Whitman

Whitman walked down the hall in between the men and women, through them even, but don't tell them, they'd never believe you. It's not that Whitman is/was a ghost, it's that Whitman was Whitman, and no one held any inkling of who or what Whitman was.

Sarah was crying, Whitman noticed. She sat there, in the middle of the hall, nested near the center floor closets, right between the water fountain with the chewing gum on the spout, and the other fountain that only spouted warm water. She wiped her tears on the sleeve of her pink hoodie, then wiped her running mascara with a tissue she picked from her purse. Whitman urged to ask Sarah about her troubles, but no one ever heard Whitman. He could yell until his voice cracked, but no one had ever heard him; not since that night.

It was a night Whitman replayed in his mind like the sun rises once a day, and even revisited more often than celebrating anyone's birthday. He could hear the men with knife-knees stalking their way up the stairs. The window was nailed shut, the door was only wooden, and the rest of the children had stopped screaming long, long ago. In fact, he had smelled burning meat earlier in the evening, shortly after the screaming ended. They were all out, and Casey had been killed when she returned from the grocery store. Whitman saw it through the window. The meat she had bought was still outside, thawing on the sidewalk, next to the bloodstain that used to be Casey.

Sarah ushered herself up from the ground, swung her purse around her shoulder, and like everyone else that day, walked past Whitman. Her tears had stayed, and a smile had won over her expression. Whitman turned around. Sarah was in the arms of her boyfriend, Chaz, or Chad, or Bill; one of those.

Whitman let them go, and continued down the corridor, persuing the attention that he never hoped to need, but now desperately desired. It was the only way he was going to transition from obscurity to memeory, reaching existence, and abandoning it as soon as he arrived.

Fake Muscles

Looking back on the Gregg Valentino documentary, the man is still full of shit, refusing to admit what his true errors. Steroids did not make his arms erupt, it was the synthetic oil Synthol, and he refuses to cop to it. Steroids will allow your muscles to grow to their full potential within the confines of their expansive, but limited fasicles. It gets into your blood.

Synthol is metabolized after its injection into the muscle itself. It is a fatty acid. Synthol provides size as does steroids, however, it will not give definition. It's like loading a water baloon with cow eyes.

He made a mockery out of something I love. He paid the price, physically, financially, legally, and he now looks like an overgrown midget with camels for arms.

The documentary was subpar, revealing nothing new, and very little truth. Damn you, TLC.

Garth Marenghi's Darkplace.

Currently watching Garth Marenghi's Darkplace. My humor has not been tickled by any series as much as this since NBC cancelled the tragically underrated Stark Raving Mad.

Darkplace came out in the 80's and is cheesily bad, thus cementing its place in the cheesiest, and I dare say greatest decade in the history of the 1970's through the 1990's.

Less Talk, More Squat

Currently watching a documentary on Gregg Valentino. He used to have world record holding arms. Once again, it focuses on demonizing steroids, which when abused, are lethal, but like anything else, when used in moderation are subtle, but effective. Look at them as to eating cake. You eat a little bit of cake, occasionally, there isn't much to worry about. You eat an entire cake more often than not, of course trouble stirs.

I've been lifting weights, seriously, for almost three years, ten years overall. Myself, I've never messed with anything that can't be bought in the open. I drink my protein, take my vitamins, use green tea pills and glucossamine with msm. I eat what I want, but I know what I eat, and how much I eat. It is not enough to know what food I am consuming. I need to know where it came from, how it was raised, any little detail. I have noticed great changes not only in my body, but in my health. My mind, on the other hand, its the same bear trap for decadence and culture it has always been.

I do not consider myself a body-builder because I don't have the time, but when I am weight-lifting, I am in another world. I am in a pleasant domain where all my worries are beyond my attention, and happiness comes when I can barely breathe because my last three reps tore my breath away from my lungs.

Gregg Valentino abused steroids, and his arms went from spectacular genetic abnormalities to to absolute sludge when they exploded, yes, literally exploded.

Recently, I had the pleasure of spending time with Gustav Badell, an award winning bodybuilder from Puerto Rico, who will once agian be competing at the Mr. Olympian in Las Vegas. He was well-mannered albeit a tad short-tempered. I asked him about any experiences he may have had with steroids, though he'd already discussed this in an article in Flex magazine a couple of years ago. He spoke about his own tampering with them, but it was short-lived because he wanted nothing more to do with that lifestyle. People that sell steroids are linked and cornered with the same dealers that sell cocaine and angel dust.

Mmmmmm. Cake.

Gerald's Streak

There are few times when Gerald will ask for help, but they usually involve him soiling his trousers. Luckily, his six year old niece is still naive enough to accept lollipops and power rangers dvd's as payment for the deeds.

The last prostitute Gerald hired ran screaming and cursing out of his house, dark streaks dripping down her backside as she jumped in the cab that almost ran her down.

It's Dead Around Here

It's been a lonely Friday.
Even my shadow had better things to do.

Lifeless Trek

It was not a long walk, more of a slow death. There was no sun, no moon, and clouds never existed in this part of the world. There was a sky, or at least, something to point up to, a place that my hands could not reach.

There were no turns, twists, meanderings, or transitions. I could spin myself dizzy, stumble and wind up exactly where I started.

Room For One More

My best fiend's girlfriend is having their baby right now. My best friend is becoming a daddy this night.

No one take this night away. Just - just shut up. Let them enjoy it.

Sunday for Mrs. Aptree

Mrs. Aptree was not a vile woman, never spat at the birds, never kicked the sand into the sea, though, to tell you the truth, there's bit of a second side to that view altogether.

Mrs. Aptree walked more than a mile to get to her local store. The store with the fruits, spices, and the special kinds of onions she liked with her turkey and ham. Baked, though, none of that instant-sliced nonsense. The whole damn bird.

The watermelons were best at the middle, Mrs. Aptree had learned long ago, in her younger times, when she joined her mother at this same store. And while the store has gone through many changes itslef, expanded things, the truth remained that the best watermelons were the ones in the middle.

The first melon: Too many bumps
The second melon: Shell is all wrong

Mrs. Aptree slid over to lift the third watermelon. Her hands trembled just a tad when she raised the fruit, but she kept it in place, until she looked down and see a gigantic emerald flashing it's unexpected brilliance at the old woman.

It was an awe-inspiring thing, was this emerald, in the middle of the store with the spices and chicken. Ms. Aptree had only seen in them at the bank, lastly on the anniversary of her mother's funeral, when she visited the bank to speak, in the confines of their vault, to her dead mother, and rearrange her jewelry, which contained emeralds, but they were for flash and style, small things that fit on clothing. This, this emerald would have to be double bagged, no doubt, in order for someone to leave with it from the store. One bag, it would certainly tear through, scratch on the pavement of the parking lot.

Who Had the Grooper?

Attended my first body-building competition. Much more interesting than I thought, and much funnier than expected.

Highlights include: Monstrously oversized men in tiny pink panty-tights.
Mr. Greenwood let's you know what he thinks.
Met Gustav Badell. Heard he was an ass, thought he was cool.
Some of the most gorgeous, and a few of the most
frightening,questionable women I've ever seen.
Met Randy Couture. Very cool, very nice fellow.

ATE AT HOOTERS WITH RANDY COUTURE AND GUSTAV BADELL...

Borning Morning.

Typing this while working at an inservice from work. This has been the most boring morning that I can recall since all the roosters across the street from my home, that loved cawing at five-thirty in the morning, mysteriously exploded.

Re-modeling

Just looked at my revised site. It frightened me. I'm worried.

I'm Proud of This One

Going to be playing with this site, now.

Batman I Did

London's On the Phone

It's foggy today. Haze is the coat around my shoulders, and the winter's memory has been revelling in the atmosphere, which seems odd considering the streets are melting in England, and the fires in California deliver the future of the state to its people before their own eyes.

Need to do some legal research, then, attempt to flush out a courtroom scenario.

It's foggy today.

Out and About

Been doing some spots of travelling, lately. Right now I've lampooned in my favorite city, and spent a good portion of the day relaxing in its streets. There were new voices in the wind, and some new attituded following them.

