inspired by The Dog Pillow Book
Dangerous Things
beautiful, stupid people
secrets
needles in haystacks
Ron Paul
people who want to "talk to you about something"
socks filled with bars of soap/change
America's Foreign Policy
credit/debit cards
Wikipedia
cheap toilet paper
singularly sold hot wings dubbed "insanity" that cannot be purchased until a waiver has been signed which dictates possible internal and external tissue damage
my ego
Disagreeable Things
wise, ugly people
wet shoes
customer service representatives
alarm clocks
know-it-alls
syringes
splinters
sticky floors
flatulent friends
$1-plus cups of coffee
buying water
the Disney Channel
Things one would like to send away
the Disney Channel
flatulent friends
roommates
all vanity license plates -- no one gets them but you...
speeding tickets
a certificate to redeem lots of free things
laundry to be done
that girl
responsibility
Aunt Flo
Hipster Hippies, who are only hippies b/c they think it'd be cool. (their food is more organic than they are. ZING!)
Things the bigger the better
guns
explosions
knives/all bladed weaponry (Mr. A. Knife... harharhar)
the Red Tent
vocabulary words
monitors/televisions
funny hats
hamburgers
movie/book collection
the FDA recommended serving size
my bank account
my house
my ego
your love for me
Things the smaller the better
I'm from America. We start at "Medium Sized," or "I'd like a salad, please."
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
10 Happy Things
turning the last page in a book
vanilla ice cream
superman
an impromptu day off
a new song nobody knows about
french onion dip
calvin & hobbes
an inside joke
a cup of hot jasmine tea
the "Hot" sign at Krispy Kreme
vanilla ice cream
superman
an impromptu day off
a new song nobody knows about
french onion dip
calvin & hobbes
an inside joke
a cup of hot jasmine tea
the "Hot" sign at Krispy Kreme
Friday, January 25, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Cats
R.O.D. - I HATE CATS. FOREVER. AND EVER. AND EVER.
A foreword apology to those who may be offended.
People always say you have to win a cat's love. wtf? They also say you don't have to with a dog because dogs are stupid, or lazy, or automatically subservient due to eons of inbreeding. I don't know, fill in your own blank, but why would you want to win a cat's love?
(This is a bad analogy.)
Women love assholes. Not the body part (of course), but the typical condescending, "you've got to prove something to me," guy. The guy that you can CHANGE, because he's a CHALLENGE. Notice those things start with a "C," kind of like "cats." Why is this sort of delusion necessary?
So I guess the moral of the story is that Cats are like assholes. You only want their attention because they won't give it to you, and then when you finally get the Cat to admire you marginally, they shit all over your house, in your dryer (wtf!!!), everywhere in the bathroom except for the tub, the sink, or the toilet where it might be easy to clean, in your kitchen cabinets (how'd those fuckers get in there???), and the only decision you're left with is to take them on Maury Povich to figure out why they won't stop shitting on you, or claim the baby you know they're the father of.
(Note: I speak of "shit" metaphorically, of course, as well as the household areas.)
Stay away from all those "cool cats" and you'll live a very happy life.
A foreword apology to those who may be offended.
People always say you have to win a cat's love. wtf? They also say you don't have to with a dog because dogs are stupid, or lazy, or automatically subservient due to eons of inbreeding. I don't know, fill in your own blank, but why would you want to win a cat's love?
(This is a bad analogy.)
Women love assholes. Not the body part (of course), but the typical condescending, "you've got to prove something to me," guy. The guy that you can CHANGE, because he's a CHALLENGE. Notice those things start with a "C," kind of like "cats." Why is this sort of delusion necessary?
So I guess the moral of the story is that Cats are like assholes. You only want their attention because they won't give it to you, and then when you finally get the Cat to admire you marginally, they shit all over your house, in your dryer (wtf!!!), everywhere in the bathroom except for the tub, the sink, or the toilet where it might be easy to clean, in your kitchen cabinets (how'd those fuckers get in there???), and the only decision you're left with is to take them on Maury Povich to figure out why they won't stop shitting on you, or claim the baby you know they're the father of.
(Note: I speak of "shit" metaphorically, of course, as well as the household areas.)
Stay away from all those "cool cats" and you'll live a very happy life.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Monday, January 7, 2008
Revelations
This year, instead of New Year resolutions (which confess retrogression, but I'm perfect, come on), I will end each day with a revelation (in the hopes of ballooning my ego to a gargantuan, untameable, feral beast; like a man... bear... pig... hybrid).
