Man, the state and situation of things had me thinking. Had me thinking about a group of people that certainly isn't me. Because we all know there are plenty of fucking Josh's, plenty of better fucking Josh's, skilled and successful, well except for this Josh but that's not really the angle I wanted. I was thinking about the kids who can fuck around, they can drink and smoke, fuck and wake up at someone else's house but still be on the top of the class. The kids who apply to a handful of fine top tier schools, and see which school want them the most, the school gives them money? I don't understand that. The kids that fuck their counterparts, the kids that get their driver's licenses as soon as possible. The kids who have complicated evenings that involve layers and triggers, ropes and taking advantage of advantage. I don't get it, it's not my thing and I'm glad to step out and let it pass me. I'm not really sad about this, sure it upsets me, the elite white public school upper crust, cars, cell phones and condoms routine. At one dead end of this high school tunnel, yeah it pisses me off that I'm not having sex while it seems like a bunch my friends are. Trailing on the superficial reasons to hate my peers, yeah, it's said, I'm that fucking attractive. With the terrible terrible middle aged mid section, the gut and the breast thing, and fucking damnit, alright I realizing I'm bitching, but you don't have to read it, have fun here . Ah where was I? Damnit Sklover, broke my stream, oh well, wasn't that fucking brilliant any way.
So where are from, where does that accent come from? Insecurity. Damnit. Ah fuck. I lost it. I lost it all, this is all sounded so good walking home alone, shit dude. I was gonna talk about how it's all downhil from here and death is what you make of it. This should have been riddled with different ways to die and good puns (oxymoron) about hangings and being overweight and not getting laid and shit about tricking other friends so that better when can score with a dumb chick, run of the mill high school dribble from the kids who pretends he can write. I'm sorry I don't enjoy cigarettes but I gave them their chance, I was anti-smoking and I got paid for it after a while, now I'm not getting paid. So I can't smoke away the blues I paint myself, ugly enough now without drinking like a fish, too wide for tattoos. Damnit I'm really disappointed with this, this should have been better, so disappointing I might just put it on livejournal. Man, Saul Cohen is gonna flame me for this, but fuck him, I was nice, I burnt him a Swans album. So maybe John Lichman will say "Don't think like that, I'm broke, my sperm is worthless". But it's true, I don't have it that bad, but my penis isn't giant and as such the lack of a ridiculously large penis holds me down, right? Subconciously the mind of a loser like me is about fucking or the lackthereof. This is too terrible to be on this website, especially to be the first one strangers see on the common log. Do adults look at this, parents, teachers, police officers? The Cocaine in Motion title has gotten around in the way that I haven't. Alright, this might come off later, so all you collectors, this is limited edition press, we won't even title it, but we should
Hurricane! Whore on my cane. Horrible Cocaine.
If only this bottle of spring water was a bottle of bitter vodka, burning my throat, as the Skatalites go 'Ba-Bah!' and hit that 'Guns of Navarone'. Ah damn. Tropical Storm, hurricane, it's sweet though, a four day weekend, you know what that means. That's right, lots of wanking, nah, but seriously, death is but a door, time is but a window, I'll be back. Shit yeah, I can't wait to idle in the midst of tropical fucking destruction watching Ghostbusters II sucking on the popcorns that didn't get popped, awww, shit, yeah fuck you, make the virgin joke, go ahead have a fucking field day. Manifest this fatal flaw, all the analogies are about food items because I'm fat you assholes, I can't help myself, get me hooked on sports or boom or something. A quiet rumble grows beneath the streets.
The entire fucking Metro system shuts down tommorow. Why? Some bitch named Isabel wants to whore it up along the Atlantic coast. Bitches, gotta ruin everything. This city will not happen without public transportation. Can't get on or off da' train, dis city is closed. Will steak'n'egg be open, I could really go for an old smoky mountain right now, two patties (a half pound of meat) grilled onions, the mountain is topped with barbeque sauce, served on crisped rolls. Ah yes.
- There's something very important I forgot to tell you.
- What?
- Don't cross the streams.
- Why?
- It would be bad.
- I'm fuzzy on the whole good/bad thing. What do you mean "bad"?
- Try to imagine all life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light.
- Total protonic reversal.
- That's bad. Okay. Alright, important safety tip, thanks Egon.
Drug dealers want to kick my ass for mouthing off. I want street cred but I want to keep my teeth and testicals. I want to fuck some sophomores and drive off in a too-big American car. I want to listen to Johnny Cash in a saloon before and after fucking some cheap but well dressed hooker or two.
I want to spend a bro's sperm bank money on falafel and 180-gram Miles Davis Records. La da da dat dat dat da la la. Come across the river to have some fun with me, have a bowl of Ben's traditional chili. Makeout serssion at that blue room in the back of 9:30 club. Aw shit, if I think about it it will never happen. Ah something to unearth, the name of the band is VENKMAN. The show will have Mannequin, A Day in Black and White, A petal Fallen, Exceleone, A Silent Reminder, and maybe a song or two by fucking VENKMAN. October 17th kids.
