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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
Michael P. Workman's LiveJournal:
| Tuesday, March 12th, 2002 | |
| 2:25 pm | why? boy, these surveys sure are dumb. who spends their time filling out surveys about themselves and the "bad" things that may or may not have done? that's so...something. actually, it's a great idea. i don't start college until august, so until then i'm going to spend my time trying to think of things to do. School / Have you ever.. Skipped school: yes. Skipped a class: yes. Slept through a class: yes. Thrown things at the teacher, and what did you throw: yes, gum Done mean things to people in your class: no. Cheated on tests: yes. Plagarized: no. Copied someone's work: yes. Been suspended, and for what: yes, various things Been expelled, and for what: four times from three different schools. they took me back each time though, because i am a Living Treasure Had detention: yes Brought a weapon to school, and what was it: don't remember, but probably Stolen something from someone at school: various items Had drugs in your possession at school: yes. Home/Have you ever.. Done something your parents specifically said NOT to: yes. Snuck out and been caught: yes. Snuck out and got away with it: yes. Hit a family member: yes Been grounded for a month or more: no Had a party at your house unsupervised: yes Broken something and lied about it: yes. Stolen money from your family members: yes Had a fistfight with your sibling: yes Gotten in trouble for bad grades: yes. Drugs/Have you ever.. Smoked cigarettes: yes. Drank alcohol: yes. Been so drunk you passed out: yes. Puked from drug usage: yes. Smoked the killer weed [marijuana]: yes. Smoked the killer weed [oregano]: no. Taken any pill medication that wasn't prescribed to you: yes. Smoked crack, or any other drug: yes Tried heroin in any form: yes Tried X: yes. Candy flipped: yes. Bought illegal drugs: yes. Sold illegal drugs: yes Had an adult or older person buy you alcohol or cigarettes: yes Stolen alcohol or cigarettes from a store: yes Driven drunk or under the influence of anything: i don't know how to drive. i've rode a horse drunk. Done any unusual drugs: yes Tried inhalants: yes Took sleeping pills: yes Took caffeine pills: yes Used 3 or more drugs at once: yes Tripped acid: yes Hallucinated: yes Taken a drug and swore you'd never take it again because of something that happened: yes Overdosed: yes Taken something you didn't know what it was: yes played a game such as "Who will get the drugs": yeah, i won because they were mine Been in a drinking contest: yes. Won a drinking contest: i've never lost a game of "honk the running monkey" Gone to school/work on drugs: yes. Been caught by your parents or any adult while you were on drugs: yes Sex/Have you ever.. First of all, have you ever even had sex: yes. Had sex more than once: yes. More than 5 times: yes. Tried any other positions besides missionary: yes. Had sex without any birth control: yes. Masturbated: yes. Used your hands for sexual purposes on a partner: yes. Had hands used for sexual purposes on you by someone else: yes. Performed oral sex: yes. Received oral sex: yes. Swallowed: i would hope not Done 69: yes. Been walked in on doing any sexual activity: yes. Used food for sexual purpose: yes. Made your own words for body parts or sexual activity: yes. Had sex in a car: yes, i got caught by the cops. i thought that that only happened in movies until then. Had sex in a public place: yes Had sex in a house with someone else not in the room, but present in the house: yes. Had sex outdoors: yes Had soreness or pains due to sexual activity: yes. Been or gotten someone else pregnant: no. Stripped for someone or a group of people: yes Played strip poker, or any game of that sort: yes. Been given money to strip or do sexual favors: yes Taken birth control pills: of course not. this survey was designed for high scool girls, wasn't it? Had anal sex: no. Had sex with someone you barely knew: yes. Tied someone up/been tied up: yes. Spent the night in a bed with someone of the opposite sex, without anything sexual happening: yes. Practiced any weird fetishes: sort of The Law/have you ever.. Stolen anything minor [small things]: yes. Stolen anything major [expensive]: yes Robbed a store/person: yes Been caught stealing: yes Vandalized anything: yes. Stolen anything not from a store: yes. Tampered with other people's mail: yes Driven illegally: yes. Ran from the cops: yes. Been busted by the cops for anything: yes Been arrested: yes Had charges or anything filed against you: yes Been to court: yes Been convicted of any crime: yes Broken into any place: yes Spraypainted anything: yes. Harassed anyone: yes Done anything under the age of consent [drink, etc.]: yes. Had sex under the age of consent: yes Hit or harmed anyone: yes Broken into anyone else's stuff online: no. Hacked a person's computer or website: no. Committed adultery: no. Been banned from any place for any reason: yes Had a restraining order placed against you: no. it was all worth it, but now i'm hopelessly bored. oh well. there is always the Forbidden Dance!!!! |
