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| Something to think about | August 29, 2006, 2:06AM |
 by: Zildjian_drummer1623 |
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Whenever something horrible happens in this country like school shootings and bomb threats from teenagers and even younger kids people blame violence on TV and in video games. That may be true, but only in part. I believe there may be something more that we have missed maybe because we’ve been brainwashed not to notice it, or perhaps we just didn’t want to. The military sends our soldiers over to fight and kill. Now im against war, but I also understand that at times it is necessary. Now the sad truth is, when someone enters the military that have to be taught to kill, and that not just teaching someone how to shoot a gun or use a knife; it's teaching them how to think. If you’ve ever seen the movie “Jarhead” you know what I mean. At the end of the movie they were actually disappointed they didn’t get to kill. Now I’m not here to say everyone in the military is like that. It’s also understandable that they would have to be hardened in that way, and that is not the problem im referring to it’s a bit deeper than that. When I got to work the other day, my friend ran up to me with a picture of his brother who is in Iraq. He showed me the first few, and their of him and his buddies with their shirts off showing off their muscles. Typical stuff until the last one; they had placed a bag over one of the guy's heads and tied his hands back. Standing over him holding an 8-inch knife against his throat was my friends’ brother. Perhaps joking and playing was their way of keeping what they had to do different, making themselves think it was all a game, and I can’t say blame them for that. The problem is the way my friend always talked about his brother. He looked up to him in every way and idolized him. He idolizes this man holding a knife to this bound man's throat. Could this have an impact on the way we see everyday life? I think perhaps it might. We idolize these people in the military and teach our kids that they are heros; But without realizing it I believe we are teaching them more than we mean to. Im not saying the military is bad or that these people, our soldiers, are bad, I’m not saying that at all. Im not sure what we need to do. I just want to get people thinking. A few months ago we had a lady working with us that was fresh out of the military. She just got back from Iraq. One day, sitting on my break, I overheard her and some of her friends talking about some pictures on her laptop she had brought in that day. Now I’ll admit I didn’t see these pictures, but hearing them talk about them was more than enough. Apparently these were pictures from Iraq. I heard things coming from them like “Has his head ben cut off?", “Are those his guts?” “That’s disgusting.” This went on for most of my break, as I sat there trying to relax having to listen to this. After some time one of the girls asked if the lady had witnessed all this, and she replied, “I did it,” and at that moment everyone realized what was going on. She had been the one to take these pictures and been the one to do these things to these people. Two of the girls after realizing this got up and walked away. The others left after she started telling stories about bashing peoples' doors down and running in guns blazing. This girl was proud of what she had done. That is the hard truth of what happens to people in war. It's not fun, it's not pretty, and it's sure not something we should idolize. Look back at the events of September 11, 2001. I was in high school, and I remember watching on TV people in Iraq, women and children, dancing and celebrating in the streets. I remember the response everyone had to that: “What monsters.” After 9/11 the big TV’s in the cafeteria were always turned to CNN. When the “war on terror” started, everyone would run down between classes to watch the bombings live on TV, and I remember people cheating screaming “Hell ya” and other more colorful sayings. That day I saw those people in my school as monsters just the same as the people we watched on TV. I guess what really got me thinking about this was a song. I personally am not a country fan and I don’t know how many of you are familiar with the song “Letters from home”by John Michael Montgomery. I found myself sitting in a restaurant half listening to this song, and before realizing it. I had this longing feeling for what he was singing about, receiving letters from home. The song is simply about this guy in war missing his family and friends. The verses on this song are three letters he receives from people he loves back home. Those verses are separated by a chorus, “I hold it up and show my buddies, Like we ain’t scared and our boots ain’t muddy, and they all laugh, Like there’s something funny bout’ the way I talk, When I say: 'Mama sends her best y’all.' I fold it up an' put it in my shirt, Pick up my gun an' get back to work. An' it keeps me driving me on, Waiting on letters from home.” I sat there listening to that over and over again, feeling that longing to be over there like it’s a fun camping trip and wanting that feeling of getting that letter from home. That feeling made me sick, a song like that being so sweet and so warm makes’ us all think that what they're doing over there is great. Listening to that song you gives the feeling that you want to join them and do great things over there. It blinds us from the fact that they are killing. I think it's good to be reminded of that because it keeps us realizing that they have it hard and we don’t want to be there. Songs like this glorify war and keep the truth just out of our view. We all know what is going on over there; we just don’t want to be reminded of it. I think we should be. I think we should be kept aware of the horror that is going on over there and just be careful how we view it. I don’t know what needs to change, I’m not here to tell you, I just want you to think