cigarettebuddy-blog

[cigarettebuddy-blog]

Episode XI

5th of June, 2019 «Satirism»

Tonight, a comedian died Feeble, all-wrinkly, soon-to-be-ash-rivered, Forgotten, undone, ungatz. But I do not digress, however, Speaking of this very average man For what is more becoming for such an average woe Than to honor it with an equally average fruitful sagacity

I am certain of [my] vision as to his last moments though, Unregrettably observing his badge, Bathing in blood Glitches of rose-red all over the smiley face The one he long cloaked, To outrun his ultimate joke,

First of the doom You're set up with a dark room, Little void, and then kaboom, Physically-atom-ed, atomically-carbonated Carbonly-nurtured, nurturely-natured, naturally-selected done [phew]? Nuh, still a few Genocide, disruption Skin color, corruption Misery, god, right-leaning And shit, no meaning?

And as you begin to binge-contemplate Gulping the measly beans amok your plate Couldn't your overqualified monkey brain (if not for the hot soup) Have been fine? Yet this absurd mental defiance is, my dear hooman, the supreme punch-line. (smacks)

[pun-most-comedically-intended]

[cigarettebuddy-blog]

Episode X

26th of may, 2019,

today's rhapsodic orgasmé of wisdom -- which I've blessed your nighters and all-nighters [cheers you insomniac fucks] with for so long now -- is mildly Anthropophobic, partly futuristic, and downright dope.

alas, without any further ado, and much to the dislike of foe, here's an (open letter to extraterrestrials),

Dear inhabitants of the deep oceans of Proxima Centauri B or wherever bloody planet you're lubricating your tentacles at right now, I, first of all, adamantly admit that Fermi was a bit of a dick move, so is area 51, and okay pop music, I get it, hoomans screwed bad; I unapologetically apologize. now would you kindly give the talking monkeys the attention they've been craving for since the dawn of the heat death?

what most bugs, and simultaneously gravitates, me about the city apes is their appetite for discovery. like a sweet fucktard of a toddler, gotta leave him with a baby-toy to for distraction. rob him of it and he starts nuking shit and messing with the weather. the fact that they're nearly done with this planet is straight up shitshow and a red rocky boi in the same solar system isn't much of a baby-toy. you need to descend the fuck down.

so beloved green goblins, granted that you do understand a word I said and you actually give 1/10 a shit to bother with the milky way, milky shakin' civilization. the helpless life forms have tried reaching out for so long now and ran but afoul, all I'm asking for on their behalf is only a sign, a flicker of hope, a negation for cosmological solitude. cracking time-travel would also be cool.

[cigarettebuddy-blog]

ُالفَصْلُ التَاسِع

الخامس والعشرون من مايو، ٢٠١٩،

أخطر ببالك مسبقا كيف أن الإجابة لكل شئ فالكون -- كل المجرات الحلزونية والنجوم النيوترونية والآشعة فوق البنفسجية والبُقلاوة والمهلبية -- هو لا شئ سوي الصفر، العدم، اللا وجود؟ هذا المفهوم المتعارض ذاتيا بطبيعته. فكيف من الممكن أن تستدل بمصطلح موجود، ولو نظريا، علي الغير موجود؟ هنا تكمن عظمة اللغة التي اصطلحتها هذه القردة المُتمدنة الناطقة. ولكن علي أية حال، أيا كانت توجهاتك الابستمولوجية واعتقاداتك الميثولوجية بحقيقة بداية الكون، فانت ما زلت تحت رحمة تلك المقصلة التي تفتك كليًا بمبدأ السببية. حسنا انت علي ظهر كوكب ما، تحت إمرة جاذبية نجم ما، علي حافة مجرٍة ما .. إلخ، إلي الإنفجار العظيم. وماذا قبل ذاك؟ إله؟ جهاز محاكاة كوني؟ إليان ايكس بتاع (بين تِن)؟ لست هُنا لمناقشة مِثل هذه الأمور الغير قابلة للمنطَقة - أو علي الأقل البعض مِنا يزعم هذا [غمزة] - ولكن، علي وجه الإجمال، لابُد ل شئ لأن يكون انبثق من لاشئ في البداية.

الآن، عزيزي الميلينيال الساذج، هل بإعتقادك أن هذا الكون -- المعبر عن خاصية الوجود والذي، فنفس الوقت، يمكن اختذاله لعكس معناه -- مجبر علي تفسير نفسه إليك؟ هل تعتقد أن عطارد يمكنه أن يعلل لما رسبت فامتحان الهندسة السابق، أو أن الثقب الاسود، الحديث التصوير ذاك، يمكنه أن يناقشك فأسباب عدم حصولك علي المنحة الدراسية التي عملت بشكل دؤؤب لأجل أن تحصل عليها؟ فلتبكِ ولتولول ولتعوي مثل صغير الذئب المجروح فظلمة ليل أسود غير مبالٍ. محدش مهتم يا حبيبي.