| 2:04 pm | Uncaring 4-LOM guitarist sex and morphing a story I began a story and it's rocking the fuck along. I hope to make it very long and full of great words like "ditty," "capital," "pneumatic," "glom," and others that I haven't thought up yet. I sure could use some LSD. it's actually impossible for me to write on LSD, I just want it. I can't really write on any drugs is the problem, because the only recreation that I engage in besides writing is the use of serotonergicals. these are serotonin-increasing drugs. most of them have other activities, affecting GABA, PCP, and sometimes sigmoid receptors. unlike most people, drugs are very good for me. they provide a healthy environment for me to think of riddles and tricks inside. if you don't believe me, just read what I just wrote. who's reading this? anyone could be. it's impossible to tell. well, who is it? you can never expect. you sneaky bastards just loom there, reading the back of my mind as I have displayed it. really I just want to rock out. I grow weary of this not-rocking-out. I had a dream that the lead guitarist for his name is alive was for some reason Karen Oliver, but I was reading an article stating that she had quit the band in order to join "uncaring 4-LOM." I’ve never heard of that, and it was made up and artificial and of dreams. anyway, there was a new video by "uncaring 4-LOM" with Karen Oliver rocking out on the guitar. then she started to sort of morph like people in dreams do. the camera kept zooming onto her crotch. I was pretty shocked to see Karen Oliver’s crotch. it just didn't seem normal for one of the HNIA girls to be in a video with crotch-shots. anyway she was wearing red underwears or somesuch, but then she morphed into a completely different girl and we had sex in the bathtub. a while later her dad came home and I had to hurry up and get dressed. when I went to put on my clothes, however, they had become a sort of girl's body-suit put it on and the body was just like the morphed Karen Oliver’s. so her dad comes in and thinks it's her, only there was some questioning about how she didn't look like a virgin anymore, only her dad didn't want to look at his daughter naked so he got the REAL morphed Karen Oliver to check (I guess the Oliver’s can tell just by looking). she said that everything was in order and he left, satisfied that the clone of his daughter was still a virgin. then more sex with me morphing to and from the duplicate Oliver and back into myself. that was strange. then I had to leave as my mother had arrived with my entire family in the car. they didn't ask about my new skin, but apparently it had somehow caused the area where Oliver lived to flood somewhat. the newly created rivers and streams were very beautiful and had lotuses and lilies in them. when I mentioned it to my sister I turned back into myself. after this I don't remember. something to do with bumblebirds. |
| Thursday, March 7th, 2002 | |
| 12:06 am | sex sexsexsexsexsex. don't think i'm obsessed or anything, just bored. goodnight. wait, who the hell am i talking to? no one's reading this. |
| Wednesday, February 27th, 2002 | |
| 12:25 am | A Terrible Ending (a Fairy Wording) Although the poor beast was thought by many bound to the ancient tradition that all widow snakes are bound to--that being the tying of oneself in a knot so tightly around the throat that one becomes asphyxiated--she knew very better the real case. To be sure it was the Ridiculous Owl, always combing his/her feathers with his/her beak (it's very hard to tell with owls without getting them drunk on a good vintage Chinese Mousewine), that initally informed her of the circumstances which accompany most widows the world over. "This is beginning to sound overmuch like a story," the Owl often hoot-hooted on those cold February midnights, and to be sure this was the case. "How ridiculous," would reply the snake, "for widows do not tell their stories." "It seems more like that they do not know them, and instead sing with much stranger intentions," retorted the Owl, dryly. The snake, however, being horribly undereducated in the ways of owls, and furthermore uninterested, simply improvised a song with strange intentions. "Was it not the Huguenot was thrown to rot from the hotel cot?" At that point the snake realized that she had become obsessed with the word "Huguenot" and she became so sad at this that she begged the Ridiculous Owl to teach her the ways of singing with regular intentions. He replied abruptly and earnestly: "What a terrible ending." It was then that the snake accidentally tied herself in a knot. |
| Tuesday, February 26th, 2002 | |
