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October 2002
I forgot to update on Sunday night and I apologize most sincerely to you, gentle reader. As the night grew short and I had to get my eight hours I was getting irritated with my computer because everytime I tried to start up the cam to show kitty to folks I'd get a message that some other program was using the cam at the moment even after rebooting three times. Fuck. I'm not about to dick around with the cam tonight but I am going to post stuff. What a way to start off the month of Hallowe'en. Vague memories of a nightmare that I was not going to make myself recall yet I was lucky enough to remember major events. I was downstairs in New Jersey and I knew upstairs there were three, emaciated, female corpses with leathery skin and black hair. That night I was invited out for dinner which meant company was coming and I had to deal with the corpses to avoid questions and people getting the wrong idea. I lugged each body downstairs in a thirty gallon bag screaming at the top of my lungs, partly out of fear that people would think I killed the women and partly because I was afraid that whomever did this was still around the house or that it was me. The job never got done. On my way to the dinner date I was driving through the woods in the darkest night on a dirt road. There was a light up ahead, nestled between the pines with a dusty parking lot was a truckstop no bigger than a 7-11. Heck, I think it was smaller than a truckstop. The inside was lit with non-fluorescent lights giving everything a yellowish glow. The fat woman behind the counter told me how they were closing and she was busy putting the hot dog rollers away for the night. I found my way to the back room where I found a stairway and went down into the basement. The ceiling was about six feet high and the hallway was crowded. I knew that I was back in the dream from a while ago except there were more people and I wasn't thinking about being hunted down by unknown forces. The themes in my dreams lately have been standing out in my mind. I can only think of a few reasons.
the unexamined life is not worth living That's bullshit because if one examines one's life too much then how can there be any living taking place? I get all wrapped up in myself, I pick everything apart and examine it then pick the pieces apart to examine their pieces. Sometimes it's fascinating and other times it's a tedious chore. Sisyphean in nature at times. Right now I'm mulling over if I'm just boring, people pretend to listen in hopes that I'll get my fill of ego gratification having an audience. Or when I go outside and try to talk with people it comes across as being "Okay, that's pleasant now leave me alone" because something about me puts folks off even before I get to the dick jokes, bigotry and droning on and on about my dreams. I'm going to listen to the opening theme of Spongebob Squarepants about ten times and my mood will go up. I found a decent Dragon Ball background that doesn't feature fucking Goku or Vegeta or Trunks or whomever going SSJ4 after the fusion dance which pleases me greatly. Here it is in 1024 x 768 and in 800 x 600. Doesn't Goku look merry? It's going to be my desktop image at work because I'm sick and tired of seeing just a plain black background while everyone else has those idiotic beauty backgrounds used for screenshots of KDE or Windows or hokey pictures of their kid or the fucking Simpsons. Too bad I can't find any decent backgrounds featuring Kid Buu or Thin Buu. Fat Buu would be cool too considering his childlike, gleeful evil. spot
So let me tell you about kitty. Be prepared to be bored out of your skull as if you were hearing some breeder drone on and on about how baby reached into her diaper and ate what she found and she had a mustache and a picture was taken with the caption of "Got Poo?" OH IT'S CUTE BECAUSE SHE'S ONLY THREE MONTHS OLD!!! Kitty and I have a little game we play, mostly after I come home. I'll lock the screen door so she can watch the squirrels eat the sunflower seeds I scatter in the backyard. After she's done watching intently and swishing her tail she'll get all wired and lie on the floor staring intently at me as I'm halfway up the stairs. I'll push my nose against the top stair and start doing the kitty music then she'll bolt forward and stop a few inches from my face. Other times she'll just go past me down the stairs and dash into the furnace room. Today kitty finally figured out how to jump from the tiny ledge behind my bed up to the large ledge on the right side of my bed. Thankfully the window is closed since there isn't a screen there but this only means I'll have to keep it closed until I buy a screen for that window. Most times Spot will stay under my bed but late at night she'll come up on the bed, walk over me or sniff my face and wake me up with her whiskers poking my face freaking me out that a bug is crawling on me. If I'm awake but hanging my head over the side of the bed she'll scoot out and say hello to me. I took pictures of Spot on Tuesday night because my webcam is still having troubles. Tuesday had to be one of the worst days I've had at work. The one thing I can not abide by are the liars and cheats. I can handle the uppity folk because I get uppity back at them making them get all incensed that I dare to be disrespectful to them. I considered walking out but I didn't have any jobs lined up and I'd probably be fucked for a month or two because I can't stand the people. The fucking nepotism at that place. They also have the nerve to go "Oh, since they're family they get it twice as bad." Bullshit. My father engaged in nepotism with my little sister. What he felt was being tough on her was simply treating her like everyone else in the shop because it was rough on him not to treat her like his little girl. There was nothing harsh about it by any stretch of the imagination. It's one of the reasons I didn't get into his line of business other than the fact I lack his charisma and talent to keep the same face and act for every person who comes in. I'll believe the boss's words when I see his kids get fired like any schmuck from off the street. Hell will freeze over long before that event. So lately this one ad on Comedy Central has been getting under my skin something fierce. The one about porn amateur porn movies. First I get bent out of shape because I always get this voice in the back of my head whispering in a harsh whisper of "See, you're not invited and you're not wanted" followed by getting bent out of shape. What gets my goat is when people tell me that it's not a big deal. Of course it isn't because you've done it and I haven't done it and fuck all that I care or want or whatever. I'm being ambiguous because I can be ambiguous. Maybe when this is published in a book I'll have voluminous footnotes which will explain the obtuse parts or clarify the obfuscated pieces. During lunch on Wednesday I was thinking about giving each entry and each paragraph its own numbers like the bible. "Yea, I read from the Book of October in the 30th year of Our Diarist, Chapter III, Verse II and he said unto Gentle Reader 'Dicks' and it was #FF00FF in color." Tim Curry's manager phoned me out of the blue and spoke to me at length about how Tim Curry was considering doing a remake of the Rocky Horror Picture Show because he's made his peace with that particular cult phenomenon. I could hear him chattering at his manager in the background but the words weren't easily understood because of his accent. The dream ended around four in the morning when I awoke to a loud pop. I have no clue what caused the pop, the best theory I had was Spot knocked over a picture or something but Spot was sleeping next to me curled up on one of my ubiquitous XXXL black t-shirts with the pocket over the left nipple. A cursory examination of my bedroom in the morning and when I got home showed everything was in its place and I have no explanation for this phenomenon. There have been strange noises down here for the past couple of weeks. At first I was hearing faint, high pitched beeps which came out at regular intervals and irritated me like a sleepy Elmer Fudd wrestling with the naughty leaky faucet until his pyrrhic victory at dawn when he has to go to work. The beeping stopped when I yanked the nine volt out of the smoke detector. The night before last I'm certain there was a soft popping sound, akin to a decent section of bubble wrap being popped but not as loud as last night's event. Anyway I feel bad for Spot since I'm out of the apartment all day and on Wednesdays and Thursdays I'm upstairs having quality time with the Birds. Work's been alright but at least once a day there's a customer who gets my blood boiling to such an extreme that I'm put off by the intensity. The cold, cloudy weather and the changing trees has helped me find my center and my calm blue ocean but having Spot's company in any capacity certainly helps. Whenever I get a thought of quitting my job and getting something else I feel like Homer at the end of "And Maggie Makes Three" looking at the altered plaque that says "Do it for her." There's a kitty who needs love and care and attention who can not, and will not as long as I draw breath, be denied of the basics of existence. I can do that to myself since I know my limits, I hate myself and I hate myself. One last thing, I had an idea for redoing Othello in a modern vein featuring someone (exactly) like me and during the introductions there's me watching the scene in True Romance between Dennis Hopper and Christopher Walken going on about how Sicilians were spawned by niggers. See, I completely avoid the whole thing of having a black protagonist. Seriously doubting that I conveyed my point or idea to you, gentle reader. I'm hoping that you do have two brain cells to rub together to make a fire like a good Cub Scout or know me well enough to fill in the gaps where my writing talent is seriously lacking. At least you have a fucking thesaurus and would understand what pyrrhic means in addition to its historical context unlike some Literary Criticism majors. Love, Haakon P. Studebaker The downside of having a kitty is the simple fact that I can not in good conscience adopt a pit bull. Pit bulls are great around people but they're dicey around other animals. Of course if I do get a dog then I would have to acquire a dog who is just a pup who will be taught his place by Spot or a rescued dog who has been taught or just from the rescuer's observations they know the dog will be good around a kitty. Smackdown was lovely but it was the company and not the show which made the evening so fine. Sure, Jaybird seems to only get along with me when he's drunk but one takes what they can get. maribou was very fun and I liked trolling her as much as Jaybird liked trolling her. Then we called Kylie and left messages on her answering machine and I started laughing and said how I would dread, being facetious of course, the day when the voicemail greeting is "This is Jaybird. This is maribou. This is spivak. We're not home right now. BEEP." OMG HOW CUTE I have one thousand dollars right now and it's going to be stored away someplace safer than it is right now. Just a few minutes ago I was sitting on the can and relieving myself when Spot came in and started acting all happy and purry because she wanted attention something fierce. One second I thought that I could easily be Blofeld with his kitty directing S.P.E.C.T.R.E. to do some earthshattering evil deed then I rethought the whole visual. I'd be better as Adrian Veidt with Spot being Bubastis since Spot likes to lie beside me when I'm on the can and raise her head up for a scritchy scratch. In closing, Devo caught the reference and meaning behind "I have a pain upon my forehead". Knock me over with a feather. I thought I was being clever. happy birthday jaybird (was re: fifth) Have I mentioned that I now have Goku for my desktop wallpaper at work? I do and I'm greatly pleased seeing him zipping along on nimbus with that big cheesy, innocent smile. Have I mentioned that every time that Spot licks me incessantly then licks her belly makes me think that somewhere are two, tiny, starved kittens lingering under a bush, shrub or in a crawlspace. I'm going to buy a cat harness and a leash to take spot for a walk and see where she takes me. Yes, Spot is a cat but I'm possessive and don't want to give up Spot's companionship. Of course I just thought about the black kitty who became Ashley and the other white and orange kitty who I named Hobbes. a story I was coming home from shoplifting candy in junior year when I spotted a small black kitten wandering around on the sidewalk. I scooped her up and kept on walking home with the tiny kitty. A soccer mom, did they have soccer moms in the late eighties, with two kids driving towards me pull over and say "Oh you found one two" then plop the kitty into my hands then drive away. Arms full of cat, I make my way home and keep the kitties for a week or so. My mother was bitching that we don't need more animals in the house and Sunny and Pudding were too much anyway. I had to find a home for them. There was this skeevy girl from Kenilworth named Jill who was always barking on about how she was in rehab and did so many drugs and oh wow look at me I had a trendy ailment cum weakness. I liked her and hung out with her. She said she'd adopt the black kitty and she named the kitty Ashley. I went to one of her parties attended by her ex-druggie loser friends and her friend Stacey wanted a kitty too and promised to adopt Hobbes. Later on that night I walked in on Stacey fucking her boyfriend in Jill's mother's room which was funny because it was completely unarousing, akin to watching animal sex on the Discovery channel but uglier and with less barking. Jill, then her mother, took great care of Ashley and I'm sure Ashley is still around though very old by now. Hobbes, on the other hand, was adopted by Stacey who promptly lost him. my point What if Spot is the mommy of those two kittens and they ended up going to the past or Spot somehow went into the future? I learned a really keen word today, polychora. Polychora is the plural form of polychoron which is a closed, four dimensional figure bounded by cells with the following criteria:
