August 15th.
Summer breeze.

And I am a 5'9" mini tower of self-loathing destruction. My feet propped up on the railing of a solitary park bench, which is oddly surrounded by an expanse of concrete in the midst of an urban consumer's forum. Smoke; Curling from my hand into the atmosphere in a noxious dance that somehow reminds me of roses. There are other people out there with me, smoking, peripherally eyeing me because I am taking up the entire seating capacity of a designated employees haven of cheap talk and cancerous stench. There are six stores at the shopping center where I work, and as there is only one outdoor bench, I, naturally, am pretentious enough to think it was put there for my benefit. Shadowy figures move listlessly along a walkway where a cylindrical ashtray filled with sand sits, depositing a medley of cig brands with a fluid, robotic motion that is evidently habitual. Little smoldering trees standing in their miniature desert, causing me to imagine that a small, holographic Paul Bunyon will appear at any second and cut down a Marlboro. An actual tree adjacent to them that needed manicuring, surrounded by the aegis of a wire mesh tube at its base.

"Mind if I sit here?" melodic. Angelically articulate. Sexy.

I don't bother looking up, as a simple glance could ruin the illusion that I've created. Muscular calves accentuated by black stilettos, legs reaching upward into a 98 degree wonderland, bare and yearning. "Be my guest," I say, shoes hitting the hard surface of ground, placing a hand on one knee and an elbow on the other.

"Thanks. Was beginning to think you were sleeping," might as well have been. She flips back the cardboard geometry of a cigarette pack's top, sliding one out in a manner that must have been God fucking with me again. Slowly. Almost too slowly. Don't look up any further, I tell myself, as I do. She isn't wearing the stiletto heels, and I couldn't tell you if her calves were muscular or not, but, unless she was a damned convincing transvestite, I can assure you that the 98 degree wonderland was right where it should have been.

"I'm assuming you work around here, too," I didn't necessarily have to respond. I could have finished smoking and tamped out the results in the wilderness with its kin. But I didn’t. I had opened my mouth.

"Up at the sports bar. Wait tables, work the tap when it gets really heavy," I catch her eyes with mine briefly, and I can see that all-too familiar twinkling of interest flickering to animation from the center of a pupil, working its way to the outskirts of a blue iris. It's like the lilt in someone's voice at the end of a question. Her jaw has a soft angularity to it, her lips moist and red, catching sunlight at the high points of their voluptuous curves. Hair soft and dark, a faint hint of curl moving whichever way a slight breeze deemed appropriate. I could get lost in it. "You should stop in for lunch tomorrow. My shift."

"What's the special?" exhaling, a slight trail of smoke emanating with my words as I speak.

"Depends on what you're asking me for," she says, giggling. A toss of her hair’s black mass that doesn't immediately fall as the wind gently picks up velocity.

The proposition had finally been made. I could close my tackle box and lackadaisically reel in my catch with a few simple, glib phrases. It was everything I was asking for on this fine sunny day. I had a smoke, I had the fiery emanations of a two o'clock sun covering my back in a blanket, I had breeze. And there she was, looking at me. Her entity becoming more and more appealing as one side of her mouth curled into an invitational, easy smile. A neck below that begged for caressing, perfect breasts draped by the soft white cotton of a t-shirt, tantalizing me. I had that. I had it all.

"Nah," I say, standing up, "I don't associate with your kind," hearing the snap as my cigarette butt hit pale concrete. I grind it into a mottled inkblot on huge rough paper with my foot, neglecting the convenience of the ashtray.

"What do you mean 'my kind?'" perplexity creeping up and manifesting itself in her exquisite face.

"You know," I say, turning around, "Demons."

Only the first paragraph of this update is factual.

Ben

August 12th.
For every action...