| 11:25 pm | just whining it's starting to snow and the whole day has been rendered a miserable effort toward very deep sleep by this and these other occurrences: 1) my dog ate most of what was left of my shoes. even though i hate those damned shoes and they had a damned hole in the damned bottom of them, i was still happier unshoeless. 2) i spent most of the day playing diablo 2. i actually hate video games and i only play them to get it over with. so i download cheat programs and rush through the game as quickly as possible. i don't understand how any sober human being can really enjoy spending hours and hours pushing buttons and staring at the hideous glow of a computer/television screen. i guess i just play for nostalgic reasons and for lack of other habits. the problem with committing myself to writing/drawing (bad) comics etc. is that the risk of destruction seems so much less than the risk of creation blah blah. 3) i thought that there were three...hmmm...oh yeah, i feel as if i am alone in this world and that happiness is a lost cause. other than all said rot, life is an undeniably grand event filled full of circuses, movies, my wonderful occurrences, girls with at least three 'e's in their names, people who are glad and young despite the most hideous entaglements, musics, girls who enjoy antique items, alundrysauce if that is a thing, and how bout those green beans you ate once ago that you always go on about? those were vicious days. now i would like to take the time to address an issue which increasingly concerns me to the 1-3 2/3 people who might read this. the thing that i speak of is the unneccessary copyrighting of bad poems published online. i deliberately do NOT copyright any poetry that i right in the hopes that others might follow my cue. what really gets me is when other people copyright my poems FOR me. it doesn't happen often, but it does happen. and that is my contribution to the world for today. i would think of something better but it's impossible to think with what i've just written staring right back at me. anyway i'm not going to right any more stories until i read some good fairy tales. hans christian andersen's use of the word "capital" is probably the best thing that will ever happen to literature. well, to be honest i rather hate literature and don't ever read it. |
| Thursday, February 21st, 2002 | |
| 5:55 am | somnambulist birthday clown well, it's early morning sunshine. that's all i can think of because i can't tap the keys so hard because people are sleeping and this key board is noise tap-happy. all of my three friends are becoming existential fantasy absurdists like me and i wonder: ??? that was MY thing but i guess my people are inheriting the earth, after all. one-day-late most happiest birthday to mad mortie who to me shall always be known by her previous moniker, fierce infinity. may she grow kittens claws and rip with them through silk. may she always be young and free and go for long swims at night in the warmest waters. this thing of waking up at four a.m. has got to quit. my undereyes are becoming quite dark and i can't imagine living always on six hours sleep a night. consider especially this when i tell you that i am used to 12-16 hours a day. i feel that i could do with a lobotomy. i think about lonesomenessness and what i'm going to do about it. i'm quite ashamed of being so lonesome, and i feel almost a weak person that i need someone. but this is instinct(or something as strong), i think. i've been two years almost without a girlfriend. that seems long enough. i've had sex, but i haven't had any sort of relationships(minus online thingums). the fact remains that i have a great tendency to alienate myself. i also have a great tendency to hate writing or thinking about this sort of thing. but it's true; i've lost a lot of people by intentionally(consciously or sub-consciously)getting them against me. these are all such exhausting little matters. i hope i'm not so tired on saturday. it's going to be strange. i've missed her overmuch and still think about her pretty bow. i think i'll write a story today. i'm sure it will be not so good but slightly amusing in the way that i can be, and always poignant to a fault. |
| Wednesday, January 30th, 2002 | |
| 10:24 pm | great old grand old stupid goddamned cardinal oh great old stupid cardinal down by the goddamned river look how you frolic or whatever you do you sure are stupid mister cardinal i hate your lippy feathers i can imagine what it would be like poking one's stiff beak in the pale gray rivermud (you are not even a waterbird) i hate you. die. die. (don't die, okay?) you are everything that i have ever loved mister cardinal with your stupid head and your goddamned songs and your lippy feathers. i never even seen no goddamned cardinal by the river actually nevertheless |
