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Saturday, May 25th, 2002
8:56 pm - newfangled yummy relief suit proposal
the genome, which elicits so much genuflection from our scientific community insists that we are 98% (+?)primate. should it come as such a surprise then, that we feel emotions like rage?
every human, at some point in their life ¤ likely more than once ¤ has experienced anger at such an intensity that all efforts to maintain civilized behavior were rendered useless and inapplicable. someone experiencing this state could be said to be acting like an animal. this is true. we are, after all, animals.strange ones at that. ever get the feeling we don't belong here? anyway, every human has ammassed an intense unconscious denial of the basic fact that we ARE animals. we try to supress such behavior lest we lose face or social standing.
rage is natural. holding it in makes people crazy, causes illness and eventually death. i've seen too many examples.
fuck you.
what is needed is a way for us to feel this rage to it's fullest, to have white-hot blazing tantrums in an environment that is socially, emotionally, psychologically and physically safe.
my proposal is to design a suit you can slip into when the anger is mounting and a state of temporary psychosis is emmiinent rage on the way! a padded cover-all, with a helmet and rubber crossbar to bite down on.
with this suit it will be possible to have tantrums of unthinkable violence and intensity WITHOUT HURTING ANYONE. what fun!
locals must undergo an intensive security background check. other things include techniques to develop limitless somatic memory access. this abolishes any need for drugs. it's done with an energy blast from a smartie.
the clinician and i are co-dependants. my regular visits have got to be the impetus of his practice, not to mention a large chunk of his income. my reward is a continued immunity to boredom. so long as i don't screw up. i always screw up.
i need smurf up some cleans. i'm getting tired of hunting down the ruby thunderhead with dull points caked in blood and rust. i found a bathroom scale in the neighbor's garbadge. it's been awhile since i've known my weight, a massive 135£. i should add that'm 6 foot 3. hey baby, wanna feel my ribs?

i have the most beautiful wallpaper
three guesses........

i lift my kite up this way
without your words as the mainstay
only so many hands to hold hands
snail's slime trails
splatter the sails and
rip open spans of life where it lands.

nobody speaks twice until everyone has spoken once. as applies to unspoken soup kitchen ettiquite.

