Rising concerns...

...what this still feels like. Kinda' sticky, honestly.

Comment-allez vous? Heureux, triste, fâché, fatigué, ou juste pas mal?

It keeps me going now and then.

More at 11, when updates arrive.

( On the rocks. On the tab. )

What does it take it get a blog in this place?

( Compromisingly... cute? Heh... heh... )

(Note: I don't consider this an "official" update, at least not in the sense of how I wanted to, but suffer all the same.)

Attempting chess with a third grade education here at the 76, a quick recap: I saw... somebody from G-Rad on the bus, ignore_me, raccooncup, & newtangoshoes confusingly scanning in a parking lot, and vigilante_karma stared at me three feet away! And Hackley was on a bike. Are we groundhogs to heatwaves?

Anyway, as promised.

I'm a minuteman!


I. Anything regarding "occupational networking" to help a brotha' out would be invaluably valued. Promises abound that it positively correlates with an increase in fine, fanciful weblications from the aforementioned soldier boy! BYAHHH!

II. Anybody wanna' go to a concert?

III. I'd also like to make a mea culpa toward one Amanda, as the last time we spoke was abrupt and considering your recent troubles I apologize for being a dick. This is inexcusably belated.








( Parting Gift! )



(((Penile.Supplement. There's aplenty to update back in with. Just had to apply the jelly first.)))

EDU 202: Make ya' crack ho mama proud.

MUS 101: All that jazz. Director, through nobody's fault except my domineering presence and puissance.

JOB 301: They don't give grades out for nothin'.

<3 103:: Long and rough. (OR: Just how I ordered it.)

PHT 101: Still regresses me something fierce.

SUM 495: Obscene amounts of sin & sun & surf(ing the 'Net).

I've seen worse. Even smelled, too.

Dear Others,

Sigh.

Been having childhood memories I thought the current had taken. Maybe they're just mirages. Or maybe the paint's just growing mold.

o, the raindrops.

You?

Earnestly & Eagerly,
Me.

P.S. Lots 'o' Updates a'coming. And links. But after finals. 'Dem shits be reals.

[speakers on.]

Yeah, hmm, uh, um, hrm, kinda', mm, schwooo... peculiarly enough, I'm thinking. All the time. I'll catch myself, unabashedly, like your mom when she found you with that Playboy/girl/stuffed animal. Call it nail-biting, except with fatty pink tissue and bodily fluids. Ed's note: Juliet, he's waiting on that proposal still - he's an impatient star-in-waiting.

Y'know.
About THINGS (may or may not).
And SHAPES (never quite fit).
And COLORS (feel so nice).
And SOUNDS (keep it on the run).

...

Last time I traveled to fungiland, there was no need to return. The sun only came up out of bad habit, and it apologized quite profusely.

...

Jump-roping to THE MOTHERFUCKIN' MOON today. Wish me taciturn luck. And vociferous domination. Just hope I can take my Chinese leftovers up with me.

I'm almost done with The Second Sex. Thirty-some-odd pages. Quick, type up words of inspiration to carry me to the finish line!

So after last night, it's official: economics is teh suckness and the cuteness all bundled into one cuddly chimeric timebomb. But it sure beats talking about being an orge, like Ben Franklin. My Favorite Dad.

REJOICED! We got a demo at WCKS and the single was bland as white bread compared to the other tracks on it. Brian Burton and I should make mutant mice babies. It'll be in the name of science!

So, after being invited to three parties for the next three weeks, plead to me: why I should take you along?

Photojournalism makes me a child again, and a million thanks they'll never know.

P.S. I've reached the conclusion that after dating Handrea for a decade or so, more or less, the second law of thermodynamics really starts to kick in... but I would be fine with that infinite standstill, an eternal freeze. I'm so content just roaming around and imparting youngsters with my wisdom. I'd be so frustrated with an adolescent: they'd whine about how lonely they are, and then I'd teach them Kegels, and then they'd get all grossed out and comment on their perceived ugliness, and then I'd catapult them down the stairs to prove them wrong.

"BUT YOU'RE SO BEAUTIFUL. WHY CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?! WHY?!"

[curtains close.]

An hour unheard
lost in azure dream
stranded heart perturbed
just as we gleam.

