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

i just stole the champagne cause i was bored and because i could. plus, i didn´t like the price. it was too expensive.

 

i could afford it, but i still thought it too much. there were many brands of champagne, or "sekt" i should say, but i exclusively stole only "mumm". it is very good, and very dry. i was shit-faced night and day and certainly every morning on that stuff. i had to lug the bottles up 5 floors of a real ancient building where my apartment was. i usually stole seven bottles, i had special pockets hidden under my ankle-length black trenchcoat. the bottles would clink and rattle as i walked. i would do this at 8:00 or so in the morning. i did buy a käsebrötchen for 30 pfennig, too. käsebrötchen go well with champagne in the morning. i would get schnockered all morning and write nasty potty stories. then i would see my sometimes girlfriend, a beautiful hippy-kind of girl, she was german but lived in india a long time. she had long brown hair and she was thin but with a very nice body. she was very kind and tolerant of me, and she was funny. we got along well, i liked her. i lost touch with her tho. another regret. i miss a lot of things. i miss my life.

 

there was once a little snail who lived in ireland. he squirmed around in the grass of a field, and he was basically happy, but bored. one day as he was squirming along, he came upon a sidewalk. he saw many big people walking by. he had a sense that the feet of those big people were not good things - those feet could squish him bad. but the sidewalk looked so warm and inviting. the sidewalk would feel good on his slimey underbelly. so the snail took a chance and squirmed onto the sidewalk. a little girl saw him and picked him up before any people could squish him. the little girl´s hand felt even better than the sidewalk, and the snail was happy. the little girl took the snail home with her, she cared for him and played with him all his days, and he was happy.

 

i am the dream-maker, the dreamer of dreams. i am the interpreter of my reality. i am the king of all i see. i am irish royalty, a descendent of king cormac, first great king of ireland. i am a prince.

 

last night i did not have a nightmare. i had a very good dream. i was in a star wars-type universe, and i was a jedi knight. i was on some type of mission, i had a light saber and some kind of special biege-colored commando space suit. i had a female jedi partner with me, she was also my girlfriend. we were on a mission, deep inside an orbiting death-star weapon, a type of huge round space station. we were crawling all over the thing, inside among structural girders, searching for some kind of powerful sphere, a floating metal device about the size of a grapefruit. there were droids and computers and all types of adventure. my partner-girlfriend looked like mara jade, or what i envision her as. long red hair and beautiful but deadly, and smart. somehow the dream changed and i was back on a planet. there was a type of hobby shop that specialized in making alien costumes. i walked into the shop and everyone knew me from my band, and the shop even sold "shock therapy" albums. i was famous as a singer and a jedi knight. what a strange nice dream! i rarely have these, but it was a welcome respite from my usual nightmares. i woke up wondering what the hell i was dreaming, but a quirky smile was on my face, and not the usual where i wake up screaming with tears flowing from my eyes.

 

sunshine and humidity, i fed my birds three times today but i am ill with some kind of light flu. but i ran nonetheless. i don´t really care in the least if i am healthy or not. the doctors here want me to go back in, there are abnormalities in my blood. beautiful, but i won´t let them work on me. if i get sick, so be it. i´ll be free from this hell just that much sooner. i´m ready for a new season in hell. i will now go back to painting. this one is a retard getting puke spewed into it´s ear from some kind of angry alien/god thing. it´s a masterpiece, natürlich.

 

little metallic monster spiders eating at my brain. sucking out my mind. how did i ever t alk them into letting me go? the devil, the god, all nice fairy tales to make it so that mediocre men can stop thinking about what the hell it is all about. i am not retarded nor am i lazy. i continue to think and wonder and torture myself with the question "why?". i have the guts not to accept the norm. i still think, no matter what those little mechanical spider fuckers are doing in my brain.

 

the primary use of venom is for catching dinner, not slaying giants. saturday morning in hell. waffles for breakfast every saturday. something i look forward to. i look forward to not much else, though i can safely predict that i will approach a nervous breakdown everyday. maybe i look forward to death, that would be nice. the end of all my pain.

 

a small beetle insect crawled out of my ear. an earthworm crawled out of my nose. flies flew out of my mouth. locusts flew out my ass. a hole openned up in my chest and my heart squirted out with a bloody plop. a cheetah ran up and snatched my heart and ate it as she ran away. my teeth fell out and i held them in my hand as i stumbled like a cripple through the streets of my life, crying for the end to come. there is no such thing as a second chance, when all i want is for the first chance to end.

