fucking

Fucking

Sweater song.  It’s hits week, the time when the old boring people come back and take over 90fm for trivialities as mass consumption of acceptable poisons.  Probably the unacceptables, too.  Who knows.  You people are crazy, but of course, that would be the very same reason WHY I love you, wouldn’t it.

It also marks, as I pointed out quite recently (and when isn’t talking about sexin’ appropriate?), a year of celibacy.  Yup.  Self-isolation, as all the girls tell me (the ones that talk to me say that).  I chose to not be told what to do.  I chose to see the world for what it is and now nobody wants anything to do with me because nobody wants to hear it and that’s just too bad.  Thanks for letting us laugh at you for so long, though.  Almost made up for that time we actually had to be in the same room as you.  I doubt your facebook friends think that lowly of you.  No, nobody thinks about anyone else any more, only at them.  Let it flow, like water

Under the bridge now.  This song reminds me of a girl, but probably not the one you’d think.  They let me bask in their beauty, is what they did.  They never touched me, usually had boyfriends, in fact.  So I just kept doing my homework.  Not much has changed.

There’s a stresslessness about homelessness.  You could build the shell of a house from computer parts.  It would be heavy.  Bars and rivets.  Triangles.  Domes.  There you go.  Metal connections between scrap 2x4s to build buckyball greenhouses.  Now we’re talking.  Ok.  Are you saying you have designs for geometric patterns for pvc pipe connectors, old tent poles, or other scraps?

I have clothings to pack and sort, and the music is adequate.

It’s a Monday morning, and the only two e-mails I got this morning were about Yoga, one about classes nearby and a newly uploaded YouTube video.  I love my friends.

You’re assholes, just so you know.  Both of you.  Refusing to pay me while I’m here, then paying someone to do what I could very easily do.  You have no idea how insulting you are, do you.  Never mind that you can’t keep me busy for more than an hour at a time anyway.  Whatever.  My stuff needed to get organized and packed up, too.

Whatever, burn it all.  Want to be around me and I’ll be human again.  I participate how I know I’m supposed to.  Your ignorance of me is cruel.

I don’t know what you think I should be doing, but it’s fucking.

I started crying a few minutes ago.  Parly it was the Avett Brothers on the radio, but part of it was just pity for the pathetic and isolated lives we all lead.

Colin, you’re awesome.  Badass.  You and all “your” people. Heh.

I can hear the birds chirping outside.  That’s what happens when you open the window to air out the house after the cleaning lady chem.-swabbed it.  Whatever.  I’m over it.

  • Joe Cocker – (1968) Luxury You Can Afford
  • Joe Cocker – 01 fun time.wav
  • Joe Cocker – 02 watching the river flow.wav
  • Joe Cocker – 03 boogie baby.wav
  • Joe Cocker – 04 a whiter shade of pale.wav
  • Joe Cocker – 05 I can’t say no.wav
  • Joe Cocker – 06 southern lady.wav
  • Joe Cocker – 07 I know (you don’t want me no more).wav
  • Joe Cocker – 08 what you did to me last night.wav
  • Joe Cocker – 09 lady put the light out.wav
  • Joe Cocker – 10 wasted years.wav
  • Joe Cocker – 11 I heard it through the grapevine.wav

Ode to boxer:
36 5% beers for twelve bucks.  Holy fuck, I love you.

Amen.

Wait, no, not that.  Lol.  Wait, yes, exactly.  That.

The dog is just randomly barking every few hours now.  Loud, shrill, piercing barks.  I feel her pain.  I let it go through me.  I wonder how long that spring has been broken.  The driving I did over the winter somehow didn’t kill me.  Weird.  It could have popped at any moment.  Quit being dramatic, you felt it go.  I didn’t know I’d have to lose a tire to actually feel it break, though.  What a paperweight.  Wheel dollys were here and it was pushed back into the driveway by dark.  I’m such a fucking crybaby.

