He's stupid, he's dumb, he's the pilot: Part 2

Anyways, as i progressed after the encounter with the dirt and pavement (behold the rider on the grass! and the proceding ass festival! Look at the jesture playing jokes and making enigmas to be pondered about, the asses gaze, dance, feast, for whom is the ass in a world of asses? Zarathustra must be watching, for he himself once experienced the ass festival in a vivid way) i continued to muster my self humility, along with some self determination brought about by that humility, and washed my hands of the blood soaked pants and scars at your local Menards (brought to you by X parent corporation : ) ). Anyways, i progressed on my jouney to repay a constructed feeling of debt (which is infinatly more vile than the void, for it is a negativity, an absence, something that needs to be filled, repaid, the void just sits, does not need anything to 'fill it up' like a phallus, roses, or money) by construcing a token economy of semiotic value creation, reifying something that is supposed to be my intent in an object (i.e. a gift). If we observe the gift economy, it is facinating and hauntingly revolutionary (i will stop at this point for fear of digressing into a pesudo econo-philosophical rant, wait...damnit.) Anyways, after the desire constructed by my schema of 'debt' that has been aquired through the repetions of 'ungreatfulness' and 'spoiled brat' callings that have colored my episodic memory, i showed my willingness to bow to my internal desires, the structures that determine our actions, oh how they overdetermine! As i rode back with roses stuck tightly in my backpack (one must not be willing to admit that they had not planed in advance how the final undertaking would commence and getting object from point A to point B without a secure method), i recieved weird looks from the occupants of all the cars as i rode by. Was it that i was on a bike, surely not, for who has not seen someone ride a bike in this modern society (well, question probably is valid, who needs a bike when we can have more pavement, more oil, more toxins, more SUVs, more Wars, 'the american way of life is nonegotiable' as long as it benefits some corporate interests and wall street. LONG LIVE THE PEAK, THE FUTURE LASTS FOREVER, THE FUTURE IS NOW!). But i digress, the looks became ever more apparent, ever more gaze like, ever more, at least to me, rediculous. Was it the flowers... I must admit, i have not seen someone bike with some flowers in their backpack, but would make nothing much of such an encounter. Oh well, the flowers and the heat (upwards of 96F) must have made me seem like a hallucination, my bloodied palms, flowers, bike, rolled up pants, only a lunatic would do that.... It must be someone insane, I am insane. I would rather bike than car ride, walk than consume gas, apparently i am making things 'more difficult on myself' (the words of a wise and self reightious sage whos genetic material composits a little less than half of my own), im insane. The insanity of it all, is all i could think about, the roses i used in my gift economy screamed out at me, they showed me my insanity, to get a gift that involved the decapitation of flowers, to ride a bike in a society of hidrocarbon machines, to sweat, to bleed, to fall in the rush of things, to waver as one carries flowers on their back. It hit me, I am insane if there ever was such a gague as sanity, but then again, isnt it the sane who produce the insane, who elicit the insanity of the sanity in our society. I repeat, fear me, laugh at me, gaze at me, for i am the epitomy of insanity. I am the ass dancing on the roof, why would someone care, why would this dialogue even be taking place, if i were not totaly and completely insane. Those gazing from their high tower, full of sanity and wreached contentment, can have it, i choose the insanity of it all, to be insane, if only that i can bring a little bit more to bear on our soeicty by exposing it for what it is, an ass gazing, declaring all that defy its logic insane, attempting to imperialize those that it deems unsutable through their gaze, through the internalization of phantoms, through the semiotic of sensual oddity. Maybe it is the haunting ghost that these gazers look upon and feel a sense that they too are insane, that maybe they are afraid of their insanity and thus must externalize it to validate their saneness? Hmm...To speek of such would be deemd blasphamy in the sanctuary of the sane, i should go hide now, whith my bloody plams, my sweaty clothes, and my assorted roses....For FEAR ME, THE INSANE, THE ASS, THE ORIENT! But alas, the fear is expressed and effective through engagement, through the attempted destruction of the alterity.....I go.....to sleep.