Guarenteed Personality

Ass puncher

2007-12-04T07:44:00.000-08:00

I got ass punched. Ha ha.
So, there you have it. The final day of existence. This is what I did today.

I destroyed all MSN lingo.
I made polititians dress like clowns.
Lawers have to say "I love you" after every sentence.
No one reads/believes the news.
The Shank has been voted the greatest movie of all time.
Friday nights are not the only night we're allowed to drink.
Bebe has been burned to the ground. No more $600 shoes.
Jocks have been forced to learn the guitar and appretiate Bob Dylan.
Goodwill punks have been fed to a giant face in the sand.
Jordan stands over top of me.
I wrote and autobiography.
I rule the world.

This is now the state of things. I am happy. Yippee doo.

It's snowy, I'm locked in my house. That's all I have to say. Thanks for your time.

I get high

2007-10-25T14:52:00.000-07:00

I get high, I get high, I get high... it's such a feeling, my love. It's true. Ask anyone who knows anything, it's very true indeed. Prudence especially. Point is, there are several small monsters hiding underneath my carpet, and I would like to specifically draw your undivided attention towards them and help you to form a very much unbiased opinion. These monsters are green, slimy and speak only when provoked into fumes of anger and anxiety. If you pick the wrong brand of cigarettes, or take too small a swig of your whiskey, rest assured, these sons-o-bitches will be there to let you know who's boss, and it's not gonna be you. Unfortunately, this is MY carpet we're talking about here, and it's only because of this trip I'm on that these deviants from another planet think I need something. They're trying to sell me something, some sort of idea. Some idea about sex drugs and rock n roll that I don't want to buy into. Frankly, I don't have the emotional leverage over myself to force that into my head, nor do I have enough cash to purchase this idea from them. So I'm left with only one option, and unfortunately, I have to move. I have my own thoughts, you see... very calm, surrealistic thoughts that I can't ever put together in time to fully realise, but they're there and I'm working on it. The drugs don't work anymore. The sex is not pleasurable. And being loud just gives me a headache.

I have found love at last. Or rather, love has found me. She's up in a castle, sitting around and being as beautiful as can be, while I'm over here fighting battles on the Western front and writing her sweet letters of promise and care. We're far away, that much is known. But here is where I have to stay, to die in a battle for the greater good, and anyway she's happy in her little haven of clear blue skies and mornings rich with sun and dandilions. We'll meet again.

The carpet is stirring again... I'm expecting to hear from them soon. They need to be put to an end. Something has to be done, and it has to be done soon, or else they'll find their way up to my collar, perch on it and brainwash me into thinking I have no control over my actions... This sort of, religious idealism that I need to do what they think is best, or right, or whatever, and then I'm a free man. I am a free man, because I'm in love, and my creative process is blossoming. They want a taste, you see. They tell me after I have successfully come through a job interview, that it was all of us that did it. That whenever I write the best music I've ever heard, that they had something to do with it. That when they're not hungry, neither am I. And I don't sleep until they're ready to. They think I'll give them the credit I deserve? They must be joking.

But she's still there. Even if my only company here happens to be the spawn of the most vile and sadistic demon ever to exist in history, my company there is the sweetest woman I have ever known. What will stop me? Not them. Not you. Not anyone. I am in love, and I don't need to tell you anymore.

Catch me in the barley

2007-09-16T16:33:00.000-07:00

Not one single soul on this Earth reads, and by now that should be a well respected assumption amongst all of the sheep farmers of this distant and forlorn county. I have but four shades of green to choose from. None of them match my eyes, and only one of them matches my mind. But I'd be lying to myself if I said that I'm caught in a storm with choosing paint, if only because my landlord owes me rent money. I myself am not a sheep farmer, but I understand the thought process of one, I think. Sheer, sell, sheer, eat... only a true sheep farmer eats the wool of his prey. And yet he is not a predator. He's a simple man. He doesn't even own any sheep.

I put up a neon sign the other day that said "Las Vegas is around the corner... Love me." No one understood. I did... and just as well, because I wrote it. There was a single passers-by who said to me that I am not one to be loved, but one to be paid for my labours in composing such a song of neon light. I said to him that he's travelling the wrong way, and showed him to the cab station. This turned out to be the police station, and he was carrying several hundred pounds of heroin in his back pocket. And that's how I got the clap. I traded that for six hundred bucks and a pack of Belmonts.

While we're on the subject, the country is not run by lizard men with alien intentions. We are not on an assembly line made of pretzel sticks. We're just two lost souls looking for a motel that lets us pay on debit. It's just too much to ask these days...

As I'm sure you figured out at this point, I do not have nasse in my pocket, as previously mentioned. Nasse is, in all honesty, running amock and allowing me to stare and drive myself into misery for my digresions. Nasse claims to want a pocket, even just to keep warm. But nasse is a hard fish to catch. It only comes out once a year and screams out to the wilderness that it is a free soul and will not allow any fisherman to catch it. It says this in Spanish, but in Latin when reading Gothic literature. I myself indulge in the occassional gothic story, but I find them too suave, they know too much. They laugh at me when I put them down.

So in conclusion, I have found myself learning how to change my own criteria for the perfect smile. All it is is a series of numbers put together to shit all over the wall of post-modern air production. But, as each number is a soul set on fire, it will get in a barrell and crawl over Niagra Falls to it's untimely demise. It's not it's fault. It just wishes it was older, that it had some sort of a soul to reach out and squeeze the neck of twelve and eighty-three... even just for kicks. It lets itself become the bear, the lion, the whale shark. And then farms sheep. And then sheers them, eats the wool, and ends up at the same point it was yesterday.

Greetings.

2007-09-02T09:21:00.000-07:00

The last few days have felt like they happened while I was sleeping. Everything's stuck in a sort of brume, a teasing condensation that laughs at my inability to decipher the real from the dream, and the dream from the nightmare. This is not uncommon for myself, considering the circumstances... and these are circumstances you must understand. You must understand that I am just a word, and when you understand that, you will realise that I am a language, and I must be learned. There's nothing easy about what I want to say, but the brume is coming through my fingers and around my head and sneaking onto the screen to fit itself to the words that I write. But here it is... in all it's glory.

In the middle of my room, there is a statue. It wasn't built by me, or anybody really, for that matter. It used to sit there, and I used to tend to it. I would clean it, I would shine it, prepare it to be seen in front of crowds of millions of people. I took it wherever I went, and everytime I was asked about it, someone said "Who's is that?" and I said "It's no one's." In my own ignorance, I decided that being tied to a piece of stone for the rest of my life would be the true path to Nirvana. I kept it in my room, and I sat down and said "Stone, you are the light of my life." It's quite a road block to stumble upon when you realise that stone is emotionless. Stones do not care what you do for them. They do not smile, stones, they do not cry, but when the pressure of rain allows for them to crumble into sand, who's the one who has to fix it? It can't fix itself, it's a fucking rock! You understand that this can only go on for so long before one allows the stone to crumble, even in your hands. And as you hold it, the sand eats at your skin and stings your eyes, and you feel pain that cannot be explained, that cannot be taught. And to this day, I am covered in sand. My room, sand. Everytime I touch something, someone, anything, they feel the sand fall off of my fingertips and sting them a little bit. And this is what I'm left with.