You have one day left. Strike that, you have one day left after today which works well because the person of your dreams (seeing as though this hypothetical applies to all) seems to be sitting right beside you. You feel good tonight. You say hi. She/he says hi back with a smile that tells you to keeping talking or something of that nature. Take a drink. Relax. You have time.

But you don't.

See this situation you somehow called all along the way. You're feeling extremely anxious. 23 hours. You talk more. She/he likes Magnolia, good GOD! Wait, WAIT! Don't even say that you appreciate modern dance. You know who Giacometti is?! Get the FUCK out.

22 hours, 45 minutes.

Clock is ticking.

What do you do? What do you want? Sex? Hmm? A cuddle partner?

A cuddle partner? Give me a fucking break, you have 22.5 hours.

Is it really worth it when you're leaving for Montauk in the morning?

I will expound on this scenario at a later date. It's a metaphor like anything else (if we look for the ketchup behind the leftover pasta).

The Paradox of Reality as Seen Through the Eyes of a Proleptic Nihilist.

When you take into account the desire for a person to be completely honest with you, versus the amount of recovery time (you would base on yourself or on thoughts of this other person), you will inevitably come to the conclusion that it is indeed a lose-lose situation. Do I say what I want to you, or are you going to cry? Can I handle you crying? Do I care at all if you cry – strike that- will your crying affect me in some productive way at all, besides the obvious and useless guilt that will set in?

But then, no. Once again, wrong question.

Enter the person I despise but whom I actually adore more than I know -the nihilist(hence the paradox), complete with apathetic actions (oxymoron?) and unceasing desires (the anti-buddhist?). It sounds like a college artist of some type, funded by Pink Floyd albums. Give me a canvas. I'll paint it red. (Let's try the honesty thing) Speaking for all artists, in terms of what all artists hope you'll say, (my opinion) "You'll say I'm angry and filled with senseless passion. It's a cry for attention people! That's what art is! Look at what I created Mommy!"

Mommy: What, it's a red square . . .

The Artist: FUCKING SHIT! You're right.

Mommy: Oh wait I see it now.

The Artist: What? What do you see?

Mommy: My keys, I knew I left them over here.

The Artist: (sigh)

I'm going into the abyss once again because there is a reality that I am now capable of admitting: I am more masochistic than nihilistic, much to my bitter dismay.

God speed ladies of promise, honesty, and intrigue. You will always be more misogynistic that I will ever unintentionally come close to.

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.