It’s this stupid fucking game, see. He gets to act like he’s a fucking tyrannical dickhead because his contribution is laundered by money.
I’m going through some of my YouTube favorites. Wolf Eyes is pleasing me momen-thisly, ears-wise. Heh.
Here’s the thing, kids, and by kids I mean all of ya. Far as I can tell, you’re all talk. No action amongst any of ya. You know that’s not true, nor is it fair. Who said life is fair, soldier. Buck up.
I seem not to be able to reintegrate. Now what. Spoon. The band, but the carving too, yeah. Utensils for the consumption of nutritious plant matter. Whatever, it’s as noble a pursuit as I’m able to come up with.
Coffee’s gone, song’s over. Brb.
So, Madison. Big protests and whatnot, I could just crash in the fucking capitol. Girl Talk (oh no). It’s just a bunch of people. You realize you have more efficient means of communication if you stay home, right? Oh, but some of you may actually begin to realize, no. In person does transmit higher bandwidth, don’t it. Well, when you make contact it does. But you don’t want to make contact, do you. You want to talk, and meet other people who knew me once or grew up near me, and fit me into some title-appropriate inclusion into your organized little life. Scheduled. Heh. Not likely. I want to touch now, usually, more often than not. You want me to go into a crowd of people without my usual gang of beautiful children? Not likely.
Force that route, and I’ll hole up here ‘til weather gets warm, sell my car and bike down. That way, more of a possibility of ending up dead and in a gutter, ditch, or other water-diversion from war-machine hauling system. You’re still using gas to drive down there, assholes. You’re still eating corporate poison up and down State St. Liberals. If you’re not ready to take the fucking reigns of this whole shit right now, stfu. Farmers, bring your wares. ‘Couple hundred pounds of potatoes ought be scarfed by hungry protesters in no time flat.
Remember, took the soldiers back from Vietnam speaking out against the war to break the psychopathic nonsensical addiction to the course of self-destruction, then. This state is full of resources, of useful buildings and piles of materials that could be put to better use than they are now. Remember usefulness? Making stuff that makes life easier? Have you ever done that before? I highly recommend it. As in, both, I’m still a little high right now and it is a top-ranking activity, recommendation-wise. Verbosity.
Girl Talk – 03 that’s right.mp3 (ante up)
Madison will be like a new town again, won’t it. Fuck. I hate people. Gangs of people singing fucking kum baya and making me horny and jealous and lonely. Maybe Milwaukee would make more sense. Somebody’s fucking robbing something else blind right now, fucking leeches. Attention (to one point/situation/event) excludes. Be aware/present/with all points/situations/events. Inclusiveness in all. Gotta share. Gotta learn what sharing is. Maybe I just do numbers and see where the highest percentages of single sexually active women are. I’m dead fucking serious about this. I’m useless when I’m not getting regular attention. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
Tomorrow, Monday, I will take my dad’s car and trailer into stevens point to empty my little room and bring my few possessions back here for sorting, processing, distribution, modification, or disposal. I’m down to me and my sleeper. It’s time. Curtains in the altima will probably do it for now. Minivan? Not creepy enough. Heh. Maybe a “ratty” old camo camper with exposed 2x4s. Oh whatever. It’ll look like a fucking space egg if I make it. I don’t really want you to leave me alone, unless you can’t or won’t get to the point. In that case, go away. Do whatever you have to do with your life that keeps you from getting to the point, and talk to me when you’ve gotten to it.
If I had any open offers, places I was welcomed, or places with people who gave a flying fuck about me, I would be there. The shy ones need to be invited. Just being a public area don’t mean anyone wants me to be there. If they did, I’d get sex, a modicum of respect or basic human decency, or at least non-stop hugs. Fuck.
Either that, or I’ll stomp my way into that place with stompy boots or clicky shoes and me and my friends will take it down to rubble with out feetsies. Stampy stomp.
My mouse batteries are dead, and the pair in the charger ain’t done chargering yet. Fiddlesticks. I keep grabbing my dead mouse and wiggling it and nothing happens. How apropos.
Hey, plug your little blog. If you got some relevant news, put it on WikiNews.
I just have various rantings, pathetic sobs, begging, and ignored dictatorial spazzings. Yikes.
My next tweet will be #4,400, and I have 747 followers, apparently.
- (p.s. no you’re a fucking google whore)
- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Størmer number
- Euler… euler… euler…
Snowshoeing. Be back later.