Sentimental Sunday

Ok. You guys remember that movie "The Mummy"? Remember that part where Brendan Fraser is fighting that long-hair guy with the matching face-cheek tattoos? It was like in Brendan's camp in the desert. Well they're fighting and punching and everything and stuff is getting set on fire and their weapons keep getting knocked out of one another's hands. Then Brendan is hit and he does this recovery roll on the ground, and during the roll he grabs a stick of dynamite and puts the fuse in one of the random fires around him. And when he gets back up he's got this look on his face like, "Come on man," like, "The mood's all changed now. This fight just went to the next level now, bitch." Cause he's like holding an explosive in his hand and staring him down. You remember that one?

...That was awesome!

An old man came to my line and succumbed to my mandatory Kohl's credit-card schpeal. He struggled to enter his social-security number. I determined he wasn't aware of the credit-ruining consequenses. Instead of stopping, I continued as my supervisor was near. Corporation+me-ethics/old_guy=evil. I feel like the lowest form of life.

So I had a cookie the other day and it was really good. To elaborate: delicious! I was engorged with chocolate pleasure. "That good? Really?" Yes. Here's why. I've been through so many bad cookies that when I luck into finding a good one, I savor. Please don't freak out.

When I read this, I like to picture Mr. Kravitz in that terminal firing up a nice, thick, vitamin-THC-enriched splif with ol' Snoop. Someone like me pops up, alllatha sudden a fan, and says "Hey Snoop, can I get in?" "Snoop's busy," Kravitz's oxygen-deprived smoke-elated voice sleepily retorts. Fistacuffs ensue.

2 for Tuesday

You know, even when I'm not working I'm still working. I don't know what I'd ever do if I did have spare time. Actually I'd probably put Benjamin in a larger pot knowing his roots are brushing against the plastic surface. "Let it Grow!" is my philosophy. That and "Luuuv!"

*edit* 2:36 p.m.
I just ate a cookie so Goddamn! good it made me a little hard. I asked for "super chocolate," which they corrected. "Double chocolate" they called it. However, 'twas "super" chocolate. It was a sensuous ride unmatched. Cocoa always make me hot. Chocolate, after all, is biochemically related to l-o-v-e.

Sentimental Sunday

Pathetic
After I handed her the change for her 22 oz. bottle of India Ale she asked if I was having a good weekend. I said that I was working. She said that that's tough, but that soon I would be off of work. I replied that this is true, but it was rather pointless because I'd soon have to get to work on something else, like a take-home test or a paper or another paper or another job. Then she said...
"But you're still young. What're you doing to yourself?"
And you know what? She's right. Absofuckinlutely! I am young. I'm a spry little boy that should be out there screaming my lungs out and drinking myself silly. So what's going on? Why am I so cleverly tied down? It's pathetic, the reason. Because I have to survive is why. If I don't work, then I'll be crippled with malnutrition and suffer as bad a death as scurvy can afford me. Hell, I'm hungry right now! McDonalds has those all-night drive-thru windows, right?

But wait, wait, wait! This isn't to say my weekend was bad. On the contrary, this weekend was probably the best I've had in ages. A little dizzy but definately one of the best. I feel just plain freakin great when I'm with her. It doesn't matter that most of my time was spent operating a UPC gun and chatting with myriad mindless citizens about myriad mindless topics. It doesn't matter that everyone on the planet went to some kind of party except for the two of us (and technically just me). There's passion in this spry young man's heart after all.

Ok, enough luv. Back to Communications Law. Fuck you everyone! *shake head*

Behold my bretheren! The time is nigh ...
His yoke's light. If you eat of his body, you will have everlasting life. Come children ...

The seeds of eternal love are coming forth on you. Bow your heads and rejoice in he who has risen, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Happy belated Easter everyone!

I could look at her with all intention of saying something witty, relevant, charming or conversational, but only sit mute, awestruck. I often do, too. It's something in the way she holds her head, the grace in her eyes and movements. Her gaze makes me lose my way, while smiling bigtime.