Last night it wasn't about going to the break of down, howiling with the wild of the night, it was about rekindling the fire that made me love this town in the first place, and we did just that. I'm not missing the real world so much, and I'm not too sure what I'm going to get when I return there.

Miles of water are flowing beneath my feet, beneath the building I'm in. Last night was the first time in a long time where I was in a swimming pool, and if I spat over the side of it, I coud hit a moving helicopter.

The Rent is Due

I was approached by a man with a interchangeable faces to be a patron of his business. His details involved switching my body with another, with my own face to follow, though I could keep the glasses if I wanted.

His heavy breathing, and comet flying eyes had me wondering how much cocaine he was on, and how much he was willing to part with, but an openeing never arrived, and I was stuck out in the rain, with dry hands, and empty sockets. My rotator cup was stuckk in a cycle also, clicking like a cog in a machine every time I raised or lowered my arm. It only seemed to happen when I was looking for an exit.

The man changed face again, but the eyes stayed the same. They wanted my suitcase. But that, I could not give away. It contained the secrets of the city, and every name of every person that was ever murdered in them. It also contained my overdue rent money.

Talk Between Sex

What is this?, she asked.
Sex, I answered.
It didn't seem so confusing to me.
No, she giggled,
This, us.
What's happening right now?
I'm sobering up, I said.
That's what's happening right now.
We collected some silence
To store for a rainy day.
What's your head telling you?, I asked.
She said that is was something else.
What's the rest of you telling you?
That this was more than she expected.
Frankly, I couldn't have agreed with her more.

Back to Basics

It happened again.

I went out for an hour, sipping some tea, heavied with caffeine, reading Jean Jacques Roussea's "Social Contract", and enjoying it very much, and some associates walk through the door.

I spent the last hour conversing with them.

I have not been out in public for over a month, other than to work out, and no sooner do I decide to that I am spotted.

Look's like it's back to hiding in the back of the medical library for me.

Sloth Review

Sloth HC

"Sloth" is brought to us by Gilbert Hernandez, most known as a a co-creator of Love and Rockets along with his brother Jaime.

Sloth is all Gilbert, written and drawn. It begins, centered around Miguel Serra, who recaps the typical life of an average teenager stuck in a low-maintenance town, the suburban kind that's slow; good for the elderly, and for those wanting to raise children.

It turns out that the fate of teenagers is not a pleasent one. Miguel is also troubled by his mother's abandonment of him, and his father's incarceration for drug peddling, so in hopes of escaping reality, Miguel wills himself into a coma.

One year later, he awakens, and apperently, things are exactly the same as he left it.

He still has his girlfriend, Lita, and their friend Romeo, whom all three form the band "Sloth". Do you get it? The band is "Sloth", and the book's called "Sloth", do you get it?

But there's more. Miguel's motor skills are not exactly up to speed, suffering from a year long break, so he's moving slower than usual, but that doesn't really seem to play a factor in the book. He's slow, see, and sloth's are slow, and the book is called "Sloth."

Still here?

It turns out that his girlfriend, Lita, had a fling, with a boy from another school while Miguel was out,....but that doesn't seem to play a factor into the book, either. Miguel does suspect something is wrong with Lita, but for some reason he drops the issue, but the stress causes friction with Romeo.

Lita drags Miguel and Romeo into a hunt for the Goatman, a mythical being that is capable of switching lives with someone at will, and he haunts an old lemon orchard.
The primary visits unearths a shocking recording on the camcorder on their way out of the lemon orchard.

Romeo begins distancing himself from Lita and Miguel, there's a group of thugs that have issues with Miguel for reasons never explained, and then, after a return visit to the lemon orchard for further proof of the Goatman's existence, the swerve happens, and the story stays the same, only told somewhere else, and after a few pages, it happens again, and then it ends.

As a reader I was left with an itchy brain. So I scratched the perplexed organ and said, "Wha-huh?"

The art is well done, with the black and white dynamics played and mixed well. There just seemed to be alot going on in the story that was dropped for the sake of finding an ending, and not a concrete one at that. The dialogue falls into the same traps as other coming-of-age books do, referring sequences of a characters actions to being stuck in a movie, not having clue one about the actions of their parents, or grandparents (in Miguel's case). I just feel that every time I read a book about teenagers, it's the same teenagers, speaking the same language, stuck in a mind surrounded by the same confusion.

"Sloth" was not a bad read, far from it, but there really wasn't anything new offered, and it seemed much was sacrificed in order to meet the deadline and page limit.

If you appreciate Gilbert Hernandez, stick to "Love and Rockets"; check out "Sloth" if a paperback is offered for less. The hardcover is twenty bucks, so if you are a die hard Hernandez fan, it's worth it.

Do Not Look At Me

Just awoke. No coffee,no food, don't expect anything decipherable.

I don't like being recognised in publice. I don't like going out and running into people I know. There are very few that if I do encounter them, I will make my way towards them, very, very few, but for the most part, I'm a fucking ghost.

Whenever someone busts out a camera, I'm walking the other way.

Back when I was a drinker, I'd end up going to the bar, settling down in my space in the dimly lit, smokey tavern, and I'd enjoy my two or three taps, but by the end of the night, I'd end up somewhere with complete strangers who seemed to have known me their entire life, downing some of the fines liquor around.

I suppose I just have that face. The face that says, "shove liquor down my noise tube."

I've been sober, for a while now, and am enjoying it. So are the orphans. They don't wake up screaming anymore.

Newsradio Will Not Let Me Sleep

I'm already an insomniac, have been since childhood. I've been trying to switch to daytime trends, but I find out tonight that Newsradio is playing every Monday on Nick at Nite. Not just one or two episodes.

4 hours worth.

I really should get the DVD's for this show, it's totally worth having them. It was a good show, with a well placed cast, with Stephen Root as Jimmy James, the station's owner, who kills every time he makes an appearence. It was also the launching pad for my crush on Maura Tierny.

Razor Wind Kisses

They were out there, you could hear them, and you could here their flesh as it shredded from their skin from the razor sharp gusts of wind. The children tried hiding in the trees, but a burst from the east chopped one of the limbs, and the boys weight snapped the rest of it, sending them all back to the ground, lacerated, with nowhere else to go.

We tried to direct them to the toolshed, but it was padlocked, and the key was inside the house with us. If they tried running our direction, they would never have made it.

All we could do was turn off the lights, and listen to the screams.

Something

It all ends, take as many turns, take all the shortcuts, it all ends. Roads, cities, air, and the walls that keep them from uniting. There was today, and what did we do today? The same thing as tomorrow, or not even a fraction of what was accomplished yesterday?

But no matter what, the voices will still lsugh, the books will still read, and the music will still exist, long after we've reached that end.

The Future of the Internet

Guess who's crabby because they're not gettting a piece of the internet money pie?

You guessed it

Heave-Ho

I need to get rid of my television. I've allowed myself to be distracted by all of it's nonsensical glory. I've used it to keep up with conditions in Israel, which has been the most entertaining thing since Stephen Colbert's rip on President Bush at that dinner thingy.

My word-children weep, fearing their abandonment by me, and I need to assure them that daddy hasn't gone anywhere. He's just been very busy, and will finish their adventures soon.

In fact, why am I writing this? I need to get to work.

Curse you for making me write this (I'd blame myself, but then I'd be at fault. Impossible).

If You Have Thirty Minutes, Please Watch This

The Amazing Screw-on Head

Bed Bug

I don't like waking up in the first place. But I really don't like waking up, surrounded by dead insects. Right now, I awoke to a live one, the size of my elbow, resting neatly on my arm.

On television is this Spirit Agent anime' that makes no sense to me, and I kind of like it. If I were to watch it from the beginning, straight through, I'd probably come to terms with what's happening, but I don't want to. I like being in the fuzz on some things, leaving my own interpretation open for value, thus, allowing me to unintentionally rip off a television show and claim the idea as my own.

The books are really piling up around my bed. I - hold on. Got the bug.

