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The Hogs of Entropy 0900
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(*) (*) * (*)~*~(*) HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #900
* 0 0 ~ 0 *
~ 0 0 ~* *~ 0 hOGS ~ "Hoe 900"
( 0*~*~*0 ( ) 0*~*~ oF )
~ 0 0 ~ ~ 0 eNTROPY ~ by Tasha
* 0 0 * * 0 * 11-7-99
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Every girl here is required to wear a white dress covered in navy
blue stripes, making it some sort of futuristic plaid. They've been
required to wear these dresses for some time now, though i don't know why or
since when. I just know that this is the way things are. The fabric of the
dresses are thick and ill-textured, covered with some sort of material that
gives them some semblance of being smooth. If they were put on any normal
body, they'd leave the skin horribly chafed. Raw and deceivingly pink,
making the viewer think of perhaps a spring flower, rather than tender and
sore skin. But these girls have been subjected to this rough fabric since
their birth, and second-handedly subjected to it from the moment of
conception, since their mothers were required to wear the same thing, maybe.
Again, I'm not sure when this futuristic plaid dress thing came into play.
In all the glory of their pure nudity, the girls are found to have leather-
like skin covering their bones and muscles and organs from their shoulder to
mid-thigh. That's what part of the body the dresses cover. The dresses are
sleeveless, however, and have one-inch straps covering the shoulders. Pale
orange sweaters accompany the dresses. The sweaters are used to be more
provocative or modest, maybe both.
Sadly, global warming took over the planet many years ago and the
sweaters keep the girls fairly overheated. Acne covers their back and arms
from pores clogged with sweat, but the sado-masochism of everyday life must
prevail through these little wool things.
[-----]
I sometimes get these incredible urges to grab someone off the street
and talk at them. Not talk to them, at them. Then I would like them to
talk back at me, and not to me, and we would continue talking at each other.
And this wouldn't really be a conversation or debate, but just two people
talking at each other, like conversations in one's head, but the other
person's talking would spawn more thoughts and it would be beautiful endless
chatter of meaningless intensity.
I think the reason I ramble so much is because I am often so
uninterested in reality and what's really going on that I have elaborate
conversations and stories in my head. And I play them out, playing each
character, and how I would want them to be. And then I get in an situation
with another person there, and I'm supposed to be talking to them, but all I
can do is talk at them, because I forget that there's another person there
receiving these messages from me through some medium. And I just talk and
talk and talk, like I do in my head all the time. Although, the
conversations in my head tend to be a bit different, because there are never
any subconscious obligations to be the cool kid on the playground cursing
just a little bit too low for the teachers to hear.
I want to dance in the rain and have a raindrop living on my lower
lip forever and I want to dig in the mud until I hit the golden clay and
then keep digging on and on and on and on to China or Japan or some other
Asian country. I want to climb a mountain, only to scream and climb back
down again and be the Japhy Ryder of this generation and of some other poor
mis-guided Buddhist, even though I hate Japhy Ryder. I want to crack my
knuckles endlessly until my mind is constantly clouded with that small
sound. And I want to ride around in the back of a pick-up truck and feel
the cold air of a Michigan winter on the tip of my nose, which I seem to
have grown out of. And I, I, I, I, it's all about me. Maybe I should start
a diary, but I tried that once and failed, and just disappointed myself.
I had a dream of a junk-sick boy crawling down a hallway towards me,
and he was grinning and his teeth were yellow, and some of them were
missing. And it wasn't a nightmare. It was just a beautiful junk-sick boy
crawling down a hallway towards me, grinning, with yellow teeth, some of
which were missing. And I woke up, and that's all I remember, and it
somehow makes me think of Stephen and his e-mail about dreams. And how he
said dreams are just neurons firing randomly and then the person fabricating
some plot for the dream. But that whole idea just makes dreams seem so
worthless and pointless and meaningless, and dreams are beautiful, even if
they are just fabrications from firing neurons.
I'm supposed to be writing this hoe #900 thing, but I'm not sure what
I want to do with it. For the longest time, my writing consumed me, and it
was the only thing I felt passionate about. Then, I lost track of
everything in my life and lost myself on a path of not knowing. Not knowing
what I wanted to do and who I was and how to find these things out. And
slowly I found my way again, but my writing was no longer very important to
me. I discovered a me that could be unattached from the world of
prepositions and direct objects and punctuation and everything and anything.
And I'm forcing out how #900 now, I wasn't before, but now I am,
because I've been confined to a deadline. And every girl I pass seems to be
wearing the plaid dresses and orange sweaters from some weird novel
predicting the fall of society as we know it. And I wonder if there's
something wrong with me in my gray skirt and plain t-shirt, and Allison
claims I look Amish. And I wonder what it's like to be Amish. I wonder
what it's like to be religious in general, though. To know for a fact that
God exists and have no lingering questions about reality and the world and
the nature of it all. I wonder what it's like to be able to have such
strong beliefs and convictions in one thing, and I wonder and wonder and
want to have that, but I can't. Something in my nature doesn't allow me to
believe all these things, and the sides of myself clash again and create
thunderstorms inside my head of wanting to believe and not wanting to
believe or have anything to do with it.
And I'm confused, and back to forcing out hoe #900. And I'm kind of
tired, and kind of wondering what would happen if I suddenly ran around
naked and screaming in French. Would that make everything better? It seems
like a wonderful idea.
Phairgirl wants this now.
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( *(c) hOGS oF eNTROPY pRESS* HOE #900 ~ WRITTEN BY: TASHA ~ 11/7/99 )