| 10:18 pm | think about skin though water in mouth water not precisely cold. i hate these sqauren white eyeballs. oh they want me to. oh how they want me to. think about skin think about skin think about skin |
| Wednesday, October 17th, 2001 | |
| 1:39 pm | You wonder about the stairs, going up them. You wonder if there be a dog on these stairs. You wonder how that dog could ever sleep. You wonder who you are. You wonder if fog really affects parachuting that much. Parachute is a word that you would fuck if it would settle down, folded down inside a knapsack. A knapsack is an ambivalent thing, its puny essence largely derived from its contents. Jean-luc Godard, it was he who wished for the Declaration of Independance be changed to a Declaration of Interdependance, but you wonder what else he did that anyone listened to him when he wished for such an outrageous disruption. You wonder what it would be like to be a Declaration--of independance or otherwise. You think that objects are employed in the entirely stupidest ways. You think that some hip sort of monument should be made out of the very rubble of the towers. Something poppy but not cute or gimmicky, but flippy enough to totally oppose nationalism, being generically patriotic, thought without mind, spirit without god or church, nation without borders. "None of these new works look like objects, surfaces or depictions." "One has the sense of peering through a sharp-edged hole in the wall at parts of some unknown visual expanse." The ideas which determine structure, an unreformed but not unrefined dimension from where light glows--only after it reflects back from you can it be perceived. You wonder where your ideas go--perhaps they are light, ungraspable. |
| Monday, October 8th, 2001 | |
| 7:38 pm | A certain shaking fills me, moves me to a chilling distraction. When the words come...the words, words, words. I'll never tell what they are. I can't tell anyone, I cannot be any mystery or great new toy, no teacher, no light, no friend, no priest, no god, no angel, no cunning devil, no mad singer, not at all. These are my secrets and it will take my own miracles to extract them, not any kisses, not any gift, no deep, startling glance, no drug, no friend, no teacher, no cunning redemptress, not you Leucothea, not any nymph or smiling muse, none at all. These are my secrets and their imprint upon the world you know is their smoke and wish when their flames eat me away. When I look at myself I see a million pains and insane pleasures, and I think there is the same inside any light, any particle at all, even the copy of a copy of a copy. I can't tell you anything, ever, because there are no words, none at all. The great and horrible paths that I have sometimes been cursed and blessed to see, must vanish, and flee deep inside my mind, deep in an infinite sea, locked away by an ancient fear, a fear of flying, but always to resurface, always to come again, raised up in a great wave of light, pure immortal light which blinds me into visions of ultimate peace. It cannot be shared, unless, perhaps, someday it overtakes me, and I to every kiss, to every startling glance, to every gift, to each deep, startling glance, to every drug, to any friend, any teacher, any cunning redemptress, even you Leucothea, any nymph or smiling muse, shall become a great new toy, a teacher, a priest, a god, a light, an angel, a cunning devil, a mad singer, all. Until then, I am nothing but a door, with a lie painted on front. I hold this to be true for everyone. We are content with nothing because we believe this is all that we can own. The truth is that everything waits for us; everything. |
| 5:09 pm | There is the cold, Floating like mad dust, Not a feeling A vision Coaxing open my eyes, Falling sideways in, Then to the pink and greys Of my brain Later, though, through To my ear And stops at the sounds there Because I am an elephant Ten thousand years ago I poke at bones with my big feet Padded for silence The noise of rattling bones Hard and white as pain The only thing But now I am all of my ancestors I am all of those billions I dream of exploding puppies I dream of everything And then I am Quiet again. |
| Saturday, September 29th, 2001 | |
| 9:14 pm | the plans to chase the american't nightmare across the big fat stinking country and into the sunshiny west, where we can finally stop it and talk, have failed. paul has gone prenatal and hasn't a damned good thought to give. i think that the nightmare would have lost itself on these sinewy moutnain roads anyhow, come winter. seems a good decent thing to do. well, but that's not what nightmare's is for now, is it? indecency after indecency. the truth is a filthy mutton. |
| 8:54 pm | i ma a dirt-bug a mormon a christ a tongue ona nine-volt battery swaying like a drunk stripper i am the new dust the dust in the wind the tricky new snow the hands beneath the cold the warmth under... oh i hunger for the warmth of the hands below |
| Wednesday, August 22nd, 2001 | |
