fuck it, I'm just gonna look at porn anyway.

Large portions of our lives are automatically recorded, we leave long electronic scent trails everywhere we go. Google already knows all our sexual fetishes, but thankfully those we socialise with do not. That's the important difference, it's often far easier to tell secrets to strangers, you don't want to be shattering any carefully crafted perceptions now.

This must be the awkward, self-conscious stage of the experiment, cos according to the logs people are actually looking at my browser history, and it's a very weird place to be. Suddenly I feel like a dick. You know one of those horrible social situations where you lose all self confidence and think christ almighty! they're all staring.

Doing this maxwell thing has made me think about what I actually do on the net. Compulsively checking my facebook, looking at gmail again to see if anything new has turned up. I color coded everything on maxwell today so it's a lot easier to see where the time goes, My god! What kind of impression am I makin here? It's not something you usually have to consider, and now I find myself looking at the history myself and considering it. And yet, still, I can't help being indifferent for long periods, just doing what I normally do regardless, It's just too much effort to try and control that much information. Besides, I'm really no different than anybody else, a little more self-obsessed maybe, and then again maybe not. Who can say what other people do on the internet?

Terrible, deviant things I'll bet.

Then again, I am a little hesitant about going on a good solid porn binge. There's something about posting the porn I'm jerking off to on the internet in realtime that is both disturbing and arousing. Yeah, you probably feel the same way. In any case I'm quickly banging up against the glass walls of my “transparency”, finding all the jagged edges.

What would it be like if everyone did this? Imagine you were recorded each and every moment and that anyone, anybody at all could wind back and watch any point in your life. And that you could do the same to anyone else. We'd all have to be a lot more forgiving I'd guess. A lot more tolerant. Our public and private faces would have to be the same, the only privacy we would have would be in our heads. Cos... it might be a good thing. Just sayin'.

That said, there are definite portions of my time on earth I wouldn't want anybody seeing, certain sections that would make me shrivel up and die. In a funny way not only does this feed all kinds of crazy self-esteem deficits and malignant narcissistic supply issues but I kinda hope it will make me somewhat of a better person, or at least a more honest one, with myself and with others. Truth is I find everyone else endless fascinating—I regularly devour entire online lives and I'd be a pig in shit heaven if there were more browser histories available. I had this idea of making a firefox plugin & an associated wordpress plugin so no code necessary and anybody with basic computer skills could start putting their internet life online. Issue a challenge. Start a community based around radical self-revelation.

I'll add it to my “to-do” list.

Oh crap, every time I use google as a spell checker it ends up in there too.

Just woke up, sober more or less, and re-read the self-indulgent bullshit I'd written in the depths of my booze binge, thinking wha? the fuck dude, come on, seriously weak. Harden up.

It's crazy how easy it is for everything to go sideways with alcohol, which really re-enforces it's position for me as a shit drug. Basically anything is better.

Now I'm a bit more together it's hard for me to understand or appreciate the mood I was in when I wrote the previous entry.

Man, you know, perhaps I feel: like I can do all this stuff, perhaps, could be (possibly) these things, that might, that maybe, that it plausibly could be the case that no-one has ever done before, but who the fuck cares, who gives a shit honestly. Tonight I drank an entire bottle of vodka, barely even gets me drunk. My worth as a person is directly proportional to who I can affect, to what I can inflict; the ideas I infected, the impact I have on other individuals.

My ability to fuck shit up is the only thing that gives me any value as a human being. That's the sole and single only thing. Other people only notice you when you're messing with their business. The whole “nice-as-pie” attitude don't sell newspapers. Maggots and glazed dead eyes, that's what the viewers want.

I dun like being a violent person, but at least at the end of it you feel like you've made a difference. They ain't gonna forget that shit in a hurry. Otherwise it's raindrops on brand new shiny leather shoes, not much of anything. Another dot dot dot in the middle of the long pause between awkward silences.

Man, you know, it seems like I'm fighting a fight I can't win, fucking a hole that goes nowhere. Yeah, I have a lot to compensate for.

What would happen if your browser history, instead of being an intensely personal and private thing, was made absolutely public? I guess I'm about to find out, because I've just put a rolling 24 hour list online here. The internet as performance art. I'm kinda wondering if this will change my behavior. It's a lot of information to give away, but perhaps nobody will care. All I know is, if somebody I found in anyway interesting had their browser history online I'd be sniffing through that shit like a professor through an undergraduates underwear pile.

Yeah. My awareness that someone might be watching could change things. You don't want to scratch your balls in public. On the other hand, on all those reality TV shows where the participants are filmed 24/7 eventually they just stop caring about the camera.

