All the kids are infected these days
Spotted crashin onna couch at shopko, 2.
Well, fuck it. My fucking computer bogs as a wintel. Why ain’t I pupped it permanently yet? Apple. Fall. Far. Trees. Water. Warm. Sun. Friendlies, etc. At least the music is still going. Girl Talk.
Ok, this seems like a cool list, but I’m gonna save it for later. I’ll lose any semblance of timeliness on the tweetzerz.
Check to see if this still workin’.
I love links where I have no clue who posted ‘em. Sorry, whoever you are.
Hey, it’s 9:11 pm! Make a wish! No, it’s can’t be war-related. Never mind.
So I was thinking about dishes today. Partially, because I only have 5 CDs with me here at the paternal estate (and one of them is Wingnut Dishwashers’ Union), but partly because I think about stuff like dishes.
I’m too tidy for my own good. Whatever.
9:50, going to kitchen to look for food.
10:07, but in the AM. HA! HAAAAA!!!! Gotcha, suckaz!!! (hi.)
The reason you download this is so you can put it in vlc on repeat. YouTube requires a click, or a playlist. Gotta login, more db connections, slllloooowwwwww.
So, I know this guy, right. Good capitalist. Liberal. Anyway, so this guy sits around and comes up with insults for large groups of people he doesn’t know. Usually, they’re people near him, but “different from” him. So, this one morning (2011-02-09) he decided to call, or received a call from a public service club he works with. What’s he talking about? Budget numbers? No. He’s un-come-fort-a-bull (an acceptable pronunciation, mind you) with other people’s attempts to do religious or pseudo-religious activities as a part of this club thing. He called the home office to ask about the rules.
The closest thing I’ve ever had to a best friend lost a best friend last night. RIP, tripod.
I have pics of django, dude. I will try to find and post.
So, hil saze they’s too much money in it to legalize it, eh? I say there’s too much health in it not to legalize it. Y’all are going to have to set aside your own short-term, petty little egotistical gains here real soon or I’m gonna start knocking some sense into you in person. I’ve used my words. You clearly refuse to “the listen,” so fists and clubs it is.
You realize a personal corporation or other legal fiction is the opposite of a coop, right? Your claims of wanting cooperative ownership mean nothing when your actions maintain separation between “yours” and “ours.” Fucking. Liars.
I’ve actually been touched by girls before. Uh huh, it has happened. They liked it. They told me so. I just say intolerable things, like, let’s fuck more, or, even, all the time. Isn’t that what we’re going for here? Well anyway, I am, and as of late, it seems like y’all can’t get anywhere near me without chaperones. I like it that way. Teamwork.
Audiological enslavement is when you use your words to make someone do what they would otherwise not do. I haven’t been getting sufficient sleep lately. I’ve been working my fucking ass off for my thankless loser of a father. I eat his shitty cooking, occasionally. I work on this beautiful house that nobody gets to use that we know any more because he maintains the constitutional right to be a competitive asshole with anyone and everyone who comes anywhere near his ever-expanding pile of shit that fills any space he occupies past the point where any other people can use the space, too.
That, ladies and glentelmyn, is a tyrant.
Takes one to know one, as you say. (get it? you’re “they”). Quit fucking saying it, then.
So, this dog that just died, was hit by a car. ‘Twas not his first run-in with the dreaded automobile, but the last time, he jumped out of a moving pick-up. Some puppies are just suicidal, I guess. I, for one, feel lucky to have spent any time around that sweet, gentle, three-legged boy. (sidenote: Sunlight on my face feels nice.) I met his parents, you know. He was one of a big litter, and I almost adopted a brother of his. Almost. Horseshoes. I met ‘em. I hopped into a clamoring, boarded-off kitchen of puppies. I had shorts on. Little puppy claws tore up my legs and feet, and I was in heaven. It was like being lovingly pleasured in extra-dimensional realities by a gang of angels. I really like dogs. I was gonna name him Zedek. Zed for short. I still think it’s a good name for a dog. This was the surname of a participant in ancient Egyptian pyramid, I think. Sort of an architect-scientist-alien-angel (ß find “Zedek” on this link). One source, though. Whatever. The minority reports are the most interesting. How could it not be true? Anyway, I loved that puppy and I will love his entire family through all of existence. It’s just another household I wish would adopt me. Being a freelance orphan is tough.