| 12:38 pm | "what is it you wanted?" "just a neck or two, a few necks, just sweet white necks to have for myself. i could be quite happy." "happiness, then?" "no. i don't understand why your lips always move when you talk. why can't we have some variety? do you know what i think of? i think of your neck, and i think of the way it is. i think of the neckness of your neck." "what are you trying to accomplish? why not just stop talking?" "because i see a danger in our communication. like a thorn on a rose. like cyanide in grape kool-aid. do you know what happened in jonestown?" "yes. but tell me." "i was asking you. all i know is some people died. maybe 900. you know, they didn't really die? well, they are most certainly dead. but their bodies turned to dust. their bodies turned to dust and mixed with the other dust, and now, i suppose, we have some more dust. do you think i'm crazy?" "not in the usual sense. you're not schizophrenic. you're certainly not sane. i think that--" "i want to be schizophrenic. they've got voices to talk to. even when the voices are mean, they must never be lonely. and those voices are internal, so they must be really close, y'know? those voices must know everything about the person. no one knows anything about me. and i can't abide that. i can't stand it. people are stupid and boring and they don't know anything. except for you. " "but i'm not real." "i know that. you're part of me, though. i can give you life. have you noticed, for instance, that you have red hair? spaghetti red, and it drips around like a certain group of snakes, and these snakes are not from this planet, and they are trying to go home. they are quite restless, but they know that everyone thinks that they are just hair, so they try to behave like hair. only some people are on to them. they have these real sad folk songs that they sing, when you're asleep. only they're snakes, so the you can't make out the lyrics. but it's definitely music, though. it's rather beautiful. sometimes, on clear nights, when you're outside, they look up at the stars, and they get so homesick that they begin to twirl around a bit, and sing, and sometimes you wonder just where the hell that strange music is coming from." "well aren't they going to fucking bite me?!" "probably." "did i make you angry?" "that's just a very strange thing to be made conscious of. we'll talk later." "goodnight." "wake up." "i'm awake." "do you love me?" "yes. i love you more than the world." "do you know what i think? i think that your head is big. i think that your head is big, and that it is full of fat and awful things, like spider-penises. that it is precisely what i think. how do you feel about that?" "that hurts my feelings." "that is precisely what i intended! i hope that you cry, and then death befalls you as a miserable illness, and then that you suffer for all of the time until i say so." "you are making me cry. look at the small and precious girl-tears that drip upon the filthy floor. drip, drip, drip. miserable! your words are a miserable illness!" "i make you suffer. you must love me. pain is the only proof of pleasure." "is that why you have all those cuts?" "your eyes are very pretty. not proper, yet pretty. they change, you know? sometimes they are clear and i can see your pink brain, like an albino. colorless like that." "they are?" "yes. but not right now. " "they're not pretty right now?" "they're not ALBINO right now, silly." "oh." "what are they?" "mosel-plarp." "what?" "you asked what color they are. they are mosel-plarp." "what color is that?" "ordinary people can't even see it. i can't really describe it. go look in the mirror. here, i have a little mirror in my pocket." "ok." "ok." "well?" "well what?" "let me see the mirror, please." "just go look." "where? in your pocket?" "yes." "how am i supposed to do that?" "just stick your head in my pocket, Miss." "no!" "why not?" "well, first of all, it wouldn't fit--" "i'm wearing clown pants." "by glory, you are!" "did you just say 'by glory?'" "yes. so what?" "no reason. so. why don't you put your head in my pants pocket and take a gander at those stellar peepers of thine? "did you just say--" "'take a gander at those stellar peepers of thine?' yes. " "no." "why not?" "it'd be dark in there. and don't say that's okay because you have a flash light." "matches." "matches." "okay." "look, i'm going to run to Adam's. do you need anything?" "oh. well, i was going to ask if you'd get me a bottle, but i don't have the money." "i'll get it for you, but you have to share it with me." "really?" "sure." "that's very nice of you." "see you later." "let me ask you something before you go." "okay." "do you think Wayne is ever coming back?" "he was never really alive. but yes. i'm sure that he's coming back." "okay. wait." "yes?" "do you think that he was strong enough to do it?" "his boldness always matched his strength...the simple purpose of his movements