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Mr. Fantastic

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[29 Nov 2007|04:14pm]
This is no more.
Follow me, children. 


fleshchines
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[15 Nov 2007|01:19pm]
Thanks Dad
Read more...Collapse )
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Wild Child [15 Nov 2007|12:41pm]
I am angry.

I'm afraid. So, I hide my rage.
And rage is freedom.
Just ask Samson.
Is that why I am attracted to the color red so much?
I subconsciously leak the fire searing and hardening me from within.

Fuck you Dad for making me like this.
for making me go to church three times a week.
for throwing the McDonald's out the window.
for fuckin around with other women.
for leaving me with the sad clown gig.
for not paying child support.
for forcing church on us to vicariously purge your own guilt and sin and shame.

Fuck you DAD for creating a feral child.
I'm a mess.
I'M YOUR MESS.

Fuck you Jarred for not having the courage to be my friend.
for meaning everything to me.

I stepped out of my padded walls to tell you how I felt, to try and move on.
I always called you to apologize, to try and mend, to reach a deeper level.
I write you letters, send you post cards, listen to and admire all your music.
You're too scared to stop acting like everything is okay.
Just like me.

Fuck you Brian for being a spineless piece of "SEAWEED" floating wherever the current takes you.
for crawling back to whoever will take you at the moment.
for betraying my affection for you.
for being the ultimate flake.
for laughing it off.
for apologizing drunk.

Fuck you fifth grade teacher who made me write "I will not stand on the toilet seat," 100 times.
Guess where I'm standin' now?

Fuck you Darlene. Fuck you Megan Amable-Chunn. Fuck you Yuki. Fuck you Yumi. Fuck you Andrea Strong. Fuck you Jeremy Lowe. Fuck you Michael Siri.
You should be glad I even strained my fingers to smear your names on this screen.

I'd rather set myself on fire
than put my body in the same earth
that your stinking bodies will melt in.
If I die alone,
alienated, bitter,
spitting blood and pissing fire or vice-a versa.
If the fire finally gets out of control
and burns me until only my shell is left
standing,
my hollow eye sockets,
the windows to my ghetto,
will smoulder to heat the insects that have made their homes
where blood once pumped and
soft, gooey
vulnerable organs once lived.
If I couldn't see or couldn't breathe
or couldn't feel or couldn't cry.

If no one ever wrote me a letter
or gave me a phone call again.
If that happens,

I'd be in the exact same place I am now.

You know what's great about a dead man?
He's got nothin to lose.

JUST
DO
NOT
PUT
A
GUN
in his hands.
2 comments|post comment

2 Poems About Risk [15 Nov 2007|12:33pm]
Growing is pain. Pain is growth.
I walked into a store and poured myself a "Chilled Out" Slushee.
Engrossed in thought, a train wreck on its way, I walked out of the store.
The first sweet sip woke me up. I realized I had stolen the slushee.
Ignorant of of fear, I accomplished it effortlessly.

I must conquer fear.
Fear is my father.
My father is fear.
He is the first domino.



A boy approached me as I was writing this.
He asked me questions about my life.
My answers obviously didn't mean anything.
His awkward, unrelaxed stance told me this was a temporary and unsettled position.
His friend sat behind, silent, waiting for something.
He would be leaving soon, just like the rest.

Yet, I spilled my guts.
I really want someone to feel my pain. I'm desperate.
Don't give me a morsel, I'll take your soul.
Let's get to the point.
What are you about to sell me?

Jesus.
I told him I bought it.
I told him it broke.
I spent my life savings on it.
Totally bankrupt.
What is your return policy?
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Captain Couldntcare and His Lenscap Snapshots [15 Nov 2007|08:04am]
I was walking alone today. I left my crutches at home.

I tried to stand up straight, but I couldn't. I didn't want my confidence to invade anyone's personal fear bubble. I'm so goddamn polite that when you cross the muddy street, I take my jacket off and put myself in the puddle. I'll put the jacket on top of me so you don't actually have to touch me.

I saw palm trees for the first time today. I've seen them before, but today was the first. It was then that I realized why I am bad at photography. In order to be a good photographer, you must see what you are taking a picture of. In order to be a good photographer, you have to take a picture. You don't just see it, but you grab it and keep it.

I saw a guy wearing a light brown shirt, with yellowish skin, khaki pants on, and a tan backpack walkin' on a pale sidewalk. Where the fuck did this guy go? He disappeared!
That's me. They call me Mr. Pavement 'cause you had no idea you was walkin' on me.
Glad to be of service.

