April 8th.
Drunk: Day 5....6....5...fuck off.

What I want to do is go toe to toe with a bulimic. I have no doubt that my illness whumps their illness without trying. Lemme explain how I will do it.

They own the region of sad girl. They own me on gender. I can't do anything about that. Well....I can't do anything about it that doesn't revolve around cutting, crying, bleeding, more crying, and asking God why. To which he will reply with his usual "Whatcha gonna do?"

No baby. When you drink all the time, it dries out your membranes. You get hella mad phatty nosebleeds. Dawg. When you are predisposed to nosebleeds anyway, this compounds the problem. Which means you've got a constant snoot of hemoglobin. You might be able to stick your hand down your throat on demand, but welcome to the typical alcoholic playground.

I have a neat trick. Sniffle all day and you eventually sneeze this fucker up. Do it enough times and you can make bad juju. Here's the progression:
Sniffle.
Sniffle.
Wait until you have a nice drip working for you.
Hock.
Hock.
Poor thing. You done throwed up Rocky Road? Mint Chocolate Chip? But can you do this?
Spit a solid lump of clotted blood into an open palm. It will be covered in saliva and phlegm. I am going to pause to let you be impressed with the capacity for this. To gain greater renown I will add that it isn't the taste or smell that bothers me. It is the texture. I volunteer to imbibe rotten things. What I hate is the consistency of old, hard, blood.
Wanna stop being my friend now? Because there is more funk, dance, and love coming.
I like the joker grinning that goes best with a mitful of congealed blood. Hate yourself all you want sugar pie.
Pumpkin.
You ain't seen the dice rolling side of self destruction yet.
So carve and cry all you like. Know what else I like?
That is kid's stuff. Get some chopsticks. They add drama.

You gots the illness bling bling?
Whose house?
Runs house?
Chekkity check the other bad rhythm they teached us on the dance floor of liquor and ruin.
Gets yourself a bowl. Because thin as you wanna be, ain't nobody knows the regurgitation like us folks. Because darlings, in addition to being able to hack up blood, we do still swallow it all day.

All fucking day. Wanna see what proof our nail clippings are?

So you got a bowl. Wood is my preference. But I have been told I am too archaic. Damnable retroactivity. Concentrate. It might take you a minute. Toss some foul stank cookies into the bowl. Stir it (this is where the chopsticks come into play. We really wanna do it with a finger we bit off some poor fiend).

You ever seen 18 ounces of whiskey, blood, and digestive fluid? Looks a lot like the ol' bayou if it had been stabbed.
I said whose house?
You might be bitch enough to take an eyeful of the gore tarantula we can spit up, but our mettle is most destructive with a little intestinal special sauce.

Thank you for visiting Terroronthe32ndFloor.com.

April 5th.
Filth and nightmares.

You end up spending a lot of time looking in the mirror. Especially when you are as vain as I am. After a few months you realize you have no connection with the person you are looking at. They are a creature of simple addiction and not the once impressive animal that you are. Or were. Tense becomes difficult for you when you are knee deep in such a mind set. You ask your unfamiliar reflection things: "Who am I?" "What am I?" "When did this happen?" "Are you ok?" "How did I get here?" You start failing to be able to draw a distinction between who you are and what you have become.

You can be a good person and a very bad thing simultaneously. I am a drunk. Funny thing about it is that you don't hate yourself. Not really. You hate what you are, but not who you are. But again, you cannot make a distinction. You end up being so tired, and disgusted. You hate what you have become and cannot disassociate that from who you are. You blame yourself. You hate yourself. But it is because of what you are. But you hate that. And you fixed it. And just because it shares the body with you doesn't mean you live with it. But you hate it. You hate you. You hate it. You love you, but it hates you. Where do you stop and sick begins?

I once assumed that everyone knew what it was like to be a drunk. I figured it was common knowledge. I figured that when I told someone that I was an alcoholic, they knew what I meant. They knew, fundamentally, what my lifestyle was like. This was a fallacy.