about this, and maybe it will make sense to you. Maybe one of you can come up with something. If you do let me know; let everyone know. As I end this I want to clarify I did not write this to offend anyone; it’s mainly to get it off my chest and express what I was feeling. I’m left with a quote from “V for Vendetta” running through my head: “And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country, isn't there? ...How did this happen? Who’s to blame? ...but again truth be told, if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look in the mirror.” --------------------------------- Artist: John Michael Montgomery Song: Letters From Home My Dear Son, it is almost June, I hope this letter catches up to you, and finds you well. Its been dry but they’re calling for rain, And everything's the same ol’ same in Johnsonville. Your stubborn 'ol Daddy ain’t said too much, But I’m sure you know he sends his love, And she goes on, In a letter from home. I hold it up and show my buddies, Like we ain’t scared and our boots ain’t muddy, and they all laugh, Like there’s something funny bout’ the way I talk, When I say: "Mama sends her best y’all." I fold it up an' put it in my shirt, Pick up my gun an' get back to work. An' it keeps me driving me on, Waiting on letters from home. My Dearest Love, its almost dawn. I’ve been lying here all night long wondering where you might be. I saw your Mama and I showed her the ring. Man on the television said something so I couldn’t sleep. But I’ll be all right, I’m just missing you. An' this is me kissing you: XX’s and OO’s, In a letter from home. I hold it up and show my buddies, Like we ain’t scared and our boots ain’t muddy, and they all laugh, 'Cause she calls me "Honey", but they take it hard, 'Cause I don’t read the good parts. I fold it up an' put it in my shirt, Pick up my gun an' get back to work. An' it keeps me driving me on, Waiting on letters from home. Dear Son, I know I ain’t written, But sittin' here tonight, alone in the kitchen, it occurs to me, I might not have said, so I’ll say it now: Son, you make me proud. I hold it up and show my buddies, Like we ain’t scared and our boots ain’t muddy, but no one laughs, 'Cause there ain’t nothing funny when a soldier cries. An' I just wipe me eyes. I fold it up an' put it in my shirt,Pick up my gun an' get back to work. An' it keeps me driving me on, Waiting on letters from home. These Lyrics and those in the body of the essay taken from www.anysonglyrics.com | |
topic: Essays | |
[reply] [5 comments] |
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| September 11th | August 27, 2006, 8:48PM |
 by: crazy_rocker_chick |
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Lately I've been thinking about things quite a bit. And I realized that September 11th is right around the corner. Every day ever since that new movie based on the events of that day came out,I've realized how lucky I am.My uncle works in the army and used to go to the Pentagon all the time until it got hit by the plane. What if he had been there that day? What if he had been called to the Pentagon and had been killed? When I ask myself these questions,it makes me think of all the people who lost family and friends on September 11th.It makes realize how truely lucky all of us are.Yes,I know life can sometimes sucks.Life can be a bitch and a big one at that.I face hardships almost every day.Most people can't tell because usually I'm considered the cheerful and happy person in the group.But I have fought things in life that even some of my closest friends have no clue about. But then I think of the hundreds of children who lost their parents that day.The thousands of men and women who lost their lives and the heros who gave up their lives to try and save others.And then I realize,what if I were one of them?What if all of a sudden while at work my life came to a sudden end. The point I'm trying to make is that life is to short to waiste it on worrying and thinking about all the bad things.Some people face abuse.Some people are drug adicts.People have all sorts of problems.But instead of just being depressed,try to find something in life that makes you happy and focus on that.I used to be anti-social and depressed all the time but it made me miserable.Don't make that mistake. Take life day by day and if you have problems,try to fix them.Don't just let them progress or continue and don't bitch about it. If you're abused,go to the police or call a help line.If you do drugs,go to a psychiatrist and again,call a help line.If you're depressed,see a doctor and don't just let depression take over your life. Everyone deserves the chance for pure happiness.Every single person deserves the chance to live life to it's fullest.When you're feeling crappy,think about those people at the Twin Towers.Realize that could have just as easily been you or your family and friends.You are lucky enough to be alive and here.Take advantage of that.Do what you want to do, but remember your limits.If you don't,then be prepared to regret that decision for the rest of your life. | |
topic: Life | |
[reply] [3 comments] |
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| The Story Of A Boy | August 16, 2006, 12:08AM |
 by: AnotherNamelessChaos |
