My journal

Hold me!
No, no. Not you. You, the chesty girl.

you know how it goes...
you know that strange feeling you get, standing before your mirror just after drawing your invisible sword form your invisible sheath on your back-sometimes you get a little spittle on your chin making the "shhhlllshhhhh" noise of a drawn sword-when you've just stopped mid-battle-pose with sword held horizontally overhead after a brief clash with your mirror image, your brow furrowed in fierce concentration, your eyes meeting your own through those faint, misty splatterings of toothpaste or those other odd splatterings indicative of an acne victim's mirror. if your mother walked in now with a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches cut into quarters, you'd demand the blue cup before your sibling could make request. why you'd get it yourself, only you're surely too young to reach way up in that big, high cupboard.

relatively poorly rendered, hypocritical pedantry
two large, unattractive girls pointed their snarling faces out the bus window. gesturing with their greul-spattered snouts, they groaned and garumphed about the poor fashion sense of some pleasingly curved though undeniably oddly dressed young woman. their plump faces pressed close, gristle to gristle, slopping foil shit from acrid, rotting mouths bleating shrill, horrific, oozing cafaws. the very earth cringes beneath sauntering, gelatinous steps. a blossoming flower retreats. the sunflower burries its yellow face beneath the darkening earth at the approach of the monolithic monstrosities. the self-serving words gushed forth in chunks, a blackish green ejaculation of hatred. the Holyman Himself looked at helpless hands wishing for the warm caress of fat chubbed intestine, the struggling ebb of an enlarged heart slowly waning to cessation. merciless cows! end your violent, hate-filled harngue! seek instead your own smile.

wow new format here...change eeeee, frightening. i like to take a romantic view concerning the natural ambiance of my school here. it would take much to deny the natural beauty. the trees are impressive in size, varied in shape, covered with strange and interesting growths of moss or vine. there's some interesting paths too, dark and scary at night. they actually inspire fear. not fear of goblins or talking tree monsters so much as rapists and stabby hobos. the nights are cool and and somehow a little breezy despite the lack of a sea breeze. and the air smells fresh and unadulterated by the air-born poisons of home. but of all these things i can't help but notice the deficiency of our squirrels. they don't lack in quantity certainly, and they have character enough for several species; perhaps they help to fill the well of mundanity we've left in creation. but their tails, they just seem so small, fluffless, lacking the desired level of bushiness. a bushy tailed squirrel, is that not what one hears of, spoken across the gaps from culture to culture through children's strories and novice poems? this deficiency doesn't change my liking for the squirrels, i love them just the same. tailless i may have a problem with them. they couldn't be so charmingly acrobatic without the balance allowed by a tail. i'm merely concerned for their health a bit. the acorns in this region do not promote the growth of a glossy, full squirrel tail. maybe the lovable moss is usurping from the trees the chemicals that would be transfered to its acorns and then to the squirrel recipients giving them a fuller, more lustrous tail. i'd like to see the squirrel's tail as its own entity as if the squirrel and the tail have a symbiotic existence:"tail i will carry you to where you must go" "oh and squirrel i will make you beautiful and loved by all". i guess can't always see things as they'd like to. some realities become too potent and strong. they may burn a bit on the way down.

i've unlearned looking both ways before crossing the street. those years of indoctrination were for naught. the diminished threat of automobiles is accompanied by a new peril of bicycles, once an innocent, unassuming means of transport and fun, now a dark, imposing menace wrecklessly unleashed upon us poor, fragile pedestrains. o that nonchalant swerve of an oncoming cyclists front tire! woe to those in its path! in my walks my eyes wander mostly from the ground to the treetops returning then thoughtfully back to the ground again; though, as i am now a literary man, i have come to greatly appreciate those little shorts girls wear, the ones with the words across the butt. never have i seen such poetry written so concisely.

The 5 things most important to me? How can one's RA bring about such a realization? Svetlio always said he was worried; I "didn't give a shit about nothing." Why does my RA need to know more about me than i know about myself. I was content with her making us cookies every so often. Does she need to plow into the untilled earth of my soul just to see if i prefer chocolate chip or peanut butter?

