Another preachy drug post

MDMA.

Molly.

You don’t pop a molly. No one with any experience calls it “a molly”. Do you snort “a cocaine”? Do you smoke “a weed”? Do you inject “a dope”?

Nowadays, it appears that the hip hop community, which I have respect for in terms of musical talent, has embraced MDMA. Possibly some mix-overs from raves and stuff.

Pop a molly, go ahead. Sweating is probably the last thing on your mind. Sure, you’re doing it, but it’s around as notable as your educational credentials if you rap about this shit.

Then, there’s Rick Ross. Fucking hell. Tying MDMA with date rape? Are you fucking serious?

What does MDMA do? It’s a triple-reuptake inhibitor which is many more times effective for serotonin than it is for dopamine and norepinephrine. Meth and coke, two uppers associated with MDMA in the public view are selective for dopamine.

The effects of MDMA on your mental state - love, happiness, a feeling that everything is perfect and good and wonderful. The problem with MDMA? It’s not a date rape drug at all. It heightens your senses. It makes you emotional, distant to sexual awareness, it makes you-

Fuck it, why do I even bother? I’m trying to promote safety and fun and shit, and people like that talk about something that registers as far less dangerous than alcohol (less dangerous than riding a horse in Britain, apparently) as something which can be used as a date rape drug.

When you’re on molly and you seriously don’t want something to happen, you’d probably find the strength to resist. Really, really easily. And it provides a fair amount of access to your internal self. So if you really don’t want it, you’ll know faster than you normally do. You’ll be stronger, more decisive, better at reacting.

Fuck off.

Rick Ross has never taken molly in his life. And if he has, it’s rather clear to me that someone has drugged him with something that’s clearly not molly. And if he’s taken it repeatedly, then he needs to find a new drug dealer. While that happens, he and other rappers who think it’s cool to replace every drug with “a molly” in their tracks should

Shut. The. FUCK. up.

piginawig:

 #Jaime Lannister is not a good man #Jaime Lannister was a good man once #But then he saw the Mad King burn good men alive and rape his sister/wife #And no one ever did a thing to stop it #Because they took vows #And he loved his sister more than anything in the world #And watched Robert beat and rape her#But couldn’t do a thing #Because he took vows #And he saw his father order Tyrion’s wife gang raped #And he did nothing to stop it #Because that’s his father #And he saw Rhaegar’s children’s bodies brought to Robert #And Robert was happy bc they were just dragonspawn #So why bother being honorable? #When even the men who are supposed to be honorable #are terrible fucking people? #So no #Jaime Lannister is not a good man anymore #But he’s the most honest fucking man in Westeros #And maybe you don’t like it #And maybe you hate him #Because he fucks his sister #Because he pushed Bran from a window #Because he will burn the world for Cersei #But Jaime Lannister is one of the most complex #compelling #characters in this ‘verse #And you better fucking recognize#that this is Jaime’s world

(Source: previouslyserjaime, via ryoboatrows)

this year’s festival plans

Bonnaroo, tickets nearly bought, total, plus gas and other expenses: around 500 bucks for a good time with a good friend

Grove, nothing bought yet, probably by Greyhound, total: around 300 bucks (for a lonely adventure in an attempt to see Phoenix and Pretty Lights in the same night)

Lightning in a Bottle, unless a miracle happens, this isn’t, plane tickets and tickets and othershit: 800 to a thousand. But for srs best lineup in bass music ever.

EDC: loljk happy belated April Fool’s who do you think I am?

Gov’s Ball: mostly because it’s convenient.

Electric Zoo: only because it’s convenient. I’m not sure if I’ll cough up the dough for this though. God I hate Randall’s.

Tomorro-: yeah, you wish, jon.

A quick paper/sketch written an aeon ago, posted because I felt like it.

The room is crowded and there is just enough light to see the never-ending expanse of the forest-green felt spreading forth from his fingertips. No one speaks, but it is loud. There are endless cracks and swishes and rustlings of clothing. A pool stick is perched between his legs and his eyes are darting back and forth from the cue ball to wrinkles that interrupt the alien yet far too familiar felt. He blinks and grips the stick. His other hand trembles for a moment and he clenches it into a tight fist. He knocks, then pushes his fist against the table. There is no hesitation in his action any longer as his thumb pads the felt and the head of the stick slips gently into the crook between his knuckles. He, too, adds to the cacophony of the universe, a loud crack ringing out as the tip crashes into the cue ball. The iron leaves his gaze as he stares over the felt, trying to determine the path of the cue ball by the light of the swinging lamps. But the ball doesn’t travel in a straight line, it never does. It hits two walls and skids to a stop, inches and miles away from his perception - but he knows. He doesn’t care, because it’s just another proof of the inviolable maxim - if he should play pool in this dark room, he can never win and he can never stop. But he will scratch often.