O, what fanciful feat of movie majesty! How stimulating the hackneyed and overrehearsed dialogue rendered me so impressed I was mesmerized into a drooling stupor of feral undertones and compulsive attempts at gorging my unworthy organs with a spork. How divinely and inspiringly you vivified such a classic story of a young iconoclast's adventure in finding just the most upright fellow to truly and eternally crush her occassional wit and rebellious spirit, which such nostalgia and stock orchestra ambiance for golden eras thus lapsed! I might implode with mused effervescence if my attempts at such unabashed flattery should continue, so I relent to your so beautifully crafted one-dimensional anatagonists and extended scenes of banal revelies.

( More Pity-Patter, If You Dare... )

I need to get back to my homework.

P.S. So honestly, I don't fib when I trot on about how I find most everybody's lives more full of intrigue than mine. Being as I'm just sitting here in Kirkoff doing some physics research, I'm curious: what is/was everybody else doing at 1:45ish this afteroon? Or any day, really. We're in this together, now.

P.S.S. Juliet, THAT is TOTALLY the role Victor Cocksworth was meant to be unveiled for. I'm so smitten with the idea I'm skittering from how close I am to handing in my resignation and moving to Europe (or Canada, if our boat sinks) with just a crew and a dream. Kind of like Blair Witch, except with facials.

I: Square Pegs and Triangles

Suprise! So, such suprious scaliwags surnamed Becca had their Napolied way with me yesterday. 'Twasn't that bad, to truth. Really can't comprehend commotions over such "traumas"... she even fed me afterwards, and permitted me to pet her pussy! Although this marker marking might make manic mass madness. Beware: prevent provking prodding panicked prudes from being alerted to your shenanigans when submerging one's self in the vile vicissitudes of vengeance.

Beck. Like, when did he stop hating myself, or something? Totally. Just had the epiphany that, contrasting film and words, I will be quite content with whatever amount of music I ever consume in my lifetime. Rhythm is the epitome of the moment, and to hold that to picture the frame so you're always looking for some new angle for ultimately the same portrait is quite a disingenuious stance, methinks.

All the same, keep on rockin' in the free world, my friends.

( II: Well Lookie Here... )

A Re-enactment of the Great War, in one Act:

First Dude: Huh?
Second Guy: Wha?
First Dude: You frontin'?
Second Guy: Who?

[Third Man dies.]

All the same, that's old news.

III: Ransom Note

Why don't you niggas ever just make like Houndini and voilà on my porch and demand munchies? My non-ambitious ambition for the culinary arts will stay as much until there's someone other than my skeletal ass to dine and wine for. And that's as unacceptable as this.

Apparently CC is ran by a council of wizards - UNBATHED, MEDIEVAL-SMELLING WARLOCKS. How else to explain how their ardent indifference to how all of the those deluded 'learners' of 'science' and 'industry' have their classes all scheduled at exactly the same time? ...heh heh, too bad they don't realize after I build that time machine I'm just going to turn the dial to the left and vaporize Merlin's smug visage with my 'illusionary' death ray. Suckas. Despite its ridiculously high priced whoring, at least Grand Valley reached out and gave me a handjob before I ever stepped in the autumn booth. My night owl ambitions are dashed again!

*A hoo for me, a hoo for my homies.*

Ed's note: why is it always a time machine? Why can't there be a time turle, or board game, or kinky latex fetishism? Just a thought.

So apparently it cost a hundred and sixty five to wipe all of the tears off of a blubbering bureaucrat's face for scratching his favourite hydrant. Very unrad. About as unrad as the hodgepodge of half-measures this harbinger of hazard the immigration bill is showing its bloody face for.

All the same, an application for membership from the International Society of Luck came in the mail today.

IV: Please, I Know We All Have A Little Bruise - Just Don't Poke At It.

Barely legal, awkwardly fit, cozy cot, late night binges. Untouchable, undeniable, unremovable. But this is contentment, not happiness. And we all know it. It's not enough to breathe, unless that's the step in the manual you're on. Discontentment morphs us maltreated and miserable, but unhappiness turns us putrid and psychotic. With this soapbox syllogism summarized: what foul imp still keeps dreams eluding my darktimes?

