Saturday, October 01, 2005
Yeah, yeah, poor me. But fuck that. I put it up on the fridgerator, a badge of failure, to push me to new heights, but then thought about it, and the disencouragement, but still left it up, and my dear wife sensibly took it down, I told her don’t throw it away, though, I want to remember it, or keep it, at least they had the courtesy to send me SOMEthing.
Now this by no means means I suck. And even if it does, it wouldn’t stop me. It’s got me thinking more about the words, and the phrases, and the way I string them together when I get the wont, and how even when I don’t get the wont, I have to find the wont, I have to drag that piece of shit wont out of the cupboard or the attic or wherever the fuck it may be and beat it into submission until it does my bidding. I can’t halfass and be a bitch about this shit. If I honestly think that there’s something in me worth expressing then I’m a little hooch if I don’t bust my ass to drag it to the forefront, or at least onto a screen and into the living rooms of America, or at least the back alleys of Bangladesh, not that that’s any worse or better. And once again, the point is not poor me, although it may appear so, this is just, fuck, I don’t know what this is, this is cleansing the palate of my brain, scraping the stomach lining of my medulla, all that shit, whatever it is it makes me feel better and, fuck, I dunno.
So I gotta tackle this shit with renewed vigor is, I guess, what I’m trying to say. I don’t even know why I’m telling you (yeah, you) this, but I thought, why not. What better place to put this whiny shit than right here. The shit that shits itself out of the shitter. The originator of the jurk storr and the blah blah, and the copier of better shit and the new shit and the old shit and the funky ass dogshit shit. Fuck, you know what the fuck I mean, and if you don’t, does it really fucking matter? Nah.
I’m all good, though. This is only making me stronger. No, fuck that. It’s making me, fuck, I don’t know what it’s making me. One thing is for sure, though, I just typed out four paragraphs of crap and am working on a fifth and if you made it this far maybe there’s something redeeming in it, so congrats and happy new year in like 3 months, or whenever the fuck it is. Tell dick clark I said go fuck himself. Aloha. PS: this was all written under the pseudonym of ass crapsterface. Gracias.
Yup, very proud, proud moment. Yup. I got a question, though, how do people come up with like that writing stories shit, you know, the kind where shit happens, and then it progresses to other shit happening, and then at the end you’re like “a ha” and thinking, shit, that tied together in some kind of cogent fashion. Man, I need to get me into some of that shit. Maybe like make an outline and stop thinking that just bangin on the keyboard will eventually produce something substantive, ok, I’m done whining, not that this is whining, it’s therapy, yah, that’s the ticket, it’s good for the soul and the mind and the solar plexus. Yup, man, my chiropractor would by stoked, I mean, amped, to know I was doing this, the realizations, the alignment, my spine getting all dialectic an shit, fuck, this is a whole new idiom, er, idiot. Aloha, gracias, blah blah blah. Smiley face.