Internal Rebellion

My index finger is sore from the amount of times I click on the laptop mouse pad. This may indicate that I use my index finger a great deal but the reason fore the soreness is the force at which I pound my finger into the mouse pad. When I want to look at a link, I WANT TO FUCKIN' LOOK AT THAT LINK!


I am nocturnal, but last night I slept a bit and have been awake all day today. It is only 3pm but the day is gray before it's time. You know, Adrian from the original Rocky was charming, or maybe that's just my predisposition to digging women with short hair talking. I have relentlessly been wrecking myself for the past few months and now my mind and body are rebelling. Alone neither of them stood a chance, but they have pushed aside their differences and combined their efforts in an attempt to halt my brutal reign. They want sleep, they want good food and claim that whiskey soaked hamburger meat is not enough to live on.


I wonder, why have they betrayed me, aside from the harsh way I treat them. I feel they are also reacting to the way I have been treating my love... I have been neglecting her. I can come up with excuses, many excuses actually, but in the end I must ask myself... do I love her as much as I think I do? Or is she just something I am good at but not really committed to. I must always remain honest, no lies or deceit, I love it but is it the type of all consuming love that will drive me to the land of milk and honey, to where I breathe the dream in and out and lay in it during the night... Am I too content with the way things are? Must something be squalid and sickening in order for me to seriously get up and do something about it?

Just work. Just do it. Get better, better than the last time. Grow. Keep fighting. If you get knocked down, get up and keep going. No matter what. You know... this doubt is very likely an assault launched by mind and body as retribution, as a way to weaken me to where I succumb to their demands... or... no... perhaps its a cry for help, a dim flare trying to light the dark sky of my self destruction. Should I listen? Will I listen? HURRRRRRRRRRRR


I'm very tired though, I'm going to lay down now.

Ghosts, Spooks and Heated Choco-mao-mao

With the mere mention of a name I can be rendered worthless and weak. At it's calling, I feel as if nothing I do will amount to anything. It is the antithesis of happiness, a hope hungry vortex and the pain of knowing that the end is near and all you can do is greet it with tears and no place to run.

The name is dark fire that does not illuminate, but still consumes. It's vile, and stupid, and ugly and dumb, dumb dumbsticks.

I've forgotten the name at the moment, as well as whether or not it was the name of a person, place, idea or concept, or even a thing. I do recall it being terrible though, like it was made of the nightmare nights in childhood. Strange... you would think that I would be able to remember such a powerful name, but for the life of me I can't! Perhaps this is a good thing. Do I really want to recall something that would warrant negative words to be strung together in a way that conveys dread and loathing? What if it wasn't anything bad? Christ! What if I've said such terrible things about something I enjoy!? What if I have done that, and that thing I enjoy finds out what I said about it!? What if I said it about hot chocolate?!! What if they leave me because of it?! Hot chocolate might not understand the situation! It might not care because I broke it's heart with such mean sentences that were not even intended for it!

My god, but what if... what if I did mean to say what I said about hot chocolate... Do I like hot chocolate? Yes, I think so, I love it in fact, I drink it in the summer. But then why, why speak ill of something I love?

Was I possessed? Did the spirit of a slain opponent guide my hands? If so, does this mean when I am inevitably struck down from behind by someone I trusted that I may come back as a vengeful spectre?! That would be interesting, but only after the first 20 billion years or so. Once the universe cools to the point of eternal zero I would imagine being a ghost would suddenly become much less interesting, unless I was able to interact with other spooks, but even do I really want to spend the rest of eternity chatting with the slain opponent who as I recall was a pretty shallow fuckwit?

I must think on these things... I can't make a mistake right now, hot chocolate must not know. I will be sweet to it for now, until I can decide the best course of action and gain practical intelligence on the matter. Fear not, I have no fear but the name, and it is likely I will never remember the name, so I guess that means I have no fear, save for the fear of losing hot chocolate forever.