This is some serious shit. I like it. I tried making a tesseract on the MOO earlier today but I don't have enough quota to engage in such an endeavor so I decided to MAKE MORDRED CRY by renaming myself to MordRectum. Last night's dream was fairly straightforward. Jaybird had hair, short and curly hair, and he got locked out of his apartment. I lifted him on my shoulders so he could climb into his window. That's it. If one is going to follow someone to the ends of the earth, that person had better travel to the ends of the earth. Going from one podunk midwest "city" to another does not qualify as the ends of the earth. Walk the walk, don't talk the talk or just eat the peanuts out of my shit. So I was just wondering, as I always do since there's little else besides poke Spot and go online and watch TV, what makes the Harry Potter series of books any different from the X-Men comic? Professor Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters is no different from Hogwarts. The central characters are born (gritting teeth) into their powers but Marvel is a bit more democratic in some acquire their powers via radiation accidents. I use the term radiation accident in the most generic sense since such dramatic changes don't always require radiation but it certainly helps in comic books. There are the good folks like whatever houses they have for Harry Potter and the mutants who follow Professor Xavier's philosophy and the bad elements like Magneto's Acolytes and Slitherin and whomever the Sauron knockoff of the novel is. Of course Harry Potter's world is separate, parallel, from the mundane world while the X-Men mutants must hide their true nature from humanity to avoid deadly misunderstandings. Spot makes me feel melancholy because I wish she wasn't declawed especially when she's kneading her paws against my belly. She just keeps going and going waiting to get that one special feeling of her claws hooking in and she can stretch her little kitty fingers and get an oh so good feeling of satisfaction. Saturday was basically a depressing day. Adding to being sad was the fact that it was sunny and somewhat warm outside rather than gray and rainy. Maybe it's a blessing that the dreams have been mercifully brief. I had yet another subway dream. Standing in line and on the run from the law I was buying tickets to take the train into NYC. Before I got close to the station I was in Oklahoma asking Devo if she wanted to go into the city but she said she was too busy with something else but wouldn't tell me saying something about my feelings. At the ticket kiosk, which was automated and remotely manned by someone in a booth elsewhere and through a video screen, I got my tickets only to be shocked that the price had gone from $6.25 to $8.75 in the years I have been away from New Jersey. Good thing I had a ten dollar bill which I stuffed into the roller slot but it wasn't accepted. The kiosk gave me the tickets anyway. I grabbed the cash the machine refused and started on down towards the trains. Behind me was a cop car driving down the stairs with its lights turned off as if it would lend some sneakiness to the cop being a cop. I couldn't find the train for 33rd street so I jumped into another train hoping to avoid notice then hop back out to find my train. No dice, the train took off. The cop was driving on the tracks parallel to my train's but acting like he was simply on patrol rather than hunting me down. I gave him the finger angrily a couple of times and he didn't notice. I hopped out at the first stop hoping to grab my train if it happened to come through this station. Five minutes later I was bored and decided to take life by the horns to look for my train. The landscape reminded me of northern New Jersey in late autumn with black trees stripped of leaves and damp from the constant drizzle. I walked down the tracks until I saw a sidewalk which would be much safer. To my left was a chain link fence with razor wire on top. Behind the fence was another sidwalk, better kept than the one I was on since it wasn't brown with mud, which had an incline and followed the curve of the route I was following. The route started bending to the left in a long arc, the sidewalk behind the fence showed that it was spiralling around itself up the hill. Deep down I knew I wanted to be on that sidewalk and seeing where it led but the chain link fence only seemed to be getting higher and higher. Then I woke up, had to poo, heard maribou banging on the door then drove her to work so she'd be there on time and I came home to read stuff and write this up before I lost any trace of the dream. The only thing I'm doing which is somewhat productive is pulling all my dreams out and putting them into one file so when I get my other site set up, the one which will only feature my dreams, the chore will be less cumbersome. Good lord, going through my site shows what a horrorshow it is with how things are archived. I'm glad I'm just looking at the dreams rather than every single entry. I've discovered that I probably have to make up a color for old nightmares but there seems to be only one old nightmare listed plus I'm discovering a few old dreams which I haven't changed from #FF00FF to #FF99FF but that is taken care of up to the 99th dream. At least seeing the old dreams that have been posted in the past doesn't make me feel like a cheat using old dreams to get 200 dreams by 9/27/02. Right now I'm wondering if I should find another shade of purple to use to color the sex dreams. For a while I thought I didn't have many sexual dreams or dreams with sexual overtones but it seems like there are a goodly amount to warrant such a distinction in the rainbow of purple which makes up my dreams. I'll do that next weekend or sometime later or something. The only months which do not have any dreams are September, October and November of 1999 and April of 2000. When I do acquire the dream site's domain, hosting and get it up and running then I'll have to start categorizing each dream under recurring themes, personalities and archetypes. No, this won't entail coloring them since I'm already stretching the range of purple to its limit. Oh yes, one last thing. I'm sure you'll notice that as of today my stylesheet validates instead of having stupid errors. This pleases me. When I was editing it in Notepad I was putting a semicolon after A.dream:visited's font-size attribute but for some reason it wasn't being saved when I saved the file. When I opened it up in EditPlus I saw that the semicolon was missing, added it there and uploaded it. There were a few repeated tags but that comes from this webpage being a night time project rather than something engaged during the daytime. Maybe when I have free time in the future I'll change the site over to xHTML rather than using HTML 4.0. Man, that will be a bear of a job. Yes, I've been getting ahead of myself and do sincerely hope that you, gentle reader, will understand and bear with me. I'm tired and worn down on the inside right now. Physically tired too. First and foremost I watched Monsters Inc. on Sunday and I'd rather not talk about it because the autumn pollen was getting to me. Secondly I was going through someone's website, read the comments on one article and saw that the friend was there for number six and number thirty nine. What eats at me is that I do want folks to be honest with me but god fucking damn it I can't take reality. Plus I have a talent for taking reality and making it fifteen times worse. In a nutshell I'm annoyed, I feel like a schmuck after I had a conversation with the site owner on September 28th. I've really had enough. Go your way and I'll go mine. I honestly don't believe your intentions are honorable, to quote maribou. Right now I'm berating myself into thinking I'm just being a whiney crybaby until I get my way but I don't want to keep this kind of shit on the inside. The last quarter of Sunday night's dreaming was made up of being at home looking out at the rain at night. Lots of my dreams lately have been taking place at night for some reason. Not that I usually dream in daytime but the nightness of the night makes an impact on me and therefore I must write it down. My father was pacing the house, my sister told me that he was worried but she really didn't know why he was being worried. As the rain came down harder I became more worried because I didn't want my PS3 (yes, i had one in my dream) to get ruined a few hours after I bought it. The PS3 was different from its ancestors in that there are four connecting wires: red, yellow, white and purple. The nice thing was that I had an interface to plug it in which had a purple receptor. So I spent some of the time unhooking the PS3 from the TV in hopes of getting it to higher ground. My father came downstairs and I asked him why he was pacing and worried like the world was going to end. He told me it's going to flood and the rain doesn't show any sign of letting up soon. Duh, I thought, my sister's dense and I couldn't see what was bothering him if it slapped me in the face. The front lawn was being filled with deep puddles which were denting the earth from their sheer weight. I went back inside to finish up my chore and put the PS3 on a higher shelf. A second peek at the lawn showed deep holes or craters from the puddles which were being quickly filled by the driving rain. Big jump in the dream. I was sitting in the passenger seat of a car that my father was driving, my mother was in the back seat on the driver's side and an old man that I didn't recognize was sitting behind me on the passenger side. It was dusk, the sky growing a deep blue while a sicky peach color burned on the horizon as the sun moved westward. When I turned towards my father I could see that the twin towers were still standing, their lights were on but glowing green and the red light atop the antenna of the north tower. As the car drove down route 1&9 the towers became one being perfectly lined up. I cried, "The twin towers are back, look to your right!" My brain was fucked up because I was dreaming and I meant left, at least I was pointing in the correct direction but that meant nothing and everyone in the car looked the wrong way because my words carried more weight than my gestures. When they finally understood that I was befuddled and were looking in the right direction there was a huge factory with huge smokestacks blocking the view. I kept saying over and over, "Keep looking, it's right behind the factory." Thankfully after we passed the dense pollution, the smokestacks and the towering factory the towers were still there but they had grown dark. Everyone in the car grew silent and I stared at my hands feeling ashamed. bad night, good day Well it seems that I did get my Monday off that I asked for a few weeks ago and I'm pleased that I was told to go home but not because I was being fired. Hooray. I spent the lions share of the morning setting up my dream database for conversion into Moveable Type format. I've also started a new category for dreams, sex dreams. Grrr, Spot really pisses me off because once she's being all cute or snuggly which is prime photo material she gets up and moves away just as the camera's getting turned on. Of course I usually have to reach for the camera because it's on the desk or inaccessible due to the fact that Spot has my arm pinned or she's leaning in such a fashion that I can not shift my bulk without ruining her comfortable place. Right now Spot's being a bundle of energy thundering about, waving her paws at me in a most menacing fashion and puffing out her tail because something's freaking her out big time. I love Spot. I'm tired and I'm going to play Nethack and think that I really oughta do a few things before I go cuckoo for cocoa puffs. Dream began on a beach, Steve Irwin was wearing Goldust's outfit and talking about crabs. He showed me a blue crab with spikes on its upper shell and he urged me to find a shell on the beach. When I found a dead shell, it up it bit me. Steve Irwin said that'll happen and I should be more careful. Looking out at the ocean I saw that the ocean was ebbing and surging but it was hardly as menacing as I remember from the nightmares years ago. I went home to New Jersey and found my mother. There was another woman in the house. I didn't know who she was, she kept at the periphery of my vision and was shadowy. My mother had to use a new kind of toilet seat which was collapsable. The toilet seat would fold in half. Hanging from the back of the toilet was a lever which was placed underneath the business area of