i put in an “official” request at my local ice cream shoppe for compostable spoons and a compost bin. i used the owner’s name (she directed me in pretty much every play i’ve acted in and taught “4th grade” to me). Of course i aced it.
what usually happens is we don’t even meet until she’s under the supervision of all her family and friends, and i stumble in and fall in love with her right to her face, right there in front of god and sally and gerald. i sure hope you found a better job kiddo. delivering poisons is a happy lot, but the long term effects ain’t kosher.
i’m christian, i’m islam, i’m jewish. i am buddist and pagan and hindu. i worship satan and krishna and gee whiz H cripes. i am honky, chink, nigga, ‘cuz. lover of beaners and my siblings, cross-bred human mutts. fuck your critique of my acts, for your house is of candy glass. and beneath fake chemical scents, your hole society smells like donkey dick.
I’m having to add “b” after the date when i save these fucking “[interwe]blogs.” Dictator’s log stardate 9:11 PM. make a wish and it can’t be that another building gets intentionally demolished by the president and his evil gang of murderous thugs and tv helps and a bunch of people die so everyone gets pissed or sad and wants to go do more war because that’s all we know how to do, but i never believed it. not for a fucking second. there was no shock, no suspended disbelief. my fucking disbelief was in full fucking force and your fascist asses screamed at me any time i tried to point out the most obvious, important and vital piece of information ever presented to humanity ever. alls i’m sayin’ is don’t play like you’re a seeker of truth when the truth terrifies you to your addicted little core. the truth shall set you free.
totally just recorded some tracks out of the blue. it’s going to be up at Archive.org under the identifier “Chist-masO” which translates roughly to chist, mas’o, or mas-o-chist. maz-o’kissed? probably not that. it’s a recording me me hitting myself quickly. and making strange gurguling, grunting noises. my surburned thigh still burns a little from this. it’s exactly what i deserve, i suppose.
blister pus all over my guitar and my hand stings like a banshee on a stick! ow.
and then what? and then sleep