It's a sailing day.
[EDIT. This is a very long entry, even with all the unfinished shit (chart: 3). I apologise. 18.46-20.03.
EDIT 1.2. Shouldn't I have more underneath the 'rambling' tag. It's alright. I need more time.
EDIT 1.3. Jesus fuck. Why is my seller not replying. Goddammit. #2. I must wait patiently until Sumomo Yumeka+Shungiku Nakamura+Takanaga Hinako+Touko Kawai+Yoshinaga Fumi+DOUJINS+PORN becomes widespread and v. cheap.
EDIT 1.4. July 04: Gackt's berfers, too! And waveless made me an icon! Roy/Ed~ See the RUMOURS.]
Hyuuga Neji: Destiny's Child. Happy merry x-Birthday, you lug, you. )$*gbv,. TRUE LOVE = ACE. Er. It's Nami's birthday too. Somehow. Why are they Cancers? Wait. Leos? Um. Cancers would work. Humans and llamas are weird.
I need a tribute, magically.
[Thinks hard-ly.] What the hell is there to write about Neji. Or Nami. I haven't engaged any gray matter into thinking about anything in the past few days. I've been watching my newly-bought One Piece. It's so beautiful... when I correct the subs. Mmm, Ace. I think I like his filler-ness, sadly. I apologise for the indecent grammar.
# KINDRED IS FINISHED. R04R.
These are disgusting. [Writing prompts, if you could call it that.] A prompt generator once said to me, "What do you do with all of the things you write about?" I see my LJ is full. My RL journal has been mightily abandoned. I am making up for it unconsciously, maybe, by creating ramblings.
Let us experiment with prompt 144, "Bad news cures all things", in an attempt to revive something that never existed.
I don't like certain people, yet I cannot help but think about how they think of me. Why is that? Am I that histrionic? I hope not, but I do like positive attention. It's human to like compliments, to like being recognized for the things you do well, but when is enough enough? Really now. How do you know? When it hurts someone yet feels so good? If everything was extreme and dramatic and fantastical, these silly things would still matter, and that's what scares me. Why can't we be inspiring and heroic like out stories? Has the magic, if one could call it that, been wittled away, lost in the sex and crime and greed like we claim it has? There aren't any heros, so we make them; we need something to believe in, no matter how impossible it is, we need some thing, perhaps too many.
Which brings me to my point: distraction is the epitome of all things conscious. I don't know what I'm saying, but I'll say it anyways. Good morning.
What if there was no sea?
July 03, 2006. Original. What if there was no sea? [319 words.]
Some lifetimes ago, I was a fish. When I first moved, there was green fuzz everywhere. My snout kept on bumping into a hard, cold wall, refracting light. The other fish told me it was a ‘tank’.
“I thought that tanks are for the army!“
Hey, hey. I’m telling the story!
“Right, sorry. So, what happened?”
Anyways, in this tank thing, which turned out to be really small, the water tasted funny, and every once in a while, the taste would change. Once again, I was to learn that this was part of a system: monthly water changes, weekly chemical dumping where a big orange-brown moving thing scraped green from the ‘glass’ (so many new materials!), and daily portions of manufactured food suddenly appeared from the light above.
“-I know!”
“What? Wait-“
Shut up!
“Sorry…”
There was no where to go. It was so boring. No big fish, coloured fish, great monsters, interesting food…
We tried to get out.
One of us died a few hours after we were rescued by the moving brown digits. It was fine; he was removed before he could deteriorate, pollute the tank. I had wonderful soaring dreams of glistening curves, white foam, and silvery schools of fish, a time when I was huge, with wings!
I woke up and excreted the same, uninteresting waste. Small bits of foul smelling red swished around us, the bottom-feeder excited like there was no tomorrow. I suppose assimilation had its pros.
“Emergency!”
”Where?”
“There! There! Fighting goldfish!”
“Oh, God.”
“Two of them. We’ve got to-“
“Sir!”
“-help-“
“Go!”
“-help-“
“Where’s-“
“Gone, sir.”
“Oh, God.”
One day, our keeper (keepers? There was only one pair of soft brown broken-fin-appendages taking care of us, so far as we knew.) introduced to our world new, beautifully bloated goldfish. They were exotic and wondrous. We were uneducated for all those lessons on captivity.
+
Of June.
06.09.06?
Sitting there for hours and hours doesn’t help! Go get up and exercise. Screw you. Love feels so much better than doing anything else, the padclickbum-sound of typing keys in motion. Mm.
I slept in wrong position, I think. My back hurts.
So. Anxiety to fingers. Romantic to the stomach and intestines, and love to the dorsal fin. I think I’ll like you.
The elevated English in poetry scares most people.
- - -
There’s a cylindrical bit at one end of the upper side-band modulation (USB). It has two holes in each lengthwise quarter.
The unit comes in a hard plastic package, bound in one of those black plastic covered wires. When I unravel it-him-he looks as if he has the bends, that is, if the bends was a physical thing and not that diving-too-fast-therefore-oxygen-carbon-dioxide emergency. Everything comes that way. Easy to fold up again, though, so it’s okay.
