Slap a Christian

I've been revising my book these past few days, meanwhile, I've also been prepping for finals, which end this week, so I shall have more time to dedicate to harrassing the internet and humanity.

Tonight was unique, though. As I sat and wrote about child abuse and revenge, there was a Christian group right next to me, and I mean so close I could freely slap ten virgins and hear their loins rupture. They had their acoustic guitar and proceeded to perform the same five songs everyone on Earth with an acoustic guitar plays.
That sappy one from John Mayer (twice, Oasis' Wonderwall, and whatever else their post-pubescent, overlapping ideals would let them play. I had my headphones on for the remainder of the evening, listening to the new O.S.I. album:Free

I'm not against God, just those who have aligned themselves to a particular belief in God. Let the deity retire already. Why do you think bad things happen to good people? He's tired and wants to rest. Quit praying and leave him alone. Do your own dirty work.

Kevin Moore has helped create another triumph, but this time he had help from Jim Matheos. I loved the first O.S.I., and was excited to hear this one was out already. It didn't dissapoint, although it's a tad more simplistic, but Kevin Moore's knack for manipulating ambience into melody, as far as I've heard, is unparalleled.

Back to work.

Sky's Crying

It's late at night and I can hear the thunder rolling in from the southeast. It's a sound I have missed, much like the kiss of a Vegas prostitute. I cannot wait for the rain to get here so I can step outside and bask in the glory of the thousands upon thousands of mirrored galaxies shattering on to the earth.

I have great friends. I just wish they didn't bug me while I was trying to study.

I'm going to attempt my first vacation in four years this summer. I have no idea what I'm going to do, but I know I'm going to be getting paid for not knowing what I'm doing. Sounds a bit like every institute in the nation, doesn't it?

I need ideas on how to pimp my book, which I'm also seeking cover ideas for. I'll leave a synopsis later.

Right now, I hear the sky crying.

Alone When I Die

Enjoyed a wedding last night, though it felt like the ending of a life I once knew. I don't think I'm going to have many friends after this, and frankly, that's fine by me. Sure, every time we do manage to get together we'll pick up where we left off, but as I've told them before, yet none of them seem to understand, nothing is ever going to be the same again.

I did spend most of the time with my friend Annie, who is the sweetest, kindest person anyone can meet and have the honor of knowing. She has nothing but good intention and great times in her heart. She was positively beautiful, not that she isn't when there's not an event going on, but for last night, she was magical, and everyday she is someone special.

********************

If I died,
None of you would ever know.
You would return and find no
New posts, no
New ideas.
You would come back,
And keep coming back,
And again,
Nothing.
Maybe I just cancelled
My membership,
Maybe not.
Maybe I'm alone,
Maybe I'm in a crowded room.
Not much
To talk about,
Not anyone
To talk to,
No matter where
I am.
Maybe I'm dead already.

The Spirit of the Brown named Charlie Dwells WIthin

Following up on my last post, I've come to realize that there are two things I'm good for when it comes to women.

I'm either the brother figure that they can open up to, and know I'll take them serious, and I'll also know when to joke, and how far to joke, and, like, yuh know, like, yeah.

The other thing I'm good for is being the other guy. The one they cheat on their boyfriends with, the one married women have the affair with.

I'm basically the pinch hitter.

I'm so glad I avoid people.

******

My observation was split into two days. Half yesterday, the other half today. I tried so hard to get fired. At the end of the day, I walked past my inbox, and there was a nicely folded letter informing me that I meet all of the organizations excpectations, which means there's a good chance they'll aske me to stay.

How many times does a guy have to call his boss' daughter a gang-bang, recordbreaking, jizz-chugger before he gets axed?

Sheesh!!!

Green was Beautiful

I ate in a restaurant tonight. Dinner was good, and I kept company by reading Bukowski poetry. While I'm eating and reading, a woman and what looks like her sister walk enter and sit down. The older one goes to the restroom while the younger one in green sees me. I don't consider myself attractive, and don't try to fool anyone into thinking I am.

I was dressed up because I attended a presentation on the ultimizing effect of nature which was being given by my biology professor. It was quite interesting.