Have you ever done anything that was satisfactory to your mother? of all people, she is the most difficult to please. you have nothing but the utmost respect and the most heartfelt of pity for your father. he is the most noble of men pateintly parying the blows from the maelstrom to which he is wed. his armor is wrought of the finest metals both rare and endurable in order to protect him from the dark knight on her fiery steed. his shield was forged in prometheus' flame tempered by the blows . he has no sword. jesus entered this world and was said to have suffered for our sins. through him god felt firsthand the human condition. he felt the pain of the flesh, of opprssion, of betrayal, but he had no wife. his mother was not truly a mother as we know them. he was brutally beaten, his flesh mangled, blood streaming from ribbons of tattered skin over his whole body, thorns in his skull, bone protruding, exhaustion, abandonment...but he didn't have a mother. a true mother would how he was doing everything all wrong. "next time you're saving the eternal souls of all of creation..." she'd begin, as a blood smeared jesus crawls on dragging his own dusty intestine beneath his burdenous cross.

misunderstood mojo
remember when austin powers lost his mojo? it was apparently sucked out of his genitals. it was a shiny pink goo. what is mojo? do you know? i do. its actually part of the african american practice of "hoodoo" there's a little flanal bag that holds different magical items, one of them being the mojo. the bag can be called many things: mojo hand, conjure hand, lucky hand, conjure bag, trick bag, root bag, toby, jomo, and gris-gris bag. doesn't this change your understanding of the universe. its as though some things have flipped upside down, and you no longer no who to tust. perhaps our dreams are real and our lives are just a dream. or everything is just a dream and we're just sitting in a moist, dark cave with squishy dream eating monsters sucking on our brains. the latter being my strongest hypothesis.

Current Music: Lightnin' Hopkins - Mojo Hand

arggrgrgglllggll (the sound of choking on one's own vomit)
you know that sound,the sound of death of one's own vital organs falling to the ground before your eyes,the sound heard while speaking to someone who just won't understand? everything is a mystery. arrgarglespoogledeedoo. you make creations of reasonable wit, you admire its many angles, its sleek design, the red flames running along the sides, and the lightning bolts colliding in the back spelling out your name in big, shimmering block letters, and your listener just sort of looks away with a nod: "yeah, ok". or even worse: "huh?"(blink blink) they didn't even recognize that commuincation was intended; they don't even feign understanding. i dunno how it happens. too much tv, not enough, an unbalanced diet at a key stage in development, too much breast feeding, not enough, paint chips, over-exposure to different lettered rays: x,y,z, who knows? i don't claim superior intelligence. time and life has proven my mind faulty, and i'm yet to know many of my incapabilities to come. i guess what it is is that we're just not all reading the same book, dancing to the same song, you know, we're all running a different obstacle course. sometimes mine has a line of juxtaposed tires to run through and my companion has a wall, a high wall, slippery, with nothing to grab onto...and spikes at the top, and some sort of giant medieval predatory bird monster flying over it as guard, and a large army of archers at the wall's foot, the kind of thorough yet skill-less archers that fire at the hero in an action movie, they can't strike flesh, but they make the climb more perilous and the inevitable victory more satisfying.

when you get to the bottom of the peanut butter jar and you look around down in there.
you know that there's a good deal left, but can you really get it out? i mean, in a reasonable fashion, without too much ado. there's a small circle of peanut butter in the center. i dn't know the proper knife approach to pick it up efficiently. it seems to bend away from the knife without sticking to it. i can't get a satisfying amount onto my knife, and i don't want to pull the knife out unsatisfied. even a cracker would be left unfulfilled by this knife's peanutbutter supply. i can't remove such a barren knife from the jar showing the world my shame. ha! look at him, he can't scoop shiat. white boy. pshh. so i take a simpler route, ignoring the edges and crevices of peanutbutter remnants, i push the mostly finished jar aside and open a new. but i don't throw the old away, knowing someone else may surely come along, someone with a more steadfast heart or maybe a better knife or even just a spoon, and finish off the jar, the jar i left abandoned and unused.
i'm not sure what this is about. maybe it says something about my commitment levels and my motivation. both are low. theres a sense of some kind of sexual inadequacy regarding the satisfaction of the knife and the shame of an unpeanutbuttery knife. i don't want to delve into that. but i left the jar abandoned and unused. its purpose unfulfilled. i feel that it reflects poorly upon me. i hope my il treatment of peanutbutter jars hasn't crossed too far into my life in regards to interacting with others. i know it has somewhat. but hopefully not to have me leaving people with most of their peanutbutter gone, but their purpose for being still not met. sorry to all of my past peanut jars. i loved your smooth, creamy goodness even if in the end i didn't show you.

