So talking about IT.

The IT. The IT. You all know what I mean.

That litle guy who sits in your brain and tells you to do things that you should not. You try to shut the fucker up but that's as usless as saying, okay, tonight I will not imagine how sex would be with my neighbor, or her mother.

My idea is that this guy knows more than you ever will. He is the paragon of nihilism, and more often than not, he does not come out in most people, because he's lazy. You watch TV? So does he, but he gets twice as fat. BUt see, logically, taking that premisse, if you read a book, say some Camus, he gets twice as much out of it as you do. Which we all know how dangerous that is.

Drugs do nothing but knock IT out for a while. BUt what happens when you oversleep and miss your job, or a class? You get pissed. Alas.

My suggestion . . . don't piss IT off, for IT is really you. Let IT play now and then, throw IT a bone, toss IT a frisbee.

BUT should you feel IT needing more space than you have at the time . . . leave.

Find an open field or a beach and pray to GOD for a lightning storm.

Leave the tools at home my friends. IT knows how to use them much better than you ever will.

More on this later. If you are lost, it's because you probably know how to control IT. But see . . . that's just mean, not to mention incredibly boring.

I went to Florida for a vacation that turned into a display of how fucked in the head I really am. I'm wondering if it's genetic. Prozac couldn't make a dent in this mess.

I rode my bike down to fly out of JfK. My intention was to throw shit at republicans this past Saturday and Sunday on the return to civilization, but some asshole in a BMW stopped short underneath the FDR and I went scraping across the ground. My arm is all filled with road rash and I think I broke my left big toe. Did not stop me from riding home last night at 2am in the fucking downpour that draped over NY state.

Why did I leave last night that late?

The reason is this. After mending my bike to the point where it was ridable with a broken toe of which is used for shifting (the pain is/was intense), and talking to a bum who made my day saying that they put him away for five years only to realize that he did NOT have a mental problem, I headed of course to Brooklyn.

There I met up with Kenny, got a cane and began to drink.

I met an existentialist on the F train half cocked and am now emailing her. She had a rule, "always talk to people who quote more than 3 existentialist novels in a five minute period." Again that was me, half cocked.

I made it to Gregs where I met many friends and vicadin (sp?). I knew I was too much for the drug and continued to drink to prove it. After doing that properly, we headed to a chique bar of which I was thrown out of, with my cane all the time smacking on the ground cursing republicans.

I woke up the next morning in my boxers and headed to the kitchen sink to continue vomiting. I laid down and heard the stories of the night before. Jesse sat up and shook Kenny and I and told us to head to fight the good fight.

It was at this point I heard this . . .

"And this ladies and gentleman," he said as he pointed to us slobs swiming in our own feces, vomit, and urine, "is why the left will never make it in this country."

I rode through the night once I recovered and made it to French class at 8 am this morning.

Bring on the chaos for I am not ready.

Oh oui.

I think censorship is the way to go. Fuck those who try to get abscure bullshit plaguing the airwaves. Those bitches fucking blow. They're all cheese cocks, I swear to Christ.

There is just too much vulgarity and bad shit out there. Fuck everyone and protect our children s'what I figure. Dickholes.

As for the terrorist fucking shitheads. You read liter . . . you read lietru . . . you read books yer a terrorist, okay, you fucks.

S'all I have to say.

All extremists should be shot by the way.

Well. It was truly amazing. Didn't spend much time, but the time spent was worth spending. What?

A Newcastle, a cheesburger, John Fante, some decent blues that moved into this 18th street lounge vibe, and a glimpse of a young girl swinging on a bar with my hoping to God she doesn't fall. An amazing time had by all.

I was left wondering, as I took a sip, why would someone do that? What's the point of flopping around a bar?

That was when I looked at what I was doing, which was of course flopping around a . . .


To bad y'all missed out. I will catch you next time.

I will now shave my head.

perhaps . . .

Okay, so I'm really done this time. I dropped the 350 page fiasco off to get bound. Now onto other work.

BUT, before I do that. I am goint o the Pink to get a sandwich and a beer while I read. This was where it all started after all.

So if anyone needs a place to chill for a bit (I have to get back and really start a bunch of other work, but first thing's first) I'll be there around a 8:30 or so, give or take. There should be no one there. I'm psyched.

I usually like to chill by meself, but I am extending the invitation. I've been seeing a lot of me lately . . .

Oh and if any one is wondering what this book thing I did is about, read this . . .


“The more people I meet, the more I understand that everyone is looking for something to happen – good or bad.�

- Tom Banaulski

        
Tom Banaulski has a decision to make and he has three months to do so. He is a toy designer with Silly-Smarty Brand Toys who has been put on probation because of his volatile attitude problems and irrational behavior in a corporate environment. The easy answer would be to quit his ostensibly fun job designing toys, but his complacency and anxiety has all but effaced that idea. Besides, like people constantly remind him, why would someone ever want to leave a job designing toys?

Tom constantly analyzes his position not only at his job, but in his life. He was happy once and wonders where and when it all went wrong. During the three months, he re-lives the time from his first day at the toy company four years ago, up until his life today. The more questions he asks, the more things don’t make sense, and the more he begins his decent into absurdity. He wants to stop thinking, and just be that toy designer he once was, but he does not know how.

What he does know is that something has to happen, one way or another.