Goddamnit, is anyone listening to what's going on in Boston! It's a bit fucking exciting I have to say.

Hell I might even get some hope back . . . but let's not jump into that boiling water too soon.

The place is always different, but in the end it doesn’t matter anyway; it’s always the same.

I’m on a beach with what looks like dozens of other people, which has never happened before. From the very start, the sky is that layer of blue-black atop that layer of tan sunset that tells you it’s going to be very bad, very soon.

The water picks up. The water always picks up. Now it's because of the wind.

The beach has lifted and is now on an angle of around 45 degrees, as if it’s just turned into the side of a mountain. It’s still sand though, so people are slipping into the water which is now crashing to the sand with the intent of peril. The wind picks up causing a sandstorm that you could still see through. Everyone is screaming.

Except me. I know about this already.

Gusts of wind come and knock me over when I try to walk. I look up. To my left is midnight at noon. To my right is the hint of the sun on the horizon. But then I see it coming towards and all I can think is well, that’s new.

A tornado is in a direct line to me, picking up bodies like they were tin roof tops. I could dive into the water, but there’s no reason to rush into that. I could climb up, just missing it, but when I look . . . I almost said love . . . when I look up again, the sand is now a cliff that won’t let me go.

So I take my arms. I say fuck you then, and bury them into the sand up to my shoulders, gripping and clawing, face now on the ground. If it’s going to hit me, it’s going to hit me. But it won’t take me with it.

When it passes over me, as I hear the screams and the crying, I think, please God, don’t let a body hit me in the ribs. I’m too vulnerable. Don’t add that variable. Please God.

When the tornado goes, the water comes. That wave. That monster forty foot wave hits me and drags me out with it. Bodies are everywhere. This is the end of the world.

I’m floating in a tall structure that one could call a house. I am alive. I prop open the doors and see the waves. They’re not too bad, but once I decide to leave the house, they turn. It knows. I’m going any way. If I die . . . well at least it’ll all be over.

I swim away and a house falls on me, but the stairway just misses. It rolls along like it has somewhere it needs to be. I finally make it to a camp, a refuge for everyone still living. The waves give us some time. Half the people are dead, floating in the water and half are scrambling to a structure, to get out of the water. It’s not over, and the tragedy is that they don’t know it.

Or is the tragedy that I do.

I try to tell them and no one listens. There are people in charge. I want to warn them. I want to tell them that we need to go north. The waves will return.

There they are.

I close my eyes and wait it out. That’s all you really can do when the inevitable is coming.

Aren't you all excited by the socialist rhetoric flying throughout Boston this evening?

By the way, young Ron . . . if you're at the democratic national convention, you are making a political statement.

It's about goddamn time.

I need some addddvice, whoever wants to offer it. My landlord tried to move my bike and dropped in on a jack, denting my tank. It's noticeable. I'm still paying for the bike, but the shitty thing is that I fixed the same spot two years ago when that car hit me. I almost did something terrible to said asshole who dropped my bike, but instead I have let it go. He's paying for it though . . .

Here's the thing. This is my bike if it were new, save the dent on the left side.



I don't want to make him pay for a new tank but there is one online I could get for a lot cheaper with the understanding that I will one day return it to black. Here's what it would look like. I just don't know if it'll look like ass.



Here's option B, with a black tank bra.



So. It is a big deal to me, first of all because it'll rust if I don't do something. And the thing represents all that's good in the world, as sad as that is.
so should I
a) live with a dent and just touch it up seeing as though it makes the bike have character.
b)get a red tank and slap it on with the idea that I could paint it black one day
c)Red tank, black bra (that's funny in't it)
d)I like olives

Please, anyone who wants to contribute would be much appreciated. Y'all could even email me if you're so inclined.

I thank you.

Curse you sun for not tanning me
I envy the burned even
This is what is has come to
How much do I need to give of myself
How many hours, between 1 and 4
I look below and there is no line of tan
No line of burnt skin
I hate you

You and I will have it out
This I swear

Come on moon
let's flog this asshole

That voice is fucked up.

Billy just shit himself, thanks.

First off, I agree with you my dear Rachel [inlink]rachel,102[/inlink], although I think you're a little wrong.

I don't call. But I do answer the phone out of guilt . . . so essentially the same thing. I understand. But I'm not saying that I'm not interested, in fact more often than not, we're still in negotiation. My point is, if I'm busy, I am busy. Don't question that. Because if you do question that, you'll find that I do have about an hour of free time a day in which I could possibly meet with said person. The question is, do I want to take that hour and give it someone who's sorta cool, at least as far as I know right now. Would you?