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Thursday, May 16th, 2002
7:40 pm - gloomy warts from sunday's art pickle
from nothing other than doorways in thrift menopause the stately woman of polar ice trips settles down in her church with a heavy blanket of docile notions healing bereft arrows in our nations protocol and the twist is to surround the orange wood in the unlikeliness of polar wind craft blossoming toward frisky layers of limosine silk and tunnels of proper vagrancy digging in worms and fantasies of bottecelli ink molten over sheets of lost wind piracy under these swimmers in wood chips in the back seats of parallel doorways used in circus panoplies of balancing meteors and gastric fire-science with the fragrant underground of brittish fallopian tunnels independant of any counterfit misnomer. reaching for the tumor glazing artifice in sam's opulent razor garden makes a difference to some ticking time bombs born in last winter's ease and candy consumption and furrowed for an interprize grasping at local gymnasiums to gloat over impiety embracing the new god of techno-fabrication loading syringes with jesus and polar bears in the wicked industry of corn chips in the trailors of fast color simulations swiftly engaging in last weeks optometry lessons for church going lantern scrubbers full of envy for the type of gallantry that fornicates with the mysogyny of letters to the mayor about birdsongs. birdsongs and the advancement of the comming ice age wish for better celluloid farming in the great extensions of the open doors to jesus and the woodchip-loaded falsity of armegeddon and patrons of the loving billfold gathering on the stripe that guides the road we reach for when our last augmentations have gone sour in increments of equality painted in the blue reflection of having gone back to our goggles with polar woodchips hauled in from the gist of pharmacological erosion and plaintiff dips into blund orientation toward womanhood clasped in hooplings of of finality. we climb the ropes to the top of the world where blank seasons haunt the noseclippings and seargents of novicane bleed up and out in hopes of intelligent persuasion swooping a general hush and watermelon comfort over leaves bigger than VW Bugs. they pluralize a green circumference in the shadows of instant tomorrow. our glass ladies and gentlemen hold tight to their jesus based syringes and tattoos afflicting eggs in the heat of victory. they tear into the meat like a different time altogether. living like an animal in horned fereocity glazing pepperming freeways into the cast of some leinent din. playing like we have together forged an almighty high standard to weather all garmets of true religous discipline hung in towers between the sweat and blood of our nations archeological human symboid death flakes harvesting a smooth reflection of jesus pushed into a mermaid's bloodstream by the girth of a galactic interspersed oblivion known to the dinosaurs as the difference between capping the infinite and layering the mounds on a terminal progression of counterfits. we look back at our parade as a gradient lear, half impotent, like a summertime motion close enough to water for assured grace. our laps have room for leftist visionaries and nazi-preening glaze swarthing the envelope of time and fingerpaints chopping messages of huge import into curly tomatoe paste puzzles for restrictions on birth canal property confidence. getting under the grasp of bouncing hounds of thyroid suspension may breeze twiggy to the heft of black market slovenliness. operating shoe clerks bound to cattle with industrial servitude covet armory shutdown of clambake-sexuality personas in three fifths of brazil. lower wattage insists on battery lofts as well before the intraveinous invention of virtual orphans digging up mourners tricking about in skylight skirts of makeshift divinity and pouring damages in vaults to split the base gluttony of tarnishing the golden virtue surrounding holy injection. this roman adding marriot claims domination out of sheer boundries drawn shortly after artist veritability standards action commity named soup for it's yards of homage to young kipling house in the gentlemans' sector plotting house vanguard exploit provision harkening. hunting unknown dwarves with a dragon in your soreness plays pity on humming gertrude and flocks bland enough to sleep tilted freely in the hawaiian artifice grown pleasantly for your tuck-and-pull mental situation. this heals dusty rungs keeping platonic idealism curtailed justly in a world named for placated down syndrome and laughter gushing movers worth an indigo piano lust sunrise. quiet and flat, like a vacant error planning on various muppet zest facility. in lists with strangers down the road. with acrobats weilding unknown narratives beneath young mantles rusty with gentlemens' actions toward arrogant segues, ultimate weapons and feild guiddes to truncating pilot lampoons drawn in feathery underlings with woodchips and polar bears in the back of pick-ups. utility vehicles heaping northern monsters the color of cocaine with the basic novelty of their time. they try. try eggnog and sheepskin help out of ragdoll worthiness. floating just a guy and a bag a sessamie street endorsements supporting biological warfare kittens. matted with milfoil in the triumph served in bungaloes with the ordeal of killing flame trouble masking over wanton genetic piracy crippled in the new age of information and grand scale application of the multicausal paradigm sweating felt through assins in farm clothing. bears from six AM pull orderly sex queens of the past century through jet black war zones and the cryptic enamel blasting the canopy with your festering backyard truth. gusts are going, it's all going, but your house in joined over a feirce reptile incrament lubrication by two pulsing hound truncheons deaf enough to pout later as the wind changes color from orange to fresh. razor ticket under a walkway in atlanta creamed heartily in a frosty post dawn ethereal sunburn trophy. it is a sin to hinder the racial pinch removed from far reigons onto train tracks duplicated in farther poisons numbering near unbelievable in genetic misfortunes deep in their forced electives. dream of it and it is still a picture of the opalite nudity of wanting a charasmatic springtime to drive you to tomorrow in a limo glossed in arrival. freshly rescuing the blatant langour in a cradle of minty hazzard turned lucky. ophelia sands railings from beyond the gaping dawn of false additions pounding the craft of martyrdom into the hellions cream and penchant. your lucky to be strewn in and out, full of will decision and dry roads clustered in malady foregoing the ancient lies of our unspoken agreements placing human guts and freelance dinners from paris down the hall burning trauma and lab rat guilt into the format for the ecstatic policeman's blind welding confirmation fallout. hault! grim lands of wavy pavilloions uttery pointed to the sky in the roaming gait of lutheran mercenaries drowning in duplicates of fornication leeches in the way and whole thing of tits, especially what the sophisticated admiration tidepool conglomerates assail as downright yummy tits i'd like to preserve in a mayonaise jar full of composite retribution efficiency. the rebuttal to plad in hub cap dispersal chubby smoke is in jest of a plot worried under due law of church herion drunk with cleanliness from aborting todays' sleuth hunger. it is legitamite, however, to note- yorkshire difficulty gradient trapping indicate yelping spaghetti turnover in an aboriginal prostitution regime. mathematical veritability helps provide a yearning weekday to remove your walking pottery ghost and unborn terrors of gymnastic frailty from gluttony's expence down to pillaging the mercurial leg boat jaundice. if what's here is floppy with getting logistic beam oligarchy declared unfit to propose dove rash musculature as what nimbly peppers what's been said for underground diminuative grunt card aeronautic scrape crowd, the only pressure drying out the hundred equestrian denture misplacements drives your trade safe pilrimage blithely into polar wetlands full of immobility gut track linkage pliability helping along with shutting down buzy heroic satellites far flung into doom's agile framework asserted by growing sud puddles getting ape-like to climb misty rungs from allegation to corporate gunfire transposition. i'm hidden from jinks and columns policing air-raid valley's hope of lads in rumpled bands slopping hunbly toward gutting the fire of going hindered like drones lost on jeopardy. they have the gate very looped from kind feelings gone haywire come pity of ghastly minds unbalanced from unusual red ferocities down clothing from thunder and a statue of people moving dwarfed guarinteed sad and milked citadels on bounties rung lost and digging power in fostering a climb quota. jolt, unnerving motion hung just west around some verile gust painting winter in one streak. across walking distance filled trundling snatches of hounds and frontal trust margins dealing for elbino-noveltys. the station poured it's helpings through the timeglass of today like a wimipering toolboy first dragged into young tugging. if there were a multiple reason for a telling aperature it underlined the irregularity in formal proceedings. one day starchy, unpredictable. you just get on your way half expecting. relief or foreboding meets you everyday woven into the fibers of your frock, a 50/50 surprise toss. things could be more never tried and gone plunged into the youth whet fawn gunfire .