Why am I crying? Why is my hair so disheveled? When was the last time I brushed my teeth? Showered? Ate? Who broke this? Is this my blood? If it isn't, then whose is it? Why is my eye swollen? How did I get home? Why is my hand wrecked? My side hurts, can your liver hurt you? I can't read this. I didn't meant to hurt you. I am sorry. It wasn't me. When does it stop? Why are you here? I hate you. I love you. I'm glad you're broken, and I'm sorry.

Funny thing is that drunks don't even know what it is like to be a drunk. We figure that everyone has compulsions like we do. They are somehow stronger than we are, and can resist it. We cannot imagine what it is like to not want to drink. If the tooth fairy were to deliver 80 proof to us, we'd have brutally jerked all our teeth out a long time ago. Dentures are nothing compared to sobriety.

Where are my teeth? Whose pliers are these? Why does my mouth hurt? I know how to fix it. Can I keep this down? Fuck it, there is more. Thank God they repealed prohibition.

Tense. Tense and descriptive view point persona. I am me, I love me, I am great. I hate him (me), he disgusts and confuses me (him). I need him to fix it. I want him (me) out of my house. He is a hateful thing with wily grins and you can see the calculation in his eyes. Wanna bet? Wanna play? He'll play new games that have nothing to do with fun. Here's a bucket, he bets he can fill it with blood faster than you. He doesn't clot, so it is easier for him. No blood? Ok, vomit? Tears?

Tense. Am I now? have I been? Will I be? You get confused. I was happy, you might say, but we are miserable. I am in love, I was perhaps. Does it somehow change? It is ok. It will never be ok. It has been great. Has been miserable. Is fine. Nightmare. Waking love affair. Was delightful. Is painful. Is nostalgia. Brings joy. Brought pain. Brings pain from the brought pain. Brings joy from the lack of brought pain.

Futile.

March 22nd
Sometimes all it takes is two women and a little head to get what you want.

You still are not getting me to finish reviewing Chicago. I think you should just give up on the particular dream. But if you are not the giving up type then BOY do I have a DEAL for YOU! (warning: any person(s) with your hygiene and or lugging an 18-wheeler with the word "GAS" printed on the side shall be treated as if they were YOU! and we absolve ourselves of any further responsibility for knowledge of their whereabouts.) So if you ever want to see YOU! again, you'll return those Dalmatians to their rightful owner. I kept hoping to find a joke in that.

But what I am going to do right now here today without any further delay is to tell you the fabulous opportunity I am going to give to you but only for today. I will tell you how it is you can get that review of Chicago out of me. How am I going to do this you are probably not asking yourself because one of the pop-ups had lingerie on it. I will tell you how. If you can convince the people at Miramax to enclose at least one of the following products as a complementary gift when they release Chicago on DVD I will finally finish the review.

Rock 'em Sock 'em Renee - If enclosed with the DVD is a Rock 'em Sock 'em Renee Zellweger, then you'll get more review. It is necessary that Renee be wearing a sparkling silver dress and when she is hit, she must re-enact the bulimia she underwent in order for her to be slinking around at that weight. She must also make big fucking pouty lips whenever she is victorious. She must do all this unconvincingly. And it would be nice if she completes me, because I have a few other scenes for her to pose in.

Rock 'em Sock 'em Catherin-e Zeta - You will also get more review if there is a fighting Zeta model - or as I like to think of it a model Z-285...guess what the 285 stands for. Catherine Ze-ta is required to shed 15 pounds of eye makeup (which she acquired in prison) whenever she suffers the loss of a bout. Hopefully this will gradually bring her weight to within reasonable for her to ride space mountain (she was the first person who was above the height requirement, but was turned away for girth from the famous Disneyland ride. She was then invited to work over at Pirates of the Caribbean). When C-atherine Zeta wins a match, she will have a lithe stunt double gloat shamelessly while she (Z-eta Jones) finishes off that double-fudge mint ice cream that sits just off camera.