I am only comfortable right now wadded around myself as I sit on the shelf wrapping around three of my four walls. It is big enough to accommodate my odd body in it's oddest of positions. The only thing worse than an insomniac drunk with a chronic internet habit is putting two of them into the same house when they don't really get along. Especially when one of them is the daughter of the house owner. Fuck that noise. Oddly enough, I don't mean me. I am only the daughter to one man and he has long since died at the hands of a Russian organization known only as "A Russian Organization" while he was operating in an official capacity. How he came to find the legal loopholes to make "drug smugglin' and cocksuckin'" an official capacity is a secret he will take to his grave and other places hobos piss on. I can only assume he used his massive powers of persuasion to coerce some higher-level suit into putting him on the payroll. That man could get blood out of a rock. He could also get blood out of two children as it turned out. A less impressive, but more labor intensive process as he proved through his panting, sweating, and complaints that "this goddamn lamp is harder to swing than you little faggots think" to punctuate his blows.

He seemed under the impression that we thought the lamp an easy thing to swing. A fact we debated heavily with such obvious counter-points as: "Holy fucking hell" and "I can't find my bottom jaw!" At least that is what I think he said. People speaking in what I favorably call "Top-Jaw-Only-ese" are damn hard to understand. My favorite example being "HUNNNGGGHHHUNG! UNNNNNGGUNNGGHH HMMMUNNNNGGGGG!" Which led my circumstances to interpret as "My mouth hurts! But I forgive you, you sexy white devil despite what you did to my crops! NNGGGGGG." You must understand I am not quite done with my translation.

I believe that the point was that you just can't rely on the recitation of a man lacking half his mouth.

I took a little walk down the crooked path tonight. It was accidental. I then lit me a few sparkly ones and put them on a few bridges coated in a kerosene marinade.

Ben painted a perfect picture of our coldness. Our fast mistrust. Our disdain. As the more talkative pussy part of our little update team, I feel the need to accentuate that it comes from coldness, mistrust, and disdain on the behalf of the ladies that so bred ours.

My end result: Fucked up is as fucked up does.

I still recall the night I helped one of them when they were terrified.

I still recall the night I didn't sleep because one of them needed help for a final essay.

I still recall the nights I've taken hits from a jealous ex for them.

I still recall ostracism to defend them.

Right now, I very adamantly recall my difficulty lifting my left hand. I get to recall that, and recall that, and recall that, and recall that for six more weeks. Oh, and I get to recall the screaming in spanish.

I still recall the money spent on them.

I still recall the betrayal.

I still recall the denial of fault.

I still recall the accusations when they pointed to your kindness toward them as if they were debts you were repaying. I still recall that they said those were your decision and they should not be held responsible for them.

There are endless recollections that don't even have words. There are endless recollections that are honestly so fucking childish, that while we partook of them, we didn't share.

I still recall how they claimed chivalry was dead.

So is femininity.

Believe it or not, we aren't creatures of total selfish hostility. Not at all. Quite the opposite. Against our better judgment we have sought after silly ideals. We have looked for the spread of willowy hair across a pillow. And we have sought it with passion. We have entertained it and allowed it at personal expense. We have done so, not to acquiesce the flimsy whimsy of women, but because we have given the women too much credit. We thought them as willing and able of the same creature tenderness as we extended them. We sought a partner.

You can certainly accuse us of weakness. That isn't untrue. I prefer to believe that while under the influence of affection, and stricken with kindness we strove with healthy ideals to help those that we tried to care about. We found them insufficient by their own doing. We found them ugly and selfish in their reaping. And yet, somehow, we became the antagonists when our patience no longer proved inexhaustible.

So when Ben drags his antagonist across the coals of her own design I find no fault. I cannot find cruelty in it that hasn't been created. Perhaps being a woman is a far greater difficulty than makeup and bitching about what hasn't been done for you lately. Perhaps you should bring some nice fella flowers before he turns into one of us. I like to think that we're the product that nice guys finish last as.

So I ain't impressed with the wake you leave or the progeny you produce. We is built, not born.

I suppose congratulations are in order. Good job. Every time I act out my unkindly goals, every time I wear my charming mask to get what I want, every time Ben ices over, every time he eyeballs one of you little breeding holes from the neck down and treats you as such. I just want to be the first to say, you did an excellent job with the boys on the block. We so look forward to your head on a pole.

Rape ain't a crime, it's a privelage. Man I need someone face down in a bathtub right now.

Ausust 3rd.
They always come back when you don't want them to.