The books are piling up. I've been using some as references, others are for enjoyment, others are there to remind me that I need to read them.

I don't even like anime'.

What I'm Doing Here: A Devin King Confessional

It's staring at me again. It's looking and wanting to jump within my eyes, shred my brain, and urinate into my skull, then throw some cereal in it, and eat. Why did I bother to get out of bed this morning? Why did I bother joining this organization?

Money was a factor. And cigarettes, they provide cigarettes. Okay, not the mystics themselves, but the little, rat toe scrapers that work for next to nothing for an organization that is not supposed to exist. Those are the ones I bum the most cigarettes from. They're so damn paranoid, making nearly minimum wage for a job where if they slip their lip about their employer, it's complete amnesia city, and they'll most likely end up as a cross-dressing act in Vegas, or if you're luckier, part of the donkey show in Mexico.

What was I thinking about? Oh yes, this thing with red eyes, wanting to use my skin as it's appetizer.

Vacation Blues

I'm not used to this free-time. I could get used to this vacation deal, only because it allows me to work on the things that matter to me.

In the middle of writing a copyright page for my book, which is beginning to give me a headache. Most likely, I'll be up until 5 or 6 in the morning again.

I have been devoid of human life for the past few days; can't say I miss'em. I do want a new pet, though. The blender just hasn't been the same since the chimpanzee's curiousit got the best of it.

Sperm-Ops

Indeed it was a trying day for troops. They had waited three long weeks before deploying their special brand of penetration into the foreign uterus. So close they had come (heh, heh), but still, the ever vigilant obstacle of birth control stood in their way. Now, it was Black Ops' turn.

Buried

The day wasn’t much for rain. A few drops, but nothing that we could call soul-cleansing. The earth was still dry at the end of the day, and I wasn’t about to take the twins out to see you in that weather. Their allergies were acting up as it was in the house, taking them out could have right well sent one if not both of them to the hospital.

It just seems odd, knowing that you’re buried out there, somewhere.

Selfish

Insomnia's killing me. It's ten past five in the morning, and I need to be awake at thirty past eight.

Writing has been a chore these past few days as my ideas for the current stories do not want to churn, rather, they want to become new stories themselves.

Selfish, these children are.

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

It wasn't warmth that kept us united. It rained every day we were there, but we wouldn't let either of us out of our sights. The animals were a delight, petting them, holding them, imagining what their insides would look like, wrapped around the Christmas tree.

How would your look like wrapped around the Christmas tree?

Beautiful, I think, and your bones in the fire place. All we need is snow for me to drape your shedded flesh over a miniature snowman.

Rachel

I don't know why, but the thought of what has officially become my first love has been tip-toeing it's way through my head, opening doors to places it's never been, hiding in closets where I keep most of my junk and uncrystallized dreams.

I met Rachel in the fifth grade, we were ten years old. She had wavey hair and that poof up front that all the girls in the eighties had, like they'd been standing on the side of the curb, and a semi-truck just came blazing right past them.

I didn't know beauty, cute, or attractive, I just knew she was special, and I was utterly drawn to her. When we reached junior high, and my generation matured a bit, my crush developed into a desire, a need, but it was one that I never acted upon; to this day I've never considered myself the most attractive person in the world, so back then, I was pretty much Quasimodo's uglier little brother.

Then, we made it to high-school, and I didn't want to call it love, but I did know she was intelligent, and by this time, I'd come to know what beauty was, and it was Rachel. She had tanned skin, not too dark, just a shade above happy sand, and her hair was dark, and typically, that's enough for me, I'm floored, but she was great to talk to, and we always had things to talk about with one another. I guess she had a boyfriend, but by that time I placed my feelings towards any type of relationship second to learning music, and experiencing life in general; wild trips, knowing drugs, booze, and yet I graduated a Texas Scholar. I don't get it.

We parted ways before graduation, our high-school split into two factions and we were now worlds apart. She was at the school where weed was the fun junk of choice, I was at the school where cocaine was served with the cafeteria cereal.

I ran into her about three years ago, and at first glance I was ten years old, and we started talking, and I was in love again. I had never known it, but I was because it was at that moment when I knew that if I had acted upon my feelings, if I'd just had one chance, then, to this day, she and I would still be together. I would have never let her go, and never given her a reason to sweep me aside.

She's married to a military guy, and has a son. I asked her if she was happy. With her current situation, yes, but in all, no. I haven't seen her since. It's probably best that I don't. I can't go back to the past other than to learn from it. I've learned from Rachel.

Meanwhile, a man's brain miraculously rewires itself after nineteen years (I love this stuff).

http://msnbc.msn.com/id/13690450/?GT1=8307

Honor Thy Mother and Father

TV Princess stared at the mess on the floor, not caring that it came from the same mother as her, disregarding the fact that the bloodied carcass, still seeping fluids by her feet, was the only soul that ever had any kind intention for her.

The gun smoke caused her eyes to water, and she needed to wash her hands. She was heading for the bathroom when she heard the slam, and then a slide. The slam came from a bleeding arm, carved into by a steak knife and high heels, and the slide came from the dragging, lifeless thing that used to be TV Princess' brother.

She turned around to vace him. The only feat she could recognize were the two eyes leering, helplessly at her, one of them dangling after being snagged on the spike of her heel. They didn't ask why, they didn't asky for what, the simply said, kill me, bitch. TV Princess listened to the eyes, pointed the gun at her brother's crimson soaked head, trying to get past that angry, dangling eye.

The thing that was her brother raised its other bloody arm, and slammed it down, dragging its bullet riddled self closer to TV Princess. It got so close, had it still had teeth after the pistolwhipping she'd given him, it would have charged into her ankle flesh, but the fractured bone sticking out of its pierced wrist made a nice shiv. TV Princess took too long, and the thing that used to be her brother lunged at her thigh, pierceing it, and letting it's weight and gravity force an artery severing gash down her left leg.

TV Princess fired, but the damage was done. As she felt her life leaving her body, she thought of the last words their mother said before she and their father abandoned their only two children.

"Do us a favor, die quietly."

This Monkey Has Claws

This week the U.N. is holding the 2006 Small Arms Review Conference or RevCon, targetting, pun intended, illegal gun trafficking; small arms trading, or as Executive V.P. of the N.R.A. Wayne LaPierre said:

"In U.N.-speak, a legal gun is a government gun, an illicit gun is a non-government gun. And that means individual citizens and it also means any freedom fighter that is opposing some genocidal government."

"...the U.N. philosophy is about governments. They don't think about individual rights. They don't think about individual freedoms. And there's not one of those countries coming to that conference that has a Bill of Rights like the U.S. does."

Taking this away leaves us as citizens completely defenseless, be it from the crackhead down the street, the thug in the neighborhood, the mass murderer that's joyriding across the country, or the extreme terrorist that's decided to actually take the fight to American soil.

If it becomes illegal for the average citizen to own a gun, that makes it more likely for those that break the laws to have them.

I'm not a gun owner (or am I?).
I don't like using guns, except to pistolwhip bodybuilders whose arms are so large they can't even reach around to wipe their ass anymore. Dear god, my dick had never been so huge.
I don't hunt animals, but my doggies enjoy human flesh, and my knives speak louder than any bullet, but if I want to go out and purchase a weapon for protecting my home, and that weapon requires bullets, and laser scope siting, and happens to be semi-automatic, then dammit, I should be allowed.

If the government wants my guns, they will have to blow my body to pieces, because they won't even be able to pry them from my cold, dead fingers, or my hot, throbbing penis, where I'll be keeping a .22 caliber to rub up against every time I take out an assailant.

Even now the government is spamming my computer.

"A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State,the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed."
-Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution-

The second ammendment clearly says, as much as teachers and national officials would like to distort it, that Americans have the right to bear arms in case of governmental abuse. We have the right to take back our country; those running it right now do not want you to know it, so they constantly attack the first ammendmant, free speech, so that the second one will stay in the shadows, but now it's out.

We want our land back. ORRRRRRRRR, I need to learn Mandarin, quick.

