Look at that beautiful weather outside. It's going to rain somewhere and hopefully it here. Rain rain lead astray the putrid souls who all must pay, drown them in your righteous flood, soak the soil in their blood. Ahhh, I miss sunday school sometimes. Not really though that shit was crippling to young minds. Everything that is packaged as fun seems like it to a kid, but the seeds planted in that room germinated into some gnarly fucking shit that sent me on many internalized wild goose chases and terrifying thoughts. There is a terrible lack of acknowledgement that the individual person could be wrong about at least half the shit they hold to be true in their life. And even if some of the things you believe are true, what matters more is how you express yourself using your own truths as a guide. 10 times out of 10 I will take the good hearted (non prostletyzing) Christian over a conceited and self assured atheist. Give me the Muslim with a love for puns before a humorless professor of any of the serious sciences. I do owe a great deal of mental calmness to one Dick Dawkins but I don't think I'd ever find myself in want of his company. Especially after hearing that he was on Twitter trying to categorize rape. That is an overly scientific mind right there. Where are the echoes of common sense or understanding that should keep a person from using his position to do something as silly, pointless and genuinely damaging? Would Hitch have done such a thing? Well, he say that women weren't funny, even writing a column or two about the subject. I don't recall many of the points he made, I think he might've said soemthing along the lines of "on the whole, comparitively, women aren't as funny as men," but even if one would concede that point the cause of the disparity has more to do with the way our cultures shape the minds of young girls and women. Better to be pretty than to see the silliness in everything. My god, how many delightful women have been crippled by this kind of thinking.
Dear reader, whoever you are, understand that humor is paramont in this world. I'm going to contemplate more about it later but I cannot find any line of reasoning where humor wouldn't come out as the most important aspect of being a human. So much goodness stems from it even though a lot of people's humor develops as a result of some sort of shittiness or even trauma. Rant rant rant. I am 30 and am now in a position to lecture. Hear me, hear me.
And now I climb nback into my thoughts and wonder, should I have kept drawing? No, that thought doesn't matter, here's a better thought, should I start drawing again? I haven't done it in years, and the way my mind works is if it's not in some way good or even compotent I should throw it away. But what would I draw? I think the last series of things I drew were hyper sexualized comic book characters. Eighty years later and they're still drawing them that way. It sells books though, I guess, but it's a goddamn cop out you lazy fucks. How dare you have no pride in what you do. How dare you have none of the drive to stand up to your fucking know nothing bosses and demand that a new way be paved in regards to portraying super powered fuckfaces. I have half a mind to actually do something about my outrage rather than pointing out and condemning the offense whenever and wherever I see it through a means of howling and pointing.
Then a voice whispers to me, "or you could lead by example." Sorry, the voice is new and knows nothing of my insane laziness or treacherously fickle self confidence. Wait… I thought I took care of those problems… Fuck me I did. Why don't I then? Wait, why am I saying all this here? Shhhhh.
In the meantime I still have room for more words. The sun is coming out, breaking up the party, fucking jerk. Burning up all my water vapor friends chilling out in the sky trying to share themselves with our skins and soil. Sometimes when I watch the sun break up weakened clouds I imagine it bellowing with deep and frightening laughter. The clouds, so young, so idealistic, can do nothing but vaporize in the presence of this celestial maniac. Where are the hero clouds? Where are those strong enough to stand before the onslaught of the sun and become so heavy with growth that they can only share it with the poor flightless souls below. If you even think about arguing the importance of the sun in the rain cycle I will drive an ice pick into your fucking heart. Do not tread on my fun.
My back hurts from sitting. It could be worse, it could be hurting again from something terrible I've done, but really I have kept my nose clean in the "bad shit" department for some time. It's all objective though, some could argue that my not having written a new bible is "some bad shit." Objectivity… you fucking bleached blond bastard. I mean as long as we're assigning human attributes to concepts why not give objectivity the boring white surfer look. You wouldn't see it coming would you? You'd think it would be a boring white scientist or something. Wrong. Completely wrong.
When I grow up I want to be happy. That's what I've should've been saying all along. Better late than never though. Does it matter how much time you've wasted as long as you get to the right place eventually? I wonder. Arguments could be made from both sides but in the end I'm certain that as long as you get there, it doesn't matter how late you were. The clouds are coming back though. Would this be a good time to cruise? To jet? To make like a tree and leaf? That one doesn't make sense, or maybe I'm trying to make too much sense. That's one of those things they don't teach you to look out for in school, making too much goddamned fucking sense. It's not fun, and fun as we all know is the most important thing to seek once your biological needs have been met. After you eat, drink, sleep and rest, you think of fun things to do in order to pass the time before the next disaster comes and threatens your entire world. What the fuck am I even talking about. I would read all of this again and see if it'd be worth posting butI think I'm going to post it anyhow and just hope for the best. Eventually I'll compose some sort of greatest hits or get my groove back and bury this entry beneath an ocean of finely worded bullshit. Ahh I can't wait, it'll be fantastic.
Monday, September 8, 2014
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Jumbei Jubah Go?
The first thing I remember watching on the first day of the Year of the Bloated Phoenix was the first few seconds of a Katt Williams special where he espoused something very important sounding. It was enough motivation for me and I paused it and set off for the new ritual of the morning walk, which progresses into the afternoon scorched Earth firey sunwalk. I'm trying not to do it bare footed by god dammit I'm just too bad ass not to.
How dare you bring up my near death experience from bleeding out cause of walking for hours on concrete bare footed. That was a fluke.
What is a fluke? What is the entymology of that word? It sounds fucking incredible. Fluke. What a marvelous word. It makes me think of some sort of whimsical cetacean who gets into all kinds of mischief by waving at whale watching groups. Certainly there are sociopathic people in whale watching groups I mean who the fuck would even pay for something like that. One of those untrustworthy bastards would see this carefree sea mammal and become overwhelmed with murder lust, just like I was the first time I saw the Bucky's mascot. For those of you with no education, Bucky's is a gas station chain in certain parts of Texas that excel at having amazing bathrooms and punny billboards up and down the interstate. The mascot is a cartoon beaver wearing an expression that forces the body to mimic the implied "GAWRSH" that the beaver is obviously expressing.
Anyways, something I love about certain women is when they let their guard down and behave completely free of fear of criticism or critique or unwanted advances. There was a girl at town earlier who was walking with an incredible amount of deflective body language going on. Then she walked to a row of books set up on the sidewalk of the town square and she noticed something that completely disarmed her. Whatever it was caused her to express visible curiosity and excitement and it was beautiful to behold. Know that the world I live in right now makes it hard for many women to be completely open out in the open for fear of all kinds of unwanted notice. This supress so much beautiful human expression I can't even finish the sente...
No, shake it off. You're not here to succumb, you're here to excel! You are a production machine now, in that you actually produce now. So, a very poorly functioning production machine, but at least you're margins are in the green now. Slightly green. Last days of dying grass green. But green.
Today is Beyonce's birthday and as a gift to Queen Bey I think I'm going to download her entire discography. Or maybe not. Most would disagree with me but I feel like I wouldn't love every single one of her songs.
Jagged structure and skipping thoughts. That's how I write. You can imagine some muttering shitsack looking back and forth going "HUH?!" and "WAH?!" This is how my words look on the page. Editors have been known to say to their assistants, "burn it all, everything he sent, but give him a gift card or a loaf of bread or something… If he moves anywhere close to this area we need to notify the police." I hope there are no editors named Todd or Skyler. I mean my name is pretty shitty but at least it doesn't ooze off the page due to a weakness so intense that the letters arranged in that way can't even sustain themselves on the page.
Hey, did you know human breasts can do something akin to experiencing an erection? Yes, they can swell momentarily during arousal. The reason I know this is because I have conducted many experiments in the field of breasts. It was my favorite subject in middle school and I was top in my field, tip top. It's a very well rounded field of study. The perks are glorious, I am milking it for all its worth. God I'm despicable. I'm not sure what for though, the subject of the puns or the puns themselves or both. Am I eligible now for a special kind of hell? Would it be named after me? I think I could endure if that were the case.
Hypothetical situation: Two groups of horrible people, passive aggressives and entitled shitbags have congregated in great numbers on opposite sides of a valley who's physical properties ensure that a nuclear explosion could be easily concealed. You have one nuke. What story do you give each camp to make them congele in the center in order to obliterate them both? Do you draw a huge X in the middle of the valley and assure everyone in it that there is gold mere inches from the surface? Do you assemble scarecrows of various celebrities to draw them close for autographs? You don't have the manpower to simply corral them into the killzone. How do you accomplish your pure and holy task?
If god is omnipotent and we are made in his image why do some people need viagra?
I know some women have L.A. faces or Oakland booties but what city would have the best feet? Or the best arms? Dayton forearms and a Reno ribcage. I know a girl with Paris eyes. Actually I've heard shitty things about Paris. Why are there no tall buildings in Paris? Because the ground is easily surrendered. Wonk wonk wonnnk. If any French people are reading, I kid. I understand that the French are one of the most successful militaries the world has ever seen… well, I suppose some French people I wouldn't give a shit about offending. Also I feel like that joke probably exists already or will be stolen without attribution from this very online word depository. C'est la vie. I'm not particularly worried about being plagiarized. I can keep up this quality of work indefinitely. That sentence has just sent several people into deep depressions and for that I am sorry.
How dare you bring up my near death experience from bleeding out cause of walking for hours on concrete bare footed. That was a fluke.
