It's bad enough to wake up late after you've realized the magnitude of work you are missing out on because of something stupid like sleep, but to go to take a bite of your Life cereal only to almost take a bite of a huge carpenter ant, or ants I should say. They were swimming.

But this is not the first time.

Every night, day I get home, I see four or five around my kitchen. One night I realized that the box of AppleJacks I had above my cupboards, was infested, INFESTED people, with fucking ants.

It's sick and I want to get rid of these fuckers. Any ideas besides cleaning up after myself which is a goddamn feat in itself . . . but I will stand by the fact that, that is not the only reason why these things exist in my kitchen, for it is clean now.

They've grafittied the ant traps I left. They sit around drinking and laughing, mocking me for my feeble attempts.

Fuck I'm pissed.

My apologies to anyone I might have offended with my over-sexed personality ce soir. I will not blame it on alcyhol however. I meant what I said and I said what I meant. And for that that I apologize, only to cover my bases. Nothing was lost and perhaps something was gained, but only time will tell.

Thanks be to my dates. Y'all were a blast.

And to

---

perhaps I should pleasure myself more to ease the blow. No pun intended. Maybe.

Take it easy, but take it.

If you feel like getting depressed, not like Requiem for a Dream depressed, but like "goddamn mother fucker fucking asshole Bush/America" go see Farhenheit 9/11.

I wish I knew how to bold.

Terry, brother, I saw the sweat flying off your forehead whilst you walked from the laundrymat. Cart it my friend, lest you get hemorrhoids (or more if you have them).

I will be proming it up tonight, so I must attend to doing my hair and shaving for the next two hours. My face that is. And getting flowers for my dates.

Strike that.

We're going to scratch the flowers and go right with alcohol instead. I'll hear no complaints, so stop it.

The new Wilco and the new Ozomatli are fucking great. If you think not, you know not good things.

Jesus Christ, I might as well have said, riddle me this . . . did you read that shit?

Here's a little transcript from what happened this evening. Paul, Matthew, I understand that a roast beckoned this evening. I would do the same for sushi.

On a side note, everytime I spell check because I'm a fucking flash card away from being
illiterate, my computer busts all up. The web site freezes and what I just spent days writing gets lost, so guess what, I spell like shit, take it or leave it.

Now, as for what I spoke of this evening.

Turtles in an Aquarium

I sip my Bass as two TV’s play shit.
Football on one,
shit.
Not even legit, it’s a scrimmage.
Commercials of the History channel
No history,
shit.
It’s all speculation anyway.
The better show is in front of my face.
Not you, dip shits,
the turtles.
Yes, the turtles in the aquarium.
That’s legit,
and not shit.

Then of course Dylan's Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie



Then finally, and a version of this originated on this site, thanks to Rachel:

Tick.

I was once asked what makes me tick. Here’s the answer . . .

Could it be the desire to find a connection, knowing only that it has been done before?
Perhaps.
Could it be that there has to be a reason for something somewhere and quite possibly I'll find out tomorrow?
Perhaps.
Or it could be that for all the absurdity, all the times I mess up, lose it, lose someone, give up, stop working, stop giving chances, stop taking chances, start riding fast, stop going slow, stop sleeping, quit reading Thomas at the Pink, stop writing about my day, my year, my decisions, my, my, this person, that person, that one over there with her head in her hands, me over here, face in a notepad, on the cusp of something, figuring out what someone else knows, thinking about what you know, or I know, or what Woody Guthrie knew and tried to tell, what I know and am trying to tell, or trying to listen, trying to keep my mouth shut for once, or open my mouth for once, for being honest, for saying sorry, or thanks or let's have a drink, or let's live, now, here, not tomorrow, today, the moment is gone as soon as you think it, but the clock still goes on and the apathy is enviable, especially when you stand on the rocks at the marina on a hot August evening when the storm clouds frame the sun over the water, a raindrop hits my book and the next line reads "and the rain began to fall," and makes me think, yes, this is where I am at, that is why I'm here, and I will see that again, and I can show this, regardless if you see what I do, I can show you this, and you can say what time is it, and I can say, "God knows," this is all worth it.
Bob Dylan said the answer to everything can be found at the Grand Canyon at Sundown. I'm not sure because I haven't been, but I can go and I will, and I'll see what he saw. That is beauty. That you can, I can, and yet those who can't, never will. That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. Or in my own words, it's that simple.

Perhaps.

tick

Alright there people, check out this little dabble of ketchup:

tonight, if you're bored, or feel at all like being alienated, or doing some alienation, head on over to that Coffee & place just south of Spot (the place wherein I will start my caffeine high, writing and ultimately getting frustrated with everything).

Myself along with a very witty and sardonic freind of mine who is now in the process of picking a new name for herself, will go at 8 or so'ish and attempt to deliver lines of poetry in a dignified manner, in a dignified way. You all should stop by because it's a Wednesday.

I will say this - absurdness will be covered along with the ever famous poem by yours truthfully, Turtles in an Aquarium.
After that well . . . a decent bit o'debauchery.

That is all.

Alas.

-ticksayoybay

I'm sick to shit of people justifying why they do things to me when all they're looking for is a goddamn pat on the back.

"Yes I know it's tough . . . I'm so sorry" I say when I really mean
"Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up and get it done"

You won't change until you need to. I'm not going to rub you shoulders while you bet that hand. I'm busy enough with my shitty cards.

It ain't me babe, nah, nah, nah . . .

Hell I ain't even drunk.

"Never assume the one who seeks to comfort you lives untroubled." -Bell Hooks

Yeah this shit goes for me too.

Matthew, brother, no need to be drunk to write.

It was a mere suggestion to get more, I don't know, open writing, if you will. Not that, of course, people don't openly write, but, I don't know, I just look forward to people teetering on the edge of absurdity. It's fun for me.

I've always loved that though. For me it's like hearing "Take the A-Train" while you're standing in the middle of Grand Central.

A bit of a lets-try-this-out.

Anyone of you nocturnal creatures want to go and graba cup of coffee and a cheesecake at around 3 or 4am? Pano's, Towne . . . I ask because i of course will be up doing work and to think that I have somewhere to go at 4am will keep my ass from falling asleep.

It'll be fun. Oh and I have to get up at 7 too, so that's a shitty excuse.

I'll tell you what though, if I were in Julie's shoes, which I will most likely be in pretty soon, I'd get my ass off this site too. It's not letting them win, but giving them less ammo.

I see where you're going Paul and others but seriously, you've got to cover your bases, that's all.

If they start to look into my existential rants, and see something in them, which lets face it, they most likely do already, but then sure, I'm out. Leave no recognizable marks.

Hell I might just let my dog talk.