Blank Page Dies At Sunrise

A writer's best friend and worst enemy is the blank page. It is the harshest critic, or greatest savior. I stare at blank pages all day and try to chip away, revealing the worlds behind them, the children they birth, and the nations they destroy.

You want war, it's in the blank. You want peace, you need to start the war first. Without the war, it's just bland.

I am at war with you blank page, and every night, I summon my artillery, and hope to the omniscients that I will destroy your nothingness. I'll burn your village, trade your patrons, and cook every animal in order to make you break, and once you've submitted to me, I'll place you in front of the world, and burn you at the stake so that someone on some television network can give me a shiny gold trophy, which I will then use to pummel the brains out the host.

Ratings, that's what I'll give them, and they will love me for it, and I'll have you to thank blank page. Thank you for the headaches, the blood, and the new uses for an eggbeater. The much, much more painful uses.

I love you blank page. We shall rest now. I'll destroy you in the morning.

Change

I lie awake at nights, even awaken in the morning, staying in bed, thinking about how offal this country has become; corrupt (more than before), full of greed, and outright betrayal by the government to its people.

Some would argue that it's still the best place to live. I disagree. In a place where the laws set forth by the founders are being bastardized, lobotomized, and rearranged every day to suit the needs of the few, I will stand up high, and tell you, you are wrong.

I hear police sirens cutting through the night air, and I thin, well, there they go, chasing after a misdemeanor while a capital murder is being commited a block away from where they were. They glance over this because it's easier to put the repeat offender in jail, and collect a larger revenue for the state, rather than waste time trying to prove did they or did they not kill. Check the data. Prisons are the largest moneymakers, and fastest growing sources of profit in the country.

As a whole, we are closer to being a police state than we truly realize. As a few, we realize, it's time for a change. Everything needs to be undone; everything.

Change starts at the top. Not just one, but all.

It all needs to come down.

Cure

"Where are you?"

"In the rain"

"Why?"

"Because it doesn't rain indoors. Unless I blow holes in the roof with my shotgun, but that's what got me kicked out of my last home. The nurses were kind enough to stuff the pills in my coat before security threw me through the glass door, though."

"Won't you get sick?"

"I think I'm already sick."

"You should get inside then. You might get pneumonia."

"I might find a cure too. I might find a reflection. I might find a bird that can avoid raindrops. I might find, ooh..."

"What? What is it?"

"I found a quarter. The cure is working."

Back to Work

Three hours of sleep in two days.

I should be running down the street, shaving a mowhawk on my sac, singing Madonna's "Who's That Girl" any hour now.

I think it's some holiday today. If it doesn't involve countries united by shaving their groin areas, I'm not interested.

Scared. Pead Myself a Bit

The wind howls outside. I'm hoping it will bring the wet things that fall when the sky meets clouds and moisture, that way I can mask the tears about the cluelessness of where my life is going right now.

I'm in complete control, and it's scary. I like scary; means change is afoot.

Nature Doesn't Want You In Its Yard

I love animals

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MeE2lKhpnxM

For This Evening's Delight...

Back At the Office

Went ahead and gave Passion o/t Christ another view. Good movie, well acted, but I don't like being preached too. I've never disliked a Mel Gibson directed movie, and I'm looking forward to Apocalyptico.

My Boondocks Season 1: Uncensored and Unedited didn't come in. Somewhere, someone's breaking out in combustible spores.

Working on a new project in the vein of Wizard of Oz and Alice in Wonderland. Looking forward to Alan Moore's Lost Girls, by the way. This project was supposed to be just a short story, but has blossomed into something more; alot more. I'm liking it very, very much, at least until I get into the final editing stages. Then, it'll be the cursed, brain-breaking, sweat-spouting bastard demon that I love to hate.

Back to work.

Nature Is Showing You Who's Boss

Terrible mutations may turn humans into plants or animals
20.12.2005
Source:
URL: http://english.pravda.ru/science/health/9418-mutation-0
Herbal cells may settle down and parasitize on the organism of a human or an animal
Geneticists say that mutations seriously change the set of chromosomes, and people with mutations can thus hardly be called humans. In Yerevan in the former Soviet republic of Armenia, 18-year-old girl Narine Aivasyan shocked doctors with her unusual disease. The girl complained about an abscess on her wrist that had been hurting her for a long period already. When doctors opened the bandage on Narine's hand they saw two very thin thorns sticking out of the hand.
The girl failed to enter a higher education institution after she left school, and had to help her mother about the house and assisted her in a store where the woman worked. The girl was fond of pot plants and devoted much time to looking after her plants. Once, Narine pricked herself on a cactus while watering plants. Some thorns got stuck in her wrist. The parents immediately disinfected the wound but it still festered and even expanded. Narine was reluctant to visit a doctor. She had to go to a hospital in a month when a point of a thorn emerged on the skin right on the place of the red wound. Doctors easily removed the strange object, but more thorns turned up on the same spot soon.
Head of the immunology and virology laboratory at the Armenia research center Tigran Davtyan says the world medicine has never known before that herbal cells may settle down and parasitize on the organism of a human or an animal. Deeper study of the thorns removed out of the girl's wrist confirmed their vegetative origin. It turned out that the thorns belonged to a cactus that many people had at home.
The only way to save the girl was to perform an operation to remove the fistula to stop the cactus from parasitizing all about the organism. The wound healed up after the operation and did not trouble the girl for four years.
Narine's mother says the girl could not recover from the shock for a very long period and feared that the thorns might reappear. The tragedy made the girl reserved and unsociable. But still she kept on looking after her pot plants.
One day Narine noticed her wrist turned red once again but she would not confess to her parents that the disease reappeared. The girl felt her forearm swell and soon a thorn as thick as a match burst her skin.
This time a fistula appeared in a sinew zone. Narine clenched her fists, the muscles pushed new thorns out and doctors removed them with pincers. At that, the wound was not bleeding. Doctors removed from 70 to 100 thorns from the girl's arm every day. But they still appeared later, which suggested there were two or three parasite cells still staying in the girl's organism. Doctors from many countries stated there was not a surgical but rather a microbiological problem.
When researchers studied the bigger thorns they arrived at a conclusion that they were no longer of vegetative origin. As a result of mutation, the patient got new unknown cells, some sort of a hybrid of a human and a plant. In other words, the young girl was turning into a cactus.
Experts believe the terrible metamorphosis sounds warning for mankind. “Evolution and progress seriously damage the human immune system. People become more vulnerable to unknown parasites and viruses,” Tigran Davtyan says.
Now the girl is 26. When Narine had blood poisoning some people rumored she died. But parents of the girl told doctors Narine was alive but felt too bed. The strange disease made her extremely apathetic and pessimistic as she knows that doctors obviously cannot help her.
In Kazakhstan, a woman from a remote village gave birth to her third son who turned out to be a very unusual being. The baby was covered with hair from top to toe. Only his cry resembling that of a normal baby proved that he was a human being. Ayaulym, the mother of the unusual baby did not reject him. She took the boy to the village where her family lived. The baby suffers from hypertrichosis, an infrequent genetic disease described in medicine literature. Patients suffering from it have too much hair on the face and body. There are just few people in the world having the diagnosis. Unfortunately, there is still no treatment for the disease.
Until the boy turned five, his parents did not take him to doctors. Being absolutely despaired they had no notion that some treatment for the disease could actually exist. The family lived in isolation, but neighbors soon learnt that a strange being resembling a monkey but speaking the human language was living next door.
Doctors say the boy did not at all feel shy when parents took him to the hospital for the first time. Ablai, this is the name of the unusual boy, is a very active child. Other children staying on treatment at the hospital got used to the unusual boy and even played together. Now the boy is nine years old. Unfortunately, Ablai cannot go to a public school. The local administration sent the boy to a correction educational institution though his intellectual abilities are normal.
People in Kazakhstan have already got used to the fact that healthy parents may from time to time give birth to abnormal babies. They explain the phenomenon with closeness to nuclear testing areas. There are 19 nuclear testing areas in the republic.
Student Alexander Rybakov from the University of St.Petersburg usually feels hurt when strangers mistake him for an old man. Sometimes even co-students at the University think he is an old professor because the young man looks very much like an elderly. At the age of eight Alexander for the first time felt he had some cardiovascular system problems. At the age of twelve, the boy had a bald spot on the head; the face was covered with a web of wrinkles by the age of sixteen. It seemed Alexander jumped over the traditional maturing stages and turned into a pensioner right after being a teenager.
At first, doctors registered that Alexander's internal organs were wearing out too quickly. At the age of 14 the boy's height was much lower than that of other children of his age. Many of callous senior students at school mocked at the boy. But Alexander was very wise for his young age and never took the mockery very much to heart. After graduation from the university Alexander will become a programmer which will give him a chance to work at home.
Viktor Michelson from the Russian Academy of Sciences Cytology Institute says there are two varieties of the ageing syndrome. When patients suffer from Werner's disease they all of a sudden begin to grow old in the young age. When patients have progeria, they look like very old people already at the age of 12. In both cases, people have their ageing gene affected. In other words, their biological clock goes several times quicker. The only treatment that medicine offers to children who turn into elderly is cure of senile diseases typical of the syndrome.
Several months ago, a 13-year-old girl who looked like a very old woman died of a stroke in the city of Orenburg. A boy from Kazakhstan became wrinkled overnight at the age of four.
Some researchers believe that decoding the ageing gene may solve the secret of eternal youth.
It is not clear for sure why babies come to this world being invalids. Geneticists state that inheritance and parents' mode of living are the cause of babies' inborn disability just in fifty percent of instances. It is known that 90 mothers of 100 reject their babies with inborn pathologies right after childbirth.
Doctors say that today half of babies in children's homes in Russia have inborn pathologies. It is typical of modern young mothers to reject their unhealthy babies. These young mothers at the age of 15-18 as a rule smoke a lot, take drugs and suffer from anemia and consequently cannot give birth to healthy babies. Even doctors persuade young mothers to reject their abnormal babies. It is a heavy burden for parents in this country to bring up invalid and abnormal children. The government pays miserable disability pension. Children having abnormalities will not be accepted to public schools even if they have normal intellectual abilities. But if attending a correction school, these children will never have a chance to enter a higher education institution and thus will not have a proper profession and employment. It is particularly distressing that children suffering from diseases and abnormalities unknown to medicine do not have a chance to be accepted in the society even as invalids.
Parents who reject their babies because of their abnormality do not realize that they deprive them of normal life immediately after birth. Parents should remember that they are responsible for their babies' fates. Even abnormal and invalid babies need love and care to survive in the world. Today, medicine may help cure many of slight inborn pathologies to give a happy life to parents and their babies. Parents are the only people who may help children with pathologies be brave and optimistic when they are not welcomed in the society.

