Wednesday, April 06, 2005

It was about two hours later until Ben’s high had abated enough that he gave half a shit where he was or what he was doing. Staring at the road going by & by, he felt this little feeling, like he’d done this before, possibly better, possibly worse, like some piece of technology had let him down and produced a random hiccup, that he had a chance to remodify the edges and possibly produce something better. Then the thought was gone.

He was in the woods now, and they were steadily rising. The SUV passed a road sign, announcing the highway, I-70, and then a few miles later, something called Grand Mesa was coming up, he missed how many miles away. Checking the gas guage, he realized somewhere along the line they must have filled up the tank, oh yeah, he did, back in, what? Buttfuck Egypt, whatever that little town was called, well, anyway, it was woodsy owl time now kids, Don & Eddie were asleep, and he felt an odd sense of peace, rising up through the Colorado greenery, pondering what they’d done and what they hadn’t done.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Hello there. Yep, it’s me again. The one from your, fuck, I don’t know. Fuck all that shit. And oh yah, fuck saying “fuck all that shit.” It’s like the last thing anyone wants or needs to hear and is basically repetitive, to the nth boring degree, of whatever nonliterary salad you may have eaten last nite. So no more needs be said about that, I take it.

The master thesis progresses, if you care. 41 thousand some odd words. Of crap. A mass crapsterpiece. I’mma finish it up, maybe 20 thousand more words, and then burn it. Or throw it in the trash. Or send it random house. Or conglomerate corp, so they can read it, puke on it, then publish it and give me 5 dollars and promises of riches for the next weighty tome. One problem there, I’ll have oophed my load.

Not true. My load is ever oophable. And with that dialogue firmly entrenched in your noggin, howz bout you sign on to be my manager. The pay is 5% of whatever I get of you pimpin my shit. Normally a pro agent makes, whut, 15%, I’m making that number up, well, not totally, I do read, you know, the trades, and the, um, trade, so, there is some foggy basis of fact in what I say. Not a lot, though. Sorry if you were under that impression. Oh, yeah, I’m not sorry, oh yeah, and fuck people saying “oh yeah” and “I’m not sorry,” it’s such a goddamm fucking cliché.

Send me a goddamm e-mail and tell me whut you think. Or not. Or yes. Or, fuck, I don’t know, go kick a cat. There’s basically nothing you could do that hasn’t been done ad infinitum by people with more skills at said dillio than you anyway, so you might as well get nice & drugged up and stare at the wall. I don’t mean that. It’s, uh, irony? No, um, shit, I can’t remember. It’s that thing where you say one thing, yet mean kinda the opposite, but there’s not four versions of you in a car singing some crap. Yup, like that. I mean, not like that. Peace.