‘Grippy’ is my first thought. It has a solid grip, like those smooth mechanical pencils with a plain, soft rubber band. (I’ve never liked the ridged ones-they leave marks on my fingers and that’s plain uncomfortable.) USBs stay pretty clean; you just have to blow on it to get rid of the dust. Sort of like fish. Remove the algae, measure the waste-dissolver once a week, check pH levels, add food, and voilá! Happy fish. Guppy is a pathetic name. Fish aren’t able to concern human words, so what does it matter? You might as well be talking to your hard drive.
Modulation and carriers are magic words to the techie. Dot dot space hyphen dot colon word-period. Refer to page one.
+
June 26, 2006.
“Do you have bees in Sunagakure?” CON'T.
A girl asked, “What do barbequed pickles taste like?”
The other answered, “Like peanuts.”
“Really? I wouldn’t think so. When did you eat them?”
“Don’t know. My brother wanted to try them out with the burgers. You know I'm joking, right? They don’t really taste like peanuts-sour, burnt peanuts, actually.”
“I don’t like unsalted zucchini either.”
I like the feeling of collapsing. It makes you feel all silvery and translucent, like that perfect piece of tuna fresh off the bone.
Let’s spite the man who eats his donuts with a fork and knife.
+
June 29, 2006. [Con’t from ‘Misc.’ file - see Saiyuki.]
I need it. Because god made me that way. He states in a low tone. The fuck, bitch?
I discovered something interesting today. Stickers-those puffy ones-can crackle. And not leave nail marks. I like them-they’re so very happy.
The tv show I wanted to watch wasn’t on tonight. It made me sad.
Why shouldn’t I listen to music when I’m studying? What if it helps? How do you judge the degree of interference with my thoughts? I mean, I thought that I thought them. Perhaps I’m wrong, but I don’t think so. Please leave now.
Hurrah! Fifty dollars richer, I am. It’s terrific when things work out.
I’m cold. I want to close the window. Don’t go and tell me what to do; you can’t feel the draft from over there, with all that fat, mister.
Don’t worry about a thing. They world will drown itself in metaphors. We really don’t need the flowers to create a door into our inner spirits. What the hell is an ‘inner spirit’ anyways? Are they made out of chocolate? I like dark chocolate. Give me an albino kid’s spirit-spirits are ‘true selves’ and the ‘true you’ is usually a hypocrite-I want a creepy little albino kid’s spirit. Either that or stop talking.
Thanks.
+
EDIT 1.2. Shouldn't I have more underneath the 'rambling' tag. It's alright. I need more time.
EDIT 1.3. Jesus fuck. Why is my seller not replying. Goddammit. #2. I must wait patiently until Sumomo Yumeka+Shungiku Nakamura+Takanaga Hinako+Touko Kawai+Yoshinaga Fumi+DOUJINS+PORN becomes widespread and v. cheap.
EDIT 1.4. July 04: Gackt's berfers, too! And waveless made me an icon! Roy/Ed~ See the RUMOURS.]
Hyuuga Neji: Destiny's Child. Happy merry x-Birthday, you lug, you. )$*gbv,. TRUE LOVE = ACE. Er. It's Nami's birthday too. Somehow. Why are they Cancers? Wait. Leos? Um. Cancers would work. Humans and llamas are weird.
I need a tribute, magically.
[Thinks hard-ly.] What the hell is there to write about Neji. Or Nami. I haven't engaged any gray matter into thinking about anything in the past few days. I've been watching my newly-bought One Piece. It's so beautiful... when I correct the subs. Mmm, Ace. I think I like his filler-ness, sadly. I apologise for the indecent grammar.
# KINDRED IS FINISHED. R04R.
These are disgusting. [Writing prompts, if you could call it that.] A prompt generator once said to me, "What do you do with all of the things you write about?" I see my LJ is full. My RL journal has been mightily abandoned. I am making up for it unconsciously, maybe, by creating ramblings.
Let us experiment with prompt 144, "Bad news cures all things", in an attempt to revive something that never existed.
I don't like certain people, yet I cannot help but think about how they think of me. Why is that? Am I that histrionic? I hope not, but I do like positive attention. It's human to like compliments, to like being recognized for the things you do well, but when is enough enough? Really now. How do you know? When it hurts someone yet feels so good? If everything was extreme and dramatic and fantastical, these silly things would still matter, and that's what scares me. Why can't we be inspiring and heroic like out stories? Has the magic, if one could call it that, been wittled away, lost in the sex and crime and greed like we claim it has? There aren't any heros, so we make them; we need something to believe in, no matter how impossible it is, we need some thing, perhaps too many.
Which brings me to my point: distraction is the epitome of all things conscious. I don't know what I'm saying, but I'll say it anyways. Good morning.
What if there was no sea?
July 03, 2006. Original. What if there was no sea? [319 words.]