So she slinks into my house without knocking, and I can't help but feel indignant at her homely "This is my house, too" greeting of "what's up?" as she settles her ass into the chair, set at an angle towards my couch suggesting conversation, where I was sitting. Goddammit, I think, I knew I shouldn't have put it that way, but it looks sooo stupid in any other position with the drapery I don't have. Answering her, in my mind, and at that point, is not an option, let alone a consideration, so I do the only thing I can that won't have me escorted from my own home in cuffs; stare. Not your regular stare looking interestedly in the direction of the voice, waiting for the next bit of ignorance to flow out like a dog salivating over a treat, but a fucking stare that acts like it is trying to see the wall directly behind the eye-level of the opposing face. And utterly detests that wall. "So whatcha up to?" is the next report, to which I eventually respond with "Oh just trying to figure out what the fuck you're doing on my couch," in a faux-cheery manner. "God, somebody's in a bad mood," well, I wasn't, until you decided to initiate it by waltzing through my front door looking ever so distinctly like my vision of the angel of death. Speaking of, why hasn't he paid her a visit yet? I must pray more often.

Lighting up a cigaratte, the smell of sulphur lingering, I keep in mind that she doesn't like smoke, and puff it like I'm in the boy's bathroom at high school. It's always been my cigarette smoke that is a problem, even though she smokes, herself. Usually some blend of ganja, in her case. Always something nonsensical about the way I do it, or how my smoke drifts in inimical ways. Exhaling, I figure I pretty much got about three viable options. One; I can be generally rude and treat her like the ignominious two faced bitch that she is, which she seems to derive some sort of pleasure from. Either in seeing me get hot, or because she is a verbal sadist. But pleasure is still pleasure and I won't have it - not in my house. Two; Rationally explain to her why entering my house, especially after I have bluntly told her where we stand due to her actions, is uncalled for, unappreciated, and why she should leave. Which, again, manifests pleasure in the wrong party, somehow, and furthermore pisses me off. Three; kick her squarely in the face, throw shit, and shake a chair over my head like a tribal warrior bringing home the week's food. "You look tired," brings me out of my contemplation, so I decide to turn the TV up. "You know," I say over the din, the bitter taste of wet tar stinging my tounge, "I found myself a new hobby that doesn't involve hating you, and that's because during my hobby I pretend you aren't here." And with that I think I detected the slightest hint of anger and disapproval. Benjamin is certainly going to roll with this motherfucker. "Jesus it is nice not having what's her face here. I can do things like feel good about living and it erases all thoughts regarding ropes and shovels," studio laughter drowning out her mumbling, me smiling like a goddamned cheshire cat. Sometimes you gotta play a child's game to beat a child. "You think you're funny, don't you?" now that you mention it, I kind of do. "Boy, I never knew how peaceful it could be around here without the presence of bedlam house escapees running around spewing one continous lie. Wow it is nice without that cunt." The degradation just isn't the same when my attention is not directed towards her as I do it. No pleasure, Madame Death?

Something probably needs to be explained here. With brevity. I know I may seem cold, stolid, devoid of emotion - ok, I guess I am. Got me. Citizen's arrest. But my history with this bitch goes back a while. And all of it, I mean every putrid second of its documentation would be riddled with her cheating on me, her lies, her calumniating against me, her stealing of things from my neighbors and putting the blame on me. Fabrications of identity, places she never went to college, drug overdosing. All while I footed the bill. Every cent of it. She lived in my house for months without a job, off of my dime. And the gratitude shown for my care and concern - well you get the picture. Just know that never once did I hit her, push her, cheat on or steal from her. Ok she had nothing to steal, but that isn't the point. I wouldn't have. Really wouldn't have.

So I make another remark, directed at what may as well have been a cast member in whatever show was blaring out of the TV, trying to top the last one on the scale reading "This hurts." And she gets the point. Finally gets the point. Standing briskly from the chair, with an air of humility and egotistical ruination, she marches to the door in a way a member of the Gestappo would envy. She tries to jerk it open, much to my further enjoyment, but her hand slips off the knob and hits the wall to the right of it with a velocity and a subsequent thud that denotes pain. A second try reveals the outside for a brief moment as she pulls it shut in a manner that denotes anger. Anger and pain. Now you know how I felt. Somehow, though, I don't think this was my last time dealing with - or ignoring - her.

