Gender Specific Night-time Tragedy

There is one stretch of road that lies between them. The steering wheel gives a little into the curves of the road and suddenly the whole damn thing gets clearer. There is a reason for the yelling. There is a reason for the verbal flaying and the constant badgering of his mind to do the right thing. There was a leather-faced former general and his minions burning neat little military sized holes in his already torn pockets and then, then the flash came over him, like he could feel their torches catching the threads of his jeans on fire. The hands he controlled and the mind -most of the time- was controlled by a lack of motivation and general longing for death. He'd never take his own life - too selfish- but would never take to mind a great deal the prospect of some horrible contagious disease to help him finally find justification for laziness in illness. The hours of sitting on the couch or in a hospital bed watching television. Hours of the West Wing and Columbo reruns. Hours of beautiful solace and freedom. The catheters couldn't too horribly, he had figured. It seemed to him that it couldn't hurt more than getting kicked in the nuts and he is only just south of right. Relinquishing all need for control he let go of the steering wheel and the car leaned it's way into the next lane. ...This is oncoming traffic... The lights grew heavier in his eyes. ...This is the part where the horn sounds loudest... And then a very loud noise, and then a very quiet noise.

Who knew that Swedish cars would work so fucking well? The whole thing, his accident had suddenly become a farce complete with big, flabby bags of air hurled in their faces like the proverbial pie. She didn't die. He didn't understand, he thought she hadn't been wearing her seatbelt and know she was very breathing and very crying and very disoriented. He just needed his one favor from whoever was getting his soul and he'd be golden. Now, instead of dead, alive... She'll ask about the accident. ...This is the sound a head being smashed against the broken door sounds like... His hands were now- what? - covered in her blood. He began to well up tears in his eyes and stroked the body's now very, very dead face. The man in the other car got out just in time to see him not killing, but holding the woman in his arms.

He managed to clamor from the wreck with the help of the TV repair man he'd just so recently nearly killed and leaned on his knees, realizing his breathing was rushed, like he was extremely excited. ...Your knuckles get white when you're nervous and remember to not look happy...

(More...)

This Is Nothing

You spend so much time worrying about shit. Then you get sick. Then you get out. Then it's worse. And then you still have to go to work.

Fangora

Listless time wasting is quite incredible. As we sit on our respective squishy surfaces Allie complains about being tired - having done nothing all day. It's hard to explain to these girls what you mean when they speak their own language. They talk to eachother in mocking tones and Ashley attempts to con her sister into removing her curled-up body from the couch so we can covort into the city, walk through the rain and attempt to find something entertaining to do. I'll try to contain my excitement. Ahem... Yeeha.

John Denver Was a Fucking Pussy

I'm sorry, it had to be said. The man drove a plane into a lake. It was his own fault that he died. However, in life that man was a goddamned pussy. Here's why:

The song "Sunshine On My Shoulders" begins with the title line followed by the additional assy lyric "makes me happy." Now, I have been outside a lot in my life. I was once an avid camper and more than a couple of times have been to the beach or another sunny destination (Phoenix.) This 'sunshine' crap is crap. The sun isn't comfortable, it's hot. It is a burning, scalding, flesh-baking heliosphere just close enough to germinate the protozoa that mutated into our sorry excuse for a race. It isn't magical like the Aztecs believed. It isn't a God as the Greeks believed and it most certainly isn't as comfortable as a backward hug from a supermodel as John Denver's dead ass believed. I can't believe a man can achieve any level of fame with such trite and indecipherably vague (let alone lame) lyrics. But that isn't really the point. The point is that John Denver is a pussy. I know that I have not yet sold you on the idea that this plane-diving folk hero was indeed -and his corpse remains to this day- a pussy. So here's the meat in the sandwich... Bad analogy. Let's not defile the memory of a dead man with such a miserable analogy. Okay, here's the blackbox in the water: The Den' (as I call him) played sappy folksongs in the nineteen seventies. He and Donovan both suck. Damn. I keep missing the logic behind my outrageous attack. John Denver was a pussy because he wrote a song about sunshine and it's affects on his emotions. What a pussy. He also had bad hair, but that's another rant.

