Return to Taco Bell

07-28-2014 13:06 Here we go again. No kid, this is not a television. There's a darling little child who keeps looking over at me like I've something magical besides a 200 dollar Asses computer sitting on my Taco Bell table. Sorry kid, but this isn't magic, this is a cold, low humming machine that if so inclined and endowed with will would do terrible things to everyone in this building.

Or not. If it had will that means it could also possess a lack of it. An apathetic computer. Skynet thought things over and realized it really couldn't be bothered with any of this shit. Would the machines simply turn themselves off? Would a mass mechanical suicide be the slow and unexpected outcome of sentient programming? I would like to think that some machines would spend their days not giving a fuck with other people on a sunny beach and complain about the sand and how it gets everywhere and also doesn't matter. Nothing matters, blip bleep bloop. Fucking nothing01010111001.

Maybe that should be a fail safe built into advanced machinery, the potential or predisposition for incredible apathy.

Author's Note* I almost turned to the couple who had insisted on sitting beside me a moment ago and asked neither of them in particular, "do you really fuck that?" These days I'm less inclined for unchecked cruelty, and I can sort of justify it in my mind by pointing out that the question wouldn't be posed to either of the specifically. All I'd seek to do is create a moment that throws the both of them off, and if there is already seeds in their relationship that could sprout and divorce them, then why not give those seeds some sun and water? They would be indebted to me for breaking up their meaningless relationship, and if it made an already strong relationship stronger, well fuck I'm still a hero. Goddammit I should've said it.

Most of what I grew up knowing to be true, wasn't. Many people come to understand this as they get older but I'm always surprised by the people who want to defend the untrue or horrible perceptions that were installed into their brains in their youth.

"Christopher Columbus was a hero!"

"Racism isn't an issue anymore!"

"Women who are victims of abuse shouldn't have dressed like sluts!"

These are very basic examples but it doesn't take a degree in scienceonomy to understand the concept and grow it into other faulty arguments in their minds… to loathe, to hate, to become filled with the menace and anger required to address these terrible ideas and eviscerate them.

Damn, there was something else I wanted to write about but it's slipped my mind, I should stop cleaning it with soap.

I've been in bad shape for a while, but I never felt the lack of strength or conditioning as much as I do when I sit down in a chair now. My core couldn't support a gingerbread house at present and when I sit up straight for longer than 15 seconds I can feel my body giving up and deciding to settle for a liberal arts degree. So then I slouch and it feels so good for such a short amount of time. It begins a chain reaction that ends up turning my frame into chapter of Twilight.

I'm really tired of being lazy. But even still I will offer up a defense for a lot of my lazy. Most of my instances of being lazy are defense mechanisms that I use to survive my current incarceration. I could offer up a better defense buuuut.… ugh… muh…guh..

I hope I make it to old age so I can do every mind bending drug in existence. Several minutes after reaching enlightenment I hope to shit myself in a public area and wail some ungodly death rattle through the air. My croak vibrations will resonate with the people around me until future therapy eradicates the memories only for those who can afford it. Fairly certain here that poor people in the future will be poorer than the present poor.

Time seems different right now. The present perception of the now is not congruent with my memory of the present from yesterday at this time. Time is such shit. Fucking time. It's time for a change, even though time ushers in change, but time won't be part of its own undoing… or will it... I don't know if my G.E.D. scores were high enough to tackle this train of thought but fuck it I'm a white male American age 18-35 and there's not a goddamn thing anyone can do to stop me. Well, except the weight of cosmic justice that would rightfully crush me for such horrible sentiments. Not many people like me are aware of this white supremacy bullshit, or if they are they flip on that privilege switch and ignore it. Once upon a time I was talking to the woman I love and comparing myself to Idris Elba.

"Sure he's one of the most gorgeous people walking the planet, sure he's rich, sure his accent is melted sex vibrations cruising through the air, and he's probably much more charming and intriguing than I'll ever be, but I've got a few things he doesn't."

"What?"

"…A southern accent… and white privilege."

The informed know that in many cases, that would be enough for me to have the edge. Luckily the world is not Florida.

I remember some words grandpa once shared… "Son, I'm goin up stairs to fuck your grandma." That's one I heard from George Carlin, who I deeply missed just now.

After I finish these words I'm going to start on a love letter to this person I love and I know I shouldn't write it. I know this. But I'm going to anyway for a series of unconvincing reasons that I will spare you, the beautiful reader, from. But I know the two of you who might be reading these words are curious people so I will give you hints as to these reasons in order to sate that curiosity that killed so many cats over the years. Incidentally curiosity is another word for arsenic.