will light the dark in front of him...but to move that bravest of steps, to truly ascend all dreams of himself...well, We wonder if he should not look inside or out. it is not a perilous thing to merely dream, but mere hope is not the surest foundation(though some would argue to the exact contrary). still, many run in place all their life, neither knowing nor worrying of the difference between Utah and Las Vegas, taking their coffee in sinful little sips--but you asked a direct question, and i should give you a direct answer--still, it is only my belief, and it differs from my hope, and can't be said to be factual--but my answer is no, i don't think anyone can rise beyond what they truly are." Current Music: My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult - eight of space (dreamer's mix) |
| 12:31 pm | joe bled boxwise i had a fuzzled friend who ran boxwise once all summer. her name was joe. she had loops in places in her knotty red hair, but she kept it secret with a comb. i asked joe what the big boxwise stinking deal was. don't go that way, i said, and i punched her in the nose. now wait a second: vermilion toes. and underwater. this is where i write these words from, from underwater, from my toes, from the achingest one to the smallish one which is not the smallest. i think that the life of each toe is important. a good gardener will talk to their plants. i will talk to my toes. they are my secret pedal pals. my head swims in the letters. the devices don't appease me, only the short convulsions of dream-talk. water:sinking, swimming, a merciless blind kidnapper of will. i want a glass of water forever. don't ever look straight ahead. look up or down, or eyes closed. my secret is just to let songs stay in my head. swinging, falling, whirling whirling for quite a long time. let's have circles here, and squares on the front of that thing, and we'll squarify that piece of chocolate for fun. the best shapes are outside, weird and cold and dark and full of themselves. so i'll skip in fancy lines, and names will be cloudy, so what? names are horrible boxes anyway. you can't do much boxwise. not enough. so you understand that i punched her in the nose. i can be like water; held up quiet for a big great long time inside a pond, or then, and quite suddenly, and with much gusto and splash of my dripping limbs, burst up, or dragged up by the moon like a cat picking up a kitten by the neck--with much teeth but a safe place for the actual biting action--and just swallow a bunch of things. swallow a bunch of boats or houses. joe bled boxwise. instead of runny puddly fluid, what came out were little red cubes that dumped on the ground like hail (clunk). Current Mood: hopped Current Music: My Life with the Thrill Kill K - Final Blindness |
| 12:28 pm | my first thought--no, my first thought was How is any typing to be done with this strange machine inserted into my neck whose one high in life seems to be hurting me, paining me up, and with also sloppy vision, and i left my my muscles last week at the pharmacy i broke into and have doing not so much more than sleeping on a dazed pillow of opiates, opioids, benzodiazepines, and barbiturates...(how the hell could i do anything else?) ...and there is otherness always to be dealt with which will get me, like the paxil withdraw, which last time kept me nauseated, sweaty, suicidial, homicidal, and there is no word for this but it made everything smell very, very bad, and the weird vertigo everytime that i moved my head to the side or even if i just look quickly in one direction, and the hot and cold flashes, headache...but the point is, all this for Forty Days and Forty Nights, not at all like god-jesus who is the lord and savior, but more like the man who lived entirely in a bathroom for a month. it is easy to break into a pharmacy. i will tell you how to do it. pick a small pharmacy in a neighborhood with a large clash between upper-middle class and decently poor. cops never patrol these neighborhoods because the trouble is well-regulated; the trouble is streamlined like some fancy fish a-swimming or some aeroplane a-flying. anyhow, wear gloves--no worry about the prints, because if you only take the good stuff, there will be little or no investigation, but to prevent cutting yourself on broken glass. then you break the fuck in. just break right in there. but on some nights there come out zombies. zombies are tamed these days; domesticated? these days, zombies are fucking domesticated. they walk trained beasts-of-war on nylon leashes--nylon! what beasts. and you know the zombies because they nod at each other, and they are organized, and when they nod it is in praise of their slogan: "Scoop The Poop." you watch out for them! there are secrets in their scarlet flowers; behind their hedges are some of the 841 gates to Northern Hell. i know what you're wondering....and... you bet they drool!, but they