What is a fluke? What is the entymology of that word? It sounds fucking incredible. Fluke. What a marvelous word. It makes me think of some sort of whimsical cetacean who gets into all kinds of mischief by waving at whale watching groups. Certainly there are sociopathic people in whale watching groups I mean who the fuck would even pay for something like that. One of those untrustworthy bastards would see this carefree sea mammal and become overwhelmed with murder lust, just like I was the first time I saw the Bucky's mascot. For those of you with no education, Bucky's is a gas station chain in certain parts of Texas that excel at having amazing bathrooms and punny billboards up and down the interstate. The mascot is a cartoon beaver wearing an expression that forces the body to mimic the implied "GAWRSH" that the beaver is obviously expressing.
Anyways, something I love about certain women is when they let their guard down and behave completely free of fear of criticism or critique or unwanted advances. There was a girl at town earlier who was walking with an incredible amount of deflective body language going on. Then she walked to a row of books set up on the sidewalk of the town square and she noticed something that completely disarmed her. Whatever it was caused her to express visible curiosity and excitement and it was beautiful to behold. Know that the world I live in right now makes it hard for many women to be completely open out in the open for fear of all kinds of unwanted notice. This supress so much beautiful human expression I can't even finish the sente...
No, shake it off. You're not here to succumb, you're here to excel! You are a production machine now, in that you actually produce now. So, a very poorly functioning production machine, but at least you're margins are in the green now. Slightly green. Last days of dying grass green. But green.
Today is Beyonce's birthday and as a gift to Queen Bey I think I'm going to download her entire discography. Or maybe not. Most would disagree with me but I feel like I wouldn't love every single one of her songs.
Jagged structure and skipping thoughts. That's how I write. You can imagine some muttering shitsack looking back and forth going "HUH?!" and "WAH?!" This is how my words look on the page. Editors have been known to say to their assistants, "burn it all, everything he sent, but give him a gift card or a loaf of bread or something… If he moves anywhere close to this area we need to notify the police." I hope there are no editors named Todd or Skyler. I mean my name is pretty shitty but at least it doesn't ooze off the page due to a weakness so intense that the letters arranged in that way can't even sustain themselves on the page.
Hey, did you know human breasts can do something akin to experiencing an erection? Yes, they can swell momentarily during arousal. The reason I know this is because I have conducted many experiments in the field of breasts. It was my favorite subject in middle school and I was top in my field, tip top. It's a very well rounded field of study. The perks are glorious, I am milking it for all its worth. God I'm despicable. I'm not sure what for though, the subject of the puns or the puns themselves or both. Am I eligible now for a special kind of hell? Would it be named after me? I think I could endure if that were the case.
Hypothetical situation: Two groups of horrible people, passive aggressives and entitled shitbags have congregated in great numbers on opposite sides of a valley who's physical properties ensure that a nuclear explosion could be easily concealed. You have one nuke. What story do you give each camp to make them congele in the center in order to obliterate them both? Do you draw a huge X in the middle of the valley and assure everyone in it that there is gold mere inches from the surface? Do you assemble scarecrows of various celebrities to draw them close for autographs? You don't have the manpower to simply corral them into the killzone. How do you accomplish your pure and holy task?
If god is omnipotent and we are made in his image why do some people need viagra?
I know some women have L.A. faces or Oakland booties but what city would have the best feet? Or the best arms? Dayton forearms and a Reno ribcage. I know a girl with Paris eyes. Actually I've heard shitty things about Paris. Why are there no tall buildings in Paris? Because the ground is easily surrendered. Wonk wonk wonnnk. If any French people are reading, I kid. I understand that the French are one of the most successful militaries the world has ever seen… well, I suppose some French people I wouldn't give a shit about offending. Also I feel like that joke probably exists already or will be stolen without attribution from this very online word depository. C'est la vie. I'm not particularly worried about being plagiarized. I can keep up this quality of work indefinitely. That sentence has just sent several people into deep depressions and for that I am sorry.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
I'm the woulda, shoulda and coulda and if I'm not even that yet then I'm on the fast track to there. There. Right fucking there with all the other human lumber in the eternal pyre. Fuck. Fucking all of everything... especially fuck this cruel realization and the weakness in my soul that requires any motivation on my part to require monumental momentum. God dammit why cant I keep the eye on the prize. Why does the prize have eyes for those other guys. This is the exact moment that I could kill another human being without hesitation.
Right now I will eat a fucking optimist.
Right now I will eat a fucking optimist.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Hair Flippin
08-08-2014 16:15 Holy hell I can almost see the words I'm typing. Those with fully functional eyes won't be able to sympathize with my exaltation, fuck them.
So, I've let another week slip by. There's nothing to say about that I think. This doesn't even have to be a journal entry, though I do need to write some sort of entry before too long, as well as a letter to Merys. I also need to get my arms going again. I'm weak and sore from stasis.
The chair I'm sitting in is moderately nice. Fairly nice. I wouldn't kill anyone for it unless they were a particularly horrifying person and those who were oppressed would reward me with a chair for their assassination. I wonder, what is the most bourgeois gift has ever been given in exchange for murder? I'd like to think it would be some sort of gift card or coupons. Actually, paying anyone anything besides cash for a murder seems potent with hilarity.
"I will give you a Dodge Dart in exchange for my husband's head."
There's a pair of children on the other side of the room I'm in playing and I don't hate them. I've really grown up I think. I wonder if anyone else I used to know has changed in this way. So many of them were motivated by the pursuit of "lulz" Have any of them developed themselves? What of empathy Bastard Joe? Have you been changed by any sort of suffering into second guessing your position on dead baby jokes? If not, thne should I hate Bastard Joe and the rest of the those terrible souls? What would I have thought of myself back then. Probably the same as I think of myself now. What would old me have thought of new me? Hell, what will I think of me in several years from now? I hope the answer is god fuck I'm sexy as shit.
What to make of people who masturbates to themselves. You would be staggered by the amount of professionals who do.
Speaking of people, I just took too long a glance at hot mom in the corner. She looks like she could use a massage. Maybe I could offer her one. Pardon me madam, might you fancy a rub down? I fear nothing, bring on your answer.
Then I look to my mp3 player and on it is an image of that girl I'm so into. She's making an adorable face in the photo. I wish I could dive into it and do perverted things with her. Well no, not really. Perversion isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's more like, some sort of condition that has to be addressed with a proper procedure in order to alleviate madness to a point where you are able to function like a goddamn human being. I would love to alleviate all over her and then have a lovely discussion and cuddling.
It's August 8th, 2014 and I'm starting to wonder if there's any Gaza left. Russia has been portrayed recently as being stubborn about the sanctions placed onto it by several countries over the goings on in the Ukraine, but I wonder if we're being portrayed over there as not having any scruples to spare over Israel raping Gaza in front of an international community that is collectively closing the shutters and muttering something about it being "none of our business."
What's that? World events? No time for that now some beautiful young woman just sat across from me and thanks to my peripheral vision I can see her looking over at me. Surely she's not interested in the only other obvious thing in this direction, my 200 dollar Asses laptop. Well maybe she is. Maybe she's a fan of budget computers. An Asus groupie. Yearning for the easily attainable for those with at least a part time job. It would be lovely to have some sort of practical fetish like that. Wait is she still looking at me? Quit distracting me beautiful lady I'm trying to write about a hypothetical fetish you probably don't possess. "I get so fucking hot over canned goods from the Dollar Tree." Yeah you do, fifty cent cans of spaghetti-o's.
I really wish CNN wasn't on the television here. I refuse to forgive them for running a story on their website about how Kim Kardashian writes like James Joyce. The article ended up being fluff about a website that you paste a wall of text into. The site then ignores the actual text and submits to you a random author that the text supposedly resembles in cadence and style. Fuck CNN. Fuck the people on it. Do you hear me Wolf Blitzer? I hope your beard blooms with poisonous mold. Richard Dreyfous looking motherfucker.
Wow there is something about the girl across from me. Some sort of energy that I can detect. Interest can be a powerful aphrodisiac but there's something else in the mix here… Can I really trust my brain in moments like this? It's burned me too many times. Oh god she's playing with her hair. You know what would be funny right now, if I shit myself. She'd assume she had some sort of tangible power over men, and I would add the incident onto the pile of memories I'll probably end up forgetting until some incidental happening makes me recall the moment. Happens all the time.
THE KEYWORD IS CHRISTIAN! A man leaving this office saw the word "Christians" on the screen and had to stop to look for about fifteen seconds. "NOT ON MY WATCH" was the look he had. Onward christian soldier, go back to your Tundra, there's nothing you can do. Those christians are in Iraq and you'll be sorely fucked if anyone thinks you'll lift a finger for them. Then I look up for just a second, still playing with her hair looking over. It's got to be the Asus, budget fetish, and I look like a hobo so she must assume that I know cheap places to do all sorts of fun things.
So, I've let another week slip by. There's nothing to say about that I think. This doesn't even have to be a journal entry, though I do need to write some sort of entry before too long, as well as a letter to Merys. I also need to get my arms going again. I'm weak and sore from stasis.
The chair I'm sitting in is moderately nice. Fairly nice. I wouldn't kill anyone for it unless they were a particularly horrifying person and those who were oppressed would reward me with a chair for their assassination. I wonder, what is the most bourgeois gift has ever been given in exchange for murder? I'd like to think it would be some sort of gift card or coupons. Actually, paying anyone anything besides cash for a murder seems potent with hilarity.
"I will give you a Dodge Dart in exchange for my husband's head."
There's a pair of children on the other side of the room I'm in playing and I don't hate them. I've really grown up I think. I wonder if anyone else I used to know has changed in this way. So many of them were motivated by the pursuit of "lulz" Have any of them developed themselves? What of empathy Bastard Joe? Have you been changed by any sort of suffering into second guessing your position on dead baby jokes? If not, thne should I hate Bastard Joe and the rest of the those terrible souls? What would I have thought of myself back then. Probably the same as I think of myself now. What would old me have thought of new me? Hell, what will I think of me in several years from now? I hope the answer is god fuck I'm sexy as shit.