Finitude. Mine, more precisely. I may be more mobile than your phone in your hand, but the duct tape stays on the shell. Bonding necessitates interaction, but since that's a well that runs dry every twenty four hours - and, well, you passed first grade I hope. I wanted to be thin, not flat. My loserdom is at stake here. Let me get the bling and my put stiff upper lip on. Yeah, now roll 'dem dice, dawg... yeah...

Ed's note: at this point he spent the next twenty minutes just nodding his head to MTV with his eyes glazed over, with his teddy bear on top of his robe, sitting next to a couple cardboard cutouts of bikini'd beer bimbos. Sorry I didn't post a warning before I told you. ...well, no, hmm, no, not really.

...just don't wear me to out of season, hmm? Let me move out first before I turn hermit again, 'aight?

All the same, don't hand the dieting kid some new candy and not expect a little withdrawal. I crave, and it is grave, and my will can only stave, for in end the I'm gleefully no more than a knave. For her, for life, and -tockings unheard.

V: Aftermath, In Verse

O, ardent martyr, of light you've never lied;
on your corpse my prayer "you mustn't die".
But to jest, these struggles, they do not justify,
just lines in the sand of how we passed by.

Ed's note: I really should get a slice of the dough sometime. This is horseshit.

"Robotic Romance"

Tender cuticles and tiny cuts, oh
Please oh please no more a handful!
Madness and marbles we tie so tight so
to bequeath our war prisoners no less a mindful.

Whirling wanting whisked for journeys to attend,
did you thieve the tea leaves to worthwhile
my destitute estate as whispers amend
gones and bygones 'til my final mile?

All of me,
shuffled from an assembly.
Programmed to every last shreik and shrivel
when, in tears, your sobbing says
how it'll be.

An alchemist to be, nowhere near machine.
Parts from the name brands in the factory.
An android to become, a man sewn to pristine.
They lost my sticker, one read "Guaranteed Satisfactory".

Stop making believing,
campfire tales of blood and toil.
I'll telegraph when I'm deceiving,
just needed someone to refill my motor oil.

So much noise yet so little music coming from this section of the band. Breath after breath, each frantically vying to recover where the last failed off from. In and out, stiff to lifeless and back, climbing the paranoia of the enchantress' gestures in front and in back. Asymmetrical timings and tweaks and twitches the only stimulant to configure with. Admittedly, I was still half-crunked. But what nigga' in the house don't know that insobriety has very little causality with my incoherencies, yes?

My alarm clock was replaced with a car today. Its destruction became mine, and the suffering seems to pay dividends. Perhaps I'm just adjusting. To the scene, to beyond immanence, to my personal urban revival. Before, I was drifting along on a phantasm that clipped out all the stars in the sky to paste them on construction paper. This isn't black and white; it's what is and what isn't, and deconstructing what is in between. Actualization and responsibility are stiched at the hips - do you not see what those two words the latter are merged to mean? And one day this will be where all those dreams go to die, while the mothership keeps sputtering inch by inch.

"The fundamentals of perpetual motion:
What (do I want)? OR: The Pursuit
Why (do I want)? OR: The Bedroom
How (can I want)? OR: The Trial"

Life is too short, the rabble mutters. Maybe their memory is just subpar. It may be hanging delicate on Fortuna's strings, but as long as inertia sits upon his throne, I still have a very, very long way to go.

Sincerely,
Me.

P.S. So, anyone want to hook me up with a moped? I'll totally take a moped. And I mean that. Don't tease me, or I will stab you. The not-nice way.

...

The stereo went out earlier that night. Maybe I should believe in omens more.

...

I fell asleep.

It crashed. It didn't burn. I came to everything being wrong. The smell. The closest to hell I can recall.

...

The officer didn't want me to die. In his eyes, was in his lips. He must thought it a suicide.

...

I hugged my father. We stood there. Displaced, mesmerized. Turned my shoulder - not my head - and said, "maybe this is just a subtle hint that you should get me a bike."

...

Hate isn't too strong of a word. It's just too useless of one.

...

An airbag saved my life.

A bottle of cheap wine, some peculiarly CD-esque-sounding DVD live recordings, and friends who can't differentiate what hole is which after the second glass. *ah*

...