I look at the ground when I walk, even when no one is looking. When you walk in my gallery I'll explain, "This is my Sidewalk Series. It's more boring than Monet's Haystacks, but painted more realistically."

You can't take a picture with the shutter closed. The only idiot on the planet that wishes he could take a picture without light.
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Something to Think About for 14 Hours [15 Nov 2007|07:58am]
Saw a guy with a Megadeth t-shirt on and sandals. I'm pretty sure this would offend and disrespect the members of Megadeth. I was offended and I don't even like Megadeth.

I hate half-assin' it.
Like the kid who took Tylenol to kill himself.
Aspirin is an awful way to die. At a certain point you cannot be helped or revived. You are locked inside your body for 14 hours. While your organs are dissolving, you are foaming at the mouth, and convulsing, you have some time where you are forced to reflect on this (and other) terrible mistake you've made- 14 hours of suffering and solitude as every regret pours back into you and experienced one more time. Golden oldies 10 folded.

If you wanted to die, you would make it happen. Just ask Hunter S. Thompson.
If you wanted attention, you could have killed a man, robbed a bank.
There is no turning back with a gun.
If you survive the blow to the brain,
you,
by all means,
are meant to live.

I want to live my life in the barrel of a gun-
unseen power released at the twitch of necessity or desire.
Something to think about.
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Portrait of What? [11 Nov 2007|07:28pm]
For our next Photography assignment we must do a self-portrait.
2 Photos with any combination of the following 2 groups of criteria.

1 photo must have yourself in it.
1 photo cannot include any part of yourself in it.

1 photo must show how you are similar to your "peers."
1 photo must show how you are different than your "peers."

This assignment is ripping me apart. I really don't want to look inside myself. I have no idea who I am. I believe I was denied my identity through collective worship and forced selflessness through guilt tactics.

What are "peers"?
Do I have them?

I desperately do not want to do this assignment. I know doing so might be some sort of personal breakthrough, but it is killing me right now.

My mother called me crying last night. She has had it with Sal. What is going to happen to Jeremiah? Zack and Jacob are not there to support her. Who knows where the hell Zack is.
Americredit, the loan company for my car, called and said I have until Monday to call back before they sue me. I have had my car damaged a total of 3 times in two months.

My father did not support my mother. He is now bankrupt because of a heart surgery. His girlfriend called my mother to try and ask if she could forgive him the child support money he owes. She said no. I have not talked to my father in a long time. I am building up courage to be able to call him and tell him that I have never been able to tell him how I feel. I am going to call him and tell him that he has failed me.

My mother says she might live in some shitty apartment for $500 dollars a month. My rent with Josh is $675 a month. With tears in her eyes she told me, "We're gonna be okay."

How am I like my peers?
Who are my peers?
Who are my friends? What is a friend?
Where are my letters?
Why do I try and kiss everyone's ass?
How can I know if I am different if I don't know who the hell I am?

I want a sensei, a godfather, a drill sargeant, a patron, the guy from Karate Kid, Rocky Balboa's coach.
I want a father.

I am completely unequipped for reality and living life. I don't mean that metaphorically.
I am making great strides in myself. I have grown so much in just a few months of living by myself.
I am ready to take on the world, but it is still hard.

I hate everyone in my major. They are either talentless or full of shit. Which one am I?

I don't know what I like.
I don't know what I am good at.
What am I meant for? There is a higher purpose for me, but I cannot find it! Am I too busy finding it to see it right under my nose?

I hate that my "peers" are so lazy. I hate that they shirk school duties to party. I hate that they have money to squander. I hate that school is way too fucking EASY. It does not require me to try.
Victory is cheap.
"YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! I SQUASHED A BUG!"

When I was in 5th grade our music teacher told us to join the school band for Middle School over the summer. I got to the meeting too late. (It may or may not have been because of my dad). The teacher convinced me to pick up trumpet, because all the spots for drums had been filled.
We got the trumpet, but I never went to a single class. We ended up returning the trumpet.
I got my first drumset two years ago in 2005.
I sold my first drumset less than a year ago in 2007.
I needed the money. It took me 10 years to get my drumset.

