mistah kurtz, he dead.

THEE death ov Rusty Shackleford:


my thoughts are fragmented. can't even remember how long it's been since i've even slept. going back thru and tweaking mixes, wondering why all my friends seem to be diasterously self-destructive suicidal or badly dependent on narcotics. we were taught to believe that growing up we would become astronauts, actors or in my case, the unfortunate delusion that still has yet to die: the myth of a struggling young artist, intoxicated by ambition and desire to somehow articulate some socially pertinent matter at hand before dying at age 27.



i have no desire to die at age 27. i have no desire to die. i want to live, perhaps for once in my life and now i deal with the weight of my own karma- doomed to shout from the rooftops that the mythos of an emotionally damaged addict as a tortured genius artist is just that- a fucking myth, and not even in the productive sense of the word. it's a socially irresponsible myth. it isn't even a myth. it's a lie.

there is nothing i detest more than a lie. there is always the stench of death in a lie.

the emperor wears no clothes.

sartre's nausea,

real

existential

nausea,

staring into the goddamned abyss all those other cliches.

so here i am sleepless again. there are easier ways to go about inducing deep and dreamless sleep, i know. i'd rather not. i'd rather avoid fending off sickness, throwing up blood, mutilating myself, hot and cold shivers that won't go away for days, shitting my pants and having panic attacks every three minutes. been there. spoiler alert: dead fucking end.

art is a destructive habit, arguably more compulsively addictive and ultimately alienating, time draining and expensive than a serious and compulsive addiction to just about any drug. i do it because i have to. there is no longer a naive image left to dwindle in my brain of a young antihero straight out of oscar wilde's back pages, blowing through lines of coke and fucking whomever come who may while wildly scribbling brilliant stanzas of gibberish in a notebook til sunrise.

this isn't a coded message to you. it isn't a coded message to anyone. it's everywhere i fucking look. apathy, nihilism and existential fog that results in nothing but death. everywhere i look. antiheros are antiheros for a reason. they aren't supposed to be likable. they are warnings: do not become gregor samsa. do not become maldoror. do not become a shadow of yourself. do not become bradley the buyer.

my best friend's breakfast this morning was 6 mg of dilaudid, and waffles. american fucking dream. another friend's breakfast (or dinner, depending on how you want to interpret it) was i am guessing probably 160 mg of oxycontin and canned beans. yet another friend drinks herself to the point of vomiting blood and chases it with an 8 ball of cocaine. all three of these individuals DO NOT KNOW EACH OTHER, and are geographically isolated from one another by thousands of miles at least. this is a somewhat adequate cross section of individuals operating within my age bracket, at least of intelligent artistic individuals who have some legitimate marketable skill and yet are unable to obtain employment working anywhere other than burgerland. what's wrong with this fucking picture here?

can we really dupe ourselves into believing sisyphus is happy pushing that bolder up the hill for all of eternity?


"i'm going to buy SO MUCH COKE"
thats the first thing i thought of when i read it

Baby's on fire!! ^

"mistah kurtz, he dead."

buy my record here. it's the used using people.

fuck you, i'm going to sleep.