It’s funny. I keep thinking I’ve said everything that needed to be said, and there’s just more to say. Blah, freaking, blah.
I would very much like a large capacity mp3 player that would house my entire collection in my pocket. Being tethered to this rickety old pc is inconvenient. Oh, like, I have another music, but ten albums require too often shuffling. I could listen to Catheter on repeat and type. All. Day. Long. But, like I say, or rather I have been to known to have been heard doing “the said,” I’d rather be fucking. How’s that one, Nelly? (Fell in love with her watchin this video. I was hittin’ the VH1 Jams pretty heavy when this hit. I’m just a pretty girl addict, prolly. I dunno.)
I keep telling everyone it just makes more sense to give me huge fucking building and I’ll fill it with scraps that make it look like architectural paradise, then with people and animals and food that makes it actually be a paradise.
My breakfast is nearly gone. I must go refill my coffee and prevent food particles from drying on this bowl. Kitchens are handy when the sinks are accessible. Cloggers. Brrb.
10:54, cup of coffee achieved. Instructions for vacation homework received. It will take approximately 30 minutes to complete, so it won’t interrupt my workflow if at all. It’s these kind of tasks that I get. The baseboard (all three pieces) is done and collecting dust in the garage, and he’s been gone twice while I’m here. I could have completed it three times, yet he won’t let me. He hast to lay them out first to see if there’s enough. God knows what he’s doing or thinking about, but I have done this kind of work before, and the way it looks, he’s more in favor of leaving the stuff to collect dust than in actually finishing this house. He thinks it’s his. Dude, you’ve been living waaaayyyy beyond your means since forever. You’re all talk, and your bullshit has caught up with you. Let me finish the fucking woodwork in the fucking master bedroom. So some rich assholes I never met nor would ever want to meet get to fill it with expensive useless shit. Awesome. (p.s. you know I do everything as if it were going to be incorporated into “my” coop, my family, anyway. But whatever. Do with whatever however you I don’t give a fuck.
If you guys helped me buy it, I would turn it into the coolest and most agile small-town coop you’ve never seen. Alls I gots is me labors of love. I can’t pull money out of my ass, and the banks already own me for all this edjakayshun I done stole. Fine, if you want to help pay off my student loans first, earmark it. They’re just bank bits anyway, nothing real. Labor is real. People is real. Food is real. Pooping is real. Music is real. (Brutal Truth, btw)
I think he’s leaving this afternoon. I have the will to drive myself sleepless, and I ain’t even usin’ they innerweb. Noofnyn. What the fuck is the Flynn saying then? And what the hell is the riot act? These are the things that keep me up at night, dear readers.
So, I dislike it when people talk about painful things a lot. When they monopolize the conversation with news or just events that puts everyone in a downer mood. Yeah, the world fucking sucks as it’s run right now. We don’t have to dwell on the suckage! Most of the suckage is in your head anyway. You don’t fucking know anybody. You fucking sit by yourself and spout platitudes and make up hurtful things to say about people you never met because you hate your own fucking life. Change your fucking life, then. Hang out with people that make you happy. Make other people around you happy first, and then maybe then they will want you to be happy, too. Anybody can do this. I’m offended by how you differentiate between the shades, categories, and sizes. They’re all fucking beautiful and it is only the hateful, ugly people who do not see this. The ugly inside makes it so outside. Beautify the inside, as I see you capably and adeptly doing on rare occasions, and guess what happens. Star.
11:11 am. Make a wish.
To cook meat: on a half-inch chunk of animal flesh, searing each side for two minutes and cooking at medium heat for another FOUR MINUTES will sufficiently cook the meat. Even “well done” should be removed from the heat before it is completely finished cooking, because the heat collected will continue cooking it for a few minutes after the heat is removed. To cook further than this is to ruin it. To boil off every last morsel of moisture so that all you have left is a grainy little pellet of get-stuck-in-your-teeth.
You’ve been cooking meat incorrectly for your entire life. You should have your own pigs and a few cows and a bunch of chickens and if they’re healthy and clean you’ll barely have to cook any of it at all. Rare might just be seared. Thicker cuts will take more time, possibly lower heat, but the concept is the same. Sear in those juices, then cook the innards. Gently. Pink sliver left inside? Take it OFF, cover, let it rest and continue cooking. Practice with frozen store bought chicken fillets, or, better yet, meet you some local farmers before you get your own mini-production set up. They’re out there. Take a walk. Make some friends. Try not to insult them.
