pass the joint, pass the jam
turn that shit up! play it again ~
hey hey. i've been updating this thing a lot more recently. well, at least with something more than looooong long long questionairrrrres. anyways...
i just got out of class. that class is hilarious. the people in it just make me laugh so much (I don't think they're trying to, though), and it's 100x more fun now that me and Steven are like THIS ::crosses fingers::. kawaii ne!
yeah. so, class. I had to read my crappy prose poem to everyone. and tell my teacher that I can't be in class next Monday because I have to go to LA and play a gig.. I explained that I'm getting paid $600 and it's well worth it to miss one day, and she was fine with it and wished me luck and stuff, so that's cooleth.
i love eddie, this old guy in my class who has a massive fuzzy white beard and big tinted glasses. he always wears a baseball hat and old school adidas and cool sweaters, and when he talks it sounds like he's speaking through a speaker-phone filled with thick honey. or something.
here's a bit from one of his poems: "...marching around my bed at night reading aloud egregiously corrupt poems of Poe, rants by Ginsberg, and new age shit by Blake with Shylock standing in darkened corner forever counting bloody coins. In the bathroom taking a piss, I hear Portia two stalls down crying about her love for Caliban; taking my dark ringed eyes from a page of Hamlet I was reading I list, the sounds stops exiting stage left. Yeah call me Ophelia Jones of Lake Elsinore Happy People's Home, California". he's funny.
long entry. who reads this anyways?
must
make
copies
of
art
thing
love and rockets ROBIN.
hey hey. i've been updating this thing a lot more recently. well, at least with something more than looooong long long questionairrrrres. anyways...
i just got out of class. that class is hilarious. the people in it just make me laugh so much (I don't think they're trying to, though), and it's 100x more fun now that me and Steven are like THIS ::crosses fingers::. kawaii ne!
yeah. so, class. I had to read my crappy prose poem to everyone. and tell my teacher that I can't be in class next Monday because I have to go to LA and play a gig.. I explained that I'm getting paid $600 and it's well worth it to miss one day, and she was fine with it and wished me luck and stuff, so that's cooleth.
i love eddie, this old guy in my class who has a massive fuzzy white beard and big tinted glasses. he always wears a baseball hat and old school adidas and cool sweaters, and when he talks it sounds like he's speaking through a speaker-phone filled with thick honey. or something.
here's a bit from one of his poems: "...marching around my bed at night reading aloud egregiously corrupt poems of Poe, rants by Ginsberg, and new age shit by Blake with Shylock standing in darkened corner forever counting bloody coins. In the bathroom taking a piss, I hear Portia two stalls down crying about her love for Caliban; taking my dark ringed eyes from a page of Hamlet I was reading I list, the sounds stops exiting stage left. Yeah call me Ophelia Jones of Lake Elsinore Happy People's Home, California". he's funny.
long entry. who reads this anyways?
must
make
copies
of
art
thing
love and rockets ROBIN.