Today, I’m going to destroy the Internet.

Today.

That’s all the cursor was flashing beside when I woke up. The amphetamines had died away maybe two or three days ago and I’d been coasting on the thermals of constant Red Bull, coffee, Red Kooga Boost pills and whatever crusty left over lazies managed to free themselves from the swamp of my sinuses, down, back into circulation.

Hawk, hack and swallow.

The only thing this had really resulted in was that my face bore a sort of mashed up by keyboard elephant man chic.

Although Queen Adreena’s ‘Bridgit’ was playing on loop, I found myself singing Jona Lewie’s ‘Hallelujah Europa’ chorus over and over in a way I couldn’t listen to and probably was beginning to want to do myself a damage.

My heart felt like the twisted bastard of speed and crack, and I feared rogue, shit covered mongoloids had stolen my frontal lobe and were doing foul things to it with screwdrivers and turkey basters.

I think I’d been distracted whilst editing up new pieces for the mountain. Something needed verifying or a source needed tracking down. I ended up trawling through the back alleys and grim speakeasies of the Internet. Gradually, I ended up having a conversation with Nails in my head and that spawned into a piece that in the perfect apathetic homage to Nails, I deleted, twice.

Passing out must have happened and all I was left with was a sentence and one word.

Sipping Jasmine tea and smoking rollups as offset to previous decadence, I’ve been trying to think on what exactly set me off. It wasn’t Furries; I don’t have the same hateful disdain for them the rest of the Internet seems to. Whatever your fetish apparently it’ll look better against people who want to dress up in funfur velveteen suits. Apparently, they are the water margin of pathetic and in a digital world of shit eaters, big babies and Gorean roleplay, it doesn’t matter how low you sink, you’ll always have the Furries to kick.

No… It wasn’t the Furries. I mean who hasn’t wanted to be a seven foot chainsaw wielding platypus with an axe to grind and crack addled Badger who once was the greatest ninja assassin in the world, as a best friend.

It wasn’t the Goreans, they’re beneath my contempt, floating somewhere like phlegm curling down porcelain beneath the urinal cakes of my hate and just before the plughole of nothingness.

Maybe it was the Polys. I did get sick of wandering through their communities or Livejournals years ago. It all ends up circling the same support group drain where once primaries decry the fact they ain’t so primary no more or elsewhere once proud polys are standing beside public posts that say they’ve decided to not be a poly couple for a while. The curled literary fist hanging by their side, dripping a bulimic socio-sexual residue of needing to confess more. I’m sure I say this for a large group of us when we tell you, we really have better things to worry about.

I’m no Rock’n’Roll outlaw. I can’t get down with writers like Richard Lacayo or anyone using the term “free love”. As a word that’d been sodomized throughout history, I would still have thought that by it’s definition love was free. That any reference to it, be it the sixties or the now is just an indication of that writer’s fucked up Christian/Muslim/Judiac/Hindu etc toxic guilt syndrome. The words are rotten, we need a new term – I’d offer unchained love, but that just simmers up women’s prison movies. Still though, it’s better than free love. Where just experiencing the “zipless fuck” punts you from capitalist carnality and off into some sort of sexual communism. We all know where that ends though – wheezing AIDs in a gulag or the sudden thump of a bullet in the back the neck in some basement somewhere. It only comes after you’ve publicly decried yourself, your past and the crimes you committed against the rest of us.

Then I thought perhaps it was the roleplayers but then I put on my wizard hat and robe and that group of fuck-ups became as meaningless as pouring thousands of hours into text based adventures pretending you’re actually cool really is. Looking for someone or some group or something to blame the need to destroy on, my mind suckered loose Lovecraftian toward the MMO crowd. It doesn’t matter how pithy and intellectual you come across on Blizzard or Funcom’s forums, you’ve still trained your brain to give a chemical response for doing absolutely nothing over and over and over and over and… Essentially making you worthless. When we finally get savvy junkies, MMO players will be the Furries of the addiction world.

It certainly wasn’t the little cyber castles, villages, warrens, ratlines and harems people like Richard Dawkins, Cory Doctorow, Warren Ellis, Neil Gaiman or Poppy Z. Brite had built. The monkeys with typewriters communities had already produced enough Hamlet to be worth keeping.

Places like Slash came to mind – but the Right, the Infirm and the Quacks had long hit them like intellectual malaria. They were now just yellowed sweating trashing bodies waiting to be corpses.

I thought of Torrent communities, where Scandinavian bigots swarmed in little black crow clouds on their IRC channels, and of how hard it was to get invites to the new Oink. Sooner or later, we’re all gonna’ burn, don’t close the door lest you can’t get out.

Granted they all contributed to the smash and destroy malaise, but none of them in any way I hadn’t long ago dealt with or thrown away as just the same old shit in a fancy new cocksucker suit.

The porn probably contributed too. I do get sick of site sidebars being filled with fleshpot adverts and small java loops of pummeled cunt. I’ll look at it when I want to, excuse me, thanks, I’m trying to read this man’s review of ‘Darkness at Noon’.

