Stuff Like This

Conflict of feeling a tickle in my penis and wanting to be perfect. I have a job. It is too far away in this traffic town. I will pay for my own rent. I may need more money for car repairs. I want to cut off my penis. Or just erase it or something. I want to swallow all the pretty girls in the world. I was pooping a little bit ago and my tummy was very strained with worrisome pain. I thought of how painful starving must be. I wonder if people in pain for a long time get used to it. In that New Yorker article, that Frenchman said, pain is always new to the sufferer. I am listening to Lou Reed's Transformer, because he is dead now. His voice is nice. If we have choices during life, do we have choices during death? Does it make sense that our afterlives are determined by our life choices? We are dead for much longer than we are alive. Do our options expand after death? Life choices seem quite limited. If we are not bound by life, if our souls are eternal, we should have many more options after death. Maybe I am thinking wishfully. I am afraid that my bad choices during life will define me eternally. I want things to get easier and better after death. I want my life choices not to matter. Then I cannot make bad choices and have nothing to fear, so this life will be easier. Easy is bad, maybe. Good is difficult. Good is the goal. Not really a goal, not an end. A constant process. Coffee burn. Taste smell blinding pain, Posture, Perfect Posture. I learn from Aaron and from everything. How to grasp God. How to see the good as worth all the bad and all the difficult. How to see the easy as not worth all the bad that comes later. How to realize that at this moment it is necessary to work toward better existing for eternity. Eternity is not a moment, not singular, but an endless flow of opportunities for perfection. As I stand here and now I can only prepare for eternity. I can only exist on the surface of eternity. Every moment is flowing into eternity. Every moment is saved in eternity. I am creating eternity, or I am adding to it. Nothing can be reversed, undone. I am responsible for the perfection of my contribution. I am always contributing no matter what. I have to be known, and I have to know. Perfect means done through, as in complete. If I waste time or do the wrong thing, then I am contributing emptiness. If I allow this to happen, if everyone does, then eternity will become hollow and all is for nothing. The purpose of being is to be perfect, to make eternity complete. I do not mean to say that without humans all is empty and has no purpose. But it is purely hypothetical, because humans or other sentient beings are inevitable. If humans die out, then we will have made part of eternity empty. Eternity can never be completely empty. Good is always possible. I guess I must agree that a universe that does not know itself is a lesser universe. Because beings able to know the universe will always come around, and if they ignore their wonder or kill themselves, then eternity is not getting closer to perfect, which is all it wants to do. It will never be perfect, but always getting better is better than being perfect. Eternity wants to be perfect because getting worse will only lead to nothingness, which is the worst. I cannot claim to know the perspective of eternity.

So Tim, Chelsea, and I might play Elder Sign tonight. I wonder if they"ll get food for me. I have to be the opposite of pain. I have to be a healer. There are many ways to heal. Heal physical pain, medically or through prevention, preventing hunger and food related disease. Heal mental pain, helping people to know what is it right and good. Help people to know themselves and the universe.

Stuff like this. Good-bye, my love.

AlaBlamo! Guerrillazz

NO idea

Kit, Pat, Tim, God

Christopher, Patrick, and Timothy are my brothers. Earth is my brother. Pluto is my cousin.

Where's Tim? When's Tim? What's Tim? Why's Tim? Tim tim chshhhhhhh, tim tim chsh-tim.

High-temperature jalepenos. Fire is never spicy.

14 gold outside. Streaming, revealing light from two directions.

bars
bane

Sun

They're incompetence somewhat relieves my penile servitude.

Everything is a choice. I choose Everything. Thend.

Baby Manish, Mr. Appropriate Child.

A squeamish Danish. A crunchy pork liver. Fired lied about dire died fled on Friday.

Dirk Smiley. Purest licorice scent.

Desperately playable non-committal parable sci-fi lukewarm belly flop assiduous deciduous prenatal prehensile doctorate porcupine qweeping slew parrot fellow barometric dime slice single file qwillow best friend.

Using My Brain

I am going to use this blog for Journals and Creative writing. The other one, maybe something, is just to track my diet.

I wanted to title this Using My Brain, because I want to use my brain, and the words showed up in my thoughts and I imagined typing them. I wanted to listen to Chain of Missing Links and I did, and I heard the line, The average person only uses about 5 percent of their brain. That's mean. The rest is available for food.

Crown on the Ground. It hurts. So loud and busy. Pat is at class. Tim may have gone to work. He spent last night with Chelsea at her sister's house.

I saw Aaron yesterday. So difficult to talk. I didn't try very much. I didn't try to think much. I tried not to cry a couple of times. I succeeded.

Supposedly this job at Sprouts will be good. I went there today to finalize things. I was so anxious before. I was afraid I might not go. My neck and shoulders suck so much at being in a relaxed position. Domino's right ear is weird. I feel bad for him. He seems pretty messed up. Aaron's cats died. It's pretty sad.

How to Winter. Success. Feeling Good. Less than ten episodes of The Chris Gethard Show left to watch. My hair is too long. I need my dreams. I need to type them out. Write Down; Type Out; Speak Up; Think About. Hm, that was pretty lame. I want to be a better person.