Refusal

At this point in time I would like to write a blog entry that has nothing to do with my girlfriend. Thank You.

The Daring Escape of Kibus Maximus

At several points in my career in lame and noticeably dead-end jobs I have noticed a trend: People, no matter where they are from, are a pain in the ass without manners or remorse. This is best exemplified by the state of Texas' lovely personages. These 'people' assume that they can be rude to you solely because you sit behind the counter reading a David Sedaris novel and that you are no more a human being than the immigrants who mow their lawn. Now, I am not saying that immigrants aren't human, they certainly are. I am merely pointing out that these well-heeled rednecks -from a state that wants to be a country- are just as rude as an unwanted rimjob. I cannot stomach any more of these miserable patrons and from here on out proclaim myself Kibus Maximus (Latin for "Dude Who Doesn't Take Shit From Anybody") and am currently planning my escape from retail.

That is all.

The Last Days of The First Days of Summer

Hello!!! It's summer and I can't possibly deal with this sort of thing. Knowing that there are only several days put next to eachother left in the entirety of my summer is slightly depressing. However, I am quite excited about the little time I do have. Chaos, I am sure, will ensue. I request massive amounts of narcotics and alcohol. I also request love, but that is dependent soley on one woman who I will not name (Allison). So, if God and my girlfriend are listening (or reading) please find it in your heart(s) to give me the aforemntioned items requested of you.

Love, Jim.

Who is this man?

While attempting to straighten things out with a certain unnamed college of music I came to a startling conclusion: I am the master and commander of my thoughts and actions. I am the be all and end all of my basic daily actions and thoughts. Why the fuck shouldn't I get my money back if I can't have my grade? Armed with words and a cute haircut I stumbled words over feet into the man's office and very nearly begged for my class back. He said he couldn't do a thing. So I asked about the money. I won! I won! I beat the fucking system! Woohoo! Woohoo! Fuck Berklee, thank you Dean Dude. You're a nice man. Amen.

Nasty Vibrations

String theory is scary.  The thought that there are a nearly infinite number of little strings vibrating simultaneously in eleven (or more) dimensions is fucking weird.  And that we are all of us composed of this matter is weirder still.  Beyond that my mind is mellowed and life goes on even though fights break out occasionally.  This is not a Palestinian Liberation sort of thing only like the pain of athlete's foot or arthritis at worst.  So, the dangers of vibrating shit aside, I am believed happy, and more importantly, for the first time in a while by me. 

In other news:  Allison has Nair'ed herself silly and is smooth as a result.  Love.

That is all.  Stay tuned.

Sleepy-time Disaster Movie

It happened again. Minding my own business in a cafeteria somewhere with her and two of her faceless companions; one of which seems to know me well enough to have an opinion of my emotional issues. Then, out of nowhere she starts talking about how she doesn't even want to talk to him 'cuz he's such an asshole and I think to myself: "excellent." Then what does she do? Interesting you should ask. She then gets up, walks to the other side of the cafeteria toward the back, finds him, talks to him and walks down a back hallway with him and out of my sight. I am livid. Then, to make matters worse, the girl next to me defends her when she gets back and tells me that I need to reconsider the way I approach this and other situations of sensitive issue. So I do. I start in my normal way - "I thought you weren't going to...Blah, blah" - and then broach the topic anew with a more concerned tone and an understanding look on my face. I have to justify my new approach at first to the cunt to my left before I can continue. I hate her. Not HER, the girl to my left. She was supporting this awful, Godless event. I want to kill her. Then everything turns out hunky dorey. I think ninety or so percent of winning arguments just relies on the correct inflection.

Whereabouts

Recently I've felt kind of like a lost puppy just wandering from room to room not feeling any ownership of anything. Imagine sitting on a curb outside an apartment that doesn't belong to you and feeling more at home than sitting on your own couch. Or imagine being in a classroom with people who function normally and not on a sliding mood-scale. This is where it is. The place. And so, burying several meters worth of my detritus-ridden baggage I've stepped out into the world and, yes folks it's pretty easy.