's like being a hipster. Once you think you are, you aren't. So because of this, I am god. I don't want money from little wicker baskets. 

could go for a blowjob, though.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Mustard Is A Type Of Ketchup Pt. 3

You are a little sore. When you woke up today, you decided that maybe you should do some push ups before work. It had been been awhile. You, your arms, and a rubbing motion have all become well acquainted.

     After the morning's tasks you arrive at work par usual, and sit in your own personal hell. The devil is approaching, and you ready your response in the form of a folder that you pulled from the second drawer of your desk.

"Do you..." And with a snap of the wrist, and the brisk cut off of a sentence, you're aiming the folder filled with misc. work babble right at Carols face.

"I finished it last night. I figured I'd wait until right now, so you could have done over all the digital read outs." You don't even bother looking at her, eyes fixated on the imaginary force illuminating from the screen of your computer monitor.

"Works for me." She says hesitantly as she snags the cove of treasure from your grasp. A moment goes by when you realize that she's still standing over you. You slowly pan your head over until you have eye contact. Her face, expressionless. Her body, still. You don't see what you saw the previous day. You see someone who has no reason to be harassing you anymore. After about ten seconds of peering into that gateway of nothingness, you turn back to your electronic overlord and begin doing what you do. A short time later, you feel her gaze still upon you.

"What?" You ask with a staunch coldness.

"Nothing." As she walks away in what seems to be a frustrated fervor. You peer out the side of your festering domain to watch her walking away. What the fuck just happened?

You look back at the monitor. You look closer. Closer. Closer damn it. A blurry transition, and suddenly you're pulling your face away from the bar counter. You look around. The usual suspects. You look ahead, your good buddy whiskey is mingling with coke, ready for your consumption. You're met with a not so gentle slap on the back, releasing the drink you had started to take.

"Why so down, mother fucker?" It's Jack Rodgers, with a big, stupid grin on his big, stupid face.

"Ieeem juss kenda tired I g...guess." Ieeem juss kenda what? Oh yeah, you're drunk already.

:"Well wake the fuck up. Drink drink drink." God how you hated that guy. But yes. Drink drink drink. Refill, drink drink drink. Refill. Drink drink drink Refill, drink drink dancing? What's going on?

You find yourself dancing like a fool, some seventies rock blasting from the jukebox. After a long while, you notice that you are all with your lonesome, making quite the spectacle of yourself. After a couple of chuckles can be made out from the faceless mass, you decide to speak up.

"Wh...what the fuuuuuck are you fuuuucking losers looking at? This is a party. Isn't this a party?" Your voice getting alarmingly high for that last sentence. The chuckling stops. Just a sea of people staring at you in a painfully blank manner.You stare back, an emotional grimace with a dash of dread, accompanied by a trickle of sweat crawling down your forehead. Is this happening. Is it really happening? Why do you even bother coming out? You're better then these people anyways. You close your eyes for an entire minute, and reopen them just to be in the same spot. No instant transition for you. By then most have averted their attention elsewhere. After rocking back and forth for another minute, you make your way to the door. It flies open, and you feel the night air with a sarcastic glee. Hello sidewalk, meet vomit. He'll be joining you this evening.

"Hey buddy, watch it!" Shouts an angry patron, out for a smoke. Hello patron's face. Meet fist. He'll be joining you this evening. Hello sidewalk. Meet unconscious patron. He'll also be joining you this evening. You look at your throbbing hand. Wow, you still got it. You decide to go running. Really really fast. 

Besides the two dozen tumbles and six signs you run into, you make it home, practically unscathed. You look up the height of your apartment complex. You stand there for probably an hour, confused. Frustrated. Why? Then again, why what? You wish the god you barely believe in would end your Kafkaesque  existence by making you die of alcohol poisoning. Or maybe a disgruntled hobo could have tracked you down and shanked you from behind. You where always a nice guy. Such a nice guy. Why did you have to get stabbed out of everyone else? Weren't you just hoping that you died anyways? Well you got what you wanted. Wait, no you didn't. No one stabbed you. You go distance required until your home is reached. Practically knocking the door down, you slam it shut and find your way to the kitchen.