Note: I will fully finish the review if both are offered in a collector's edition combo pack.

GereHead - I will add to the review if there is a GereHead action figure. He must look like he has been sunbathing in a kiln and have onyx orbs replaced by his special jeweler in place of his eyes. In the name of old jokes and bad taste I will allow him to have a "Gerbil" accessory packaged with him. You may even put it's head in a condom. I do not require this however, and ask that if you must do it, make that gerbil look damn scared. GereHead must come with a lot of clothing unsuitable to his age. I am adding the following list to give basic suggestions. They are not guidelines. A fatty blunt, baseball cap that only fits backwards, "Avril Lavigne Superfan" button, wallet chain, "Sk8ter H8ter" baseball cap, or short shorts, pink stockings, and a hello kitty backpack. note: GereHead can only be used to play roles as a fucking father. Finishing of the review with the GereHead model will hinge upon believability and wit of the youthful add-ons.

I was going to make you give me a GereHead hideout too. But I didn't. But if you insist on adding one, just make it a Lobby room attached to a depressing little bedroom with a single bed and a big fucking sign that says "Cedar Grove Retirement Home".

March 18th
Feel the eel.

Ok, I am not going to finish the Chicago update right now because it is my goddamn site and I take no interest in what you want. Unless you want 18 inches of pure throat-scarring pleasure. And even if you do, I can't understand that is what you are looking for as long as you keep jamming that cucumber down your throat and moaning. Not to mention the thing you do with the acorn squash is just unnerving. So here is a little talk to the Ben monster from Back in the Day. Enjoy it.

I'm out here playing tequila roulette. I take a beer, take a shot, take a beer, take a shot. The side bet is how many it will take to kill me. Johnny dropped out after 41. Moe was clearly shooting blanks after 45 came and went. Teddy tried to call me on a foul around the - well to me it seemed like the millionth - but somewhere around 65 when I ate a cracker with a little cheddar on it. They said that there was some fake crab meat too, but I rarely listen to people on the business end of an eel. As I learned from that punishment, there isn't a nonbusiness end of an eel.

I am going to start by saying if the woman is frosting over, then bad things follow. Especially the conviction part of it. That is going to be really rough on you. Just remember I kept telling you not to hurt her, that she was a good girl. She was sweet and kind and full of life. Vibrant. Don't you go telling the fucking court anything like I said "Freon could easily shatter the lock on her front door and then you could violate her, claim earlier intercourse, and then strangle her with her own sheets. Then admit it was your prints all over the room because you and her were in love and that you were about to propose (get a ring with a fucking refund and show it to them) and you were at the apartment all the time. Naturally your prints are everywhere."

The point is you remember who is your testimony to the defense. And delete this shit ASAP. Or I swear to god I will buy a ring.

I wish I could advise you about what to do when the woman gets icy and stops giving you What Everyman Wants. I wish I could make a sentence. I wish that Cuervo wasn't so goddamn expensive. But I did get a free bottle opener out of it. I needed one too. You should have seen the machinations I devised to open the "uppity" beer bottles that didn't have the twist tops. OOOO look at me, I am Corona and I am trying to maintain standards of quality. I am bottled in a country with 3 uncorrupt cops and 2 of those are guilty of rape. I am all about beaches where you can't drink the water and that only avoid being trampled by whalers because we attract enough saucy Girls Gone Wild to fund government protection. Sadly that means little more than a world wherein they use a rubber in the viciousness they visit upon us.

Fuck Mexican beer is what I was trying to say. That would have been clear if not for all the mexican beer....followed by all the psychotic tequila beasts that are playing hopscotch in my gut right now. And they do it with dynamite man. Which is a challenge for anyone involved. Start tossing around nitroglycerine and the game becomes more like survivor than Survivor and my intestines are doing their zombie swiss cheese impression. I am a buffet for Eaters of the Dead. I just hope they start from the bottom. At least then I might get a little of that toe suckling that so pleases the people that all claim to be me despite their scales, talons, and bad taste in fashion. Ok, those last people are me. Fuckers. Plaid with corduroy with silk with rayon with suede isn't a statement, it is a blinding device.