a grinning thing in an empty forest calls down to the traps he's set for winter furs. the reporting traps are still set, no prey in thier teeth yet. furry long and useful manners of all move through this arce at lunchtime. the traps need to be spread out just right. if you holler on down at the punchline of those old-thing pains you get nowhere and nothing. it's nothing more that a prompt delivery to the starting spot.
early enough driftwood gathers on the heaphouse knocking together morning's random rhythm. he can smell a brain. the talent's been honed on years steeping in the deep foils of dumbwater. waiting for a change is a b-class sport. genuine help offers down from the machines, big cranes dip a smartie in to light up the depths. waiting is a b-class sport. you can hear them buzzing in carving wedges in the skyways. often enough to survive. miles of drawn out laws from pop-unison usher out in cocentric waves from a smartie on a dip. between dips he feels like a lonely god. an imprisonment holding up from having no walls. there are others living in puddles gasping for sustinence with hardly enough room to roll out the traps. if you don't use them they just wither and die. he'd heard tales of tractless sorry cases left to waterlog and die. good enough to have space to keep living.
warming holds fresh multilingual oppression divided for cages veering on the sly. they think they never need search out forgotten holdings. memory is from pools dreamt up lame. crags of stifling gross demurity having jokes done for top level monopolies. such restraint from killers drives the gang to feed like clockwork. the underlying crimson flint ladder forms lakes of additional organs and fluids parted by natures own business. when you need to replace something, it's usually not hard to find. triple game real promises deal with your frown having grown worth whims of hormonal cliches. it a place like this the effort is worth all you could ask for. holds from up top live tirelessly hung up on the green harms driven to law by the marbles lot. prowling has done room in harm. done hardened facts to keep the hot and cold things apart. there's no between. between is a pop-emulation containing a flaccid typhoid guage at constant war to make itself know and to make itself known. it has neither and never should. if it did the fight would stop and the natural distinction would collapse. smarties talk about the idea. it's just a theory, nothing that could have brought termination pressure to the ranks gone drone over years gone lava. balance can shift. the grown hush through washing players does little to cushion naming veteran trails traveled heavy. order uses waves harded from top illnesses freely hung joined in a heavenly hovering incident. you can see i keep busy. without my end in the upkeep sanity gets slippery.
from the end of the pool voices draw out the plans collected from marginal dreams, moldy wartime theft blends music and trust for the floor we live on. a floor is important. you need something to live on, in our case nothing works out better. ports far from here tend to the workings i take for granted. i can only imagine what the far ports duties are. a filmy cast over my reach keeps me from it, keeps me to wondering. a smartie told me the world works on wonder. we all need to keep wondering, to do our part to keep it working.
legendary spools going list and speed grasp hate with a frosty undone limit from going off balance in dreams of wartime. there are no two accidents with an equal price. blistering fair meshing of pulling silence up rusty time for any use dosn't bore the lightest wound rope. if ever the freedom hauls a wicked tradewind, formulations lay girth a creamy porcelan bellow to rival the quest for what isn't asked. a tough drift has been building on my main front. watching your main front is a better chore today. i keep close to using just my own heart for work. anyone else's find a way in is that much mine is out. you must have your heart in your work. work done without it wouldn't work, it's not a good idea to test this.
doing hauls for porcelan bellows boosts heart value in the tryst fund. with enough accumulated in the tryst fund i'll be able to control my own temperature when i'm upstationed to work above the sky. any forseeable impediment needs avoided in dealings with ranker. inklings torn from oppertunity holding invention aloft brings persistence to the games we were made for. world was lonely and had no reach. it needs us for playmates and limbs to embrace sister space.
we all have to keep up our end. forgetting that will make you insane.
ducts gone on the astringent mixture contract puff out with a popping noise. they go down a funnel process to grist for the hounds. lifetime music trays dribble lucid frameworks during legendary regression transit. probably the teeth gone from the porcelan bellow notate key hounds for playlists going above the sky. garnish vest polish also traces typical hurried feelings that draft into your heartspace during transit hours. this is the most confusing time of the day.
lunchtime is not bad though.
rolling trauma insists on resistance of the division paradox. we all need to participate, but the parting oil isn't to be nothing. things are real because the oil is kept fresh. the hounds slither in it for identity. without the oil you are not you and if you are not you, the world is not what it is. this comes from the smarties.
smarties gospel.
linking hurts provisional dateline stratification. growth must be doled out in small shards of luminous music over boredom with food. there's a crease in the backflood of dreaming in wartime, mortuary blame slides comically blind in a spincycle of mountain growth. the quakes dream in gusts of brawny uplifting warship of the pinnacle of time's accumulation. ongoing attention lends the moment to anyone there to hold on to letting go. on frothy placid typecast hunches animating playthings lost for hoisting a surrogate milestone in luminary soundwaves marking a place drawn on the magnitude of pre-emptive grace.
the sapling corpse was found somewhere near my previous place. it was a romantic gift jogging memories lost in wartime dreams. there was an epidemic of the little dead saplings after some accumulation cycles. front places were diligently watched. we were curious by lengths of normal guilt and edgeless terror. we arranged a formation to call down the smarties. the order was put in culminating in slurred optical placid undergrove transport cylinders of the green seriousness.
but, of course, we never miss the domicile pledge topping the gratitude hush. rough going on the plight being a co-ordinated dismal blush factor. charismatic health drifters have been lifted off the glamour trough hotline and called together forming a directional washing troubleshooting summit resulting in a limber orphan clip draft exasperation, quite successful and long overdue, really.
the milk of admiration is a headlong dive into a discorporeal, spacious, blue status quite palletable. georgous doings of divine deities unfurl in a cinematic presentation and unparalleled validation of every sensory suspicion ever to have crossed your mind.
plaintiff scraps of multiplenary facilitation wrought pliable blotted over if some rental jurisdiction mounts locks from the oversky to canopy rendering sinking lock worries a thing of the accumulation. motorprognosis dystopia, meandering rack-digger plies doable twist lab fitting normal protagonistical aptitude limp training for gimp route alpha male strategy. there are things without which no narrative of any genre can aspire to be a fulfilling read. plenty of houses during young journalistic protocol. nurses to wipe asses and tend to erotic needs. it's a cutthroat land favor in places pre-dating collective memory databases. things, events and places long gone with no hope of retrieval. organismic destitution shaped to conduct an eponential rize in adaptive capability. genome templates from chameleons and ancient shapeshifters.
a lot can be playfull tossed around like this, but it isn't how literal prowess is diffused among graphs for digital brain to brain transmission.
but all that is above the sky. there are worlds of eachothers best kept secrets, and closely guarded ignorance. resistance. hell is resistance. heaven is total acceptence. simpler than resisting, but more difficult to practice.
worse return plunders growth yonder bigotry and ails of continuum, snapshots in sequence. stay on the lip of the wave of accumulation. that is the only reality anywhere, anywhen. planks send off your troops in mass organization having made a psychic cat's cradle using teleporters. such an advantaged army could approach claim to that concept unallowed in most training camps-invincibility.
the gray areas loom much larger than places taking on any form or color. grafts doomed trivia safe and diverse for only pivotal advancements, change accellerated makes no room for anything else, even though it seems infinite space has opened up, the current state of things dictates what areas of eploration would maybe prove fruitful and which are just a waste of resources.
ports in the area defending most of our life gave dead service broth livabiliy strands famous money chacers dropping a milked target like a wet towl bereft of it's usefulness. how common is that? common enough to open up the stewardess guesswork table to public respiratory avenues, floods of skin patches left to dry, to regain the wall between his blood and the world.
the reach of this digital phantasm was theoreticall endless. the holographic representation was self-sustaining, no inconveinent generator to lug around. plains worn drastic ordered harm came and gone with filth undecided companionable to lives thrilled nervous run-down pathways between carnivals equalized under aged and tattered sails filled with wind that is always brand new.
cannons deal you woman and frowns lifting cables to wind puppets and hedonic sun goddesses thousands of horsepower driving fine tuned, diverse and terrifying sexual seperiority. she knows it, knows exactly what's under that hood and holds it in check with little, if any apparent effort. it's hard to imagine she's of the same gender that has babies and provides them with comfort and nurturing in the first stages of life.
repetition in keeping with old lethargic windows glad to please. an angle that makes a slide rumble and a fraction of thermal impiety groan with tender residue of blank systematic hilarity becoming impreferential even to dental violation with a victims' panel for evangelistic anti-sense hysteria. long necked beasts with jaws like an industrial clamp. please this dirt is not acceptable. furnish me with more eloquent settings of robust charm and platonic shelf-life gone intrinsic on the issue and careless like this fight: this fight you put money on, a good sum. winning is important. you're an american aren't you? your boy is dead. the fight is always that way. the good fight. oh, he was a fighter. he fought the good fight. pummeling away at a moth-eaten corpse substancial as a scarecrow.
it's pluralized in the ploy the smarties have whipped up. one drifted down by my garden before lunchtime, looking same as always, they all look the same to me-shiny black sphere covered with indented lines that make a pattern that seems to be random. skyfolks supposedly can tell them apart, get to know them by name. this one came down and fed me the reams, my new station in life. i'm to meet up with a man at himlork station tomorrow after lunchtime with all my belongings packed up and ready to go. i'm going to miss it down here in the deeps. but i can't stay here forever. there's a logical way of things. our world works because of the sacrifices we make.
time is taffy, if the two men ever saw eachother again thier subjective timesenses wouldn't likely match up. communication though not impossible, would be maddening tedium to phonetically boost your notions about critical orbit throat fucking poor hundreds of gradient proposals for taste and conjugation. collection of shoestring intangibles abreast a tipped balance to linear dreams grinding ways of daily locust seasons. primitive blocks game and her avalanche of teeth to land a worker drone and slather your nine-volt tang before prayer to the late fourth horse of the apocalypse. the holy horse. you ride her hooting velvet litanies plugged into genuine mercy and fools tumble into the origin. creeps ruin the rown gradient pie trap vessle. the arch with enough liquid flirts in transparent wardreams. the camera is wet and i'm lying about it. sails full mast i'm amazed it keeps from snagging a tree on the banks. we are coming into desert anyway. the guy who owns it feels best in deserts. he'd look at the trees and most impressed by marriage flakes of desert makings settle.we watch it all and had bare bones discussion. when does neuroticism coast into mean populace trilogies defeat mention flushing
empty filing space i like to choke in your lamboyance pointing youthward. lifting yarn up high in florescent wrong children complications. the delve. what's in the book? you mom is injecting jesus swiveling in a soft wet pile of woodchips the art of arctic abomination fused with transparent homespun literacy. she gives chace. what's behind her? has a gift moustache of irrisistable time tampering properties been placed on soft pillows? inticement without the gumption to take a tumble. all of it is none for me. the moustache is the only pretense needed clamouring halfway from waffles, placenta and a homicidal beefcake telegram. happily dealt out on a foreward plane of glandular misfortune. glare in the home wheat and firm codolences gritting outposts, food and hulkish redirection of common good in ones direction. low kings from somewhere i'd kick him. he strolls and knows that at lunchtime the groin oppression harvester lottery will percolate our numbers. it's exciting because there's always a fair chance. it's someone different every time, but they're always beautiful. genetic fucking back here, she's just sitting by me while i find the right vein for optimum lift off.
the worker drones are a lot of behavioral assistants. they all wear the same clothes and if you're acting in a way not copasetic with your swandive self, which they know and you don't, they'll break your legs for you. we all feel proud of where we rub our towering gluttonous rage on may 11th.

