My Kinda Guys

I've been thinking about it, lately.

I'm looking at vampires and werewolves, and noticing the slight incongruities among their social status.

Vampires are the aristocrats, the regals of darkness. They live in castles, dine at the fines restaurants, and yet, will suck the blood from anything with a heartbeat.

Werewolves are the blue collar workers. They're stuck with the untrimmed fingernails, shaggy hair, and bad breath. My kind of evil. The kind that works for their kill. They don't hypnotize their prey. It's a hunt for fun, and catching the scared little morsel makes it taste so much sweeter.

Vampires grow tired of existence, some werewolves don't even know they're alive, at least in wolf form. They're human side awakens, wondering how they wound up with a mouthful of human hair, and skin beneath their finger nails.

Things You Just Don't Share

I swear to Heebus, and all the nothing associated with that name, the first movie I ever remember seeing was at a drive-in theater, and it was a gay porn. My town once held a drive-in that supported both classic mainstream films - - and porn.

Emphatically, I'm leaning towards being between 4 and 6.

No. It wasn't the good kind of gay porn either.

Tease Me A Movie

For years, my favorite ones were those that showed the least. Now, there's interesting ways to do traliers; making them worthy of its own timespace.

When the original Matrix teaser showed, I was working booth at the theater. Just an image, a question, and the audience was mesmerized. You felt like this movie was going to be something special.

It also pays to have an excellent narrator. Some people remember trailers for because of these voices.

And boobies.

The Corpse of Sex is In My Basement.

I know the secret that can turn this planet into a lesbian kingdom. These carefully strung together words will blister the foundation of sexual intimacy for generations to cum.

It's too gross. I can't tell you. However, it is an obvious little head-shaker there.

It's Official

I believe I am the most hated man on earth, and I could not be happier. Except that I receive no e-mails from anyone that is worth a lick to me. Just science news, writing stuff, and the spam's not interesting anymore. Hasn't been since 1867.

I've alienated myself from anything that has called me a friend. It is just me an my work now, and that's something I've needed to do for quite some time. I don't even know what my job is. I just show up, do stuff, clock out, work out, eat, eat, and eat, write, write, and write.

Maybe I'll ask a question tomorrow.

It's Been So Obvious

The internet is the greatest invention for schizophrenics everywhere. It's their recess. Anywhere, everywhere, anyone anyday. The government needs to market this thing out medicinally. It'll make millions.

And I have the proof about when it all started. Nice.

Dream Gig: Home Invasion

There was going to be an after party. I wish someone would have informed me so I could have pretended not to be home. There was a knock on the door long after I had drifted to sleep. Too many friends and excited girlfriend. I wished she had told me she was going.

Apparently, my place was the halfway point between homes and the party. They pleaded for me to go with them, butI consistenty denied their requests. I focussed on my girlfriend, and everything was normal. Her kiss was normal, her touch was the same - I wasn't left with much to worry about. Eventually, everyone left.

Later in the evening, one by one, they came back. How they got in the house, I didn't know, but there they were, asleep on my floor, on my couch - I was playing denmother again. The only one not there was my girlfriend.

Damn You 80's Rock

Tesla: Man out of Time.

I've been trying to read this thing for nearly a decade, but it's been pushed back every time after a numerical blizzard of times. This is the farthest I've ever gotten on it, and it's something special. I'm glad I kept it.

I have his autobiagraphy as well. I may try it, but I think I'll need a break after taking in all of this information. Go back to some quick fiction.




Tesla was splitting the seam of our universe right before our eyes. He was reaching mystic status - an inter-solar planetary neurologist.
__________________

Mechanical Alzheimers.

I'm kicking around new story ideas. That's what I do when I'm not working on my older, or in progress story ideas.

I'm trying to feel how machines age. How they may become obsolete after one day of bein the latest thing, or the hottest gadget. Now, I'm throwing in some personality that was supposed to have been erased, and mixing it up with some brains exploding, guns blazing, and maybe the disapperence of a loved one.

One crossed wire, and bam. Splatter city.

Awake and Delerious

What stage do we enter in the morning? Do we consider life in stages or a whole? Is death a stage, but before that would murder be considered a prelude to it, or another stage, a different level all together.

Cases could be made for both. For some people, such as cooking, the preparation is a stage, then the actual cooking, where as others would take both and count it as one. When you look at life, what stage would you consider yourself to be in? Are you living or are you twenty? Are you in the stage of alertness, or is it just the afternoon?

What happens when the corpse that was murdered at the lake, and dumped in the water winds up in your shower the next morning?

I'm taking these stages of writing, of living, and implementing them into writing. In this case I'm in the second life of my first creation. I'm in the fifth level of a world where I can easily overshadow any cock hugger that has seen their words printed on fine paper, and placed on marketing bookshelves around the world. How much can we want before what we want becomes meaningless? Sometimes we learn the value of what we do before the world even comes close to understanding what we are, for they will never know who we are. We won't let them.

Why do we surround ourselves by things, when the greater part of the universe wraps us in its cool, ever evolving cloak of infinity every day, every hour, in the middle of every thought?

Only when we understood how gravity worked could we learn to fly. Only when we learn to fail can we begin to succeed. After we realize what we are, can we begin to know who we ourselves are.

It is late. Not so late that I'm willing to shoot Nyquill into my veins, and enter a neon green coma. It is late, and in a year, maybe two I could be dead. When we die, who's going to be in the casket?

Dream Gig

I'm somewhere in the Alps, maybe off the port of Norway, but definitely somewhere luxurious, colorful, and rich. Myself and a few others, most of whom I'v at one point worked with or for are hosting a party at a hotel of which we've been entrusted to look after. We have clients of all kinds arriving for the weekend, but there also happens to be a rock festival in the area, and we're holding their acts.

Now, the party guests have arrive. Problem was we were unprepared, or so we thought, but as we walk up the red carpet stairs, we see everyone in a cheerful mood, being served cake, drinks, and never none the wiser that there are reckless, long-haired hooligans roaming around the same quarters as they. Appapretnly, we had all worked things out earlier.

The chandaliers were crystal, and the hallways were filled with gorgeous artwork, aged but well kept marble walls, and the echoes of money. Lots and lots of money.

It's a Big One

Already one disappointment. I'm watching the trailer for the new film, Primeval, and am quickly entranced by a few tag lines, a serial killer with over three-hundred victimes, and has never been caught, and is still at large - based on a true story. Quickly, I start doing some research.

IT's A FUCKING CROCODILE. A 25 foot crocodile, but a damn crocodile none the less.

American cinema. I piss on you with battery acid.

Countdown Deez Nuts.

I'm sick of new years related material. It's always a countdown list, a best of, a year in review, and all of them cover the same shit over and over and over. How many times can I watch Gerald Ford die without envying him because he doesn't have to put up with this pointless garbage.

Even then, the stuff that is covered is the most useless and ignorant pile of rhino dumps around. Which celebrities were wed, which other dozen ended up divorcing, who's on the dick end of the public opinion, and who deserves to be shot in the head the most amount of times.

Three days of this shit - three straight days. I've felt iodine tainted enemas that are less painful. It's a new year. Let's get on with it already. We already know how large a cyclops cock last year sucked.

And people wonder why I've thrown my television out the window.