the rear end. When someone used this toilet seat the poo would hit the lever and the lever would cause another lever to move up and let the user know that their poo was successful by bumping the user's right elbow. Seems that my mother has been forcing her shits and the doctor told her she could only pass one a day and this seat would let her know when she released one and only one turd. The other woman in the house had to use the seat because she was starting to develop a similar condition. After work I said hello to Spot, went food shopping at two supermarkets since one was woefully inadequate and made meatloaf for myself and gave an end piece to Spot. From the moment I came home she was mewing and brupping at me because she knew fat man coming home means wet food. She already had wet food twice today, I think though she might've only had it once, and I gave her the meatloaf as an apology for not giving her wet food when I came home and finally settled in for the evening. Nothing is going on over here. I'm writing the entry inbetween games of Nethack, Spot's asleep on a towel by my laundry basket and I have to make lunch from leftovers so this week is a relatively happy one. There's no conveying the sheer joy at having a hot meal instead of eating human dog food from a can, throwing french bread pizza on some aluminum foil or eating cold cuts yet again. Sadly my sandwiches for tomorrow will be in aluminum foil which means I won't be able to warm them up in the microwave since I'm not about to put them directly on the floor of the microwave and aluminum foil does funny things in those contraptions. Good night. waitaminute I have to say that I'm continually surprised at the people who continue to read this site. One person continually refuses to come over and hang out claiming school work and regular work. Another person still reads, I think, and it baffles me. Yet someone like Kylie doesn't read my site but she also claims school work and regular work. Maybe it's just the perceived regularity of the reading which gets me. Then again, don't get full of yourself fat man. They're probably reading it to watch a train wreck in slow motion, not because they care or have any interest in me as a human being. That period of time between three and five a.m. has a name in my lexicon of dreams. The waiting room. Okay, it's not so much a waiting room but that's my gut reaction. The only real waiting that goes on there is waiting to see if 6:15 a.m. is fifteen minutes away or three hours away. In that place of time, tension and anticipation that's when my brain realizes I might as well do something rather than hang around doing absolutely nothing to feel time pass me. My brain starts going over the dreams. There'll be a little presentation showing the highlights along with my subconscious repeating the night's events into the conscious brain's voicemail so when the conscious brain checks the voicemail it'll be up to speed and have something to write here if the day's relatively uneventful or I lack something to ramble about in an unsavory or reprehensible fashion. I swear most times I can hear myself mouthing the words of my subconscious, repeating the dream verbatim, in addition to battling the subconscious in hopes of settling back down into sleep so I don't drag my ass in those precious thirty minutes before my egress. So I wonder if I trained myself to do this in order to remember more dreams for content or if it's a side effect of being unable to sleep comfortably in my bed. I've been tossing and turning a lot lately. When I am as awake as I can get in the near-morning darkness I try to become aware of everything going on around me like "Is that Spot lying near me? No, it's just the pillow" and so forth. I just want to sleep. But sleep makes me feel old because it's a necessity not a luxury. lies The biggest crock of shit ever passed around by humanity as a whole is "Do unto others as you would like them to do unto you". If this had a rider of "And if they don't, throw them out like the trash they are and the trash they treat you like" then I could respect that particular, long winded maxim, aphorism, cliche or whatever you want to call it. I've tried doing that with no expectation of reward and I've never received any reward by people treating me the way I treat them. Of course I'm talking about the folks I give a shit about and treat nicely rather than the random masses who I troll or don't pay attention to. What I've learned through experience, and to an extent my mother's example, is to just discard those people from my life like kleenex. Fuck you. You made me feel bad so now I'm going to treat you like shit. Sometimes I smile when I get a look of "where did that come from" but other times I'm just aghast that they don't get it. My surprise comes from the fact that I'd figure that individual would understand my motivations. Jesus Christ I talk more than enough about what I feel, judge and reason how could it be so vague? The only answer, using spivak's razor, is that other person just doesn't give a shit. Never has, never will so why start now? Something I was thinking about when I was driving back and forth between supermarkets to get the right stuff for Tuesday's dinner was how it's a boon and a curse to have the life I've had while growing up in New Jersey. Because I've distanced myself from my family with only a few connections like my father, and to a lesser extent my sister, I really don't feel that bad about being so far away from them in addition to being relatively non-communicative. The tough part about moving was giving up the few friends I had back in New Jersey and their companionship but in time I've stopped doing my monthly emails. It's true that most of the monthly emails stopped because no correspondence picked up so in my judgement it's "out of sight, out of mind" but less of a "fuck off" but a "good luck". The only person I've kept in regular touch with is Brian. Of course everyone goes on about how they're busy with their lives. School. Work. Careers. Excuses. I work five days a week. I don't do much when I get home but I do take care of what needs to be done like dishes, garbage and other chores. How would my life be any different from their lives? Not wanting to seem like I'm spouting off as "I'm better" but I just don't understand what is up with people who don't drop everything for other people. Yeah, like me but I'm going to include other people since I know I'm third tier in most people's lives either by length of friendship or by their judgement of my personality. I'm not saying this with confidence because I know it's not true and I'm trying to evoke a response from people who say they like me. I say this because it's true. Their job/career is their best friend. Going to school is their second best (or best) friend. Everyone else is ranked third or worse with only a select few filtering up into the higher echelons. Of course those aren't me, that's the bitterness talking, since people take advantage of me being a schmuck and sticking around if I obsess on them or have some warped and unrealistic concept of who the person is. "Keep spivak guessing and he'll be intrigued by the mystery like Velma from Scooby Doo and when the real friends run dry fall back on him." What am I doing wrong that makes me so idle so I constantly obsess or judge other people? What am I doing right that allows me to make time for other people and myself without feeling cheated? I can not see it. Sometimes I get flashes of "It's just money, fuck it" or "Sacrifice" but those are just self-aggrandizing and empty in meaning. My brain can not find purchase on this featureless cliff face which holds wisdom and understanding at the top. Either way, I'm not happy with what I'm getting in the many relationships in my life. No, I'm not singling anyone out. They love me but they're not interested in me. They have better things to do than see what I'm doing or say hello. Of course I don't blame them, and I am talking about one person here Devo, because I am such a fucking abrasive and reactionary asshole. They just fade away as if it's a pleasure to be devoid of my company in any fashion. Folks who just see me in certain circumstances and it just seems that's the only way it can be and there's no room for improvement. People who whine and bitch at me until they get what they want and act all happy when they get it for a few minutes as a token, and just a token, of affection but when I need something in return they run away or ignore me. Yeah you, Spot. Though there are some humans like that. updated early Gentle Reader, When I was about five minutes away from coming home I thought "Gracious, I was awfully rash in writing the entry for the tenth. Perhaps I should just prune it and post it on my site. Of course I came home and decided entirely against it because I read something which validated all the bile coursing through me last night. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to upload this, finish eating and have a black and white cat with cow markings lick my beard in hopes that my blood pressure will go down. Regards, P.S. I sincerely doubt at this moment in time that I will ever be happy.
Fuck you, most sincerely. P.P.S. PPS? What the fuck am I? Thirteen years old? From reading this site one would guess that I am the mirror of 31 in age even though it would be IE rather than 13. Anyway. I'm doing my damnedest to be as repugnant as possible. Each time that someone comes on and doesn't talk to me I view it as me being a dislikable person and those people went out of their way to avoid me. So I make it my mission to be as angry, reactionary and spiteful as possible in order to fuel their dislike or engender it. Take the fucking hint already. Thanks. Fuck you most sincerely. |
Fuck you Descartes. Fuck you The Madness of Prince Hamlet. And now I shall make a piece of ASCII art. Can you find the symbolism? o o o o o o o o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o The sad thing is that black ends up losing every time. If he had true love for her, he would have no inclination to distrust her... and he would not fear to lose this good did he not judge himself to be unworthy of it. spot One thing that I've learned since Spot's come to live with me is the fact that had I acquired a dog for companionship it would've been remarkably cruel of me considering the size of this place and the general personality of dogs. I do feel happy that Spot seems to have a dogness about her. Spot does this one thing and it gets me every time. I'll be lying here typing or lying on the floor while she paces around me until she sits down and stares at me or decides to clean my beard or mustache. Anyway, she'll put her paw on my thigh or my shoulder and make eye contact with me. Oh dear it touches me so when she does that out of the blue. I imagine her saying "Hey, what's bothering you? I care. Tell me all about it. It'll be alright." Spot is a very sweet kitty. One thing that troubles me is the fact that every kitty I've known who went against the feline stereotype of being aloof, only caring about food and other selfish pursuits rather than being gregarious or lovey have had something wrong with them. My grandpa adopted a kitty named Tiger who was an orange tabby that loved attention and put most dogs to shame with his friendliness. Tiger had feline leukemia and he ran away when my grandpa left the door and gate open while he worked in the yard. Quincy was a small gray calico we adopted, I still remember where she was adopted and I could point it out to you Gentle Reader should you ever come with me to New Jersey, and she was the sweetest kitty. Quincy was so sweet that she adopted Sunny, our lab-golden mix, as her mommy and they'd sleep together. It breaks my heart thinking about them. Quincy disappeared. Some think my sister's friend stole Quincy. Some think that Quincy just got out and never came back. I think my mother just didn't like that Quincy wasn't that swift on the uptake with the litterbox and she found a new home for Quincy behind our backs with my father's silent support. Of course there's Pudding but she became feral, a fearsome huntress with the brass balls as a kitten who tried to take down a raven twice her size and almost flew away. Pudding wasn't that affectionate except towards my father. She'd ride on his shoulders like a pirate's parrot. But she always enjoyed being scratched, stretching her neck preternaturally to get every itchy inch scratched by the helpful humans. Despite her being feral and generally aloof she would sneak up behind me when I would sit outside and rub against me in a most affectionate fashion. That simple, rare act would mean the world to me. I miss them all. I'm still on edge, the edge from the previous entry, but it's waning. I still get a tight chest from keeping my fury inside or redirecting it towards myself and that does nothing but feed into the feeling. The pumpkin pie was delicious. Thank you Jaybird. It's warm for autumn and I figure this is just some kind of indian summer. I would like to have cold weather, the kind where I can sit outside in the cold under gray skies with the skittering leaves as my only company as the sun sinks low behind the mountains. If only I had a hammock to lie on so I could sleep under the stars even if it is in the bare dirt backyard to listen to the students at night, the breeze, the leaves, the lonely sound of a lone