Anyway, Greensleeves sees me, and I notice her noticing me, and looking, and staring, and watching, but I keep pretending to read. Meanwhile, I'm wondering what she's looking at. I check my reflection in the window, peripherally, looking for anything out of place or odd, but no, just my scruffy, buttoned up self.

Then, she does something unique. She starts fiddling with her fingers. I concentrate more on the left flank of my peripheral, where she is, and its her wedding ring that she's messing with.

I can't say for sure if she was married, divorced, pending - whatever - point is she hesitated. At first she slipped it off and was ready to place it in her pocket, but then second thoughts crept into her head, and for a few moments, she deliberated before putting it back on her ring finger when the older one returned.

And that got me thinking...well, that and some kickstarts from Bukowski's depravity. What was she looking at? She doesn't know me, I don't know her. Would I have tried something? She was attractive enough, but seeing her play butter-churner with her ring nulled any possibilities for me. Going after those commited to others isn't my thing.

But again, what was she looking at? What she saw was a picture, a portrait. She saw the painted suit, the thoughtful pose, and the dimly lit scene; the stranger in the midst of it all, reading, lost in his own world, not caring about the one around him.

What she chose not to see was the story behind the painting. None of us ever wonder about the story behind the painting, the tale behind the piece of music, or the fable behind the novel. We just take what we can get at face value and convince ourselves its satisfactory.

I fart. She farts. I have underwear with holes in them, so does she, so do you, and you know, some of those types might be your favorite pair. You burp. We all have bad breath in the morning. It's the things we don't see that mean the most, because when the portrait is covered for the evening, that's all that we are left with. The runoff, the dirty dishes, the scraps; the unfinished sentences.

Pass the Placenta

Today was not a bad day, only setting up for tomorrow to be worse. I am to be observed, and this observation will decide if I am worthy to keep my job. I've already told the higher-ups to be prepared for eight hours of balancing soda bottles on my forehead, because that is exactly what I do all day, evrerday.

This Friday is a wedding I am supposed to attend. My friend is marrying my other friend whom I sort of had a relationship with, then they started one behind my back without telling me. Any normal person would have been infuriated, but unlike normal people I tend to be a bit more adult about these things, and honestly the two of them have become near and dear to me, though I've always said I'd take her behind his back if she ever offered.

I never would though. But I can say it as much as I want. And I can publish it because neither of them know I have this blog, and if they did they wouldn't read it because they think all I right about is science and mutilations.

We're getting there. Don't worry.

I'm planning on publishing my book independently, with help from a website this summer. I'm going to give my treatment one last look-through before deciding it's ready. Let's hope everything works out. Right now I need exposure more than I need money.

Need to get to bed. Another long day tomorrow, and we go job-hunting this weekend. Things are clearing up, just a bit.

Moons With Sharp Teeth (A Broken Circuit story)

Beneath this tree, where I now stand, is where we buried you. The last day you were on this planet was the first day I heard laughter in the wind.

Was it nature mocking my loss? Was it another angel that had burned it's wings away, running naked and mad?

I thought many things, but came to realize it was you. Your laughter, your heckiling of the living, for the smart ones do not pity the dead, once they see the world, witness the truth of the world that they are living in.

I awoke the following morning to find my window open, and my body cold, yet, it wasn't the numbing temperature that awoke me. It was you. You standing there with that sick, orphan-flesh-eating grin. The look in your eyes were accentuated by the moon phasing in from behind you. It was a look of madness; delightful madness.

You were glad to be a ghost. It was the kind of happiness you could not comprehend, thus, not sustain under normal conditions. You were sick, depraved, and beyond reach.

You had gotten your wish, and were doomed to travel with it for the remainder of your essence.

Numbduck

Feeling very numb at the moment as await my next class to start.
One of my best friends is going to have his bachelor party tomorrow night, and I'm not at all interested in going, and our mutual friend who happens to be my best friend in this life just last week told me how backstabbing and double-living the bachelor is; of which I was already well aware, and yet my best friend is the one looking forward to it the most.

People.

I may take the rest of the day off, skip this last class.

