Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Hi. I wrote 2,000 words of some brand new story about a guy sitting in his car in a park staring at the darkness and thinking about some chick shit and then some rabbits start jumping around in the grass. Where it goes from there is theoretically the interesting part, although the mind meandering shit up until that point seems to be progressing nicely.

My stamina when it comes to writing fiction is something akin to that guy hanging out on the beach and then the big buff dude comes up and throws sand on him and then the dude has to look in a magazine for that old juicinator guy’s getting buff system. I mean, the before, not the after. Prolly a matter of discipline. It’s like I’m racing to a point where I can wrap up a thought or put in a segue and then it’s like, hmmm, let’s count the words and validate this and then type out some bullshit analyzing it to yourself and then post it on the innernet? Yeah, that’s real productive.

Sheesh. So anyway, gawd the convos I have with people when I get overly crunked should really be illegal. I mean, I guess it’s true for pigeons as well as falcons, I mean, no one can pull brilliance from a gem full of carpal tunneled infractions, but still, I mean, a certain degree of antithesis of idiocy you would think has to be maintained in some way shape or form. Or not.

This is nothing of the current framework just something I was reminded of today. I find it actually hilarious in that luckily usually you’re, er, I’m, either around people who are metaphysically down enough that you’re not too concerned, ie, a good personality test possibly, or else they’re such randoms that you cling to the hope you’ll never bump into them again and have to explain why you thought they knew that guy named after the dog in that cartoon. Sigh with a side of plankton, y’know, a show of respect to the monk seal sect.

Monday, October 24, 2005

wozzop bitches? Raiders win. I know. I almost fainted myself as well. 3 TD’s from my man Lamont Jordan. Charles Woodson looks like he’s gone for the year with a broken leg, tho. Ah well. Broken eggs, lack of do not make very fine omelettes, or some shit that aunt gertle used to say.

Plus cal beat wazoo in basically the best and most exciting game of the college football season so far. Fuck all that usc notre dame bullshit. That game was on some strait up trash. Ok, no it wasn’t. but this game was better. Why? Because I’m batman’s butler and basically I’ve spoken, hoemonger.

In other news it’s like nitetime and I should prolly be going to bed. Oh and also, this was all very pertinent shit that you couldn’t like just open up the goddamm sports page or yahoo website or whatever the fuck and read officially if you were interested in the first place.

But you know how special and unique it is when I explain it to you, with the jenny say kwah dancers beating a path across the red carpet to the gong show monkey’s magical tune, sung by a bard of ancient origin and unconfirmed sexuality. Homey can carry a goddamm tune though, crazy sumbitch. Conan would sooner kick Max out of the limo in skid row than I would willingly extricate this learned man of glee’s services from my not always estimable organization. Yes, indeed.