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Our story begins with a boy. This boy has been raised believing that he lives in a perfect world. He was born in a small town in Oklahoma, but when his father got a job in Ohio, they picked up and moved when the boy was only four. Later he would recall those days in Oklahoma as early indications of the life he was soon to live. So now he was in Ohio. He attended an elementary school, and from the first first day he was greeted with love by the teachers, and disdain by the students. Though they all were only children, their innocence allowed their malice to be all the more pure and undiluted by morality. And so, this boy was tormented. Not because he was particularly bad looking, not because he was overweight (though in later years he would consider himself as such), but simply because he never made them stop. He never fought back. This is because his father taught him to never throw the first punch, a law which he took to heart. You see, unlike most children of his generation, he was not easily swayed by his emotions, or fell quickly into temptation. He believed his parents, had no reason not to trust them, and so when they told him the world was a perfect place, he believed them. No one lied. No one hurt. No on cried. That was the way the world was. So this boy heard his classmates telling him how worthless he was, and he had no choice but to believe them, because no one ever lied. He was a pacifist, believed that fighting was only the answer when the other party believed that it was. He didn't like seeing people in pain. This boy was stronger than he realized, and he knew he could inflict pain should the desire arise, but arise it never did. He never cried. He never screamed. He never started fights. He never did drugs. He never really did anything to relieve the anger that was slowly building inside him. Because he felt like these kids knew what they were talking about. And so, eight years passed. By this point, his perception of a perfect world was beginning to come into question. But it would not be shattered for quite some time. His mother's parents were getting old, and she was tired of living so far from them. So she took her son with her to live with his cousin in Texas. His cousin's husband was a kind soul, but angry, and on some nights the boy cried because of the man's anger towards him. He would not realize until much later that the man had been angry at him only because he saw himself in the boy. It was in his short half a year stay in Texas that his life changed desperately. He was expecting ridicule. He was expecting the same hatred he'd always been given. But lo and behold, people liked him. Even more, he was popular. Perhaps the kids back in Ohio had been lying? Perhaps there was another reason for what they had said and done to him. September Eleventh came and went, and the boy was then first introduced to the true darkness the world holds within it. The horror that lies not in the shadows of his closet or under his bed, but within the heart of man himself. The boy and his mother moved to Oklahoma, coming then full circle. It was here where he met several of the people that shaped who he was as a person. Where he gained true identity. But in later years, when he recalled the three years he'd stayed in Oklahoma, one event in particular would come to mind. He had watched, with his class, a video of a man being decapitated by terrorists in Afghanistan. A horrible thing for anyone who had retained their innocence as long as the boy had to see. But it wasn't so much the content of the video that had disturbed him, though he could not close his eyes for several weeks without seeing the man's severed head, or hearing his cries of pain echoing in the back of his mind. What had disturbed him was that the people in his class didn't care. Not only that, they were talking about it as though it was just a staged act. As though it been a movie. They were laughing about it, saying it was cool, saying they wanted to see it again. This was when the boy first began to see the world for what it truly was. The cruelty of men, whether it be from the hands of those performing these terrible deeds, or from the eyes of those who lacked the ability to care. This was when he he first realized that the world truly wasn't perfect, nor would it ever be perfect. This was also around the time he learned the word 'misanthropy', and he took it to heart. He hated mankind for his ignorance, and his lack of will to help those who needed it most. Another day, his best friend's father died. This was his first acquaintence with death. He realized then that no one was immortal, and that one day he would be where his friend stood, burying his own father. The image haunted him for many years, until one day he realized that living in fear of death was to rob one's self of life. He moved back to Texas, though into an apartment that was only himself and his mother, and slowly he began to become a man. He learned a lot about the world, living in a place more crowded than he had ever been. He met a lot of people he didn't like, but he found a group of people that would eventually become the best friends of his entire life. They called themselves the pentagon, and in the beginning they were perfect. But as one in the group knew all too well, perfection is a thing that is never meant to last in this world. He heard the story of Lance, one that inspired him to no end. Here was a man who had been in hundreds of fights. But he hadn't fought for himself, or for petty differences. He had fought for love. There was a girl he had known, whose name and memory he had nearly erased from existence, who was the purpose of his life. It wasn't a crush. It wasn't even love. It wasn't that they were a couple. What they were together was beyond words. It went beyond love in every sense. If there had ever been an example of destiny in motion, they had been it. They were truly perfect. And fate seperated them. Lance couldn't remember what had happened. After it had happened, he had devoted himself to forgetting that she had ever existed, because he felt that he had betrayed her. He had promised her that he would be her shadow, and in the end he had left her. He was left only with a slight memory of who she was. But when he met the boy, the rest of the group tried to help him. Soon, Lance told them all his story. And slowly, he remembered. This person had inspired the boy a great deal, as he had known what pain truly was. Lance had been stabbed a great many times. All in defense of the girl. The boy had been depressed quite often, but now he realized he had no reason to be. And in his mind he decided, he become a writer, and eventually a director, and devote as much time and money as he could trying to find her. Because