man who says writing is not primarily cathartic? I feel great now.

mike, mk, jill, nice to see y'all.

After doing my usual stint at Spot writing this thing, I walked outside because I was afeared, caused by something I think I saw.
Yet what I witnessed was true and real and I had to rub my eyes because I couldn't believe someone would have the gall.

Like I do occasionally, I road my bike (motorcycle) to Spot and parked it beside the other bikes. I went in, wrote shit, and then to my horror I saw a volvo station wagon parked within inches of my bike.

fucking inches people.

I stood there, helmet in hand eyeing the car. I then eyed those on the patio who in turned eyed me back. Talking ceased momentarily and after some banal converstion about the size of my engine on my SV, I turned to the patio and said, "Is this anyone's car?"
One lady looked at me, and I asked her directly. "Is this your car."
She said no.

I then took it a step further because I am more apt to do that these days and parking within inches of a motorcycle is like the watching the scene in which Old Yeller is about to die, over and over.

"Just so you know," I said. "Never park this close to a motorcycle." People agreed. I then added, "It's taking much effort on my part not to take my helmet and place a huge scrape along this hood." I then realized and said to the crowd, "I should go."

I was pissed. Why does that bring on so much anger? Because it's another example of people disrespecting a person's space. The irony is that on the other side of the car, there was five feet of clearance.

A word to the wise - people who ride motorcycles are not rational when it comes to themselves, or their bikes being threatened. A biker once told me that a lady once cut him off and thought nothing of it. At the next intersection, he got off his bike, and put he his boot through her headlights and then rode off, not saying a word.

When I was hit by a car, and he drove away, I ran after the kid and caught him. That's another story, but it was a situation in which I had to decide to not grab him and pull him out of the car as compared to him doing it on his own volition. It would have been jail time and very messy. Point is, when your life is threatened, you become something else.

And when you park too close to my bike, I get upset.

I wonder the same . . .

I always feel compelled to write something when I get home from the, well, from going out, and inevitably the next day, in class or at work, I think, holy shit, I probaly sound like a 12 year old kid who's just tried acid for the first time.

Thus, it has happened again. But yet, I am not so distraught about the entry below. I am surprised at the level of comprehension I have sometimes. Anyhow, I wish more people would write fucked up drunken rants (Not that the entry below is, but you should have seen what I deleted prior to posting). Like Matthew, Terry, and Paul for example. Let's all request a fucked up drunken rant from these fine gents.

This way I will not be the one, lone, statistic.

God speed.

OKay, well that's just embarrassing. Yes okay I did ask a certain RObin to a certain midi prom, buT i have unfortunately misplaced my invite made by a certain miss Emily. Alas. I think it's coming up, but I don't know when as of right now. The invite could be serving as my bookmark in Moliere's the Misanthrope, but who's to say. I'll figure it out, but EMily, if you feel like assisting, lemme know. When's tha shindig? Robin, if you want to go, cool because I am an amazing fine and fun dat-ay. But if not, that's cool too, but it'll be fun if we go as asshole dates, carrying on the theme. KNow what I mean? Sweet then . . .

um, I gotta get some sleep prior to physics a demain. See ya.

Paul . . . oh you . . . We's got's some scores to settle. Watch yo back my friend, s'all I's got to say. night all.

the Pink

Tonight

y'all should go regardless of age race or if you listen to Creed. Everyone has their ailments.

My eyes hurt like rotten teeth
I have the wit of a tombstone
my tolerance is that of a suburbanite
my arms are warheads and my bed beckons
while the notebook remains empty.

Now I'm hearing voices.

I'm coming don't you dare fret.

I love complacency.

There was an opportunity to create your own bumper sticker in The New Yorker, sponsered by Citi or something like that. It asked simply, what do you love? and had a "I" and then a heart. It suggested, your kids, your dog? So I of course wrote I love complacency and will stick it on my car because I love irony and it will go with my current bumper sticker - Creative people must be stopped. Here tis'... I think it'll sell millions.







My life is ironic in't it.

I have a question based in ethics (which I'm trying desperately to denounce but find it difficult seeing though I still have a conscience. I am also working on alleviating myself from that terrible ailment also)

anyway

My dog, once again has destroyed my things. I left him home and had to work later than usual. This means he did not get his dinner and when I tried to explain to him that some dogs don't eat at all, he snubbed me. What he destroyed was typical although he's moved onto cd's which frightens me to no end. The books he chews tend to be ones that I'm not going to fall on a wooden stake for anyway (they day he rips apart any of Camus' work, I will no longer have a dog).

My question o'rational and ethical people of the underworld is, how can I show a dog that he must curb his destructive tendencies WHEN I don't even blame him. If he were a human, he'd be that guy picking fights or quite possibly a cutter. Things are serious and I wish to teach him to live within this world which doesn't make sense to him and me. I'm torn.

He is now residing in the bathroom. I shut the door on him and told him to "think about what [he's] done." I think he understood, but under his breath I believe he called me a hypocrite.

He'd be right.

Help peoples.

OKay . . . tell me if you've ever been here.

So you work all night towing cars, sort of breaking your back, but it's at least better than working out despite the fact that your arms feel like they'll explode, and you spend all night in the cab of your truck thinking about certain questions that tend to engulf your life, then a buddy driver of yours says lets go get a few when your shift is over, so you do, and a few later, you're in the bar saying, oh no, she's cute enough, but do I really want to exert the effort, no, so you leave on your bike listening to Rage to keep you awake, you get home, go on estrip and read a bunch but then ultimately write this maniacal diatribe about people's potential compared to what they actually do, hell it might even make sense, but then you wake up early the next moring and do the equivalent of a literary one night stand - you look at what you wrote, and say, now where the hell did you come from, have I seen you before, and do you want breakfast or will I just see you later?

does that ever happen to you?

Tis strange. Tis.

I'd love to blame it on alcohol, but it had left by the time I started to type.

Alas.