What to make of people who masturbates to themselves. You would be staggered by the amount of professionals who do.
Speaking of people, I just took too long a glance at hot mom in the corner. She looks like she could use a massage. Maybe I could offer her one. Pardon me madam, might you fancy a rub down? I fear nothing, bring on your answer.
Then I look to my mp3 player and on it is an image of that girl I'm so into. She's making an adorable face in the photo. I wish I could dive into it and do perverted things with her. Well no, not really. Perversion isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's more like, some sort of condition that has to be addressed with a proper procedure in order to alleviate madness to a point where you are able to function like a goddamn human being. I would love to alleviate all over her and then have a lovely discussion and cuddling.
It's August 8th, 2014 and I'm starting to wonder if there's any Gaza left. Russia has been portrayed recently as being stubborn about the sanctions placed onto it by several countries over the goings on in the Ukraine, but I wonder if we're being portrayed over there as not having any scruples to spare over Israel raping Gaza in front of an international community that is collectively closing the shutters and muttering something about it being "none of our business."
What's that? World events? No time for that now some beautiful young woman just sat across from me and thanks to my peripheral vision I can see her looking over at me. Surely she's not interested in the only other obvious thing in this direction, my 200 dollar Asses laptop. Well maybe she is. Maybe she's a fan of budget computers. An Asus groupie. Yearning for the easily attainable for those with at least a part time job. It would be lovely to have some sort of practical fetish like that. Wait is she still looking at me? Quit distracting me beautiful lady I'm trying to write about a hypothetical fetish you probably don't possess. "I get so fucking hot over canned goods from the Dollar Tree." Yeah you do, fifty cent cans of spaghetti-o's.
I really wish CNN wasn't on the television here. I refuse to forgive them for running a story on their website about how Kim Kardashian writes like James Joyce. The article ended up being fluff about a website that you paste a wall of text into. The site then ignores the actual text and submits to you a random author that the text supposedly resembles in cadence and style. Fuck CNN. Fuck the people on it. Do you hear me Wolf Blitzer? I hope your beard blooms with poisonous mold. Richard Dreyfous looking motherfucker.
Wow there is something about the girl across from me. Some sort of energy that I can detect. Interest can be a powerful aphrodisiac but there's something else in the mix here… Can I really trust my brain in moments like this? It's burned me too many times. Oh god she's playing with her hair. You know what would be funny right now, if I shit myself. She'd assume she had some sort of tangible power over men, and I would add the incident onto the pile of memories I'll probably end up forgetting until some incidental happening makes me recall the moment. Happens all the time.
THE KEYWORD IS CHRISTIAN! A man leaving this office saw the word "Christians" on the screen and had to stop to look for about fifteen seconds. "NOT ON MY WATCH" was the look he had. Onward christian soldier, go back to your Tundra, there's nothing you can do. Those christians are in Iraq and you'll be sorely fucked if anyone thinks you'll lift a finger for them. Then I look up for just a second, still playing with her hair looking over. It's got to be the Asus, budget fetish, and I look like a hobo so she must assume that I know cheap places to do all sorts of fun things.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Al Gore Rythms
08-02-2014 17:50 Cue the Social Network soundtrack. Sit here on a laptop in public looking like a deranged homeless man pretending to be a pretentious computer fuck. Also, I think the music while I sit here is impeding my writing. Is it? When it's quiet I seem to write more and write the kinds of things I don't immediately delete. Maybe I should save the music for the brainstorming instead of the actual typing. Let's turn it to something loud and obnoxious and see how that goes.
Hrmm. Nothing obnoxious on this soundtrack. Fuck, I just realized my saying the word soundtrack is putting in motions advertising algorithms. Gears of mechanized and digitized greed start to spin and the word "soundtrack" acts as chum in the waters and here come the sharks.
"Why did he use the word soundtrack?
Does he want to buy something?
Money money money."
You won't get my dollar internet. Dollar internet, there's an idea, I'll be rich. All I have to do is advertise the shit out of my new idea and money somehow will appear in my bank account. Ugh what the fuck am I talking about. I can't get comfortable. Also I don't like how I look as I type. I can see my reflection and I hate how my hands have to converge into a small space in order to use the keyboard. I wish I could have two separate mini keyboards for each hand so I could keep my arms spread and take up more space which is one of the key components to finding a mate. Imagine the joy in a woman's heart when she sees that homeless looking shitbag at the Taco Bell with his arms wide open. Creed begins to play in here mind and it's one of her favorite songs and she loves me for reminding her of things she loves. She's had so much trouble with other people in the past, could I be the one? Wait for a sign my dear, I'm about to give one to you.
When I scratch my nose she surrenders the last of her self control and comes to me. Halfway through my shredded chicken burrito I see her coming and know that look from all the times before. Ever since I had bought that fantastic new 2 piece keyboard I've been causing women to lose their minds. It upped my 'sexy' into the 'xtreme.' More than love she wanted to give me money in appreciation for the keyboard I am proposing. Women will throw money and sex at this product. Take that back to your masters you motherfucking algorithms.
Not even halfway done and I can hear a guy talk about his mother's weight gain. Another gem on female bodybuilders: "That's what I call those girls, steroid girls." Sir, I wish to subscribe to your newsletter, where can I reach you if I wish to send you some money? I don't like this seat. I don't like this posture. What is different now from before when the lightning was well and greased. Also, it may have something to do with the fact that there was a terrified family sitting across from me. They were all using their "don't assault me" eyes to great success. Sometimes I think I should walk up to people to let them know that I'm not going to follow them home and eat them. But then what if I change my mind later, I'd be a terrible person for lying to them like that.
These entries are numerous but seem to lack the explosiveness I felt with some of the older, better ones. As long as I get it done though. Quality will follow quantity because that's how this sort of thing always goes. No, I'm excited for the future though. Really I am. Though I've probably always been excited for the future if you were to read a lot of the shit I never took off the internet.
Earlier in my visit here a stranger shook my hand and introduced himself to me as I was setting up my computer and listening to the Social Network soundtrack. Quick gem from the guy across from me: "Get more epic with it." I wish to fuck you sir. No, this other guy, the one who shook my hand, was very friendly and proper looking but I wonder if he intentionally transmitted some sort of something to me through hand contact… My god… he was well dressed and clean, what if he was an ad man? THE ALGORITHMS! They're working pre-emptively now and I have no defense for that but a suicide attack. Now, having said 'suicide attack,' a completely different set of algorithms are kicking in and tracking these words. Ham and the CIA may be the only people who ever read this post, or maybe the court once the powers that be realize I have no means to defend myself legally and decide to shit into my lungs to prove some kind of point about not using certain words on the internet.
"Let the fisting begin."
And yet more algorithms are set loose.
This entry is awash in zeros and ones trying to sell to me or imprison me or recommend strange sexual fetish forums for me. Did the person who invent the zero ever envision the terrible powers it would one day wield? Did the inventor of the blowtorch ever envision the terrible things it would weld?
I'm going to be a stickler about the thousand words rather than cutting it short. Discipline remember? Of course you do, I've only used that word seventy fucking times the past few days. I think it's going to be important to start writing more boring things. I want to see if my garbage detector can be subdued. Well, obviously it can be, look at the past 900 or so words. It's getting better though, and all to do now is throw these words up into the interpsace and forget they ever happened.
Hrmm. Nothing obnoxious on this soundtrack. Fuck, I just realized my saying the word soundtrack is putting in motions advertising algorithms. Gears of mechanized and digitized greed start to spin and the word "soundtrack" acts as chum in the waters and here come the sharks.
"Why did he use the word soundtrack?
Does he want to buy something?
Money money money."
You won't get my dollar internet. Dollar internet, there's an idea, I'll be rich. All I have to do is advertise the shit out of my new idea and money somehow will appear in my bank account. Ugh what the fuck am I talking about. I can't get comfortable. Also I don't like how I look as I type. I can see my reflection and I hate how my hands have to converge into a small space in order to use the keyboard. I wish I could have two separate mini keyboards for each hand so I could keep my arms spread and take up more space which is one of the key components to finding a mate. Imagine the joy in a woman's heart when she sees that homeless looking shitbag at the Taco Bell with his arms wide open. Creed begins to play in here mind and it's one of her favorite songs and she loves me for reminding her of things she loves. She's had so much trouble with other people in the past, could I be the one? Wait for a sign my dear, I'm about to give one to you.
When I scratch my nose she surrenders the last of her self control and comes to me. Halfway through my shredded chicken burrito I see her coming and know that look from all the times before. Ever since I had bought that fantastic new 2 piece keyboard I've been causing women to lose their minds. It upped my 'sexy' into the 'xtreme.' More than love she wanted to give me money in appreciation for the keyboard I am proposing. Women will throw money and sex at this product. Take that back to your masters you motherfucking algorithms.
Not even halfway done and I can hear a guy talk about his mother's weight gain. Another gem on female bodybuilders: "That's what I call those girls, steroid girls." Sir, I wish to subscribe to your newsletter, where can I reach you if I wish to send you some money? I don't like this seat. I don't like this posture. What is different now from before when the lightning was well and greased. Also, it may have something to do with the fact that there was a terrified family sitting across from me. They were all using their "don't assault me" eyes to great success. Sometimes I think I should walk up to people to let them know that I'm not going to follow them home and eat them. But then what if I change my mind later, I'd be a terrible person for lying to them like that.