he felt above all else, those two deserved to be together. So he focused his writing skills, and slowly became better. Soon his stories matched those of the writers he idolized. All the things that he had gone through, the phases, the perceptions, the ideas, they all poured into his stories and created a tapestry of something so personal that he was afraid to let anyone see it. But see it they did, and it wasn't long before he had an audience all his own. People lied. People hurt. People cried. But they loved as well. And despite the indifference of the majority, he suddenly felt hope that mankind could, one day, pull through. That one day, mankind could stop bickering with his brothers and realize that though they may speak different languages, believe in different gods, have different shades of skin, that they are all united as a single race of man. Fighting couldn't stop. Anger couldn't stop. But if maybe, these people could try to find another way outside of violence, people like that boy, and Lance, wouldn't need to be alive. There is beauty and balance in this chaos we call living. Where it lies is up to us to decide. -Zack | |
topic: Various | |
[reply] [1 comment] |
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| How I survived methamphetamine. | August 14, 2006, 1:57PM |
 by: sonicdemonic |
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Lately I'm seeing a lot of news about methamphetamine. Some of it is typical over-the-top hysterical coverage: articles shrieking about "methmouth", editorials claiming the potential for "addiction after just one hit". There are the typical monologues by recovering addicts: blistering descriptions of hell on earth. Shadowpeople. Kids apprehended by social service organizations. Police raids. Inevitably, the slide into despair, and - for your viewing pleasure! - the slow, ultimately triumphant rise from the bottom to the healing, toasty-warm light of recovery. Bully for them. I'm glad their experiences are so redemptive, and that there's such a satisfying arc; that in the end, the country-music album of addiction gets played backwards, to reference a crappy old joke. My experience was not so well-tailored. Let me tell you exactly what happened to me in the last couple of years, and how to this day methamphetamine touches the fabric of my life, despite my abstinence. A few years ago, in Vancouver (my home city), one of the local papers ran a six-part series on what it called the "epidemic" of crystal meth throughout the city and its surrounding regions. At the time, I was having some pretty serious struggles with cocaine; I had a fairly public job for a local development company, yet I found myself - every payday, like clockwork - in the downtown eastside, buying and smoking crack. I'd get paid on Thursday; inevitably, I was broke by Friday. I managed to put every other cheque aside to pay the rent, but I found myself in the awkward position, every day, of working an executive-level job yet lining up in the soup kitchens on the sly, every lunch hour, and collecting cigarette butts from the company ashtray when no-one was looking. I'd roll 'em up using pages of the old Bible that decorated my flaky boss's desk, ripping out whole sections of Matthew or Genesis when she wasn't around. Those were tough, desperate times. I managed to conceal my poverty and my crack binging from everyone I worked with, though there were a few close calls, like the time I did a rail of coke in the can at a company party, only to realize to my chagrin that it was ketamine. Dammit! I explained my goofiness later as the beer reacting to some pain medication I was on - nudge nudge wink wink - and no-one was any the wiser. But the poverty was grinding at me, and slowly my will to do the big act at work was wearing down. So when I read those articles about methamphetamine - how ten dollars could keep me high for hours, and how it was infesting such-and-such a neighbourhood - I just *had* to know more. I had to see if meth could cure me of my biweekly crack binges. After all, I needed *something* to amp me up, and cocaine was prohibitive in cost, with a high that often only lasted a couple of minutes. That weekend I dressed down, had a few beers for courage, and went prowling the alleys of the West End, looking for meth. It didn't take long to find it. I've always had a good instinct for where the dope is, and it didn't fail me that grey morning. I got a point of crystal for ten dollars, crushed it up, and poured out a couple of lines in a toilet stall at Starbucks. I remember that first time clearly. I didn't really feel high at all. Shit. I bought more; still didn't feel high. Damn! Clearly I was going to need to keep trying. I kept buying more that day; the next day I bought some in bulk; and suddenly it was five days later and I was blinking in the early morning sun, saying "what happened!". There was a little paranoia that I found unpleasant - i kept thinking I heard people calling my name, as I stumbled down the hill to shower and repair my appearance. My shoes were in tatters and my feet were swollen. Over that five day period, I had walked nonstop, alone; it was another week before I realized that the street guy I'd been walking and talking with on day four was a sleep-deprivation hallucination. Somehow I made it home. It took me ten days to recover and I swore off stimulants for ever. Cut ahead to Victoria, B.C., where I moved to accept a different, higher-paying job. I'd done a stint in a treatment centre and pretty much felt 'past' using dope in any way, shape, or form, yet no sooner had I arrived in Victoria than I found myself slipping back into the old crack-binge pattern. So I did what any budget-conscious dopefiend would - I went for the meth again. This time it was smooth, easy, and regular. Ten dollars a day kept me floating comfortably at work; an ativan and a joint or two at night put me to sleep. Life was easy, shiny, and the drugs weren't killing my cash flow. True, a point didn't seem like enough now; before