I’ve been crying on and off all day.  Mostly on.  Three new faces today.  Exhausting.  I told the guy what sold me this that it was my favorite beer.  I think that’s true.  Canadia wins again.  Wrong, jerk, it’s union made in Monroe, WI.  Oh.  Whoops.  Go WI!  The people, I have no real attachment to the governmental apparatopusses.  The architecture, I rather like, so make passive solar out of existing structures first.  I told you, long long ago, of the dream complex.  Out on TT.  You didn’t see that video, huh.  I’m sure you can imagine.  It’s me, being a douchebag.  Ok, who gets offended by my self-application of “douchebag?”  Someone, I’m sure.  I’m. So. Sure.

My bed is cleared off.  Dad wanted me to take a few other things downstairs yet, so I should probably go do that.  I spoke to him earlier, loudly and agitated, scared and helpless, and crying.  What the fuck would I have to hide from him, of all people.  He knows how pathetic I am.

I find it a perfuckingly acceptable use of the day to spend it crying.  I’ve extolled the virtues of crying before.  Let’s not rehash all that happy horse shit.

The crazy thing is, I want to make people want the DVD before there is one.  Then, it’ll get done.  If you don’t want it, what the fuck am I doing here.  Right now, you want an over-educated, over/uber/never-confident weirdo with an “unabomber” beard to be destitute and sad all day.  I wasn’t sad all day.  I did manage to catch an illegal smile or three.  Who knows how much of the day I would have been crying without the attitude adjustments.  Holy fuck, nobody wants to see that.

Is it homeopathy that’s like with like?  I found “fiwia” and it made me giggle.  Self referential, anti-combative, pro-sex song I wrote once..  I should not tweet that drunk.  I didn’t realize how drunk I was.  Tweeting is another world like that.  It’s like a human lottery.  But you make your own odds.  Decide who to follow, and let it feed you.  It’s trippy as fuck.  I highly recommend it.  Especially if you’re a worthless loser like me, spending your life alone, crying all the time.  Don’t forget drunk.  Yup, that.  Don’t tell me not to call myself a loser.  I lose.  It’s my fucking bag, man.  That, on the other hand, is my fucking bag.  I sort clothes by pseudo-gender.  Mine run the gamut.  What kind of girl do you think I am?  Same kind of “boy” I am.  Shy, spastic, overly enthusiastic, easily disappointed, always quick to say the wrongest thing that you could possibly think of.  Fuck.  Yeah, right, find someone I’ve bitten.  Ok, find four people I’ve bitten.  Find the ones who have bitten me, though.  They should e-mail me pictures if no words.  You’re beautiful and amazing and I want to know everything about you.  I also want to meet all of your friends, sisters, aunts, mothers, daughters, grand-daughters, and grand-mothers.  I know it sounds twisted and wrong.  Why the fuck do you think I say it?

That’s three beers for a dollar.  That’s fucking awesome.  5% alcohol, too!  It tastes better than ice, and the headaches aren’t super brutal.  Remind me to filter my vodka, will ya.  That shit hurt.

Attention people of earth.  I’m not just here spinning my wheels for no fucking reason.  I’m building a cooperative human survival apparatus.  Since no such thing exists, at least not in the form I see as necessary, I may as well do it myself.  It’s an operation far more delicate than brain surgery, but you need the strength of a strongmyn to do the daily lifting.  I don’t even want to watch Venture Brothers or porn.  What the fuck is wrong with me?  Dude, you never had any will to live in the first place.  True.

So, we’re back to blindly stumbling through whatver fucked up shit this retardo-wrold puts me through.  I can’t believe it ripped a hole in my tire.  My dad bought me those tires!  How fittingly ironic that he’s responsible for this noisy homeless loser

Noisy. Homeless. Loser.

En8ch’el. No, not that.  Copyrwite issuze. Yep.  I’m not in your jurisdiction.  I’m not, I spend most of my day on the moon.  I’m gonna go tweet now.

k. see ya.  Asshole. 10:46 pm.

Bla,
t

p.s. …when the front end finally falls apart.  Collapse.  I got every dollar’s worth out of that chunk of metal, yo.

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~ by LazyAssWasteoid on 2011-04-4 (Monday).

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