She called last night. Heard it vibrate, leapt to seclusion, whack-a-'Answer', input "Hey!".

"Can I talk to you about something?" In the tone. Where the '-thing' drops like a rock just barely of size enough to land on your pinky toe and turn in a yelp so you don't notice it on its gravitational projectory.

See, however, I shot novocaine in my foot beforehand. In the shower, I think. See, I'm not going to be a dick and say I prophesied her words or anything asinine as such. Because I'm not a dick. Or an ass. Not without being with a pair of legs and a large fucking skull, simutaneously, no less. A used, garage-sale-worthy artifice of bone and lipids and fats and carmine liquids, but operable nonetheless. Or maybe.

See. Well, see here.

[Figure A.]

.
.
.
.
.
|
v
.
.
.
My heart
.
.
.
|
v
.
.
.
.
.
A girl


This doesn't just happen out of the Atlantic (least not anymore, god dammit). In high hopes this is genuine, blue blood, K'Nex sort of thing, just the authentic-old-white-guy-metal-model-dinosaur way I like it (a lot a lot). But there's reasons, fo' kid I ain't no mo'; of them, one appears to be that we possess this parallel-tracking mutation in our genes that sniffs out potential brick shots for the win from oh, about thirty yards ada'way at this point, give or take. There's almost a perverse pride to it, processing so congruently in aspects - with anyone, really - the variety that keeps ya' alive when the fascist legions march in and roll out, where hope dims to a petite crack in the wall. But this. This is best varietal of all.

Ed's note: not that he'd ever exaggerate. I mean, Pat Robertson parses his Word nightly for more truth to propagate.

Anyway, even if it was off-base, what the hell justification do I have to pop out of my sleeve that says there isn't something quite fitting or extraordinary about the circumstances that be? What, am I gonna' bumble about and mumble apolegetics and utter on of reformations? Ha! In my memoirs (maybe). So we talk, and the seeming lack of lack of any real miscommunication is astounding - fucking on-a-spring-bike-ride-when-nowhere-out-of-ULTRASLAM!PUNK!You got METEORITED! astounding. We conclude, of sorts: The Best of Times, The Worst of Times, Times of Twelve-Step Programs & Neonate Buzzing Confusions.

Rough translation: we're rad (but of course), but our awesomeness needs breathing room lest we be played da' fool - search for landscapes unknown, to exploit and explore. Dripping waffle cones with Djinns at the end, in a park; zombified Arabian outposts to survey, in the backyard; humanoid hungers of paychecks and bike routes, above all, all the same.

Straight up: let's take it nice and real and slow.

Sidenote that just demands tangent:

[Figure B.]

"Dear Suburban Sprawl,

WTF? Go get AIDS and die already. Still can't believe you made it out of the 80's.

Sincerely,
Everyone."

And O! O, lord! Quotable!

"When you said you owned Settlers of Catan, I about creamed myself."

[Figure C.]

                                                                 '
                                                               "
                   *whoosh*                       "  "     []
                                                         ,/{}\,
____________________,__/\__,________________

(EDIT: since this 'picture' only looks right if you stare at it from my 'main' page, if it doesn't come out aligned: piss off. ... okay, okay, okay, I'm sorry, and I'll buy you an espresso sometime.)

If someone beheadingly giddy-filled faints in a basement, and nobody's around, does Nick still get the top bunk?

-J.

P.S. OMFGz!!1!!!1zz! Saturday! My second bottle to crack, zanny get-down times to mack! Remember to scan the 11 O'Clock, Channel 8 - I'll be the one in the bodybag, d00d!

P.S.S. Have this corny concept: to jot an anthology of poetics, twenty-six to be precise, each monikered for a roulette spin in each letter of the dictionary. Call it an ode to the alphabet or something equally lame. I'll leave it up to popular vote. Because I'm just that kind of dictator.

P.S.S. Stick with me, now. Million more little shards, many quite impersonal I might add, that I just haven't dilapidated my hours into this montrosity yet. \m/\m/

...so unsteadied for the slight of hands which await along the curbs of my narrowed, chiseled vision - 'tis time! To rail against these scaliwags of irony and detachment, the mutineers of action and futures upon this ship of life! Unleash the binds that treacherously engrave the skin of my corpus imaginatium! Brooding, irate slaves of aristrocratic, useless vampires of mind allowed unbound predatory privelege by the overcompassionate frail guardians of my heart!

