The gospel of Itchy Wiggle Christ - Gregory-John McCormick, Ralf Dellhofen (best memoirs of all time txt) 📗

a depressive mess. in any case, it´s time to wipe my shitty mind clean. time to sleep, the small death.

 

some fucking dancing bear selling stupid toilet paper. as if a bear needs to wipe its shitty ass. a morning on the toilet, the foulness or the goodness vomitting out of my ass, feeling as tho my soul is splashing down into the water, flowing into the toilet pipes, fading away forever. there is very little reason to think otherwise. so many fairy tales are made up about what the soul is, what mans purpose in life is, all that shit. so my little theory about my soul being the shit and blood blasting out my ass, and that i slowly am dying with each time i have a violent bowel movement - this is as just a viable theory as any other. actually, all the fairy tales, even mine, are literally a bunch of shit, or worth as much. nothing really matters, life is a waste.

 

more strange dreams, i was a jedi-knight stuck in a colony prison watching kurt cobain on my prison TV, a chinese girl playing along with the music of nirvana trying to learn "smells like teen spirit" with some interactive-type of synthesizer computer program hooked into the TV. i had a wookie friend that was trying to help me break out. it´s too bad i don´t have a wookie friend to help me in real life, he could rip the arms off of my captors and throw me over the 3-meter concertina-wire fences. storm clouds cover the skies, in reality and figuratively. i never have dreams of king cormac, i rarely dream of ireland at all, just weird jedi-knight stuff. there is deep-seated feelings in me about ireland and germany, but i don´t often dream of these places. most likely because i live in the memory of europa, i think about it during all my waking hours. that is when i´m not brooding on the waste of my life. frankincense and myrrh, i had my back turned. strings attached to my arms and legs, the puppeteer pulling the strings high above in the stormy clouds.

 

the mysteries of spirituality. taboo subjects. the worth of one soul tempered by the ability of a mind to process life, and the spirit´s ability to choose good and evil. if each soul were the same, it is the brain and spirit which determine the soul´s journey in life. in the end, tho, it seems everyone is miserable, and life does not seem worth it. for some of us it really does not seem worth it, especially when one finds himself wasting away in prison. i thought today, what a goddamned waste of my potential i am going thru - what a waste of my life. but the dark-loving retarded monsters shy away from the light, and these monsters will lock away the bringers of light wherever they can. maybe someday the bringers of light will find a way to snuff out the monsters. until then, my soul squirms in loneliness.

 

happy shitty fucked sick morning. sharp pains stabbing thru my guts with the unmistakable feeling that something is very very wrong with me. and all i can think is, i hope the end comes soon, quickly and as painlessly as possible. it is a funny thing, that when one´s life has ceased to have any real meaning, when life becomes a waste and one´s existence only consists of waking up, breathing, eating, shitting, and going to sleep, that the body would still exist at all - that it would bother to cling so tirelessly to life. why does the body not just expire? if there was a possibility that a man could die from loneliness and boredom, i would have been dead long ago.

 

i´m damned, i´m damned, i´ll burn in hell for this. something else. i don´t know why i did that. oh god, why did i do that? parasites, infestation, paranoia. see the birds eating the bread, greggy? see the fish swimming in the water, greggy? long ago when i was five or four, my dad would make toast with jelly in the morning, on saturday or sunday morning when he was not at work. i would sit at the coffee-table and watch cartoons. bugs bunny, usually. and he would make lots of toast with jelly, always asking if i wanted more. we would watch cartoons together and laugh. this is maybe the best memory of a long-lost childhood. the kind of memory that makes me smile but also makes me want to cry. it was so long ago, so very far away. and to think and see what my life has become now. how the possibility is very real that i will never be free again, at least not in body. i will never have a son that i can enjoy times like that with. i will never again have a happy moment in this life. these are very sobering thoughts. i think of how senseless life really is. that to experience this small moment of joy 35 years ago, and to carry it thru into adulthood, but all the while going thru a living hell, to end up wasting away in a prison at the behest of some sick nazi american government. in that light, the small moments of joy do not seem worth it. "to love and lose is better than never having loved at all". this is horse shit. to have any amount of happiness in one´s life only makes the inevitable misery one will absolutely encounter just that much worse. life is one long string of tragedies, and a child should never be allowed to feel as tho something else could be possible. it is a cruel trick, a farce. but i know my daddo loved me and wanted me to be happy. it´s not exactly his fault that life has taken a shit on me. life itself is at fault. all is pain and loss and melancholic sadness. there once was this clown who wanted to make people happy, especially kids.

