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.