long it was twenty dollars a day, or even forty. But that was ok. I noticed my circle of friends was slowly morphing; I was hanging with more dealers and users. Some of them seemed a little sketchy. And I was maybe missing a day or so of work here or there. There was a strange chemical smell I noticed more and more, as well, which seemed to emanate from my pores. But it all seemed somehow acceptable, until the day I suddenly realized I was under surveillance. How long had they been watching me? I wasn't even really sure who "they" were. Local kingpins, maybe - Mafia? I suspected they were members of a crime family who thought I was a cop because of my inability to grasp the street lingo. Maybe I looked too cleancut? Or were they testing me, seeing how well I'd hold up under the pressure of continually being watched? That afternoon I realized that people in the streets were muttering threats to me as I walked by; my stride increased and I started to panic as I noticed every business I went by shutting their curtains. In fact, it seemed the traffic itself had stopped, and a strange dull half-light hung like a haze over the streets. Only motorcycles and large 4 by 4s were on the road, driving around and around me. They were encircling me. Drivers were leaning out the windows, yelling threats. Oh my god, did that guy have a gun? Jesus! Why was that old woman across the street filming me? I broke into a run. There was a restaurant - - would they let me use the phone? I needed to call someone - my sister, the police, anyone. But the waitress wouldn't let me make a call. "I can't," she said. "You've got to let me make a call!" "I'm sorry, I just can't." I stood for a moment, noticing the way her eyes flickered past me to the street outside. She had to be signalling to the muscle vehicles driving around out there. So they'd gotten to her. Holy Jesus, the whole town must be mobbed up! I turned and bolted. Who was it who'd famously said that in a new city, if you want to get to where the action is, go downhill? I ran downhill until I hit the Salvation Army headquarters. "They're going to kill me," I told the desk clerk. I was calmer now, despite the dozens of motorcycles and four-by-fours roaring in circles around the building. But the clerk didn't seem convinced. God, could he be one of them also? Maybe coming here had been a horrible, fatal mistake! Why was he calling an ambulance? I needed a baseball bat or a gun or something, not this shit! As soon as the ambulance arrived the roaring traffic stopped. I could see them up the street, idling. Just waiting for the paramedics to leave so they could swoop in and grab me. I begged the technicians to take me somewhere - anywhere! - so I could regroup, sleep, maybe get a bit more speed to amp up. I'd need energy, if I was going to outwit whoever it was who wanted me dead. I was in the hospital for almost two weeks. For the first ten days I slept; after that, I concentrated on getting my balance back. The paranoia lasted for about seven days; after that I started the agonizing climb back up into normalcy. During that time I slowly came to accept that despite how real it had all seemed, no-one was after me; it had all been in my head. It had all been in my head. I couldn't believe it. So maybe some of the reports in those articles I'd read about drug psychosis *hadn't* just been "Reefer Madness"-style hysterics. I had no history of mental illness and had never had an incident involving the police or ambulances before. After fourteen days of pacing in the hospital and practicing Schumann and Brahms on the battered old piano in the "Quiet Room", I was out. Within twelve hours I was smoking crystal with a girl I knew in the local park and travelling through the night again, making money and buying as much speed as I could. I hung out exclusively with street dealers and users and I started to smoke, eat, and rail meth around the clock, just to forget about the shock of what had happened. I still nursed the idea that someone might possibly be monitoring me or want me dead, but it was lessening. Or so I thought. It wasn't long at all before one night I noticed police were taking my "friends" off the street and driving them around the corner. Where were they going? Why did my friends seem so terrified? My god, was that someone screaming! Why did everyone pretend not to hear it? It seemed the whole night was full of cars driving around, some police, some "family", picking up people to "punish" them for offences ranging from drug debts to lack of respect. "Don't you see that?" I asked one dealer. "No, what?" he said, straightfaced. Aha. The trick was hear no evil, see no evil - that was the key to staying safe. The whole night seemed to ring out with screams. Everywhere I went people looked frightened. Cars trolled by me and I dreaded that one might stop and I might be muscled into the back seat. I passed that night huddled in a stairwell trying to hide. I couldn't go home; what was home, now, anyway! "They" knew where I lived, after all. The next day I tried to pull it together, but the routine started again; the cars pursuing me, the businesses turning away, and strangest of all, swarms of kids on BMX's moving in on me. I went back down to the Salvation Army. Tears streamed down my face as I saw a whole exodus of people, hundreds of them, grim, relentless, marching past the building. They all seemed to be carrying cameras or guns. The same clerk was working. As soon as he saw me he called the ambulance again. This time the police wanted to talk to me. One problem: they didn't look like real cops to me. Why wouldn't they show me ID? Could they be working for whoever it was that wanted to kill me? They *had* to be..! As soon as they showed inattention I made a break for it; bam, they wrestled me to the ground, strapped me to a stretcher, and slammed the doors to the ambulance shut. The police were in the back of the vehicle with me all the way to - - to where? Where were they taking me! "Why don't you quit waiting and shoot