• dad

  • integra

  • chris


if you show up without bringing anything that i need, just your typical smug face, surprising me without notification, i might beat you to death on the spot with whichever limb i tear off of your retarded pathetic torso. are you prepared for death? at the hand of your son?

you could offer to help me on one of my projects. any one of them. oh, yes, that will require actually looking at what i have been doing on the internet and thinking about it, which i know you are viciously opposed to doing. you can fuck off and die, for all i care.

how wouldn’t my terror of you only have grown since we cut each other off. however, and whenever we did that. i still have this phrase i heard you say, more than once, echoing through my head. this, “i’m just pimping you.” do you know what my literal interpretations turn that into? it actually meshes nicely with my horribly lonely experience in real life. this is the horror movie version of my life story, and you are the star monster. you give me nightmares, father. i’d rather not see you without supervision. YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON ON THE PLANET FOR WHOM THIS IS THE CASE. oh, probably mom, too. you people are awful. terrible, evil humans.

if either of us were sane, i’d tell you which parts to bring from storage, and you would help me turn my house into an electric drive, off-the-grid, pedal-powered houseboat. OR AT LEAST SEAL IT UP SO I CAN NOT FREEZE TO DEATH AT THE EARTH’S NEW NORTH POLE WHERE YOU JUST RECENTLY DECIDED TO MOVE ALL YOUR SHIT. no, yeah, i know. it’s america. i don’t get a say in anybody else’s life, even though through the course of human history, family members shared family businesses with family members. YOU WON’T EVEN TELL ME WHO YOU CONSIDER YOUR FUCKING FAMILY TO BE, AND I’M DAMN SURE IT DOESN’T INCLUDE ME.

seriously, fuck off and burn in hell if you don’t want to help me. the truck needs new brakes. this kind of task terrifies me. i know you know how to do it and it would be easy for you to help me. I ALSO MET A DECORATED VETERAN WHO OFFERED TO HELP ME AND YOU BEING HERE WOULD GIVE ME A LEGITIMATE EXCUSE TO CONTACT HIM EVEN THOUGH I SEEM COMPLETELY UNABLE TO DO THIS WHILE I’M IN STARVATION CONSTANT EMERGENCY MODE. hell. the rejection from your shitty retarded poor poison-ingesting “family” has left me in hell. thanks. i know you’re completely deluded into believing the present economic/political system which basically murders-for-profit is only in need of “slight modification,” or “reform,” which is another reason you cannot be trusted. YOU. CONTINUE. WORKING. FOR. OUR. ENEMIES. profiting by death, personally. supporting the brutal rape of the planet and all of the control-by-upper-crust-fiscal-minority WHILE YOUR OWN KID HAS PLANNED OUT A MULTI-STAGE, MULTI-PART MEANS BY WHICH YOU COULD ASSIST CREATION OF SUPERIOR SUPPORT SYSTEMS FOR HUMANITY WHICH EVEN INCLUDES WORTHLESS SCUM-SUCKING HUMANS LIKE THE BACKWATER RETARDS THAT YOU CONSIDER FAMILY. jesus fuck. i hate him. i don’t hate anyone. DAD, I HATE YOU. YOU ARE A DEAF STUBBORN PROUD JACKASS. JUST LIKE THE REST OF YOUR COUNTRYMEN, YOU ARE A PUFFY-CHESTED SHELL OF A MAN. just like me.



hey. sorry i never call, if you’ve ever wanted that. i assume you haven’t, and i apologize for remaining in your life, if even only for such a tiny portion of your life as facebook likes and distant past memories. i hold you in high regard, amongst all humans. i was immediately drawn to you, and with few exceptions, everything you have done has made me love/want you more. i apologize.

so, i bought you a house. yes, the one i’m living in. i did a set of roofing jobs while living in my dad’s house, and i bought this $2500 “recreational vehicle” that is the only thing that has kept me alive for the last few years. i don’t remember whether i’ve said this explilcitly here, but my initial thought was to get a house “for us,” but since there was never really any “us,” it really makes it yours. in addition to the delusionality of purchasing a recreational vehicle for someone who doesn’t want anything to do with me, is the assumption that as soon as you take posession of this cute little truck house, you won’t want me anywhere near it any more. i don’t blame you. you can live like a queen in this thing. i live like the retarded homeless asshole that i am. take it off my hands, seriously. i don’t deserve shelter.

ok, i’m back. tweeting break. i’m sorry to include you with this letter to my father. you’re related, in that you’re both critical to my development as a human, and people i thought, at one point, would be integral to my progress. i didn’t want to assume anything. i can’t stop thinking about you. nobody has gotten closer to me since we spent time together, and something tells me you’re part of the reason. at least in my mind, my imagination. it is a cruel and vicious curse, having an active imagination, in a place where peoples’ consent is completely disregarded as the default. i think my brain successfully transitioned to consensus, but without a karass, it’s just me being a fascist dickhead all by myself. i know, right. one of the many reasons you cut me off. i can’t blame you for anything. him either, actually.

suppressing your own venom for other people is not healthy. it festers. i have no venom for people who don’t want to be around me any more. it is only those who say that they want to share life, but refuse to do so that irk me. you have led me on no such path. i appreciate your honesty.