Forecast Shows: A Whole Lotta Gray

I'm watching The Passion of the Christ for the first time; trying to watch, I should say. I know the story, I know what happens, I read the book. The gore's nice, well acted, but much like the book - - boooooooooooring.

It wasn't even twenty minutes into the flick when I started working on some projects that have needed serious attention. I kept it on as background noise, but that's about all it's been.

It was loaned to me by a friend who is a devout spiritualist. He and his wife keep jumping from church to church, which is the best way to do it, I feel. They prefer a denomination that sticks to the bible, and has a pasture who knows, feels, and accentuates the words within.

With football season approaching, we'll see how heavy his faith stays. Last season he saw maybe two games. I was impressed.

**********
I hate men; typical men. The ones that have ruined the love lives of guys like me for the rest of eternity, or at least until the nuclear winter erupts.

I hate women, because the majority of them fall for the typical male.

I hate people because people are stupid. Persons, individuals, I adore. If you don't understand what I just said, sorry, that's all your getting.

I miss pillow talk.
I miss holding hands.
I don't miss being cheated on.
I don't miss breaking up with a girl because I don't care about her anymore.
I really miss pillow talk.
I miss kissing a woman's shoulder.
I miss pecking a woman's hand with my lips.
I miss biting her in the tushi.
I miss being bitten (Just a bit, not too rough. [usually]).

Reasons I Am Evil

I have a friend that is a Registured Nurse. He works in the pediatrics division. He told us about a seven year old that was administred. His mother had been vacumming the room, the chord tangled around a coat rack, she tugged, it fell, hitting her son on the head, cracking his skull.

I started laughing when he told me that the kid fell and broke his leg.

Dammit, I'm laughing again.

Something Like That

I'm watching Nobody's Fool, which is secretly one of my favorite movies. It's so secret not even I fully knew it. I'd hinted the idea to myself, but it never fully flourished. Watching it now, there's a scene that reflects how I feel everyday, everywhere.

Paul Newman's at his ex-wives home. His son had invited him for Thanksgiving, but everyone assumed he wasn't going to show up. He barely says five words when all hell breaks loose, and you have a naked four year old running out of the bathroom because his brother just slammed the toilet seat down on his privates. He runs into the ex, knocking over Thanksgiving side dishes, making room for the daughter-in-law and the ex-wife to get into it.

Newman stays quiet, and with the slickness of a three-legged cat, he quietly slips out the front door.

That's how I feel whenever I'm with people. That and the one line "Fuck him eternally," it just echoes around my ear canal.

This movie's too good to have been origina. It was lifted from a novel by Richard Russo, but once I see a movie, I won't read the book, although I should. The book's are far more informative than any DVD ever could be.

** - "Don't tell me she's pregnant?"

## - "Knocked up like a cheerleader."

(Laughter)

## - "I suppose you want to be godfather?"

** - "Hey, I can't be the father and godfather?"

There're better lines. This is the scene I'm on right now.

Music Stuff

Listening to the new Keane album. I'm enjoying it as much as i didn't want to enjoy the first one, and yet still did.

Where the first one was a cry for Coldplay ripoff, but still held enough integrity to warrant praise, this one seems to follow the same vein, just incorporating some more electronic sounds into the mix. It's very standard and very good, which follows my yelp for bands being good instead of trying to be different.

For the best in keyboard centered contemporary music, I encourage you to try Chroma Key. It's Kevin Moore, formerly of Dream Theater. Once he left, that band was clueless, and they've never recovered, but rather seeped into the same running rhythms and tempo changes of progressive rock hell.

Chroma Key and O.S.I. (Kevin Moore's side project). They show no mercy and offer so much more.

What I'm Enjoying...

Jamming on a Friday

I love being on the road during the heart of nightime, the one that pulsates with mystery, keeps you wondering where the evil in the world went, then, realizing it's right behind you.

Usually, I'm in the car when I see the cadavers piling up at the edge of sidewalks, but once in a while you'll find me on foot. I can walk down the main street of my neighborhood and find many thresholds of the stores occupied by the homeless, drunk, missing, and dead. If I thread through the bodycount lightly, I can come out with an extra fifty dollars, lifting it from the lifeless ones, but that was when money mattered. Now, when I die, just find a hole and toss me in.

What intrigued me the most were the screams. Where were the screams coming from? Men's and women's, sometimes children. I couldn't pinpoin the area because when the air grabs a hold of the noise, of all the voices held inside of its confines, it spins them around, cycles them through al the channels, and it sounds like you're being bombarded from all around; everyone's nightmare is attacking you all at once. All you can do is run, but I don't. I stand there, and I listen. I listen and savor the experience, hold it with me, keep it next to my heart, and once I return home, I bed and have nightmares of my own.

I wonder if people hear my screams?

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

Shopping for groceries, I'm listening to Pennywise's first album, the self-titled one. It's a brutal, brilliant piece of work, and every single song is a warrior's anthem. I still attribute it to being their best album. It's punk at it's fastest and most honest, emanating in the early 90's, back when punk was going through an identity crisis, then a blender, and came out as something horrible and cheeky.

I stand by Pennywise and Bad Religion, but when you say punk, all anyone with a humble thought can seem to conjure up is The Ramones. I'll give them their respect, they earned it, but there is so much more out there. NOFX of course, Minor Threat (always underrated), and, yes, The Sex Pistols, but they hated everything, including punk, and including themselves, and while they too have earned my respect, don't be surprised if I leave them out of the MP3 player for a while.