I was happiest in my childhood when I didn't know any better.
My mom describes to me the lifestyle we led and I had no idea what we were. Those were, ironically (or maybe not), the best years of my life.
During these years Dad and Mom's marriage was awful, we lived in a two room cottage (the size of some livingrooms) with 6 people. Jacob shared his bed with my father until he was 8 years old. We bought secondhand clothes. People from our church used to give us boxes of food.
My mom worked at a gas station, my mom worked at walmart.
She used to steal milk for us to drink.
We had a bunch of cats who would shit all over the house.

We had no idea we were white trash.

I was raised white. I'm latino, but was denied this identity, because my mother felt that it would be better if I didn't carry this around for people to see and to try and hurt me with.

I've never experienced anything. I have never, ever made my own decision in my life.
I don't have an opinion on anything.
I'm the invisible boy.

Throughout elementary school, I was best friends with a boy named Michael Siri. In 5th grade he started hanging out with a boy named Evan Gerard. Michael soon grew too cool for me. He ended up being one of the most popular kids in my high school. We didn't hang out after 5th grade.

I went to my highschool prom. I only went because I wanted to convince myself I was confident and normal like all the other kids. I went with a pity date after asking the girl that I really wanted to go with. After I asked her, she literally said, "Uhh. I gotta go."

I can't tell my brother how I feel. I never tell people when I am angry with them. It hurts me to make anyone feel bad for even a second. I shield other people's feelings by pushing my very far in myself.

The other day I hit a car and started crying. My hands began to uncontrollably contract and started to try to crush themselves involuntarily. This really happened.

I need help.
I'm in so much pain.
I always keep pushing through it because I want to be strong enough to deal with it, but I do not think that I am.
I know that I am a wounded lion. The lion is waiting.

So, teach...uhh...ways I'm different...
Well, I'm a swirling torrent of an emotional hell.
I'm a living blob, a ghost, a rat aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
FUCK YOU
FUCK YOU
FUCK YOU
FUCK YOU
ao;i;sdoj;g v;sdnk;aas;hajkl;h;asdhl;adhl;aasdh;a;;sdfh;adj;a;hadsh;la;hlash;lasdhoqupw faufhoiuefh;sdjklfha;sldkjfha;sldajkdflh;l;jajljkl;;l;;;;;;;;;;asjkldjjjjj f asd;lkkfj

Ways I'm Similar
I am human.
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[11 Nov 2007|07:28pm]
Where are my letters?
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Excersize 3 [04 Nov 2007|04:22pm]
This excersize was really annoying. All I could think of was Fight Club. I wrote over the amount that this excersize requires (664), but I think you can forgive me. I'm glad to get this one over and move on. Just to remind you, this piece is unedited and raw, so it is not supposed to be pure art.

Unreliable Third. Write a fragment of a story from the POV of an unreliable narrator- third person limited (or attached) narration. 500 words.


The man shifted awkwardly on the toilet seat. He shuffled his feet across the dirty floor to try and make himself more comfortable. The tip of his beaten sneaker brushed against his raggedy backpack. The front flap fell open with a delayed reaction as if gravity and other laws did not apply in this bathroom. The man leaned forward and securely zipped the bag up. He propped it back against the door, but it still slumped. He sighed to try and occupy the space and silence of the dimly lit bathroom. It wasn't working.

The sound of trickling made the man sit up straight. He never heard a door squeak or clicks of footsteps. The trickling had ceased while he was deep in thought and now the faucet could be heard. The blowdryer was next. Now the door. He was gone.

The man became less tense and sighed once more. He was scared, but glad to be the only person in the bathroom.

A hand reached under the stall and gripped the backpack. The man fell on his knees and scraped for the backpack. The bag had already ripped away, awkwardly folding in half and blasting off into the cold outer space.

The man pushed away the door and fell on top of the lower end of the body with the hand that grabbed the backpack. The stench of unfinished business was ignored by both. The man with his pants off immediately started punching the robber in the face. He did not stop. His arm was a piston.

There were no screams and the noise did not escalate above that of an average restroom. It was like both men had been here before or were pre-programmed to know what to do in this situation. The robber reached for the sinks to try and pull himself up. He latched like a grappling hook firmly to the rim and lifted himself up like a conveyor belt, slow and steady. They were two machines of opposing forces, no end in sight. He was on his legs spitting blood. You could not tell if it was a face or a blister. He would not let go of the bag.

