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.