 

particles of quantum hate floating in the air. as ions hold a negative or positive charge, tiny hate and love molecules float among us. some collect in areas more than other areas. it is giving me cancer.

 

there was once a weasel who didn´t particularly like to be a weasel. he thought life would be better as a chicken, so he gathered some feathers from around the rooster house and super-glued the feathers to his weasel-fur. he saw himself in a mirror and thought, "i look ridiculous - nothing like a chicken!". so the weasel thought he might be better as a goat, but he couldn´t get the super-glued feathers off his fur, he thought it didn´t matter so much, cause the nice thing about goats is their horns. the weasel snuck up to an old billy goat as he slept and cut off the ends of his horns, took the horn pieces back, and super-glued the horns to his head. he looked again in the mirror and thought, "now i look even more ridiculous!", so he thought he better just leave well enough alone and go back to being a weasel. try and try as he did, tho, the weasel could not get the feathers and horns off his body. he was perplexed, but he was detirmended to go on with his life as he did before. when the other weasels saw him, they thought him extremely strange and were afraid to talk to him. the weasel told them, "i´m still the same underneath all this shit! at least i tried to improve myself, to not be the same old boring weasel as all of you!". at that, the other weasels shunned him because he insulted their weasel-hood, but there was one girl-weasel in the back that he noticed: she was wearing peacock-feathers all around her. the weasel thought they looked beautiful, and from the way the she-weasel was smiling, he knew that she did not shun him for his chicken-feathers and goat horns. they fell in love instantly and ran away to live the rest of their lives together in the forest.

 

america is convincing itself that it is okay to be fat. america believes that god is on their side, so they have every right to blow the shit out of any country they please, for any reason. usually to protect oil interests. america takes away the gun from it´s citizens, or makes it extremely difficult to legally own a gun, yet america knows and allows the ghetto-dwelling monsters to operate almost with impunity using their guns. america knows that the ghetto monsters are too preoccupied with smoking crack to want to take over the government. america is in it´s decline, just as rome once was. i will be happy to see america fall into ruins. it is an evil country. white man be da devil.

 

some kind of enlightened genius bio-chemist needs to come up with a super-deadly virus that will wipe out, very painfully, all the stupid idiots on the planet earth. of course, this would kill 99% of the world, but then us geniuses could breed and create a better breed of human, a breed with no christianity or rap-music or mcdonalds or TV commercials. i could write a whole book on what is stupid and needs to be eliminated from the face of the world, but it would be easier to have a super-killer virus to kill off the idiots. quick, selective, efficient. i would be happy to fund such a project, so if any bio-chemists reading this need money to start working on the idiot-killing virus, let me know. i´m easy to find.

 

i have to be disciplined in my writing. i need to be honest with my shortcomings. i´m deluding myself. i´m sorry, i don´t accept that. i make it a practice to never get into these conversations.

 

the skies begin to fall, the trees are weeping. the sun hides behind boiling angry clouds. one small sparrow sits on a branch and waits for the strange bald-headed man to throw bread onto the ground for his little breakfast. the world is blowing up and evil reigns throughout the hearts of wicked humans all over the planet, but for one small moment, a little breath of happiness pierces thru the gloom. the sparrow flies down when he sees the bread and cheerfully pecks at his meal, and the bald-headed man with the spirit of a child smiles at the happiness. the innocence of the sparrow´s happiness. if only the whole of existence could embrace that bit of innocence. but there is so much ugliness in this world, so much evil. all of the filth would have to be eradicated before any amount of sun could shine. it will never happen, evil is far too powerful.

 

only when one is truly alone and lonely, will the magic of a movie be able to make one´s heart soar. when everything is well, nothing matters.

 

the champion of nothing. the mindless entropy, failure to comply to life´s challenge. no dreams, all hope destroyed. the beauty of one flower in a sea of evil shit. it is pointless, inane, ridiculous. tragedy leads to a desertion of faith. little particles of thought slipping thru the miasma of depression. how to do it, when to do it, will it hurt? will i see my mom? is this what life is for? i´m mentally and spiritually crippled. i see only one end. ich kann nicht mehr.

 

whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers. yea, right. make sure, kiddies, that you never allow the fanatic religious dogma to ever blind you to the fact that life is unjust, unfair, cruel, and pointless. the church makes it a sin to commit suicide only so they can ensure patrons to fill their gold coffers. when you have felt