I'm not a fair person, my mind doesn't work that way...
This time its on my own..
Tomorrow I leave for costa rica, I'll be gone from tomorrow until sunday, july 4th. Things will be better down there. I won't have all of this to care about.
When I get back it will be staffords birthday party, which is always a highlight of my year. Hopefully koon daddy will be there, We'll have a good time. And then work and more work.
I won't really have access to internet in costa rica, I might, it will cost moneys though, colones to be exact. But I'll try to get on at least once or twice and update or email the people I care about even a little bit.
I'd like to be put in a position where I could make some sort of an influential speech. Just once on a podium high above the audience below, so I can throw upon them idiotic and bias theories about everything nonsensical in this world. For two hours I'd fill the velvet draped ballroom with emotional propaganda that would make the SS shit their pants at the quality. My words would bounce off the angled walls (angled for acoustical reasons) and in through the ears of everyone present that night, not only physically but mentally.
I'd like to tell a story about young lovers caught in a struggle of push and pull tearing each of them apart. A real tear jerker that would secure me as some sort of a power writer, with a pen full of salene droplets. I'd soak white shirts and black dresses with unrelenting depression, and laugh as they ripped their own hearts out of their chests and threw them on the stage, blood red with anticipation of the next line that would roll of my tongue.
I'd like to dispel any fears about me being sane, right on stage. Strip naked and run around squaking like a chicken. The crowd would look confused, and I would make a witty appology for my lack of a plunger tiped bushel of feathers. I'd tell them how sometimes I feel outside of myself, but not that far outside. It's usually just 6 inches down and to the right, not a long drive back to a in-body experience. I'd tell everyone about how, perhaps we're all a little insane, I'm just not that good at hiding it. That would bring some laughs, pity laughs maybe, but laughs none the less (I wonder if those fuckers think I care).
When they thought I was done, I'd begin a story, which never happened, about a little brother, who I never had, who wanted to increase his masturbatory excitement. And he had heard something from his friends about smashing things, between your toes, while masturbating. "Bliss," they had said "100% satisfation". Putting aside how much his friends sounded like 'RonCo' ron, he decided he would try it. He searched the kitchen for things that would work well. He left the kitchen 5 minutes later with a cookie sheet, some twinkies, a box of powdered sugar, some mustard, and some lotion. His next stop was the closet in the far corner of his room, he thought that no one knew what he did in there (but of course everyone did know.) He closed the door and set the cookie sheet on the ground, and then laying twinkies in neat little rows on top of it. He sprinkled the powerderd sugar expertly over the twinkies, and sealed it off with some mustard. He scratched his head thinking about whether or not he should be standing or sitting when he did this, finally he decided that he would sit on a stool, since standing for a long time can be somewhat uncomfortable. And so it began, he smashed the sugar-coated mustard twinkies with delight, meanwhile doing his business. Around that time mother woke from her nap and walked straight into the kitchen, wanting to feed her coke habit. she reached in the pantry for the light blue box of powdered sugar where she kept her stash...
"Long story, short," I'd say "My mother killed my little brother with a steak knife and tried to snort the rest of the coke that was on the edge of the cookie sheet, that had yet to be contaminated by the mustard and twinkies." I'd stop for a laugh, indicating the punchline was near. "Little did my mother know," another chuckle, "my little brother had set her bag of coke to teh side, and used the powdered sugar below." A burst of laughter now as I'd lean over the podium spitting and hacking with laughter. "He knew about her coke habit all along! And she killed him because she thought he had her coke! get it?!".
Of course no one would get it and the blank stares would continue. It would be time to make my exit now, so I would say something deep, to close the gaping mouths of the people below, perhaps initiate some cognation in them. "Because if you think about it folks, aren't we all just looking for a little better masturbation, while humping our coke habit, and simultaneously killing our preteen son. Am I right or am I right?"