Gone Drinkin: After 3 Hours Of Sobering Up

I have lost my glasses, and I am currently so drunk that I cannot stand up. Fortunately, I have sobered up a great deal from before. You must know that I was so drunk earlier that, for the first time in my life, I was thrown out of a bar and WHY IS THAT FUCKING PICTURE MOVING?! STOP BUBBLE PICTURE! I WANT YOU TO STAY!


It's still going down, Christ on a cross, i can't write NEXT to it it only wants to move down... like it's AFRAID OF MY WORDS! NO! BUBBLE bursting do not fear! do not go where the chicken strips I found went, away, no, please hang tight and do not leave me.

Wait, IT WORKED, but the font changed... fuck... oh well, beggars cannot be choosers. I am managing to keep from typing like a broken down self operating type writer, so hopefully whoever may read this will be able to... and... I have lost the thought. Christ -_-

I am now laying in a bed, a mercifully comfortable bed, and I wonder, will I be able to continue writing like this?

See, I could say many things, but I cannot find anything at this moment that is WORTH saying. The alcohol in my system is causing me to be satisfied with essentially everything, and while many would see this as a good thing, I know that there are still things out there that should not be tolerated. I know there is suffering and injustice, I know that there is monumental bullshit being sold on a massive fucking level, and I know that holy goddamn shit it's an absolute miracle I'm coherent enough to correct my typos! Man, I can honestly tell you, good reader, that I am still drunk off my ass, but I'm managing to write better than many sober people. AHAHAHAHA, oh man, I actually laughed out loud, like a maniac. I have a wonderful bad guy's voice. I would have said villian, but at the moment I cannot seem to spell it correctly. Meh.

I think I shall wrap this up for now. I shall write again when I am sober.

Boozeviking Murderzone

I am bothered. I have read hundreds of examples of other people's writing. These people call themselves writers and profess to write as if it is as important a function as breathing. But when I read what is actually written, I can rarely tell it apart from what the last person wrote, like it's all a giant and uninspired conspiracy.

I mentioned this to a friend of mine and gave her a sample of the writing that dismayed me. She could not see anything wrong with it and informed me that I was being an arrogant, nose in the air asshole who did not think that if something was not written by me it was not worth reading. This is where I would usually make a joke, along the lines of "HOW DID SHE KNOW?!" or "they're lucky I don't hunt them down for affronting me with their bile drenched symbols of mediocre story telling," but the truth is it got my goat.

I have come across many wonderful examples of writing, just... not from anyone online that I have come across as of yet. I get excited to hear that a person "is a writer and has been doing it for years" but when I read what they give me I almost always have to slam my hand in a door just to stay awake and stay focused. As I read I will scrutinize it, but not to any absurd degree. I forgive simple mistakes, but it gets to the point to where I will read on and on and on waiting for that moment where my time becomes well spent but it never comes to pass. I have read so many pieces that are nothing but word suppository, and not the enjoyable kind. It's like having to read the shit they pump out in high school English.

Yes they may love writing, but they write as if they're following along with a fucking bouncing ball in a "writing for mongoloids" home instructional video! It's either too safe and boring or reckless and sloppy. Maybe I am just being a snooty fuckface but goddammit I know what I like and what I don't like! I do not claim to be Shakespeare or Styron or Dostoevsky or even King, but I know at least that my hacked up servings are at readable. I know I have not been writing for nearly as long as many of these people, but how does it not occur to them that they are writing cookie cutter shit.

Writing should NEVER be cookie cutter, it should be brave and bold, it should be simple and sophisticated, it should be anything but dull and uninspired. The words give life and cause your brain to take flight, but not when an entire story revolves around something that should have been no more than a sentence in length, if it has a point at all! Even if it doesn't have a point, make it wild make it zazzy, aim it high and even if it fails at least learn something from it! Don't write boring shit and try to pass it off as something finished. I can live with a boring piece if it was written as an experiment or something that a lesson could be learned from but over and over agaknrewlkrw lkhvalkj wlrkj 1oi1` j2132j42`~!@#~

Alright, moving on, I have been writing seriously for a very short time, but I already have a cranial ego balloon that lifts my head into the great wordy sky so that I may blow the arrogant snot of self-importance unto the lowly masses who falsely claim to be writers, how DARE they not adhere to what I consider a writer to be!