These entries are numerous but seem to lack the explosiveness I felt with some of the older, better ones. As long as I get it done though. Quality will follow quantity because that's how this sort of thing always goes. No, I'm excited for the future though. Really I am. Though I've probably always been excited for the future if you were to read a lot of the shit I never took off the internet.
Earlier in my visit here a stranger shook my hand and introduced himself to me as I was setting up my computer and listening to the Social Network soundtrack. Quick gem from the guy across from me: "Get more epic with it." I wish to fuck you sir. No, this other guy, the one who shook my hand, was very friendly and proper looking but I wonder if he intentionally transmitted some sort of something to me through hand contact… My god… he was well dressed and clean, what if he was an ad man? THE ALGORITHMS! They're working pre-emptively now and I have no defense for that but a suicide attack. Now, having said 'suicide attack,' a completely different set of algorithms are kicking in and tracking these words. Ham and the CIA may be the only people who ever read this post, or maybe the court once the powers that be realize I have no means to defend myself legally and decide to shit into my lungs to prove some kind of point about not using certain words on the internet.
"Let the fisting begin."
And yet more algorithms are set loose.
This entry is awash in zeros and ones trying to sell to me or imprison me or recommend strange sexual fetish forums for me. Did the person who invent the zero ever envision the terrible powers it would one day wield? Did the inventor of the blowtorch ever envision the terrible things it would weld?
I'm going to be a stickler about the thousand words rather than cutting it short. Discipline remember? Of course you do, I've only used that word seventy fucking times the past few days. I think it's going to be important to start writing more boring things. I want to see if my garbage detector can be subdued. Well, obviously it can be, look at the past 900 or so words. It's getting better though, and all to do now is throw these words up into the interpsace and forget they ever happened.
Friday, August 1, 2014
I Don't Actually Like One Of The Words I Used
08-01-2014 18:25 I think the most interesting thing that's happened today was hearing a parent talk to their child whom they named "Ernie." There are still Ernies in the world and that makes me smile.
On to the next thought. I've noticed that's how I roll these days when it comes to my writing. Here's a thought, then another unrelated thought, and so on and so on and so on. What's an antonym of disciplined? Well I am that, in all areas of my life, and yes if you look back at a lot of my earlier writings I have always been undisciplined. There's only one way to fix this, but I lack the discipline to see it through right now.
No, remember WHY you do it. For one reason it's fun as unprotected fucking. Plus, there is a synergetic effect that comes with the discipline in writing where I am able to retain discipline in working out and mind building. And a by product of these things is all the wild sex that comes from it. Some might not see the correlation between those things, but anyone who has been known to party and dwell deep in thought knows it to be true. Fucking is a part of living, and I am ready to live again but I have to be prepared for it. You cant just jump waist deep into a river of ass and hope to stay afloat without knowing how to swim. Yes that sentence was perfect. Here's another perfect sentence: I fisted Petunia last Thursday. God damn English is a beautiful language.
So I feel the physical weakness creeping up on me as I try to maintain proper posture. The desire to slouch is strong but I am on my way to becoming a better being and part of that involves good to decent posture. It helps you live longer or something. At the very least it just looks better, and if I'm ever going to have late night living sessions again I'm going to need to use sweeter bait than I'm putting out now. An appropriate illustration of this would be… a pot of honey laced with ecstasy there, where I want ot be, and a leaking burlap sack filled with rancid chum, which is here, where I am. Though maybe I should give myself some credit. Yeah, I think I will. Good job on the not dying so far old man. You've safely navigated the treacherous waters of sitting on your ass and paying probation fines. I deserve a medal.
This is the part that gets tricky. I wan't to write something personal but since I'm going to post this to the online word depository there is a chance that people I want to keep the words from will see it. Then again nobody reads this, so fuck you grandma. Also, if you can ever help it, don't let yourself fall in love. It's like being hooked on hard drugs, it's so wonderful that it will ruin your fucking life. Irrational thoughts and inclinations, several highs and many many lows. One of the interesting things love has done to me recently is make me fucking hate another human being for no other reason than they like the same person that I do. The person I hate, from what the things I hear that aren't my own piercing howl of heart hatred, is a pretty good person. But I hate them. If i had the chance to destroy them in every way I would, and if I had the chance to repeat this destruction I would spam whatever button I had to push to make it so. I would completely devestate this human being over and over and over and over again from now till the heat death of the universe without hesitation… but if they suddenly said they didn't like the same person I did, I'd probably like the person. Hell maybe I'd befriend them. But they like the wrong person therefore I am perfectly capable of the most insane cruelty toward this fucking sack of shit oh my god I want him to die.
Maybe I should write some jealousy letters. They're like love letters, but full of desperate agony and vengeance. There's only one person I could write them to anyhow and I doubt that she'd want to read them. She's more of an "adult" than I am. Fucking adults. Fucking children. Where is the middle ground? Teenagers? Fuck them especially. I wonder what Beyonce would do about this. We share the same birthday, maybe we have some sort of psychic connection that I can exploit. "Beyonce… come in Beyonce… yonce… Queen Bee do you read?" She's probably busy, I'll try again never.
So I've got a problem ahead of me. I need to create a schedule and keep it. Floating down a river of benadryl is no longer an acceptable course of action. Let's see… mornings: Drink. No, no drink, cant afford drink…
Fuck this is hard, I need a drink. Can't spare the money for it though, and I can't afford the only kinds that I'd want. I've retired rotgut from my menu on account of I want to live past my 40's now. There will always be a place for cheap, untamed whiskey in my heart, but for the sake of my future I must move on to stronger and higher quality spirits. Speaking of spirits, I really love women's breasts.
My brain is responsible for all of this. You relentless bastard. Is this revenge for all the poison I've pumped through you? You? Why you, you are me?
What? Wait… who's talking to who here?
I'm talking to me. Me and brain are synonyms. We're the same entity.
Prove it.
Entity… titty.
Oh my god it's true. Then why do I feel like I've got a new sibling rather than a new dimension of my own being? I don't know. Wait, I'm not talking to anyone, only myself. This seems to happen way too fucking much.
On to the next thought. I've noticed that's how I roll these days when it comes to my writing. Here's a thought, then another unrelated thought, and so on and so on and so on. What's an antonym of disciplined? Well I am that, in all areas of my life, and yes if you look back at a lot of my earlier writings I have always been undisciplined. There's only one way to fix this, but I lack the discipline to see it through right now.
No, remember WHY you do it. For one reason it's fun as unprotected fucking. Plus, there is a synergetic effect that comes with the discipline in writing where I am able to retain discipline in working out and mind building. And a by product of these things is all the wild sex that comes from it. Some might not see the correlation between those things, but anyone who has been known to party and dwell deep in thought knows it to be true. Fucking is a part of living, and I am ready to live again but I have to be prepared for it. You cant just jump waist deep into a river of ass and hope to stay afloat without knowing how to swim. Yes that sentence was perfect. Here's another perfect sentence: I fisted Petunia last Thursday. God damn English is a beautiful language.
So I feel the physical weakness creeping up on me as I try to maintain proper posture. The desire to slouch is strong but I am on my way to becoming a better being and part of that involves good to decent posture. It helps you live longer or something. At the very least it just looks better, and if I'm ever going to have late night living sessions again I'm going to need to use sweeter bait than I'm putting out now. An appropriate illustration of this would be… a pot of honey laced with ecstasy there, where I want ot be, and a leaking burlap sack filled with rancid chum, which is here, where I am. Though maybe I should give myself some credit. Yeah, I think I will. Good job on the not dying so far old man. You've safely navigated the treacherous waters of sitting on your ass and paying probation fines. I deserve a medal.
This is the part that gets tricky. I wan't to write something personal but since I'm going to post this to the online word depository there is a chance that people I want to keep the words from will see it. Then again nobody reads this, so fuck you grandma. Also, if you can ever help it, don't let yourself fall in love. It's like being hooked on hard drugs, it's so wonderful that it will ruin your fucking life. Irrational thoughts and inclinations, several highs and many many lows. One of the interesting things love has done to me recently is make me fucking hate another human being for no other reason than they like the same person that I do. The person I hate, from what the things I hear that aren't my own piercing howl of heart hatred, is a pretty good person. But I hate them. If i had the chance to destroy them in every way I would, and if I had the chance to repeat this destruction I would spam whatever button I had to push to make it so. I would completely devestate this human being over and over and over and over again from now till the heat death of the universe without hesitation… but if they suddenly said they didn't like the same person I did, I'd probably like the person. Hell maybe I'd befriend them. But they like the wrong person therefore I am perfectly capable of the most insane cruelty toward this fucking sack of shit oh my god I want him to die.
Maybe I should write some jealousy letters. They're like love letters, but full of desperate agony and vengeance. There's only one person I could write them to anyhow and I doubt that she'd want to read them. She's more of an "adult" than I am. Fucking adults. Fucking children. Where is the middle ground? Teenagers? Fuck them especially. I wonder what Beyonce would do about this. We share the same birthday, maybe we have some sort of psychic connection that I can exploit. "Beyonce… come in Beyonce… yonce… Queen Bee do you read?" She's probably busy, I'll try again never.
So I've got a problem ahead of me. I need to create a schedule and keep it. Floating down a river of benadryl is no longer an acceptable course of action. Let's see… mornings: Drink. No, no drink, cant afford drink…
Fuck this is hard, I need a drink. Can't spare the money for it though, and I can't afford the only kinds that I'd want. I've retired rotgut from my menu on account of I want to live past my 40's now. There will always be a place for cheap, untamed whiskey in my heart, but for the sake of my future I must move on to stronger and higher quality spirits. Speaking of spirits, I really love women's breasts.