I’m skipping my uncle’s funeral. It’s a fashion thing. Other people get jealous that the people they live with won’t allow them to wear comfortable, useful clothing to pay ones’ respects, so they get all loud, fidgety, or start shushing, whispering, and shaking their heads disapprovingly. Fuck. I just wanted to thank this guy for being so sweet when I saw him here. Lucky bastard. Fucker escaped the family torture chamber with pleasant memories of him all around (from those capable of pleasant memories, anyway). We should all be so lucky.
I’mma have to e-mail my mother a happy birthday wish today. If I had a cool mom, I would post this on her facebook wall. But my mom would only make fun of it, and me, or say something like, “ohhh kaaayyyyyy….” so everyone got uncomfortable. He’s not into the whole brevity thing, so he always chooses the pronunciation with more syllables. What is that? Is that trying to sound smart because you’re afraid you aren’t? That must be a sucky hell.
He has lessons. Personal hells that he must make sure everyone else goes through because he goes through them. They show up like potter-animated-huckabee-painting cutouts that you slash with a machete. Do you really want to be torn limb from limb? I don’t think you do, and when you threaten me with that, you are giving me the legal right to do it to you first. It’s called self-defense. You can’t put someone in a state of fear of their bodily harm. To do so defeats any stated purpose regarding their “protection.” And, if alluding to that by slamming doors, yelling, or even just bogarting the remote (a billion channels is designed to separate and isolate us, btw.) to the chagrin of the rest of the household is all you have, you remain an argumentative, dictatorial, and violent person. I would totally vote to have you locked up, you terrified little rodent. It’s all you do to yourself, and at least they’d feed you with some semblance of collective efficiency.
I use swear words, a lot. I like them. They are words. Many of them allude to inappropriate acts, but they do not do these acts. Maybe they do. If they have, I’ve mind-raped pretty much everyone I’ve ever come in contact with. So, they socially gang beat me. I don’t think it’s a fair trade, but I can’t be a different person that has sex with me. I’ve tried the stranger. Doesn’t cut it. I’m not able to suspend disbelief any more.
I have a psychological profile that I keep mentioning and not posting. My sister and mom helped me get it back when they thought I was crazy. Er. Anyway, said profile could be interpreted as a prescription for prostitutes. It’s not a legal argument with any precedent I’m aware of, but I have heard rumors of publicly known exceptions that are allowed under the general supervision. Transparency, folks.
11:42 am. Time for the daily second (post-coffee) poop.
No further instructions or tasks. He doesn’t want the house packed, finished, or even used in his absence. “Are you going to be here the whole time?” he asked. Yes, I have nothing to go to point for, unless I were to pick up items from my room. Ain’t you heard? We don’t give second chances. What’s up with Madison, then? Wishful thinking. The longest I could stay there would be as long as it takes to finish what I started in the first place, so, I have no expectations. I am preparing for homelessness, like the good lord intended. I shall build upon, customize, and or upgrade my vehicle (truck, trailer, or minivan) so as to be portable. I’m sick of relying on the petty whims of asshole landowners. I’m unprotected, as I always have been, out in the ether, and I fear nothing. You say this makes me a monster because you only see monsters. I say it makes me an angel because I only see angels. I can’t shift your perception for you. Nor can I print money. I can turn dirt, seed, and water into food, and formless mass into useful tool, but I cannot separate the things upon which I act from the general good, the public ownership, or the whole, so your fear and dismissal of it puts us odds. You insult my friends. You only, ever, insult my friends. Quit fucking insulting people. Then, I may communicate with you. I refuse to participate in your hate-pain.
He’s leaving this afternoon ‘til Saturday. Are there seriously no single girls in this town? Y’all are taken or chicken, huh? Slaves or self-enslaved. Or, better, TV-enslaved. Shit yeah, bring the kids. And the dog. I’m the maid here, I’m the one who does the cleaning.
Wasted time. Or Waste time. Sorta depends on who you ask. Send the band a fucking credit-card fiver, will ya? It’s not real money. Bankruptcy should be a standard part of any cash-requiring human to counteract the bankey enslavement paradigm. And, should you ever require this tool of forgiveness, it is also assumed (in my eyes) to be a vow to only do good survivalist things with any resources obtained with loane’d resources. And, more importantly, perhaps, to DO THOSE THINGS WITH THOSE RESOURCES.