Taking 'em out one by one,
Benji.

July 31st.
The only way to cure it is to burn it.

A digital clock stared at me from a few feet away with its red letters reading 4:30 when I finally realized I had lost it. Finally realized that I was destroyed. And the impetus had been dead for over two months at that point. Sometimes it works like that though. You mentally stand for months in the midst of an expansive field screaming with your diaphragm pushing air out of your mouth like it is a natural wind tunnel, tensed at the top of its apex, not knowing where the hell it all went or why. Mindlessly grasping at things you aren't sure even exist ensues, and you can try to dismiss it all with a supercilious wave of that same grasping hand, thinking it'll all come back. It'll be fine. But you still feel like you've been dragged by that nondescript and unnamed object along that irritating and dumbfounding path until the rope finally snapped and left your ass hunched over in a quandary like an invalid. Then, when you've given it up, written it off, decided to live not knowing, to cope, it hits you like the results of a fucked up cloning experiment that meshed Joe Frazier with somebody's disdainful mother. Tells you what a goddamn idiot you were for not seeing it all coming. Happening. In fact, why'd you even let it start, you ape?

All the memories. The pieces. They fit together this time, and you know what brand of poison “it” was liberally mixing into your morning coffee every damn day. The antidote in your pocket the whole while. Fucking with that little intangible cunt of a mind you have was a proverbial goldmine of wicked pleasure.

So I’m sitting there using bubblegum flavored toothpaste at this girl’s house I had met two nights earlier, and I don’t know, or care, who’s mouth the brush had previously been in, or if I even had the right orifice of use picked out. But there I was, pink foam dribbling out of my mouth that tasted more like stale domestic beer than any flavor of gum I’d been accustomed to, with the reflection of the bedroom cattycornered in a dusty mirror, concentrated in my vision. Her, there, in it, sleeping. Half of the spread lying in folds on the floor, the other half dwarfing everything but extensive blonde hair amplified in hue by moonlight. All in all a pretty nice situation to be in. Pretty goddamned theatrical and romanticized simultaneously. And I wanted to find the route to the quickest means of exiting all of it. I wanted out. No destination in mind. Just out. Gone. I’d have taken the cell block of eternity over that shit. It wasn’t what had ruined me, but it was damn well the continuity of my ruination, which might as well have dragged me there in a dopamine haze and shoved some extra alcohol down my throat before it dropped me off with a little note saying “do what you can to make it flush a little more.”

All I know is that I could still see pink foam stuck to loose beard stubble in the rearview when I was watching yellow dash after yellow dash whiz by a black tire reminding me that my driving was much like bumblebee flight, and officers of the law tend to notice that sort of thing. But I didn’t care. That little problem of mine had just reached its senecitude, and I wasn’t about to let something like a pair of flashing blue lights ruin it for me. I was back. Under the aegis of my own mind again. And I knew that I wasn’t going to let them concrete block me and throw me beneath the surface of that opaquely distorted river of anxiety again. Fuck ‘em. Nothing short of the sonorous voice of God could have stopped me from driving that diametrical path back to reality.

And now there’s only one thing left; Convalescence. But none of it matters, because I’m fucking back.

Ben

July 11th.
Lecherous thoughts, neighborhood complaints, new digs, and the plight of a pretty girl.

This update is very old. For those of you that have complained and filled my inbox with insults and bullshit: understand that I have a row of stitches running up my left side. It's a long story that you aren't getting. But fuck you useless garbage piles anyhow.

With a whole house abandoned and subject to my curious whims, I've now got a bird's eye view of the neighborhood. I climbed out one of the windows onto the roof outside of it. With a little luck, I found a niche among the shingles that I could perch at to better glower in my vile statuesque glory. Once I was happily enthroned like a viciously judgmental pharaoh on the roof, I made the next logical jump. The only true jump my mind ever really makes. I looked around at the slopes and valleys surrounding me and wondered "How in fuck's glory am I going to set my drink down on those nights when I scramble out here to shout obscenities at the shuffling animals on the street below?"