It could be dating sites, adult connections, friend finders and these things that now clog up everywhere – advertising a seemingly endless supply of women and men in various states of desperation. Just turning on the computer plugs you straight into the dark pawing mewling underbelly of humanity. I used to revel in the vastness and part of me still does, but the rest of me lies jaded and glass eyed on the cushions of that opium den.

It seems to be, any remotely pretty girl into Goth, Punk, Psychobilly or anything else. Whose friends once somewhere, probably high on E, told her she was good looking, is busy posting on her Myspace about how she is working on becoming a Fetish model. Or better yet, has proactively started her own softcore, hardcore or mediumcore “what the fuck she only put the head in? I mean she’s really going to have to give the fans what they want soon or lose…” And who am I to complain? But really, I’ll get to that.

What once was a glorious golden age of suddenly tiny world with instant communication has descended into a bacchanal orgy of self-loathing, self-pity and self-aggrandizing. If you’re not the fanboy sucking cock somewhere else, you’re extolling the virtues to people of them sucking yours. Still though, you’re pretty – a savvy feminist, get your tits out there for the lads.

These are the last days of reason people; act accordingly.

How turgid infection riddled slow loading places like Myspace ever got popular as networking tools is beyond me. Ever the resourceful monkeys, people seem to have taken something bloated and broken and forced it to work for them. And I have to admire that, if only with a sort of wry amusement. As much as I hate the place, it gives me music. Possibly the same panacea offered as the hallucinations you might get by a serendipitously placed brain tumor.

We had a good head start – then the ideological knuckle draggers learned what an ‘ON’ button was and we got swamped by every variation of Right and Hate ever conceived in the fever dreams of that lost generation who saw the turn, the terror and it’s end and prayed if they screamed loud enough long enough it would never come back.

I have become a periodic table of hate with a sentimental mind, shadow boxing like a crazed spastic hopped up on pep pills unable to choose who to go for first.

Still ploughing the clouds on trying to find the source of that opening sentence and its one trailing word. I realize I’ve forgotten more of my targets than I’ve mentioned and come to rest squarely on the fan fiction writers. The fox tapeworm of the literary world is all I have to say.

Yet like those halfway pretty girls with delusions of modeling, porn and individuality. The Internet sits rife with a lot people who want you to hear their opinion. If only because they have to get it out, if only because it validates them as a person, if only because maybe, doing it keeps them just a toe closer to sanity.

The Bloggers, the amateur reporters, the writers who don’t think you have enough to do with reading their mainstream work and will sit and tell you ad nauseam about their day, their life and their opinions on Icelandic fishing traditions. I’ve pointed the claw at them before. I am the pot screaming “blakblakblak”. So many fetid little opinions from so many people we should just harvest for organs. Make them disease factories, so we can the find cures faster. They, we, I are the limpets and the rats on our ship of fools.

In reaching towards ending, I’ll borrow a term from the beginning; yet still the worst of shit covered mongoloids, these half-way houses of something a friend once complimented in the same you say “oh you look lovely” in passing. Are those that mirror those girls almost exactly. If the Internet has given us anything other than fucked up clown amputee midget pony fart fantasy BDSM porn. If it has allowed anything more than the sharing of our darkest shit sifting sexual fantasies. It has allowed every motherfucker who even dared to one day suppose on the bus home from work that they could be a writer, the forum to be just that.

Every second Livejournal, Myspace or otherwise I happen across, I find a post of someone talking about their book. Posting word counts or discussing the mass and piss of the suddenly delusional concept that is NanoWriMo. Every five minutes, someone, somewhere, is busy setting up a site to host the drivel either they write or their friends write. Little do they realize every time they do this, God gives small malnourished Eastern European child cancer of the face. They, we, sit here, typing away, acting like the self validating tampon barrier to anyone out there with any real talent but a distinct lacking in the ability to self market.

Worse still are the fan fiction writers who somehow manage to get a promotion, write a fan fiction piece wrapped up as something original. Name changes, maybe it’s not a vampire, it’s a demon, maybe it’s not a wizard it’s a witch. The worst type of whores in the worst type of brothel, they’ll harp on about word count and how-tos like some wizened madam telling the others how she keeps all those johns coming back to her.

My mind wanders back to the internalized conversation with Nails. A place where hate becomes apathy and apathy becomes so caustic that his carbolic rants often ring mistakenly of self-righteousness. The tone is now metered by the likes of JonnyRage. Who, eyes closed, head bowed, finger up, is asking for just a minute to explain something in that sort of sagacious Free Wheelin’ Franklin way that shuffles the back foot.

I am reminded of Nails talking censorship and explaining why he deletes what he writes. How he was going to write a piece attacking people who felt the need to put their words out there. Usually half-baked in concoction and mechanic, they sat in some sort of miasmic pomposity and not only thought the world really cared, but actually needed their uneducated thoughts on everything. He stopped then and said you’d just put that article attacking everything you’d set up, up, wouldn’t you, you bastard.

Now I remember a pivotal screw in the need to destroy. Now I remember one of the key things that needed to stop or be smashed.

Yet in remembering I