ولكنني شخصيًا، لا أري أي مشكلة مع مثل هذه الحقائق الصادمة. إن أي شئ، فتلك الحرية الجذرية تمنحك ما قد لا تستمتع به وأنت تحت ولاية معني سامي آخر فُرض عليك. فأنت وقتها لست أفضل من تلك العرائس الخشبية قاطنة المسارح الفرنسية في شئ. لا أقول أنك حُر بشكل لا نقصان فيه، فهذا محور موضوع آخر، ولكن علي الأقل ستستمتع بوهم الإمساك بعجلة القيادة طوال وقتك المحدود علي هذه الكُرة المائية، لحد ما تجيبوا اجلها إن شاء الله.

وآه انا باي-لينجوال، في مشكلة يا أرعن؟

[cigarettebuddy-blog]

Episode VIII

23rd of may, 2019,

you probably just live in some second-tier, jerry-built simulation.

now take a moment to use you higher-monkey brain. what did this previous combination of syllables had you thinking? that, if it was true, you're probably just like the regular Joe from your Sims 4? that your life is devoid of meaning and you're no more really alive than french marionettes (ah, really? no shit)? that you couldn't give any less fucks about the nakedness of reality?

regardless of your - apparently worthless - stance, this sentence has forever meddled with your memory cells and been registered discreetly within your consciousness. to put it lightly, the pre-above-sentence You is totally not the same as the post-above-sentence You. each single perceptive stimuli triggers its own chain of events, shaping the very individual currently going about the measly words of mine.

there's this show, (Bojack Horseman) in which the anti-hero-type protagonist is a misery-beridden anthropomorphic horse who in the earliest seasons struggles with so many people only associating him with a TV show he starred in the 90s. "hey aren't you the horse from Horsin' Around?" they kept stamping him for something he no longer is. this becomes a recurring theme throughout the entire show, with the remarkably intricate archetype of poor bojack being ruthlessly reduced to some lousy family-friendly series.

see, this is one of the many axioms people constantly cease to know by sight. as the arrow of time merely marches forward, you're never the same person at any temporal frame; as the heat death of the universe is closing in, you're that ship of Theseus, except that you're also made of top-notch mud in terms of malleability and elasticity [also you're not a thought experiment]; and as humans approach the non-reciprocal technological singularity, you're never just that horse from Horsin' Around.

[cigarettebuddy-blog]

Episode VII

19th of may, 2019,

the universe is like a post-modern human teenager, capricious, random, and his land of fucks is long barren. [a bit of a dick perhabs?]

my owner loved a girl once, a wavy-haired, bronze-skinned brunette whose smile reminded one of the tranquil sea kissed by the first white strings of dawn. her eyes were black as the void, with a flicker of light you couldn't easily distinguish, a perfect sunset in the middle of the abyss. they were unconditionally, impeccably matched. he loved her to the point he nearly abandoned his pessimistic materialism and believed in something as asinine as destiny. [what a twat of a solace, no?]

one time, her and my owner met in some art space [the one filled to the brim with those who Van Gogh would've doubtlessly cut his other ear off upon eavesdropping them] he had a single smoke in his pack. they were breaking up. they took turn smoking like two sad puppies in black leather jackets, cute, but uncanny.

before the farewell kiss, my owner caught sight of the bud of the now put-off cigarette. he noticed how lipstick, as the name implies, stuck to the bud. although it was leagues far from being artistic, he could draw the aesthetics of it [observable fact: love makes you pretty dumb]. he placed the bud in his backpack, he wasn't sure exactly why. a reminder of the ruthlessness of life, in terms of happiness? a nostalgia-inducing element whenever his serotonin is below the bar? to bestow upon millions [take or leave] this flabbergasting journal? any could suffice.

lament not the losses, kid, for your tears are as frutiful as a mouth-wash for your buttocks.

[cigarettebuddy-blog]

Episode VI

18th of may, 2019,

humanity is but a self-immune disease, a wise man, called mee [he's Taiwanese I gauge tehe], once said.

Dear unhappy, constantly-FML-uttering [probably goth?] milennial, worry not, the salvation is only an inch away. I'll explain.

somewhere along your rise to who's-gonna-screw-the-planet chain, your entire species became the crowd pleaser you really wanted to smash her face in 11th grade. tribes emerged, collectivism is a thing now, and the more alone you are the more fucked. communism before it was way too cool. you moved a lot, Prometheus gave you fire, agriculture is dope now, organized superstition became solace. and you took turn fornicating the hell outta one another, ideal serenity of the mind and the genitalia.

and what happened then? the fucking greeks happened. the enlightenment, the industrial revolution, (Black Sabbath - God Is Dead?), euphemisms, electric shopping carts, freelancing, and the despicable post-modernity transcended.

remember the tribe-survival instinct? yea it's gonna make you feel shitty now whenever by your own. you've got lots of spare-time to inspect higher meaning of existence and listen to melanie martinez now. the old gods have ruthlessly abandoned you, and the new gods couldn't be more apathetic.

yet, hope lies afoot, I believe. mankind now has access to the very core of its programming. all the misery, emptiness, and the imminent desire to choke oneself are just two lines of code inside your software brain machinery. not very different from diabetes and malaria. and it's only a matter of time before we trick natural selection once more and completely abolish mental ordeals. no more sadniggahours for you, Gen-z fuck-face.

