154 lines
8.2 KiB
Plaintext
154 lines
8.2 KiB
Plaintext
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Beautiful Night
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3:41 AM, says my computer. 4:37, says my alarm clock. I
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trust the latter, since my computer is all fucked up at the moment,
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and this is not good. In precisely twelve hours and twenty-three
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minutes an examination will begin. I will be taking it.
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Shit, I ain't prepared... but I don't want to be prepared
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any more, 'cause, frankly, I don't give a fuck about it. I just want
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to get it over with, fail the damn thing, explain to mom that this
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college thing isn't really for me, and then get on with my life. Get
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a job, or something. Perhaps go through an easier exam, just to get
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into the second year of college and ward off the army for another
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twelve months. Perhaps fuck it all and try to get permanently
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relieved of the army because of my allergic asthma.
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Either way, my life is about to change a lot.
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I came home [well... as much as I can call this dump I
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reside in at the moment "home"] some twenty minutes ago. I sat on
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a bench in the park outside my building for at least an hour and a
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half, listening to a new tape I recorded yesterday. Kickass music.
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Goes well with friday nights in the capitol, though the park was a
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bit too tranquil for the energetic breakbeats.
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Yeah, and then there were the people in the park. Real odd,
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you know, so many lives, so many destinies, pass each other bye,
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without ever knowing about the existence of each other. Two benches
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to my left, five skaters deeply involved with rolling a joint and
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showing each other how happy they were about it. Right between us, a
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beggar getting a good nights sleep, emitting a loud snore here and
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there. Straight ahead of me, on the opposite end of the small park,
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a couple, getting busy. _Real_ busy, from what I could see. A couple
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of teenagers having a quiet conversation to my far right, and
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probably several more souls in the park, outside my range of vision.
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It is a nice, silent night. I could even see the stars through the
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slowly dying leaves of the tree towering above me.
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At one point, a fat old gipsy woman strolled by, murmuring
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something to herself under her breath, pushing a beat-up shopping
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cart filled mostly with trash and half-rotten bits of food in front
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of her. She was dressed in torn up filthy rags, and an odor that
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almost turned my stomach followed close behind her. She didn't stop
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at that, she just had to push my stomach all the way. Seven or eight
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meters to my right, the slow steady squeal of the cart stopped, and
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she started frantically pulling her skirts up. I kept watching,
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though the sight was disgusting, I was curious about what was
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happening. I couldn't see what she was doing, but she must've pushed
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her hand into her panties, and took out a handful of shit, because
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she shook her hand off, and something very dark splattered all over
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the path. She repeated this several times, and then continued to
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inch forward nice'n'steady, relieved of the contents of her panties.
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If there was any doubt as to what she dug out from under her skirt,
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it was all chased away by the horrible stench that came my way
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moments later. I tried to breathe as little as I could, got up, and
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started walking away from this miniature ecological disaster.
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The skaters fell silent for a moment as I passed them by,
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but merrily went on rolling their spliff [quite unsuccesfuly from
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what I could see, it was obviously not their first one tonight]
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after I strolled away not paying much attention to them. The night
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was nice, but I was dressed too lightly for it, I was becoming a bit
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bored, and the ninety minute tape was coming to it's end. Oh, yeah,
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and the gipsy woman didn't help make me feel any better, either. So
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I made a small circle around the park, and headed back here, to this
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little flat I reside in.
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I had no new mail, my HTTP link was just _so_ fucking slow,
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and I felt in the right mood, so I fired up the editor, and here I
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am now, at line 71, listening to some mellow r'n'b on the radio.
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It's nice, actually. I feel real good, because I like this kind of
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smooth chill-out atmosphere, I like being all alone with nothing but
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a deep hip-hop beat and the slow firing of my synapses, I really like
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to sit in darkness and let loose.
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I like not having to worry about anything. Though I probably
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should. But I like to think that I have realized the deeper meaning
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of that old cliche of "be yourself". If I just can't pass this exam,
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then passing it just "ain't me", so why should I let it bother me?
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If passing this exam is the precondition to a glorious carrier in
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computing r&d, then this glorious carrier isn't me, either. If I am
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damn good about coding, and am damn good about making music, and I
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like doing both of these, then that's what I should do in life.
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Come to think of it, I really don't know what made me want to
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become a scientist-type, anyhow. I always was interested in how
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things work, but today's physics is parsecs away from what it was
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back in the glorious days of Newton & CO. No one wants to know how
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things work, anymore. All they want is more data to process, more
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numbers, more accurate measurements. It is a huge bureocratoid
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system, and it's no wonder that it gives birth to a stereotypical
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picture of a scientist as a skinny nerd with thick glasses,
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incapable to shit properly if he doesn't calculate the proper
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trajectory of the turd first. So fuck it all.
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I will be what I want to be, what I dreamt about when I was
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a kid, and what I dreamt about ever since I realized that "science"
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was just a huge lie; I will be a hacker, and I will be a poet, a
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musician and a martial artist. And if I can't make enough money this
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way to live through the next day, then I'll find something else to
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do until I can. But I will be myself. I will live through what would
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otherwise remain just a childhood fantasy.
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Damn! Why should it remain only that? I don't have a clue
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about how come I realize these things only now! I mean, I get this
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one stinking' life to live through, and what do I spend it on? Doing
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what others expect from me and dreaming about being something
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completely different? Fuck that. A roof over my head, food on the
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plate, and a fuck here and there, is all that I need to be able to
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do what I want in life - and these don't require much effort to
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have.
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In an hour or so, dawn will come. I will wait for it
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completely awake, probably for the first time in my life... and I
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will enjoy it. Just like I will enjoy every moment of my life, from
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now on, because it is one, it is unique, and it is wonderful if
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that's how I want it to be.
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Wanna join me?
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Phuzzy Logik/CoRRoSioN
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September 12th, 1998.
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phuzzy@galeb.etf.bg.ac.yu
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
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= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, Submissions =
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= Mail: jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
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= To receive new issues through mail, mail jericho@dimensional.com with =
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= "subscribe fuck". If you do not have FTP access and would like back =
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= issues, send a list of any missing issues and they will be mailed. =
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
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= AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
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= FTP.SEKURITY.ORG/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
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= FTP.DTO.NET /pub/zines/fuck =
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= FTP.ETEXT.ORG/pub/Zines/FUCK =
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= WWW http://www.sekurity.org/~fuck (temp down) =
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= http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
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= http://www.reps.net/~krypt/fuck.html =
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= http://www.simunye.com/fuck =
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= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author. =
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