car tooling down Weber towards heaven knows what. Fuck Lambda too. Fuck the shopteacher's handful of people who were like "Come on back". When I go out on break, usually towards the end, I start my litany about circumnavigating the world. At times it feels like George telling Lenny about the rabbits starting off with Vladivostok and riding the Trans Siberian Railroad southward and westward at times coming perilously close to China and Mongolia but remaining in Russia. Watching the spires rise out of the west until I'm in the middle of Moscow. I imagine Moscow as being enormous. Vast. Boulevards that would put the roads of Colorado Springs to shame as the roads of Colorado Springs make the diminutive and winding alleys of New Jersey lower their eyes respectfully. Travelling towards the Black Sea and hopping a ship across the Black Sea until passing Istanbul and entering the Mediterranean Sea, heading westward towards Sicily. Of course I lose my head of steam and dwell upon the distances I had crossed rather than fulfilling the journey to arrive once again at the docks of New York City, looking upon Liberty like my forebears saw her. Most times I think about spending a few weeks in Moscow then a few months in Sicily. Maybe I would go around trying to meet distant family members, maybe I'd just keep to myself and emulate what I would consider a Mediterranean lifestyle of sitting below houses clinging tenaciously to the old mountains on a white patio watching the sun set drinking bad wine and listening to someone practice the violin at some decrepit but stunningly ancient villa while the waters lap at the pebbly coast. Would I learn Russian or Italian? I'm unsure. Maybe enough to get by and then fumbling about with the total immersion that is to come. The final leg would go northwards through Europe to the English Channel to take the hovercraft across like in that Charlie Brown movie until I stow away on a ship headed towards America. Towards New York City. A city which will gleam from the sunrise at my back, its dull roar spilling over the east river into the ocean like a beacon of civilization for lost mariners. Coming home from New York City would not be complete unless I took the PATH from 9th street to Hoboken then taking the Dover train towards Millburn only to be picked up by my father and driven home to New Jersey. Will there be an Argus waiting for me out of sheer devotion? Someone once thought I had an aversion to flight and she let me know this when she told me that the person she intended on joining the mile high club with was not me. This is wholly untrue because I have nothing against flying, especially after the events of September 11th, 2001. Flying is a graceless and unromantic kind of travel which is entirely about getting from point A to point B as quickly as possible. I want to see the world at a leisurely pace, even if the leisurely pace is a bit shorter than Phineas Fogg's eighty days. I'd like the oceans and seas, the people, watching the scenery flash past the train held prisoner for days on end with the same people who only have their destination in common with you and decide to make the best of it but upon arrival you are no longer remembered. Single serving friends. Heh. Airplanes come across as cross country busses with speed and air conditioning, busses that don't stink of the elderly or runaways tempted by the mythical eden which is Acacia Park at the foot of Pikes Peak where it rarely rains and the weather is beautiful eighty percent of the year. I know when I visit New Jersey that I'll take a plane out since I won't have the time to drive. The only thing beautiful about flying is flying at night watching the firmament of the earth roll below the jet's wings which climb higher and higher into the ever-fading firmament that once inspired awe in our ancestors. That same awe which sublimated into fear and drove Grak to tame fire, Nero to burn the capital of one of the most civilized and enduring empires of western history, Edison to tweak someone else's invention into something useful and Tesla, marvelous genius, to grace our lives with the dull hum of fluorescent tubes every work day. Now the constellations live in newspapers, glanced at while reading the comics, giving pithy advice to the receptive. Like me. After all I would believe a street - corner horoscope before he would believe his own heart. Of course what would I know about love since if I was capable of embodying love then I would not have an inclination to distrust or fear to lose something good which I have judged myself to be unworthy of by projecting that judgement upon the observers of my life. Jesus Christ, I don't know how people can think my dreams are more haphazard, convoluted and peppered with non-sequitors after reading these diary entries. I think they just skim the entries though, like Wednesday or Thursday night I watched maribou read my diary and she just scrolled down really fast and commented on one or two things. This reminded me of what Woody Allen once said after he learned speed reading and read War and Peace. "It was about Russia." I'm sure one could say this site is about one man who will always be alone either by his own design or the will of others but never by the will of god. Okay, I fucked up my convention of using words instead of MM/DD/YY yesterday and I can hear you chuckling in the peanut gallery at my error. Tonight's entry is about time. I've done my best to ensure that my apartment is timeless. Of course it's under the influence of the sun's passage through the heavens but that's a different rhythm than modern life. My only acquiescence to modern time in my haven is maintaining this diary and making sure that I am asleep around ten p.m. at night during weeknights so I can attempt to get my recommended eight hours of sleep. All day at work I have to keep time on my mind. This bank statement expires in forty five days. The disclosures have to be returned by four p.m. for loans. The disclosures need to be returned by eleven for a refinance. Ten minute break at nine, ten minute break at two, each break being metered by my counting to three hundred so I have enough bookend time for going up and down the stairs or the elevator if I'm feeling lazy. Shit, it's the Daily Show. I wonder if I smell or not because if I smell that means I have to leave right after the moment of zen, taking out the garbage and putting stuff in the sink before going downstairs to shower then force myself asleep until I hear NPR news in the morning. This is important and it has to be done by this date. You have to perform this many hours of work by this date. You are required to engage in this by this date. So I tuck myself away in my apartment, my sanctuary and lie in the dark knowing that if time is passing it's only passing as quickly or as slowly as my perceptions delude me. My clock radio faces the wall so it doesn't shine on me and so I don't wake up in the middle of the night to look at its face and think, "Ah, it's only two! I have a treasure of sleep to luxuriate!" or "Fuck, it's quarter to six. Each minute that passes is like the last minute of my life." I posted more pictures of Spot at the heptablog but they're available as regular pictures without the moveable type stuff if you're not into that. The folks next door are using our water and our hose to water their lawn again. maribou already went to the rental office a few weeks ago to complain about how the water pressure in the building was down by quite a bit in addition to paying for someone to use our water on their stuff. I rolled up the hose, killed the spigot and faxed a letter over to the rental office. I'm fucking sick of this. All summer I'd come home for lunch, see them using our water even though there's a drought, I'd kill the spigot and make sure it was still off when I left for work when lunch was finished. This is most egregious. T KYLIE EGREGIOUS MEANS CONSPICUOUSLY BAD AND T KYLIE CONSPICUOUSLY MEANS OBVIOUS K TNX Just a few minutes ago I heard someone walking past my bedroom window, which is on the same side as the outside spigot, and thundered upstairs thinking I was going to catch the water users. Nope, just Jaybird finishing his smoke and about to throw it into the trash. This happened twice much to my embarrassment. Sorry, Jaybird. interests Recently my interest in fourth dimensional solids has waned when I started reading about the caucasian mummies found in Xinjiang but I lost interest and have become interested again in watching animations of hypercubes spinning around in their three dimensional projections. Sometimes if I cock my eyes up enough I can almost visualize them. I just wish that there were some fourth dimensional shooter games. That would kick serious ass especially if the players are stuck with three dimensional perceptions. Each corner would be a point where the shooter could switch their perspective. They'd still move in three dimensions except one of the dimensions would become kata and ana and say forward and back would take the place of kata and ana. obligatory anger, misplaced or valid Lately I've been feeling like I've been under the impression of being judged as being lacking in my emotional capacity as a human being. I'm sure this is perfectly valid since my first instinct when confronted with a stressful social situation is to withdraw deep within myself and not show any emotion. This ranges from standing like a statue in elevators to avoiding nearly all eye contact in public unless it's socially required like ordering food. I've avoided this by cooking at home; cooking really isn't the right word since cooking would imply a respectable repast that would leave one sleepy and sated, instead of going out. I think the last time I went to Wooglins or the Utopia was back in April. Since then I've been ordering food and keeping the small talk to a minimum. Of course there's a delivery person whom I sort of speak with but I fear that my tremendous stress shines through and makes it tense for all involved parties. The down side, if there could be anything lower, is my perception of the simplest expression of my emotions. Watching Monsters Inc. and having bright eyes becomes akin to weeping at the funeral of a loved one. A single flash of indignation becomes magnified into vicious hatred and anger, which should summarily be thrust back down to the black pit from whence it emerged. A smile becomes something manic and insincere, something defensive with the baring of teeth to anyone who cares to look. I feel that I am being judged in my emotional capacity because my emotions are either painted with broad strokes upon the canvas of humanity or simply focused on a few targets giving the impression of obsession or sociopathy. With emotions comes love. This makes me ask, "Is trust the same thing as love?" I know for a fact that one can have one without the other. Sorry Frank Sinatra. The question arose while I was rubbing Spot's head and ears wondering if her affection was simply gratitude for the attention, food and warmth or if it was a true expression of love from her wee kitty heart. A few minutes later I thought, "Who cares" and told Spot that I loved her and she's a cutie pie. Lately my expressions of love or trust have been desperate in measure, shrill and unforgiving in their judgement. Kylie says that love and trust are much more personal in their expression. People have their own measures but how can one judge what's considered "good enough" for another individual. The example I gave her was, "I trust and or love you in this fashion and it should be good enough for you. Asking for more makes you unreasonable and unrealistic in your expectations." The rider on this statement, which I didn't tell her, was "Make the best of it because you're not getting any more." Such is the foundation for the world I live in. Thankfully, gentle reader, it's different for you since you are safe and secure with your interpersonal relationships. This is my problem, not yours and I can only offer my humble gratitude for reading these words. I bear you no malice or jealousy. When I do consider the question I do become angry because I do endeavor to engender trust in other people or evoke love from their hearts in hopes of receiving in kind yet there's this pall over the act which conveys "You really didn't have to but thanks. Bye now!" It is true that if I truly understood the nature of love or trust I would not bear jealousy or need, not want, the same from others. My pedestrian, and ultimately immature, expressions of love in any sense whether it's a twenty four hour long sex romp with someone before they leave for overseas or trying to tell an individual that I truly love them and it is my most sincere of my heart's desire to have them love me in kind with the same passionate fervor always seem to fall flat. The former ending up with "Oh you got the wrong idea entirely. Move on, I have. <INSINCERITY>Sorry</INSINCERITY>" to simple and confounding frustration at being told I am startling important in a person's life but being told that they can not or will not or currently lack the capacity to love me in that way. From this soil springs insecurity, insecurity and insanity from trying to understand these riddles. What only serves to feed these demons are statements like "I don't play games." This feels like a game because a bold statement will be said only to be left out in the cold for the wind to flap it to