For every bump on the surface of the table and every other player, it becomes easier to believe that our actions are a result of a clockwork, designed intelligently, or perhaps ineptly, until all the balls are pocketed and everyone leaves the room. Other players become ageless, genderless, inhuman, even, as his eyes flit between faces, blending them into a single figure, a single object. This is the essence of existentialism, this is existentialism as a humanism. When he dies, when he leaves the room personally, his life of pocketing and scratching is “complete at that moment, with a line drawn neatly under it, ready for the summing up.” (No Exit, 43) He is nothing but what he has managed to pocketed on this felt. “Man exists, turns up, appears on the scene, and, only afterwards, defines himself” by this act of shooting (Existentialism, 390) - he has no true subjective view on other players. Sure, he might see the players and their shots and whether they scratch or pocket, but he has no direct connection to their shot - he is not shooting for them. He can only understand them through the performance of his own shot or through mental exercises that simulate their shot. So this is the existentialism, the action of existing only in his identity as this subject, and the knowledge that nothing is fully determined at any given point, an innate sense of autonomy. There is situational bias towards certain outcomes, but there are still shots, performances which can be done poorly and the knowledge that determinism is a false concept.

This false determinism becomes the only way to access his free will, as he can find no vacuum to perceive his own shots in - he may plan for an easy pocketing, but the shots of other players redefine the felt, curtailing his ability to do so. The breaks in his ability to access this flow of sovereignty is deterministic in nature, while the flow of free will in general is broken by the flow of his determinations. So as he approaches the shot, knowing only this false determinism, his morality is still accessed and it provides no excuse for bad choices. He gets to decide whether this shot is moral. This false determinism is a strange perversion to liberty but, and because, it influences his decisions. Watching other players forces him to change the flow of the games he plays to account for shifts in the flow. And sometimes, as in the case of ‘Free Will, Now You Have It, Now You Don’t’ the dessert he eats is all but squeezed out of his stomach, through his lips and back onto the menu by this reaction. But he still retains the right to eat, the liberty to choke on his food and utterly detest it. It’s just that his perception of the dessert won’t be quite as sweet knowing exactly how other players will react to his consumption. He may have scratched this time, but he’s still shot.

Madness

notebooksfordialogue:

It was a lonely stop on a deserted line and it was raining. Grey, bleak, February.

It was bad business, but there was a unkempt gentleman to keep me company. We were sitting on rain-soaked benches and I was rather miserable. He didn’t seem to care.

“So, who are you?” He smiled. His smile was charming.

“Jon,” I said. He nodded.

But then I asked him who he was, and he looked me in the eye with no sense of recognition. There were little stars that seemed to populate his confused pupils as his lips moved in time to a rhythm only he could here.

Then he finally spoke - he had been speaking for some time but no words could be heard.

“I… Who?” He shook his head. “What?” He shook his head again.

“Don’t know,” he finally decided. And then I was unsure if he was quite a he anymore, or just another object on the roadside.

His lips flapped.

“I think, therefore I am.”

Descartes.

I said that.

“I think, therefore I am,” he repeated, seeming completely confused by the concept.

“But do you think?” I asked, judging silently, too ready to finish this encounter, but even more morbidly curious.

He smiled and nodded quickly.

I decided that he did not.

“I think. I am. There’s just no real I. No eye. Eyes, nose, mouth, ears, skin. This is a hand. This is another hand. Therefore I have two hands and there’s a reality outside of I.”

He put his hands on my face, both tentative and erotic.

I was disgusted and he could tell. He shrank away.

I was a modern man, after all. I knew the difference between an intellectual and a madman.

“But it becomes so difficult when you know for certain. If you stare into the abyss, the abyss doesn’t just stare into you. You are the abyss. The stare is the jump, after all. If you stare in good faith, then it will never stare back in bad faith.”

Suddenly I wasn’t quite as certain.

“But what’s left over is just a little gram of desire, right? You’re knocking but there’s nobody home. Or you think there’s nobody home. But if you take a step into the sad, abandoned little cottage, you’ll still see the books on the library shelves and you’ll see the struggle - the broken plates, the dried blood, the unstrung guitars from when that denizen was dragged off to the asylum, wouldn’t you?”

A nonfunctioning schizophrenic, I decided, flipping back.

