stop lying.

A belligerent sycophant.

I’ve become the belligerent sycophant, my enemy, my created opposite, my absolute nightmare. I’ve become him.

A faceless man who walks to work, works
works, and works and works for no reason except a notion that the future will be something different.
Doing nothing expect starring at a screen figuring out new inventive ways to get attention and get himself into trouble.

An under-appreciated glory seeker with eyes on the front pages and ears to wall.

An unwanted attention seeker with ladders for chairs and stairs to nowhere except the pointless notion That

someone somewhere cares about his ranting and sycophancy.

Sycophancy

Sycophancy.

A brilliant expression when used corrected can get precious nothings for free. A soul is worthless if it does not exist, so why not chip a little away and sell it for treats?

All for nothing. A rubbish excuse for an even rubbisher act.

There is no redemption, no forgiveness no roses.
Only disgust, and regret and absolute sorrow

(how dare i even construe such an act)

A absolutely selfish idea that there is no coming back from, all the sycophancy in the world, could not save his fall from grace, his once lovely’d place is stained and destroyed and all because he could not control his

Sycophancy.

Obsequious fawnings over worse magics then what destroyed troy.

The bible offers no solace in this case, as Moses himself was never allowed into the promised land.
All for hitting a rock.

Cleopatra, a women who survived among the throngs of brutes and savage men, with such lovely sycophancy,

Would feel embarrassed at such a lost notion, a gripe at attention, a yell for affection, with no recollection of the horrible angst it would cause and pain it would construct. Destroying love, that was not meant to exist, a love fought for and earned that is meant to last.

Making myself so weak and fickle and disgusting.
I don’t deserve you.
I worship you.
I will do anything for you.
I still don’t deserve you.

(I would write a book of psalms just to make you think one good thought about me. Just one.)

scarsofazzareya:

At times I look at
the weather in Manhattan,
see the rain flooding the gutters
and I hope some how
you’ve drowned…

(via scarsofazzareya-deactivated2012)

INSTAGRAM @asherdinner

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@asherdinner

Instagram @asherdinner

Hey everyone. So I’ve got instagram now and no followers. Find me @asherdinner . I’ll follow back and send you lovely messages. Cry for attention.

non-drinker

It’s been 47 days, 12 hours and 32 minutes since my last drink.

I know this for certain because I downloaded an app for my iPhone that tracks time for any determined circumstance. The last alcoholic drink I had was a 375ml bottle of jonny red. I drank it so fast – it tasted like caramel. My decision to stop drinking was purely pragmatic; I was wetting the bed so frequently that sleeping on the toilet was an economical necessity. Giving up spirits wasn’t that hard, though the night sweats and terrors went after a week and after two weeks, my bowels went back to normal. The depression though, was the real issue. It had been solved previously by sneaky lunchtime beers and afternoon ciders with tea. I even nearly convinced myself that anything under 5% alcohol wasn’t truly alcoholic. I mean, for example, in Russia, anything that contain less that 5% alcohol legally isn’t considered alcoholic.  This was negated when further research highlighted the ridiculous amount of driving accidents that happen annually in Moscow.

Alarm clocks and steaming percolators flood the silent abyss of my apartment block, and a feint honk of a car in the street bellowing below summons me out of bed. I arise out of my bed and calmly fall into my slippers. A noble treat that makes me smile every morning and help me ignore the empty surrounding of my unfurnished apartment. Though I’m distracted once more as I try to solve the mystery that explains how my sheet comes off the corners of my mattress every night. One day I’ll staple the damn thing.

After a short cold shower, i look in the fridge dreaming of an abundance of bacon and eggs, ready to be cooked with brown sauce and roasted tomatoes and avocadoes. Instead I’m greeted with the harsh reality that is long-life milk, 1 boiled egg and some old salami that looks to have grown new un-yet-defined bacteria, which could surely win me a noble prize in science. Though, inside my pantry exists enough instant coffee to feed the Fijian army. I’m fairly certain that instant coffee is the only real evidence that proves gods existence. I proceed to turn on the hot water tap (the kettle broke in an alcoholic fuelled fantasy when I became an alchemist and tried to boiled whiskey to create the world best Irish coffee). Once the tap has produces water that I deem hot enough, i make myself a coffee that can only be described as sustainable to my mental sanity. The enjoyment is gone and only the effects remain. I’ve come to like my coffee just as I like my women: quick, lukewarm, with an appalling aftertaste. The honk below is getting more erratic and impatient; my lift to work must be getting frustrated with my prolonged readiness. I skull the coffee and open a new shirt that I picked up from Lowes last Saturday. 3 for $10! Cheaper than doing my laundry.