 

could not hold it in. this morning, the war on terror and jessica simpson performs on us live in times square. the warnings about lightning. documents causing the most recent terror alert. anxiety is high. can´t hold it in, geriatric incontinence is a growing problem among our aging population. grandpa has to take his diaper off before he gives grandma the high hard one. shit stains on the bed sheets. baby chipmunk is nursing from a chihuahua mother dog. it´s cold outside. hell is visiting soon, the world is falling apart, watch america lead the world as it falls to ruin, just as rome did, and a sharp-toothed clown laughs and laughs. people are shit, and mass-murder is the toilet paper. allow no more animals to die to feed the fat faces of american swine. anti-depressant drugs are causing american teenagers to commit suicide. new suicidal ideations. less future cow-killers. poor julie woodward took "zoloft" at age 17 and killed her pretty-assed self. too bad, she would have made a fine meat-eating crack-whore out on the streets of detroit, where all of the finest of whores congregate, spreading the finest of diseases. i ate bran flakes for breakfast, oh no! altho i am not elderly, i sure wish i had some adult diapers! there´s no telling when shit will come flying out my ass from eating my high-fiber breakfast! i am a victimized american! i need to take pills to get my dick hard! i need adult underpants! i need anti-depression medication! i need a big mac and whopper to shove in my fat face!

 

i am a victim, take care of me! i´m american! give me what i want or i´ll blow up the fucking world! i know, i will take my anti-depression pills, and follow them with a handful of get-my-dick-hard pills, and then i will pay jessica simpson a million dollars to remove my adult diaper with her perfect white teeth before i give her the high hard one! it´s the american way! osama bin laden for president! big macs for all!

 

maybe the best thing to do is head on down the highway. isn´t there an ounce of sanity left in this creepy world? maybe i need to lose myself in the chaos of my mind. my soul is out of flux. i am hungry for the absolute certain knowledge that i am not alone. and yet, i am alone. so much is wrong with no way to make it right. i threw bread into the flower garden to see if the mouse would come and eat. i don´t know if he did, i couldn´t see thru the weeds. it takes trust. getting there is the hardest part. my will is gone, my flesh is weak, and my spirit is no longer willing. no more butt-talk at breakfast. the subtle flaws involved in living are amplified a thousand times with every day i am forced to remain alive. but it really is only me who is forcing me to remain alive. what the hell am i suffering for? i am alone. no mail came all week for me. i am forgotten. i feel absolutely terrible.

 

any way to speed things up? coax out the natives. make them understand. one way or another, is that understood, colonel carter? yes yes yes, general psycho. screaming headache, makes me want to vomit. but it is night, and night is good. soon the sleep will come, and the handfull of aspirin i took will ensure some momentary peace. how did you end up here, milla? in the name of the father. eight dollars for a delicious chicken meal. HOW THE FUCK CAN YOU PEOPLE EAT A DEAD CHICKEN??? does it not ever cross your idiot minds what you are eating? most probably not. you are blind, driven by primitive hunger and carnivore lust. you eat death, and your world reflects death. may angry chickens and mad cows infect your dreams. my dreams will be of jedi knight itchy and saving the princess steffi from the evil empire. and the evil empire also serves all its good citizens lots of juicy nerf-meat steaks, yum yum yum. maybe i will blow up the empire´s mcdonald-land combination hamburger restaurant and death-star. i´ll be stepping large and laughing easy then, won´t? i think i need to get some rest. i´m so very very tired. goodnight, princess.

 

we are going to kill a friend, yuri. we are going to kill ramius. understand this, young fool, there are dangers in life that are far deadlier than any creature in the forest. is it something deeper? something more emotional? the sun may rise, the wind blows, perhaps rain is forcast for later in the day. but one thing is for certain. the headaches will come, the shrieking pain in my soul will tear apart my sanity, the questions will come: what is this for? why me? how could this happen? i have so much to do in this life, how the hell will i do it now?. ah, but these are happy morning thoughts, are they not? normally a few hours must pass before i have such morose thoughts. but on weekends when i have not received any mail, i am certifiably depressed and sadder than normal. i start wondering why i bother to wake up at all. i start asking myself if it is possible to will myself to stop breathing. in the true spiritual sense i have willed myself to stop "living" - but of course, what i am doing is not life.

 

he knows we are here, that we are ready to shoot, but he is not going to provoke us. ah yes, waffles for breakfast, always a sad favorite of mine. waffles remind me so much of germany, but institutional waffles are not quite the type i had in germany, and certainly not with lovely strawberry marmalade and fresh butter. but the memory