The night Love sent Love to sleep.
Hey there!
How are my four punk rocker friends that read (still?) this quasi-journal? Have you died yet?Was it an overdose? Did you got hit by a bullet train, stabbed in the groin whilst trying to buy your weekly groceries one late night or that pack of cheap condoms before that one night stand? Have you erased this bundle of autistic-like story telling site from your favorites? I don't know about you but I've been rather busy--being busy dying,if you don't mind the pun.Kind of on the move again. You know, that kind of shit never ends. It's like a fucking evil carousel where the bloody machinist choked on a stale glazed donut and left the machine spinning, the kids screaming and the parents wetting their pants with a look of confusion on their faces, until the universe collapsed upon itself and started the whole SHIT BANG all over again.I'm kind of feel light headed to tell you the truth.
Before you call me a homosexual, I'm going to say that I went to San Francisco and stayed at a hostel and walked up and down hills (that damn city has more slopes than a sine wave) until my calluses left a trail of blood from the Alcatraz fortress to the Golden Bridge.Eh.I'm pretty exhausted.I'm not going to tell you that I found,eh, love in there.I'm not going to lie to you and tell you that I found a reason to stay,and I'm also not going to tell you that I didn't fell some sort of sadness in the end, and I'm not going to be that over optimistic tour guide telling you that you should go and visit San Francisco and make it your next residence; all I'm going to say is that if you ever decide to go you could stay at this friendly hostel at the corner of Lafayette and Mason St. For thirty gold coins you can stay the night with some friendly people surrounded by some eclectic music channeling though your filthy ears.I know I did.
On my stay there a short story occurred to me as I was reading a magazine article at this coffee shop.The tittle is, of course, the subject line. It's based on a conversation I had with a friend when he was retelling me the conversation that transpired with his ex-girlfriend the previous night. He told me that upon his girlfriend hearing the heartbreaking news that she won't be dressing in a white gown and be promised the Heavens and the Earths (Hell,there might be more that one, you never know)any time soon, she told him (and I'm quoting), "This is going to take a lot of therapy". The article in the magazine had a rather comical (at least to me) quote from Lewis Carrol "Alice's Adventure in Wonderland" that read, "If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense". A quote that stirred the molecules of my soul and be assembled in such a way that fired up from the center of my hot young body and went out through every pore of my skin. You know, let's thank the gods that my pants have zippers in them,'cause otherwise all the buttons down there would had come flying out and give the old lady sitting next to me her last day of her retirement vacation.This kind of idea would have given a 50 year old ex-porn artist the most gorgeous and truest orgasm she had ever had since she got molested by her high school soccer coach.
Let's see if I finish editing and post it here.
I'm deciding to get into the writing groove here again after I got some motivation from my own goddamn father (even though I really don't like the man that much). He wrote a book (self-published)in Spanish and sent me a copy. It's a bunch of short stories. I happen to think they're pretty good.The only way I could describe it would be like this: imagine if Dostoevsky, Henry Miller, and Bukowski had a gotten to a strip club with a full bottle of Cuban rum and talked about which of the dancer doing tricks at the pole had had a kid from a homeless man, and that homeless man happened to be William Yeats. It's called " Sweat -boiled Love" It's alright.
So yeah this story is titled:
"THE NIGHT LOVE SENT LOVE TO SLEEP (TELL MY SISTER I SAID HI)"
The tittle it's a little misleading, to say the least.
In other news:
I was "dating" this fruitarian for a while, and she almost convinced me (she was(is) damn hot, so excuse me for being manhandle) to at least try to become a vegetarian, and I kind of did 'cause, you know, I felt I've done many evil things in my life and I wanted to atone my sins and mend my ways...and sleep with her. And I got really sick, so I started eating fish to boost up my "self-esteem" and not telling her. She basically caught me after tasting my tuna breath one day while making out.I sent her a basket of fruits that I stole from my neighbor backyard as a token of my apology but she hasn't answered my phone calls. I guess that is the end of that.
Question: Does that/this make me evil?
I really want to have my own rock band.I just need a drummer. I just want it to be a simple band like The Black Keys or The White Stripes.I'm having trouble accomplishing thus, cause of the musicians here where I live (America) just want to make drilling noise with their instruments and really don't care about much else, something rawer, you know. It's really hard to find someone to take things seriously.After all, I happen to be a pretty serious guy when it comes to music.
Goddamn, I need a fucking drummer.
If I don't get a drummer in two weeks I'm going to start applying for grad school. And then, oh boy, bad things are going to happen when I get the PHD in nuclear physics. You better start building your underground shelter,'cause either drummer or not there is going to be some BANG BANG before this ship goes down.