Viva la Cuba! Viva la Argentina! Viva la Mexico! It appears that my dogmatic dixieland of red, white, ... and blue is turning an uncharacteristicly constructive blind eye to the L.Am instead of 1,000 RPGs of pain. *double take* Maybe I will get that untainted banana tree after all! Holy Schnighkees!

Wow I cant believe I just sat here and did all this shit And for what Wow Well whatre your thoughts dont those little arrows look cool I think so And what about this here picture at the top Four hours wasted At least it looks dissimilar Thats something aye!

And Iran. Iran! Come On! "Everythin' was runnin' lika top (sort of, actually not really) and thems guys take a 3/4inch-monkeywrench and toss it right inda thems moving parts. Yessir, it don't look so good under the hood. But I'sa suppose, these foreign jobs ain't really made for American roads."

Once, I was sucked into a black hole. It was exhilerating yet cold/confusing. Why? Because the black hole effected me only in relation to itself. After passing event horizon, I enjoyed rocking my face of at the speed of light. But I was crushed to atoms in a second's fraction.

Nudity isn't really on my mind I swear. It's my camera. I left it in the car of a friend of which I cannot contact. I'm going bananas. Also, I'm growing tense about whether she's done with me. Don't think so, butcha never know. OK, nudity's sorta on my mind.

Sentimental Sunday

You're Goddamn right! I'm smiling Bigtime, like Peter Gabriel. This grin on my fucking mug isn't just an accident. It'd because my life has recently taken on a decidedly dreamlike quality. Whose dream? My dream; all my best dreams. Well, that is to say minus monies. And in fact my dreams are getting slightly expensive. I guess I really know how to live in my dreams. And who knows if reality won't just decide to wake up and shake me into the submission of a past sleep-memory. But what's the difference, she's so goddamn cool. Romance is alive; and when you think about it, not much else really matters.

Since I might be experiencing a brand new reader(s) today, I'd just like to clarify a bit about what this blog hopes to accomplish in the grander scheme of my ultimate plans. This is my mission statement, of sorts:

Uuuugggooolliiccckooossinngginnngssiiinng!!!!!!AFffsiongionSsstttayysskkkRrroommannitisnionccc!!!UnnneeenddddiiinnnppppasstinonsintisppaasisonnnnosinoaassioOOOn!!! AAAAAAAAAA!!!!

AAAAAAAAAA!!!!

If you have any questions then you can refer to the new category listed over there. Yeah, right over there.

Hmmm, other news ... Work sucks. Pool's fun. Smoking kills with style. A chocolate malt and a chocolate shake are completely different things altogether. I finally got around to swinging on the apartment's swingset, and it's the best swingset I've swung on in a long time. There is a dog out there that actually likes me. I am so incredibly hooked. smiling bigtime

I smoked half a pack a day for about nine months in the Fall of 2003 and Spring of 2004. At Summer, I worked at a newspaper and cut back. That Fall I picked it up again. Only now, when nearly outta my life, someone said "Thank you for smoking(".)."

p.s. smiling bigtime!!!

How 'bout those Iranians! Right? Right! Good going! Forget those yahoos, or as Mr. Ronci would label 'wackaloons!', that hear the word "Nuclear" pronounce it "Nucular" and claim to have a vested interest in "protecting Fredom (with a long e)." Are they looking for a cold war? *shake head* Wackaloons!

2 for Tuesday, night

I just came from Mojo's where the songs were good and the place was dead. To be honest, I'm more nervous going on stage when there's four people out there as opposed to a packed room. What to do? Maybe next week it'll be the Fugue. Gotta mix'er up, right?

Often, whenver I see some random research paper on the harddrive of a random computer in the random Ellis Library, I open it and make all kinds of reasonable editorial changes. You guys should've seen this one I just nailed. It was so terrible/horrible/stupid/...unsmart it was beautiful. I almost cried.

Did you guys know that if you want a letter in Arkansas -- paper letter -- it'll take three days? Three days. It's one day if you pay $14 bucks a piece, though. And people wonder why electronic connections are growing. Or does anyone wonder anymore? Nevertheless, I sealed, stamped and dropped.

