I had an idea: a story about a man who thinks he's made out of the liquid used to develope photographs. I should figure out what that liquid is before writing that story. I probably will not.
Recent thefts include a book about Dante which I fervently hate, Slaughter-house Five, Infinite Jest and a new hat. The hat I am least pleased with, but I believe this is more commentary on the value of the old one, not the shittiness of the new one.
I would like a pair of mirrored sunglasses to wear around everywhere. It would be a stupid thing to do, and people say I'm trying to be like that guy from Cool Hand Luke and O Brother, Where Art Thou, but I wouldn't care, because I'd be wearing my mirrored sunglasses. I'd be emotionally invulnerable.
Was thinking of using the word "resplendent," but became disgusted with/ by it.
Applied for a job at a store that makes fruit baskets, only to find out that they can't hire me, because the only jobs that they have open require the use of a knife- a sharp, dangerous, hazardous, satanist knife- which I can't be trusted to look at, since I'm not eighteen. Which is funny, because at my old job I got to chainsaw my way through a tree. An entire fallen tree. Chainsaw. No gloves. Christing people.
Wish school would permanently disappear. Know it is futile to wish for such a thing. Want to get to writing that story, but am distracted by the lobes of the brain. I need more sleep and less toxicity from textbooks and whatnor. More later. I'm so tired.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
chapter three: why I love mexican food
in paradise, there are no tomatoes. nothing tastes like the blood your gums shed when you brush your teeth. nothing summons the sound of the word "thrush" when you accidentaly bite into your pasta.
there are no congealed things in heaven. if you get cut, it heals so fast the blood doesn't get a chance to clot. zip. done.
tomato sauce is what I imagine they filled the baby with in Eraserhead. why do people use it on pasta? I imagine the noodles trying to swim over each other, desperate for some kind of escape.
maybe in paradise, they go skeet shooting with cans of tomato sauce. no, that's weird.
today I went to the supermarket, on a search for some chicken noodle soup. while engaged in this distraction, I elbowed a can of Campbell's condensed tomato soup onto the floor. it split open. a more perfect vision of hell is hard to find: a leaky can of satanic slop on the barely-clean floor of a supermarket. white hanging lights from the ceiling. nobody else in the store.
there are no congealed things in heaven. if you get cut, it heals so fast the blood doesn't get a chance to clot. zip. done.
tomato sauce is what I imagine they filled the baby with in Eraserhead. why do people use it on pasta? I imagine the noodles trying to swim over each other, desperate for some kind of escape.
maybe in paradise, they go skeet shooting with cans of tomato sauce. no, that's weird.
today I went to the supermarket, on a search for some chicken noodle soup. while engaged in this distraction, I elbowed a can of Campbell's condensed tomato soup onto the floor. it split open. a more perfect vision of hell is hard to find: a leaky can of satanic slop on the barely-clean floor of a supermarket. white hanging lights from the ceiling. nobody else in the store.
Friday, February 8, 2008
chapter two: blue star
There was something like a twinkle which was less of a twinkle than a steady growth and fade of light in one spot in the sky the size of the head of a pin. But the fact that it was a pinhead in the sky made it a star and the fact of its being a star made its light a twinkle and not a swelling of the smallest of lights.
It doesn't happen regularly that I go out on my back porch and make a gun with my finger and thumb and shoot the stars out like lightbulbs, collect the glass dust in a big round bathtub, jump in.
The problem with being tired: you'd stop yourself from being uncomfortable, but you don't have the energy.
It doesn't happen regularly that I go out on my back porch and make a gun with my finger and thumb and shoot the stars out like lightbulbs, collect the glass dust in a big round bathtub, jump in.
The problem with being tired: you'd stop yourself from being uncomfortable, but you don't have the energy.
Monday, February 4, 2008
chapter one: barbecue wrap
Scene at the 99, where you always come back for more:
A is sitting and talking about all the colleges that must be applied to. B is eating a barbecue chicken wrap. It is very spicy. A says that these colleges have admissions offices. These offices have not called, emailed, written, messaged or smoke signaled since January. Early January. A is worried about this but doesn't ask for the consolation of B. B gives this consolation, though it is unsolicited, and regrets this grievous error. B's wrap is very spicy. B's face does not contort because of it. B's cheeks don't puff out, nor does B breathe hollowly for a few moments until the fallout fades. When A finishes on the topic of not getting any calls, messages, emails or letters from admissions offices, B's existence is hinged upon the spiciness of his barbecue wrap, which was errenuously ordered, a thing B thoroughly regrets, dancing on the head of the pin of his anguish and pain. A waits for B to say something:
B(mumbling, his tongue is in pain, he can't elocute precisely) : Earlier today I was working out and I got stuck.
A (smiles- thinks: why weight lifting? why prove he's a man by talking about it?) : Really?
B (uncertain!) : Yeah, that was embarrassing, but it was more the amount of weight on the bar, nail on the coffin lid, man.
The inside of the 99 is very dark, there are 99 reasons why you should eat at the 99 written on one wall, the lighting doesn't permit one to read these reasons if you find you've run out of things to talk about with a friend. A looks at this wall and thinks of some way to make a conversation out of one or the other, but finds not one in the whole list with that spark in it. Reason 100, suggests B, should be "Boobs". A does not laugh.
A is sitting and talking about all the colleges that must be applied to. B is eating a barbecue chicken wrap. It is very spicy. A says that these colleges have admissions offices. These offices have not called, emailed, written, messaged or smoke signaled since January. Early January. A is worried about this but doesn't ask for the consolation of B. B gives this consolation, though it is unsolicited, and regrets this grievous error. B's wrap is very spicy. B's face does not contort because of it. B's cheeks don't puff out, nor does B breathe hollowly for a few moments until the fallout fades. When A finishes on the topic of not getting any calls, messages, emails or letters from admissions offices, B's existence is hinged upon the spiciness of his barbecue wrap, which was errenuously ordered, a thing B thoroughly regrets, dancing on the head of the pin of his anguish and pain. A waits for B to say something:
B(mumbling, his tongue is in pain, he can't elocute precisely) : Earlier today I was working out and I got stuck.
A (smiles- thinks: why weight lifting? why prove he's a man by talking about it?) : Really?
B (uncertain!) : Yeah, that was embarrassing, but it was more the amount of weight on the bar, nail on the coffin lid, man.
The inside of the 99 is very dark, there are 99 reasons why you should eat at the 99 written on one wall, the lighting doesn't permit one to read these reasons if you find you've run out of things to talk about with a friend. A looks at this wall and thinks of some way to make a conversation out of one or the other, but finds not one in the whole list with that spark in it. Reason 100, suggests B, should be "Boobs". A does not laugh.
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