Memories, racing, speeding to destinations unknown. A kaleidoscope swirling and merging throughout and through this empty shell. Touched. Of oscillating chipped painted horizontal wooden circles with metal limbs design to support the innocuous parasites whom breathe it vivid. Of foreign travels engendering unpredicted encounters with the downtrodden and musical and the apex of passion and escape. Of realizations of little soft lies used to dull the insanity within. Of fistfights. Of kisses. Of dancing. Of miscommunication. Of loneliness. Of boredom. Of disgust. Of failure. Of humility. Of complexes and clarity. Of indecision. Of panic (attacks). Of unrealities - and absurd ones, too. Of purity and unadulterated energy. Of black and blow outs. Of anxieties and tinglings and fuck ups and break downs. Of pleasures and pain and ponderings and pushing and-

OH FUCKING DAMMIT JUSTIN, OH FUCKING HELL, WHY DON'T YOU EVER MAKE SENSE. WHY. WHY, GOD FUCKING DAMMIT, WHY?! You self-revolved, internally melodramatic imbecile, you amount to a clandestine clump of campy cut-outs and carrions. Ha ha ha, so disorderly, so chopped and chronologically unevenly clipped! Could I be any more nebulous, at this point? Could I be any less, at this stage [of the game]?

Others do, others can, others are more than merely are. Arguments, auditions, audio, articulations, always clear, crystal, clever, concise. What is it? What nodes line so succulently within their skulls to which effect such elegance and ease doth emerge, seemingly all so timely and total? Where is this conspiracy, this key of colluded secrecy which has been occult from my ruses and muses toward which the geniuses and polymaths and wits and hardlucks and poets and logicians and victors of this earthly servitude transcend it by? Rattling, unnerving every ion of my cells, this beast, this abyss compels, nay, domineers my will toward the sky and demands hitch onto a star, any star, conflated with the static threats of maulings and magistacy. Stiched together, bolted to vitality and vanity - but lowered and downsized and tooled to edges and ledges and incompleteness. But now: present, prepared, frightened and fearful but forlorn toward such fates!

And yet.
Eluded.
Evaded.
Evicted.
Excluded.
Endured.
Exspelled.
Edited.
Eaten.
Erased.

But now... but now: I relent. I accept. Admire the circumstances for what they are and must be. I've chosen to live, and if no more can be said than all there is left is to do. Shit must be gotten together and for keeps, stacked up in precious logged columns like the bodies which plug and plague the pores of my opulent effervescence. To stand, emboldened against heartache and hardships for which are mine to keep, existing only of my creation. If nothing else, bypassing the cacophony of chaos that blindly builds the base upon which my gnarled steps will roam and-

And that.

That is how I am - here, and no where else.

...

"We now return to your regularly scheduled programming!"

...

The past four movies my yuppie lazy ass has gotten from le Netflix, Amelie, A Very Long Engagement, Irresistible, and Before Sunrise, have all been French or had a main character whose nationally was obvious enough. Why wasn't I explained how bittersweetly incredulous our (historically) fraternal brethen were? Between the charming introverts Audrey plays in the first two to the perturbingly morbid gratification of the rape scene of the third to the insightful idyllic inroads revealed by the last, my taste in cinema has decidely taken a turn for the better (not even counting the English-speaking films I consumed unflinchingly - Eraserhead, The Crying Game, etcetera), although credit to my own explorative aptitudes is entirely unwarranted. Lord, and I have Brazil and Waking Life on deck! Canna' geta' Amena'!

On top of all this slobbering my musical obsession has lied with Daft Punk of late, which naturally is French house. What dangerous lives, we teeter, yet so ever removed from the brink... :-D And I'm only eighty pages to finishing The Second Sex, which of course never makes me want to never even dream of coquetting with a female without deluge-sized guilt flooding my senses! :-D :-D :-D

(Seth, you devilishly unassuming lad you, I decree you to be less spot-on with such silly measures like "culture will cheer you up" and "stop whining, you dumbfuck" and "if you try and stick one more vegetable up there..."!)