I'm not the biggest fan of the punk genre, but I know what sucks, what's true, and what's trying too hard to be something different. Stop trying to be different, and just try to be good. People want the notoriety without honing their talent. Only in America can this work, but how much respect does a musician really want to gain in America when the album charts reads like a Teen Spleen magazine?

Give me Europe's sense of music any day. Although, this does leave the richness of the underground scene in America something to value.

Call My House Phone. I Dare You.

I am a telemarketers worst nightmare. I spent an hour with one this evening. I demanded they convince me not to get a sex change.

They failed, and felt very, very bad about it. It's been a long time since I've made a grown man cry. I forgot how invigorating it can be.

Alone Again

Been feeling lonely.

Everyone's married or pregnant; notice I'm saying either and not both.

I'm not going to get in the way of their lives. The family bit has never been my forte', and I'm not going to try and understand it. It's just not my thing. I love those that love me. That's the extent of my belief.

I've been keeping busy with designing the cover to my first book, and working on my first comic. I couldn't find an artist willing to take their head out of their asses or a beer bong long enough to do some worthwhile task, so I'm doing it all myself. Truthfully, that's how I always intended for it to happen, but I wanted to save a lot of time.

I've read two books in less than a week; Neil Gaiman's Coraline and Stephen King's Cell. Both were good, not great. Cell was much better than King's previous six or ten years worth of material. Gaiman always delivers, but now I know Coraline's being made into a feature film, so I'm not too sure what to think about it. Everything we love is ruined somehow.

I suddenly feel like watching Thundarr the Barbarian. I loved that show.

Finished my collection of Friends DVD's (YES, THAT FRIENDS. You gonna do something about it?). I have them all and had myself a marathon while finishing some work. Boondocks (NO. Not Boondock Saints, which is so overrated the Irish are begging forgiveness by commitng mass suicide in front of their local churches and considering it a pittance) will be coming out soon, unedited and uncensored. I love the strip. I love the show. It doesn't get enough respect. Until it gets a Peabody or Nobel, then I will consider it being pissed on and everyone's children to be genetically malformed for not watching it. I would launch aerial screens to hover in the air, and a broadcast satellite into space so everyone could see it and crash their cars while driving on the freeway if it meant getting this show out to people.

For some reason, people tend to look at me in an odd manner when I'm having conversations with acquaintences. I guess because these acquaintences reside in my own head isn't good enough for spectators. They need something tangible. You know what IS tangible? That fork that could be inserted into so many regions of their body, and that's after they swallow it.

Jesus crapped himself after dying on the cross. Hitler crapped himself after blowing his brains out. You will crap your pants when you die. I find it strange that no one talks about these things.

Miss You

Dear, Miss You,
Oh, how I await that day when the night is a mile long;
That day one could dub
The day of fate,
The day of destiny,
The day the light inside of a life long thought lost
Shines for the first time.
Only you, Miss You;
Around you can I breathe the lift of a bird’s flight.
Around you can I think clearer, free from the wall of rain.
Around you can I be what I have always needed to be – myself –
All for you.
To you, Miss You,
I will show only kindness,
Provide simple love and companionship,
And banish all that is uncaring,
All that thinks and dares to speak without regard,
All that is without feeling
For you. But above all else,
I offer equality, Miss You.
So shall you live as you have always lived.
So shall you dance as you have always danced.
So shall you still be anything and everything
You ever wanted to be,
Just as before,
Only,
Hopefully,
Willingly,
Someone beyond your greatest expectations.
Hopefully wonderful, Miss You.
Anything less,
Then, perhaps, I never deserved you.
I wasted your time and threw away mine;
The worst thing on person can do to another.
I will have failed you, Miss You.
I will have failed us,
Proving that the sun and moon were never meant
To share their gaze,
To look in the other’s soul.
All I can do then, Miss You,
Is what I do now, Miss You.
Oh, Miss You, how I do miss you.

*******************
I haven't written poetry in almost two years.
I haven't been clost to anything called "in love" in over five years.
Give me a friggin' break. It's all I could come up with.

Farewell, Good Night

Farewell,
I shall see you in the morning.
Do you suppose inspiration will awaken?
Or will it be thrust upon an open green,
Soaked up by the trees, devoured by the plants,
Teasing the estuaries?
Hello, blessed night.
Have you come to try and sway my mind?
Change my opinion, perhaps?
You know how beautiful I think you are,
Bur for all the northern cool kisses
You drape along my body,
The sun will always catch the first sight of my eyes,
And the moon, your mother, the last, and yet still,
Think of the things we will share,
The insanity that will dance with us,
And the elation from the warmth of the burning stars
That will spell out all the names of the universe.

***************
I haven't written poetry in almost two years.
Give me a break.

Love isn't Blind, It's Cross-Eyed

I’m staring at gorgeous woman right now. She doesn’t know that I think she’s gorgeous, or the fact that I’m thinking about her at all, and that I’m writing down exactly just how gorgeous I think she is.

What is it that let’s me think she’s gorgeous? Her hair, a silky black that just reveals the brightness in her face, the kind that looks like it always smiles, and when it’s sad, it rips your heart into a thousand pieces, and makes you pick them up with a poking stick.

Her glasses hide the wonder behind her eyes, while accenting the possible intelligence, and notice I said possible. She looks it, but there are a million things that could be wrong with her brain. She may enjoy pre-teen slasher flicks. She may love reality television. She might think Johann Sebastian Bach is a fashion designer.

Honestly, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in the longest of longest times. She is beautiful because she seems so real. She’s wearing hardly any makeup. The red windbreaker with black and white stripes does not match her gray Superman shirt. He’s posing upright, with his symbol behind him. The fact that she’s wearing it alone is enough to make me giggle, hoping she’s close to my age.

Her shorts show off her legs, which are thick, but not big, and that’s got me in a tizzy. She doesn’t have the supermodel body. She’s not a toothpick that thinks it’s too fat. She’s real, she’s normal, she has a little bit of extra weight, and I love the tummy that she has. It just accentuates her tangibility. She’s smiling, and it’s a geeky smile, with only her top teeth showing, and I freaking love it.

With my luck, she’s probably lesbian. That’s all I seem to attract these days. I’ve made out with lesbians before, and it was a wonderful experience. Not because I got to make out with lesbians, but they seemed to know exactly how to kiss, when to shift their lips, when to bring their tongue’s into play. I guess I did something right because they never asked me to stop or leave the room. I don’t know. I try not to ask, but sometimes a guy’s just got to know.

My other luck would have her being between eighteen and twenty-two. I do not get along well enough with younger people. I’ve always been more of an old man in a young man’s body. An old soul is what my grandmother said I have. Some friends concurred. I am what I am, who I am, and I’m going to do what I’m going to do. Right now, I’m waiting for Supergirl’s friend to go to the bathroom or something, but there’s this gnawing in the back of my head that she’s too young for me; of legal stature, absolutely, but as far as mental maturity goes, probably not. That cloaked gnawing usually presents itself to be the truth.

I’m shooting that she’s lesbian though.

(Damn you Mocha Fraps)

Dead Dog

It wasn’t the tiny parts that agitated him. The girl in the corner worked with what she had. It was the third stage, her last dance, and not much for tips was coming her way towards the end.

“Could you identify the space between everything?” She asked, but the music was so loud, I mistook her for saying “Can you hide your face between my knees?”

Either way, when I breathed, flexed, or shifted, it all felt the same. I was tired, hungry, alive, and in need of a fix. Something to stir, cause damage, and memory loss. What I had in my head was too important for anyone to get a hold of, and too dangerous for me to keep in stock.

I decided to climb into her everything. Then, her soldiers brought me back, but luckily, the let out enough blood that it blitzed my memory. I woke up in an alley next to a dog, dead with a syringe sticking out of its front leg. Maybe it had what I’d had, previously.

I wondered if I could suck some of it out from it’s open wounds; after I brushed the maggots off.