The man with the bag pushed the man with no pants off of him and kicked him in the shin. He crumbled. The robber lifted the man's face with his boot and pushed it as hard as he could against the opposing wall. He walked over and put his foot through the man's stomach. The man on the ground leaped like a weeping demon from hell with both hands out for the backpack. He became a part of the backpack and was swung around by the robber. The robber kicked the suspended man's bobbing face like a balloon in the wind.

The robber grew tired and kicked the swinging man in the stomach. He fell on his face and coughed up vomit. The robber walked to the door. The man on the floor shrieked. He grabbed the robber's face as he turned around to react. The robber screamed as blood mixed with vomit in the man's teeth. He spit out the flaps of the robber's face out of his mouth and back onto the robber's crying eyes.

The man put his pants on. On his way out something tried to attack him. He smashed both fists into the mirror where he had seen the assailant. He picked up the bloody backpack and ran out.

As he fled the scene, the flap that the man had secured so tightly jerked open with each footstep. A wallet started sliding toward the flap as if trying to escape the man. It tipped over just enough, with precise motion that made it seem alive, to spill all the cards from it's belly. Face up on the ground, among the other cards, was an I.D. The face on the card was that of the man bleeding and weeping on the floor of the bathroom, before a piece of it had been taken from him.
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You Time [03 Nov 2007|01:34pm]
The CalState University Northridge campus library has "study rooms" which are white walled rooms with one or two seats in it and a table connected to the wall. I have never felt more calm in my life. I go in there and whatever homework has to be done is annihilated promptly. I wrote a 5 page paper on Greek Creation stories and Carl Jung's ideas about Man and His Symbols and the unconscious collective in on night. I feel free trapped in this box. It's like the hotbox, the hole, the bottom of the well of ideas.

Today I got in again and I feel so calm knowing that no one is watching me, no one is near me. I have nothing but paper and pen with me and this is all that can be accomplished. It is almost soundproof and there is just a little air conditioner noise to know that you are still alive and breathing.

I told myself today that I would not just leave, because I had "nothing to do." I forced myself to stay and think or meditate if you want to call it that. I closed off my senses of sight and hearing. I locked myself in the darkness of my mind and started spinning around with my hand out to feel the walls of my head and to grasp onto different things. I did not let it roam completely free, but gave my mind enough stillness for thoughts to leak in that I was not searching for. I took my mind on a lenient, but guided tour of me.
Things occurred to me, some better than others, and I wrote them down.

I had to make myself stop tapping my feet. I had to make myself STOP worrying about when this would be over and when I could leave. This experiment is not about accomplishing and this is always my problem in life and in thought. I cannot engage the physical and mental parts of me at the same time. If I am interacting with someone, there is already a part of me that cannot be reached at this time. Brainstorming is only good with other people, because you verbally express thoughts that you didn't even know you could articulate so well and then bouncing them off mirrors (people) to see them and hear them truly for the first time.

So, I forced myself to sit and think with no consequence of time or external events. I did this for a while and got some pretty good directions and guidance for the things that I do need to accomplish. I got some ideas that are not fully formed, but are signs with arrows on them. I just took a point and decided that it was enough for now and made sure to turn back all my external senses on again for entrance into the physical world. When I left the room and packed up, I felt really peaceful, really glad I thought of something, and somewhat sad to leave to all these fleshy vessels.

All I'm sayin is try it sometime. Put yourself in a place that is comfortable, but not too comfortable where you will fall asleep. Focus, but don't kill yourself trying to do it. Then wait a little bit, grab onto something, and gently guide it in the direction you want to go.

Get the bubble bath out. Get the candles out. Put on some Enya. Do what you gotta do. Try it.
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[30 Oct 2007|09:13am]
Modern art makes me wanna drink puke.
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Three's the Magic Number [30 Oct 2007|08:30am]
In the 5th grade spelling bee I got third place.
I liked drawing for a while.
I liked film for a while.
I liked writing for a while.

He's a triple threat.

A third rate artist.
A third rate critic.
and a third rate poet.

He does it all.
In the 6th grade spelling bee I got third place.
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The Serpents that Convince Themselves to Choke on Their Own Apple [27 Oct 2007|12:07pm]
by Turdy McPissant

Born and raised in the zoo, the jackal says,
"How do I know you won't steal my wallet?"
And the wild gazelle says,
"Are you kidding me?"

"It's against the law."
What are you, Batman?
We got Storm,
a black lady with white, tumultuous hair
and a fierce look in her eyes. (Or is she blind?)
In the passenger seat,
Wonder Woman,
defender of justice with her invisible rope
of truth to wrangle the scum of society.
It must be invisible,
cause I sure as hell didn't see it.