Bah, this is giving me a headache, but at the same time I'm happy to feel this way, I'm happy to have a passion for something other than being an asshole. I love it, I truly and whole heartidly love it. I will write more later, but for right now I must look into having my legal name changed to Boozeviking Murderzone.

Furthermore! Andika got me into this Morrissey song called Irish Blood, English Heart which I have been playing on a loop; partly because the fucking thing is so short. I have never seen Morrissey perform until Andika showed me a video. That's a guy who knows how to work charisma and sex appeal despite looking like every single British man who has ever lived. Andika told me he was asexual. As it turns out my assumption that he reproduced by gorging himself on food until he vomits a child wasn't what she meant, *thanks for the misinformation Tremors 3* Apparently he has no sexual interest in men or women. After watching his video for a while I realized that the reason for this was because nobody has made him a clone. I guarantee you that he would absolutely nail himself, and I guarantee you that every morning this man looks in the mirror and says "man, I'd so fuck me."

CHAOTIC JEMIMA

This is Jemima from the musical Cats. As you can see, she is fucking adorable. The actress who plays her is Veerle Casteleyn, a woman who, if she looks at you, makes your face feel as if its being kissed by a million puppies at once. It is this magical effect she has that is keeping me from entering a homicidal state. That half assed writing program I downloaded to replace MS Vampire has turned out to be a shittier but just as malevolent program. FUCK ABILITY WRITE. It is not worth "buying" after supposedly being downloadable for free.

I may have to start using notepad... this is a prospect that frightens me. I am as computer saavy as David Hasselhoff is modest, I cannot ever seem to get notepad to not let me write on half a fucking page. Bah, I need a drink, but I have no alcohol... no alcohol... NO FUCKING ALOH-
OK! FUCK... I'm cool, I'm cool. D'aww she had such fucked up teeth but part of what made her darling. Yes, I'm straight by the way. I'm also unafraid of going to jail for recklessly and viciously assaulting people. Try me fuckers.

I just checked my junk mail folder and MSN horoscopes sent me a message saying, "Today's Starscope: CHAOTIC PASSION" and had a picture of two decapitated bodies fucking each other while the Earth is torn apart by the collapsing of the sun. Wonderful, the stars seem to be in my favor, I certainly hope that they somehow manipulate the fabric of my reality in some impossible manner to deliver me some CHAOTIC PASSION, but to be honest I would settle for that brightest star in our sky to keep blasting us with life giving energy.

Hmm, hell, I'm going to go outside and sit on the couch that is currently sitting on the side of the road.

Imagination Retaliation

I googled the name "J.C. Moses" and found that there was already an acclaimed jazz drummer by that name. I wonder if I should think of a pen name to write under, or several now that I think about it. I cannot compete with a drummer, even if he has been dead since the 70's, so it appears that I must.


This confused devil is me. Yes, that is what I look like when I'm wondering what is making a humming sound before the laptop camera takes a picture without me wanting it to. You will be happy to know that I exercised the demon from the camera *yelled profanity* and it is now working as God intended. Back to the picture though, despite my red nose at that moment in time I assure you that I was not drunk... you can tell because I'm not smiling, and in my eyes you can see the deep longing for alcohol. I post this picture so that I may look unto myself in a vulnerable state and see if any different names beside "jackass" and "hack" come to mind.

So far nothing has.

Fine imagination, be that way. Desert me in my time of need, recede in fear anytime myself is involved. Fucking prick. An imagination that turns off at the sight of the imagine-er, pshh, imagine that! ...wait, what? Tired? And sick? Of what?! I didn't feed you today? Look here asshole, I did plenty today for you... well, it's better than sleeping all day. HEY FUCKER, the only reason I didn't write those ideas down when I woke up was because I couldnt find a pen, and I didn't want to haul my ass around at fucking noon o'clock in the morning to find a pen. Not committed? Listen to this guy! You're talking like you're not a part of me, like you don't carry any of the blame! I treat you fine! I swear, between you, body and liver it's like riding in a fucking waaaambulence.