Why are things so sad after getting a job? The apartment is very weird lately. Pat is with Bridgett most of the time. Chelsea came over Friday night. After I left for Sprouts today, I thought about Tim dealing with Chelsea's son or just dealing with the emotional weight of that relationship, and I felt better about only having this job to think about. Coffee is messing up my teeth, or the sugar is. Dodger and Apprentice Eh.

I don't know where I'm going. So many troubling thoughts. So much fragility in our identities and our plans. If I see people as historical, futuristic, emotional, spiritual, and social as well as physical beings, then I have hope and respect for them, and I trust them.

It's so hard. I have to get better. I have to let myself get better. I have to open myself up. Cold War Kids, Hospital B

eds... Beauty, Truth, Peace and Love. Original. People. I am mindful. I am sexual. I am tasteful. I am approved. I am welcomed. I am acceptable. I am loved. I am happy. I am useful. I am affirmative. I am location. I am loquacious. I am Ambassador. I am Senile. I am Aquatic. I am weird. I am sociable. I am socialable. I am 967563029. Haha. I am the truth. I am Da Truf! I am the same. I am secondary. I am Adobe After Effects. I am Microsoft Paint. I am Blogger.com. I am a United States Senator. I am a Congresswoman. I am Juice Fast. I am a Winnebago. I am a Man. I am a salsa lobster. I am a Scenic Bueno Vista. I am talking head. I am a Smorgasbord. I am a Scientific Community of Intellectual Observers. Good Bye, Joe Namath. Bye bye, Mometh.

- Señor Pasta

So Okay

If you were a toilet, then I would definitely be you.
If I were the sky, then I would definitely rain on you.

A 90% chance of falling in love today.
A 25% chance of sucking at life all day!

Pieces of comets fill up my pockets.
Noodles for neckties. Poodles for porkpies.

A quick victory for a surprise supreme leader.
A solid instrument for installing brain enhancements.

Be gone. Bye bye. Buh Buhyeh. S'over.
I am perfect how I am. How am I? So okay.

Nearly Perfect

dandeaconmericadandeaconmericadaannddeeaacccoonnnnmmmerrriiicdcaaaa.

No nuclear bombs tonight. I don't know even where to find those. It's only 12 p.m. I am set up and ready to go, fall down, lay out, sprout up. Ear buds in my ears, life music in my brain. Growing inside me. Brown baby. Filled up with shit, blowed out my ass. Dying just in time for the moment I die, when I do, it'll be ready, at just that right exact time, the end, goodbye. And just right inside me in my mind I know what life will be after it's all over inside forever and never growing up and never going out and always being good and always having fun, and we high-five so loud something breaks and collapses, no conventional actual thing that could be called a thing, it is nothing, but so just described by words so that they know what I mean.

Washing, clean soap, natural, no additives or preservatives. Plastic bottle that will never be in a landfill. I can make a dust pan or a soil scooper, or just eat it and take years off of my life. It is eager to end, because I contain some much sought after chemicals. Rare and desirable. That is my life in a gun-shell.

Surprising to realize how much I don't know. Surprised that I can know how much I know and do not know. I am clear and phallic and surprisingly municipal. But of course we need metaphors, but are they even metaphors? Is there any better way that our current language can explain these tender subjects? We often need to invent new language to explain these ideas and images that seek us out then encode themselves in us and wait for us to seek them out and release them, bring them into existence. God does not exist. No doubt there is a God, but exist is not what God does. We exist for God. Whyever you may think you exist is one of the infinite reasons why God exists. Aaron did this to me. Or maybe not. We are just similar fields of energy in the constant fabric of reality.

Say what it is. Near perfection out in the field by the barn by the woods. Exactly in the field on the grass in the wet weather of the growing life in the simple order.

Nearly perfect.

All that you can ask.

good thoughts before sleep, non sexual dreams

I'm in a neighborhood with young kids riding bikes. there's a big house on a steep hill. the kids are mature. it's night. they's in a band. They have to go. I dunno. Billy Brag, night shows. Alphalpha dreams, hair sprouts. Mother 3 before bed. Asking me. I wish. Go outside, I don't want to change the world, but I shall, in the future, still to come, as has been planned, outside outer country rolling west falling north open breeze freezing sold blown spectral shimmering sky beacon light tiptoe lilac green grass breast chest press earth beat dirt sound pound rhythm birth echo beast malfegor presto beggin superlative lactate supreme nacho assinine break down adenine so far leadership cringing cripple nipple slip sinking ship, bakin brothers soda fat bread. Create great ape juice, sojourn soft ideal flat bed.

dreaq dream deam dream draem dream... dream

Books backs walls shelves no-one doom dank room brown wood tables winddows halls not the lozenges. [double d windows] you sick F. Games, franes. Planes. Boat mo cars. Shaq lighning bugs, cybil syllabull, buss, blunder blubber, ArTic of Course, Baby, Wine Nose. Not safe, practically. uNderstood. Boasted.
Hard to believe how many people are better than me. I happen to have a good night and a good morning. I have to make a habit of these and other things. Diana Rachel.