I still want to fuck cindy. How old is she now? (Cindy was a hot little salsa piece of ass that was 15 a long time ago. Everyone who is anyone that has a penis wanted to be hip deep in her while she was bent over a hood ornament. Some people wanted her singing a lively tune from "Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat" and slapping her with a paintbrush, but we at Terroronthe32ndFloor.com do not approve of such people...we prefer to let them run websites.

God Bless.

March 8th
Chicago. Part I: There be suffering in the windy city.

As most of you know, I am occasionally attacked by a group of terrorists in a cream colored van that smells of salmon and ears. They abduct me, tie me in a sack and then release me into horrible movies until I confess that I always thought Greg was the hottest Brady.

My most recent foray into the cinematographic hell was to experience the dolby digital violation of Chicago.

I must say that I went in to the film with a certain trepidation, but I have emerged a changed man. My trepidation has been replaced by a certain glow. The same glow as an irradiated garden gnome. Although I lack the beard, which has been a source of some embarrassment. When all my friends were having birds and squirrels nesting in their lengthy facial growth I sat, disgraced and clean shaven.

Life hasn't even handed me lemons.

The point is that to replace my reticence regarding the film came disgust and a nice feeling of having been ripped by the Evil Richard Gere Juggernaut once again. His crimes against me include the heinous Dr. T and the Women. The insidious Autumn in New York. The diabolical Mothman Prophecies. And the megalomaniacal Pretty Woman. Not to mention his rendition of a geriatric Lancelot that made Sean Connery's Arthur look like a spritely and insolent teen. You'll not sucker me again Mr. Gere, no matter how good Primal Fear was. I've had it with your boyish smirk implanted into a sagging face that more resembles a used candle in the shape of a basset hound.

On top of that, I had to endure Renee Zelleweggeweggier and Catherine-Zeta-Alpha-Epsilon-Jones. Both of whom have long outlived the single role that they could be enjoyed in. They need to just get into the wayback machine and live forever in Jerry Maguire and Zorro. When Renee was cute in a girl next door way and by god you just wanted to see Catherine naked. Renee has become a cliche and Catherine is no longer smoky or smoldering, but rather might as well brand has-been at the base of her skull like a bar code.

Chicago will certainly get my award for most fishnets in a movie. Now, I don't remember the forties - no matter what I tell you after 12 tabs of LSD - but by god I doubt that everyone was enrobed in either fishnet stockings or silver semi-skirts through most of their day.

And on top of that, this emerging and accepted genre of manic musicals is too much like watching Oliver stone direct vaudeville. The man who brought U-Turn and Natural Born Killers should not be emulated without an excedrin doggie bag handed out before hand. Especially if you are going to use epic lighting in such an array as to make an epileptic long for the relief that a lovely night in the Clockwork Orange chair would provide. I am not epileptic, but longed to induce seizures and swallow my tongue. I believe everyone in the theatre - or at least those with 4 working senses - would have appreciated the distraction.

The movie starts in a smoky club. There is every kind of undesirable represented: mobsters, smarmy club owners, barflies, Catherine-Zeta Jones, wicked sunflowers posing as gentle and kind sunflowers in spite of their bloodshot eyes and 5 o'clock shadow. In this club is Renee, as a character that has a name that I don't recall. There is a long shot that follows the exploits of Catherine's ass, but builds "suspense" by not showing her face. Because God knows those broad hips and severe trunk baggage could belong to just anyone...anyone that is married to Michael Douglas and recently pushed out a little screaming Douglas-Omega Jones.

Catherine then breaks into a dance number. But before she does, you see part of the "plot" as she cleans blood off her hands (near her ass...not that everything in the western hemisphere isn't next to those behemoth glutes.) and she is introduced as being part of a duo with her twin sister. But where is her sister?