Leadbelly on a a big fat woman
"oh lord, big fat woman with the meat hangin on her bones
she was borne and raised in an old kentucky home
i love my woman and i tell the world i do
oh she's so good to me just like i do you
i woke up this mornin and found my baby gone
i was so mistreated but i wouldn't let on
da deedle deedle da dee deedle da ohhhh"

there's always someone that will appreciate you, love you even. even big fat woman had herself a man. and she saw how he loved her. how he longed to hold her jiggling packets of flesh, caress each tender cutlet, explore every bluberous cavern. he wasn't ashamed of his love. he sang it to the world. seeing his devotion, she left him. he was then forced to pretend that he didn't mind, he didn't really care, things would be fine.

he really got drunk one night and had sex with a big fat woman. while it was happening he didn't deny he enjoyed it. when he awoke to find her gone he felt a little used, since its supposed to be the man's role to leave quietlty in the night after such flubbery sexual encounters. so he felt kinda bad and wouldn't let on, so he just hums himself a song.

you...have to put on the red light
our soceity is built upon sex and entertainment, sex being very entertaining, so much so it gets its a separate category. relationships are founded by sex and entertainment. love is a confusion of the senses caused by sex and entertainment. i'm not ok with this. no one fucking entertains me. where's my sex? i'm the whore to the world's vacuosness. i'm not even a person; i'm a persona. typecast by the masses, i'm forced to fill a role. its not the worst role certainly by far, but why do i have to play when others do what they want? ahh, i'm confused. i'm seeing it only from my perspective. we're all whores. fuck us. thats right friends, take out your diseased, sweaty cocks and fuck us. bend our backs, divert our heads, ignore our cries, fuck us hard. sear our innards with your boiling semen. lather our faces, tear our hair. rape us with a laugh, with a smile. bare your pointed teeth in joy as you devour the flesh of our souls. wait, wait....don't worry. i'll do you next. no one will leave here unfulfilled. i'll fill you with all of my emptiness, sparing none, just promise me you'll do the same.

sorry to be so graphic. i think only old black women are allowed to write such things. kurt cobain sang "rape me, my friend." and so we do, we use one another, rape one another for our own amusement. its the basis of friendship of all things we share with others...maybe.

damnit
lets see...
"R-E-S C-U-E, Rescue Aid Society, Heads held high touch the sky, you mean everything to me." then there's that fast part doo doo doo dee dee dee united are we then the refrain...
oh miss bianca how we love theee. let me count the ways: your sweet scent lifts your mouse brethren from their feet, they want only to serve you. awww your walk(awww!!) it should be illegal to walk into an international conference like that wiggling those furry hips. no one can concentrate. how can they rescue people while all the ambassadors are staring at her ass? they're all trying to think about baseball and their grandmother's brazziere just to avoid any further embarrassment to themselves and their countrymen. and what about all the other animals that are represented? out of the entire animal kingdom only humans and mice have some kind of united nations type meeting? and poor poor evinrude, he's the bravest of them all. he makes the story possibly(he's the dragonfly). he flies through death and crocodiles, navigating through carnivorous bats.

he told me she tasted like soul. is that not beautiful? amazing vincent. i've never tasted soul. sometimes i wondered maybe if she had bologna for lunch or some kind of sausage, but i usually kept that to myself. soul, no. wow. shouldn't that be our goal? to taste a soul is the greatest of motivations. you wanna make out? i dunno, you gonna let me taste your soul? cause i mean, i'm sure you taste nice with your mediocre dental care and who knows what kind of sweaty traffic going in and out of this salivary orifice and you know it can't be just me, i can't make the soul flavor alone, it takes twoo baaby...to obtain that crisp divinity of the tongue.

and bringing it back to the title, damnit! i don't know why, but damnit. dang the shoot. dang it in the poop! um...sorry. i could just press delete and hold it down, but what is written must remain, because....thus have the gods dictated.
sheesh.