me now, get it over with, you bastards!" I shouted at them. They laughed at me. I guess they'd seen it all before. This time I was committed to the hospital under the Mental Health Act with a diagnosis of "temporary amphetamine psychosis". Let me stress again that I had *never* had any mental health issues. Sure, there'd been moments of anxiety smoking pot, one or two yucky acid trips - anxiety, but never paranoia in the true sense of the word. But with speed it was a persecution nightmare. Everything seemed conspiratorial; the walls themselves started to whisper. I had no ability to reality-test; unlike with acid, where I used to say "Right, hills and valleys, Sonic, it's all hills and valleys - this is just the trip", I had no point of reference at all with the speed. Everything seemed real: people's mouths moved, matching the threatening words they seemed to be saying: it really looked like people were filming me, or pointing guns at me, or taking notes on me. But it was all sketch. The hardest part of getting well was wrestling with separating the real from the sketchy. I spent a lot of time in the hospital researching methamphetamine, and concluded that sleep deprivation for weeks at a time, along with only sporadic sustenance, combined with probable lead or tin contamination during the lithium production method used to manufacture the shit I was buying... well, those factors were probably responsible for my experience. But I still jumped whenever I heard an engine revving. I was released from the hospital after two weeks, again. It's been about two and a half months since they brought me to the ground and dragged me kicking and screaming into that ambulance. Gradually, slowly, my bruised intellect has begun to flower again; the paranoia has faded (though I still get flashes of it); despite a small lapse a couple of weeks ago (I used about two points over the course of a single night) I'm completely clean. There is no white light. There is no majestic trumpet sound heralding clean time. Instead I am haunted by my memories and my thoughts. When I think back to everything that happened, often I'm still not sure what was sketch and what was real. Insignificant events can take on an ominous feel. Other addicts I have talked to report similar confusion in their memories - could that have been real? It sure seemed real..! Mostly I have sadness for the methpeople; the good, decent guys and gals out there that I knew who are still in the grip of this thing and might never get out. I spent weeks at a time with them, prowling around all night, learning the meth scene from them, learning how to survive being on the street for a two-week period without ever going home; they always treated me with respect and they were always good to me, although they laughed at my refusal to commit crimes and they thought I came across as too white-boy. I miss one or two of them with all my heart. But I had to leave. I had to get out of Victoria. The city was going to be the end of me. Near the end, some of my meth acquaintances pulled me aside and said a rumour was going around that i was a cop; I considered myself warned. That's probably how all the persecution mania got started, but I'll always wonder if there's a grain of truth under the maelstrom of those delusions. Meanwhile I think of speed every day but I'm rebuilding my life, piece by piece. I am alone with it, because I could never tell my family or my "normal" friends what I was doing for the last year, why I never contacted them (other than some garbled e-mails). I just let them think I was out "finding" myself. The reality is I was in a holocaust with hundreds of other people. I don't know why, but for some reason, I seem to have survived it, kicked the habit, and lived to type all of this here without any serious long-term damage. I don't have any warnings or any anti-drug messages, but this was my experience, and it was damn scary. Do meth if you want, but i did my part by telling you what happened to *me*. Thanks for listening. SonicDemonic. | |
topic: Life | |
[reply] [16 comments] |
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| Hatred | August 9, 2006, 3:02PM |
 by: Punk1989 |
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Wherever there is a large enough group to target, there is a group that is either formed or converted to hate that specific group. I am going to demonstrate how each group has an anti-group that opposes their beliefs or their ideals. For example, a religious example, christians, purely by chance, have taken it upon themselves to dictate how other people live, but this does not apply to all christians, some are fair minded, openly discussive and are not barrages of information that comes from the bible. For every gay person, there another person who says "God hates fags" or "Aids is gods way of thinning out the impure". There is even a picture of a priest holding up a sign which states "Paedophiles against gay rights"...which is highly distressing. In the same way that non-christians have opposition from christians, christians also have their own morals and ideals to contend with, which i think is partly why they try to dictate how people live, by THEIR ideals, and by THEIR morals. There is a cycle of hate that seems to rotate round in an unending circle, i will provide an example: 1. Preppies hate goths 2. Goths hate jocks 3. Jocks hate nerds 4. Nerds hate preppies and so it continues, this is only a short example. If two people existed, with different ideals, hatred would be spewed between these two, which just proves that where there is difference, wherever there is an opposition of opinion hatred will be found. For an example, there is an extreme-ist by the name of Shirley Phelps Roper, she is part of a small organisation that says that "God hates catholics, presbyterians and gays, we obey his law because he is all powerful, he kills the soldiers in iraq, God bless him, he killed the people in 9/11, God bless him, No one is innocent, and they all deserve his wrath. God is punishing this world." She also hosts a site called "God hates fags". There is no reasoning with people like this, which is why hatred is sometimes necessary to give strength. Hatred is born from opposition, which is in every breath we take, every time we move, even in the natural elements, which is why it comes so natural. Hatred is necessary, its part of life, which is why it comes so natural. Hatred not only takes place in religion and sexual orientation, but even in our high schools, in our homes, in our restaurants and in our minds. Within the first three seconds we make a judgement about someone that affects how we treat them for the rest of our lives. Maybe this is the reason conflict is so common, because we are so quick to judge... Article written by: Punk1989 | |
