The Obscure

Trazedone and entropy.

Stagnation surrounds me, my friends. I do not know what it is that I do

Tonight I have a terrible case of what I have come to call my "Midnight Wanderings." I am at Taylor's house, and I think I'm going to put my jeans back on and walk to my house. That's like a three hour walk, it ought to help me get my mind in order.
If not, may god help me, because there is little else any mortal man can do.
Goodnight, friends.

*Addition!*
My leisurely stroll across several towns turned into a crazy adventure filled with surly police officers, a couple of pat-downs, and some very uncomfortable seating arrangements. There is NO leg room in the back of a police car.
Praise the almighty lord I wasn't carrying any of percoset on me at the time, or I'd probably be in jail right now.

Another uneventful yet surprisingly enjoyable day come to a close.

Surprising, that is, because of this horrible disease that has evidently come to reside in my lungs.
I've got a cold so terrible that my dad thinks I have pneumonia (don't question my spelling, I am a professer of journalism) and wants to take me to the hospital. I've had my fill of doctors so I haven't yet seen one concerning it; it seems to be a bit better today, but if it starts worsening again anytime soon I might have to take a short trip off a long pier. (A word to the wise, "a long pier" is latin for "emergency room." Learning is fun!)

I came home from work early on friday, on account of my strange new ailment, and sat m'ass down on the couch for like six soul-scorching hours with a couple of books, a box of terrible crackers, and about ten tons of genetically modified kleenex. (A note for you history buffs, "kleenex" was originally a small country that was annexed by Mongolia in 1492. Unfortunately some so-called "explorer" did a little travelling in the same year and is more widely known than the political goings-on of Mongolia; therefore nobody knows about it save myself and Woodrow Wilson.)
For some reason my back is numb. This is a new feeling for me, daddy must be proud.

*THIS PORTION DELETED DUE TO CONTENT*

I can't sleep for some reason. I've talked for fifteen years and so far I've met a good two people who haven't claimed that taking pain-pills puts them to sleep real fast; and yet here I am, wide awake at 4:30 in the morning, thinking strange thoughts and doing strange things and putting on an all-around bad show for my eternal ostentatious audience, and all I (or they, for that matter) can do about it is wonder why.

I ran out of clean shirts today. Exciting, no?
Bewildered by my lack of clean shirts, I did a little calculating and realized exactly why they had all gone. Apparently I don't do laundry often enough.
I do laundry like hospitals do triage, I just fix whatever needs fixing "a.s.a.p.", and leave the rest of the "patients" bleeding on the floor until the dogs eat them.
I've never worked at a hospital, I assume that is how triage functions.
Anyway, since I ran out of clean shirts, I was forced to bring out some of the shirts Dan gave me a month or so ago. One of them looked a little promising, so I put it on. The shirt is tight on me.
Now, this may not sound like a big deal. Hell, plenty of shirts are tight on plenty of people. But I couldn't help but think to myself, "If this shirt is tight on me, what does Dan, the large dancing clown bear of Antioch, look like in it?"
And then it occured to me: I have far too much time on my hands. How I ever ended up calling Dan "the large dancing clown bear of Antioch" is something that I will never be able to divine.

Are you all reading this correctly? Because if you are reading this in a different rhythm than how I am thinking it I will be horrified. Not for any reason that is any fault of yours, my writing skills fall far short of knowing how to put words together in a rhythm that anyone would be able to pick up, but just because I don't think the words I jam together make any sense outside of my rhythm. Perhaps I should start writing in iambic pentameter. If only I knew much more about iambic pentameter than what it is called, and something to do with syllables... then I'd be in the money.
Hey, dot-dot-dots (you know, "...") are called syllipses, or something. Crammit, I can't remember what they are actually called, I just remember that it sounds kind of like "cynapses."
Oh well, I guess that's for the fates to decide.

Put a sock in it, bitch-tits!

With that, I guess I shall try to retire for the duration of the evening. Thank you all for reading, if you did. I know I haven't been updating this site very frequently so I wouldn't really expect any of you to visit it, but if you did and you read this desperate cry for a way to kill time, consider yourselves doubly thanked. I do not consider myself much of a writer, but it still brings a smile to my face (for some strange, masochistic reason) when people read the junk I put out.
I just can't be anywhere near them when they do it, and I can't ever, EVER know what they actually think. That is key.
G'night, ladies and gentle giants.

What a wonderful time to die.

It would appear that my obsession with death is not nearly as bad as my obsession with meth, which is frankly terrible. During nights like these I think to myself, "If I had some drugs, I'd burn them."
Because they do say that fire purifies, but they are habitual liars.

My skull reeks like incontinence, my brain stinks of lost common sense, and my knickers smell of flatulence. Wherefore art thou flatulence?
I presume that it is a necessary exchange.