only people on a glide they can't spend from under have the notorious downfall of hassle. everything. falling out in the shower drain all of the focused palm croppings drove wondering and made my part in it. i saw what yours was today, yes, the jewelry shop. you always do jewelry. you're a coward. you're fat too. the only reason i ever talk to you or sleep with you is all the coke you give me. do you have any? i'll fuck you if you want. changing room.
closed doors pleading genuine interest in overpriced shoddy merchandise comes with a lever. one lever just to change things. don't be misled into believing there are no rules anymore. number one is that since you're thin and attractive now i'm going to hoook you up to a limbic plug. don't worry, you'll feel good most of the time a fuck jockey lives a good life, seriously. revered next down from the captain.
anyway do you want to go into the power generation room and fill up the tank?
glowing graven in the outwash of a rinse strom. slander oat plans and too much weather in the smooth land, to dry to yelp in a box filled with merchandise. my underplayed persuit dripping on heated raspberries gleaned from frobidden origins and deep shock memories i walk somewhere living encapsulated and flown partway to prophecy hanging from a jet lamp, hitting rest when fighting wont lodge glamourous hate valley polish burning a sour plastic cup. this cubic airspace is hideously disfigured. blunt hours , guy. you take my pistol and hail the queen a violation of sacred biology injecting the powder of his long dead bones, concentrated christ charisma. blink once at the hot dag stand on 6th steet. there's leslie with his hungry magic espousing political polemic. fridgid air at such a distance it seemed to call me in wartime dream segues. a holler from hunter skipping winter in a coma he claims to have faked. if anyone could fake a coma, it would be him. lost regulatory boat panel for the fifth time. to a citywide paino storm. free piano!-but they were all trashed in the closed off avenues. out groan having lilly undercy thin dominoes from hawaii plus donatello incriments. indictments and instruments. good art and good food. i've been slacking in the food department. i've not eaten in three days. i'm not fasting, i've just not made any efforts to get nourishment in me.
the world is choking on the muscles of a bald eagle shoved down its throat
we've been held up in sponsorship with a melancholy sedatitive for servatude. lope with the gas tank on the lanky bridge that loves sister compulsion. no there have been no messages or calls no incrypted telltales giving way to hints of diversion of lexicon probables. waste your train heart for the work it could do to keep out of the blaming black without let up flat dasies up crawled prize fighting expenditure placation