I don't think anyone has done this before, least-ways not voluntarily. Just like the idea of being as transparent as humanly possible.

Gonna upgrade features etc later, will write more about how this affects my day-to-day, if indeed it does.

ob-la-di, ob-la-da – life goes on.

VIOLATE YOUR OWN PRIVACY MOTHERFUCKERS, DO IT BEFORE SOMEBODY ELSE DOES!

Eight tabs really does sound like a completely insurmountable, totally crazy amount of acid. Well, it did, but I'm coming to realise that most I've been told or have come assume about hallucinogenic drugs is ridiculous horseshit, pure unadulterated garbage and not even in the ballpark of a vague approximation of being anywhere close to correct. They've lied to you. Lied and lied and lied.

Back in the day, when Berkeley chemists slaved many hours over a hot stove and churned out the stuff by the barrel-load, I can imagine downing eight tabs would be quite the achievement. Indeed, all those stories about the guy who “took too much” and ended up in a pink padded cell in the psych ward thinking he was an orange fruit and screaming endless that “THE JUICER! THE JUICER!” was coming for him sound almost plausible in the 60's. The acid got weaker, but the price and people's perceptions stayed the same. This wouldn't be a problem if it was as cheap as the states, but here in New Zealand it's thirty to forty dollars a tab, you can't just gobble back a ten strip and float off into fairyland. Even obtaining that much LSD was a significant effort, let alone the cost involved.

Kids today take one tab and think they're tripping, it's a joke. First tab I took I expected leprechauns - and all I got was high. My friends tell me it's self-destructive, that I'm gonna fry my brain with this shit. Brother, sister, unless you've seen the things I've seen, trod the roads I've travelled, you got absolutely no idea. I want to crawl to the edge of the pit and look over. As any investor will tell you, risk and reward are directly related. Ain't no gold without a few dead miners.

As for the trip itself, good, yeah, but with a tiny kind-of hint of disappointment. I felt like I could have handled more. All those cheesy psychedelic effects you see in the movies when someone gets fucked up on some rotten hallucinogenic drug, that's actually what it's like. We walked through the pine forest, watched the trees twist into fractals, built a bonfire on the beach, stared at the flames and talked.

I always wonder why it's illegal, it just makes me so goddamn furious. Everyone should try acid, go on psychedelic holiday and get the hell out of dodge for a while. “Trip” is an extremely appropriate term, like skydiving or swimming with conceptual sharks: scary, exhilarating, but afterwards it's over and you feel like you've really lived, returned from some strange bizarre planet with brand new alien technology—mixed shit up a little. Imagine the headlines: “Man takes LSD! Nothing bad happens, has some interesting ideas”. Unfortunately I can't see that making the frontpage of the local newspaper. Makes me want to go kick a conservative lawmaker in the teeth.

As for me, I'm gonna do something interesting.

As for me, I'm off to bend the iron of the world.

There are an awful lot of beautiful girls in the world, and a very many women whose facets I greatly appreciate, in their oblique and complicated angles, and in the sideways aspects of their face.

Lucy, you really do drive me a little bit crazy.

Many of the girls today, they don't eat enough mince & cheese pies, know what I'm sayin'. Attractive enough... in the face, but no curves! skin all hanging off them like a stack of towel rails. Yeah, it's a problem for me. Real men don't cry! and for that matter neither do I. But sometimes a simple minor breakdown can be surprisingly, somewhat marvellously cathartic. I try and pencil one in at least once a week or as time allows. It's sometimes difficult, trying to reconcile the labyrinthine accounts of my actions in my head, attempting to balance the cheque book of my prick against, well.

Been thinking, I've been thinking about trust. And, now, admittedly I am a scumbag – and also awesome, filth and slime and kittens and love, two coins of the same side. But trust that is good enough; the right size, round about, a good handful, that'll do me, that's all I expect; cos I reckon, people fuck up. They fuck up all the time. I myself, fuck up more than most and faster than many, and am frequently not in a position to judge (though I frequently do). I've done some bad things. I have taken the low road on many an occasion. Actually, to be honest, the idea of me trying to judge anybody else is pretty much morally hilarious. Like you expect a trial your peers and instead get a sympathetic jury of incestuous goat fiddlers, you feel dirty even when you get off.

Trust though is kinda fluid, you gotta take a long range view. when every candle of the soul is tallied, if it's worth it in the long run, then it's worth it right now.

Sometimes I get the feeling I'm actually pretty warped.

In the end I eventually managed to re-right the fragile little paper sail boat of my emotions; pitiful paraffin origami yacht that it was, so very easily, so amazing easy to capsize, and thus I come now to some vague equilibrium, a truce of sorts with myself, bobbing up and down in the water, nearly turning wrongways; but not, but almost—flipping over but somehow stayin upright.