False advertisement is waiting in the wings!

I came home early from work today, on account of this incredible, unsurmountable brain-ache. I've got thoughts on my mind, but as usual I cannot figure out any way to articulate them. Why even try, I wonder?
Some things are not meant for human eyes, and I intend to look at each and every one of them.

Today looks like a fabulous day to give up on living; watch me closely, as I suck some ash.

He said, "You look cool."

So I just got back from the Ravi Shankar show, it was amazing. Of course, like with every other show I will ever go to ever, I fell asleep for a small period of time. But this wasn't usual sleep, it was more like meditation. I could still hear the music perfectly, but my body was shut down. It was a really cool experience, I'm so glad I got to see it. For more details, talk to Tim, he'll be able to tell you about it in less-moronic detail.
My keyboard is being stupid, hang on, I'm going to switch.

Curse my furiously generous and devishly handsome nature! I gave away all my keyboards except for my ultra-back-up one, which is this old IBM piece of crap that clacks like a typer-writer. On the plus side, the thing is unbreakable, unlike several of the other keyboards I have had. My good one just needs some cleaning, that's all.

I have all of these notes jotted down for a piece I want to write on here, something that isn't just my daily ramblings about my daily life; something that actually involves literary talent. So naturally, I won't be able to do it.
Ha! Self-deprecation.

Any keyboard manufactured in 1985 is A-Ok by me.

Seriously though, I'm going to actually post a writing on here that will be different from my usual Off-The-Cuff writings. The reason being is that my mother is trying to get me to write a college essay, and I want to see if I can write in any kind of structured way at all before I start cracking on an essay that I will almost assuredly fuck-up.
Of course, it won't actually be "structured." It will be my weird form of structured that doesn't adhere precisely to the laws of the art in which I indulge.
Anyway, look forward to that. Or try not to think about it lest you become irrevocably depressed. Either way, I'm going to do it. I've got some notes jotted down for it right now. The only problem is, I don't know what the paper will actually be about yet.
But I guess I can hash that out later.

**EXTREME SUBJECT CHANGE**
I woke up this morning at about 6 o'clock to the sound of my father tapping away on my darbuka apparently in the middle of the hallway outside my room. When I got out of bed half an hour later I asked him, (who was still tapping, mind you) why he felt it necessary to play my darbuka at 6 A.M. when we all know that I cannot be as beautiful as I SHOULD be if I don't sleep until at least 9:35.
He replied, "You usually do."
Of course, I quoted myself in a wildly incorrect manner when writing the previous paragraph, if you had heard what was actually said, his answer would have made sense. He was referring to the fact that I can usually fall back asleep without any kind of trouble. Unfortunately, that is not the case anymore. When I was in high school my body would go to sleep at any available opportunity (except late at night, when it was s'posda) so if I was woken up in the wee hours of the morning by middle-aged puerto rican men playing turkish hand-drums (which happens far more often than you'd think) I could just shake my fist at them and then conk back out for a few more hours; making myself incredibly late for school in the process, of course.

That being said, I only have one thing left to say: I strongly dislike infomercials.
I love you, one and all. Today looks like it will be a good day, for the next two hours. Then I'll be at work and it won't be a good day anymore. Damn.

P.S. My brother-in-law is getting a free van from a friend of their family's! So I should be getting my truck back sometime this week, which is great, because without transportation, I'm not any kind of man. Goodbye friends, you've been a wonderful audience! I'll leave you with these lyrics.

Tom Waits/Kathleen Brennan

Around the curve of The Parrot Bar
A broken-down old movie star
Hustling and Easterner
Bringing out the beast in her
A high dive on a swimming pool
Filled with needles and with fools
The memories are short but the tales are long
When you're in the Reeperbahn

Oh, they called her Rosie when she was a girl
For her bright red cheeks and her strawberry curls
When she would laugh the river would run
She said she'd be a comedian
Oh what a pity, oh what a shame
When she said, ‘come calling’, nobody came
Now her bright red cheeks are painted on
And she's laughing her head off in the Reeperbahn

Now little Hans was always strange
Wearing womens underthings
His father beat him but he wouldn't change
He ran off with a man one day
Now his lingerie is all the rage
In the black on every page
His father proudly calls his name
Down there in the Reeperbahn

Now if you've lost your inheritance
And all you've left is common sense
And you're not too picky about the crowd you keep
Or the mattress where you sleep
Behind every window, behind every door
The apple has gone but there's always the core
And the seeds will sprout up right through the floor
Down there in the Reeperbahn

(Lie-die-die-die etc..)

Down there in the Reeperbahn

(Lie-die-die-die etc..)

Down there in the Reeeeeeperbahn