Opiates and Self loathing in the internet: The campaign trail of becoming a fucking cock sucking ass hole.
I have a horrible feeling that we have lost our way on our search for self discovery.
Well, we lost our way or we never had the direction in the first place, but at least we used to look cool doing it. At least we sounded like we knew what we were talking about, right? The drug scene, to be completely specific, is the very core of our wayward, half assed search for spiritual enlightenment. As users, we have become horribly boring. Users of everyone and everything. Cheaper, lower, dirtier. The scumbag, run of the mill, junky has watched to many movies. The chewing their face off E hipster has perfected the fine art of projecting self loathing while all the while being desperately in love with themselves.
I mean, the days had Big Burroughs ass fucking young black boys all through the mountain jungles of Moaco, Colombia; shaking down every shack in the end of the road towns on the hunt for miraculous trips found in shaman prepared Yage.
Hicks prying open his third eye, shoving his head deeper and deeper into fresh mounds of warm cow shit, the constant little yellow light at the end of his mouth, smoking himself into a fresh tornado of bitterness and nicotine.
Or Tim Leary locked in a room for a 3 month isolation and sensory deprivation, fist full of Lysergic acid diethylamide, trips pushed into every bodily orifice. They had a reason. A fucking equity to their abuse. The merry pranksters, Brujos, medicine men, prophets.
Intelligent men intent on discovering the bare assed truth about life and love and god. Now we have some fucking, jackass ass hole, jumping straight out of a helicopter, vomiting pyote in the middle of the desert; And six million even bigger ass holes sitting at home on fucking Youtube trying to show their less enlightened friends about the transcendence of Stevo through cactus trips.
These men carried guns, men these days carry self worth. The formidable and boring, cling on to a semi good time, living room circle junkies of today are boring me to death. If your taking all your learning from the internet and not bothering to check the FACTS; you are leading yourself further away from any self absurdity, from any reason.
The same high capped, wide brim, man of the scene who finger bangs his 18 year old sisters friends will tell you he just LOVVVES Hunter Thompson has seen Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas 17 times, every single fucking time high on some cheap cut speed and NZ hash- THE ONLY quote he remembers is the “somewhere around Barstow” and will have it slapped and pasted on every single “About me” section of his social media… HE IS WHATS WRONG WITH THE DRUG TAKING CULTURE. Doing drugs does not make you an artist or an interlectual – the same way being a drunk doesn’t make you a writer.
Turn your free to air television off and pick up a god damn book. A real book. Not a 10,000,000 movie quotes you should remember to be scene, or a 7000 chapter book about quantum mechanics that you have NO IDEA about about but highlight sentences that you can bone lazily throw away at a dinner conversation – YOU CANNOT LEARN THE ORIGINS OF BEING BY READING ONE FUCKING BOOK. Pick up a book about someone else. Read a fucking novel. See some one else’s view point instead of cramming your perfectly stylized dude-doctrine down some ones through over a corona and a conversation about the anomalies of the bible you have never bother to read.
Or don’t, you know – maybe just be a boring, simple, cunt and say “I’m not a bitch I just say it how it is” – NO… NO! You’r not a martyr to be cast in bronze bust at the front of storming seas, you’re a BORE. The truth is not gospel because you saw it that way. That small town negative generalization that vaguely references every one in the world at one point in time has not made you the pillar of moral success, its made everyone else feel small, and guilty, and borrowed.
Which brings me to this, the full circle. The enlightenment. The last few key presses in the middle of the night, 3 white wines in, Fear and loathing on repeat on a HUGE plazma screen in my mum and dad’s city apartment. A handful of opiates, “The golden braid” on the floor a few dog eared pages full of highlighted lines, The grateful dead playing full blast and im pretending to sing the words so the cool cats will think im legit. And this. My bitter, self assured, tall poppy rant. A felt tip marker hanging from my nose and shaking my fist at the newspaper who dont listen to MY IMPORTANT opinion. The publishers who send REJECTION after REJECTION slip.
Believe me, I fucking know what im talking about, I read it on the internet