"Take this as a sign from God," she says.
So, not only is she the noose of truth,
she is the gavel of judgement, too.
Yeah, I can tell you really like to
swing that thing around.

Fuck your god.
Your god is not the God of Abraham.
Your god is the god of convenience.

I guess that's why they call it a
vanity plate, Miss [LOVLYLO].
I look at your pants and realize
why you can't understand my
slobbering pleas.
It's because all you've ever
wiped your ass with
was velvet.
I watch the (fake) velvet
crawl up your ass as you sit on your throne.
Hard to see from up theeeeeeeeere!

"This is not a world in which you can trust people anymore."
Well, whose fault is that?
You're the Atlas holdin'up the
cosmic size beach ball.
It's not a dog-eat-dog world.
It's a snake-eat-rat world;
I don't care which one wins.

I played it again, Sam.
I begged for mercy and they spat
a processed and thorougly flavorless
blend of Society(TM) brand bullshit
out of blackened teeth.

I felt sick for giving them an explanation,
for trying to make them see,
for giving them a part of myself
they did not deserve.
In that very moment I hated myself,
like the cave hates its belly,
like the trash hates its mouth.

I don't even have to be here right now.
Did that occur to you?
If I wasn't good for it, I would have
drove off and you would have never seen me
again.

What have you accomplished?
I just crawl back to the same
rathole with a little more
dirt in my ears
and you
float back to your cloud,
20 min. late;
the rain that tried to wash dirt.

The egg made the chicken this time.
Your motto is the self-fulfilled social prophesy.
Next time, I will drive away.

This is not a poem.

Epilogue:
If you didn't already know, my car is a ticking time bomb. I have lots of unpaid tickets, I have a fake registration sticker on the back, I don't have insurance, and I haven't made a payment in 4 months.

Yesterday I got into a scrape with another car. I was trying to shift a lane to the right and I smeared some paint off a woman in my blindspot. She called the pigs. I tried to explain my situation to her, that if I can't drive to work, I can't stay in my apartment, I can't go to school. If I have to drive my car to work because of money, why would I spend more money buying 40 dollar bus passes for Josh and I and pay gas.

My advice to you is: Don't offer a skeleton a cookie.
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Is This Love? [19 Oct 2007|12:55pm]
I can see my teacher's massive pit stains.
She is sweet, petite, a class act, and she has pit stains.
I look at them and I can start smelling it.
I like it.
I like a woman who can sweat.
She hasn't let herself go,
she cares about herself very much,
but she reminds me that she is a woman.
Behind all that make up is a mind
and a body.
I fell in love with her as soon
as I saw those armpits.
I want to lick off the sweat
and know that I am real.

But would she lick my sweat?
I doubt it.
If you take showers too often,
you forget we stink.
I wanna roll around in it like a pig.
Let's make love like pigs or olympic gods.

Bring those sweet salty pits of yours.
You stink. You are beautiful.
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Randy Newman: Black Chariot, Trumpeteer of the Apocalypse [19 Oct 2007|12:49pm]
Sirens are the theme song
of Los Angeles.
Black hole pulling all
towards it.
Full belly
and only emptiness is left.
Sirens are the bright lights
of Hollywood.
You don't fool me Marilyn Monroe.
That's not even your real name.
Jerk off drunks and intellectual playwrights
all fell at your hands.
I see through you
like a champagne glass
with a snakey, festing turd
crawling inside.

"I love LA"
Yeah, if I could afford
a piano, I would
love LA, too.
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"You're a Smart Guy" [18 Oct 2007|09:02am]
I always see people in electronic wheelchairs moving around Panorama City; necks craned over the top like the dead albatross, eyes constantly towards a better place, constantly praying.
Stay here long enough and you physically can't escape. Your arms and legs fall asleep, because it feels better than fear, refusing to move in a state of catatonic shock.
How many wheel chair paraplegics do you see on a regular basis within five blocks of where you live? I've counted three so far. There is something about this place.

I found out that there have been murders in the apartment complex. I don't know if the rumors are true, but would not be surprised and amm considering the idea.
I found out cars get stolen, broken into, and smashed on my street fairly often.
The story of my car is this: A drunk driver rams a woman's car at full speed- no brakes- in front of a church in session. Her car rams into mine and eliminates my trunk, making it easier for me to parallel park.