You find out later that she killed her sister. Why? The poor girl was Catherine-Gamma Jones' sister. My thought is mercy killing.

I will update more on the movie later, so this doesn't get too long.

I think I am putting the hyphen in the wrong part of Catherine's name. Oh fucking well.

February 12th
It feels like home.

And welcome back to the village classic invitational website. This site has been ignored by such stars of stage and screen as Jenna Jameson and Lance Deeply. We have also failed to appear on either Conan or the Tonight show.

We also didn't put that girl in the oil drum, wrap it in cement, and then cast it out to sea. And you tell the other jurors it is libel to say otherwise.

Anyhow, welcome to the new home occupied by the same people that brought you Methkitchen.com and keep sending you roses to show our undying love no matter how many times you flee the country or fake your own death. Our love is stronger than death. If our love were in an arm wrestling match with death, death would say "dammit, you totally cheated by showing that much cleavage." And we would just smile smugly and wear a lot of flannel.

But this is where we live now, new updates will be coming shortly. For anyone new to the area, feel free to browse the archives and so forth and let the slow realization that you want nothing to do with the likes of me come into your mind. To old visitors: I still think you should do something about the smell.

National Guard Expects Riot.
In Nashville this week, the Mulber Street Community Crochet and Quilting Club was allowed, due to the supreme court overturn of the 3rd constitutional amendment to attend a non-segregated public school. Much to the chagrin of many non-Crocheting local members. The National Guard has been called into action for the first day of school. Public opinion seems hostile. One man was quoted as saying "It sickens me to think of my son going to school with a bunch of filthy knitters."

I have degreaded to seamstress humor. You see that pun-tacious bullshit? Next I will be putting shit like "Quilters never win". Oh my god, just look at that!

I was thinking about the good old days. Having recently climbed on the sobriety wagon. I was dreaming nostalgically of the nights when I would be playing chemist in my lap on the drive home from work as I mixed vodka and orange juice into an empty beer can at 80mph on the interstate. Those were the high quality days when I could afford a mixer. For me a mixer was much like leather seats. It isn't something you need. The poly-blend cloth they normally put on seats is just fine. But you might as well flaunt your wealth if you have it. Spoil yourself with the finer things in life. In my case that entailed not guzzling vodka straight out of the bottle. I know how decadent that is, but with my beauty and charm, aren't I worth it? Sometimes I would switch to bloody mary mix so that I could spill it all over myself in the pouring and then try to explain to my friends (the arresting officer) why it is I look like I suddenly just got my period.

But those were the prettier days. The days of wine and cheese and long slow motion jousts astride big-wheel tricycles weilding the shaved and sharpened barbie dolls we either stole from our sister or bought ourselves with money we borrowed from our father under the guise of "just needed a pack of smokes."

That is all I got right now. Welcome to Terroronthe32ndFloor.com.

January 29th.
Updateapaloozafest!

Like four updates are on this time. So get your read on. And prepare to kiss this guy.

Phone sex virgin is unable to perform due to nerves. Foolishly claims to be on his period. Then waves desperately and claims, between sobs, to have something in his eye. Point being, he could have gotten that frustrated lack of ejaculation for just 99 cents with 10-10-220. Next time you want to have a 40ish woman talk dirty to you over the phone, remember: Alf uses 10-10-220. He gets all his nasty talk about leather boots and kittens for just 99 cents. Something to seriously think about.

CHRISTINA AGUILERA TO POSE NUDE IN...WELL IT SEEMS LIKE EVERY GODDAMN THING SHE DOES.

I blame myself for the infidelity.
The most upsetting part about the whole affair was lying to my wife. I never meant to hurt her, it was just that one time....every night after work. It meant nothing. And then, after you've told her I said that, say I cried and threw something. Like my desk lamp. Or my name plate. She knows I love that name plate. No, wait, better not bring that up, she also knows the "other woman" gave it to me. I just love how she calls her the "other woman" like I had one to begin with. No, stop writing! Just leave that part out. Yes, that will be all. You can dressed. Well, ok, one more quick game of twister, but then you have to go because she is going to be really worried. And I think she has been through enough.