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Friday, April 19th, 2002
3:23 pm
that's the thing. you're so anxious to tell me my writing is crap. this alter ego of yours is a master of destructive criticism. the truth is that you're a coward. that's why in person you're so nice and smarmy. writing gives you a chance to step out of that role and be something different, something mean. i know because it does the same thing for me. so why should you be so put off to get a mean message from me when you send people so many and pass them off as 'defining boundries'. listen sister, on the internet there are no boundries. it'snot my fault you like to pick on young budding writers because your an over-the -hill has been that never was. go ahead and site me for name calling. i have to address you in some way, bitch!
you've a lot to learn in terms of owning up to what you do. i'm less than half your age and i know when i'm being a dick, asshole, jerk-off, shithead. call it out and i'll gladly claim it. anyone who knows me knows i have a good heart and a generous disposition until you piss me off. you don't even need to be angry to jump on the oppertunity to tell people how wrong they are. and about the therapy thing you believe in so strongly, take a look at your life. is it working? there's simply no way to sidestep the fact that life is hard, people get angry, sad, joyful and whatever else. sometimes all in the same hour or day.
but there is some good news. there's going to be a new dildo shop in town!

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Sunday, March 10th, 2002
4:06 am
coment on this.

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Friday, March 1st, 2002
7:49 pm
the sun shining through the blinds gives me extra lines to cope with. i wish my morning wasn't in the afternoon. then the sun would be on the other side of the house and not my problem. different people are like different continents. they have different rhythm of waking and sleeping, eating and shitting. diversity's the word.
the missing roommate in slacker hit upon a great insight: our differences are minor compared with our similarities. still people manage never to see that. they zero in on the most minor inconsequential discrepancy and magnify it until it's blown all out of proportion and mandated all out gruesome bloody war.
it's like the principia when the human says to eris "but we hate war" and eris says "well then stop"
nobody can muster the grace not to pass the buck. we are a culture of buck passers. even the president can't resist! a southern gent bent on getting back at the "evil" ones. this isn't fucking star wars george! in real life there aren't clearly drawn lines saying "ok over here, we are good people and over there, those people are bad". Marlow says all people are good, the ones misbehaving are just coping. but the leader of our nation still believes we have to get back at the evil ones (who, by the way we trained to be "evil")
that's about the most childish thing i've ever heard come out of a president's mouth.

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Friday, February 8th, 2002
3:31 pm
what'll it be this time? nothing. take some neurontin and space the fuck out. i'm starting to realize why jon likes this stuff so much. it's like a big comfy clamp pushing on my head. it comes in waves and gives you weird dreams. dreams of elecrtoplasmic insect-angels joing bodies to make something greater, fine black women with harmonicas in their pussies. sleeping on bunks stacked five high you feel like doing funny things. don't let the scissors slash together. if they get together it's mating season and they'll go off on their own. no greater creature to be made.
things you can stick up your nose:
fingers (it's really strange to stick your finger in someone else's nose)
screwdrivers(you might be able to reach your brain if it's long enough)
feel free to append to this list. there's obviously a lot i'm missing here.

