So...
There are 600-1 odds that the tomb of Jesus, as he was depicted in the New Testament, was found. That gives us 600-1 odds that the old Roman-Christian doctrine has several substancial falsehoods at its core while all of the heretical sects of Christianity--the gnostics, the "jewish-christians" etc--were shown to be nearer the truth, at least in their beliefs about Jesus's family life and death/resurection. 600-1 odds that all deviations of the Roman-Christian ethos (Greek Orthodoxy, Lutherans, Protestants, Catholics, Mormans, Reborn-christians, neo-christians, and simply modern christians excepting, perhaps, those who somehow follow the 'dead' religions that are mostly unknown or lost to history) revolve entirely around a concept of a celebate man and his resurection that has been painted entirely untrue.


Interested?

Love is the insidious lie that one is worthy of attention.  Animals, being wiser and more instinctively aware of the world into which they are born, possess little need for such false concepts of love,  and if they are capable of affection it is not out of any such maintained lie.  No, they provide affection because they have come to fall prey to another lie within captivity that the journey to maturity purges from most creatures in the wild.  That lie is comfort.  A weakness we crave and seek out with every fiber of our being, seemingly born of the most base instincts derived from the need for sustenance, warmth, and reproduction.  Around these two things it seems all of humanity revolves.  Two great lies that are the foundation for all we fashion.  So then what is left for those of us who have fashioned nothing?   The cold lessons of the wilds that leave one ruthless and feral or the prolonged agony of longing for that which one does not have.  But all the same, we are bound by captivity.  Civilization has no use for our cold lessons nor our prolonged agony and so we are cast aside again and again or confined to cruel, barren cages.  Creatures devoid of the comfort that others so crave or feared for what wilderness has left behind our eyes.   

Tonight after falling asleep on the couch while taking a break from the mind-numbing drudgery of reading medical reports I woke up to find a documentary about Hunter S. Thompson starting.  For a moment, as I watched the intro involve a great deal of nonsense involving the ridiculatard we call Gary Busey, I thought to myself: "Ah, this is going to leave me bored and agitated like nearly all things that happen involving Gary Busey."   But, fortunately, laziness stayed my hand and I watched on.   For two and a half hours (Maybe it was one and a half.  I'll exaggerate if I want to, fuck you) I found myself getting more and more sucked into this story about a disturbed, debauched, and insane man whom I find myself adoring.   Granted, I haven't read anything he wrote.  I can't promise that I could even get through anything he wrote.   But the man himself is an inspiration. 

 

He vandalized, he stole, he did drugs, he drank heavily (from the age of TEN!), he cursed, he was nocturnal, he blew shit up, he shot guns, he became the man celebrities flocked to, he spoke out against presidents, he spoke out against himself, he married, he loved, he was loved, he wrote, he was emulated, he became an icon, and he killed himself.  

 

This man is fucking brilliant.  Not for what he did, but how he did it.

 

The stigma of madness did not hinder him.  It did not slow him down.  He did as he wanted regardless of what it was that he wanted and, if anything, it only increased his forward momentum.   If there was a flaw, it WAS his forward momentum.  Not to say that he did not error, but his errors only enhanced all that he was.  He lived life on his own terms.  He was free.

 

This is one of the few things I have always craved in life.  That freedom.  And for so long it has seemed, above even those few other things, entirely unattainable.  But after giggling for two and a half hours at the life of a man who brought so much into the world I realize that I've had it all wrong...

 

I am a stuttering dickhead and I am an elequent, if inconsiderate, twat. I am a kindhearted fool, bent towards naivety.  I am loving and deeply affectionate, wanting only to adore and be adored. I am violent and I love it; to struggle is to be alive. I am serene within the violence, and always wishing honestly to be surrounded by peace. I am debauched; a creature who falls prey far too easily to his own vices. I am moral; a creature seeing and seeking the virtue of abstaining from sin.  I am always laughing, and little feels better than making others laugh. I am always depressed and at times I can do little else but wallow in my own misery, dragging into the mire those who would offer me aid. I am a hard worker, striving to do well in all I attempt. I am wholly without ambition and entirely lost, wanting to actually do very, very little. I am cold to that which makes others blanche, weep, or worry.  I am sensitive, seeing the pain in others and often knowing best how to mend it. I am royally fucked in the head but level and plain and freakishly, freakishly me.  I am contradiction.  I am hypocrisy.  But I'm better at it than you, even though these are things you practice far more.   I will offend you.  I will touch your heart.  You are likely to get one far more than the other.  Experiences will vary.  And I am terribly, terribly sorry if you don't like it.  I really am.  Indeed, with you who loath me I can likely relate far more than those who adore.   But all the same, you can still piss off. 

 

"I would feel terribly trapped in this life if I didn't know that I could kill myself at any time."   -Hunter S. Thompson.