My brain is responsible for all of this. You relentless bastard. Is this revenge for all the poison I've pumped through you? You? Why you, you are me?
What? Wait… who's talking to who here?
I'm talking to me. Me and brain are synonyms. We're the same entity.
Prove it.
Entity… titty.
Oh my god it's true. Then why do I feel like I've got a new sibling rather than a new dimension of my own being? I don't know. Wait, I'm not talking to anyone, only myself. This seems to happen way too fucking much.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
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.
Monday, July 28, 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
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…
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…
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Start Up That Maserati and... VROOM VROOM I'm Racin!
I am a car, and I am trying to sell myself.
I need a tune up, a paint job, and for someone to get the whiskey smell out of the upholstry, but I'm the track version of a tried and true model. Other features I possess include:
- Manual transmission
- Superior exhaust system
- A bit of hail damage but I know a guy who does good body work
- Seat warmers (I'm winking at you right now)
And it needs to be emphasized that I'm replacing various parts and panels with lightweight carbon pieces as well as replacing the stock powertrain with a madman's nightmare of a motor and a heavy duty four on the floor.
I'm looking to sell myself to a driver with a gentle touch but a heavy foot. Exceptional eye-hand coordination is essential for reasons that will become clear within a week of purchase. Must be resistant to heat.
Furthermore I am more than willing to buy you. I desire something with strong suspension as I love to take tight corners at high speeds. I try to be easy on your tread and am aware of the imminent dangers of damaged rubber but sometimes the heat of the moment and roar of the engine dull me to everything but working that throttle into a mechanical frenzy. Headlight condition and trunk space do not matter as much as the comfort of the interior and radio reception.
I need a tune up, a paint job, and for someone to get the whiskey smell out of the upholstry, but I'm the track version of a tried and true model. Other features I possess include:
- Manual transmission
- Superior exhaust system
- A bit of hail damage but I know a guy who does good body work
- Seat warmers (I'm winking at you right now)
And it needs to be emphasized that I'm replacing various parts and panels with lightweight carbon pieces as well as replacing the stock powertrain with a madman's nightmare of a motor and a heavy duty four on the floor.
I'm looking to sell myself to a driver with a gentle touch but a heavy foot. Exceptional eye-hand coordination is essential for reasons that will become clear within a week of purchase. Must be resistant to heat.
Furthermore I am more than willing to buy you. I desire something with strong suspension as I love to take tight corners at high speeds. I try to be easy on your tread and am aware of the imminent dangers of damaged rubber but sometimes the heat of the moment and roar of the engine dull me to everything but working that throttle into a mechanical frenzy. Headlight condition and trunk space do not matter as much as the comfort of the interior and radio reception.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Died again. Bad font, cant change it with crushed fingers. Crushed core too. Turn it into something else. Hate and screaming and rage feels better but look at you now you're sitting here writing garbage. Fuck these words and this font. You die too easily. Look at you sitting there toppled like an earthquake went straight for you, you sad sack of shit. Bring it back around, mention how you never write in this fucking thing, or write at all, then go back to the way it always is. Let the hate win. Hate doesn't lie, it just eats. It wont let you kid yourself, it just eats. Hate isn't pitiful, it's a monster that people speak of with stronger tones. Don't be the sad sack, be the monster again. Don't be sad, just eat everything.
Friday, December 20, 2013
im looking at an old article i wrote and all i can think is how did i write that. how did i write that. how did all of that come to me. what was the magic combination of events and chemicals that brought about that combination of words. how did i do that. how. could i ever do it again?
if i cant i'll be a grain of sand airborne descending to the pile. a blood pump with no divinity, no right to the future, a sad sack of teeth and hair and just the memory of a few moments when i could write like lightning strikes.
if i cant i'll be a grain of sand airborne descending to the pile. a blood pump with no divinity, no right to the future, a sad sack of teeth and hair and just the memory of a few moments when i could write like lightning strikes.
Monday, December 2, 2013
A Needed Flip
I am shattered by the difference in my words between the last couple of years and the period around 2010. This simply cannot continue. I hold in my hand my future, minted in 1986, adorned with the likeness of a wood toothed slave owner. I'm going to toss it into the air and depending on what I see next I will embark on a vision quest (recommended by 9 out of 10 optometrists) or rinse with shotgun mouthwash. However, if the coin lands on it's side I will go to sleep and expect the world to pour its answer into my dreams.
And the toss...
And the toss...
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Friday, November 15, 2013
Second Draft of In Too Deep
Sam began the evening by hiding his laptop in the drawer of an out of the way cabinet. Once he made sure it could not be easily stumbled upon he then mounted a tremendous effort to forget it was there. After an hour of busy work he had managed to keep his mind from wandering into the dark places, it was safe to sit down for a break.
In this precious moment there was a peace that Sam sought to cherish as long as possible. A break in the calm was coming, but dwelling on pop culture trivia and old baseball scores would surely buy him some time. Then, halfway through the lyrics to Don't Stop Believin' a whisper was carried to his ears by the cruel wind of an unchecked obsession,
"Scandanavian Assplay."
The whisper tore through the moment and Sam's eyes were twin moons of shock and fear. He knew what was coming.
"Thai women feeding cake into each other's vaginas."
A demonstration in panicked pacing commenced. Sam shifted his thoughts to try and shut out the whisper. He remembered the time he stumbled upon his Grandmother while she showered, he thought of advanced mathematics being blasted out of a foghorn mounted to an open and overflowing outhouse, and clung desperately to the mental image of a pile of rice sitting on a brown table while his Uncle Jasper stared uninterested off into the distance. But the whispers would not be denied.
"Grandma and Jasper fucking in an outhouse while equations involving rice..."
Sam held back a surge of vomit.
"Lusty Dusty the Puke Goddess gurgles gallons of gak."
He reacted by doing jumping jacks. He got to ten in what could've been only a couple of seconds. His pace was frantic and his body responded with the burn that accompanies physical strain. Working through the pain his heart sank as the memory of his busty cousin's breasts bouncing through her tank top during middle school gym class. The sin, the shame, it roared back into him and he sprang toward the window so quickly that he nearly took a dive through it. He forced it open and looked down three stories at what might be his last resort. It couldn't always be like this, could it?
"Amputee orgy."
Sam flenched.
"Cock fingering."
"Robo stump grinders from planet poon."
Terror, all was terror. It would always be like this, he knew that now. The whispers were getting louder and eventually they would stop being whispers and revert back to the unending howl of pornographic suggestion. There was no more room in his life the porn. He had already destroyed his sex drive with an insatiable lust for more and more outlandish acts and varieties of people doing fucked up things to one another and now that rampant perversion is breaking loose from every mental shackle Sam could latch upon it. It always manages to break free and lure him back to it's clutches with it's siren song. He closed his eyes, wishing for it all to go away.
"Historic sex, FDR and Churchill lapping each others fluids."
And when his eyes opened they were shattered mirrors of resignation. After a deep breath and a moment of quiet he began to step onto the ledge of the window.
"Don't leave me," said the whisper.
He turned around.
"Don't leave me, I've found two lepers with detached genitals fucking each other to the soundtrack of City Slickers 2."
Tears rolled down his face. Sam stepped down and found his way to the laptop he had put away, the whispers guiding him, cooing him, the only soothing moment he's had since the sickness took hold. With the laptop in tow he drudged his way back to the window and braced himself to be released from the bonds of bondage and other forms of perversion. He whispered into the laptop, "are you ready my love?"
"Yes," said the whisper.
Sam straightened his back and took a deep breath. He stretched his arms forward, and before the whisper could reach his ears he had let the laptop go. The sound of hard plastic shattering onto concrete sent a jolt through him. Whatever happened next, it would be alright.
That's when a young couple, dressed for the Sunday service, approached the shattered laptop and looked up at Sam. "Are you alright Reverend?" Sam waved at them and assured them that he was and that he would explain in a few minutes before the service started. They went on into the building and Sam began to prepare himself to preach that morning on the sins of the flesh.
In this precious moment there was a peace that Sam sought to cherish as long as possible. A break in the calm was coming, but dwelling on pop culture trivia and old baseball scores would surely buy him some time. Then, halfway through the lyrics to Don't Stop Believin' a whisper was carried to his ears by the cruel wind of an unchecked obsession,
"Scandanavian Assplay."
The whisper tore through the moment and Sam's eyes were twin moons of shock and fear. He knew what was coming.
"Thai women feeding cake into each other's vaginas."
A demonstration in panicked pacing commenced. Sam shifted his thoughts to try and shut out the whisper. He remembered the time he stumbled upon his Grandmother while she showered, he thought of advanced mathematics being blasted out of a foghorn mounted to an open and overflowing outhouse, and clung desperately to the mental image of a pile of rice sitting on a brown table while his Uncle Jasper stared uninterested off into the distance. But the whispers would not be denied.
"Grandma and Jasper fucking in an outhouse while equations involving rice..."
Sam held back a surge of vomit.
"Lusty Dusty the Puke Goddess gurgles gallons of gak."
He reacted by doing jumping jacks. He got to ten in what could've been only a couple of seconds. His pace was frantic and his body responded with the burn that accompanies physical strain. Working through the pain his heart sank as the memory of his busty cousin's breasts bouncing through her tank top during middle school gym class. The sin, the shame, it roared back into him and he sprang toward the window so quickly that he nearly took a dive through it. He forced it open and looked down three stories at what might be his last resort. It couldn't always be like this, could it?
"Amputee orgy."
Sam flenched.
"Cock fingering."
"Robo stump grinders from planet poon."