I'll admit that I could do more, but look at our circumstances! We're fucking homeless at the moment! I AM DOING SOMETHING ABOUT IT! What do you think all this shit is?! What do you think all those hundreds of writings and stories are for? Like I'm going to print them out and line bird cages with them, seriously, you should know better. Oh? Alright then tell me, what do you know that I dont? ...well, yes I did know that but it's not always on my mind, I thought thats what you were for. Again with the feeding, what the hell do you want? Well we dont have enough gas money to go out every night, we don't have any friends left and we don't even have a working vehicle. I miss the wind and the night and the people as much as you do but there is little to be done right now. WHAT JOB?! I'm on the "call back" list of every employer in town. Yes, except the day care, ...wha!? how the hell could you think a day care would hire us?! WE'RE TALKING TO EACH OTHER! THIS ISN'T NORMAL!

I don't know "what is normal," but whatever it may be it is not what we are doing right now. Alright listen... we'll work on this, remember the plan? Yes, I know I need a lot more practice but what else am I going to do? Yes its scary, yes we might fail, but goddammit courage and I are going through with it. I can't imagine living the way we were before, and thats probably because my imagination is being a whiny little bitch. Fine. Ok? We'll work all this out, tomorrow I'll feed you some words instead of making you find your own for 8 hours at a time, I'll even see about getting you some sleep. How's that? Good... look, it will all work out. I just know... I don't want to call it faith, but I'm counting on it, we've got a legitimate shot to at least become some sort of a novelty, right? Well thats better than where we are, there's no place to go from here but up, or dead.

Dipsomania

Frosted mini-wheats are addicting. I have no doubt that they are somehow bad for me, and are in some way causing me to develop some terrible sort of cancer of the rectum. Though that would be terrible to deal with, at least it has nothing to do with my brain. With my brain in tact, I am able to enjoy FreakAngels, a web comic from an internet prophet and glorious beard bearing bastard Warren "I'd fuck em if I had the chance" Ellis.

Also, without my brain I would be unable to get inebriated. Without some form of inebriation once in a while I am absolutely certain that my brain would crawl out of my nostrils, land on the floor, magically conjure a bottle of Jasper Daniel's (I am allowed to call Jack that since I know him so well) and a loaded shotgun and blow my empty fucking head off before pouring the alcohol all over itself and then masturbate until the religious police came and snuffed it out.

I feel as if I was born to drink. I do not mean that I can out-imbibe a 40 year veteran of cirrhosis, what I mean is that I can attain my peak quickly *even after months of steady drinking* and I never get hangovers. You heard me correctly, I do NOT get hangovers that extend beyond a slight head buzz in the morning. My liver could kick your god's ass.

Also, when I do drink, I do not become violent. It's an amazing paradox. When sober I would feel little to no remorse for shoving a crescent wrench into a nun's ass, but when I get intoxicated I feel absolutely compelled to dance with the nun and tell her my innermost secret thoughts. Well, that latter part of the previous sentence could be chalked up to a problem I have with drinking, I realized as much when an anonymous person texted me on my phone the next morning saying "its ok, lots of people cry when they hear the song 'Ben'".

I have a couple of dear friends who look down on drinking, which makes things somewhat awkward because I care enough about them to stop just short of asking them if they would be alarmed if I started sucking the sidewalk because a guy spilled some McCormick's there a couple of years ago. I love to drink, but *as many alcoholics will tell you* I honestly can stop anytime I want. And I can, but I manage to drink *probably because of my financial situation* only on rare occasions, but when I do, it's as if I've been accepted in the rapture, and as I ascend to the above I look down on my vomiting, headache having counterparts and with a sorrow stricken face, lament at that they are not part of the chosen ones who shall forever drink in the kingdom of Alcoholic's Heaven.

Nothing of Importance

Silliness.

Just being silly.

Write whatever.