The kitchen. Wait, what? Why are you...wait. What were you doing?

Monday, June 6, 2011

I believe

I believe... 
there is a difference between hate and bitterness
that critique does not mean hate
one can avoid being hateful yet not need to forgive
that to err is to be human, and to forgive is to be divine
there is nothing wrong with being human (on both ends)

I believe...
in god
that religion is weakness
we are taught to be peaceful, as to accept our destruction
in killing those who seek to kill those who want it not
that once we destroy that which destroys, we can evolve past destruction
thinking that that is hypocrisy is hypocrisy,  laziness, and cowardice

I believe...
art is creation
creation is genius
genius is chaos
chaos is beauty
beauty is art

I believe...
anger is a tool and a weapon when it is presented
tools and weapons can be hard to use
lack of merit doesn't mean lack of skill
the truly malicious have merit without skill
that they have no anger but will use your tools and weapons when you cannot
the end is what we make
we let others make it for us

I believe...
in music
in sex
in Thai food
in free puppies and koolaid

~Xavier R.


Sunday, June 5, 2011

Mustard Is A Type of Ketchup Pt. 2

     Beep. Beeeep. BEEEEEEEEEEEP. Groan. Stumble. Shuffle. Hello. My name is life. You are awake now. The phone is ringing. You might want to answer it.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I wake you?"
"No mom, I just got up. What's up?"
"Oh, not too much. You know, just calling to say hi. I love you kiddo. I miss you. When can I see you?"
"I don't ca..."
"Oh guess what your father found yesterday at a garage sale?"
"I don't ca..."
"He found one of those retro microwaves. For a dollar!
"I don't ca..."
"He was telling me that..."
"Love you mom gotta go bye." The ensuing click is as enjoyable as a cold soda on a hot day. It tastes great, but stings a little bit.

     As particular days would have it, moments merge together up until you find yourself at work. Then your attention must be at it's peak, otherwise, you know you'd live with mommy dearest again. You love the woman, but live with her again? Back to the topic at hand.

     Work. Oh yeah that is where we were at. You're at work now, starring at a computer monitor. You always take your notes on a piece of paper though. Jack never takes notes. Hey, why the fuck does he borrow so many goddamn pens then? Go get them back. You have a moment of gumption, a glimmering bit of confidence and determination. You stand up, taught the bottom of your shirt with a humph, and

"Sit down." You sit down. It's Carol, your boss. She isn't pleased.

"So I asked for the digital read outs on the newest models yesterday. They still aren't on my desk. Why not?" You look up to answer, but say nothing.

"Well?" With that, you see how adorable the freckles around her nose are. Her face as if it where from one of those commercials with women that look like they went to college but worked through as a model or dancer. Her body, most likely magnificent, but those dress suites keep you from fantasizing to much. A couple cocktails in her would do her good. Cocktails? More like just your co

"Well? I don't like repeating myself." God, she is so pretty. If she smiled more, or as it where, ever, you'd probably risk your job, and knowing this bitch, your life, to just hit on her a little. Then again if she knew how to smile, you wouldn't find it necessary to mentally call her a bitch.

"I, uh, well, s s sorry. I had to figure out what was wrong with the my computer before I could finish."
"Well what was wrong with it?"
"It wasn't on." You crack a smile. She does not. You remedy the situation.
"Minor snags, ma'am. It will be on your desk before the hour is out."
"So it will be on my desk in three minutes?" You notice the time and grimace.
"I will have it on your desk in an hour."
She glares at you and walks off. You sigh, and get back to whatever the hell it is that you do.