So I waited til the last night to begin my comparative government paper; the paper is worth 15% of the advisory's grade. Fuck. Why did I choose such a terrible topic? Well, I know why. I wanted to be 'out there', to impress all the other fucks who caved in and called their papers 'A Tale of Two Cities'. No. My paper will be different, shitty, but different. It's a concept fucking paper, concept like the new Pig Destroyer album, concept like a Tool album. Fuck. I will finish The Battle of the Major American Murder Capitals: A Comparative Study
I need more background information on the city of Compton (cit-citi-city of Compton, city of Compton). I wonder if the teacher will get mad if he sees Eazy E - Str8 off the Streets of Mutha Fuckin Compton in my endnotes. Fucking endnotes, what a pain. I remember seeing Hope Conspiracy at the 9:30 club and not "bringing the mosh" because all they played was songs from their new album 'EndNote'. I also could throw down because I was wearing a back pack. Ah yes, the backpack with the Madball CD I got free from work and it used to have the 2 liter bottle of sprite that I drank while seeing Confidence in Georgetown with Stew. The same 2 liter bottle of Sprite that was confiscated by 9:30 staff, possibly that dude Sam from 9:30 club that I met at that party in Georgetown. yes, full circle, mental karma blah blah blowjob, monument's sinking.
So I feel sick. I haven't been sleeping much since school started. Like I'm in bed for a healthy period of time, and I'm tired as fuck most of the time, but I haven't been sleeping. Everyday is a hangover, a hangover without the party fights and liquid courage 'Why don't you like me in that way' type deal. Just fucking cephalic pain, burning blood, awkward walk, where's that Gold Bond I bought, or that other unit of Gold Bond I bought?
Fucking cigarette smokers. They're as bad as the private school kids with the extra pocket for the cell phone, which isn't as tasteless as your black man/hispanic/middle aged white loser style cell phone clip-on, where they hike up the shirt at the waist to show off THEIR FUCKING CELL PHONE. Oh man, they're getting laid tonight. Damnit, tonight I'm gonna lie down and not sleep for three or four hours, then sleep but not in the appropriate beta stage of sleep, so I'm not getting real sleep. Damnit, this better not go on all year. Fuck it. I'll do the paper tommorow, I'll pull it off. Damnation.
I found myself at the pinnacle moment of comfort for the day at Taco Bell/KFC split. Yes I was comfortable alright, in a high chair, content with the fact the Tacos and Strips combo looks a lot better in the picture but what I got was cool. The chicken was dry but would it better if it was less dry? Would the seasonings and additives taste as good in a moist-er chicken strip? So I'm sitting alone in the Taco Bell/KFC on Connecticut Avenue. I hadn't slept the night before, making me an intolerable fuck today, but alone I can't really cause that many problems. Alone but air-conditioned, that Taco Bell was comforting. But maybe I would have been comfortable anywhere at the time. I had just finally bought the school supplies I was supposed to buy in mid-august, but ending up spending on a six pack of Yoo hoo in New York City and a voyage to Baltimore to see Darkest Hour. So I was glad to know that my mom could no longer bitch at me about not being responsible with the money and all. Another key factor (possibly the key factor), I had taken a dump at Offfice Depot, and I was in that post-dump, smaller belly zone. Ah, I can walk like this . . . . .
So I wondered, is this lonely visit to the Taco Bell/KFC split the path for the rest of my life? eh, now I don't want to get in to it. Well I guess I just wanted to emphasize that I was able to get tacos and a fried chicken like product together on the same plate. The rest of the evening was overshadowed by sleepless anticipation of my grind band opening for Mannequin. Should be a blast. but oh man, tacos and fried chicken, but most importantly, the potato wedges, also referred to as Jo-Jo's. Aw man. This blows.
So I'm going to give in, give up for a while. Death through idleness, spend too much time trying to make this blog sound more respectably pretentious. I talk funny but I'm not the only one, therefore I am a poser who still talks like a clown. I'm bored enough to have to time to write, and I'm certain jaded enough to have something to write about, but I'm not really miserable enough to write something good. My scnanner doesn't work, I wanted to use black & white photos as scenester filler in the absence of misery and multi-sylablic words. Shit should be up in the air, the thick humid, blood clot East Coast DC air.
Elevation.
I could go some elevation, like that high, elevated feeling. So the rush one gets from saying 'Fuck it, I got what I got', slam it on the table, just in plain type, without screaming or decorative death metal font. So there it is, everything said, every drawer opened, wasn't as small as I was expecting. Done, fuck, now what I do. Damnit, no more Kiss-esque mystigue, fuck. No.
Alright, I'll produce a play and be part of a film festival, I'll print shirts for local hardcore bands, I'll record shitty grindcore on shitty drums, with shitty vocals and terrible lyrics that mean shitty things. I long to be ardent. I've given up on the kids at wilson. It's fucking sludge this year. It's a fucking napalm death single played at 33 RPM, it's fucking king tubby stretching out fat man dub for an hour. It's watching the fucking clock for a whole year. Sexual healing, i could for some fucking sex, spare me -ual healing. Don't waste a prayer and don't tlel me shut up, I don't have much to say any more. Ah, JRussell, you intolerable fuck, what's wrong with you, stop being such a self-centered, self-depricated, constantly sarcastic, abusive, caustic asshole. So what if everybody's better than you, stop wallowing and take some pride, sew yourself a flag, forgive and forget. Stand up for Christ's sake. Sometimes I figure it'd be nice if I was some naive pussy whipped, generic tall fat kid at the hardcore shows with his better than decent looking parasitic girlfriend. Thick fucking air, nice fucking hair, what is this a bad day in 1962, wait wait wait, what is this, the fucking cure gone wrong, err uhh, the wrong cure. Fucking purists. Man this is nothing, it's drivel so I'm not running on empty. There's bound to another one, or so they all say. I guess I lost a lot of clique points. whatever.