tatters until the insistent clanging of the rope and fasteners against the pole drives someone out from the warm bed of complacency to raise a new flag in the dead of night when they least want to. Whew, run on sentence. I'm tired right now and I just want to read Twain's "Letters from the Earth" while Spot sleeps against my legs rather than going over this treadmill in the hopes that the few people who matter in my life that do read this site will understand the madness of King George. Maybe a few others who still glance at my site will get a clue as well even though they're stoned half the time and unhappy the rest of the time. Buona notte. Plain and simple. I had sex with Kylie last night. There aren't any more details but that was the dream. Oh wait, you perverts, there was more but it wasn't about the sex. I was riding on a tastefully appointed train that would most likely have taken center stage in an Agatha Christie novel. It thundered through the Himalayas, lacquered and gleaming, towards India then Pakistan and all points west. Of course I wasn't paying attention to the view rushing past the windows since I was strolling the length of the train. There was a small zoo, a black and green marble bar, multitudes of cabins for the passengers and a staircase leading up. Most folks were lethargic and I was being an ass saying, "I'm used to this. I live in Colorado Springs!" The stairway intrigued me most. Only nine steps, five windows along the left hand side as you ascended them and a bronze plaque upon the right hand wall which resembled a shield with a quote or maxim engraved upon its surface in a language other than Latin. Behind the door at the top was a bar in Colorado Springs. I didn't recognize it from waking life but I knew it was a bar located somewhere in Colorado Springs. The door at the bottom of the stairs started closing and a realization that if the door closed entirely then I would be stuck in Colorado Springs. With outstretched arms and a file folder to extend my reach I kept both doors open so this mystical portal could be maintained for my sake and anyone on the train or bar who desired going to either location. Some guy in the bar came over and looked in, "I don't have a ticket." "The train's been underway for days and they haven't stopped. No one's going to ask you for your tickets." I reassured him and he brushed past me towards the door on the train side. The End. Right now I'm way too tired to write and part of me thinks that I've written more than enough over the past weekend. Old man wants to sleep. I will leave you with the fact that Jaybird and maribou engage in interesting situations which will never make it to her livejournal. No, I'm not referring to anything sexual or untoward. Just odd situations. I don't understand Macs. I don't understand their users. The users are overzealous and evangelize their hardware like it's the next coming of Christ, I better not use that analogy since I'm sure most Mac users "think different" and participate in Wicca because Christianity is *E*V*I*L*, when it's just another piece of hardware with proprietary software. Macs on the other hand always shine in benchmark tests that favor their strengths but when compared to other platforms they have a respectable showing. Of course their hardware is more proprietary than PC hardware. One can't build a Mac from scratch. The hardware is also more expensive with very little choice in what one wants to have on their machine without pitfalls like making a single change on an order and all of a sudden their purchase is considered "custom" and Apple's great (no sarcasm) return policy goes out the window. Now Apple is trying to increase their marketshare from 6% or so by offering OSX (pronounced Oh Ehs Ecks) by touting it's BSD with a great GUI and everything Mac lovers love about Macs. So Apple is selling an operating system that can be obtained online for free on expensive and proprietary hardware? The only thing I can see going for OSX is the user interface which is a breath of fresh air compared to KDE and Gnome's interface. Of course if one has the time, and time isn't free, one could easily screw with the other desktop environments to make them usable and user friendly. This won't happen since most linux faggots are happy with what they have and by cracky if someone is going to use linux or BSD that person better learn to think like them and work like them and RTFM while they're at it. Of course certain folks will say that I don't *get*it* and I'm coming from a highly biased Wintel-centric point of view. That may be true but I have also used Macs, professionally and in school, and thought that Macs were okay machines which had the same faults as PCs. Like crashing but instead of giving a blue screen that says "holy shit something's wrong" the computer will either freeze or give a happy cartoon bomb graphic to please the user. Of course there's the whole thing with one button mice. And Mac users have their gripe with Windows, "You have to start to shut down?" Both platforms have their bad points which both sides could harp on until bedtime but that doesn't change the fact that these are computers. The whole PC vs. Mac debate is no better than two carpenters arguing, "Hey, Black and Decker 0wnz j00!!!" followed by, "Oh yeah? Craftsman r00lz0rz!" That debate would be found silly by most people because they know that both companies make fine tools but the passions about either company will not flare to such an extent that people may come to blows, or trolls. A claw hammer is a claw hammer and a ratchet set is a ratchet set. With the Mac vs. PC debate it boils down to a priviliged subculture arguing over tools and the image they're buying rather than considering price, quality and usability. This amuses me greatly. I will just think for myself. Folks can please themselves thinking I'm some sort of PC or Microsoft zealot because I pick at their sub-subculture and its niche market but I don't care what folks use for their computers. Like when Makonan came out to Colorado Springs and she hissed when she saw the Microsoft logo pop up on my laptop. Sure, it was probably meant in good fun but it just struck me funny. Would I get the same reaction if she saw me doing a 7 of Diamonds instead of a Euro when doing ecstasy? Drank Portuguese absinthe instead of Czech absinthe? They all do the same thing, they just have different brands and I would assume different brand identities. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to cut my dick off and stuff it up my ass for wasting your valuable time, gentle reader, with this blather. Oh yeah, that's the stuff. I'VE GOT KITTY ON A CLOUDY DAY AND IT'S COLD OUTSIDE AND KITTY'S LYING NEXT TO ME AND I CAN'T BEAT OFF WHY CAN'T YOU SAY WHAT CAN MAKE ME FEEL THIS WAY ??? MY CAT !!! MY CAT !!! MY CAT !!! TALKIN' 'BOUT MY CAT !!! MYCAT !!! OOO-OOO-OOOOOO SERIOUSLY JUGGLING MY BALLS HERE AND GLAD THAT I HAVE A FULL GROWN CAT WHO ACTS NOTHING LIKE A CAT RATHER THAN DEALING WITH THE AWKWARD AGE OF KITTENHOOD AND HORRIBLE ANAL RAPE OH HOLY GOD YOU'RE PISSING ON MY LEATHER JACKET EAU DU CHAMPS ULYSSES OR SOMETHING ANYWAY ALL CAPS == FUNNY AND I'M NOT REALLY HAPPY EITHER SO FUCK YOU :) :) :) a little less conversation So a while ago my father gave me a little basket with folks inside who are worry people. You whisper your worries to them and in the morning those worries will be gone, running from the rays of a new sun like cockroaches and silverfish when you get up to take a leak in the dead of night.
That's what I whispered to them tonight and that's the second set of things I've whispered to them since I acquired them from my beloved father. Also I did a short tarot card reading which only served to make me pace the apartment looking in boxes for my good tarot book. I pulled the seven of coins, the eight of cups and temperance. P CLASS="head" Things aren't as funny as I thought they would've been and I'm not getting any attention, negative or otherwise. Plus having Mexico Way food delivered didn't end up exactly as I would've hoped it would have been. Spot is my reason to not kill myself. I threw the gun away last Wednesday night. Of course I can't say the same about other people since I know where I stand and most of them are quite happy with where I am so do not pass go or collect two hundred dollars or even think about ambition. yeah baby Yeah, that's right. Open up my fucking web page then close it up real fucking quick when you find out that you didn't mean to come here and read what I wrote for everyone to see. Of course there are isotopes which are more stable than I am but I have my fucking reasons. Isotopes have extra neutrons, I'm abrasive and undesirable. Sure it'd make sense to change and not be that way anymore but then I wouldn't be true to myself. Guess I better be happy with what I have since I'm unwilling to better myself and my situation. Sometimes late at night and I'm typing I know that Spot's looking at me wondering what the fuck I'm doing with the glow in the dark flat thing which I pet with my fingers. She'll sit quietly underneath the desk and just stare and if I make eye contact then she sees it as an invitation to come up and interrupt whatever I'm writing which is FRIGHTFULLY IMPORTANT like dick jokes or finding the foulest fucking images and posting them to inappropriate news groups and web message boards under the guise of being themely. So I will pet her, sometimes wrap my hands around her head and strongly pet her so her eyes open wide and then her ears pop up when my hands run down her back but by then my grip is negligible. Spot will then headbutt me. I have more unread messages in my email than I have ever had before in my life short of the ignored and voluminous spam that hotmail gives me. Emails from Devo, the really old unread one from siggy and two from someone who will remain nameless. I'm tired and melancholy and weary. Now I'm going to crawl into my hole and die. Well, I was late for Smackdown on Thursday and the entire night I was out of it feeling tired, weary, melancholy and other adjectives. Sad is too harsh of a word and would be entirely out of context. Sometimes I feel like I'm being patronized, other times I feel like folks say "I'm going to be this way or do this and you better fucking suck it up" and this applies to everyone so don't feel singled out. I should go food shopping or something but my heart's not into it. Earlier I thought about going out but that'd mean spending money and going home feeling lonelier watching all those other people out with their friends and I'm just drinking in a corner trying not to notice by reading too hard at some book I dragged along. Maybe I could go to Barnes & Noble to get a book or two or get something to listen to or borrow a CD from the Birds to rip. I'll probably end up playing nethack, starting out as spivak the male samurai getting down into the gnomish mines then starving to death or getting bored and overstuffing myself with corpses, rations and other foodstuffs. I still can't stand magic wielding characters like wizards and I figure monks can cast spells without the aid of spellbooks or scrolls though monks are neat because they kick ass barehanded and without armor. Already trying to think of a budget to last until the end of the month like two weeks of groceries at forty bucks or eighty bucks and then the extra twenty going towards gas for the car and whatever is left over going towards the mundane day to day shit or ending up being socked away for the next paycheck. One thing I thought about at lunch was about going home. Lunch was good, I went to the Denny's for the first time in a couple of months and had a lumberjack breakfast and buffalo chicken strips but it was overpriced being fifteen bucks. The entire act of going home would consist of continuing to travel westward until reaching New York City. This would entail giving up my material possessions and only having one bag. I thought of the little haiku from Fight Club that's on my 404 page