     You complete the thing that she asked and then deliver. She gives an insincere but professional "thank you." You walk back to your spot of slavery, and forget what it was that you where doing. Just in general. It gets hazier, then the moments of the world merge together, and you're work day has ended. Your faceless co-workers and "friends" all head towards the elevator. You look towards your boss's office, almost longingly. Despite the fact that getting your dick wet seems very appealing, even more so is the fact that she is the same age as you, yet powerful, and intelligent, and in a spot of responsibility. You have a respect for this woman. A respect that goes along your train of thoughts even stronger than with how badly you want to see her tits. She is still in there. Everyone else is leaving or wrapping up. She is still in her office though. Doing whatever it is that she does beyond being mad at you and everyone else. You have an idea. You don't follow through.

     Several merging moments later, and many several drinks later, you're stumbling to the doors of the convenience store. They slide open. Ra...whoever looks over at you. You smile, yet she turns away without a response. You decide not to enter, turn around and leave as the doors shut behind you. Maybe she looked with curiosity, as to why you didn't come in.You don't bother to confirm or deny your suspicions. As per usual, your insignificant moments merge, and here you are, watching t.v. A mature late-night cartoon of some sort. It's brightly colored and silly. You care very little about other aspects. Two hours later, you find yourself trekking to your bedroom, destroying half the world on your way there. You set your phone aside from your pocket, then strip to your boxers, then pull shorts from a drawer and dawn them with minimal emotions.Red with black stripes. Your...favorite, you guess? Your phone.

     You set it aside for a reason. Oh yes, to call your mom. You start to dial, then stop. She's probably sleeping. Like shed care though. You want to call her. You want her to tell you that the universe is conspiring to give you what you want. You want to tell her how you miss cuddling in her lap while you eat cookies. You want her to tell you how much she cares, because then at least someone does. It makes you sick knowing you want this. It makes you feel guilty knowing you can't explain to her why it is nonconstructive and in fact would cause reverse growth as a person. So with the things that could be reflected on in the moments before sleep, instead you become sick, and ridden with guilt. Well done. Oh well. Tomorrow is another...

Beep. Beeeep. BEEEEEEEEEEEP. Groan. Stumble. Shuffle. Hello. My name is life. You are awake now.

The Treacherous Fever

My darling,
It is an infection, human-based, source unknown. Blood boils. It's an intricate, stinking virus that crawls in through the eyes, ears, and mouth from a source least expected. Without fail, it leaves the victim in a state of selfless, helpless, absurd euphoria, but lest something gives, it threatens to tear apart mind, body, and soul.

It will strike those in royal garb as quickly as those in rags.
It is the very reason for life; yet gone wrong, its intention is to mercilessly rip from its feeble prey every trace of purpose; to annul pleasures past and present.
It's a strange and dangerous symbiosis.
It is eloquent, daring, delicate, vile.
You will yearn for it, fear it, loathe it, need it; like a dastardly addiction it pounds through to the quick of you until you are unaware of who you are or what you are or what you're doing.
It can seem haphazard in its choice of targets, or it can seem dreadfully premeditated.
It is lewd, earthy, fleshy, and it is chaste, pure, unmarred.
There is no cure, save escape from this mortal coil and yet..and yet, legends exist of the disease reaching with omnipotent fingers past the grave to see its life cycle to completion.
It has been known to drive its victims to destroy, to scar, to torture; and its fatalities are innumerable.
It makes heroes out of cowards, martyrs out of skeptics, madmen out of scholars. Sinners out of the virtuous. To fight the poison is futility, and makes the moment of surrender infinitely sweeter, immeasurably more dreadful.
There is nothing logical, nothing predictable, about the treacherous fever..

Dark, snarled hair spread across the pock-marked, unceremonious desk in the bare room. So fixated was the disheveled figure on the connection of shaky pen to paper--such a sight she was--that an observer would have surely only felt vague surprise if they'd seen black ink drip from the very pores in her concentrated, soft brow, to mingle with the white, dry, salted tracks on either side of pale cheeks.

The birds were singing at her through the window, so charmingly.

From her chapped lips there oozed a melody; halting, soft, but still there. She loved to sing, and always had. Almost as much as she loved to write.

