Friday, November 19, 2004

heh. hey, whutsup. uh, i know i said i'd never do this, but fuck it, here's a taste spoon of the master thesis. this is the bit i just wrote tonite. like, 31 thousand words in? peace and love to all. werd 2 officer byrd.

So two hours later, Ben found himself nestled comfortably in a starbuck’s on a nondescript street across from a quite average looking auto repair shop, a mom & pop it look, ie, he meant, at least to himself, it wasn’t sponsored by unocal or any shit like that. Just some dude or cadre of dudes or dudettes trying to make a go of it. Trying to beat back the man invoice by invoice. Trying to be fair and honest yet bilking with sir bilk a lot when the necessity arose or in some other way presented itself. They weren’t perfect. They tried to be fair, but sometimes they had to stretch the rules.

Yeah, guy. Like the rulons. The degree to which ben’s psyche could go off into random ass crapsterpiece tangents was sometimes beyond even his realm of thinking (oh the shock, there be something he could not comprehend) and in that instance he felt his arrogance, that he even consider there would be some emotion, or rather, not consider, that there could be something of which he could not relate. He was too full of himself, too lost in some alternate reality.

Or else it could be a layover of the chronic overdosage yet still within perfectly safe parameters of which he had endured the night before. Makers and mark had been the trick, and why had he got up so early, with no hangover, per se? no hangover in the bad sense, but quite hung over in the cosmic sense? No, that wasn’t entirely right, or even half right, he was hung over in the sense of thinking overboard on any given subject, when especially in light of the fact that there was so much, wait, so few, stimuli with which to base this opinion on.

Aarrrggghhh. What was he even stressing about? He loved slashed hated those moments when he could feel the tension in his body, in his mind, in his soul (?) that he knew there was some source of, he knew it had to come from somewhere, unless it was clinical, which he didn’t believe, not him, he was much too, what? Clinical? Was that the word? Was he the antithesis of that which he never thought he could be? How ironic would that be? And was he even using the word irony in the correct sense?

And what did it matter? Not just this, but anything? And why? Arrghh, a useless question, even the point withstanding that no question is supposed to be stupid, but sometimes, you’re just being overindulgent, you’re just analyzing it too much, you’re saying to yourself “self, let’s go on a magic mystical joyride through my cranium and see what we find,” and the answer shouldn’t always be “yes.”

Or should it?

He didn’t know the answer. He doubted he’d ever know the answer. He wondered why the hell he was even pondering it.

He motioned to the waitress that his coffee needed a refill, which it did.