save it, they keep it in their cheeks like chipmunks, but you bet that when they get inside, they dump that drool in their drool-boxes, which are many and decorate the windowsills. i have not seen this, but i watch, and my truth is a good one. the last of my thoughts are a million siblings; button X, d-pad up, down, rotate "camera angle" for upper view of the sorceress named Myra after a girl who is called Myra, and i drool openly, unabashed, there are five hours of this, with my codeine, with my xanax, sitting still, i have not shit in two weeks, i sleep nineteen hours a day, my muscles have atrophied and i sway when i walk, my eyes dents in a dark mass of beard, half-moon junk-lines, i don't eat, i want: things for my brain, to produce: the brain of pleasure, of blank and languid ease, unmiserable. i want brains. Myra shoots a monster named "Walking Dead" with her bow, which does 6-12 damage, and i nod off. Current Music: My Life with the Thrill Kill K - Final Blindness |
| 12:27 pm | gavin saves the chickens while asleep a tremendous downpour swallows the air and makes the dirt squishy. eight AM i wake up, the sun has been waiting for me, holding a gigantic hypodermic needle filled with wakefulness, summer itching, and Morning Folk sweat, and grinning the proud grin of a true enemy. the smell of chicken shit, noise of a rooster, the timid chirps from a hen. the scraping sound of chickenfoot on oak wooden floor. gavin's chains tinkling. "i saved the chickens, mike." "why is there a chicken in my room, gavin?" "they were drowning! but i saved 'em! i put them all in the basement. i couldn't start the chainsaw. your chainsaw is broken. i broke your chainsaw. i broke your stepdad's chainsaw. i was gonna kill steel and dawn. i saved the chickens!" "you were gonna kill steel and dawn?" "yeah." "you put the chickens in the basement?" "yeah. i saved 'em." "they were drowning?" "yeah, so i put 'em in the basement." "and you broke the chainsaw?" "yeah, i think so." "there's chicken shit all over you." and all over the floor. gavin picked up the hen and threw it on my bed. "you love her," he said. "i suppose so." and a stray dog sat at the doorway, looking stray and doggish. i woke up still drunk at eight-thirty. the sun was evil and stupid and doing morning things. (o for cloudy rain and thunderstinking rain-heat) it seemed a good time for gavin to take a bath, i suppose, and with a stray dog that he referred to as "booger." splash, went the bathwater. splash to you, i thought, splash to you. the dog was frightened and confused and said nothing. i fell back asleep. Current Mood:  exanimateCurrent Music: My Life with the Thrill Kill K - Final Blindness |
| 12:25 pm | andclickandclickandclick endless row of vaguely android cartoon robots march down metropolitan strt nkd each hv small heart of ant foetus in them, makes metal throb. as if puked on by lichtenstein they beg captions.... ]i want to fuck you when i kill those children oh yeah fuck me shut the fuck up you whoring wench! i'mgonna fuckyouharduptheass fuckyouhard ohyeah that costs extra guys look at the sand dunes aren't they prittie my dad was a navajo he said that sand dunes are made of other sand dunes smaller Shetland Pony Suspected Shot By Drunk "So I started taking barbiturates. Barbiturates are like alcohol without all the pleasant side-effects(laughs). Whoa! She was wearing sex-mod pants! Oh god I said it! ImeanImean...uh...Revolving Pubis Pants. Man, I'd like to see her...." ti knird t'noD. ytsriht si ria eht tresed eht nI "caroline they say she's haunted." andclickandclickandclick andre, I will be from the moon, andre. V will try to forget me. you can have the doller back. sincerelie, Mitch Collins CRASH redhairmakesmewanttofuck International Space Station Prescribed Risperidol Prognosis "Unstable at best," psychiatric doctors say andclickandclickandclick Current Mood: accomplished Current Music: My Life with the Thrill Kill K - Blondes with Lobotomy Eyes |
| 12:22 pm | i have beautiful friends they all have endings a pony has an ending isn't that the greatest? the ending of a pony? a beautiful pony a beautiful ending my friends and i will watch and be there. |
| 12:22 pm | "Hand me my toupee!," he shouted, and the toupee was funny. The toupee looked like a swirl of ice cream and only covered the middle of his baldness. It was brown and looked like puppy shit. It was gray and looked like dwarf mammoth crap. The toupee was many different colors. Someone opened the window because it[the toupee]smelled so awful. Once the window was open, I could smell the sap of a sugar maple. We should boil it and make us some syrup, I thought. This morning, someone whispered, "Michael, do you want some pancakes?" I said no, because I had looked in the fridge and no syrup, but had they bought some fresh? Perhaps they went to the supermercado down the street. That[supermercado]is supermarket in spanish. Perhaps. |