Her car has little damage- a dent, a busted taillight. The only physics I can imagine are as follows. Her car has better armor than mine, which I found had foam in the bumper. He was going so fast that he did not smash her car, but pushed it across the street and smashed into mine.

Later, before the pigs arrived, the drunkard's wife, like some loser Bonnie and Clyde, comes with her truck to pull him out of the mess and escape. The cops showed up and arrested both of them.

I'm currently tutoring kids part-time for 9 dollars an hour. The area I work in is surrounded by sushi bars, jamba juices, and starbucks. The kids I tutor wear Abercrombie, Hurley, and Famous Stars and Stripes. The rich get richer. The educated get more education. We'd love to change a child's life, if the price is right.
I live in a place where you will get your detergent stolen if you leave it out. I couldn't afford to tutor myself, if I needed it. I haven't paid my car in 4 months. And I make trash cans out of safeway bags.
I am a walking contradiction.

ART: created by the rich, for the rich.
FARMING: unthanked, hereditary.

Specialization allowed mankind to grow, to civilize.
When is the last time you paid $8,000 for a conceptualized cob of corn?
Corn goes in; corn goes out.

College costs money. Music costs money. Art costs money.
(No, man, art is free, man.)
The earth is free, but so is suffering.
They pave the streets with it. They're leavin' boxes of it on your doorstep.
They're eatin it for Thanksgiving and wrappin it up for Christmas.

Survival is an artform.
The less surviving you do, the more time you have for essentially meaningless, abstract, and unlasting frivolities. More thought, love, time, and skill could be put into the world's most transcendent tomato and some blind, prune pit, petrified motherfucker would still be squeezin it like a saggy titty.
Oops, dropped it.

You're too close to the painting, sir.

If art is suffering, then I'm fucking Michaelangelo. Welcome to my gallery.
I'll die on this farm, in this apartment, in this ghetto, in this gutter.
Play my eulogy on a harp and paint my corpse in gold.

I guess you could say I'm a critic, yeah.

Art is the masturbation of the modern man.
Mankind is like the praying cyborg priests welded to their wheelchairs, a narcissus lookin in the pool with keen eyes and shriveled limbs, a beautiful mind in a useless, incontinent body.

Let me out.
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People as Pigs [16 Oct 2007|09:13am]
People are pigs. This is a fact. We're not refuting that.
What I'm saying, simply, is this.
If this is a pigstye, then what separates me?
Why separate myself?
The pig who's too good to roll in mud. Come on.

How do we know we're civilized?
Well, we invented the toilet.
I walked into the library bathroom and saw
people are missing the target.

One step at a time.
You should be grateful we invented the damn thing.

I put a drawing up with my apartment number on it over my apartment number to be fun and creative and celebrate having my own place for the first time. Someone could not stand this.
They drew a mustache and a squirting penis on it.
My drawing already had a mustache.
For creativity, I give it a C-.
How did he fit the marker in between his hooves?

Someone stole Mao's laundry detergent. It was almost gone.
Why didn't they steal the laundry basket?
It would have been easier to carry the detergent inside the laundry basket.
They reached all the way inside the laundry basket, took the detergent, put it on their clothes, and left the laundry basket.
Why wash if the clothes are just gonna get all muddy and shitty again?

I went to sleep, woke up, and walked to my car.
The back end was completely crunched in. I don't have a trunk.
All the pieces of glass and car were scattered on the ground.
The car behind me also was damaged from the back.
This little one went WEEEEEE WEEEEE WEEEEE WWEEEEEEEEEW WWEEEEEEEE

WEEEEEEEEAWAWWWWWWWWWWWW WEEEEEEEEE

WEEEEEWWW WEEEEEE WEEEEEEEEEEEEWWEEEEEE

all the way home.
We haven't transcended instinct. We just put it (sometimes) in a white porcelain bowl.

This is not a poem.

Virtue is a marathon. You're tired. I'm dead. ~Henry Rollins
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Hey, Dad. [08 Oct 2007|10:54am]
What could lead to this??

Police: Teen Stabs Father

POSTED: 7:50 am EDT October 5, 2007
UPDATED: 8:30 am EDT October 5, 2007


AKRON, Ohio -- Police are searching for a teen who they say stabbed his father.

The stabbing happened around 5 p.m. Thursday in the parking lot of Firestone High School on Rampart Avenue.