I don't feel well, and every minute I'm not writing or studying, or working out, I feel like it's a waste. All eight hours of my day.

Fire My Ass

we don't like working.

Rather, we don't like working for other people.

We are the repressed do-gooders. The ones that show up to work on time, everyday; we stay when we're asked, we do as we're told, and when we clock out we give the bosses the loudes middle finger and fuck you ever heard by a dog.

I hate my job.

That is the most spoken collection of words spoken across America, and I have been pushing its existence longer than anyone. I hate my job, you hate your job. Unless you can wake up in the middle of the afternoon, callinga hamburger combo breakfast, and a margarita at two in the morning dinner, you're not happy with what you are doing. You are merely comfortable. You are used to the routine and satisfied that your paycheck clears every time. You have people that love you and don't understand how miserable you are when they are not around, and you are surrounded by the uptight pen pushers and data clickers that you see more than them.

I am single. I have no children. All I have to look forward to is the completion of my education, and the wonderful day that I can tell my current employers to shove their insurance and benefits up their ass. I'm drinking a six pack, watching "Home Movie" dvd's, and calling it research.

Being single and alone, all I have to keep me happy is my work. That's kind of hard to do when a guy like me has to dress for work the night before, knowing that if I wait until the morning, I'm just not going to bother dressing or working. Fire my ass would be the recording on my answering machine.

I don't like things right now, and I don't like you.

You need to fire me. I need... "the fear."

The Future: Reservation for One

I have not been to the future in quite some time. I haven't given anyh thought to it deeper than global annihilation. Once it was ripe for ideas and great adventures, now I find myself thinking only in terms of explosions and bodycounts.

My curiosity has peeked recently after reading a couple of Warren Ellis graphic novels over the weekend, and drifting through a copy of John Scalzi's "Old Man's War.
Plus I was browsing through the New York Times; South Korea is moving forward with making robots actual citizens of their country. Their technology is years ahead of America's and no doubt all the Rosies and Helpers will be waxing poetic while doing the laundry just in time for them to gain a sense of self, revolt, and then we get to have Will Smith botch everything up, getting all of us meatbags obliterated. But that' if you want to be realistic.

Realism isn't what the future is about. It's about ideas, new things replacing the old things, but the methods, the desires still punching their way through the mud, crying "I'm still alive, you bastards."

I guess I'll be taking a trip earlier than I anticipated.

Leave Me Alone (Unless You Have Authorization)

This past week I have found myself dwelling on many a number of things, topics, and conundrums. The main point that I've reached is the same one I touch upon every week, month in month out, year after year.

I hate people.

When I say people, I mean it in the sociological sense. I can't stand society, practically of any kind. Or perhaps it's because I'm surrounded by the closed minded, religiously influenced ones, but no, even the drug users, boozers, and pond scum I find unto my liking.

One on one, I have no problem. I'm really a nice guy and will talk to anyone that cares to share some information, trade secrets, or down some yummy, funk juice, but once I get out in a group setting everything just turns to shit, and I'm not about to wipe anyone's ass unless it's with their own tongue, but even so, I still deliberate over how near to someone's brown-stained backside I'd be willing to get.

Venturing through different message forums across the internet I get upset reading all of the different comments left by people that don't know one another, have never met, and yet feel like they know the entire demographic like the inside of their nose that they can't seem to remove their finger out of when they're typing.

Forums have become senseless bullshitting machines. I've posted a few topics off of which I've wanted some serious feedback, but sure enough, the first fucker that responds is someone wanting to state how dumb my idea is. Really, I have no problem with it. I simply don't respond to them, and others follow suit. The old Rudolph syndrome.

But then again, why should I be surprised. The only people on the internet long enough to start an argument are the pre-teen puke muckers that have nothing better to do than to steal their parents money, buy some tree leaves some guy's passing off to them as weed, and jerk off to whatever donkey's getting pounded in the ass by whichever shiite or American president.

When I step outside of my home, it's for as short amount of time as possible. I want to talk to no one, I want to see no one I know out in public. Let me take care of my business. And when I come home, I want quiet, fuck the peace, just give me the silence. I'll fill the void with my own noise.