Some lifetimes ago, I was a fish. When I first moved, there was green fuzz everywhere. My snout kept on bumping into a hard, cold wall, refracting light. The other fish told me it was a ‘tank’.
“I thought that tanks are for the army!“
Hey, hey. I’m telling the story!
“Right, sorry. So, what happened?”
Anyways, in this tank thing, which turned out to be really small, the water tasted funny, and every once in a while, the taste would change. Once again, I was to learn that this was part of a system: monthly water changes, weekly chemical dumping where a big orange-brown moving thing scraped green from the ‘glass’ (so many new materials!), and daily portions of manufactured food suddenly appeared from the light above.
“-I know!”
“What? Wait-“
Shut up!
“Sorry…”
There was no where to go. It was so boring. No big fish, coloured fish, great monsters, interesting food…
We tried to get out.
One of us died a few hours after we were rescued by the moving brown digits. It was fine; he was removed before he could deteriorate, pollute the tank. I had wonderful soaring dreams of glistening curves, white foam, and silvery schools of fish, a time when I was huge, with wings!
I woke up and excreted the same, uninteresting waste. Small bits of foul smelling red swished around us, the bottom-feeder excited like there was no tomorrow. I suppose assimilation had its pros.
“Emergency!”
”Where?”
“There! There! Fighting goldfish!”
“Oh, God.”
“Two of them. We’ve got to-“
“Sir!”
“-help-“
“Go!”
“-help-“
“Where’s-“
“Gone, sir.”
“Oh, God.”
One day, our keeper (keepers? There was only one pair of soft brown broken-fin-appendages taking care of us, so far as we knew.) introduced to our world new, beautifully bloated goldfish. They were exotic and wondrous. We were uneducated for all those lessons on captivity.
+
Of June.
06.09.06?
Sitting there for hours and hours doesn’t help! Go get up and exercise. Screw you. Love feels so much better than doing anything else, the padclickbum-sound of typing keys in motion. Mm.
I slept in wrong position, I think. My back hurts.
So. Anxiety to fingers. Romantic to the stomach and intestines, and love to the dorsal fin. I think I’ll like you.
The elevated English in poetry scares most people.
- - -
There’s a cylindrical bit at one end of the upper side-band modulation (USB). It has two holes in each lengthwise quarter.
The unit comes in a hard plastic package, bound in one of those black plastic covered wires. When I unravel it-him-he looks as if he has the bends, that is, if the bends was a physical thing and not that diving-too-fast-therefore-oxygen-carbon-dioxide emergency. Everything comes that way. Easy to fold up again, though, so it’s okay.
‘Grippy’ is my first thought. It has a solid grip, like those smooth mechanical pencils with a plain, soft rubber band. (I’ve never liked the ridged ones-they leave marks on my fingers and that’s plain uncomfortable.) USBs stay pretty clean; you just have to blow on it to get rid of the dust. Sort of like fish. Remove the algae, measure the waste-dissolver once a week, check pH levels, add food, and voilá! Happy fish. Guppy is a pathetic name. Fish aren’t able to concern human words, so what does it matter? You might as well be talking to your hard drive.
Modulation and carriers are magic words to the techie. Dot dot space hyphen dot colon word-period. Refer to page one.
+
June 26, 2006.
“Do you have bees in Sunagakure?” CON'T.
A girl asked, “What do barbequed pickles taste like?”
The other answered, “Like peanuts.”
“Really? I wouldn’t think so. When did you eat them?”
“Don’t know. My brother wanted to try them out with the burgers. You know I'm joking, right? They don’t really taste like peanuts-sour, burnt peanuts, actually.”
“I don’t like unsalted zucchini either.”
I like the feeling of collapsing. It makes you feel all silvery and translucent, like that perfect piece of tuna fresh off the bone.
Let’s spite the man who eats his donuts with a fork and knife.
+
June 29, 2006. [Con’t from ‘Misc.’ file - see Saiyuki.]
I need it. Because god made me that way. He states in a low tone. The fuck, bitch?
I discovered something interesting today. Stickers-those puffy ones-can crackle. And not leave nail marks. I like them-they’re so very happy.
The tv show I wanted to watch wasn’t on tonight. It made me sad.
Why shouldn’t I listen to music when I’m studying? What if it helps? How do you judge the degree of interference with my thoughts? I mean, I thought that I thought them. Perhaps I’m wrong, but I don’t think so. Please leave now.
Hurrah! Fifty dollars richer, I am. It’s terrific when things work out.
I’m cold. I want to close the window. Don’t go and tell me what to do; you can’t feel the draft from over there, with all that fat, mister.
Don’t worry about a thing. They world will drown itself in metaphors. We really don’t need the flowers to create a door into our inner spirits. What the hell is an ‘inner spirit’ anyways? Are they made out of chocolate? I like dark chocolate. Give me an albino kid’s spirit-spirits are ‘true selves’ and the ‘true you’ is usually a hypocrite-I want a creepy little albino kid’s spirit. Either that or stop talking.
Thanks.
+