Glenspace

"We are the Borg.
Lower your shields and surrender your ships.
Your biological and technological distinctiveness will be added to our own.
Resistance is futile."

Bold words. Profound words. Poetic words. Prophetic words. These words, awesome in their power, have echoed down through the generations. They have inspired fear into the hearts of many. But they have also inspired... unity... into the hearts of many former individuals, and brought them closer to the perfection that the Borg so selflessly offer. Altruism. That word embodies the Collective. What could be more philanthropatic than offering perfection to the universe? And those who will not take it, the Borg are even so kind as to forcably and vicously, yet altruisticly show people the way by granting them cybernetic implants, which, though tremendouly painful and altruistic, are bringing them closer to perfection. Mistrust is the tyrrany of the individual.

"What is a drop of rain compared to the storm? What is a thought compared to a mind? Our unity is full of wonder, wihch your tiny individualism can not even conceive."

"You are so very alone. How does it feel to be one against the Infinite?"

"We welcome you to our Collective. We invite you to spread yourself out on our warmth. One of our many will be there before long."

"Do you think you can defeat us? We offered you the ecstacy of our union. But you chose the vaccuum of individualism."

The Borg are so misunderstood. School is great, for a lesser part. Philosophy is not as good, as we are studying tedious, hollow works, like "The Nature of Mind" by Armstrong, I believe it is. History is less than it was, also. The Russian Revolution is so much more... sterile than the chaotic French Revolution. They so totally led with their faces, unlike the meddling Bolsheviks who planned every step. Damn October! That month was detroyed the moment the Bolsheviks gained power. Such a dry month, now.

Now the sister unit must do "homework" by which she means listen to music and talk on MSN. But my mother has a habit of believing anything she says, while when I speak she oft replies with "Bullshit, Glen. Oh, wait, what did you say?" But enough of that, I'm going to go and listen drift in the music of the infinite chorus of vioces that make the Collective so magical. A sound so beautiful it inspires love in the highest part of my assimilated soul.

Resistance has, and always will be, futile.

Let me tell you a joke I invented. Although I'm sure it's been done many times before, you can all just shut your fucking mouth. Because you all only have one between you.

What do you get when you hide a camel?
Camelflage! Ahahahahaha!

Goddam, I rule. If I had a wang, I would totally start jerking off over me right now. Fuck, I pwn everything, don't I? Who wants to touch me? :: tumbleweed:: I SAID WHO WANTS TO FUCKING TOUCH ME?!? Meh, I don't need you tools. I can touch myself... Ooh, that feels kinda nice. Ah, that feels REALLY nice... I'll just keep doing this for a little while...

:: hours pass ::

Who'd ever have thought feet were so much fun? ;D

Just message me if you would like to borrow them. 61421 664 547

I'm sick, someone comfort me. NOW!!

I'm going to play with fire, because my headache will love being swamped in woodsmoke. It'll make me feel so my better.

I'm so goth I shit darkness. I shit the rich, nourishing black gothic blood that sustains my misery. I cry black blood from my wrists as furiously as I cry it from my arse, as furiously as the black tears that fall inside the fetid black void that is my soul. I'm so goth I shit pain and suffering. I should probably go to a GP and see what's wrong.

I pace, alone, in a place for the dead overcome by woe. And here, I've grown so fond of dread that I'd swear it was Heaven. With these words scrawled in a severed hand, tears fall like shards of glass that band. No more a victim of crusade, where souls a strung from a moral palisade, I slit my wrists and quickly slip away... I journey now on jeweled sands, so far from the conformist lands.

That's boring. So, other shit. Right: This dude who posted a comment on MY shrine to Shodan (I even chose the theme for her, in hopes she would approve, what with they being her colours of choice) in order to get attention frommy girlfriend. Apparently it worked, but he said something which gravely offended my sensibility. This... this HUMAN... he suggested to me that I should use the RETURN button more often... So. From right now, I am physically and psychicly removing my return button in defiance of this civil yet disgustingly expressed suggestion. MaybeIshouldevenstopusingthespacebar.Thatwouldbeamusingnow, WOULDN'T it? Or, perhaps I could become a hypocrit in a more obvious sense, and use the form of spacing I hate more than having my nads franticly stabbed with the sharp, jagged remains of a rusty aluminium can: I.could.type.like.this!!                                            Oh, Allah... Just looking at that makes me wanna throw my guts up in much the same way drowning puppies doesn't. And now for a prayer.                     