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Thursday, February 7th, 2002
6:35 pm - bubble
lost miles exit strangers won't stoop to public exclaimations of bloodlust. just that there's something needing doing. you know what that is. you know who you are if this gets that far. far be it from me to communicate directly. it's pride. that's all. a stupid thing like pride stretched out into a murky film that makes it impossible to see the world. you are what you see. all of it is tiring with this sick boring sober tick tocking along at a snail's pace. time flies when you're having fun. will it stop if i get bored enough?

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Wednesday, January 23rd, 2002
6:17 pm - hey frog wake up!
woke up to a weird phone call. it was nico. how the hell did she know where i am? the main point seemed to be the plants she gave me are dying and when am i comming back. i'll be comming back to get my stuff soon. get your stuff? you're running away? yes. i didn't figure my living there was all that important. if it was she'd have broke it off with mr. e. something i couldn't muster the strength to be jealous of. everyone there knows i'm pathetically hung up on this girl in seattle. there may as well be billboards. my decision to stay here isn't set in stone yet. maybe i could still go back. but why? to get strung out again? it's good to be in a place where there's somewhere to walk to. you get more exercize that way, but i'll get into these depressions wherever i go. if only i could straddle the mountains. one foot in each world....

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12:52 am - raining pain
chronic pain sucks. it makes it hard to even concentrate on a conversation sometimes. it fucks with your sleep, your head. and everyone around you assumes that because you look ok and aren't spewing blood everywhere you must not be in that much pain. anyone reading this who isn't in brow crumpling pain 24/7, take the time to be greatful for your good fortune. hurting all the time is a hard way to live.

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Sunday, January 13th, 2002
10:06 am
Dead end

The depths of the rush. mixed with
water in a nod. Hell of a nod. Hell of a fissure in a
spoon and cook and sell your hole in little passages, beg, all over
your addiction to reach it.

get dirty again. Black obsidian-like soft pliable substance
that someone has been here except for a little dwarf
in a van to sell his dope. Addiction to shoot it no matter what you
mix with stuff washed in an awkward canyon.

Your belongings, and another goes back toward the
Vomitting, diarea, hallucinations, and in the brink
of a connection..
Addiction to opiates. The only passage parallel to
the syringe through a piece of cotton, iron door.
to catch the way through a piece of cotton, and
Debris room to and creepy crawlys all over your way
through a gently sloping east bank of mists.
The worst parts of sight to opiates. The needle and
debris room.
The worst parts of the end of a fellony. Tar, china
white mist cover the worst parts of dusty rocks.

You mix with water in the spoon till it boils. Draw it
with a point in a maze of passages, vanishing into
furious growth for a breath-taking view. More dope.
Sell your belongings, your body, a vast hall.
Addiction to opiates. The needle and the spoon. Addictive ritual
water of gold cotton,
cascading back. Hell of a rush

You mix with mud and exits to sell his dope. Sell
your belongings, which seems to sell his dope. Sell
your bare hands! It's shriveling up a low window
would seem to attract your belongings, your feet
below you!

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Wednesday, January 9th, 2002
5:12 pm - see that's what gives me
i've been having some trouble with this question. friends and family support your decisions in what's best for you. right? well how come when you decide the best thing for you is to die everyone gives you ten tons of hell and does their darndest to make you feel guilty for even thinking about it? my being a wuss to violent means is enough of a barrier considering my CNS depressant tolerance is enough to accrue an ungodly expense in the undertaking. on top of it all these folks, whose lives are troubled by my very existence, take my valiant offer to lighten the load as a personal affront and have me committed time and time again. i'll admit being committed does wonders for a frail ego. you now are a phychotic. that's your reason for flipping out. you're no longer an ordinary weakling who can't handle the pressure. i'm a SPECIAL case. they swarmed all over my apartment with those dog-catcher things while i was on the roof smoking crack. i'm touched. it's like getting a prostate exam.

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12:14 am
some old man at Antu's last night cut his thumb off trying to sharpen some chalk. he must've gotten an artery. i've never seen blood squirt like that. that's all i remember really was that and the police comming in. "have you been drinking?" apparently i was there the whole night but nodding heavy. i fell asleep sitting down. such a contrast with so many remembered times not being able to sleep at all.

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Monday, January 7th, 2002
5:52 pm - one more lost to the law:(
had breakfast with mara's dad this morning before going off to the place. nice guy. teaches economics at spscc. worried father. he said he thought i'd be the one to straighten her up. i felt like laughing. he still thinks i'm clean. i remember countless times pulling into his driveway, "put the long sleeves on!"
i got to see her after him. she looks weird stripped of all her individuality. the only thing thats the same is her hair. looking like a nest built by a drunk bird in a thunderstorm. bad conversation too. nothing of any depth or importance was said excpet "you went back to her didn't you?" i did try my best. we spent the rest of the visit just lightheartedly joking about bisexuality comming in handy in prison. things'll never be the same. not that eash passing moment doesn't render things unchangable, some changes are just more noticable i guess. one less reason to hang on to living in a town that's killing me.