For those keeping count: made my request for transcripts so my application to GRCC is "valid" (as if a pitchfork, some Woody Allen one-liners, and a little floss can't get you anywhere anymore...); lined up eighteen (mm, and weep, child, how lovely to sustain myself on your salty suffering) pathetically entry-level positions (...whoa. Have I just discovered the greatest oversighted innuendo of all time? Methinks me might...) to drive(l) around to on Monday; finally bought some silicon scar-reducing cream, par suggestion; and most pressingly, quite tactfully persuaded comrade Ben to buy a bottle 'o' booze )or two?) fo' a brotha'. (Ed's note: that was easiest part of all and you know it, jackass.)

On the flipside: oh, jeez. Climb mounds of homework to reverse this trend of SUCKING and BLOWING in the department it serves no purpose in (...yet.) [The Karmic Justice Says, "Ace a test in one class, become profoundly frustrated over a lab report in another. Bitch. Represent!"], sew my awesome stripped button-up already (have to... return to state... of contrived sassy sexihood...!), do my FASFA, go over some ideas for Amnesty, e-mail some radio stations about jazz record contacts, SECURE EMPLOYMENT - so I contemplate some sort of volunteerism again and rescue cute furry things from birches! Or something even HOTTER!(?!)

O, and if you weren't aware: I REALLY LIKE SOMEONE. Like as in FIFTH-GRADE-CLUMP-OF-DIRT-IN-PARTIAL-SHAPE-OF-RABBIT-OFFERINGS-IN-THE-HIDDEN-CORNER-WHERE-THEY-GIGGLE-AND-PECK-YOU-ON-THE-CHEEK-AND-THEN-RUN-OFF-AND-YOU-SIT-THERE-WONDERING-IF-IT'D-BEEN-BETTER-HAD-IT-BEEN-IN-THE-IMAGE-OF-A-TINY-KITTEN-INSTEAD like.

Mm. A simple request list: to be next to her more, to laugh with her more, to hear all her insane and inane and irridescent tales and thoughts and tribulations. And why not? What's stopping me, really, other than her to be happenstance into that inevitable next Good Thing™ who shields her from an ungodly barrage of blazing hair accessories? Christ, let's just go and drop the pretense: I am fucking HAPPY, straight up E-LAY-SHIN, suckas. What has passed as is is enough to satisfy but life is sweeter for some than that and I surmise that I can't surmise a damn thing. Maybe she feels the same. ...*shrugs* *?*

What I do propose is that whatever the hell is going on, diligance will be my condescending verb toward what lies ahead in what I need, and if things by accord move swimmingly, all the most obviously better. The weeds left by lapsed amours of my innards were strategically cut long ago, and I've done the best I can to plant the dropped seeds and embrace the fruits of what has grown in their place. But fuck this pseudoscientific correlating. What will be will be, but don't chaff for a moment counting on me to let mortal hurdles like proximity and temporality and monetary means to deter me for a god damn instance.

This seems an appropriate spot to suspend clamouring away at my poor keyboard. I need to learn some motherfucking Internets-Stuff™, so I can be as wired and rad as those cool cats I leech from on a daily basis all over the Web that is oh-so World Wide.


O most sincerely,
J-Min.


P.S. Holy shit! If you derived any semblance of coolness out of all the talkie talk I've whipped up on here, just holla' back, yo. Regardless of the self-loathing and circle-running rampant here, don't believe this some implicit pity-grabbing scheme or untouchable private soundboard. (at least anymore... not as if I could stop you anyway. :-D) Despite whatever original intents I may or may have not previously held, methinks it's about time to just say "fuck it, dawg" and care about blogging and bloggers - to an extent, at least.

Resumes - forgotten! Along with charm! And dashing strapping young looks (viewed best from afar)! So much for the job fair... bah, riddance! Unphased, for solace to be found strewn in the confines of substandard video productions, crafted of the idle libidos only the ennui-strapped psyches of the middlebrow apathetic adolescents of postindustrialized America (or Canada, 'spose) could conceive of or from or slighty into the bend.

