Just a word to say that I'm outta here for a bit for no particular reason. Who knows how long, but just thought I'd let y'all know.

The new userpic says it all.

Thanks Woody.

- stickboy

ps. Keep fighting the good fight people. I'll see y'all around.

In all fairness, I think I should let you all in on a little aspect of my life.

I am a priest. That's right. Or I was at least. This whole thing about toys was the best thing I could comeup with. My cousin is the guy that does the toy thing and that is why I decided to try this town.

I left Oregon because I met a woman while I was priesting and had sex. Three times in two days. She then had a child which I considered divine intervention and yet the church did not see it as such.

So yes I have a child and his name is Will. He's in Oregon, I hope, and I hate my life because I am not there. The girl shacked up with a drummer from some jazz band from Frisco and I have not seen her since. The poor kid is witnessing debauchery at it's finest.

So all the stuff I write is a show. I am not the man I thought I was and the things that pop into my head I must write down, in the form of a self loathing writer. All I want to do is to work at Home Depot for God sakes. Oh what tangled webs we weave.

My name is Brian but if we're laying everything out on the table, I really spell it Bryan.

God help me.

It happened once again. I should say that it's about to happen. Nothing has happened yet although I'm pretty sure that they know it'll happen.

There is a scene in the movie Talk to Her (Hable Con Ella) in which the main character is listening to a singer in a garden of some sort, surrounded by people who are listening but are not really hearing what he's saying. The man is so moved by this singer's song that he begins to cry. The man singing sounds like he's just lost love and that he now realizes that he'll never get there again. It's a lament. I have no idea what he is singing about but I swear it chokes me up every time I hear the song.

For some reason, this man's pain is beautiful.

I get sick at the idea of someone constantly there. But they pander. They convince. We'll be happy. I don't know. Yes we'll be happy. Well what about my needs? I need loathing, I have no choice.

Sweetheart, we all have a choice.

I'm beginning to think that's not the case after I say hey why not, sure come on over, I'll grow to love you, but I have work to do, yes I want to sleep, but I can't now. Okay sure. It'll end badly, it always does. Consider yourself warned.

You don't mind? Oh, you don't believe me. Okay.

My guilt is absolved.

But why do you do this?

I can't help it. It's in my nature, says the Scorpion to the turtle.

Does anyone know a substantial amount about Jung's theory of the Collective Unconscious, and would like to briefly describe what people are constantly telling me that I walk the line of everyday?

If not that, can anyone suggest THE book, his book, to read about this? (ex. Existentialism, read the Myth of Sisyphus) I have piles of anthologies to read and yet, I'd love to sneak in some Jung. I admit, when it comes to psychoanalysis, I know about my mind as much you do . . . of my mind.

sqb, didn't you mention something about this one time or another.

On another but maybe completely related subject, I truly believe that I can make things happen if I subconsciously think about them. (FUCK oxymoron) Within reason of course. But the, man I'd like to meet someone who . . . and then BLAM, shit happens more than you know.

Shit like that. Are perhaps all the planets are aligned. Where's Mars these days, that fucker bastard always messes with my mind.

oh, my bad . . .

It's a shame though. I get this perverse kick out of freaking people out.