Current Music: zelda windwaker paused theme

urinated on agayne, sir gawayne
damned doggy wus a shakin.
little booty wus a twisty
without the tail to waggle.
little eyses were the squintin
lookin wide away from myne
the body filled with tremble
while i'as watered from her gryne(groin).

um....uh...damned dog.

"tell mee whhheeerrre did you slleep last night?
in da pines in da pines where the sun don't ever shine, i would shiiiiver the whole night through.
my girl my giirl dont you lie to me, tell me wheeere did you sleep last night?"
my grandma and i sing this song together. neither of us know the words too well, and her voice is a little tired after nearly 90 years of life, but we still sound pretty damn good if i can say so myself. even if we miss the notes with our voices, our souls are always right on key.
"his head was found in a driver wheel, and his body hasn't never been found. my girl my giirl dont you lie to me, tell me wheeere did you sleep last night?"
its funny that i'd sing this song with my grandma. its about adultery and murder, topics rarely mentioned between granparent and grandchild. though my grandmother has always had an aptitude for sexual perversion. i've heard jokes from her i wish i hadn't understood, and i can't forget her recounting of the time two kids made out in front of her house(she's one of those window watching elderly types) and how they were just "a'kissin and a'suckin and a'suckin and a'kissin." she couldn't have created a more perfect, accurate description. grandma can always help to reveal life's simplicity. she's wise. she knows life more intimately than i'll be capable of for some time. she has experience. she has learned life's lessons. her sails have unfurled, her ship has sailed, only returning now to tell me of the seas. for her the water was not tepid. she passed through boiling hardships and the chill of poverty. she's outpaced death even as he's lapped her friends and loved ones along the way. but...sometimes she seems wrinkly, and old, and kinda crazy. she can hardly see or hear. she mixes up the tv newscasts in humorous ways. she questioned me ernestly about the existence of a man on the moon. so i respect her and don't at the same time. more simply, i love her.

Current Music: leadbelly-where did you sleep last night

moss
uf was nice. its amazing to be able to live away from your parents and the confines of home. i can't wait to get there. i'll miss some folk i'm sure, but it will be for the best. and i guess there will be classes and work. i'm sure there will be plenty of unhappy times, when i'm tired of my room mate when it doesn't seem fun to do the drunken college stuff, when i consider the high rate of genital herpes amongst the student body, when i remember that i needn't worry about having contracted such an illness, when i've lost all interest in the foods at the student buffet diners, but it'll always be good to be at uf if only because of the moss. it hangs from every the branches of every tree weighing them down like a big, thick, curly wig. every tree is equipped with the dangling moss. every tree is being overtaken by it. its not a symbiotic relationship, the moss aims to kill, the tree just wants to live. but the moss kills to live. hmm, anyways, its beautiful. every building is made of brick. the natural science museum has angled walls covered in some kind of bush or growth that i don't know the proper name of. there's chirping of all kinds from birds, crickets, and probably some other chirping species yet unknown to me. alligators, bats, pointy headed turtles, squirrels, raccoons, opossoms, and all other sorts of nature bricker brack run about. i like it. schools gonna be good, if not because of people or learning or parties, but because of the moss.
oy.

my long lost joinal
i haven't written for a while. i kinda miss it. i've had so many meals in the interim between entries, there are oh so many things to be written of.
we ate at sonny's in some town with my mentally challenged aunt. she lives in a special home, a beautiful place, nice landscaping. she's not happy, but she can't be,(but all of this is a story longer and less of anyones business than can justify my explaining it.) she's filled with an odd youthfulness. she ate her spare ribs with the wreckless abandon of starved youth. there seemed no end to her hunger. she sat and ate noisely from the moment her food arrived till it was gone, then she opened up the remaining little butter and ate them with her fork. beautiful. she didn't care that later her tummy would ache, her bowels would churn. she said mmm yummy and kept on eating. we had to sit by and listen to the horrible noises she made sucking meat from her teeth, chewing with an opne mouth. the horrid sight of mastication in a once long neglected set of teeth. we watch an offensive display of her own gleeful self destruction then we drop her off at the home and run away to return only when our consciences become too boisterous.