In my eyes, they have to be so goddamn intriguing that I am willing to take the consequences of putting off things to spend time instead, with this person. It happens every now and then, and then I play catch up, and it's fine. But when it's consistent, it gets old very quickly, please tell me if you have not been there.

What I don't need is to hear, "Well okay, I guess you don't want hang out with me, even though I'll just hang out while you do stuff . . ." (which is a lie by the way. If there was anyone who actually could sit and do work at the same time, disregarding me, but being together, that would be a feat, but it doesn't happen that way. No one has work they want to do apparently. (I realize the absurdity of that last statement)) It gets to the point in which I say, "You're right." And they get bent out of shape because of honesty.

Women are not hard to understand, they're just incredibly strange creatures. Beautiful, wonderful, really insolent creatures, but still. Then again, I all but despise most guys until I see some genuine traits in them too, sooo . . . I suppose I just have a problem with people.

It's like Bukowski said when asked if he liked people, "It's not that I don't like people . . . I just feel better when they're not around."

Anyway, enough of my rant.

Comments please, let's get into this. Perhaps we can figure out this enigma.

What a bewitching time of day, 5:38am.

I'm awake. I mean really. I'm tired but after I make some coffee, I'll be set. This is the world for me all filled with trucks beeping an account of their backing up, and cars going home from their one night stands, very quickly.

I have two hard weeks left.

In the course of one night I had two friends/whatever's, girls that is . . . that is to say two girls, tell me that "the ball's in my court" and that I should call them when I have time because they know I'm busy. One of them got a first hand look and still is asking what I'm doing this evening.

ah Jesus. Come on people.

If I wanted to really hang out I would make a concerted effort. That's where everyone is wrong. Yes, I am busy. Yes I would like to hang out. But no, I do not feel like giving my time to you, right now, but rather only when I have an abundance. Do I have to say it? Isn't it obvious?

I don't have time for you now because I don't want to have time for you now. Real sorry. Stop the guilt trips, I know where the ball is. You're passive aggressivenes makes you very ugly to me and no, I don't want to sleep with that.

I'll be at Spot trying to finish a book for the rest of the weekend and all throughout August. That is with the exception of tonight wherein later on, I will be at a certain bar after stopping at a certain coffee shop. This, I am greatly looking forward to.

To Springfaerie, real quick, I haven't read shit, but what I do read is completely consistant of what I like to write, if that shed's any light. Although I'd like to, I'm not going to be picking up Gone With the Wind any time soon.

Incidentally, if anyone knows of a free trial program that will allow me to record voice and a song here and there on a two to four track system, please let me know where I can get my hands on that. I thank you epeeps.

To all you pseudo doctors or medical enthusiasts out there, I have a favor to ask.

How long can a man (or a stickboy) function on less than three hours of sleep a night before extreme mental and physical collapse is achieved. I don't want to get there. It would take way too much time to make my way back into the realm of reality.

So someone must know of a study, or something they heard, or something. I would verily appreciate the info as I have to do so many other things in the next eight days.

Incidentally, in class this morning after artificially keeping myself coherent for the majority of the night, I began to shudder and shake and have severe anxiousness which made me look like some guy who was a full moon away from becoming a werewolf. It was extremely uncomfortable, especially to that pristine girl to my left who heard me sigh and moan, moving because I have to, not because I want to.

Then again, I might be a werewolf.

Any info on if I might be a werewolf would be appreciated as well.

I asked myself the other day if anyone deserves to die. I then talked myself out of the entire premise seeing as though no one deserves anything.

But then I'm at Pano's enjoying my third cup of coffee of the hour and an overly decorated cheesecake, desperately trying to prolong the morning. I'm reading Crime and Punishment, Dostoyevsky. The thought above is still in my head when I read this line:

"Of course she doesn't deserve to live," the officer observed, "But then that's nature."

I've convinced myself that coincidences are as common to me as that drop of rain hitting the gutter in perfect time I hear right now, but that one . . . thinking that then reading that did so mess with my mind and I now feel anxious. The reason why I asked the question above at all is yet to be explored, but I'll dive in that one day. Now for some over the counter pick me ups . . .

Incidentally, I'm seriously toying with my threshold in which, of course, lies my feeble attempt to block any desire to just let the absurdity get to me for once and for all.

Half of you are sleeping. Half of you are curious. Half of you are scared at what will happen. And the fourth half of you don't give a shit.

I like you guys, did I ever tell you that . . .

And as Bob once said . . . in Jersey anything's legal, as long as you don't get caught.

stay tuned . . .

click.