My work is fairly simple, so simple that when i was given the job, i was pretty certain that the interviewer thought i was handicapped. Working a toll booth cash register is about as difficult as collecting lint in your belly button. The fact that there are two people working in every booth astounds me, and further highlights the rubbish bureaucracy that is created when Her Majesty colonises a country. A penultimate honk from the car downstairs tells me that I’ve got 30 seconds to get to the car. My co-inhabitant of the toll booth is waiting in the car downstairs to drive us to work. And as I climb into the passenger seat, his usual welcome is joined by what could possibly be the worst case of chronic halitosis known to man. A fact that I ignore as he always allows me to smoke in the tollbooth, even though he isn’t a smoker. 

why does it matter?

why does it matter?
if the football is on,
or there is bread in the toaster,
or the one who is watching,
is the “girl with eyes forlorn” 
why does it matter,
if shes smoking crack,
cause she not able to hack,
life without her rack.
so you heat her some smack,
to subdue her mood,
and it no longer matters,
that your without your food. 

working for tony robbins

I may have just shaken hands with the devil.
I’m crying salty tears of unimaginable consequence and my soul is damaged.

I repeat the mantra…

I’m just a doorman

I’m just a doorman

I’m just a doorman

It’s not working; I still cannot shake the feeling that I’m hanging with pure evil.

And before my eyes, his 5 o’clock shadow is growing.

His sweat is a fertiliser for money and his arms mechanical oil pumps.

His tongue is pure gold and his saliva speckled diamonds.

He makes me hate. Pure capitalist-driven-hate.

It makes me want to justify the combined killings of Mao, Pol Pot and Stalin.

Every fibre of my being wants me to scream out and prove the falseness of his hope. Destroy the pearls that are his teeth and wear his scalp as a hat.

But I can’t.

He’s hiding my soul in his wallet. And the larger his wallet grow, the more depleted my feelings are.

I’m not crying anymore, instead I’m overcome by a sadness that is trying with all it’s might to justify the hate I’m feeling.

oh gosh

what sweet death is this?

love and lies

Lies and lies and lies

Of love and lovers who die.

Tell me one constant expression that will keep me alive

And alive

For more lovers’ lies.

To deny the existence of emotional banality

Would seem a simpler lie that the impoverished truth

That begets chuppahs,

That begets children,

That begets fleas and carnal knowledge

Of an automobile who’s last owner drowned in a haze of carbon monoxide

And its promise of a truth that would forsake

His lover’s lies.

Prepubescent promises predicted a most envious position

In the process of believing in this fatalistic, mortal lie.

High-school playgrounds filled with sweaty games

And delusions of instant fame

Became a precursor of this once thought innocent lie.

Battlefields and

towers and

edifices will be fought and erected in the hope

Of preserving this constant lie

Whose truth is only fully appreciated in leave and death.

An idea that only truly exists in absence can be nothing but a lie

About a created truth to take the place of sleeping pills,

And broken promises,

And misplaces truths.

(Tybalt - Juliet’s cousin - seemed to have reached ecstasy in fully depreciating this lie. He faltered though. Hate is a falsity that begets love. This spelt his downfall.)

I do not hate love as i dont love hate.

They are merely fickle untruths

Our parents tell us in order for us to wake up,

And fall asleep.

So love me like a vessel in which you keep precious liquid.

And hate me like the sun which evaporates you liquid,

Because in truth,

Youve noone to blame

As you should of quenched your throat

A long time ago.

i will keep putting this up

until the day i believe it.

i refuse to trust myself

seriously, how bad is that?