Terror, all was terror. It would always be like this, he knew that now. The whispers were getting louder and eventually they would stop being whispers and revert back to the unending howl of pornographic suggestion. There was no more room in his life the porn. He had already destroyed his sex drive with an insatiable lust for more and more outlandish acts and varieties of people doing fucked up things to one another and now that rampant perversion is breaking loose from every mental shackle Sam could latch upon it. It always manages to break free and lure him back to it's clutches with it's siren song. He closed his eyes, wishing for it all to go away.
"Historic sex, FDR and Churchill lapping each others fluids."
And when his eyes opened they were shattered mirrors of resignation. After a deep breath and a moment of quiet he began to step onto the ledge of the window.
"Don't leave me," said the whisper.
He turned around.
"Don't leave me, I've found two lepers with detached genitals fucking each other to the soundtrack of City Slickers 2."
Tears rolled down his face. Sam stepped down and found his way to the laptop he had put away, the whispers guiding him, cooing him, the only soothing moment he's had since the sickness took hold. With the laptop in tow he drudged his way back to the window and braced himself to be released from the bonds of bondage and other forms of perversion. He whispered into the laptop, "are you ready my love?"
"Yes," said the whisper.
Sam straightened his back and took a deep breath. He stretched his arms forward, and before the whisper could reach his ears he had let the laptop go. The sound of hard plastic shattering onto concrete sent a jolt through him. Whatever happened next, it would be alright.
That's when a young couple, dressed for the Sunday service, approached the shattered laptop and looked up at Sam. "Are you alright Reverend?" Sam waved at them and assured them that he was and that he would explain in a few minutes before the service started. They went on into the building and Sam began to prepare himself to preach that morning on the sins of the flesh.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
There's No Need for Words Snake
Tonight I learned what a psychomantium is.
It's a spirit gate for a modern shaman.
A joke room for a trendy fraud's anecdote.
A Ganzfeld machine with no moving parts.
Something I've already done before I knew there was a name for it. Self imposed solitary from a frightening night when something in the darkness reflected off that mirror, so I stood there and waited for something.
for the devil to be real
for my life to change
Some years later I'm updating this journal again. Late again, like always. Knowing what it was that flickered in that room and what thoughts surged have been lost, but tonight I learned what a psychomantium is anyhow. Been there, done that, will do it again.
It's a spirit gate for a modern shaman.
A joke room for a trendy fraud's anecdote.
A Ganzfeld machine with no moving parts.
Something I've already done before I knew there was a name for it. Self imposed solitary from a frightening night when something in the darkness reflected off that mirror, so I stood there and waited for something.
for the devil to be real
for my life to change
Some years later I'm updating this journal again. Late again, like always. Knowing what it was that flickered in that room and what thoughts surged have been lost, but tonight I learned what a psychomantium is anyhow. Been there, done that, will do it again.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Head
Eyes open.
Phil, who's head was frozen in a cryogenic test tube of some sort, has now awakened to a large man wearing a custodial uniform looking straight at him. This is an unsettling sight to go along with the terrifying realization that there is no body below his head. Phil begins to panic and wants to vomit in fear, but nothing comes up. His eyes look down, up, all around, then rest back on the large man who says, "WELCOME TO HELL MY FRIEND!"
A blip. A nightmare. This can't be reality. Of all the things this could be this CANNOT be reality.
But it is.
The last thing before this horrible sight that Phil could recall was his family by his bed where he was in the middle of dying. Years of success and renown in some currently inconsequential field of scientific study had afford him the option of having his head cryogenically frozen. The allure of the future was such a burning desire of his that he jumped at the chance. He knew, lying there on the cusp of eternity, that he would awake one day to find a fantastic new world.
Now, he was staring at a large man laughing and rocking his head back in forth in a carefree motion. It was inconceivably frightening. If he still had a heart it would have exploded by now.
"You're the only one that made it!" the large man said. "I thought it would be important for someone to see this with me." He was drunk, and wearing a uniform.
Phil tried to speak but could not. Reality had turned out to be a roaring hell beast who had begun to pull him down into an unimaginable hell. Phil, unable to communicate in any other way, desperately started blinking in morse code in the off chance that the large man would understand him.
The large man didn't.
"It won't be long now, friend. The bombers are on their way. The fleet has left us and the other poor souls on the surface of this… dead fucking planet… it's getting scrapped." The large man sat down with Phil's head jar tucked under his arm. Phil tried to scream. "I can't believe it came to this. Just this morning everything was fine. It was my day off, I got to sleep in. I didn't even need to come to work but I left my giga-tray here and fuck me if I can ever go a day without cyber cheese. Can you believe they made this shit alcoholic? Well, tricks your brain into thinkin it's drunk, still a world class app that cyber cheese."
Phil shut his eyes so hard he hoped they would burst in his head and he would bleed to death. But then, where was the blood coming from now? Damn this miracle of technology that was keeping his head alive, damn it to a hell worse than the one he is cemented into.
"Hell if we would've put as much effort into the important shit as we did into that cyber cheese and downloadable mental states and the goddamn sex ray… maybe we wouldn't be 5 minutes away from being carpet bombed by a fleet of planet nuking space destroyers."
Phil attempted to bite off his own tongue.
Phil, who's head was frozen in a cryogenic test tube of some sort, has now awakened to a large man wearing a custodial uniform looking straight at him. This is an unsettling sight to go along with the terrifying realization that there is no body below his head. Phil begins to panic and wants to vomit in fear, but nothing comes up. His eyes look down, up, all around, then rest back on the large man who says, "WELCOME TO HELL MY FRIEND!"
A blip. A nightmare. This can't be reality. Of all the things this could be this CANNOT be reality.
But it is.
The last thing before this horrible sight that Phil could recall was his family by his bed where he was in the middle of dying. Years of success and renown in some currently inconsequential field of scientific study had afford him the option of having his head cryogenically frozen. The allure of the future was such a burning desire of his that he jumped at the chance. He knew, lying there on the cusp of eternity, that he would awake one day to find a fantastic new world.
Now, he was staring at a large man laughing and rocking his head back in forth in a carefree motion. It was inconceivably frightening. If he still had a heart it would have exploded by now.
"You're the only one that made it!" the large man said. "I thought it would be important for someone to see this with me." He was drunk, and wearing a uniform.
Phil tried to speak but could not. Reality had turned out to be a roaring hell beast who had begun to pull him down into an unimaginable hell. Phil, unable to communicate in any other way, desperately started blinking in morse code in the off chance that the large man would understand him.
The large man didn't.
"It won't be long now, friend. The bombers are on their way. The fleet has left us and the other poor souls on the surface of this… dead fucking planet… it's getting scrapped." The large man sat down with Phil's head jar tucked under his arm. Phil tried to scream. "I can't believe it came to this. Just this morning everything was fine. It was my day off, I got to sleep in. I didn't even need to come to work but I left my giga-tray here and fuck me if I can ever go a day without cyber cheese. Can you believe they made this shit alcoholic? Well, tricks your brain into thinkin it's drunk, still a world class app that cyber cheese."
Phil shut his eyes so hard he hoped they would burst in his head and he would bleed to death. But then, where was the blood coming from now? Damn this miracle of technology that was keeping his head alive, damn it to a hell worse than the one he is cemented into.
"Hell if we would've put as much effort into the important shit as we did into that cyber cheese and downloadable mental states and the goddamn sex ray… maybe we wouldn't be 5 minutes away from being carpet bombed by a fleet of planet nuking space destroyers."
Phil attempted to bite off his own tongue.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Jokes On Pompeii
one of the reasons i would destroy my work is because of a paranoia that i'm still dealing with that makes me think the more i get create, the closer i am to death.
Death has the greatest sense of humor of all. His jokes kill. They slay. They level empires with impeccably timed punchlines.
the less funny it would be for me to die at any given moment, the greater my chance of living.
it's not so much that i am afraid of death, i just dont want to be the butt of any of it's jokes right now.
Death has the greatest sense of humor of all. His jokes kill. They slay. They level empires with impeccably timed punchlines.
the less funny it would be for me to die at any given moment, the greater my chance of living.
it's not so much that i am afraid of death, i just dont want to be the butt of any of it's jokes right now.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
The Sutras Of Swimplash Draft
Wrote this draft for my buddy Clint who is off having the best anal he's ever had. Stay safe at sea.
The Sutras of Swimplash - Once Thought Lost, Found In A Civic
Duly recorded by his disciples Salty-heart and Big Grungey Joe
_____________________________________________________________
"From the land named after the creator, East Texas, came a man of infinite gifts. Heart, mind, and beard." - Salty-heart.