um...a stranger's musings(not nick's-we love nick)
i entered my house this evening. was greeted by a growling dog. i went and lay by her side. she looked up coyly averting her gaze. i kissed beside her face on the velvet just below her eye. she squinted and shook. i hugged her. she growled. i kissed the air, and she shook. i smelled popcorn. there was no empty bag on the counter. the microwave i just had used. so it was empty. my pants were soaked with urine. not my own.
she reminds me so much of the females of our own species. not because of the urine. not literally atleast. my dog loves me. so much that i make her nervous and she pees. i know thats not love. but this dog wants only for me to be happy(i know i know, how is this anything like a human female, be patient, i think there's a point). i purposely mistreat her. she cowers before my dominance. she shows me the fullest capacity of love that a dog can in return for my severe acts of emotional abuse. i give her my approval so rarely that she wants nothing more. little does she know that when its given i don't mean it, its just so she makes her squinty eye face a few times. then i push her away and forget i own her. and she could ask for nothing more.
you can't deny the aptitude in this comparison. well, you will deny it, but its still there, somewhere, hiding perhaps deep within. one's own reason may even combat the doglike tendency, but its still true.
the female mind seems capable of the greatest perversities on intervals. the male mind works on a lower, less emotionally fatiguing level of perversion at a constant rate. i stand by my method.

"Egotism gains its keynote from pedantry." unrelated. but related to my pompous journal entry. and everything else i've said and everhthing else i've heard.

Day...uhh...hmmm, its not yet day
i can't sleep. bad dreams. well, or just sour thoughts. and i've been sleeping so well recently. my mind works so strangely in a sleepy stupor. i always used to think that my snooze button could actually manipulate time. as those time froze and i could sleep indefinitely every morning before school. i had a half awake dream a few days ago about the price of the towels my mom was giving me. it seemed that the washclothes were so expensive. i went and looked at them the next day with wonder. its all meaningless.

"to thine own self be...enough"
the troll motto. its not from lord of the rings so shut up. that quote is what separates men from trolls. i think i want to be a troll. just me. i have me. whatever i am. thats all i need. there's no truth("to thine own self be true") but there's me(even if i'm a lie) and thats all a field troll needs.
cast aside your Self so that you can be happy or just handle today, but in the end what will life have been:
"Do not be angry, oh lovely earth,
if, to no purpose, I trampled your grass.
Oh lovely sun, your glowing rays
have squandered themselves on an empty house
where noone within might be warmed and gladdened-
the owner they say was never at home.
Lovely sun and lovelely earth,
you were foolish to warm and nourish my mother...
I will climb up high to the steepest peak...
then let the snow drift over me...
And there may they write: 'Here lies - No One.'
...let come what may"

ahh, good story. peer gynt. read it.
i remember now. everything is so simple, we're not supposed to uderstand.

'night!...or,uh...mornin'!

Day 8
I'm ill equipped to have so many friends. i have a lot of friends. i dunno how, but they're just there. i like it. but i can't really do it. i never had friends growing up. i mean i played kickball with some kids and our moms took us to the public pool, but we didn't have any obligation to one another. now i say i'll call someone and i forget and i feel bad. i make small promises to several people, not overly important promises but i forget them. i thought earlier of my interactions with others being similar to eating watermelon. while i'm eating it it seems powerfully sweet (though sometimes bitter around the rind) but when i'm done i feel no fuller as though i hadn't eaten anything. not that i'm unsatisfied with my friends, its quite the opposite actually. i love everyone. and everyone seems specialer than anyone actually is in reality, but shh i like it. i dunno, i guess i'm just saying that i'm not good at fulfilling some of the simple traditional tasks of friendship sometimes, but that doesn't mean i don't care. i do care. a lot. more than i should eh vince?

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