I hate this co-ed dorm bullshit.
I came home to my dorm today, and I just wanted to chill on the couch and maybe watch the end of the Razorback's game and these two chicks from upstairs are sitting around licking this balloon. And they are giggling. And then I heard one of them say that they should do body shots. And I am thinking "oh come on. It is bad enough that you are tying up the rec room, but if you are going to get the leather couch all sticky and wet then I am going to complain to my RA". I am totally serious too. This kind of behavior just will not fly around here. I am an adult now and I left this behavior behind with my parents. I will be damned if my dorm is going to be turned into another plastic covered, black-lit, moan-fest like their house was. I am drawing the line.
And to whoever put the keg in the hallway: I could barely get to my room. You will be found and prosecuted to the fullest extend of the dormitory rules and behaviors committee. Mark my words.

January 15th.
Burnz promise: I hate me so you don't have to.

Now that the site is the useless version of what it is, you are going to get more of the whiny Burnz you are used to. The sad man that is dying to find someone that does it. That makes so much sense in their madness. Someone that is ruined and beautiful in their wreckage. Someone that hands you the keys and begs you to take them home and then drunkenly turns around in the doorway and says they would invite you in but they don't want that. And you just nod and kiss their hand and say you hope they call again. And then leave. Someone who remembers the night you carried them home. Someone that gives you a look full of vulnerability and then says that if you hurt them, they'll kill you. And then smiles and looks away, and is silent for a few minutes and extends and open hand for you to take it. And cries when you take it.

I can understand someone that is hurt. Or damaged. The only thing I resent is normalcy. I strive to make normalcy a deranged exhibition.

January 12th.
SHE WRITSES TEH MUZIK!

So I am transfixed by Avril Lavigne's new song "I'm with you". I mean by transfixed that I like listening to it in the same way that a starving rat hovers near sewage. This hit is a follow up to her hit "Sk8er Boi" which was truly the ode of our generation. It spoke to both the Avril Lavigne's of the world, as well as the families of the Avril Lavigne's of the world. Of which, if there is any god that is not wrathful, there is only one. And were he truly benevolent and merciful that one would be used as an example of a Burial stunt gone horribly, mutatedly, crawling out of a toxic dump wailing an off-key "Amazing Grace" wrong. The only true experience that Avril compares to is watching someone with a horribly unrepaired cleft palette eat a popsicle. My eardrums practically drip with cherry and/or orange vanilla syrup it is so similar.

It isn't the singing either. It isn't even the fact that Avril stopped teething the same time I stopped puberty. No, those have nothing to do with my opinion of her multiple-grammy nominated talent. Which is available both on her album and the "Whale Songs of the Pacific" or the much more controversial bootleg recording of "Seal screams as their flesh is rent from their still living bodies". No, truly her voice is one devised by either a deity or the finest imitation craftsmen the other side of the river Styx. That is not my complaint. I am just saying perhaps scribbling lyrics out of the Cosmopolitan article "Hair Volumizer" isn't the best way to go about making a song. Or an album. Or a career. Or a chart of astrodynamics. Although that last one isn't much of a risk because thankfully Avril hasn't stepped into the world of star movement yet or the celestial bodies would certainly be spelling "GyrleFrind" in the sky while they simultaneously sent it to the pagers of all their "cock-teezas" on the west side. Assuming by west side I mean the neighborhood wherever Justin Timberlake picks up his hookers.

What bothers me most about it is the confusing content. She starts out "standing on a bridge/ waiting in the dark" and ends up "with you now" despite the fact that she "don't know who you are". Which I applaud as a fine choice of partner. But I am a herculean womanizer and like spending every night in the bed of a stranger that beats me. As she seems to be encouraging young women to be doing. Which is just dandy by me. I hope I get that invitation to the next Behind the Music that she is attending. We could talk about artistry and the creative process and how she wants to be tied up, flogged, forgotten, and starved until she chews through a body part to escape. And drink espresso.