Without just one nest The downside of this would be being in New Jersey and dependence on people until my shit got together like it's together in Colorado Springs. That is something I do not want for myself. Of course I am dependent on some people, their attention and hoping that they love me, and that's far worse than any financial burden. Now and again Jaybird will point out opportunity to me, especially now that Congress has passed the resolution to let Bush start a war against Iraq. "Hey, just wait until we go to war! All those lonely girlfriends and wives at the army bases!" I'll tell him that I've done that and it's not everything that it's cracked up to be. Plus I have a reason to dislike the military and the women who are attracted to military types. First off most of the women in the office are hooked up with the enlisted and it just smacks of being two animals. Hurr I fight. Hurr I pop out babies when you not fight. Secondly I've found most of these folks to be basically rude though they aren't scum of the earth like corrections officers. There are a lot of corrections officers who apply for loans and I dread dealing with them or their co-workers trying to verify employment, et al. I digress. The other reason why I dislike military types is more personal and it shall remain that way, gentle reader. My other reason is simply wanting to prove something to Devo. She always tells me to go out and have fun and live my life with an undercurrent of "don't let me hold you back". Deep down inside is my stubbornness. If I were more optimistic, I'd say I was steadfast but that always makes me think of tin soldiers and Nixon's coming in Mao Zedong's fairy cornhole where the squirrels hide their winter nuts and bolts of my psyche shattered by my own preconceptions and the cold hard truth commercials that only serve to make me want to light up come on baby light my fire let's set the night on fire. I digressed again. Deep down in my stubbornfastness, a good compromise of words, I want to prove to Devo that I'm not going to do anything to fuck with her heart although the last couple of entries and a recent discussion would most likely show that I'm all talk and no action. Maybe it's setting an example I'd like her to follow or it's simply me being me and hoping that she'll accept me for that rather than thinking I'm an idiot for sitting on her lawn, metaphorically, with a park rat sign that reads "WILL WORK FOR LOVE". To quote the great Zionist prophet, "Trust me". digression I lost my train of thought. Spot's sleeping on my smelly laundry and she wakes up when I start fumbling with the digital camera to take her picture to capture the moment. While I was on the can between paragraphs ten and eleven, I was thinking about if I had to be a priest of one god or another I'd choose Haephestus. Superficially because he's lame with a gimp leg, he has a girlfriend or wife who doesn't like him and he gets into his work even though his work isn't a job. A bit deeper than that I'd choose him since he has to be one of the more forward thinking gods who did something useful by being a smith, a creator of tools and devices, and right now I'm sure his following is quite strong even though most of the folks do not realize they're doing right by Haephestus. One of the more practical gods who wasn't pulled into the ego trips, cattiness and childishness of other supreme beings which made for fun tales in Athens. The only thing I have against him is the fact he was born divine rather than earning the divinity or elevating himself to that realm. I couldn't associate the concept, idea or act of dreaming to an entity. Everyone has their own dreams. Like me. This was written out in longhand during Wednesday's lunch. I came into my grandmother's house. Not my grandma on my father's side but my grandmother on my mother's side of the family. When I was a wee spivak they were differentiated by being Grandma Bighouse and Grandma Little House. Of course Grandma Little House is my favorite. I walked around the house which was in its dark, seventies ideal of futuristic splendor in dark brown and the same kind of lonely, suburban desperation I know was captured in the movie The Gate. The windows were dark because it was night outside. Also outside was the big empty. The first time the big empty manifested in my dreams was some time ago when I dreamt of going through a big house akin to the Winchester house in California but much more suburban. The big empty was simply a grassy field going from horizon to horizon and an unmeasurable silence that weighed heavy on the soul. Only the first time the sun was low in the sky giving everything a golden, no yellow would be more correct, cast except for the blades of grass. Lately I've been remembering a lot of old dreams but I honestly don't have the heart to write them down or poke through all two hunded and eight dreams to see if I wrote about them already. One dream that stands out is the one about the vampire which would just start up when I'd close my eyes as if I hit the pause button on the dream VCR. Back in Grandma Bighouse's place there was a kerosene lamp. At the base was a glass resevoir about the size of a child's head filled with a green petrochemical. Fitted to the mouth of the resevoir was a brass ring that held a long rod that ended in a spoon. The lamp was lit and had been lit ever since my grandmother moved away to warmer pastures. I freaked and turned the spoon to kill the flame. The flame ignited itself again. After a few times I just gave up and let the lamp burn. People started coming in, folks my age and younger, milling about the placea like it was a party. Had it been a party it would've been a markedly somber party because no one spoke and everyone seemed to be staring at their shoes as if they were ashamed of some act they perpetrated. I went outside and discovered that it was Colorado Springs. The house I left was across the street on the opposite corner of Yampa and Weber. On the corner of Yampa and Weber, on my side, were several cats who resembled Spot staring into a sewer grating. Did I mention the cats were at least twice the size of Spot? Spot's a big cat. I crossed the street and peeked into the basement window of the building next door to see what the cats were staring at through the sewer grate. A score of stray dogs were trotting about, wagging tails and whining in the basement. In the back of my mind I knew something terrible was going to happen to the dogs so I opened up the basement window to let them out. One dog remained, a lanky black dog who resembled a lab but his ears stood up and folded forward a bit on the tip. That was all I could see of the dog since he was always behind a crate or cardboard box stored in the basement. He refused to leave, giving a single high pitched bark of annoyance now and again at my antics intended to lure him outside. Eventually I realized that since he was the only dog left, he was going to be safe after all. Just dream logic. There was more but I just don't remember. When I did wake up a few minutes before the alarm sounded I heard the alarm like a future echo. No, it wasn't the Olympics guy's alarm which is a eert-eert-eert-eert. This noise was like my alarm clock giving a single, loud, grating tone that always wakes me. Vice City is coming out soon and I know they're going to have the Flock of Seagulls song but I keep thinking they're going to have A-ha's "Take on Me" for the car radio. Eighties music all sounds the same. So I created a character on ChampionsMUSH who is part dragon and part monkey named Xiao Lung. Visually he looks like Goro but not as tall and without the bad attitude. He grew up in seclusion in monasteries, the first one in China being burnt down with the monks being re-educated by peasants with Mao's cultural revolution. Xiao was spirited away to an American monastery where he was raised, taught and protected from 1950's America which wouldn't understand a burly Chinese kid with four arms. A group called the Brotherhood of Man changed his life. The Brotherhood of Man, the name taken from Lennon's "Imagine", are extremist atheists (fundamentalist atheists would just sound silly) who blame religion, superstition and all things divine to be the cause for man's anguish throughout the millennia. It's their cause to eliminate these elements from the face of the earth to usher in a new age of man no longer oppressed by so-called gods and prophets. Not only did this small organization hear about some influential and holy sutra being protected in the monastery but also a strange demon guarding it. On that fateful day the Brotherhood marched through the monastery killing monks until they found their way into their holy of holies discovering Xiao hiding there with the sutras. When he saw the carnage outside he snapped and started busting heads. The Brotherhood completed half of their objective but failed at destroying the "demon". Xiao grew up listening to many tales from the monks in addition to reading smuggled comics with their clearly defined morality. He knew he was different but never dared to think he could be on par with Superman or Batman. He had already lost one homeland to communism, which he blames on the corruption and opium trade that involved Chang Kai-Shek and Mao Zedong, and he wasn't about to watch another country fall into disaster when he could do something about it. Xiao now runs a small apocathery in Chinatown where he sells his "alternative" cures to new agers and orientalists at high prices but giving free care to those in need in addition to protecting the city from undesirable elements. He has adopted western superstitions in order to maintain his good fortune in addition to honoring his Chinese superstitions. Two things are his Achilles heel: jade drains his strength and leaves him weak as a kitten which leads to his other weakness of being highly vulnerable to the attacks of felines of any stripe. He figures that jade affects him because it's his kryptonite but one of his parents lost favor with the celestial emperor and that disfavor is radiated through that gemstone. One of his other parents quarrelled with a tiger who cursed that parent that the bites of his children will sink deeply into their and their children's flesh. Bet you never thought you'd see yellow text again. I'm tired and the only thing I wanted to do when I came home Saturday was hug Spot for an hour because I was feeling down in the dumps. Only thing that's making me feel alright is playing Nethack and the fact that arguments about Moebius strips are notoriously one-sided. GET IT?!?!??!!!!???? I stayed up all night thinking of that one. |
I never understood the whole getting drunk the minute someone turns twenty one. They were getting drunk long before they left high school, what is so special about getting drunk now except for the fact you don't have to worry about being hassled by the pigs, maaaan. Fucking imbeciles. In my dream Spot had a male companion who I named Dorian. Instead of having Spot's cow spots and her Batman mask, Dorian had a big black spot on his back that covered most of his body to his belly with a striking white area on his belly which encroached upwards so he just didn't look like he was a tuxedo kitty. He was named Dorian because black and white make gray and there's that story by Oscar Wilde. The cats got along quite well but there was another kitty, a fat, long haired tabby with a pushed-in face who kept sleeping on the couch. The odd thing about this other cat was sometimes the cat would not appear to be real and other times be completely normal. Turned out that this other cat had a robotic twin being piloted by a tiny, fleshy, spherical alien hiding in the belly cockpit. I left the pride and went upstairs to check the mail. The front yards had been replaced with swimming pools that sparkled in the bright Colorado Springs sunlight. Across the street was a girl who was lounging on her walkway, the walkway was a bridge over her front yard pool giving the illusion of two pools, who waved hello as her brindle colored rottie bounded out towards the driveway towards me. He was a happy and friendly fellow who was inclined to lie on the ground and whine moreso than butt his head against me and push me around to get rubbed. I judged him to be harmless enough and went to check my mail when I realized that I left the door to my apartment open. Oh shit. The cats were in there. Cats plus rottie equals... I ran downstairs and looked around, I found the odd cat but not its robotic counterpart, not that I cared, Spot was hiding under the couch and Dorian was nowhere to be found but the alien was almost finished creating a Dorian robot. My apartment was completely different, the layout was much more open and it was divided into quadrants by frosted glass walls. The kitchen and my bedroom opened into the living room which had a huge skylight for a ceiling, the ceiling was much higher like nine feet and there was a small area behind the couch which had a fenced in pond. There were radio signals that I could hear coming from outside. A baby in the back seat was radioing its mother who was driving a car letting her know that someone had left their checkbook in their mailbox. The baby gleefully reported this wasn't one of those annoying situations where someone was receiving checks with their bank statement. I ran upstairs and I could hear the car's tires screeching around the corner. By the time I rounded the corner of the driveway into the front the mother was already yanking my checkbook from the mailbox so I threw her car door open and grabbed the baby by its head putting pressure on its soft spot. "Give me the checkbook or I'll kill this." Simple enough for anyone to understand. She ran off down the road and I was left with this filthy, little, bald brat who I left in some bushes to fend for itself. Sure it was only a few months old but I'd rather give it a chance to survive in the wild, no matter how slim, rather than kill it outright or adopt the baby. I hoped it would die of exposure. When I got downstairs I could hear the answering machine playing its messages when it sensed my presence in the apartment. "If you kill my baby you'll be in so much trouble. This is a recording. BEEP. Your money's going to a good cause, mine. This is a recording. BEEP." and so forth. Now I was worried, all that cash I stashed away was in peril because of this stupid broad and I knew if I gave her fucking thing back that wouldn't prevent her from spending my money. There wasn't any resolution to the dream.  