What Dreams May Come
After a couple weeks of a long slumber, my computer has been brought back from the dead thanks to the capable skills of Mauricio at Radio Shack. Much thanks to him for getting me reconnected with the world.
So! Let's talk, you and I. It's been so long, Constant Reader.
Where to start? College? I'm still going, theoretically. There's money involved, and I try to avoid that subject as much as possible. Money, that is. I don't have any, you see, and that poses a dilemma. Still, I'm going for as long as I can. Work? I have some now, on-again-off-again, but there's a paycheck involved, and usually a very generous one, at that. Not to put too fine a point on it, I work construction, refurbishing a series of apartment buildings off Bellview. I'm learning, working with my hands, shedding weight like a fur coat in August, and, for the most part, enjoying myself immensly. Coincidentally, if you know anyone who's hunting for a place to live, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, six hundred a month, and these are nice places.
But, of course, I only really talk about one thing here anymore, and that's my writing. Since my computer's been in data heaven for the past two weeks, I've been stuck writing by hand. Any of you out there who know me knows that this is pretty frustrating, because my hands are A.) remarkably stupid and B.) tremble incessantly. My mind always gets ahead of my hand, and I usually wind up losing the train of thought. I'm working on two things right now, one directly inspired by Hunter S. Thompson about my (mis)adventures with Vector Corporation (Coming Soon to a Livejournal Post Near You!) and another about something that happened to me in childhood (Fruedians beware.) I've also taken up the habit of sleeping next to an open notebook and pen, because I tend to get some interesting flashes right before I drift off, and I've gotten tired of losing them. So, for your entertainment, here's some samples of what I've come to think of as Night Wanderings.
1.[accompanied by an abstract drawing of an eye] "Don't you dare look me in the eye, Horatio," she said through an angry sheen of tears. "He loved them too much. You dirty them when you look at them."
2.) 'Let there be no light. We've seen enough. Time to let the boogeymen that thrive in darkness have their say in things."
3.) 'Never let the tremors that run up your arm as you smash a man's face into a concrete pillar go unnoticed. It rivals only the orgasm and the following cigarette as the best feeling in the world.'
4 'I go to sleep with a smile on my face every night, Bob. Do you want to know why?"
Bob made a nondescript motion with his head, too stunned to reply.
"I have a smile, Bob, because the last thing I think of before I drift off, every single night, is blood. Blood on my knuckles. Do you know WHY that's the last thing I think of, Bob?"
Bob's eyes were absurdly wide, eyes of a cartoon coyote staring down a train barrelling towards it. Thad curled the last three fingers of his hand, the scars stretching and morphing, and pointed at Bob's nametag on his pristine white shirt, covering a fat chest. Bob recoiled and moaned.
"That's right, Bob. People like you. People who sit and smirk in their little fortress of order, people who push away chaos and clap their hands over their ears and hum, hoping that'll make all the bad stuff go away. People like you, Bob, make people like me angry. Isn't that nifty?"
If the overall consensus you want to reach is that I'm a screwed-up puppy, then...duh. God bless Nyquil. Until next time!
So! Let's talk, you and I. It's been so long, Constant Reader.
Where to start? College? I'm still going, theoretically. There's money involved, and I try to avoid that subject as much as possible. Money, that is. I don't have any, you see, and that poses a dilemma. Still, I'm going for as long as I can. Work? I have some now, on-again-off-again, but there's a paycheck involved, and usually a very generous one, at that. Not to put too fine a point on it, I work construction, refurbishing a series of apartment buildings off Bellview. I'm learning, working with my hands, shedding weight like a fur coat in August, and, for the most part, enjoying myself immensly. Coincidentally, if you know anyone who's hunting for a place to live, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, six hundred a month, and these are nice places.
But, of course, I only really talk about one thing here anymore, and that's my writing. Since my computer's been in data heaven for the past two weeks, I've been stuck writing by hand. Any of you out there who know me knows that this is pretty frustrating, because my hands are A.) remarkably stupid and B.) tremble incessantly. My mind always gets ahead of my hand, and I usually wind up losing the train of thought. I'm working on two things right now, one directly inspired by Hunter S. Thompson about my (mis)adventures with Vector Corporation (Coming Soon to a Livejournal Post Near You!) and another about something that happened to me in childhood (Fruedians beware.) I've also taken up the habit of sleeping next to an open notebook and pen, because I tend to get some interesting flashes right before I drift off, and I've gotten tired of losing them. So, for your entertainment, here's some samples of what I've come to think of as Night Wanderings.
1.[accompanied by an abstract drawing of an eye] "Don't you dare look me in the eye, Horatio," she said through an angry sheen of tears. "He loved them too much. You dirty them when you look at them."
2.) 'Let there be no light. We've seen enough. Time to let the boogeymen that thrive in darkness have their say in things."
3.) 'Never let the tremors that run up your arm as you smash a man's face into a concrete pillar go unnoticed. It rivals only the orgasm and the following cigarette as the best feeling in the world.'
4 'I go to sleep with a smile on my face every night, Bob. Do you want to know why?"
Bob made a nondescript motion with his head, too stunned to reply.
"I have a smile, Bob, because the last thing I think of before I drift off, every single night, is blood. Blood on my knuckles. Do you know WHY that's the last thing I think of, Bob?"
Bob's eyes were absurdly wide, eyes of a cartoon coyote staring down a train barrelling towards it. Thad curled the last three fingers of his hand, the scars stretching and morphing, and pointed at Bob's nametag on his pristine white shirt, covering a fat chest. Bob recoiled and moaned.
"That's right, Bob. People like you. People who sit and smirk in their little fortress of order, people who push away chaos and clap their hands over their ears and hum, hoping that'll make all the bad stuff go away. People like you, Bob, make people like me angry. Isn't that nifty?"
If the overall consensus you want to reach is that I'm a screwed-up puppy, then...duh. God bless Nyquil. Until next time!