Me: 1, Exam for sociology course I haven't attended in a month: 0.
(Note to self: utter adulation for learning, but kindly do it when at least the sun is suppose to be up. Dumbass.)

Spring must be sprung from its trap! Those who oppose my commando thrustings into the subterran conclaves of enemy spacings toward liberation are amongst the absurd loyalists and Danny Glover lovers the empire will inevitably avalanche itself upon! This nonsense of meandering in wilderness and not being in my favorite day suit (or enjoying as much, anyway) demands to be usurped! Global warming, why has thou forsaken thee? After my tropical brethen hath ritualized so many fallen trunked comrades to thy cause! Such vanity, O! Despair doth penetrate hearts lonely from frigid air.

Being so obstinate on having a bedrock cirriculum - universal thumbs down. Not of principle, but of how ardently painstaking divining the secondary program thus becomes. Crazy people! Systematic transmissions of submission and deviancy labeling! More crazy people! No eating babies or licking a stranger's ears (gasp, lest we become Europeans?!)! Children haven't figured out the not-good parts and tried to run aboutface! Believe it, son, and to imagine - disenfranchised and wronged seeking me out for clairvoyance and riches? What qualifies for shenanigans nowadays? Egad! Nein, nein, iie, iie, non, non! Face to face, case by case, that's the bag to tote.

If everybody had a choice, would we all just speak in functionalities and time to time legalese? Why always such dissimiliar familiarity? This be the Internets, homes, and my half-intentional cryptics can - nay, must! - align the walls in every atypical and idiosyncratic hole left to my possession.

Today you are human, and I am unseen. Robotic rudimentary romance sluggishly suffices superficially for us only in daft dreary dreams.

Jesus, quick recap for everyone: I'm skipping the job to find disposable employment the "manly" way, why isn't it warmer yet, ever the self-centered crybaby I have five more years of higher education to bitch and moan about, sorry for not being straightforward, and alliteration is the preferred lingustic geek method to giving out hard-ons like tiny sausage samples at your local neighborhood grocery store. And apologies for the previous sentence. Just kidding, love and all of its (un)shapely cousins rule.

P.S. It occurs to me that I'll be subjugating myself to the tune of one course at the Valley in autumn for the sole purpose to retain a laughable position of marginal superiority at an obscure radio station that's so impoverished one foul misstep could lead to asphyxiation or loss of our precious AM... (I'm hesitant to even utter this word) "status". But cultivated interactions and the constancy of aural influxes shall forever draw my misused attention and admiration until they plant my epitaph down. Never argue with a suicidal if they've quit listening to music and really have no friends.

O, and a list so full and trivial I'll be stark raving with myxamitosis in two seconds flat! Please call, pen, or molest me as you see fit, there's never enough random accosting in a day!

<3 (Because I'm cornier than a billion-dollar government-subsidized field of it.)

EDIT: Ugh... just heard the most wretched remake of Bjork's "Who Is It?", exasperated by the fact that it windchimes in it!

DOUBLE-WHAMMY!: Nicole's party! Saturday! Score! Bourgeoisie jiving & jubilations! Yeah!

TRIPLE-PLAY!: Totally promise to slip something more "meaningful" and "intriging" in here one of these days, you just have to let me wander the Internet a little more. Like the mediocre old days. :D

Exhilirating leeching is the descriptive I'll apply to the emotive that overwhelms me when I "get involved"... maybe I'm attempting to extend limbs I've yet to surgically attach yet, or perhaps I am really just that fucking arrogantly spendthrift with my time and lethargically find everything intriging from afar. I'm playing catch-up to the point where I don't want to be there but I can never get past the coattails & the muses (or what illusion passes for close enough).

I'm such a narcissist, and it shows. Or rather, doesn't. If I can manage to condition myself to let go of constructs and storylines and immanence. But it's all so ironic, it seems, nothing but crunchy contradictions. To get the list checked off I'm compelled to live the routine, the grind, one by one by one. Yet then - BANG! WHAM! ZING! - and when the whirlwind drops me off for a bit I'm simply dazed in recollecting my experience, disbelieved & scatterbrained of sensing such heights due to my own naive paradoxes. And these patterns of criss-crossing and magic and deliverance boggle all the spontaneity and loveliness and genuine clear out. That's my excuse, at least, but what harder challenge is there to one's self than decimating the most elaborate and self-deceptive veils one's decorated thine's mind about with?