I'm lucky enough to memorize facts 'n such, but not a smart man. These guys're smart. Sen. Frist's smart enough to evade ethics--using in-place ethical protocal! Though Sen. Kerry's not smart/lucky enough to topple the dumb, he was smartified by Russert--who doesn't usually smartify. Prepare for toppling, smartypantses!

Kevin Kemper, that is, Kevin R. Kemper, my Winter 2005 newswriting section instructor, once commented on the Today Show's Katie Couric saying that he believed the production she and Matt Louer did in the morning was not suitable news. (p.s. the guy's a fucking douchebag.) I disagree. I've always loved Katie and I look forward to her paving new ground at CBS, as well as for women in general.

But what really sticks in my craw; Meredith Vieira? No way. Cambell Brown was a much better replacement. True, Brown does remind me of Ms. Smythe, but Come On. She's on top of the sucker. She's sexy, smart, able, in touch, visably accesible, tough; she can portray all kinds of intellect and fun just from opening her so soft lips and batting her gorgeous eyes on film. If I wasn't on a Mac I'd connect all my favorite clips. The Vieira decision was probably made by NBC execs that never really watch the show anyhow -- I give a 85 percent chance of this being the actual decision. Brown, baby, I'm sorry. If there were something I could do to right this, I would. You know I love you, right? Right. Love you babe! Don't ever change darlin'.

Sentimental Sunday

Nobody around here seems to get it. Anything. It's almost pointless to speak; almost because if I don't then I'll really be in trouble.

I've decided to play it ordinary for a while. No more hopping the fence, climbing the roof, humming or whistling aloud, driving irradically, throwing objects as hard as I can against brick walls, sprinting for no reason, saying aloud the jokes I'm really thinking; I've got to start being an ordinary, unassuming man. It's all these things that seem to set me apart, I assume. Here's a good example.
Mr. Jones, after some confusion with the proper lock-up-the-store paraphenalia, invited me over to Mr. Reese's party last night. I attended for about 10 minutes. Why only 10 minutes? Do I think I'm so cool that I can't be in the company of these people? Well, it's not that. I'm just not normal. I'm kinda fucked up; so fucked up interaction is somewhat impossible for me naturally. And it's not that people look at me as some kind of equal or threat and therefore aren't willing to tip me a social hand because in situations like these, that increasingly occur in modern campus living, everyone is too fucking paranoid and doesn't want to back down and consequently as everyone becomes inebriated and lets their mask-like social hands tip they inadvertantly build walls to further disengage themselves from what's really going on: Worry. It's not that. I want to fit in, I really do. It's that I feel pretty antisocial around people much cooler than me.
And I miss our talks, and all the noises we'd both make. I miss you babe, muffintop. Dating just isn't the same without you. Now it's all ordinary, if it's anything at all.

Also, I've got a digital camera.

I'm A Father! My little seedlings've pushed through the surface. In time, I'll be offering homemade tomato sauce grown with all the luv a mixed-up man like me can deliver. With my newest digital acquisition, I'll also keep y'all pictorally updated on the progress of Jemima, what I named her.

Last night, I had a dream with Shania Twain. I was a fan heading into her dressing room with flowers. We talked, played music, and of course our clothes fell off. Before sleeping, I ate a handful of chocolate kisses. I'm on to something! See you in my dreams Shania!

The first time around is always kind of a surprise. There are lots of cool things that you've never seen or felt before, but the climax is delayed. You can get so close, only to realize that what you desire has been just out of reach. Chasing practice makes perfect.

How does it work, whereas I spend $28 on beer on a Tuesday two weeks ago and feel absolutely fine the next morning, and spend $15 on beer yesterday and feel like shit this morning? Answer: Draft beer. I'm drinking my Tuesday nights from a bottle from now on. Aye!

Democracy tastes great. The contents of my democracy sandwich are as follows: Barbra Hoppe, Steve Calloway and Michelle Gadbois, and more taxation. To be honest, I voted for Calloway and Gadbois because 1) Callaway golf equipment is OK and 2) Gadbois was the only lady. *Burp* I need some democracy-milk.