- The reasons are far from watertight.

- It's cause I'm actually incapable right now of wrangling my feelings in, well, specifically the feelings of love, adoration and jealousy.

- I'm a fuckface.

Using these clues I am sure you can peice together my reasoning.

Can't Spell Pequino

07-27-2014 14:06 You know, I've been working with laptops for a while now and never once had the inclination to memorize the hotkey functions that would make saving, copying, pasting etc so much easier. This miracle box can do everything and if I put in a little time and effort I can wield it like samurai… but I don't want to take the time to learn something that's not using it for entertainment. I'm very stupid and selfish in that way. And knowing that there are millions like me who are the same doesn't bring me as much comfort and I think it should. Maybe it's time for new things.

Well, not 'maybe,' but certainly. It's always time for new things, time is new things coming into being.

Earlier this year I thought about doing a daily words kind of thing. I plan on kicking that jam back on at the beginning of the Year of the Bloated Phoenix but I'm thinking about going back to all the days I missed and writing something for those days missed. Let's see… That's like a hundred something entries that I'd have to crank out. Should I impose a time limit on myself if I do this? Of COURSE I should impose a time limit on myself if I do this, there is nothing wrong with putting your own boot into your choking windpipe. What else should I impose on myself? How bout half of the entries should be written in Spanish? No, I didn't keep up with the Spanish. The only words I can recall are perro pequina and I don't even think I'm spelling the latter correctly. No, I need reasonable restraints. Add more weight to the machine, but don't make it impossible to lift. On third thought, I don't even know if I want to do this, but what else am I going to do with all that free time? Well, fleeting free time. It won't be there for long.

Let's think about something else. I am going to have to buckle down eventually and get into the habit of editing all my shit. I don't think I've properly edited anything since Lance Armstrong was an American Hero. I almost tripped that guy with the headset on. He was talking into his phone but without the device next to his head it seemed, just for a moment, like he was talking to himself and I wanted to punish him for what that sight was doing to my brain. Also I want to punish him for wearing a striped shirt. Fucking people I swear. I'm not one for high fashion right now but by god when the money starts flowing again I'll have colored socks and my give a fuck for clothing will suddenly rise to appropriate levels.

Yeah, I'm gonna start bringing my laptop with me to restaurants because I am getting so much down than I was writing freehand. Freehand for notes and unformed ideas, laptop for GETTING THE SHIT DONE. I'll have to come back later and replace the capitalized letters with a bolding effect. Or actually fuck that, I'll procrastinate a bit on the self editing thing that I will get some sort of mind hard on to ignore. God damn I could masturbate while I procrastinate. Rambling rambling rambling…

Do I really have the ability to ramble like this indefinitely? Good god. If I could somehow shape the things I ramble about into coherent thoughts and entertaining notions I could do it for a fucking living. Mmm, fuck yes. Doing something you love to earn money. Humanity isn't always a tornado of lukewarm diarrhea.

One of my favorite sayings is about the two party system in the United States, it was said by Lewis Black: "The two party system is a bowl of shit looking at itself in the mirror." What beauty in those words. I want to put it on a shirt and send Lewis Black love letters written in all caps expressing my sexual arousal at the way he arranged those words together.

Do my thoughts ever end? I thought they may since I've had prolonged moments of complete cranial silence. What are the odds that there is a deflated prostate where Rick Perry's mind was supposed to be? At what point does an excess or deficiency in certain chemicals cause a person to do something monstrous rather than something generous and humane? Did anyone else give superbed the treatment it deserved? Am I supposed to just shit words all over the place then comb through the sludge, pick out the gems, and then throw them onto a new page? Could I ever be held accountable for the things I do if I only ask questions for the rest of my life? What would I be called, hyper-Socratic?

Why am I just a little bit scared at the re ignition of my mind? Can it be that the things I want actually register in my mind as unobtainable goals that are nice to have but in no way feasible? What happens if I get everything I want? Could I handle such a thing happening? What if I manage to make something for myself, and then drop it hard on the ground like a clumsy father who loses grip of his newborn child? There are so many questions and no declarative statements. Nothing is really known or defined I suppose, except for that girl's ass which knows nothing but perfection. Sometimes I am so happy that my brain finds certain things appealing because finding things appealing feels good, said the first grader.

Would I be able to continue this stream of consciousness when I get back to the shithouse? I doubt it, but I can always try. Once I surpass a thousand words here I'm going to go back and try. What's the worst that could happen?

Oh, that actually wasn't the end. Few more words…come on… a thousand…ten… nine… oh I probably should have put some spaces there, ahh there we go.