My problem is I still love my ex, and to be honest it fucks me up at times. I still cry over it, like a pussy, on occasion. Yeah. Kinda stupid. Believe me, I've tried everything, from heartfelt sex to meaningless attempts at interpersonal connection. A dumb romantic fool, in impossible love, the worst, the most hopeless case in the dictionary. Actually, you know, I believe that if I was a horse they'd shoot me. It takes a certain unrepentant obstenence, a wilful unruly unwillingness to recognize the brute facts of reality to be able to stay in love with someone that doesn't love you back that same way, but I guess that's how my parents raised me. “Don't be a quitter!”—that's what Dad said! and every single time I've tried to give up smoking his words rise from the tomb of my memory like a ghostly accusation.

You know; I can turn on the charm when I choose to. Make people like me. Be! gregarious, magnanimous, apparently heartfelt. At end of it I still feel like I was just oil on ice, like I just... slid past without touching.

so goddamn stupid.

On the social ladder of winning card permutations: skinny beats smart every time. Don't matter what the table size is. Man, I reckon: I could, I do! out-fight, out-fuck and out-drink anyone. But, you know... yeah, how it is.

speaking of which: I'm just
about to

go to

out-fight &
out-drink

and

completely, totally, obliteratingly & amazingly out-fuck

every
goddamn motherfucking animal
at this goddamn fucking
party
so!
good luck.

kiwicon write up in Australian mens style magazine (!), picture of my big bald head on the third page.

Finally, I can get me some quality homo lovin'. Hackers, like all sensible businessmen, truly appreciate the rainbow dollar.

Dear Mother,

I realise I have been writing to you a lot about love recently, and lovers, and the types and temperament of love, and it's various cuts and carats, so I suppose you may have guessed that it has been on my mind a lot. I do hope I have not bored you to tears with my churlish observations - a serious risk, I admit - and yet I feel forced to continue. Your long-suffering patience has thus far proved indefinite; I trust you will forgive this also.

Love: sublime, yes, but alas it doesn't always work out. Imagine everything that was once so good, so sweet, so incredibly incredibly right and perfectly destined in the course of things is now just a lump of red hot coal burning a bottomless hole in the pit of your stomach. Caught up and helpless, tumbling and tumbling in the whirl of an irresistible force - the hand of God HIMSELF has picked you up and brought you into heaven! then slammed down viciously against the ground. Even the Fates themselves are shackled to Fortuna's wheel Mother, as I'm sure you are aware. To us small mortals it seems nearly impossibly that a fire so strong, so shining, could splutter out and rasp to embers, but it happens, and regularly. What's even worse is that the fire never entirely goes out. You know I wish to hell there was a simple switch that could shut off heartache with the flick of a finger. But there ain't. There isn't.

Old war wounds do tend to flare up on frosty mornings.

Hippocrates considered the matter medically, and once diagnosed a case of love sickness in the young prince of Antioch, who had unfortunately fallen in love with the king of Antioch's wife, his stepmother. The “cure” in this case was for the king to divorce his wife so his son could marry her — though how exactly this helps the likes of us I'm not sure. Some psychologists, agreeing with Hippocrates diagnosis, think love to be similar in structure to a mild case of obsessive compulsive disorder, or even a mania, a kind of mental illness that can take grip and shake the brain until it sloshes in it's globe.

I think of love as a piece of shrapnel, and some days are worse than others.

Going out was a total and unmitigated failure, veering at times towards full blown catastrophe. Actually that isn't true at all. There was the usual amount of hijinx and high spirits, but I guess I just expect too much from these things. I've had better luck trying to start a fire by banging two old bits of newspaper together.

I often wonder about the about the purpose of these ritualised Friday nights. We gets our clown paint out and our mask face on and then spend the rest of the night trying to slip into a skin that's a little more comfortable. I guess it all begins to feel a bit empty. The people start to feel like hand crafted ceramic shells. Christ! you think. Did I just piss down my leg?

Very probably. And after that things almost inevitably start to slide downhill. Perhaps taking that acid wasn't the smartest move in the playbook. There's no one around to talk to. I mean there's plenty of conversation about to be had, there's jokes to be told, first impressions to be made, indeed a thousand different ways to embarrass yourself, but all that shit is like a miniature side-salad when what you really want to bite into is a rare and bloody steak.

Come to think of it, there was one interesting thing: if you ever want to make someone light up like a skyrocket, when they're in love, ask them about it. I tried this a few times, a few different people I knew, and you can immediately see everything else drops away for them and they smile and talk freely and you get a sense of something wonderfully genuine and warm. It's nice to hear their stories, but what I like most is that they forget themselves and it's real.