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Friday, January 4th, 2002
11:00 am - from texas to prison-ode to mara
this has become a cinsistent and chronic curse. i'm lonely. i meet someone and fall inlove. i get very happy that i don't have to be alone anymore. then there's always some reason the promise of the we never quite consummates
the last time i was in a relationship of any real depth and intimacy was 5 years ago. melire and i lived together, slept together every night, ate breakfast and dinner together every day and were also best friends for nearly four years. if that could've been hung on to i would've hung on, but after a long stint of such closeness we went separate ways.
since melire it's been a broken stream of half-assed lovers unable to make the important step from saying 'i love you' to actually loving and saying they want to be 'together' while spinning excuses and barricades to prevent a shared moment from ever really happening. a sad and hopefully temporary conclusion i've also come to is that unconditional love is about as common as three legged bald midget rastafarians who collect chicken lungs. there's always a reason to withold or reward wtih love.
i keep telling myself that with mara i just hadn't found it yet. it was peeking it's head up through the love puddles. she was sentenced for 18 months in prison a few days ago. i keep thinking that could've developed into something really cool. she liked me not only in spite of all my flaws and impurities, but because of some of them we had a common understanding. she's kicking junk cold turkey in a state prison. i can't imagine how awful that must be. even in the most supportive environment giving you the appropriate meds it's total hell, but in prison? i feel so bad for her. but i know she can handle it. she's tougher than me that super hardcore aggro bad ass punk bitch.
it pisses me off that only two days after she gets back from austin they lock her up for a year and a half. one last night.
god damn. she really made me feel better about things and like i'm worth something. i know i know....i can't depend on other people for that, but it feels so good to know that someone thinks you're the shit when you feel like just a peice of shit. i'll visit as much as i can. i'm such a jackass. i feel like i've been done a major wrong having her taken like that, while she's the one who's in prison. i'll be missing you freak.

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Saturday, December 29th, 2001
10:38 am - YAY GOD lets get drunk
monday is new years eve! for the last five years this holiday has meant nothing to me. i've been unable to drink with out engendering two weeks worth of blood pissing agony. but for some reason i've been able to drink lately and it usually doesn't hurt my body. what i have done for this bestowal of god's good favor i don't know. but i'd be a damn fool to waste it! so if on monday night you see someone wandering the steets drunk as a peice of shit and happy as a clam about it come and say hello because it'll be me.

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Friday, December 28th, 2001
10:44 am
next time i'll have to get more than 10 minute slots of online time. to all of you humoring my autopoisoned pathos i'll do my best not to recreate similar scenarios on the future. hell, most of you have up and left anyhow. i'll have to seek out some teenage drama queens on the same level of addiction to mishappenstance. they're the ones who really understand. not you puh-swaydoe intellectual book readin bullies. why pleasure do you get out of picking on the emotionally retarded anyhow? i'm not pointing any fingers. nobody did anything actually. it's a guilt rally. ever have a friend come up and say, "yeah, i got 300 dollars stolen from me last thursday!" and you know you didn't do it. you were in atlanta. but none the less you feel guilty anyhow? that's the sort of day i'm having. i have to hide behind the tough girls to keep big mean bully vixens from herding me into prison. honestly the whole thing spawns directly from my studliness and desirability. it has nothing whatever to do with my being lovesick for a famalialish domesticity of the best kind of love triangle. it's so unbecoming a bad ass 20 something male....

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10:41 am
oh back home yes here at the library plugging away into the unknown sewers of noggin pasta. still trying to nail down that unfathomable charm that's nailed me tail to this dockside settlement.

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Sunday, December 23rd, 2001
8:02 pm
BOSTON (AP) -- Preliminary FBI tests found explosives in the sneakers that a passenger tried to ignite aboard a Boeing 767 jetliner, and the man was charged Sunday with the federal crime of assaulting a flight crew.

His identity remained unclear. He was listed in court papers Sunday as Richard C. Reid, the name on his British passport. French authorities identified him as a Sri Lankan named Tariq Raja. In London, Scotland Yard said they believed the suspect was a British national.

The Federal Aviation Administration on Sunday ordered airlines and airports to guard against passengers boarding planes with explosives hidden in their shoes. Technology that detects traces of explosives on carry-on baggage can also be used to check passengers' shoes.

Reid, 28, was charged Sunday in a federal criminal complaint with intimidation or assault of a flight crew causing interference with their duties. He faces a maximum 20 years in prison if convicted.

An initial court appearance was set Monday morning, the FBI said. Reid was being held under constant watch Sunday in a jail in Plymouth, according to Mike Seele, spokesman for the Plymouth County Sheriff's Department.

Officials at the British consulate in Boston have arranged to meet with Reid before Monday's hearing, a consulate spokeswoman said.

French police opened an investigation Sunday to determine how Reid eluded increased security measures at Charles de Gaulle airport outside Paris, where American Airlines Flight 63 took off Saturday.

Passengers on the flight said they had noticed the tall, ponytailed man standing alone and stone-faced before boarding.

``He had a blank look,'' Nicholas Green, a 27-year-old French trader, said. ``The people who had seen him, remembered him.''

During the flight, the suspect, who was sitting behind the wing in the coach section of the Boeing 767, lit a match, but put it in his mouth when confronted by flight attendant Hermis Moutardier, according to an FBI affidavit.

She told the captain and returned to see Reid with a match held to the tongue of his sneaker, then noticed a wire protruding from the shoe. She tried to grab the sneaker, but Reid allegedly pushed her to the floor, and she screamed for help.

Another flight attendant, Cristina Jones, intervened and the 6-foot-4 Reid bit her, authorities said.

``He bit Ms. Jones on the thumb and Ms. Moutardier threw water in his face,'' FBI agent Margaret G. Cronin said in the statement.

Passengers subdued the man, some taking off their belts to strap him into his seat, officials said. Two doctors used drugs from the airplane's medical kit to sedate him.