"A finer fucker hath never fucked." - Big Grungey Joe
_____________________________________________________________
In the beginning there was the word, and that word was "twiced." For it is said that twiced was Swimplash (pronounced SIP-uh) born. Once born from a woman he was again born on the bathroom floor of a bar called 'Sugarplumpy's.' Little is known about his first birth, only that it happened. His second birth, hereafter referred to as the 'after birth,' ushered in a new age of wisdom for humanity. For it is told that following the after birth Swimplash arose from a grievous head wound and began performing miracles. Sutra - 1:1
His first miracle was standing after receiving a grievous head wound. His second was to survive the loss of blood. It is said that immediately after he arose during the after birth that his head wound filled over with hair that crackled like white lightning. - Sutra 1:2
Upon seeing the man who had wounded him with the bottle of Shiner Bock, Swimplash called to his followers who had followed him to the bar. "Nay, do not harm this one, for he hath struck in ignorance. Please, rowdy friends, do not strike back in ignorance, but discover the location of thine dwelling, and rain rocks of forgiveness, and set the flames of forgiveness upon his front lawn." His followers, complied, and the man that had wounded Swimplash was purified in the howling flames of redemption and was reborn as nutrients resting in the earth. - Sutra 1:3
Later it is said that Swimplash disposed of his garbs and drove an evil spirit out of a drunken woman who had descended upon him with a thirst for knowledge. - Sutra 1:4
_________________________________________________________________
Having become a sage, Swimplash set out to fix the wrongs in the world. His wisdom and powers became known throughout the land. Sutra - 1:5
Once, a house of young people was beset by a fully stocked liquor cabinet. Knowing that the people in the house were too young to imbibe such liquors, he deftly walked through the front door and asked upon where he could find the liquor cabinet. Sutra - 1:6
"Who are you?" a child spoke. And thus, Swimplash smote the child for having transgressed upon him. Then, using his sage nose, he smelled the cabinet which was full of the devil's nectar. He went to it and said, "HARK! I say unto you young peoples, that these bottles contain not salvation, but a false promise." When the young people gathered and asked questions unto Swimplash he could see that they were already ensnared in the false promises of the devil's nectar, and that time was short. Sutra - 1:7
Without hesitation, Swimplash reached for a bottle of Jaegermeister and began to chuggeth. Then, upon completion, he smashed the bottle so it would no longer be used for ill. When the young people did speak he smote them with thine rod, and when they tried to call out on their phones they had learned that Swimplash had suppressed the house phone with wire cutters and used his swiftness and skill to run about the house to snatch all the cell phones. Sutra - 1:8
Having earlier imbibed the devil's nectar the young people were filled with fear and ran from Swimplash. They did not know that he was taking into himself all the evils of the liquor cabinet thus saving them from evil. Within his holy body the evil began to churn and reject him, so Swimplash called forth a torrent of devil's nectar which shot forth unto the upolstry of an IROC-Z Camaro. - Sutra 1:9
_________________________________________________________________
In the year of the Cougar, Swimplash traveled to the land of Nod and was encountered by a man who was hounded by an army of inflamed women who had seen many years. The man was weary of their garbled words and so Swimplash, having seen this, took it upon himself to disperse the women. Uttering sacred chants such as, "hommina, hommina, hommina," and "hark sugartits, back thineself unto thee," he was able to quell the crowd of their intent. The weary man thanked Swimplash. "If you wish to thank me, then you must learn to spank me." The weary man became the wary man, and the wary man inquired to Swimplash, "what do you mean spank you?" Swimplash lowered to a knee and took began to write into the Earth with his finger. Before the wary man arose his own likeness from the dirt, and that of the likeness of Swimplash. The wary man gasped at this miracle. Then, the likeness of many elder women rose too from the dirt and surrounded the likeness of the wary man. "You are burdened by these women, yet you do not see the easiest path to remove yourself from them," said Swimplash. Sutra - 1:10
The wary man pondered Swimplash's words. "Do you mean to say… that by spank you, you mean surpass you by learning from your example and becoming better at solving my own problems?" Sutra - 1:11
"Nay," said Swimplash.
The wary man again pondered. "Do you mean to say… that to free myself of these women, I must 'spank you' by punishing you for what you did to them, and learn to accept that sometimes an army of inflamed women who have seen many days are people as well and should not be treated as a burden?"
"Nay," said Swimplash.
The wary man pondered deeply, but the answer did not come to him.
Swimplash went to the likeness of the wary man and removed from his sash a broken piece of glass. With it, he raked the likeness of the wary man upon the face three times. The likeness of the women had disappeared upon the third slash. It was then that the wary man came to understand Swimplash. Sutra - 1:12
Then, that night in the parking lot, Swimplash gave the wary man the shard of broken glass. The wary man then set upon his own face with the glass, until a passerby remarked that "your face is like the salted Earth!" Swimplash went up to the wary man and spoke unto him. "Nay… you are of the salted heart… This day I shall call you Salty-heart and we are now as brothers, and if the women come for you, show them your face and they will flee. Then I will take their evil upon myself to shield you from their throes.
Salty-heart wept, and became a disciple of Swimplash. - Sutra 1:13
____________________________________________________________
Upon a road Swimplash stopped without word. Salty-heart spoke to him, asking what could be the matter. Swimplash laid his hand on Salty-heart's shoulder and said, "stay here, I must tend to the rash." And with that Swimplash went to the river where he might collect relief from it. On the banks beside him approached a woman. Swimplash spoke to her, saying "pray, tell me, oh woman of enormous knockers, why hath you come to the river?" Sutra - 1:14
"I have come to feed Big Grungey Joe, lest he set upon my house with demands for spaghetti." Sutra - 1:15
Swimplash then noticed an invisible snake who set forth to strike the woman's bosom. It's speed was too great for Swimplash and it struck her right breast, yet she did not know. The invisible snake then vanished. Quickly, Swimplash came up to the woman and began to suck the venom from her unseen wound. The woman, sick with invisible venom, knew not what she was doing when she smote Swimplash upon thine eye. "Pray! I say unto you! I will draw the venom!" Sutra - 1:16
"There is no venom there! Nothing has envenomed me!" the woman roared. Sutra - 1:17
"There is! You cannot see it for the serpent was cloaked!" Sutra - 1:18
Then, it was said, that on the banks of that river while saving the buxom woman's life, a great bear rose from a pile of towels and came upon Swimplash. Sutra - 1:19
"HEY," it spoke, "just who in the wide world of FUCK are you?!" Sutra - 1:20
Wiping his mouth, Swimplash stood and addressed the bear. "Who should I be?" he asked. The bear, unseeing of Swimplash's wisdom, then roared, "SPAGHETTI!" Then the woman, climbing to her feet, said unto the bear, "Big Grungey Joe.. this bearded thief has pillaged my bosom so that I was not able to protect your plate of noodles and parmesan…" Sutra - 1:21
"WHAAAAT?!" cried the great bear, "IS THIS TRUE?!" he asked of Swimplash in all caps. "I say unto you great bear, who hath the scent of a burning furnace of garbage, that this woman was set upon by a cloaked serpent." Sutra - 1:22
"A CLOAKED SERPENT?!" screamed the bear, "then… they too have come to this river. Sages, cloaked serpents, it is no longer safe here for pasta." So the bear stood upon his hind legs, and began to walk as a man. Salty-heart, who had become weary of waiting, came upon them and frightened the buxom woman away with his gashed face. "Great Swimplash, what have the fates wrought us?!" But Swimplash had set out and followed the buxom woman. So it was that only Salty-heart and the bear were left to speak. Sutra - 1:23
They spoke tragedy, victory, and of the beginning and the end and everything in between. Then they spoke of Swimplash, who had given up chasing the envenomed woman and returned. Sutra - 1:24
"So! She outran you! What are you a pervert or something?!" roared the bear. Sutra - 1:25
"Nay," said Swimplash. The poor woman had been covered in invisible snakes, but she was strong and her enormous knockers belied her speed and she had escaped Swimplash to surely die in the forests of Tarrant County. Sutra - 1:26
"Then I shall eat her up when I find her," screamed the bear softly, "her tender body shall surely taste of spaghetti after having cooked it for so many days." Sutra - 1:27
"Nay," said Swimplash. Then he took from his sash a can of high powered bear mace and did mace the bear. Sutra - 1:28
The bear laughed as the mist did no harm. It was then that Swimplash had taught the bear a lesson, and the bear did know suddenly that it was not a bear, but a man. Sutra - 1:29
It so pained the bear that he howled with sorrow. His mind remembered when he was a man, and when he was denied his pasta, and he broke upon the banks of the river and attempted to drown himself. Swimplash laughed at this. Sutra - 1:30
Salty-heart cried out to Swimplash, "we cant let him do this! Is not the life of Big Grungey Joe sacred?" Sutra - 1:31
"Nay," said Swimplash, and he began to laugh at the sad man drowning himself in the river. Sutra - 1:32
The great bear man heard the laughter and his head was raised from the water and was pointed at Swimplash who exalted in his sadness. Sutra - 1:33
"Why do you laugh at me?" asked the crying bear. Sutra - 1:34
Swimplash answered the question by laughing at him more. The crying bear who was once a man then understood why Swimplash laughed. It was because he was still a man, and never was a bear. The heart within still beat with human rhythm. For the first time in many years, Big Grungey Joe stood up as a man and rushed forward to strangle Swimplash, as a man. Sutra - 1:35
Salty-heart looked upon this scene with golden light in his heart. This was not a bear attack, this was a man attack, his master had done another good deed. As Big Grungey Joe's raging hands hugged his throat, Swimplash had a vision. Sutra - 1:36
A white light filled Swimplash's eyes and the smell of Armor-all filled his nostrils. A council of figures sitting in a semi-circle floated toward him. Then it was that Burt Reynolds stood and welcomed their brother Swimplash. Sutra - 1:37
"So I am dead," said Swimplash. "Or are you," questioned Burt Reynolds.Sutra - 1:38
"Or are you?"
_____________________________________________________________________
The Sutras of Swimplash - Once Thought Lost, Found In A Civic
Duly recorded by his disciples Salty-heart and Big Grungey Joe
_____________________________________________________________
"From the land named after the creator, East Texas, came a man of infinite gifts. Heart, mind, and beard." - Salty-heart.