I'm in Love! Her name is Giada. She enjoys cooking; Just like Me! She's got her own cooking show; Just like Me! I'd bathe her in the tastes of succulent eroticism and love her with the passion of a thousand radish roses. When she meets me, our recipe will climax.

Sentimental Sunday

Detox
Since Friday before break, I haven't consumed any caffeeine. None. At first I had serious headaches, but after about a day or so I adjusted to the lack of it. What've I found? I thouroughly enjoy caffeeine. Yes, sometimes when I overload I feel like smashing craters into bricks, toppling strangers, and forcing the fingers into the eyes of those I know deserve it. I am God! when I have my caffeeine. I also get a lot more done. Though, I remember a few months ago when I could not sleep because of caffeeine. I was more or less awake for about 10 days. It was my own fault, because I had become accustomed to eating the chocolate-covered beans by the handful. Yes, the worst things hurt when you do them to yourself. Sleep deprivation is not different.
Nevertheless, if you'd like to get a cup of coffee I'd order a Grande and probably finish it before you.

Fun Date
I've been out of commission for quite a while. Plus, I was never quite used to dating in the first place. There's too much to be unsure about. Like eye contact. I really like her eyes. I like looking at them, but there's a point where it becomes weird. Or is there? I swear that I'm still a fun date, but I'm not necessarily the dating kind. For that matter, I don't know if I'm any kind. I don't even know what kind I'm looking for. But here: Three things I find absolutely sexy in a woman: 1) ambition, 2) emotion, 3) resolve to reality. She's got it all, plus perfect teeth and eyes and style and etcetera. I like her and I really want to see her again and perhaps sometime in the future a tumult passionate romance will ensue and also our clothes will fall off. Is that possible by going to see some fucked up movie? Who knows. One thing for sure: she's way too cool for me. Alas, such is life.

If you want some cable you've got to steal it yourself
The Boone County Courthouse instructed me to remain in Columbia throughout the week of March 27 for the purpose of remaining on call for Jury Duty. Of the five days I was required to call in, I went in a total of zero days. Pretty much, Boone County fucked me out of a spring break.
During the time inbetween playing meaningless song after meaningless song I climbed atop my roof. Once up, I was able to acquire the full package of cable, as well as set up three tomato plants, one strawberry plant and a row of flowers (which as of now are back in the apartment because we're going to be fucked by another storm again tonight). Even with cable, you can still go stir crazy.

Young & Pretty
"Tu"resa (probably spelled Theresa) bared her soul as well as a little flesh at Mojo's Tuesday night. The MU graduate student/scientist/exhibitionist (that one I added) said I was a very pretty man, too pretty for college kids. I concurred. This echoes what this other chick said at Eastgate a while ago. The 40-something wine lover who calls me her little child said I was too hansome to be sleeping alone. Also, at Kohl's, as well as out and about, people comment on the quality of my fucking hair, but they like it. Hell, I just came from the Christian Science center on Broadway (there for the purpose of an unrelated reason) where the people I asked questions of all loved my hair, and how "adorable" I am.
BUT, did any of them sleep with me? Noooo! So what the fuck? Am I not good-looking enough for the rustic/elegant peers around me?

Balls Busted
I waited and waited for a while now. If she really wanted me she'd've made it clear despite what was said. She'd've made a move based on faith in me. Instead, the opposite is clear. Is it her STD? Is she truly gay? Does she just like to collect men or something? Is it that "d" that I always heard so fucking much about? I wonder; but I don't hold hope for anything between us anymore. So much potential electric passion has ended up only as sad times. Alas, such is life.

Disclaimer
(OK, this post is pretty fucking vain.) The policy of my weblog is that you can mail your self-addressed/self-stamped envelope containing your comment into your asshole, and if you'd like to punch me in the stomach for a comment in which you feel slighted or confused about then you may. But, I'm afraid, that is all the resolve you will receive if you search for such resolve. I hope you all enjoy these fucking posts. You can go fuck yourself, too, for entering the inner sanctum of my goddamn lair of torment. (It's all good, I'm just playing. If I did have a sanctum you can sit down and have a beer.)