topic: Life | |
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| Some Small Updates | August 8, 2006, 4:28AM |
 by: eon |
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Just a few small-ish things, thought I'd share though, since I haven't in so long. 1. Forums now use the standard [quote] tag familiar to most other platforms (sometimes called "BBCode"). Quoting a post will now seperate the quoted text into a square with a different color and design, making the quote a more obvious seperation from the response. This is a feature common to 99% of modern forum software so most of you will instantly recognize it and go, "Oh, yeah, that!". Previously, our quotes were just put in italics. Yuck. 2. Andromeda members now have the option to force all comments left to them as private. To enable this, go to: Control Panel -> Experience -> Private Messages -> Force All Private 3. The site was down for a few hours yesterday evening. You may have noticed we're now about 16,000 members lighter. This was just a cleanup of old accounts (accounts not active for 3 months or longer). This cleared a lot of junk from the server and will help your profile searches produce less "dead" profiles in the results. That's it for now, kids. | |
topic: Site News | |
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| 107th Annual Burrito Festival | July 31, 2006, 10:34PM |
 by: Burrito_Cult |
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Fifteen year old Juanita Lopez was recently crowned Burrito queen at what was Juarez, Mexico's 107th annual Burrito Festival. Juarez is world renowned for its Burritos and many historians and chefs cite it as the most Burrito-friendly capital on earth. Citizens of Juarez have burritos for every meal of the day, so it comes as no surprise that they would have a festival celebrating their most esteemed food. The festival consisted of a beauty pageant, a wrestling match for the men, a burrito eating contest, and a contest for the biggest burrito. There was also ice cream and soft drinks available for whoever might want refreshment. Juanita, who had won the beauty pageant, was given a tiara and paraded through the city on a float decorated with crepe paper, flowers, and felt tortillas sewn by local seamstresses. After the parade, the burrito eating contest was held, with Fernando Hernandez winning after eating twenty-seven burritos in thirty minutes. The runner up was Jesus Sanchez who had eaten went-two burritos in thirty-one minutes. Then the biggest burrito contest was held. There were many, many burritos, some weighing over five pounds. But the winning burrito was made by Fernando Hernandez's wife, Maria Hernandez. The burrito weighed eight pounds and twelve ounces, was about a food long, and was filled with everything, including beef, chicken, beans, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and various seafood. After the burrito contest, music was played by a local band and people danced and celebrated. The festival ended with a fireworks show and everyone went home. Next year's Burrito Festival promises to be just as wonderful as this year's. The Burrito Festival is one of Juarez's honoured traditions and although it is obscure to the rest of the world, it is a very interesting part of both their Mexican heritage and the history of the burrito. | |
topic: Current Events | |
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| The History of Burritos | July 31, 2006, 1:44AM |
by: Burrito_Cult |
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In the very beginning, the human race was a nomadic tribe. They would wander the earth in search of food, never stopping in one place for very long. But, as time went on, they abandoned their nomadic lifestyle and began to experiment with agriculture, cultivating grains which they soon discovered could make a huge variety of breads. These early bread bakers also grew vegetables and kept livestock. They soon discovered that it was more convenient to roll the meat and vegetables into the bread than to eat them separately. Someone who was on a long journey or who was hard at work would not have to take as long to eat if all of their food could be conveniently contained in bread. Each culture has its own version of the burrito. The western world has sandwiches. The Asians have spring rolls and egg rolls. But, the Burrito is the original. The Aztecs have been making tortillas out of maize since before Columbus. They have been filling tortillas with vegetables and meat since 1520. In conclusion to this essay, the burrito is the original fast food. It contains all of the nutrients needed for a healthy body. In Mexico they are eaten for all three meals of the day, and Juarez, Mexico, even has a Burrito festival every year. The Burrito truly is a superior food. | |
topic: Essays | |
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| foundations of mathematics | July 29, 2006, 4:37AM |
 by: nothingmoves |