Another Friday

It is a Friday night, and I'm bored off my goard. I'm editing my book and should send it to Lulu.com within the next week or so - problem: I need pick a cover. I could use one of my photographs, draw it, or just do a copy/paste job. I'm all spazzy over it.

Shannon....help.

I'm sad to find that one of my favorite singers has left one of my favorite bands, officially. It's probably been official since earlier in the year, but I just "officially" found out this week. John Bush took himself out of Anthrax because the whole reunion tour with the original singer was taking longer than expected, plus there are rumblings of a new album being recorded with said singer, Joey Belladona. I've been a fan of theirs since the eighties, but when John Bush left Armored Saint for Anthrax, he came in and owned that band. His voice is raw power that can yank the hair off a monkey. Joey's is more of a pair of hair clippers that burn out smack in the middle of a mowhawk, so you're just left with a mowturkey.

I've seen Bush era Anthrax perform three times. A great show every time. I'll finally get to see them in July with Belladonna. They'll be supporting Rob Zombie, whom I've seen twice.

Considering these are the least of my worries, I'd say it's been a decent week.

I miss drugs.

A Dead Media

I was drifting through youtube.com, looking for different bands and I started wondering:

Are music videos still relevant? Does anyone care if a band puts one out anymore?

When MTV came out, it was the biggest, largest, newest attention getter that any band was fortuante enough to be a part of. Now, it's a dead joke that keeps spoofing itslef everyday.

With podcasting, downloading, websites, and the bitchmakers like MySpace allowing and endless barrage of promotions for every kind of band; major label, minor label, signed, or unsigned, the NEED to have a music video just isn't there.

On youtube, I was looking for bands I like, found them, then coudln't watch more than a minute and a half of them because I'd heard the song so many times, seen them live, or the product itself just wasn't that interesting.

Doesn't matter. I'm just rambing.

Brainwaves

It wasn’t about greatness, not even about commitment. Everything Eric strove to be in this world, he did it for one reason and one reason only. To be the first, the best, and sometimes, even the only.

No one got in the way; no one interrupted his trek to the top. His friends, his family, they all told him he was working far too hard, exhausting every ounce of his being, the breathing that he could have saved for living a healthy life, wasted on what all else thought was unattainable.

What made the situation even worse; he never told anyone what it was he was going for. The goal of this madman was a question mark to the outside world. Sometimes, his insides were the ones in need of rescue. What he did that night passed the borders of obsession. He went into his brain, and removed all the parts that held the memories of friendship and family, and so the next day, they weren’t even a memory. They never existed, neither did the concept. All that was left was his mission, and the basic functions of the human body.

Soon, he even tried to take those out, rejuvenating himself through an experimental process, Subconscious Override. He inserted tubes, wires, and all the necessary outlets into his flesh, his veins, all connected to the computer, which he allowed to manipulate the process of sleep and eating through a carefully calculated computer program. It wasn’t just a simulation. His body was put through the cycles of eating and sleeping, however, his brain was kept awake; his consciousness was alive, while his body lay dormant. With that, he controlled mechanical appendages, but usually left them to the most basic of tasks, stirring, clipping, chopping, but only large portions of material, not the minute ones.

And one day, he was gone. His machines had been left behind, but the thing that was Eric no longer resided in the room that had consumed his life. All that remained were files. Those files held patterns, but no one could understand the patterns until a neurologist was given them to analyze and confirmed certain suspicions. Those files were brainwaves, Eric’s brainwaves, which could be downloaded or uploaded into any computer program available. The problem was that the skin he had left behind bound with the machines. Now, they were flesh covered mechanics capable of breathing and bleeding; a twisted symbiote that had no identity other than domination and growth.

The speakers unleashed a horrible shriek when Eric's famil set the flesh on fire. They didn't know that it was capable of feeling, even though it had long forgotten what pain was, or rather, it never knew.

(Took about six minutes to write. Too much caffeine.)

Signals

He doesn't want to listen to you. He doesn't want to listen to anyone. Why do you think he shoved that metal rubar into through his ears? Now, it's the only thing keeping his brain in shape, otherwise the experiments they did on him before would have let it shed itself to flakes, kind of like snakeskin, only the speckles of matter coming out of his mouth would have been his brain matter. The rubar held some chemical in the metal that negated any physical side affects the experiments may have had, or have had.

We keep having to hold him down whenver rain comes. He says he can hear the screams of the innocent being channeled through the thunder, and the raindrops are every life that is lost in the world that day. He sits in the corner and cries because he can do nothing about it except listen to them, agonizing in pain. He tries to run out because he wants lightning to strike the rubar, but I told him that'd just make it worse, possibly fusing the metal there permanently, then who knows what kind of reception he'll get. He might end up hearing angels, devils, ghosts, or even Oprah's oracle which she consults before the taping of every show. She can't be that powerful without some aid from a being of greater power, and, potentially, unending evil.

Now he's crying that the rubar is evil. He's got a chainsaw and is trying to saw off his own head. Gotta go.

Sleep Junkie

Bed felt better than ever today. It must have since I decided not to roll out of it until sometime close to six o' clock in the evening. I got up, turned on the news, read the paper, shifted through my primary newsites on the net, and felt like I hadn't missed a damn thing today.

Read more interviews with Dr. John C. Lilly. The man is categorically insane, supersane to me, but that's another drug for another time. According to him, anyone can choose what they want to be before materialization in this realm. If you wanted to be dog, you could, a plant, you could, but it's your purpose that overrides your desire. We're human for a reason.

The guy loved his wife, what more could someone ask for.

I'm listening to thunder rolling in from what sounds like the south, but most likely it's from the northwest. I've pleaded for rain these past few weeks and all I've gotten is spit on. There's not enough moisture in the sky to maintain steady rainfall, and even if there was, most of it would evaporate before it hit the ground. That's how hot it is where I'm from. And if it did rain, the humidity of the next day would crucify all of us.

Damned if it happens, damned if it doesn't, damned if I stay here for the rest of my life.

I'm going back to bed.

Alternity

Read a wonderful article on alternity, discovered through the use of the drug ketamine. It's basically another word for the multiverse, though that one is spawned by thought, not drugs. At least, I thought at first, but I read further.

John C. Lilly, inventor of the isolation tank and pioneer in inter-species communication, also came up with the term alternity.



"I have a concept called "alternity." From here to alternity. I came back from Chile and sat in Elizabeth Campbell's living-room on acid and started evoking ECCO. Suddenly the energy came out from above and went straight down my spine and on all sides of me were these divisions like a pie. And I could look down this one and see a certain future and then right over here another future and on and on. So this was alternity that I was sitting in. Now actually, unconsciously, we sit in alternity all the time, we have to or you wouldn't know how to get anywhere, right? But you don't know it."

Rather than the multiverse, which is an actual parallel universe, I interpret this as the single universe sliced up and served as alternatives. I look to my left, there's one universe, I look to my right, another, I look 2 degrees away from there, another.

This was my interpretation of the man's words, I could be wrong to someone, while being right to someone else.

"As the astronomer said to the Minister, "My God's astronomical." The Minister said, "How can you relate to something so big?" The astronomer said, "Well, that isn't the problem, your God's too small!""

For the whole interview: http://http://futurehi.net/docs/Here_To_Alternity.html

Would Stock

I'm restless, but surrounded by everyone I hold dear. That's not what I want right now. I want something else, something, not new, and I don't want to say different, but rather familiar from a distance.

I've been having so many de ja vu's lately, I'm wondering, if I slow down now, will I be able to enter it, recite it; take the same steps, or am I just going to walk through the same flood, another storm, and end up in the desert like always, with the lingering breath of the water trapping me inside my own humid bubble, where the wind doesn't push a cool breeze, rather, it pushes the heat around as it bounces off my bubble?

I need rain. I like rain.
"Rain falls on everyone."-Billy Corgan. Smashing Pumpkins.

Rain rhymes with pain. Maybe I've been getting the two confused, and have been asking for the wrong one? Sometimes, instinct is a female dog.