"A finer fucker hath never fucked." - Big Grungey Joe
_____________________________________________________________
In the beginning there was the word, and that word was "twiced." For it is said that twiced was Swimplash (pronounced SIP-uh) born. Once born from a woman he was again born on the bathroom floor of a bar called 'Sugarplumpy's.' Little is known about his first birth, only that it happened. His second birth, hereafter referred to as the 'after birth,' ushered in a new age of wisdom for humanity. For it is told that following the after birth Swimplash arose from a grievous head wound and began performing miracles. Sutra - 1:1
His first miracle was standing after receiving a grievous head wound. His second was to survive the loss of blood. It is said that immediately after he arose during the after birth that his head wound filled over with hair that crackled like white lightning. - Sutra 1:2
Upon seeing the man who had wounded him with the bottle of Shiner Bock, Swimplash called to his followers who had followed him to the bar. "Nay, do not harm this one, for he hath struck in ignorance. Please, rowdy friends, do not strike back in ignorance, but discover the location of thine dwelling, and rain rocks of forgiveness, and set the flames of forgiveness upon his front lawn." His followers, complied, and the man that had wounded Swimplash was purified in the howling flames of redemption and was reborn as nutrients resting in the earth. - Sutra 1:3
Later it is said that Swimplash disposed of his garbs and drove an evil spirit out of a drunken woman who had descended upon him with a thirst for knowledge. - Sutra 1:4
_________________________________________________________________
Having become a sage, Swimplash set out to fix the wrongs in the world. His wisdom and powers became known throughout the land. Sutra - 1:5
Once, a house of young people was beset by a fully stocked liquor cabinet. Knowing that the people in the house were too young to imbibe such liquors, he deftly walked through the front door and asked upon where he could find the liquor cabinet. Sutra - 1:6
"Who are you?" a child spoke. And thus, Swimplash smote the child for having transgressed upon him. Then, using his sage nose, he smelled the cabinet which was full of the devil's nectar. He went to it and said, "HARK! I say unto you young peoples, that these bottles contain not salvation, but a false promise." When the young people gathered and asked questions unto Swimplash he could see that they were already ensnared in the false promises of the devil's nectar, and that time was short. Sutra - 1:7
Without hesitation, Swimplash reached for a bottle of Jaegermeister and began to chuggeth. Then, upon completion, he smashed the bottle so it would no longer be used for ill. When the young people did speak he smote them with thine rod, and when they tried to call out on their phones they had learned that Swimplash had suppressed the house phone with wire cutters and used his swiftness and skill to run about the house to snatch all the cell phones. Sutra - 1:8
Having earlier imbibed the devil's nectar the young people were filled with fear and ran from Swimplash. They did not know that he was taking into himself all the evils of the liquor cabinet thus saving them from evil. Within his holy body the evil began to churn and reject him, so Swimplash called forth a torrent of devil's nectar which shot forth unto the upolstry of an IROC-Z Camaro. - Sutra 1:9
_________________________________________________________________
In the year of the Cougar, Swimplash traveled to the land of Nod and was encountered by a man who was hounded by an army of inflamed women who had seen many years. The man was weary of their garbled words and so Swimplash, having seen this, took it upon himself to disperse the women. Uttering sacred chants such as, "hommina, hommina, hommina," and "hark sugartits, back thineself unto thee," he was able to quell the crowd of their intent. The weary man thanked Swimplash. "If you wish to thank me, then you must learn to spank me." The weary man became the wary man, and the wary man inquired to Swimplash, "what do you mean spank you?" Swimplash lowered to a knee and took began to write into the Earth with his finger. Before the wary man arose his own likeness from the dirt, and that of the likeness of Swimplash. The wary man gasped at this miracle. Then, the likeness of many elder women rose too from the dirt and surrounded the likeness of the wary man. "You are burdened by these women, yet you do not see the easiest path to remove yourself from them," said Swimplash. Sutra - 1:10
The wary man pondered Swimplash's words. "Do you mean to say… that by spank you, you mean surpass you by learning from your example and becoming better at solving my own problems?" Sutra - 1:11
"Nay," said Swimplash.
The wary man again pondered. "Do you mean to say… that to free myself of these women, I must 'spank you' by punishing you for what you did to them, and learn to accept that sometimes an army of inflamed women who have seen many days are people as well and should not be treated as a burden?"
"Nay," said Swimplash.
The wary man pondered deeply, but the answer did not come to him.
Swimplash went to the likeness of the wary man and removed from his sash a broken piece of glass. With it, he raked the likeness of the wary man upon the face three times. The likeness of the women had disappeared upon the third slash. It was then that the wary man came to understand Swimplash. Sutra - 1:12
Then, that night in the parking lot, Swimplash gave the wary man the shard of broken glass. The wary man then set upon his own face with the glass, until a passerby remarked that "your face is like the salted Earth!" Swimplash went up to the wary man and spoke unto him. "Nay… you are of the salted heart… This day I shall call you Salty-heart and we are now as brothers, and if the women come for you, show them your face and they will flee. Then I will take their evil upon myself to shield you from their throes.
Salty-heart wept, and became a disciple of Swimplash. - Sutra 1:13
____________________________________________________________
Upon a road Swimplash stopped without word. Salty-heart spoke to him, asking what could be the matter. Swimplash laid his hand on Salty-heart's shoulder and said, "stay here, I must tend to the rash." And with that Swimplash went to the river where he might collect relief from it. On the banks beside him approached a woman. Swimplash spoke to her, saying "pray, tell me, oh woman of enormous knockers, why hath you come to the river?" Sutra - 1:14
"I have come to feed Big Grungey Joe, lest he set upon my house with demands for spaghetti." Sutra - 1:15
Swimplash then noticed an invisible snake who set forth to strike the woman's bosom. It's speed was too great for Swimplash and it struck her right breast, yet she did not know. The invisible snake then vanished. Quickly, Swimplash came up to the woman and began to suck the venom from her unseen wound. The woman, sick with invisible venom, knew not what she was doing when she smote Swimplash upon thine eye. "Pray! I say unto you! I will draw the venom!" Sutra - 1:16
"There is no venom there! Nothing has envenomed me!" the woman roared. Sutra - 1:17
"There is! You cannot see it for the serpent was cloaked!" Sutra - 1:18
Then, it was said, that on the banks of that river while saving the buxom woman's life, a great bear rose from a pile of towels and came upon Swimplash. Sutra - 1:19
"HEY," it spoke, "just who in the wide world of FUCK are you?!" Sutra - 1:20
Wiping his mouth, Swimplash stood and addressed the bear. "Who should I be?" he asked. The bear, unseeing of Swimplash's wisdom, then roared, "SPAGHETTI!" Then the woman, climbing to her feet, said unto the bear, "Big Grungey Joe.. this bearded thief has pillaged my bosom so that I was not able to protect your plate of noodles and parmesan…" Sutra - 1:21
"WHAAAAT?!" cried the great bear, "IS THIS TRUE?!" he asked of Swimplash in all caps. "I say unto you great bear, who hath the scent of a burning furnace of garbage, that this woman was set upon by a cloaked serpent." Sutra - 1:22
"A CLOAKED SERPENT?!" screamed the bear, "then… they too have come to this river. Sages, cloaked serpents, it is no longer safe here for pasta." So the bear stood upon his hind legs, and began to walk as a man. Salty-heart, who had become weary of waiting, came upon them and frightened the buxom woman away with his gashed face. "Great Swimplash, what have the fates wrought us?!" But Swimplash had set out and followed the buxom woman. So it was that only Salty-heart and the bear were left to speak. Sutra - 1:23
They spoke tragedy, victory, and of the beginning and the end and everything in between. Then they spoke of Swimplash, who had given up chasing the envenomed woman and returned. Sutra - 1:24
"So! She outran you! What are you a pervert or something?!" roared the bear. Sutra - 1:25
"Nay," said Swimplash. The poor woman had been covered in invisible snakes, but she was strong and her enormous knockers belied her speed and she had escaped Swimplash to surely die in the forests of Tarrant County. Sutra - 1:26
"Then I shall eat her up when I find her," screamed the bear softly, "her tender body shall surely taste of spaghetti after having cooked it for so many days." Sutra - 1:27
"Nay," said Swimplash. Then he took from his sash a can of high powered bear mace and did mace the bear. Sutra - 1:28
The bear laughed as the mist did no harm. It was then that Swimplash had taught the bear a lesson, and the bear did know suddenly that it was not a bear, but a man. Sutra - 1:29
It so pained the bear that he howled with sorrow. His mind remembered when he was a man, and when he was denied his pasta, and he broke upon the banks of the river and attempted to drown himself. Swimplash laughed at this. Sutra - 1:30
Salty-heart cried out to Swimplash, "we cant let him do this! Is not the life of Big Grungey Joe sacred?" Sutra - 1:31
"Nay," said Swimplash, and he began to laugh at the sad man drowning himself in the river. Sutra - 1:32
The great bear man heard the laughter and his head was raised from the water and was pointed at Swimplash who exalted in his sadness. Sutra - 1:33
"Why do you laugh at me?" asked the crying bear. Sutra - 1:34
Swimplash answered the question by laughing at him more. The crying bear who was once a man then understood why Swimplash laughed. It was because he was still a man, and never was a bear. The heart within still beat with human rhythm. For the first time in many years, Big Grungey Joe stood up as a man and rushed forward to strangle Swimplash, as a man. Sutra - 1:35
Salty-heart looked upon this scene with golden light in his heart. This was not a bear attack, this was a man attack, his master had done another good deed. As Big Grungey Joe's raging hands hugged his throat, Swimplash had a vision. Sutra - 1:36
A white light filled Swimplash's eyes and the smell of Armor-all filled his nostrils. A council of figures sitting in a semi-circle floated toward him. Then it was that Burt Reynolds stood and welcomed their brother Swimplash. Sutra - 1:37
"So I am dead," said Swimplash. "Or are you," questioned Burt Reynolds.Sutra - 1:38
"Or are you?"
_____________________________________________________________________
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