The only sounds that existed were the scratch scratch scratch of her beautiful quill, and that lilting, sweet hum, the one she couldn't get out of her mind if she tried.

She was at peace, save for a strange longing in her core. It was a good day, though she couldn't tell you why.

Then abruptly, she was ripped from her small wooden chair. It toppled and fell. She thudded against the rough floor and her trance fell away as she looked up with obscure eyes at the looming shape above her. She did not release her pen. I must finish my words, my thoughts, I must.

But the words came out garbled, nonsense.

"You useless, idiot lunatic! I've stood here and called you a dozen, bleeding times! Are you so daft you can't hear anymore?! And for the thousandth time now, STOP that godforsaken keening. You sound like a strangled old duck." The shape's deep voice secreted distaste, dripped cruelty, and it confused her. Who was this person, to intrude so suddenly on her in her private quarters?

"—not doing that again! Give that to me." The voice was still speaking, and now the figure held out a burly hand expectantly. She stared at it vacantly, and after a beat a joy leapt into her throat. She reached for the outstretched flesh with her own empty hand. Before they touched, the figure roared in anger and suddenly, suddenly she felt a smack as her skull hit the iron bedframe behind her. Her ear was pounding, her neck wet. She clutched at the burning pain with both hands; empty hands now.

"Don't play smart with me, silly, stupid madwoman. Look at that desk, what a state it's in. You don't ever learn and you won't, will you, Eve? Will you? Where did you get this?" There was no response. "Ah! I don’t know why I try. I'm surprised you have even the sense to heal, still." Eve? Her eyes glazed over. What is happening to me? Where am I? She was hazy; unaware of another knock on the door; of the awful creak it gave in the agony of old age, as another figure was granted access into the miserably dim, windowless room and the first figure turned and spoke.

"Towels again. Lots of blood this time. She's lost the capacity for coherent language again, today. Yet, look: the happy idiot still thinks she can write. How did she get this?!"

The second figure stammered. "I-I don't rightly know, sir. I'm always sure to take the cutlery away after each meal. It wasn't--" An inhuman cry broke the hushed conversation. It was disregarded.

"My patience is wearing thin. Don't let it happen again." The second figure dipped and made hasty, clacking footsteps that faded into the quiet.

Eve? Eve? Eve? Her thoughts were an incomprehensible loop that kept looping for the desperate sake of comprehension. Her head throbbed, and the longing in her core raged.

"WAIT!" The word, rusted and ugly and needy, came from her broken lips, and her red, wet hands grabbed at the shadow's trousers. WAIT!

The leg she'd grabbed for quickly, harshly kicked off her weak clutches. "What?!" said the voice in naught concealed disgust. Her face crumpled.

Love me, her core cried. She was whisked off her feet and her heart fluttered, twisted and thrilled at the support, at the touch; and her mind cleared enough to know it was something strong that held her. But the strong figure was pushing her towards the cracked mirror hung on the closest wall to the desk, not towards salvation.

"LOOK!" It hissed in her ear. "LOOK!!!" She looked, at the distorted image. Black eyes gazed back. Dirty tendrils of raven fell everything, and all was cracked, broken across the face where the jagged fault lines of glass ran. "Now, who in their right mind could love that??!" She shook her head and shut her eyes tight and screamed. Her feet kicked and she cried with a sorrow that cannot be, will not ever be exceeded. The figure released her roughly, and her hands caught the splintered edge of the desk. When she opened her eyes again, she was met with paper; a stack of it, pure and white and blank, and mangled with the deep scratches of a sharp object. Her head lolled, and first came the thud of her knees against the dark floor, and then the thud of her head and shoulder, against the dark floor.

And then silence. And then, laughter; odious and strange. She felt sour air fall across her face as the heavy door shrieked angrily in its hinges, to shout at her as it slammed shut.

The dark grew darker, and the darker grew darkest, until there was nothing.

When Eve awoke the next morning, she sat at her desk, and murmured a sweet, broken tune. How the birds sang through the window at her, so charmingly! It was a good day. She could not tell you why.