Jack's Dead (a broken circuit story...kinda)

I never knew the guy. I was riding with Louie, taking a trip to Browntown because he’d forgotten his license at the poolhall, or at the campus library. I don’t remember which, just that he’d traveled twenty-six miles and received a phone call before coming to his senses to actually go pick up the thing.

I wasn’t up to much myself, just hanging on to the last shred of decency that was my sex life as I was about to masturbate to granny porn when the phone rang. It was Louie asking me if I wanted to tag along. I looked at the old woman, probably a little over sixty, about to get a young, creepy looking fellows mushroom tip thumped into her ass and told him yes, I would. I finished beating it, then changed my clothes. I’m pretty sure I remembered to wash my hands.

“You’re chariot awaits, senor” Louie said over my phone. I went outside, freshly dressed, newly awaken and there he was in his black Eclipse that desperately needed a wash, but the clouds overhead were sprouting gray, so he decided he’d wait another day in case they decided to spring a leak; perhaps, a few thousand leaks.

The cruise was peaceful while the stereo blasted Madonna, coming from the ipod that he’d purchased recently. He’d worked with the thing so often he’d mastered all of the extra goodness that came with it, other than just using it as a workout motivator, strapped to the arm. His car battery was saving a large amount of energy.
“I like Madonna. Fuck off,” he told me.

“What the fuck, man. I like her too. Pre-Vogue Madonna, anyway. I have her fuckin’ greatest hits.”

“Me too,” he said. “The Immaculate Collection, baby.”

We went through Material Girl, then changed it to Iron Maiden’s Somewhere In Time, starting off with Stranger in a Strange Land. Beyond that song, we ended up at the campus. That was where he’d left it. We went to the bookstore. He’d bought some book for the upcoming semester, used his credit card, flashed the i.d., got the credit card back, but left the driver’s license with his ugly mug at the register.

“Dude,” he said while waiting in line to ask for his license. “I’m so wired, right now. I’ve had enough caffeine to kill a horse. Look at me.” His hand hung in the air, shaking as a leaf would when the wind felt like being a bully.

“That’s exactly what I need,” I told him.
Recently, the bookstore had added on to it a Starbucks coffee shop. I went over, had myself a tea with some caffeine to kickstart my morning/afternoon. Louie asked if I’d buy him bottled water, but I told him he owed me some highway head on the way home. He agreed. “You are a fucking slut,” I said.

As I waited for my tea, I was admiring the young black girl behind the first counter at the bookstore. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-two, with a lovely face, kind I wouldn’t mind seeing in the middle of sex, and a body that I wouldn’t mind touching in the middle of having sex with it. The clinker for me was when she started dancing when some song with a beat came on. I can’t really say more than that. I wasn’t up on whatever Top 40 hits were out there, nor was I interested. It was nice watching her move though.

Her toes were already hitting my ceiling when the server from Starbucks announced my tea being ready. I grabbed it, then Louie and I were back on the road, jamming out to some band we’d seen in Corpus, opening for Rob Zombie. Sinnistarr. They weren’t that good, but Louie was into any band that looked evil enough, and these guys were the entire history of Nikki Sixx’s image combined into one band. The bass player reminded me of the Theater of Pain Nikki, while the guitar player was Girls, Girls, Girls, Nikki. The keyboardist was more Dr. Feelgood Nikki, and so on. All black hair, black leather, and a colorful bandanna around the wrist or leg. The singer was just balding and had dreads in the back of his head. I never understood it, and stopped trying.

We were through the third song when Louie told me. “Did you hear about Jack?”

“What Jack?” but it clicked. “Oh, Aurora’s ex?”

“Yeah.”

“No. What?”

“He’s dead.”

My eyebrows peaked. “The fuck?”

“Yup.”

“Man. The drug lords finally came after him, huh.”

Louie stopped calmed his laughter and said, “Nah. Car crash. Some drunk bastard nailed him head on.”

“Ouch,” I exclaimed.

“It turns out me and Vince are related to that fucker.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah, man. We showed up at the rosary, and my mom and dad were there, our cousins were there; it was so weird.”

“I’ll bet.” The road picked up the conversation without us, telling us that there was a gas station we could stop at that was serving tacos, and that some optometrist was offering lacic surgery.

“Jack’s dead,” I said.

“He’s dead,” Louie confirmed.

“Dude, check out this band.”

End

Feeling Lonely

I've been feeling lonely as of late. It's nothing that concerns me greatly, I always end up in these little funks now and again, and I always get out of them. It's just that I feel lonely surrounded by people I know, people that think they know me, but really have no clue as to who I am.

My friend, Louie wonders how I know little details about so many people, like where they hope to work in the future, what their current home situation is, little things like that.

"Are you dating them?" he'll ask.

I love the bufoon, but he's an ignorant SOB. I know these things because I actually LISTEN TO THEM. I gather the words expressed from their mouths and imprint them into my brain, analyzing, and making sense out of what they say.

I want to feel lonely around strangers, not strangers that are my friends.

I'm a large individual, and I easily intimidate people. I work out between five and six days a week. It's my ritual, the gym is my temple. I'm not Adonis, but I'm not the posterchild for gluttony either. Either way, I enter a room, and I am judged automatically, however, that can be a good thing since I could potentially whoop the asses of everyone in that room, and where I live, men are very self-conscious when it comes to proving how strong they are, though the only strength most of them have is in talking shit. But they leave me alone too. Good. I didn't spend three years training for and other people in mixed martial arts because I'm so centered and docile.

Everyone's married, everyone's pregnant; I'm the only one on the outside. Overall, I enjoy it that way, but now and again I get into those moods, like now, to where I woudln't mind a warm body next to me at night, with a personality that will keep me in check, and that I can have a decent conversation with, you know, one that doesn't reside around which celebrity is getting whatever organ trasnplant.

I'm sick of the personalities where I live. There are few shades of equality that I feel around here, and to be in touch with those is very difficult and sparse. The moment I think I've found someone to finally start something with, they go through some type of life-altering, midrange situation, and I'm back in the ocean without a flare.

Mountains, a cabin, and wolves. That's all I want to be around when I settle down. I'll give those close to me roadmaps, so they can find me, but still, they'll need to get past my wolves. My hungry, hungry wolves.

Evolution of a Kiss

I'm not used to this much freedom,
So I wonder if this is what death is.
Is it liberation?
Is it recycling?
I breathe you in,
We breathe the dead in,
The dead give to the earth
From which
All life originally
Emerged.
So when we fish,
Do we go back to our roots,
Hunting our ancestors, and
In essence,
Our pre-evolutioary selves?

She got sick of hearing me talk,
Saying it was all gibberish.
I figured,
Whatever it took
For her lips to keep mine busy.

Sex Before a Famous Bullet

It came back again, even though I dissected that part of my brain and replaced it with the chip containing old Love Boat reruns, but somehow, some way, it keeps finding its way back through the sordid circuits and forgotten wires that made up my central nervous system now.

I had all of the bones donated to the University so they could help recreate a full scale replica of John F. Kennedy, post headshot. The shot my mother gave me with the crowbar was remarkably accurate to the area where he was shot. I think she'd just finished watching a documentary on him, and that's where she got the idea from. Or maybe she was just reliving the experience. She was there that day.

She claims the real assasin couldn't take the shot because he was too busy drilling her behind some tree shrubs, so the signal went to Oswald, now she's mad at me because I'm the excuse she uses for not being the woman who schtooped the assasin of JFK.

Stuff You Missed

I nearly had another breakdown today while studying for finals. I pushed myself through that last couple of chapters before storming out of the coffee shop, nearly running down an older woman coming in.

She looked evil. I am justified.

Home was better, although I nearly puked right when I came in through the door. I was thinking about my job, need I say more, although now, it doesn't seem so bad. After tomorrow everything is going to be so much easier. I have my last test, one more presentation to give on Thursday, and then I'm free of the semester.

I haven't had a chance to read any stories about the protests going on today, and frankly, I'm not all that interested. I'd rather read about the fartless bean that was just invented.



or the rare disease known as "Stone Man Syndrome".


Then there was a story about bags filled with puke that kept showing up in front of some building somewhere. I'll check that out in a bit.

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.