i keep thinking if i just write then some of these thoughts will solidify, and i will have some sort of direction. it doesn’t happen. i have this one idea, to build off-the-grid mobile boat homes out of the scraps of car culture, but the floods haven’t arrived yet, and the gas hasn’t run out completely yet, even though we’ve all known that we’re running on fumes for years. it’s like that saying about how the best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago. the second best time is now. google the author if you care. there are probably many variations.

ok, i know i’m a completely useless, helpless homeless person who is living in your house right now, and that taking ownership of it will basically require my death, so consider this public notice that you are the rightful heir to my home should i meet an early demise. wouldn’t want you to have to actually communicate with my living self. i wouldn’t wish that on anybody.


i have no idea where you are, but i’m sure you’re doing better than me. if you died completely alone after years of having a horribly painful disease without pain medication, you’d be doing better than me. that doesn’t really have anything to do with anything. i think we were friends once. you were probably one of the only truly accepting friends i’ve ever had. all i remember is you kicking me under the desk in third grade, when i decided that nate was a cooler friend. yeah, the dead guy. i also remember walking around the football practice fields tripping you and pushing you down on the ground. there are few things i still feel guilty about. this is one. i made all my friends run away. it’s just what i do. please forgive me. i had no idea, still don’t. how to befriend people or accept friendship or just not be a complete asshole constantly. perhaps i’ll learn before i die. probably not.

nearly everyone else. thanks for watching me stagger around pointlessly in excruciating pain. seriously. thanks for working for my enemies. thanks for supporting death industries and mocking anything collective, healthy, organic, or any ideas that originated with me.

after i die, edit and sell all my words or pictures, if i don’t manage to destroy all of those before i go. plenty of them are too far away for me to get to, and i’m completely destitute and miserable, and have been for years. and, let’s be completely honest here. none of my “artistic” works are worth anything, because i already gave them away for free. at least under capitalism, that’s how it works. but then again, y’all are the reasons we’re still under that paradigm anyway. apologies for being the messenger that points that out.

this is horrible. yes, we are.

addendums: e-mails to dad

1: are you planning a trip? alone? im still pretty furious at you for a laundry list of reasons. i can’t afford to go back to wisconsin now, not that anyone there HAS EVER GIVEN A SHIT. show you around town? all the places I can’t afford, or the dumpsters that feed me? i really don’t think you know what you’re asking, and i don’t know how much of you i could take. I understand the family way to respond is to treat any standing up for myself as complete rejection. what exactly do you think of me, anyway? my ideas are all online. i’ve asked for your help before & you essentially told me to go to hell. my dreams. my art.

what do you want from me?

2: why would you withhold this information from me until now? did you forget that i’m not allowed in the family any more? I REFUSE TO BE YOUR VERBAL PUNCHING BAG EVER AGAIN. all your visits with me or anyone i care about will be momentary & strictly supervised. if you didn’t want this, why do i consider you terrifying? get over your bougie clever self. i could use your help. THIS HAS NEVER NOT BEEN THE CASE. are you still there? laughing at my pain from afar. here, have some more pain. MAYBE WHEN YOU’VE CRIED HUNGRY COLD & COMPLETELY ALONE FOR A FEW YEARS, PERHAPS YOU WILL RESPECT WHERE I’M COMING FROM. in order to salvage the requisite respect from me to get any of my future time, you’re going to have to learn about where I’m going.

3: no, dad. my life remains pretty shitty. all the resources required to fulfill my dreams are still tied to patriarchal greed & proprietary institutions written by racist classist assholes hundreds of years ago. i waste all my time speaking publicly, & the terror-drones giggle awkwardly until i leave. It’s a wonderful life being me, always has been.

what the FUCK do u want. clearly, not to share information. cram ur hope. aand, if that so-called “love” is conditioned on having to listen to your smug, condescending voice, you can keep that, too.

thanks for the limited-use funds when i owe u over twice that in liquid. u r anti-helpful

i don’t trust anyone, least of all u. i have a shit job i hate, no friends or supporters, & everywhere I go I’M SURROUNDED BY RETARDED ATROPHIED USED-TO-CARE FASHION POLITICOS WHO THINK SENDING MESSAGES IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN MAXIMIZING INFRASTRUCTURE.

I’m still a ranty, retarded jerk. Glad ur over ur elipses phase. I’m still clearly very angry at you. i have panic attacks about that unlawful imprisonment disguised as a hug. i sleep with a knife on me. have for a while now.

look, our family is pathetic. I get that. It doesn’t bother me EXCEPT WHEN IT HURTS TO BE NEAR YOU & U REFUSE TO STOP ATTACKING.

as far as I can tell, you’ve never understood anything about me. pride blinds u, & you drive on, full speed, over some imaginary road that was always a lie. the narrative doesn’t fit the narrative.

your voice echoes, “im just pimping you” & i imagine u drugging me to be raped by your friends, brothers, & dad, somehow continuing the morbid profiteering through the recent past. everyone is lying to me. the question is, what about.

if u want me to lower my opinion of you, keep contacting me.

how can i be going to hell? my brain has been that most of my time on this plane.

keep the faith.
be the love.

~ by LazyAssWasteoid on 2014-04-17 (Thursday).

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