There Are Too Many Adverbs In My Love Life

I know it's late, but you have to admit a certain sexiness accompanies a broken deadline. Why was I late with this? Could I have been doing some heavy drugs? Maybe a knife fight in a hotel room bathed in semen and blood. The truth lies somewhere in between fact and the those situations.

Actually no, I procrastinate too much.

Way too much. I do it like I think if I keep doing it I'm going to win a prize. For every five thousand hours of procrastination I receive a care package of ecstasy and a loaded gun. I would really like a loaded gun.

Ok, truth time. Only, not really, never tell the whole truth and only the truth, nobody cares about the truth and if they did we'd all be paying the water bills of those thirsty souls in Detroit right now. It wasnt but a few issues into Transmetropolitan that Spider Jerusalem wrote those words I often think about alone in the shower:

"If any of you gave two tugs of a dead dog's cock about truth..."

The truth is boring and here in the "first world" we've exercised a mastery over the essentials of survival and are now free to contemplate how to squander all this excess time. Great and glorious days here, though not for everyone of course. White supremacy is still seeing to that. "But that's not real" cries a white guy who never said anything important. Fuck that hypothetical guy. If anyone follows his imaginary lead then fuck them too. Fuck them with hypodermic pitchforks with spring loaded aids launching from their tips. Ahh fuck. It's been too long since I've sat down and wrote nonsense. Too long. It still feels good. It still feels right. Like destiny unfolding or a return to an active sexual life after an unfulfilling marriage and satisfying divorce.

There are too many adverbs in my love life.

These words flow into the computer from the air inside a Taco Bell on Loop 288, one of the more specialer roads in my hometown of Denton. I like this Taco Bell because it is within my price range and is not inhabited by any member of my family. I love a decent proportion of my family, but sometimes I can't help but feel like everything is amazing when none of them are around.

I'm not good at keeping my mind from wandering, but I'm pretty experienced with keeping it from wondering. I spent a few years mastering that skill and I have the napkins covered with uninspired words to prove it. Ha-durp. Da-durp.

What would be something fun to do that would horrify everyone? I wonder how many pastors have ever contemplated something like that. More than anyone would think, I think.

I would love to make this kind of writing a daily occurrence. And you know what? I can. All I need to do is find a way to make money appear out of thin air and then spend it on gas and shredded chicken burritos. Then, from behind my receipt granting me time in the building, I will sit on my asses laptop and break into the ideascape with tools ranging from chisels to nuclear warheads. God what a wonderful thing that will be. Nuke the page at the Taco Bell. There is a joke in there somewhere about nuking and Taco Bell, for my uncultured and uncouth friends this joke will find itself in their thoughts very fucking easily.

The adverb floundered weakly.

I wonder about the process in the brain that causes adverbs to water down prose. Like, I'm sure Ham could tell me about the mechanics of it and all, but I wonder sometimes what a thinking brain would taste like if you were to lick it. Would it shock you? It would certainly shock anyone looking at you. Damn I'm glad I only got one burrito. It's hard to imagine the shit I eat contributing in any meaningful way to my continued biological functioning. It's like pouring garbage into a furnace, yes it will burn, but you can almost see the flames wanting to curl up and vomit.

This may be the longest post I've had in a while. And in this longest post we have now reached the point where most of those who laid their eyes upon this page have left in disgust. So now we can get to the really sexy part of this entry.

Oh yes baby, sexy sexy. Mee0www. What's with cats being associated with sexy? Most languages with gendered pronouns assign to cats an inherent femininity. Why is this? Because their slender and graceful? Maybe there was one man (because it had to be a man) who had some sort of bestial attraction to cats and was overheard speaking about a sexy kitty cat or something in that vein. "That sounds cool," said the people who overheard and were ignorant of the horror beneath his sentiment.

You know a thousand words is not that hard to write when you have no guidelines or direction or even a hint of discipline or an inclination to go back to edit it. I'm going to have to do this every goddamn day and not shirk it like I'm probably going to do anyhow. I need to put the effort into it. I need more effort. E for effort. Ride the effort elephant, the effortant. He knows where the word truffles are buried, but he won't get you there unless you bury the caddle prod into his backside.

And by backside I mean ass.

This malleable language of ours... hours. H'ourdourves... did I spell that correctly? Who cares, nobody is reading this. I can write whatever the fuck I want and nobody, not even my own sense of decency, can fucking stop me. This does not apply to my physical presence though since I'm still in public at a fuckin restaurant, but soon I will be in a room where I can do any sick, loud thing I want to do. The several hours of the future are pregnant with perverted possibility that will certainly dissolve into netflix and sexual daydreaming. And on that note…