I've been singing and tapping my fingers here. I'm beginning to become worried about what's going on in my head. Of course I mean physically, there is nothing wrong with what I think about, I'm certain that everyone else contemplates riding a nuclear warhead into a city for the purposes of time travel. No, I'm worried because every time I look at the computer screen I can feel the blood in my skull move.

I wish I could jump around but my health has deteriorated. It will take some time to get back to a healthy plane, and even longer to get back into the kind of shape that constitutes assholish workout jokes.

I can't wait for them.

I feel like I've been chewing a mouth full of teeth, like whatever may move me to speak leaves me before I can open my mouth, like the words evacuate before I can reign in their destruction.

I have been up for 2 days. I can hear voices in my head. They are arguing about what should be done about the voices in my head. It's like a goddamned committee.

lower case losses

they have escaped. the furtive little bastards. the capital letters have run away and i cannot find them. this is just as well... i'm not in a very "capital" mood. in fact, i'm quite morose. i havent had a drink in more than a week, and i miss it so much.

i miss the companionship, i miss the talks, i miss the seeing and tasting it, i miss the feel of a shotglass in my hand and the flames shooting down my throat as i inhale a responsible amount of liquor. her name was vodka, and she was lovely. i miss whiskey too, she was a wild one, but was always welcome. tequila was overrated, but she had her appeal, and in many respects was a very respectable one. rum, well, lets be honest, fuck rum, that loose bitch took everything that was good in me and left it on the sidewalk. i miss brandy, she did not come around very often, but she was the finest of them all, a true pleasure... knew how to work a man.

i miss them so, so much i am tempted to write it in caps, but i cannot find the capital letters. i do not miss them as much as my liquors, but they came in handy from time to time, especially when writing stories in which i yelled and screamed and demanded truth and justice. i'm so lonely, all the letters and liquor have left me.

I HAVE MISSPELLED WEASELS

I just finished an almost 4500 word short story for a new friend of mine who was gracious and lovely enough to inspire its writing.

I feel like I've just moved a mountain with a shovel, even though what I actually did was some good old fashioned *STOP LOOKING AT SHIT ON THE INTERNET* hard work. Now I'm going to relax, eat a fuckton of chicken nuggets, lay in a comfortable bed and wish I had a bottle of vodka with me.

I am getting paranoid about the state of my inner skull. Just thinking about my brain makes me very aware of all the blood in it, and I hate that, It makes me want to bang my fucking head on a table until this feeling goes away.

There are weasals outside and they do not condone what I just wrote. I'm going to have to get rough with these little fuckers.

My head hurts, BAD like really bad, but goddammit I'm not going to take this shit from my own brain.

I'm going to go wrap my head in ice and try to freeze the little bastards to death.

The name of this entry will be I HAVE MISSPELLED WEASELS!

Ill Improv

I suppose I have taken the "weekend" off from writing. I have spent the past couple of days on an international pen pal website compulsively reading the profiles. I could not stop myself. I do not know why, but it may have something to do with the cabin fever.

The cabin fever has crept outside my head and is making the rest of me feel ill. I feel weak, I feel thirsty and slow, my head is spinning and I am slow to think. My head is pounding and I feel like I could die at any minute.

Now is the perfect time for writing.

I am going to improvise, I have absolutely no idea what I am about to write and the odds are in favor of it being awful, but perhaps I can learn something from it GO!

A scrawny man sprinted down main street and flailed his arms and screamed some unintelligible words. The townspeople have never seen such a sight, many were alarmed by his actions. They looked from afar and opted not to try to communicate with him as he ran in a panicked state through the street. Someone had called the sheriff's office, and a deputy arrived in time to intercept the man who was running towards him.

The deputy saw the man and knew that he was scared. He waved at the man and told him to calm down. The panicked man stopped and turned towards the sheriff and then started to gasp for air. The deputy waited for a word from the man, but he kept breathing as if he had forgotten to the entire length of the road. The sheriff asked "Alright now, what with the hurry? Where's the fire?" The panicked man looked up at the sheriff and began to sob. "Ih lus, ih tu powfuh, no mah no, NO MAH NO!" the panicked man began to panic once again and he took off running. The deputy was slow to the draw and missed his chance to grab the man, so he got his car and called the dispatcher on his radio.