The only reason there is something wrong with me is because I haven't made myself right.

Pre-emptive P.S. Seth, you wunderkind you, now it's decided: when my courage (or my insobriety) ever achieves its apex, Vivez Sans Temps Mort. Underside, forearms. It'll be HoTtzzz, and my accountant relays that surely my harem will reach archaically mythical proportions.

Thank goodness for professionals.
Thank goodness for coffee.
Thank goodness for lovers and wannabes.
Thank goodness for ATP.
Thank goodness for confusion.
Thank goodness for having something to fight confusion with.
Thank goodness for kickball.
Thank goodness for funny notes and colored blocks.
Thank goodness for reality, for at least being honest.
Thank goodness for for my ineptitude and saving grace.
Thank goodness for goodness and pink sticky notes to boot.

My house should implode and my bed, computer, and music should gently glide into an open window of my new bed of resistence. Pristine sight and android refusals. Knock, knock, knock, but he's two feet too high to go down. This shits be realz, dawg.

"PLAYING THE GAME NOBODY MADE UP. LEAVE A MESSAGE, BECAUSE YOUR VOICE SOUNDS CUTE ALREADY."

Postscript: please, do lunch. For all of us.

I'm afraid. I am so damn afraid.

But I'm happy! So bloody happy. Just bounced off a wall created solely from the surge of vitality bursted forth from my psychic loins. Every second viciously consumed without regrad by the one that follows. Got up, got down, even around, even overtime - not enough to sate. Live 24 to 7, or whatever the union will allow. Shot for the moon and decided Jupiter was prettier this time of lightyear. Shame to collapse the navigation tool with the brainless barrage of bullets from my righteous arm, full of justice, and other, related bullocks. Even shat out a stanza of prose, beyond reason, beyond need!

'"My Favorite Sin"

Emergence came, as a trite, a triffle (mayhap)-
Trans
     mutated
            carn(iv)al
   ,splendid   neon delights.
As if in a moving picture yet less
  forgotten
and forgone.

    Mettle & Might
haughtily mustered to will.
O, how hath it be
        so naughty and so right.'



...told you, just shot right out, brigader-style. Please, please, please understand: a pretense grasped in hand was I born with - merely took what I saw and ran, ya' see. I never asked to be, surely you know that, in that, you're just like me.

Desire so against greater judgment to take heed from the Titanic and thrust the lever down to "Slow", but the perfect storm rises behind and above all the same this frail machine proclaimed a journey & a man. But the laugh is mine, its reflection caught - I'll weather this wave, just let me buy a ticket for the ride before we go to show. A cig perhaps, a wallet moreso, and a CD mos' def' in night lie. Y'know. Something to dance to. If only we could all be so freed, whatever meaning that may or may not pretend to be. O, o, o, what simple misery a kiss would - pleasures unbound and temporal temptations timely unwound. I'm still sitting in the audience, and every step, with my cerebral fingers, feelings and thought, intertwined into something the delectable size of my fist, do I ever deceive myself the more so and for the better. Where are you? Need (to k)now you, touch you, remember you, love you, whisper you in darkness and kalidescope alike. In word, in patience; mama tried but didn't raise no tool, just a fool.

Reading the government's description of what being titled 'lawyer' entails and oh my what loss of entrails! But all this lofty loafing will damn me and baby you'll be tossed with the lot of it... the latest update on Blackboard is as frightening to my 'future' as shocking to my senses. Jesus, his prophecy cometh to bear? Arrogance? Pure and fleshy? That voice so decried and defied internally - yet, here, manifest? What have I done? What will I become? Science & Industry, you await! But only if you wait long enough for me. I'm a long time a'comin'. But just because it doesn't feel it doesn't mean it isn't right. Or at the very least... not wrong. WE MUST EAT YOU ALIVE AND NOT BLINK TWICE.

Repair! Rebuild! Rejuvenate! Rejoice! If only I took to sequences easier...


Metabolizing as coyly as one can,
That Guy, Over There.