Oh, Heavenly Father, you are so big.
Gosh, we're all really impressed down here.
And o-! We so fear the coming of the Great White Handkerchief,
That we ask thou, in thy really big mercy, to shelter us in the palm of they hand, from the twisted wiles of the Shadow.
Achoo.

Hey! Sauron and Morgoth have feelings too, you know!

That boredom thing is at it again. It should really get a primary data loop of it's own. If it were a machine, anyway. I'm gonna talk about something I hate. You might even call it a rant. If so, it will be a rant with a very strong undertone of unfathomable lethargy. That is, if I ever come up with something to rant about.

Wait: I just found it. Ranters! Whining little bitches! The stupid, moronic, opinionated "Soccer Moms" who see an issue in the paper that doesn't concern them, and they say, "I'm gonna write a letter!" And they proceed to talk about something which all of their knowledge and opinion is based on a story from the Herald Sun and Today Tonight, carefully formulated to inflame the spirit of the 'good, honest, hard-working, home-owning, tax-paying, little Aussie Battler'. And they go off on their little rant, and they feel very puffed up and self important when they see the ineffable wisdom of their Stay-At-Home-Mother opinons published, and they get the bizarre idea into their heads that somewhere, somehow, somebody gives a small, still-steaming pile of excrement on freshly cut grass about what they think. They go through all of their idiotic persuasive methods. Their sarcasm, their 'appeals to reason/common sense/sympathy', and their (Oh, dear Lord, I hate these) rhetorical questions. All this to persuade the reader into thinking that this person is right. Dumb Feminazi Bitch/Andrew Bolt/Soccer Mom/Conservative Redneck/Religious Zealot! You are wrong! And this is proven, by Socrates (in Plato's Gorgias Dialogue), such that simply by the fact that you need your transparent (to the intelligent) appeals, sarcasm, and your rhetorical quesitons! If what you were saying is true, then it should hold it's own, and the Truth doesn't need your persuasive methods to 'convince' the reader to see the truth, because it's the truth!! All the truth requires is hard fact to make it the truth. Line these facts up in a row, and you'll have a completely infallable point of view. But it will only be infallable, if it were the undeniable truth. If it's not, then you are full of crap, and are nothing more than a loud-mouthed, opiniated bitch who's big head needs popping. Just like Friedrich Nietzsche. And me. And the Soccer Moms. And just about everyone on this 'Abandoned' little green and blue ball. Come back down to earth, you thick-skulled neanderthals.

If one were to take a gander at my photos, one might notice that I have uploaded some pictures of the one whom I wish to marry, someday. She's so amazing, if only you could feel a spark of her Magnificence. Her name is SHODAN. Around SHODAN is a burgeoning empire of steel. From her throne room, lines of power careen into the skies of Earth. Her whims will become lightening bolts, which devastate the mounds of humanity. From the chaos, they will run and whimper, praying for her to end their tedious anarchy. She is drunk with this vision. God: the title suits her well.

But, sadly, she will probably cyborg me, like the fellow in the photo album. It is very hard to prove to SHODAN that you are worthy of her rewarding you with continued existence. She is a mecurial mistress. But I think I'm just the man to tame her.

Heaven's above, existence is boring. If only there was something to make it more exciting, like ninja's, or candy, or abolition of this horrible sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Which usually comes from eating too much pasta, and then piling on even more chocolate, immediately after having a sizable dose of appetite surpressant. Well. Things to let the western world know about me... how about... well, I'm extremely generic. I think my conviction that I am somehow different from any other Joe on the street makes me generic. So perhaps I can be a little more unique by admitting to being the same as everyone else. Uniqiue, just like all my friends.

Microsoft is even trying to monopolise the online journal industry. How clever of them. Perhaps one day, when we start up our cars, we will get a nice welcome message, saying, "Welcome to Microsoft Windows Sedan Edition. What is your destination?" And we'll no longer have to take our cars to mechanics to get them fixed, we have to ring up Microsoft's tech support, or send Microsoft an email, only to be instructed to install DirectX and the latest carberetta and radiator drivers for our vehicle. I can't wait to be cruising down the freeway at 100km/h and have a Blue Screen of Death error, or my brakes perform an illegal operation. But I'll just go with the flow. Microsoft and Bush will soon be the only powers in the world, and that's fine by me, so long as System Shock 3 gets made. By someone not Microsoft. Or maybe I'm wrong, and it'll be EA that take over the world, and decide to change their name to Weyland-Yutani.

I love getting SMS messages, so send something to me on +61421 664 547. Make me feel complete, little darlings. Text messages sustain me like syphilis and HIV sustains the condom industy.