Police are trying to piece together what would lead the 16-year-old to allegedly stab his 44-year-old father.

The father, whose name has not been released, is hospitalized this morning.

This happened in the same state the Wal-Mart wedding occurred. That's the midwest for ya.
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Make Friends with Ugly People [03 Oct 2007|10:16am]
I hope you're all intelligent enough to understand this is a little tongue-in-cheek and that you are intelligent enough to understand that this is a big tongue out of cheek.

When he spoke
a little
wet sloppy worm
in my ear slapped softly
like a piece of
soggy spaghetti

I got a worm in my left ear
and a moaning breeze
about as interesting
as a cardboard sandwich
sliding
down the other,
not thick enough to stick,
but enough to be annoying
trying to climb in
my teflon canals.

I got a sarcastic clown kickin
me in the back of the head
trying to convince himself
vicariously
of confidence
and I got "Lack Thereof"
ticklin the back of my neck
too unsure, ironically,
to remind me it exists.

Kool-aid down't know it's kool 'til you dip it in water
And being king of the zoophiles ain't amount to fish paste,

but I enjoy it.
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Chupacabra Terror [02 Oct 2007|02:18pm]
I never dream. I never dream.

Within 20 minutes of falling asleep last night I had an entire dream.
It was a lucid dream. It was the most realistic thing I have ever experienced.
Near the end, I knew I was in a dream and I think this is a vital clue to interpreting the dream.

I am driving Mao and an unidentified person to a park. I almost hit a family of rabbits when I get there, but stop in time to save their life. I get out and check out the bunnies illuminated in the headlight.

I'm eating beef jerky. I put down the beef jerky on a table. Mao says that I should not put it there or Chupacabra will come. I ignore this advice as completely rediculous. I walk towards Mao and Chupacabra comes running out of the darkness.

This was extremely realistic and very scary. Chupacabra sniffs the beef jerky, then looks at us in the headlights and leaps for us. Mao cringes in terror and ducks down beneath me.

This is when it gets so incomprehensible to me. This is when I knew it was a dream. I knew it was a dream and I was terrified of Chupacabra, but there was a calm underneath it all. There was this courage I never knew I had hidden beneath it all. So, I didn't do anything as it was charging. Then I consciously chose to attack it.

I waited until the last moment and simply reached out my arm and fist. Then I CHOSE (not the dream me, but the real me sleeping on my bed) to shoot wolverine claws out of my fist and right as he was about to land I purposefully shook myself awake.

Josh said I was making noises, but I was aware that I was making noises and that Josh would hear them, AS I WAS DREAMING.

What does this mean? Help me figure it out. I never dream and then this puzzle appears.
It might have to do with some seriously deep issues that I can't even begin to see.
Also, it might have to do with how worried I was about Mao telling me that people around our apartment complex harass her and ask her if she has a boyfriend. I think it is too simple to place it fully on that though.

Here is some help in identifying symbols. What does this dream mean?!

To dream that you are saving the life of an animal suggests that you are successfully acknowledging emotions represented by that animal. It may also suggest feelings of inadequacy and being overwhelmed (this could be really true, too).

Dreaming of protecting someone suggests you are putting up a wall between you and others around you. What are you protecting? It may have significance.

I could not find chupacabra, but I found vampire: fear, death, sexuality, sensuality. Being physically or emotionally drained. A life sucking force or thing.

If you slay a monster, it suggests, according to this hippy site, that you will successfully deal with rivals. I'm a little skeptical about the "will."

Rabbits: positive outlook or sexual activity. (Keep in mind this was a whole family.)

Meat: eating meat means getting to the heart of the matter. Mine was dried meat.

Automobile: It suggests that in a pleasant situation you will still be restless and uneasy.
Escaping an automobile accident suggests overcoming a rivalry.

Lights can mean a lot of different things. It could mean that light is being shed on a subject, a feeling, an emotion, an aspect of yourself or your subconscious desires. Flashlights also symbolize questioning deeper issues.


My own interpretation of the wolvering claws is this: It is a weapon (phallic, but I don't know if that has significance in this dream) which is hidden inside of me. The key is that I chose to unleash it. I consciously chose to unleash the beast within. This ailed the fear that I had of the chupacabra and made me not flinch at all.

So, help me sort all of this out. Point me in the right direction. I believe that there is an important message or secret about myself within this dream. It's not just nonsense. It really affected me. Remember, that I never have dreams.
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