All you keyboard addicted lie addicts who do zero throughout the day but manipulate words and papers and databases for evil entities who are essentially doing the same enslavement and poison-delivery. You’re legit alright, legitimately clueless about your real-world impact. You support the machine, you cog the machine, you ARE the machine. You are the one who must knock that shit off if the planet (collectively, we, as human beings) are going to get anywhere with the resources we have at hand. Let’s stop moving all the poisons directly into our bodies and talking about it indirectly. Let’s stop forcing verbal analysis of perfectly clear feelings. Let’s stop wasting each other’s time.
Coffee #3 is making me have to pee again. I would be sleeping still if pappy weren’t still here. I asked for the basement room, but he forbids it. I may move down there when he’s gone. We’ll see.
Goddamn. I may have the sexiest body I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Why you no wanna touch it? Sad me makes, that do. Hurty lifeless life is. Noisy and anti-productive.
I can turn an army of freethinking do-nothings to a bulldozer bulldozing nano-meat-bot health, efficiency, and action addicts. What do you think I do in my spare time? Re-write the constitution? Infinity to the nh power. There. Now get to fucking work. I gotta pee.
1:25 pm and all’s well. Hi. Got a better idea of disassembly task. Time estimate stands, including the estimation 30 seconds to diagnose. Hey, you make me sit around idle when you’re not here. You don’t get to boss me around from far away when you’re not. This is you being a tyrant. I don’t want to talk to you on the phone when I’m not living with you. What on god’s green earth would make you think I would want to talk to you when I am. A special occasion is a momentary non-insult from you. Disease. Virus. All. Fucking. Every. Fucking. One Fucking of Fucking YOU! Shit. Detox, poor brain, for raw materials and open-space’d shop await mas funness. Methinks the people gotta read truthies, and all shall be at ease.
So, “this one will take off your arm” was introduced to me. Mini chainsaw teeth on an angle grinder/buffer wheel. Knarly. Still, he couldn’t just say that. It had to be a production. Whatever. I may use it. The glue he has says it’s “FDA approved for indirect food contact (cutting boards).” I digress. I think you want to glue those kinda rough, right? But make sure they’re planed flat and then clamp them well. Belt table shall suffice. This is gonna be a beautiful spoon. My daddy gots cool random chunks of scrap wood lyin’ about and with what he’s already given me, I could build a multitude of useful gagets. In other words, I better get to work. Yes, I realize the indeterminate vacation-time, no-minimum commitment means everyone chooses to not obey me or even do anything kinda useful unless I’m actually standing over them looking at their reality for them. Look, I work with trash, spare parts, and accidentally empty spaces. I know there are some talented, quick, resourceful, and horny enough to love my me. I just haven’t had the inclination to do something I find offensive for cash. And honestly, watching you sit on your thumb while this house remains unfinished continues to offend the fuck out of me. It’s not fucking YOURS and it NEVER FUCKING WAS. You just drove everyone away being an intolerable asshole. Fuck your pain. Fuck it. Use the tools to turn all the raw materials into useful things and fucking give them away. Donations. We, as human beings, working together, can make useful things for each other, grow healthy nutritious food for one another, cook for one another, clean for one another, and generally help each other out with every household task when you happen to be the one who can do something about it.
Jesus Fuck, where is all this shit coming from? I’m not even kidding, I like zone out and another page of text appears. Lots of times, I don’t even re-read it before I post it. Fuck it. Like I tweeted once long ago (twitrr thyme), I never had any friends before. Why should I start now? I have underling/PettyTyrants, and siblings. Y’all seem to balance yourselves quite a self-induced hate dichotomy goin’ there. We are all slaves of the drugs made by the evil people. Boo. Hoo. What ever shall we do oh hey there’s someone getting hurt that’s funny. Lighten up, kiddo. I know you’re in there. I know you wish you could change what I think, who I am, how I live, or what I say, but you can’t. What can I do for you?
TY – BOOK
T1 – Pyramid Energy: The Philosophy of God, the Science of Man
A1 – Hardy, D
SN – 9780932298584
UR – http://books.google.com/books?id=zg5XAgAACAAJ
Y1 – 1994
PB – Tri-State Pr Printing
I always encounter genius when I update bookishly. Sheesh.
p.p.s. added birthday link 2/10, 7:49 pm.