:end:
I hope you were safe tonight, I'll see you when I get back. I care about you more than you know
Tomorrow I leave for costa rica, I'll be gone from tomorrow until sunday, july 4th. Things will be better down there. I won't have all of this to care about.
When I get back it will be staffords birthday party, which is always a highlight of my year. Hopefully koon daddy will be there, We'll have a good time. And then work and more work.
I won't really have access to internet in costa rica, I might, it will cost moneys though, colones to be exact. But I'll try to get on at least once or twice and update or email the people I care about even a little bit.
I'd like to be put in a position where I could make some sort of an influential speech. Just once on a podium high above the audience below, so I can throw upon them idiotic and bias theories about everything nonsensical in this world. For two hours I'd fill the velvet draped ballroom with emotional propaganda that would make the SS shit their pants at the quality. My words would bounce off the angled walls (angled for acoustical reasons) and in through the ears of everyone present that night, not only physically but mentally.
I'd like to tell a story about young lovers caught in a struggle of push and pull tearing each of them apart. A real tear jerker that would secure me as some sort of a power writer, with a pen full of salene droplets. I'd soak white shirts and black dresses with unrelenting depression, and laugh as they ripped their own hearts out of their chests and threw them on the stage, blood red with anticipation of the next line that would roll of my tongue.
I'd like to dispel any fears about me being sane, right on stage. Strip naked and run around squaking like a chicken. The crowd would look confused, and I would make a witty appology for my lack of a plunger tiped bushel of feathers. I'd tell them how sometimes I feel outside of myself, but not that far outside. It's usually just 6 inches down and to the right, not a long drive back to a in-body experience. I'd tell everyone about how, perhaps we're all a little insane, I'm just not that good at hiding it. That would bring some laughs, pity laughs maybe, but laughs none the less (I wonder if those fuckers think I care).
When they thought I was done, I'd begin a story, which never happened, about a little brother, who I never had, who wanted to increase his masturbatory excitement. And he had heard something from his friends about smashing things, between your toes, while masturbating. "Bliss," they had said "100% satisfation". Putting aside how much his friends sounded like 'RonCo' ron, he decided he would try it. He searched the kitchen for things that would work well. He left the kitchen 5 minutes later with a cookie sheet, some twinkies, a box of powdered sugar, some mustard, and some lotion. His next stop was the closet in the far corner of his room, he thought that no one knew what he did in there (but of course everyone did know.) He closed the door and set the cookie sheet on the ground, and then laying twinkies in neat little rows on top of it. He sprinkled the powerderd sugar expertly over the twinkies, and sealed it off with some mustard. He scratched his head thinking about whether or not he should be standing or sitting when he did this, finally he decided that he would sit on a stool, since standing for a long time can be somewhat uncomfortable. And so it began, he smashed the sugar-coated mustard twinkies with delight, meanwhile doing his business. Around that time mother woke from her nap and walked straight into the kitchen, wanting to feed her coke habit. she reached in the pantry for the light blue box of powdered sugar where she kept her stash...
"Long story, short," I'd say "My mother killed my little brother with a steak knife and tried to snort the rest of the coke that was on the edge of the cookie sheet, that had yet to be contaminated by the mustard and twinkies." I'd stop for a laugh, indicating the punchline was near. "Little did my mother know," another chuckle, "my little brother had set her bag of coke to teh side, and used the powdered sugar below." A burst of laughter now as I'd lean over the podium spitting and hacking with laughter. "He knew about her coke habit all along! And she killed him because she thought he had her coke! get it?!".
Of course no one would get it and the blank stares would continue. It would be time to make my exit now, so I would say something deep, to close the gaping mouths of the people below, perhaps initiate some cognation in them. "Because if you think about it folks, aren't we all just looking for a little better masturbation, while humping our coke habit, and simultaneously killing our preteen son. Am I right or am I right?"
:end:
I hope you were safe tonight, I'll see you when I get back. I care about you more than you know