Can you tell that I still have autocorrect capitalizing letters, but that I then go back and un-capitalize them. I have no idea. I enjoyed reading ee cummings. Less yelly. I’m gonna shut that off. We’ll see if that makes any difference.
My motion capture suit will teach me dvorak. In doing so, it will combine data from brain-wave sensors, digit-movement sensors, and eye movements. I expect to be able to move paragraphs, look up and change spellings of words, all while continuing to add text, eTyping, by beta. Brain waves can easily do this. Tune your sensors. The functionality that this world has to offer h. buh, we’ve only scratched the surface. I dunno. it’s still doing the I’s. hmm. off. brb
i like it. uh.
those are my buttons. somebody dust off their old button-making machine! you know the one from the infomercials, you know you bought one!! you political pack rat. unhitch the plow!!! (True story, once during hs track practice with the snarky coach, we sat on the bleachers and he yelled run-faster type taunts at the girls softball team until their coach yelled back at him and made us leave. it was the same comment i laughed at. And, it was a friend of mine who was running to first. The way he said it was more what made me laugh, I like to think. “Unhitch the plow!” Beller, it was more like. One of those skull-rattling screams that’s just loud outside because people have to be as loud as they fucking can out of doors every once in a while. Wake up the neighbors.
were i a dj, i would tell listeners whether a band was still together/touring/performing/recording and for how long and what year the album came out and which album it was in the sequence of all of their recordings. that’s a more appropriate word, isn’t it. i’ve always enjoyed using “album,” though. much like the pop/soda debate, i stick to proper nouns which eliminate the issue. that was in high school, i did that. what else, what else? i wrote my senior English paper on how to build a nuclear bomb. yup. valedictorian, (the reunion-shirking) class president, and, you know, what you’d expect from an adorable little red-headed fascist. I made everyone cry during my graduation speech. that place was brutal. i didn’t even see it at the time. it was just life.
all i see in my brain are sex scenes. me, covered in females. loving/touching me/each other. i’m in no hurry to get where i’m going. i enjoy the ride.
when i say something fucked up, immediately give me a hug and say, “there may be a nicer way to say what you want to express about that.” Then, look up at my, still hugging, and say, “please?” Guaranteed, i will melt. Gently remove yourself as I do, for lingering, that creates needs for immediate schedule changes, finding of third eye operator(s) and light sources. Why shouldn’t we get it on video? Isn’t that part of the fun? What? If I was a porn star, I could afford to get my old hemorrhoids removed. Yes, I will spend my porn money on cosmetic surgery of my bung-hole. So what? Or, better, the coop will have surgeon who just happens to be a gorgeous perverted locavore, so I work off my asshole surgery by cleaning her pool, weeding her garden, and fucking her every morning, noon, afternoon, evening, and you know, occasional snacks. Maybe it’s a gang of ‘em, a gaggle. A bevy? a host. a domain. Over time, one can look like many, and when you see without time, it doesn’t matter whether it’s one person or a single finger being lifted by a billion people. my penis very much looks forward to the time it will spend inside you. when i die, i want my flesh consumed raw by people who love it. people who love you. brain in a vat, skeleton to mit robo-animatronics lab for dancification, and soul into the multi-infinite aether. rawr.
i’m all, internet, where should i go, and my brain is like, downstairs to do your laundry. and my eyes shift right down to the clock and i can finish my laundry before punching in at 2, where I can still put in a 12-hour shift with music. I have bean stew and hard-boiled local fresh eggs. juggernaut. indestructible. infinitely loving. perfect. exactly correct in word and deed. beautiful beyond words.
that video will not leave my head. i had to look away and it still got me and my morning wood will not be calmed by the am dose. you two were the ones in the scenes. but then you become those two, and these two, and holy god you’re all so amazingly fucking hot, thank you for giving my fascist hacker ass the time of day.
masturbation materials. that’s what i can call my company. well, fine, you come up with a name that’s guaranteed to get prudes to scoff and spit and shake their heads. that sputter is detoxing. it’s important, and it’s helpful, and it’s useful. you can smile and say, “they’re not, really, they’re implements for consuming plant matter, but you could use ‘em for that in a pinch.”
I need to get my five-minute proposal down. My elevator spiel. Probably should video that, too. The only way to get me to watch that enough to actually make it happen will be to fill it with my beautifullest friends.
We are all friends here. Well put. Database functions such as that most easily facilitated by scraping databases. Reverse engineer the world until there is no more proprietary. Profit, I mock thee to thyne face! Survival-based “businesses” don’t feel like work, because they’re not. They’re life, living, cooperative beauty.
once you reach critical mass and you’re buying properties, we can turn you into a generator, car-bike-shop-fix-share, food growing/production/gourmet/catering school. Campus, university, farm, whatever. Multi-function tool. Blessed uber-princess, we quake and giggle at your grin. Your toothy smile induces fits of blissful delirium. Put me where you want me. as you wish.
more coffee. 12:58 pm.
meh videos got blocked. vicious about the jane’s eh? is that perry? does my non-request offend you, sir? It’s what they call a “fan” video. I have given you more of my money than I’ve given most people, and I want to share your beautiful songs with my friends and appreciative strangers. I don’t ask. YouTube doesn’t provide the communicative capability to send requests to license-holders. must be because the tunes are all owned by the profit-driven behemoths that can only say no and start fights anyway. how much say do the artists have in these decisions? and what the fuck? you put your music out in the ether and it makes you rich, but then you want to restrict people from hearing it? what kind of fucked up friendship logic is that? In some way, this is exactly what I do, for I wouldn’t be babbling about it if it weren’t. that’s just how these things work. never hold back from your urge to sock me in the arm. i understand nonverbal expressions of disapproval. your pain translates into mine. ouch. k.
laundry, then more shop time. i may finish finish some pieces. photos would logically follow. you never can tell how these things will pan out. cyclical, really. wobbling sphere harmonics and whatnot.
My gratitude can only be expressed in dance. I love you forever.