How are my four punk rocker friends that read (still?) this quasi-journal? Have you died yet?Was it an overdose? Did you got hit by a bullet train, stabbed in the groin whilst trying to buy your weekly groceries one late night or that pack of cheap condoms before that one night stand? Have you erased this bundle of autistic-like story telling site from your favorites? I don't know about you but I've been rather busy--being busy dying,if you don't mind the pun.Kind of on the move again. You know, that kind of shit never ends. It's like a fucking evil carousel where the bloody machinist choked on a stale glazed donut and left the machine spinning, the kids screaming and the parents wetting their pants with a look of confusion on their faces, until the universe collapsed upon itself and started the whole SHIT BANG all over again.I'm kind of feel light headed to tell you the truth.
Before you call me a homosexual, I'm going to say that I went to San Francisco and stayed at a hostel and walked up and down hills (that damn city has more slopes than a sine wave) until my calluses left a trail of blood from the Alcatraz fortress to the Golden Bridge.Eh.I'm pretty exhausted.I'm not going to tell you that I found,eh, love in there.I'm not going to lie to you and tell you that I found a reason to stay,and I'm also not going to tell you that I didn't fell some sort of sadness in the end, and I'm not going to be that over optimistic tour guide telling you that you should go and visit San Francisco and make it your next residence; all I'm going to say is that if you ever decide to go you could stay at this friendly hostel at the corner of Lafayette and Mason St. For thirty gold coins you can stay the night with some friendly people surrounded by some eclectic music channeling though your filthy ears.I know I did.
On my stay there a short story occurred to me as I was reading a magazine article at this coffee shop.The tittle is, of course, the subject line. It's based on a conversation I had with a friend when he was retelling me the conversation that transpired with his ex-girlfriend the previous night. He told me that upon his girlfriend hearing the heartbreaking news that she won't be dressing in a white gown and be promised the Heavens and the Earths (Hell,there might be more that one, you never know)any time soon, she told him (and I'm quoting), "This is going to take a lot of therapy". The article in the magazine had a rather comical (at least to me) quote from Lewis Carrol "Alice's Adventure in Wonderland" that read, "If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense". A quote that stirred the molecules of my soul and be assembled in such a way that fired up from the center of my hot young body and went out through every pore of my skin. You know, let's thank the gods that my pants have zippers in them,'cause otherwise all the buttons down there would had come flying out and give the old lady sitting next to me her last day of her retirement vacation.This kind of idea would have given a 50 year old ex-porn artist the most gorgeous and truest orgasm she had ever had since she got molested by her high school soccer coach.
Let's see if I finish editing and post it here.
I'm deciding to get into the writing groove here again after I got some motivation from my own goddamn father (even though I really don't like the man that much). He wrote a book (self-published)in Spanish and sent me a copy. It's a bunch of short stories. I happen to think they're pretty good.The only way I could describe it would be like this: imagine if Dostoevsky, Henry Miller, and Bukowski had a gotten to a strip club with a full bottle of Cuban rum and talked about which of the dancer doing tricks at the pole had had a kid from a homeless man, and that homeless man happened to be William Yeats. It's called " Sweat -boiled Love" It's alright.
So yeah this story is titled:
"THE NIGHT LOVE SENT LOVE TO SLEEP (TELL MY SISTER I SAID HI)"
The tittle it's a little misleading, to say the least.
In other news:
I was "dating" this fruitarian for a while, and she almost convinced me (she was(is) damn hot, so excuse me for being manhandle) to at least try to become a vegetarian, and I kind of did 'cause, you know, I felt I've done many evil things in my life and I wanted to atone my sins and mend my ways...and sleep with her. And I got really sick, so I started eating fish to boost up my "self-esteem" and not telling her. She basically caught me after tasting my tuna breath one day while making out.I sent her a basket of fruits that I stole from my neighbor backyard as a token of my apology but she hasn't answered my phone calls. I guess that is the end of that.
Question: Does that/this make me evil?
I really want to have my own rock band.I just need a drummer. I just want it to be a simple band like The Black Keys or The White Stripes.I'm having trouble accomplishing thus, cause of the musicians here where I live (America) just want to make drilling noise with their instruments and really don't care about much else, something rawer, you know. It's really hard to find someone to take things seriously.After all, I happen to be a pretty serious guy when it comes to music.
Goddamn, I need a fucking drummer.
If I don't get a drummer in two weeks I'm going to start applying for grad school. And then, oh boy, bad things are going to happen when I get the PHD in nuclear physics. You better start building your underground shelter,'cause either drummer or not there is going to be some BANG BANG before this ship goes down.