That's what I want man, the raw and tender moments when whatever prehistoric thing that swims beneath the cool dark pool of us comes up to surface and draws air. You get it in fist fights and when people forget themselves in love or lose control in grief or are overcome with any emotion strong to enough to temporarily break the bonds of self-restraint. Maybe it's a little crazy to wish that life could be like that all the time, that everyone always be filled right to the brimful with a terrible and relentless sincerity—to demand every single second exist as a poignant drop of milk and insist that every word splashing across our ears be a careless spill of umber.

Cos that's kind of how I want to live, with all the dials on this machine fixed firmly at eleven. I want to live as the raised voices of childhood. As a cry. Or a shout! An unending unyielding invincible yell, sounding the fire siren; that things around here are TOO DAMN QUIET. Of course I am guilty of exactly the same level of banality as everybody else I accuse, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Strange, that authenticity has grown so rare, or that I feel it to be so, that it seems worth my while to consciously try and seek it out. These mass produced and manufactured shades with the names picked from the thesaurus leave you, ultimately, with a sense of profound dissatisfaction, and of loss, they will never be as good as the real ones, but the old colours are gone now and we have only the descriptions in our encyclopedias to go on.

I feel we may have misplaced an important and necessary set of keys, somewhere. Or that I have.

WOMEN: Too difficult, too weird to figure out, too damn complicated and just too hard in general.

You can't trust anything that squirms it's way out of my mouth, especially after two thirds of a bottle of Gordon's gin. What was I thinking? Working in reverse I find this frail and bent-over Minotaur cannot trace that frayed old thread back through the turns and twists of the maze. Alcohol, yeah, it's a shitter. My least preferred drug of all now. Nothing else I've ever taken makes you wake up clutching your head and wondering what the fuck went down last night and what the hell you're going to have to do repair all the damage.

It wasn't that anything particularly bad happened, per se. I went looking for inspiration in the bottle and I guess I got it. Not enough pills in this town, that's the problem. Alcohol is a sour high, and I'd much rather just be rolling steady. The older I get the more it feels like a poison. With stuff, the other effects are nice sure, but it's more the disihibitation, the partial loss of control I'm after. There's all kinds of crazy brilliant things inside you, great, wonderful, amazing multicoloured concepts, and of course you want to let them roam free but then again there's also all this darkness rotting in your guts, and if you open that door then sometimes stone lizards slither out as well as magic talking caterpillars.

And that's the risk. And dems da breaks.

Here, in the red, you got a bad reputation. Looks as if you done given up your ghost quite some time ago. A tooth for the truth: there's a tiny tear in her pocket and all her hope spilled out. Like a game of poker; for it to be any real fun at all you gotta play for real money. There has to be some risk involved to make it in anyway interesting. I bet the world, you raise five minutes of my time.

You used to be beautiful. It was always your spirit I loved, you seemed to me to be a knock-out punch from a broken arm, something really truly heartfelt.

And now, I guess, old bicycles are the only things that grow beside your railway.

Ah, who am I kidding, you're still beautiful, and underneath those bleak grey rocks lies, I reckon, kindling just waiting to be kindled; softly, gently, blown, licked into flame. Look, seriously, it won't be like the last time. I swear to god I'll get it up this round, I promise. You still send me: reeling: back into the ropes, even after everything that stacked between us. Come, take my hand, we could, perhaps, burn up in the sunset together, two outlaws crossing cards in the desert. .

But, like I've said, there is nothing more wonderful or wondrous than watching two people fall in love. It truly is a sweet leaf floating on a toxic river of misery. But, you know.. forget love... damn girl! you are as cute as sin, and twice as tempting. You make all my resolutions float away like essays in the wind, you are a gentle breeze like the easy lies like the whispers we whispered together in bed, but DAMN girl if you ain't something special, a truly spicy taste. something rare and unusual; mysterious, exotic, blood-won spice, you oriental flavoursome, a delectable delicacy, worth, at last! the licking of lips.

She: (another), she is smart, as in intelligent. She smart, as in marble. Smart as in hot. Smart as in lava flow. Smart, as a volcanic eruption. Yeah, she boilin'. The quality of knowing shit I don't know, that I have always found very attractive in a woman. And gorgeous, like a magnifying glass. Yeah, so she easy on the eye, so give me a break here. What this, the Spanish inquisition? She as indescribable as a good time. She, perhaps, the hottest of all, so I dun say too much else I embarrass myself. She a hit to the head with a smart rock.

So I shut the fuck up.

The names are the same, only the important facts have been changed.