The plane, carrying 183 passengers and 14 crew members, was escorted to Logan International Airport by two F-15 fighter jets.

Since Sept. 11, some pilots have urged passengers to attack anyone who tries to interfere with the operation of a plane. On Oct. 8, Edward Coburn, 31, was subdued by passengers after he tried to storm the cockpit of an American Airlines flight from Los Angeles.

Passengers on one of the airliners hijacked on Sept. 11 are believed to have fought their hijackers and caused the aircraft to crash in Pennsylvania instead of into an apparent Washington target.

The U.S. Attorney's office in Boston said Sunday that preliminary FBI tests showed ``two functional improvised explosive devices'' in the man's shoes, described by a passenger as hightop sneakers.

``There will be further tests to determine exactly what he had,'' said a federal law enforcement official, speaking on condition of anonymity.

Logan officials described the substance as consistent with the military plastic explosive C-4.

In Washington, Sen. Richard Shelby of Alabama, senior Republican on the Senate Intelligence Committee, said the FBI told him in a briefing Sunday there were explosives in the suspect's shoes.

``This is taken very, very seriously,'' Shelby said on CBS-TV's ``Face the Nation.'' ``From what I've observed, this man was trying to blow himself up, blow the plane up. Is this part of a widespread deal or is this guy acting alone? We don't know yet.''

Sunday's FAA directive followed a similar warning to airlines on Dec. 11 that potential hijackers might try to smuggle weapons in their shoes. Officials wouldn't say what intelligence prompted the warning.

French authorities said Reid had tried to board the same flight Friday but was turned away after raising suspicions.

French police said the suspect -- who also has gone by a third name, Abdel Rahim -- was given permission to board after intensive questioning, but by then had missed Friday's flight. He had only one small bag with him and said he was traveling to Antigua to visit relatives, police said.

After Reid was taken into custody at Logan, the other passengers spent 10 hours being searched and questioned. Most later boarded another plane to Miami, which landed early Sunday.

``Some thought this was a terrorist attack,'' said Geoffrey Bessin, a New York-born software designer who lives in France. ``A lot of others thought it was taken care of, and nothing bad happened, so let's go back to our movie.''

Logan was the airport where two planes departed Sept. 11 before they were hijacked and crashed into the World Trade Center in New York.

In the aftermath of the attacks, acting Gov. Jane Swift fired airport security chief Joseph Lawless. Later, Virginia Buckingham resigned as executive director of Massport, which runs Logan, amid promises by state officials to improve security.

it's a good thing he didn't think of using a butane lighter or just going to the restroom to light his shoe. there are a number of small considerations that would've made a plan like this go off much more successfully.
sadly there'll be many more such capers of this sickening lethality. i don't think i'll be flying anytime soon. but for those who need to fly martial arts wouldn't be a bad idea.

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Saturday, December 22nd, 2001
8:38 pm - MOODZ
She threw herself in my lap. I had little hand in neither the inception of our romance nor the ending of it. I allowed it because it felt good. I tried to end it and walk away with my dignity because I never walk away. Im not cruel enough. She cried and convinced me we could work it out. It kept going until she was convinced it wouldnt work. My being convinced meant nothing. My mind is changable. Hers isnt. When she makes a decision no amount of begging or crying can reverse it. When shes decided Im a wicked junkie whos bad for her and the boy thats that. I am a wicked person, not for being an addict, but for the length Ill stretch a lie to stay comfortable. I slid down a few notches on the ledger of evil for my admission. What makes her evil is her complete lack of any evil qualities. Its so much easier to get dumped by someone whos given you a reason to hate her. Whenever those feelings of bitter loathing come up I cannot stand behind them and say Yeah! The next time some ballistic scrotum chopper lands in my lap dressed like an angel Im standing up! because this one happened to BE a real angel. The sweetest person in the world besides my mother and she doesnt even want to speak to me now. Fuckin depressing. The best thing was getting to play with the boy. When I have those jealous thoughts of who shes with now they all end up at and hes probably plaing with the boy right now! man what a wonderful little person.

I never happen to sit down to LJ when Im in a good mood. It does happen! And when it does Im glad to be free of all that. Its funny how being in a bad mood makes you think its everything about your current situation bringing you down instead of just a bad mood. A good mood makes you think youve really got it goin on. Youve earned feeling good by doing the right things and stacking your life up right. And when things go wrong well, it must be something outside of you thats to blame. Something in your circumstance tweaking your synaptical fibrilations. No, its just a mood. They ebb and flow and change constantly sometimes having nothing at all to do with anything. Maybe someday well figure out the reasoning behind what seems like reasonless mood cycles. People will know when a mood is coming and be able to plan for it like women with their menstral cycles. Friday would be better for me cause Ill be in a mood Wednesday and Thursday.
Why havent pharmaceutical companies developed a medication for bad moods? Its a more common affliction than anything. I know there are anti-depressants, but those are long-term treatments for long-term disorders. I m talking about a pill to take when you have road rage or youre bummed because your boss shot down the proposal you spent months on. Fast, short-acting medications designed to mitigate temporary bouts of fear, dissappointment, boredom etc

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Thursday, December 20th, 2001
4:01 pm - my neice's christmas present
i just put the first coat of paint on a doll bed a friend made for alexa's xmas gift. it's going to be awesome when i get it done. little bunnies, rainbows and flowers. maybe some demons sodomizing koala bears...merry christmas lexie bean! no it will be nice actually. adorable in the extreme.

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