Over on the KRCC front lawn are a pair of bronzed boobs. I think they might belong to the woman who worked at the station but was murdered a few months back and that being their quirky tribute to her. KRCC is the only station in Colorado Springs that is worth listening to on a regular basis. Every other radio station here is a Clearchannel station or some other computer generated playlist with a DJ who is hoping he won't be replaced by the DJ 3000 that plays CDs automatically and has three distinct variets of inane chatter. Yes, gentle reader, I've even come to enjoy what I used to derisively call "The Music Nobody Listens To Hour" because every day it's different even though every Elvis Costello song sounds exactly the same. So I donated some money to them when I went to finish paying my monthly bills. It's awful nice that they're right up the street. There was no PPV on Sunday night and no one knows why though Jaybird suspects it has something to do with the Broncos having a big game. I wouldn't know since I don't follow football. We watched X-Men, had Chinese food then I cut out because I was feeling very tired and my mouth is acting up again something fierce and it has been since Saturday yet I've kept it under control well enough the past day. This is a very old strip that's been mouldering on my hard drive since early September.  Well I thought it was funny. At least it's not as immature as one of my angrier comic chat strips and this strip was from text having absolutely nothing to do with whatever was on my mind the past month.</DISCLAIMER> I went food shopping tonight, paid my bills finally, made meatloaf for lunch and tomorrow will be somewhat busy but not as busy like today. Not busy in the sense of work because work has been relatively slow or I'm getting to the point that I'm quite speedy at what I do and the clients are the ones slowing the process. Mind you today's busy-ness was mostly doing stuff for me like food shopping and cooking and going out at the very last minute to put my envelopes in the mail. Right now I feel tired, I feel unappreciated for the things I do for some people who always seem awkward at certain displays like it's unwelcome or uncalled for in the first place, I'm hungry and my throat feels like it's about to get sick much to my consternation. Unlike MCI, I really can't play hooky without feeling guilty since the office is small and if one person is out then everyone else suffers. The only other thing going through my head is wondering when the fuck the Playstation 2 is going to be $150 to give the Gamecube some competition. At least I'll have my other site up and running, or in my possession, by Hallowe'en. Would you believe that I had a dream which was perfectly realized but once I woke up, and dislodged Spot from her sleepyplace against my thigh, it vanished from all shades of consciousness? Of course you would and you would probably be happy that my misfortune spared you from tedious purple tinted text. I have a serious headache and I'm glad that I live alone, Spot discounted, otherwise I'd be crankier than I already am right now. The only thing on my mind is wondering if J'onn J'onzz has ever been shown with his four arms. I would like to take this moment to tell Spot that poppa loves her. The vet pronounced her to be beautiful and in the pink of health but Spot has Schroedinger's Uterus where the vet was unsure if Spot had been spayed. She felt a scar but when Spot's tummy-tum was shorn there was no scar to be found. When we got home Spot expressed her displeasure by taking the biggest and smelliest dump in the litterbox. Jaybird's not as much of a mark as I would've liked him to be. When he was driving Spot and I to the vet and we were about three fourths of the way there I exclaimed, "Oh shit!" Damn it. Accidents are more perfect and beautiful than anything created by a mind and a hand. When the hand creates working on the orders and vision of the mind it will surely approximate what is required to realize that vision but never truly meet the expectations of its effort or what the mind had imagined. There will always be flaws in anything that is created but something which springs into being due to an accident is truly perfect and beautiful. There are no expectations in an accident, no unexpected flaws which stand out and make the eye sore for want of talent or skill. When I was walking home a few days ago and admiring the mountains I wondered if they had been created or if they were simply an accident with no will or expression giving them form. Every rock, crag, crevice and boulder an integral part of the mountains and should one move or be destroyed or paved over then the 'work', for lack of a thesaurus at this late hour, would still remain as majestic and powerful because part of its existence is to change. Should Pikes Peak be the work of God along with its neighbors I would have noticed the imperfections, the unfinished bits, the handiwork that wrought these titans from the earth. With accidents things are always as they should be when they come to rest. When something is forged with the hand and mind there is a single doubt which is the greatest flaw in the work, "Could this have been better?" William Shatner is Adolph Hitler in the Christmas season's wackiest adventure. The other night I dreamt that William Shatner had taken the role of Adolph Hitler in a historical farce playing off the stories or propaganda about how Hitler couldn't get himself killed in World War One. I think the stories are true because I heard them, without a touch of irony, from non-Buddha Rob who has a masters degree in western civilization. Of course it smacks of propaganda saying Hitler had a destiny and couldn't be killed until it was fulfilled. But I digress. There was William Shatner thundering along on his stallion dressed like Hitler towing a bathtub behind him. All around him were exploding bombs, clouds of mustard gas and other stuff. His steed bolted towards a thicket of trees where Adolph Shatner's head was whacked by a low hanging branch knocking him off the horse and into the bathtub. The rope towing the bathtub broke and skidded off to one side while the horse went off in a cloud of dust in the opposite direction. Up ahead were machine gun nests with huge spaghetti western machine guns firing like mad at the enemy and soon they were trained upon the bathtub bearing der Fuhrer. Bullets bounced off the cast iron as it slid into the trenches knocking the machine guns off their tripods and making the soldiers scatter to the four winds. William Shatner portraying a young Adolph Hitler in WWI. What? Who the hell reads this site other than maybe ten people? What is it that you read that you decided was worthy of being nominated for some diary award? Was it a dick joke? I know it wasn't a dream since everyone skips over that color, which is why I introduced that convention for your convenience gentle reader, and it most certainly wasn't something about gaming. Whoa, okay maybe ten people is overstating it but at least I can think of five readers. They're all chicks. Gentle reader, If you are male and think having some site where you share your innermost feelings will get you laid because chicks will think you're "deep" and "sensitive" I'm going to clue you in. It doesn't work. Chicks don't want to hear the truth. They want to be lied to which means they want to be told what they want to hear which means you have to be untrue to yourself. That's the way to get in their pants. You're not going to get into their pants telling them how you spent fifteen minutes talking to some black guy at your shitty job who could only say "duwha" getting you to the point of saying, "Listen, can you put your massah on the phone because apparently you're not understanding what I'm telling you." They don't want to know you get all overwrought and strung out because you have unrealistic wishes and fantasies and they continually and consistently tell you it's not going to happen and hope you'll get it through your thick fucking skull. They don't want to hear your beliefs, which are inherently irrational, and will take savage joy in deconstructing them turning the tables on the solar male and the lunar female. Plus most chicks honestly want nothing to do with you beyond your seed and your wallet. Oh you had a bad day but let me tell you about my shitty life after I wanted to get knocked up then got knocked up and now I'm stuck cleaning diapers of something I wanted in the first place and it's all your fault for being stupid enough to mount me like a cdrom drive and I swear to god I should've slit your throat when you fell asleep five minutes after your magical moment, the shuddering shangri-la or whatever you call it when you're carousing with those worthless, lowlife drinking buddies who take you away from me who only wants to give you love but you're mean and make me cry and slave in this hellhole with dreams of moving into some place uptown where I can have a washing machine and my mouth and hands won't be chapped and scratch your dick when I choke down your wang after you buy me presents and win my sex and love for about five minutes followed by you falling asleep and this time I'm really going to cut your worthless throat moments after you collapse into a rugose heap of pallid flesh in the charnel bedroom whispering "Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!" Get it? Got it? Good. Don't get me started on the whole "When I say jump you ask how high?" bullshit. Of course chicks will say they want nothing to do with men who are insecure when it comes to love or sex because one has to love oneself before they can be loved by someone else. I hate that catch-22 almost as much as I hate folks who crow about being born into some position, hierarchy or whatever instead of earning their place. As for you poor saps out there who have a woman, tell her to sell the house, sell the car, sell the kids because you're never coming back. Go get a cat, beat off (not on the cat or to the cat) and tell dick jokes in some IRC chat room. Chicks are nothing but heartache. Even the ones who are honest and say they don't play games. And now you've heard the rest... of the story. Good... day? DATELINE: COLORADO SPRINGS, CO THE OWNER AND OPERATOR OF THE ANTONYM OF NOTORIOUS AND COMPLETELY LACKING IN REPUTATION WEBSITE HEPTAPOD.ORG HAS BEEN SUED FOR A HUNDRED BILLION (BRITISH, NOT US BILLION SO HE'S IN ***DEEP*** SHIT HERE, FOLKS) DOLLARS BY PAUL HARVEY FOR HIS FLAGRANT THEFT OF MR. HARVEY'S INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY WHICH IS MR. HARVEY'S TRADEMARKED, FOLKSY SIGNOFF OF "AND NOW YOU KNOW THE REST OF THE STORY. GOOD DAY." It snowed on Wednesday. Devo wasn't around on Thursday. I've had a serious cold but I went to work anyway like a trouper. I had two stouts on Thursday. This weekend is going to suck eggs and I can't wait for it to be over. PS2 is only 150 bucks if you buy two games, a nineteen dollar accessory (funnily enough, it's the same price as a memory chip) and of course the PS2 and only then if you send in the rebate. Someone nominated me for some diary award. What entry? Who did this? Why the fuck did you do this? I'm tired and miserable. I wish I had cancer, maybe I'd have something else to bitch about. I downloaded the themes to Spongebob Squarepants and Insomniac. The gun isn't where I left it. The moon was full on Monday. I missed the PPV because Hooters fucked up or got into some dispute or it was InDemand cable. Life isn't worth living. The only time Spot irritates me is when she licks my face then decides to eat and tug at my beard. I talked with the backyard neighbor briefly on Thursday night and there was a tone of "Well good. Are you done because I really have to run along!" Man, I feel amazing. I complained to the methadone clinic about their clientele, the noise, the littering and all the other stuff. I'm angry but I'm more frustrated which is why I'm angry and I'm going to finish my lemon Italian ice, hug my pillow like the fucking autistic fuckhead I am then fall asleep wishing I could stay up later doing absolutely nothing. I like people much more than some people like me and that makes me a schmuck. I actually whisper the things that the voices in my head say that reinforce what a waste of life I am. Most times I catch myself. Twenty seven is the age of death. Most people die at the age of twenty seven and those who get past that age are going to live boring and sexless lives, conquer the world or maintain a poorly written online journal. I could get into how twenty seven reduces to nine and nine is the number of everything coming to fruition. Ten being the number which represents the aftermath, for lack of a more positive term, and a new cycle. Spot wakes me up on Saturdays. It all begins when she's up by the bedroom window talking to herself or the naughty squirrels outside homphing the squirrel food I leave out for them. She will then jump down and start walking around, sniffing my face and biting my beard in hopes of waking me up to see the new day. Why? Does she think I'll be late because she's used to me lumbering around in the early morning getting myself together for work? Could she be bored since she only has the radio and the hum of the vents to keep her company during the day? I feel bad about that which is why I leave the radio on instead of letting it shut off after the sleep button finishes its timer. The mountains are beautiful today with just the right amount of cloud doing a majestic veil dance as the mists thicken and vanish revealing only hints of the mountain's frost covered countenance. I just can't get over how wonderful everything looks out here. I know that this is a memorable sight because I got one of those feelings