"TABBY! I'm in pursuit of..." Tabby interrupted the sheriff, "SHOOT IT! SHOO-" and the died and there was only static. The deputy tried to call the dispatcher back but nobody from the other end would respond. As the banged on the radio the townspeople began to run in the same direction as the panicked man. The ground began to shake and the wind became strong. As the sky darkened the deputy turned to notice that people were fleeing, and then he saw what they were running from.

In the middle of the day the sky was turned black and there were no birds or planes or stars to be seen. The sun was retreating behind the dark sky and all the clean air was pulled towards a clouded figure on the horizon. The earth shook and and the trees began to bend away from the shadows that crept towards the town. The deputy wanted to leave, but he also knew that whatever was coming would be there soon, and he wanted to know what it was. He reached into his car, pulled out the loaded shot gun in the front seat, cocked it, and waited.

An incredible sound blasted through the air and shattered glass from the buildings and the deputy's squad car. The air became thin and the shadows quickened their haste towards the town. The deputy began to say the lord's prayer, but stopped when the shadows coming into the town began to flash with millions of images that crawled over one another. The deputy's mind began to muddle; memories vanished, his vocabulary was broken apart and he suddenly had the urge to fire his weapon for no reason other than to hear the "boom" sound it made. The thing was coming. Wherever it went minds and lives were lost. It wanted to destroy reality. It wanted to drain the world of all it's beauty. The earth dies behind this thing, this dreadful and unmerciful monster.

The internet had escaped.

And someone I want to talk to has just appeared, so I'm off.

Chloroform Blanket

I spent last night searching the internet for an MS word replacement, directions on how to make Greek fire, and interesting people to talk to while I'm adrift on a raft on the immense lake isolation.

All I learned from the night was that Ability Write freezes up too often, that I should just buy a flamethrower, and that while many seem to be lovely people, there are few out there willing to defy the great magnet in the sky.

Or perhaps they do, and I am just too brain numb right now to be able to tell. Maybe there is no way to tell using nothing but the infallible tome of knowledge.

One more thing; I have noticed that searching the internet, and reading things that people have written, sedates my mind like a giant chloroform blanket has been draped across it. I do not like this, but I can't stop. I need some brandy.

Fast and Fond Memory

In school one day I became bored, so I sharpened some pencils and thew them into ceiling. Soon our teacher came back and saw what I had done, only, she didn't know that I had done it. When she questioned us nobody said anything. Finally, she demanded an answer, so, I told her, "I don't know, but I bet whoever it was was REALLY handsome." The face she made was worth the visit to the principal's office.

I may write more later, but for now I will write my 2000 words and go to sleep.

Gone Drinkin: Sober Edition

I had gone drinkin' but it did not go well. I came home sober.

The world is dull and listless, I cannot hear music, the air is stagnant and chokes me. I do not want to write after a botched booze night. I'm going to go burn myself with cigarettes.

High Hopes

As soon as I move into this condo I will pursue 3 things.


To get more work done.


To get back into shape.


To become a shaman and obtain my doctorate from the Universal Life Church.

I also wish to get my beautiful car running and teach Merys the true meaning of Christmas.

I will work on these. I am being pro-active. In fact, as we speak I am growing my hair back out and healing that cigar wound on my hand. I am also writing a short story based on a movie idea Clinton and I developed while working in the slave pit of Wal-Mart's Tire Lube Express. That's right, I used to be a goddamned grease jockey for a soulless conglomerate. You may hate me now, but I will understand. I will also anticipate a letter of apology from you once I become a Doctor of Immortality.

I DONT WRITE THIS SHIT TO PLEASE

Soon I will have to find the courage to go back and revise some of my older writings. This will be difficult, and the thought of it is actually bothering me right now. Well, actually what is bothering me is the fact that Merys "ditched" me again. I had wanted to talk to her, a great deal in fact, but she was playing World of Motherfucking Warcraft. This is my fault though, and I accept the blame.