“I don’t like it here. They think I’m crazy. You think I’m crazy. All I wanted to do was to get along. But there was no one to shout down, no one to join my consciousness with. No one to traverse the planes of time even as I delved deep into the Mines of Moria. And then the fantasy took over. Gandalf isn’t white yet, is he?”

I stared, trying to follow his train of thought.

“Knowing that you can swing a sword at a demon is quite traumatic, possibly more so than actually doing so. Maybe we should all just forget, shouldn’t we?”

Forget? Forget that you’re mad? I stifled a long chortle threatening to burst out from my chest.

“Because what you know of who we are is just a strange felt stretched out across this universal pool table, with dents and marks and faceless men dictating who gets to sink what. But we forget really what’s underneath the felt, that abused little metal surface which heartily thunks when you smack a ball down. But then again, who really cares anyway? We just want to play pool right?”

My forehead creased in concentration. “So who are you?” I ventured, somewhat scared of what his answer would finally be.

“Me?”

He giggled. The headlights of the forgotten bus shone through the fog.

“I’m the Balrog.”

He didn’t board.

When I suddenly realize that I lost all my friends at a party

whatshouldbetchescallme:

Yep. It’s done.

notebooksfordialogue:

Debated whether or not to post this for the longest, longest time. But the nature of critique is how uncomfortable for the author as it is for the audience, so I guess I’ll have a little bit of courage.

This is a poem I wrote a stanza or two of a long time ago that I never brought myself to finish, so I decided to finish it. All of the references will be linked.

The narrator changes throughout, to an extent.

Trigger warnings: bad stuff in a strange culture I love too much to just leave

Note, however, that it’s not all like this. These are just parts I dislike the most.

Written to this, in 10/4 time (the count is 1-2-3 1-2-3 1-2-3-4, repeat per line). The bridge is in 13/4 (count an extra 1-2-3 onto the end). It maps to the beat.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you about this. :\

Untitled
Jonathan Leung

I have seen the dark faces on the dancefloor
to forget the damn pain of being poor.
Sloshed with drink, just not gin, bass with the fire,
Devious grins and dead eyes, “tryna” get higher.
Worshipping the wub god, tab in my lip.
Where’s Molly, where is she? To candyflip.
Faces slapped red and the hands that just wander,
Our sweaty, hedonist’s art to ponder.

It started small, let me tell you the story.
We were just old enough to want glory.
They were cool, they said that they were our friends,
told us we’d never be alone again.
We didn’t know better, never did wrong.
Wanting it just once would not matter, right?
Let’s go to Webster where people are white.

Let the club get sexy, the laser lights,
cracked glasses, elbowed chest, no end in sight
to candle lit love songs, our waving hands.
SHM, three-man stage, waving at fans.
Do no harm, burn incense, P.L.U.R.,
Lost the love, her respect, took it too far,
Unity? Violent peace, broken to pieces,
We’re the same, praising satan, praying Jesus.

I have seen the dark faces on the dancefloor,
The Ginsburg in my trip, generation so done for,
feel the night’s spirit hoods with the long straps,
faux fur life, burnt boag spit, copped that good shit from the trap.
He’s asked for GH please, por señora,
to burn the birthday girl, take her down to Gomorrah,
This ain’t a good time my friend’s getting choked,
I can’t save her so I’ll just go out to have a smoke.

I’ll listen to straight up cream, treble wubbing, mids bandstopped,
Hit me up, no regrets, take off your top.
We’ve got it, blind troubles, just lost our way, dread the drop,
Bouncing bass, Sugarpill and the House hop,
Complex rhymes, blowing lines, pick dope or coke, it’s good shit,
wub wub wub, angel sounds, you’ve just been bit.
You’ll ride the white horse to the that white light. You hear it?
The sound of great, lost minds, fiending one hit.

Winter bass, acid crunk and the Glitch Mob,
Dropping game. Spitting fire. Out of a job,
Just other ways to run, to run away.
Run away, yes-yes, you! Crying-drunk days,
my true love, my epic pacifier.
Go home you’re too young and I’m too tired.
Forget this, if you will, or else you’ve lost,
You’re fucked up, kicked out dead, huddled in frost.

Everyone’s checking out, won’t speak to me,
There’s no tune, no music, just the wrong key.
Don’t have a sense of time, failing, falling,
The party’s forgotten, friends are calling,
Calling to wake me up. They’re on ignore,
Stumble, limp, sniffing salt, body so sore,
Synthetic fucking bitch, comedown so stark.
Why not me? Really? I… I had that spark.