which made me feel like a little kid. When I wasn't laboring, I was muttering to myself most of the day telling myself what a piece of shit I am and lots more which would only make this relatively benign entry into one of the other entries that have been posted in the last two months. Okay six months. Year and I'm holding firm. small update I was talking with someone in Colorado Springs who isn't Jaybird or maribou and they were telling me about how they hate it here and their only friends were their family. I don't hate Colorado Springs, it has its own character. Sure the homeless are scarier than the ones in NYC and decidedly more prominent plus everything closes after 7 p.m. unless it's a supermarket or a 7-11 or something else that touts being open twenty four hours. Thankfully they don't pull the "Yes, we're open twenty four hours. Just not in a row." So I thought I was going out on Saturday but that crashed and burned again so I did food shopping and other needful things. Anyway, back to the first paragraph of this small update. I honestly think that somehow I chose the wrong time to come to Colorado Springs. One person is always consumed with work and school, the aforementioned person, one of the people I hoped to be closer to (if one thinks seven hundred miles is close) is wrapped up in her life with school, work and other afflictions and the only folks I hung out with even though it was brief had kids and being around toddlers and infants seriously bugged me out. Plus I don't want to put upon Jaybird and maribou because I don't want to break the only thing that I believe I have out here. So I feel resentment and I berate myself for resenting myself and thinking people love me. O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle -- be Thou near them! With them -- in spirit -- we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it -- for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen. I find myself becoming more and more of an atheist but I can not continue to discount the supernatural world. The best proof that I have of the supernatural are dreams. Dreams are reproducable, happen on a regular basis and have been measured by science using the human body as a medium. Nice choice of words. I can not make myself believe some individual has a private line to a higher being for advice, guidance and where to spend one's wrath in their name. I have no faith because I have no faith in people. Of course that is my own failing, as has been shown to me by others and by my own observations, and no one can change that. Since dreams are so important in my life as evinced by the large purple list in the right column of the main index page I can only conclude that there is no afterlife and if there is one then it's tailored for each individual based on their dreams. Spot's watching me type this entry right now. Earlier today I was wondering if I didn't live alone if Spot would be this affectionate towards me. My reasoning is she may have the feline equivalent of Stockholm syndrome. Shit, there's even an article about this. Back in New Jersey living with my parents, sister, Ben, Kate and Rocco are the litmus test that I use for this conclusion. The latter three never really seemed particularly affectionate towards me, having bonded with my father. At best Pudding was somewhat affectionate towards me and it means something because she is a cat and she was quite independent bordering on feral. This brings me to various thoughts that have been running through my head. First being the off and on again fantasy of being abducted by aliens and discovering that someone else was abducted by aliens too. Of course in such surroundings where there are no other humans and all that we become very close sparking love where there was no love before. A couple of months ago this other person was Devo. This hasn't come up recently nor have I thought of it but the whole feline Stockholm syndrome thing seemed to tangent with that flight of fancy. The other thought is an analogy between feline behavior and the amorous pursuits of those who I would gently call libertines rather than using their appellation. I'm tired and need sleep and shower and brush out my hair like Marsha Brady. Something is wrong but I have no idea what is wrong. Monday went by so quickly and without any trouble from customers or me fucking up the loans because sometimes I get caught up in the lies that the customers tell me. Yes, the customers lie to me and what they say are considered lies until I have hard proof that shows they are telling the truth. Of course this is a one eighty from the American belief of innocent until proven guilty. Still, everything went so smoothly and I got rid of the customers who are thorns in my side (like the self employed) but I ended up with a lot of pending applications. Over twenty applications. Still something kept twitching at the back of my head. The male manager walked past my desk one too many times but the door to the general manager's office never closed once or I didn't notice it. I'm sure it's nothing. Also I told the guy who babysits the network about Nethack because all he does is sit and read in the back room or in the tangled nest of wires next to all the boxes or play solitaire. My sister returned from Spain last Tuesday and sent me the following message. I will share it with you, gentle reader. Hello brother, There, that's certainly more entertaining than what's been going on in my life lately. I've been dreaming but either I've been consciously forgetting the dreams or they just haven't been interesting or noteworthy enough to immortalize in HTML. What the fuck is up with Google? When I last checked Google to see where my site was when searching for "heptapod" the cache was for 10/18/02 but when I checked today the cache was for August 28th? can't stop updating So while I was being all mechanical at work and the other side of my brain actually had time to think and get ideas together I thought of something which would be kinda cool if only I was back in New Jersey. Run one of the old superhero campaigns with the same characters, or as many of the same characters from that campaign if the folks are available, except the setting would be different. Karl Rehnquist and Black Adder in a Soviet dominated North America. Shadowturtle and Daedelus in an America where the Bund took power in the late Forties ensuring Britain's defeat and the rise of the third reich throughout Europe. The characters could be hard line patriots for those places, which would be a lot more interesting than something like "DUH COMMU^H^H^H^H^H SOCIALISM BAD LET US FIGHT FROM WITHIN" though that would be interesting if it was played out thoughtfully and intelligently. Right now I have a hankering to call Brian and tell him this idea even though he's probably not home, already driving over to Ronni's for the Monday night game. I'm not talking about sliders kinda shit, I'm talking about stuff like Kim Newman's Ubermensch! where Kal-El crashed in the Black Forest and fought with the Nazis instead of being an American. I know it was in one of the Nebula Award anthologies if you're interested in reading that particular story. more I really like Samuel Clemens when he's angry. He has the kind of writing voice that I endeavor to emulate when I'm writing here but most of the things which stick in my craw aren't really that relevant or have already been said and usually more eloquently than I am capable of conveying to you, gentle reader. Letters from the Earth, that war poem I posted yesterday and the like. After reading that poem I was half inclined that if there was going to be Thanksgiving with Jaybird's mom again I'd ask to read that poem. Unfortunately there isn't going to be one because Jaybird's sister thinks having non-family is distasteful and they want to prevent conflict and I'm sure that maribou would say it was completely uncalled for since I'd lack the sparkle of charisma that Jaybird would be able to give that prayer like he did with the Poseidon prayer. Shit, each time I've gone to write "prayer" I always write "poem". Freudian slips, people. On a more superficial note, I think that there's something about those bushy nineteenth century mustaches that make people atheists. Rabid or otherwise. I doubt that Clemens and Nietzsche were separated at birth. Today was a fun day while processing loans. This one guy wasn't eligible last week but somehow he got enough income and collateral to be eligible then sent it over to my attention. "Damn it, I'm not your personal processor or loan officer", I cussed under my breath. When he called to see if I received the papers I told him no and he started getting pissy with me and kept going Jesus Christ. I told him to calm down and stop using the lord's name in vain. He told me he'll do whatever the fuck he wants and he's from Oklahoma and they hang people for less than what I told him. Whoa, someone who lives in Texas going off on how they're from Oklahoma? I thought it was the other way around considering the attitude of another person. He called back later and apologized to me over and over again. What made me laugh was when he got all humble and said "Yeap, I shouldn't have used the Lord's name in vain and I'm sorry that was wrong of me." Thankfully my break was coming up so I could laugh at his shenanigans. Also I was leaving a message for a customer to call me back with information they promised me a few hours ago and I started using my Fernando from New Beginnings voice because the guy had a Spanish last name. When I was giving the number to call back I almost broke down laughing because each number I rattled off to the answering service sounded like "Cinco, cinco, cinco, nueve dos, nueve dos". The girl next to me was wondering what my damage was because my face was bright red. I am Latin. You're not Latin, you're just a cheap pimp from upstate!" fall back, spring forward So the timeslip was last Sunday and Monday morning was really fucking weird because the sun was already up rather than everything being shrouded in darkness for another hour. Half the time while driving to work I was thinking, "Fuck, I'm going to be late" but that wasn't so because KRCC was kind enough to state the time each time it was *9 minutes past the hour or *1 minutes before the hour. Very disconcerting. Also Pikes Peak was wonderful today being completely covered in snow rather than a spotty smear of white stuff. Too bad it was sunny and warm, except in the shade, instead of being bitterly cold which would've been awfully nice. Brian is coming out to Colorado Springs in November. He will arrive here around the 15th of November unless things change and then he will be keeping me up to date on his plans. The big thing about his arrival will be the fact that his girlfriend will be coming along with him. Deanna never goes out, or never seems to, so I reckon she's getting better. Jaybird has Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. Our collective reaction was some disappointment at the fact that the protagonist speaks instead of just being a silent character where you knew exactly what was being thought but kept it to yourself. GTA:Vice City is much more cinematic so I figure this lends to the game experience. The game definitely looks tougher but I doubt I'll have a chance to play the game anytime soon, none of the passing off of "I can't finish this. You try." I have a boring life. Be thankful that you, gentle reader, are not involved in my life. My only regret lately is the fact that I'm not home enough to keep Spot company. Yeah, I was here on Monday but Spot wasn't that playful or affectionate keeping to herself sleeping on whatever godforsaken piece of laundry that suits her fancy. Finally if you haven't read yesterday's entry or only got the first one or two updates then read it all because I think it's a good entry. Shinola is what we call it back east. Now I'll just go back to being everyone's shameful secret. post script Why the fuck do you read this site anyway? Considering the fact that I've asked questions of you, gentle reader, more than enough times in the past and received no answers I'm not expecting anyone to reply to this but it would be nice especially from some people. It's Hallowe'en, a time when people are more attuned to the otherworldly elements that resonate at a more primal level with the human soul. I must say that I've been feeling a bit prognosticatorial lately, and like Don King's vocabulary, which means I have a vision. I have a vision of someone turning down an offer because they:
I'd give myself a crazy nickname like Carnac but spivak already sounds like that and heptac sounds like some new allergy drug with a vague television commercial. Call your doctor today to find out what the fuck this is but isn't it pretty to see colors and people smiling on the screen? Also a name ending with the suffix -ini would be ghey. Right now it's snowy in Colorado Springs and the music on NPR's morning freeform fits the mood outside. That's a false analogy or something. I read what those kinds of comparisons stand for in a book some time ago. dicks I was going to write something but it wasn't going to be very constructive. Hellfire. I'm going to listen to the Misfits and get all nostalgic for New Jersey and punch myself and have a couple of drinks before taking a shower and falling asleep feeling impotent and meaningless. OH YEAH P.S. HI TOILETSTL YOU FAGGOT |