Right now I should not be writing. I'm very tired and have been awake for a few days, but I'm all cold and bothered and I can't sleep without feeling the urge to leap out of bed and kill my neighbor with an axe. That would show the fucker, living next to me while I'm in a bad mood.

Actually... I'm in a very bad mood. I can hear a fucking bottoming out diabetic screaming in the other room over my own fucking thoughts and I'm getting more and more pissed over the whole Merys thing. Fucking goddamned fucking fuck. FUCKER, FUCK FUCK GODDAMMIT FUCKING HELL!

A Quick Post

I've been writing for the past 9 hours and I feel wonderful.

I'm eating tacos and taking a break writing a paragraph in which a fat man eye fucks a character in my story. He will be destroyed soon.

He does not know the required intricacy of bar interactions. He has fooled himself into thinking he does and this lack of knowledge will be his downfall. Such is the fate of the unnamed character.


I have gained too much weight around the midsection, I will remedy this when I move into the condo. It will take a few months but I should have my six pack back and be able to make asshatted jokes that will please me to no end.

HOARK-ing

I have an old friend who asked to see some of the short stories I had written and I obliged. After she read a couple she asked me a strange question.


"Wow, how do you come up with this shit?"


I could not tell if that was intended as insulting or not. I asked for her to clarify and what she had meant was how do I come up with those ideas. The absolute truth is, they just occur to me while I'm doing different things, no trick, no magic 8 ball or anything, these things, like all great things, just come to a person out of the blue. That was the truth, but not what I told her.


I told her that I have a secret method for developing ideas that revolves around lighting a bunch of candles, praying to various gods, dancing to appease them, and walking around swinging my arms while making a HOARK-ing sound.


She told me that was interesting, and that she would have to try it.

I can't tell if she's fucking with me or not.


Back to the future story.

Shit Eating Monster

My mother asked me to read a book about weight loss for her as she contemplates trying a new method to lose weight. The book is called The Weight Loss Cure, what "they" don't want you to know, written by a man named Kevin Trudeau. Here's a bit of foreshadowing, I really should rephrase, when I typed written by a man named Kevin Trudeau, I should have revised it and wrote, written by a vacuous, hypocritical vampire named Kevin Trudeau.

I did not know who this man was when I started reading the book but it was not long before my bullshit detector started going off. Before getting to the actual chapters, I am informed that he is not a medical professional but is an author and journalist that is simply reporting his findings. In the same area he thanks a woman who actually wrote the book as he dictated it to her. So, an author and journalist required someone to type for them. Not a good sign.

I will summarize the rest of what I read and try to control the urge to shit myself with rage.

There was quote mining at the beginning of chapter 2 in which he uses a quote from Thomas Jefferson on governmental tyranny to try to convey that Jefferson had an opinion on health food.

The perfect solution for weight loss was discovered long ago but was snuffed out by the medical establishment in order for them to make money. By the way, Kevin Trudeau is worth somewhere in the neighborhood of 2 billion dollars.

Once he got to part where you have to have regular colon and liver cleansing sessions I was pretty much sold on this guy being a huckster. My curiosity was piqued, I wanted to know if my assumption that he was a scientologist so I jumped on the internet. Fuck me in the ozarks this guy has a record of fraud. Honestly, spend 30 minutes looking into this guy and see if you can keep a look of horror from crawling across your face.

Even in my most paranoid of moments, I never thought that such a venomous human being could actually exist. I would excuse the fact that he deceives so many people because he first went to great lengths to deceive himself but the fact that he makes so much fucking money off of it, and that anyone with a roudamentary knowledge of persuasion can see that every single aspect of all of his media is designed to misinform but entice makes it clear that he's a god damned vampire.

He's a combination of the worst qualities of humanity, he's a lying, arrogant, deceptive false hope salesman who obviously has no qualms with fleecing people who's only crime is being too sick and tired to know any better. This man is more evil than Hitler, seriously.

Ugh, ranted when I should've just said "tired, going to sleep."