I was inspired to write something down after reading old blog entries. I noticed my constant revelation was that I am fudged up. I am never quite where I want to be. I guess that's the journey? I don't know. I feel like I have grown up a lot this past year, but reflection absolves nothing and usually breeds arrogance.
Once it seemed like there might be an oasis somewhere down the road to hang out for a while, to stretch out on a hammock and wait out those prophesied good things that would march in their own time towards my palm alcove, but maybe that's what I've come away with the year in tow; there is no end in sight. There is no rest. One day, click, someone turns you off.
So just do what you want to with your life. External judgment is like quicksand. The more you struggle to please, the further you sink.
The glass is half empty and half full.
Revelation of the Day:
Peanut Butter will save my life one day.
I was inspired to write something down after reading old blog entries. I noticed my constant revelation was that I am fudged up. I am never quite where I want to be. I guess that's the journey? I don't know. I feel like I have grown up a lot this past year, but reflection absolves nothing and usually breeds arrogance.
Once it seemed like there might be an oasis somewhere down the road to hang out for a while, to stretch out on a hammock and wait out those prophesied good things that would march in their own time towards my palm alcove, but maybe that's what I've come away with the year in tow; there is no end in sight. There is no rest. One day, click, someone turns you off.
So just do what you want to with your life. External judgment is like quicksand. The more you struggle to please, the further you sink.
The glass is half empty and half full.
Revelation of the Day:
Peanut Butter will save my life one day.
boots and spurs be clickin'
The Beat
Inhalation and exaltation;
to beat; to breathe; to usurp a mighty thing--
vivre la permanence.
Time began as a morsel, in hands, in lieu of corporeality,
nowhere at all. Comprehension then, must (must it?)
begin somewhere-- mon frère.
The Dickinson Dash, the Melville Mash, the Whitman Waltz,
and the Rimbaud Rumba.
Oh dear... the shirt fits but the collar's too small.
You might have to stick your neck out some, partner.
Inhalation and exaltation;
to beat; to breathe; to usurp a mighty thing--
vivre la permanence.
Time began as a morsel, in hands, in lieu of corporeality,
nowhere at all. Comprehension then, must (must it?)
begin somewhere-- mon frère.
The Dickinson Dash, the Melville Mash, the Whitman Waltz,
and the Rimbaud Rumba.
Oh dear... the shirt fits but the collar's too small.
You might have to stick your neck out some, partner.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
propagating propaganda
This is an exercise in speaking truth.
"P&P"
The blogspot is an exercise. Or chore?
To write is to store-- clean, superfluous, nitrogens and oxygens, in hand;
Here you go. This is new. This is for you. This is for ubiquity;
Efficiency, anarchy, and quiet;
progress is measured in punk rock merit.
Save room for the delusional, there are few, as you well know,
worthy enough to follow.
And we--
we are owned by no one.
Our dog-tags read, "Sincerity," "Revolution," "Visionary,"
"Samaritan," and "... come again?"
Our songs are brittle; they have no legs, no respect for Leadbelly and the gang.
They dine on blubber of white whale and salt water tales.
Grow some roots why doncha, then have them dyed or highlighted,
deep fried, inject cheddar, served up with po-taters.
Old skool is what's kewl 'til something older
comes along, fewl. yewza one of dem Gol' diggaz.
I am finally sleepy now.
"P&P"
The blogspot is an exercise. Or chore?
To write is to store-- clean, superfluous, nitrogens and oxygens, in hand;
Here you go. This is new. This is for you. This is for ubiquity;
Efficiency, anarchy, and quiet;
progress is measured in punk rock merit.
Save room for the delusional, there are few, as you well know,
worthy enough to follow.
And we--
we are owned by no one.
Our dog-tags read, "Sincerity," "Revolution," "Visionary,"
"Samaritan," and "... come again?"
Our songs are brittle; they have no legs, no respect for Leadbelly and the gang.
They dine on blubber of white whale and salt water tales.
Grow some roots why doncha, then have them dyed or highlighted,
deep fried, inject cheddar, served up with po-taters.
Old skool is what's kewl 'til something older
comes along, fewl. yewza one of dem Gol' diggaz.
I am finally sleepy now.
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