In "I'm with you" she asks "is anyone trying to find me"... oh yes. I am searching every gutter between here and .... well two miles from here because searching gutters for childish pop stars is tiring. But I still hope I do. I have a new retaining tow clamp I think she would just love.

Remind me on the next update to point out my revulsion with the pop generation with brainwashing people as stupid as I am with overtures, allusions, or declarations that love is an answer to many problems. When in actuality all it is is the inauguration of someone else's problematic bullshit into your life. And how that solves problems as well as bubble gum gets grass out of your whites and colors.

January 8th.
We wanna make bodies.

Steven Hawkings built a doomsday machine! He finally applied his wicked genius to constructing a vast mechanical machination just to overrun the world with his superior intellect. He employed a number of brainwashed scientists (including one gynecologist just to make sure that the female components on the machine were correctly filled with the accurate amount of batshit and burnt plastic dolls) to build the beast. Sadly, upon launch it was quickly stopped by the lack of a ramp into the cockpit so that the pilot (Hawkings) could enter. Maybe next time there buddy. Until then may I say that I thought a "brief history of time" didn't properly live up to it's name. Just for the record I mean that it was not an actual history of time but rather a hallucinogenic induced fugue you suffered while....well while not walking like normal folks.

In a related story, perhaps my satire might be better appreciated were it a) actual satire and b) not a quick degradation into playground attacks against people smarter than me or of a different color or gender than I am. To this I can only reply that such facets to my website would not be necessary were people of different colors or genders not quite so ... well useless. Except for their gangsta rap and childbearing (respectively - not to be confused with respectfully).

If it not clear by now, I am being overrun by southern comfort. I would really like to be writing something interesting or funny, but instead I am just going to rant. This rant will circle around the fact that I think people need to not live much longer. I have been considering my options in my life. How I want to spend the remainder of my (oft-forgotten) days. To this I usually come to one conclusion. Living, eating, breathing, and burning whatever it is I can find. Now I know this isn't a popularly held belief but at this point in my life the thing that separates me from a vietnam veteran with a "will work for food" sign is a willingness to do the right thing. He chooses to ruin his life and rely on the kindness and generosity of others while I choose to be productive and pro-active and make a daisy chain of empty houses and violent crimes to sustain myself. It is about independence. Why it is that at the career fair they don't offer "roving murderous drifter" tables to get little pamphlets about the full and rewarding world of shameless murder and then sleeping in the bed of a still warm corpse is beyond me. I will say that I need to learn a little more about poisons and toxins so that me and the corpse can have a little tender time without the embarrassing gouges, twisted neck, or telltale holes to ruin the mood. Well, not ruin, but it makes it less special. Like wedding night with a hooker. Or box seats at the opera.

I grow weary of working towards a dubious end, or worse, living with a dubious existence when there is a much richer world out there that will grant me the opportunity to see humanity at it's finest. Namely: Begging for their miserable little lives.

Lemme tell you the primary factor that is holding back me and my .45 from taking a run to the coast in a somewhat splattered white caddy. Pussy. Ain't a lot of getting laid in a life that moves all the time and has a nasty habit of looking more like the trail of tears than honeymoon night at the waldorf (unless it was a really good honeymoon). Yep, the old sex is pretty easy to come by these days, but you start haunting around like a ghoul and killing anyone in a landcruiser and that dries up. But I have always said that why buy the cow when you can throw it against a wall in an alley and go home whistling a happy tune to shower their tears off your blood-soaked shirt? So sex would just be a little faster and rougher. Works out for me. They get to live with the damage, I just have to suck up the dry cleaning bill. But if you go to the wrong place, that can be considerable so don't think you got off easy ladies.

That's my update. It was going on in my head all day, just thought I would put it up. A little real Burnz to shake things up. Too much bullshit and not enough honesty has stricken this website lately. Welcome back to the timeline.