I’m seeing tentacles iridescent,
Wavy shit, Mandelbrots luminescent,
having a damn seizure to laughing prisms,
Blood dripping from her face, aneurysms.
Cold summers, warm winters, that deadly slut
Lucy’s here, to rock you, to kill you, but…
I just can’t, can’t walk out of the door,
Because I’m the dark face on the dancefloor.

To Do List →

atuesdaykindofgreen:

1. write a poem
2. procrastinate
3. check tumblr email
4. check facebook
5. check email tumblr
6. panic about not having done the poem
7. check twitter facebook
8. check facebook play a flash game
9. check tumblr email
10. oh right, that what poem
11. jeez okay oh man i got a notification message from an old friend of mine on fanfiction.net! give me a second
12. okay back to that poem I don’t think I have any homework now that I’m not presenting tomorrow.
13. wait
14. essay due in philosophy
15. writes essay. it was for philosophy. wrong topic choice.
16. really though?
17. it’s gonna happen Screw this, I’m going to slee-
18. maybe oh no. oh no no no no no.
19. >1 am
    
20. probably
21. not
22. maybe just go to rods… have a cigarette
23. rods is open
24. don’t step in there it’s a black hole and you’ll never get anything done
    
25. improbably escapes intact
    
26. finishes poem
    
27. >2:30 am
    
28. debates writing another one so I won’t have to post the one I did
    
29. >3:10 am
    
30. shuts up and posts it
    
31. checks tumblr
    
32. checks tumblr
    
33. >3:25
    
34. philosophy essay
    
35. primal scream
    
36. reblogs this
    

Reblogged with edits. :D

(via notebooksfordialogue)

Notebooks for Dialogue: HOO! It’s a pirate’s life for me! →

notebooksfordialogue:

Martin Bartoszewicz (advocate online pirate)

Smith

Mercantilism is shifting the balance of market in the world. The problem is that goods coming from another country are cheaper to make and more profitable, thus causing a stir among the locals and their businesses. The ships are expanding the…

http://rhizome.org/editorial/2011/aug/16/5-million-dollars-1-terabyte-2011/

Definitely more than just 2.2 TB, sir. Hope that interests you. I want to get that picture framed or something.

View high resolution

ryoboatrows:

supersorrel007:

robinofleylines:

kittycatalyst:

airpi:

nazerine:

gulltralisk:

fuzzwizard:

raresexvoyage:

xcastleonacloudx:

“By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,

And the demesnes that there adjacent lie,

That in thy likeness thou appear to us!”

Romeo and Juliet bitches

“Who ever said I was crazy about him?”

Great Gatsby

“I hope that you miss me as I miss you.”

The Scar by China Mieville

“Make a plan to reach your career goals and re-evaluate your choices from time to time.”

Managing Your Personal Finances by Joan S. Ryan

“Lind said that he ‘very ingenuously owns that physicians were first made acquainted with those remedies [the juices of different herbs and grasses] by the vulgar; they [the physicians] having only contrived the exhibition [administration] of them in more elegant forms.’ [Stewart & Guthrie (1953), 273-6.]”

the history of scurvy and vitamin c by kenneth carpenter

“The play was ‘The Little Millionaire,’ with George M. Cohan, and there was one stunning young brunette who made him sit with brimming eyes in the ecstasy of watching her dance.”

So, looking up I suppose?

“But for Jason Bateman, as for Boeuf Bourguinon, sometimes the old ways are best.”

“Terrified, Shotaro consulted an onmyoji who told him to paste consecrated ofuda slips on the openings of his house and — this was critical — to remain inside for forty-two days and nights.”

So that’s concerning. 

Guess I should make a stock-pile or something.  And find the twitter page of my local onmyoji.

But considering that the nearest book to me was a collection of Japanese Ghost stories, I’m frankly surprised that it turned out so well.

“Goemon [Ishikawa] succeeded in gaining entrance to Oda [Nobunaga]’s sleeping quarters, where he then hid for days in the rafters above Oda’s sleeping mat, patiently waiting for the Shogun’s return.”

— Dr. Haha Lung, The Nine Halls of Death, describing a historical assassination attempt on the life of a feudal Japanese warlord.

“His spouse was Yavanna, with whom he dwells in central Valinor.”

The Complete Guide to Middle-Earth, Robert Foster.

…Hopefully that means I get a steady girlfriend.

The anterior two pairs are modified as copulatory organs in the male.

- Fordham University Introductory Biology II Lab Guide - Spring 2013

I don’t even want to think about it. D: Suppose it could be worse. They could be talking about earthworms and not crayfish.