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Let me remind you of the problem of multiple reductions in the foundations of mathematics. The worry here is just that the plentitude of formally adequate foundational theories indicates that none could be correct -- the crucial assumption being that formal adequacy would be adequacy simpliciter. I shall argue that the worry here is ill-founded, and that one reduction stands out as being uniquely plausible. Reduction in mathematics is not different in kind from reduction in empirical science. There are always competing theories that are formally adequate, but, in general, some are clearly better than others. For instance, general relativity and its euclidean analog are equally adequate to fit the data. But the former is plainly preferable to the latter since it allows the derivation of virtually all of macro-level gravitation theory from a few eminently simple assumptions. Similarly, the "theory" of arithmetic that includes every theorem (of Peano arithmetic) as an axiom is plainly adequate, but no less plainly inferior to Peano arithmetic itself. The latter allows the derivation of every proposition that the former took as primitive from a subset of 5 of those propositions. Such considerations are enough, i think, to cast doubt on the idea that the mere multitude of formally adequate foundational theories entails anything at all about whether any is correct. However, it remains open whether it can be rational to endorse any of the relevant candidates in mathematics, as it can be rational to endorse one of the relevant candidates in, say, physics. And the answer is not obvious. Suppose, with most philosophers and mathematicians, that if any foundational theory is correct, then some brand of set-theory is. Then it is hardly clear that we have good reason to prefer one such brand to all others. Though Von Neumann set-theory is perhaps preferable to Zermelo on the grounds that the former is uniformly extendable to the transfinite, for instance, an isomorphic theory to it can be constructed in familiar ways. And, it's hard to see how any theory that is isomorphic to Von Neumann set-theory could be theoretically inferior to it. But our supposition was silly, anyway. Property-theories also offer formally adequate reductions of our mathematical theories , and exactly one of these seems clearly preferable not only to its property-theoretic counterparts, but also to every brand of set-theory. In particular, a reduction of the cardinal numbers to cardinality properties of collections, and of the ordinal numbers to ordinality properties of sequences has both metaphysical and epistemic advantages. So, I conclude that those working in the foundations of math should retract their white flags. Not only is one of the relevant reductions plausibly correct, but we can, with some confidence, even say which one it is. | |
topic: Philosophy | |
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| Disability | July 22, 2006, 3:59PM |
by: Punk1989 |
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I'm not going to sit here and dictate how someone should live their life according to others, i'll try not to give a biased view. I know people are going to complain about this because they will say "You can't understand what it's like to be disabled"...and that's a fair statement, but i come from a family where i have several disabled family members, so i do know what it's like to live with a disabled person. In this article i am going to write what it's like to live with a disabled person, a deep view into the feelings, the depression, the highs, the lows and the in-betweens where you just feel numb. Some days are harder than others, i wake up sometimes feeling so depressed that i just want to crawl back into bed and never get out again, i know that sounds emo, and frankly, i don't care, it's life. My mother is disabled, my dad's twin is disabled, a few other family members may be, i'm not too sure. In this further article i am going to describe what happened years ago when my mother became one of many who become disabled when they were not born with a disability. In 2001, in October, i was staying at an aunt's house overnight, and when i arrived back to my home in the next morning my Grand-mother came out and told me what had happened, but not to the full extent. The truth was, my mother had been sleeping 22-23 hours a day before they diagnosed her, and they just shrugged it off as a mental disease, but they where wrong, and it nearly cost my mother her life, and me a mother. My mother had what was known as a benign brain tumor that was laying and pressing down on her Pituitary gland, which controls multiple bodily actions including the amount of hours we sleep. Nowadays she sleeps generally about 8 hours a day, which is common, so that's good. She also had diabetes, two different types, these conditions force her to take up to and including 20 tablets a day not including the insulin injection that she must take at night. Sometimes, even today, i still break down and cry, and i'm not ashamed to admit it, lifes hard, its difficult, my mother has very limited vision, she can't drink alcohol and she very rarely gets out, which plays on my conscience when i'm out having fun, thinking of how shes sitting at home alone. I used to cry, scream, take it out on others, when one day, maybe when i matured a bit, that i wasn't alone, there where others out there with harder lives than mine, so i got a grip, got on with it, and it's still hard to this day. My mother has mood swings, she cries, she screams, but i know that it's not really that she means it, it's her medication and maybe not having a high enough sugar level. Arguments insue, but we always make up, because we both know that it's not really that shes angry, shes just frustrated at being like this. I hope this article helps someone out there who is going through the same thing that i am, even if a parent isn't disabled, remember, tommorow they may not be here, i almost lost my mother, i was lucky...but you may not be so lucky. Disability Related facts: 500 million people in the world are disabled (About 1 in 10) 300 million live in developing countries 140 million are children 160 million are women | |
topic: Life | |
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