For Now... God Help Us When That Grim Day Comes. Honestly, Can You Think Of A Better Actor Than Ernest Borgnine? No, You Cant., Not Now, Not Ever.

J.D. Salinger died and if I tried to care any less it would bend the laws of physics. You are undoubtedly like-minded people so I will tell you something worth hearing.

Ernest Borgnine still lives.

Let Us Dwell On The Great Magnet's Tits

Out there, far away, are things I cannot detect. Even if I were swimming in the middle of it I wouldn't be able to sense any of it. I'd be a handsome metal fly caught in the great magnet's eye.

The great magnet, if it so chooses, takes the form of a man when it decides to intervene with our pitiful human affairs. He appears different in the minds of everyone. Some see him as an overweight ex-con trying to earn a bachelor's in divinity, others will see him as a bearded stamp collector who seeks but will never find the 1942 commemorative stamp featuring Amelia Earhart being eaten by a barracuda as she flies over the Indian ocean.

I see the great magnet as a beautiful man who realized long ago that inside his chest beat the heart of a woman. He saved all the money he could for five years in order to pay for hormones and surgery. The great she/man/magnet now has an hourglass figure and the finest tits the cosmos could grow. She now wears a scarf to conceal the spot where the adam's apple used to sit in her throat. One day she appeared to me with a heavenly tenor.

"Watch Escape from L.A."

I did and have never regretted for a moment doing so. That's all the proof you skeptics need that there exists something beyond Disneyworld and that secret film of Glenn Beck raping and murdering a young girl. Oh ye of little faith...

June I take this show to the road. Meet me at the following locations for casual sex and an amateur leech cleansing: Here, there, everywhere but somewhere bare.

If things get rough there's always someone you can count on to smooth things out. The little voice in your head that tells you to 'riot in the fucking streets.' His words are wise, his face is weird if you can manage a glance at the little bastard.

Go now and do great things.

Because, Ya Know... I'm So Important To You

I just remembered that I can write short posts. This is good because at the moment I am blindly floating in a river of ether. The animal spirits follow me on the banks and guide me on my way.

Cousins... I can hear you, above, beside and below... Fill me with your wisdom.

I've just spent the past several hours listening to my animal kin... It must have escaped me before that they are better at eating, fucking and shitting into rivers than they are giving any practical advice. Why in the name of all things rational I even decided lend an ear to those insane bastards is beyond you. The answer lies somewhere between genuine mystery and dust kicked up by my penchant for accepting irrational whims and feeding them warm blood and enthusiasm.

I dream a lot. I don't always like doing so, my mind is a sadist and a masochist who doesn't even have the decency to call me after each session of righteous mind fucking.

I'm going to go dream now. Think of the most awful scenarios and terrible sights a person can behold, then dwell on it. Now, imagine that it really happened, and not only that, that things far worse are going to happen very soon and there is nothing you can do to stop it.

Now hold that thought during my entire night of sleep. I've got a theory that nightmares are time efficient enough to want to strike where the iron is hot. Do it for me.

Wow... I Think The Guy Has Lost His Touch

Onnnnne second...

I'm being distracted by a charming young woman from some god forsaken land that isn't my own. Isn't that way it goes.

Sometimes the light flickers instead of rages and it is during those times that I sit here and enjoy blood flow and breathing. This is a pathetic way of saying I have nothing virulent to write.

Don't you hate it, absolutely HATE it when the gears grind to a steady hum and you are able to steal away a few peaceful grains of sand from the big ol' fuckin' hourglass that rests between bloodthirsty Andromeda and Canton, Ohio. It's hard to find words for it without reaching into the bad poetry bag, blissful, serene, not cram fucking packed with intense rectal tearing, but I will try... well no I won't, bad poetry bag saves time.

Oh bad poetry bag... how did I know you'd be crimson?

June is the start of the new year and when it happens I will tell you why.

A Photo That Has Nothing To Do With The Text

I have not been updating this as often as I would have liked. Actually, that's a bit of a false statement isn't it? If I had absolutely wanted to update this I would have. What this means is while it would have been nice to keep this journal updated, I have opted instead to damage my mind on pen pal websites and falling victim to pointless distractions.

There is a mystery afoot... where has my drive gone? No you idiot, you're thinking of my car, I mean my DRIVE, my motivation, my lustful infatuation with accomplishing the unimpressive feats of literary obscurity!

...It was the money wasn't it? No, not the money, I don't see you in a fur lined jacket then it had to be something else. It was your submission! Your willful adherence to the siren song of fruitless endeavors. Sit there and watch Tabatha's Salon Makeover for several hours, don't worry, those limericks will certainly find a way to write themselves. Drink some more milk and eat some more tuna while you browse through hell's crotch looking for international pen pals and posting on walls, the revolution will start, fight and die without you.

I'm spending my time now talking to people who's light I can see reach into the sky when I look out the window.

So, the point of this writing is to bang on the journal's chest just enough to keep blood flowing. To all the people who keep track, I am going to make an attempt at some heavy duty surgery with power tools and a voodoo spell book. Mark my words, I shall raise the dead.

Different Than The Bill Cower Power, But Just As Physically Demanding

My head feels like a swimming pool full of date rape spikes. At any moment a proponent of intelligent design could leap out from the shadows and try to skull fuck me into a coma. There may be some twisted plot waiting to be sprung upon me, but then again I may be underestimating the situation.

It's not all bad news though. I have fallen in love with something besides chocolate milk and the memory of stovepipe hats and jaunty strolls down the boardwalk. My affection is for several people, but that is all I can say without exposing myself to the fact that I may be some sort of a mortal after all. The surgery should take care of this, but for now I am what I am.

True fact: I have just spent two days with this particular journal entry safely nestled away in a Firefox tab between hyper-intense midget bestiality and a letter to grandma. The auto save function has expired and now sits besides chivalry in the hall of the passed. Auto save... you were cherished above all others. The grace you maintained during the spell check's tenure as flavor of the century was inspiring. I want to asphyxiate you with the smoochiest of kisses.

But you're now you're gone, until the time when I finally reset the page which approach is at such a painfully slow rate that one could equate it to being a stone slab of senior citizens being driven by an intoxicated sponge who failed it's driving test and lives in constant fear of being discovered by the bus company's thorough internal affairs division.

Holy hole punchers, I just snotted out a bogs worth of mucous and blood, all over my pancho. Whatever, ennui hour initiate.

Time Ran Out, So I Cut It Short

I have 8 minutes to try and remember the profound thought I was enjoying before I tripped over a weight, landed stomach first into the coffee table before vomiting trail mix on it. I have 8 minutes because I wasted the 10 minutes before. Now I am down to 5 minutes, I have wasted the following 3 wishing I had written the thoughts down. Down to 4, because I just realized my pen and paper are not where I left it. There is no reason to waste anymore time, so I shall write whatever comes to mind.

There are several people who I miss talking to a great deal, two of which are actual people. Talking to another person is one of those absolutely amazing things that people absolutely take for granted. Look at the moon, right now. If you can't then turn away in shame, but if you can do so and think to yourself, "How many conversations are taking place there?" I don't think the answer is too different when you look at Mercury or Mars.

In my eyes words are miracles, and the ability to wield them to talk about the glorious and the foolish is a gift too great to attribute to anything but the most wonderful of circumstances. Sometimes it takes me aback, truly, I feel almost weepy at the majesty of words. "Boy, that duck sure shit a lot of quarters into my coffee," is a sentence that I see as universally glorious, on too many levels to count.