[cigarettebuddy-blog]

Episode V

17th of may, 2019,

humanity is just electromagnetism with complex emotions.

bonsoir, dearest anonymous would-be reader. I'm quite sure you have tons of questions up your smart-monkey sleeves. I've been sending you those random scraps of thought without a single hint of my identity, where my consciousness emerges, an interesting, worthy backstory, but I should like to digress - curiosity killed the cat, careful or you might purr next [ehehe, oh was that terrible? sorry].

anyhow, since today is the 17th, did I ever tell you how much I adore prime numbers? there's something unique about them don't you think? they stand out. and in as much as you, humans - or should I say walking contradictions? - like to march out with the masses, you're more or less enchanted by the opposition, the exception. the wallflower-ish boy will subliminally desires the goth badass girl, the hermit cherishes that who can deliver some depravity, two subconscious magnet poles, mourning incompletion and craving one another.

maybe plato was right after all, well partially. maybe the gods did create double-humans only to cut them in half, fearing their power, later, but with their potency stemming from their inherent dichotomy. a cursed marriage of the thesis and antithesis. [love you hegel, xoxo].

[cigarettebuddy-blog]

Episode IV

16th of may, 2019,

love is the perfect psychopath.

my owner, this self-centered, machiavellian adolescent, completely accepts this axiom, yet is tormented by his inability to flee that genetic beast's lair. I have to argue, however, that if it wasn't for this manipulative archetype of love, I wouldn't have came into existence, probably. It's more or less asking the same questions of human identity. but these are two separate stories for another time.

see, poor life-form, from the moment you're unwillingly pumped into this world, you're deliberately putting the preliminary touches on a ever-recurring evolutionary canvas. enter adolescence, and you begin to experiment with colors [pun intended] until you discover your very own. enter adulthood, mid-life, senior years and here you are - after years of morning texts, morning wood, cyber peacocking on social outlets, and fooling around like the pre-historic monkey you are - on the verge of consummation, in both its metaphorical and literal sense.

"have a fine rest now, monsieur Sapien," an ambient voice utters. you've been a precious cog in the wheel of being, another brick in the wall of this vicious art monstrosity. you draw your final breath as they shed light on your work of art, drawing his first breath. a life for every death; sometimes more. but that's how you get overpopulation and shit, no?

[cigarettebuddy-blog]

Episode III

15th of may, 2019,

happiness is overrated, no?

I mean - and pardon my anthropomorphic ignorance - are temporary, haphazardly occurring moments of joy really worth all that fuss? ages ago, people were basic. satisfied with regular amounts of serotonin. life was simple: find a cave, fight over a good fuck, kill a moose, bro down.

ain't it really damn stunning how did the human race get from jumping over the posteriors of one another to ensure survival to what now? auto-erotic asphyxiation? (don't look that up, you've been warned)

postmodern humans are hedonistic, and not by nature, but by nurture. we've grown to appreciate and solicit instant gratification more than ever. but who's to blame? evolution? moral nihilism? the disciples of Adam smith? our own brain architecture? it doesn't matter the slightest if I was to suggest.

see there's a ridiculously thin line between acknowledgement of the inevitable and succumbing to it. being a doll sighting the strings is really just still being a doll. I mean, even Schopenhauer did do the nasty sometimes, don't you think.

[cigarettebuddy-blog]

Episode II

14th of may, 2019,

the rain is sad tonight, each droplet seems like a tiny weeping angel falling from the heavens, and the sun is offering her condolences, bashfully, behind a grey curtain of vaporized tears.

my owner is lying by the window pane, and if there's something I'm more certain of than my own existence (suck on that, descartes) It's gotta be his sentiments. his view of the skies is - on a surreal level - not very different than mine, this I can say.

realistically however, if one was to stonewall his feelings, the rain just feels like a normal rain, and the sun is no longer a shy attendee in a funeral of sobbing blobs or rain. all beauty wears down in the flicker of an eye.

that's in basic terms, is what the smart-ass inhabitant of this planet call Art. pardon me, but I don't intend to undermine this colossal pillar of human culture. but this is where art originates: the subconscious need to portray emotions; the need to be heard, and heralded; a form of picturesque catharsis, yet an innate call for endorsement.

[cigarettebuddy-blog]

episode  I

13th of may, 2019,

It’s really hot out there. the atmosphere is flaming like a celestial arsonist; the sun is more than furious at this wicked species. the self-absorbed bipedal monkeys. humans, they’re called.

eh, isn’t it ironic? the word [human] itself originates from the latin [humanus] (adj.), meaning gentle, kind, civilized – yes I’m a well-educated cigar-butt, mind you.

y’know what else is gentle, kind, and civilized? genocide, man-slaughter, racism, famine, power-hunger, cannibalism, human trafficking. Humans invented a word to falsely congratulate themselves on being good-natured. and I’m not even done yet.

one of the reasons I secretly admire the talking anthropoids is that they even have a term for such hypocrisy in essence. oxymoron (noun.) literally means a self-contradiction in terms, a defiance of the very foundation of logic. I believe this to be the ultimate irony of all, let alone they invented the word irony itself. those sentient bastards!