Those of you that are familiar with my MacGyver skills when it comes to items of vice might know that once my simple, animal mind has felt a challenging sting across it's cheek, it cannot but answer. Like the gentleman dueler that I am, like the honorable dark knight astride his bridge, like the farmer whose daughter has been deflowered by a man to whom he gave shelter, my vigilante sensibility cannot but be offended and cannot be driven from it's course. I am a ship determined to reach harbor. I am the apocalyptic wrath of four men bearing across the world with their frothing, galloping steeds who have come to break the world with famine, pestilence, war, and death. I would resolve this problem or die trying. I would have a place to put my drink or I would be granted the coveted embrace of death. Either way, I was going to be a happy motherfucker.

I ambled around the house picking up everything around me, and when half a donut, my mattress, a 12 pack, and a stack of porn as high as an elephant's eye yielded no answers I began to sketch dubious schematics. Once I discarded the "Flying Monkey Cup Holder" idea as well as the "Amicable Chopper Pilot With Nothing Better To Do" I really got down to work. Rest assured, I am quite a genius.

I'll save you the intermediary steps. You see, the place on the roof that had so stricken my fancy had a peak beside it. The roof rose, joined, and then began to descend close beside my left side. The simple solution was to just carve a cup holder that fit this dimension. It didn't require me to account for sliding so no system of pulleys was needed at all. It was a bittersweet moment when I realized this as it made the 85 sets of tinker toys and 12 erector sets I had bought totally obsolete. Unless they can assist me in the bondage fetish I've been working on with my collection of slave themed collector plates.

What I ultimately did was to take a styrofoam cooler and carve a triangle into it's bottom. I then duct taped a garbage bag over the opening in the cooler's bottom. With that done, all that I had to do was fill it with ice and then snugly fit the top of the roof into the vaginal gap now slit into the base of my cooler.

It's just like being in a relationship, except that when you jam the roof into the cooler, there isn't any testimony for the charges the police bring up. Besides that, you don't have to drug the cooler. Most importantly, you haven't got any requirement to fake interest in the insipid chatter that will perpetually flow from the cooler.

As seems to happen to me, a familiar blonde decided to develop her laughable emotions in an affectionate way in my direction. After a series of pathetic relationships, I did feel that she deserved something other than cruel disapproval and rejection. However, knowing the only other options I could offer her were destruction, apathy, cruelty, and open contempt, I opted to allow her overt affections to go unnoticed. What can I say. Some people deserve the fun-loving fury and eccentricity that I have and some have been kicked and beaten enough.

What is funny to me, is that they never know which one they are. I have often believed that the external observation is the most valuable. A punchline. The external view gives no insight into who you are. All it can show is who they are.

All I have to say is bloody, violent death is a regretful, blessed option that only my intoxicated subconscious feels free to share.

Burn and die you delightful wooden sculptures.

June 29th.
Campaign promises.

This update almost didn't happen. Because I was torn between what I needed and what I loved. In the end, I realized that while I am not one to "die for my art" I am devoted to life more than I am to my people. My job is to be a mean son of a bitch. Whatever that does to the people around me. This house is ugly, cynical, hateful, and unattractive. What I have become isn't pretty or kind. Here's the update.

Dude. The anti-social part of me starts first. I start slumping and scowling. Receding into safe recesses of mind to sufficiently buffer myself from the critters in the room. Normally this is an excellent tactic. Eventually you get up to go to the bathroom, and you invariably (in my case anyhow) then find a cozy corner to curl into with your back up against something solid.

Juncture: Why my head was a pastel green easter egg shade and I had a hollow cantaloupe in my lap; why a pregnant woman was in the room and two children asleep upstairs; why I felt compelled to turn down sex and what the hell was this laced with will all be good questions during the course of this update.

Once I get into the dark, it becomes a whole other ballgame. You can't logically curl in a corner in a well-lit room can you? Certainly not, it was why they gave us the lightswitch. Why they put it just out of reach when I am trying to stumble a drunk girl through the door will forever be one of the great mysteries.

So I rattlesnake the lightswitch for a while. Unwilling to uncoil. But, the darkness is an inevitability with which I must eventually cope. So I sweep the lights off and am back in my corner before the filament can stop firing. Hunched grotesquely, knowing the invariable Samaritan will invariably ask if I am all right. The lights must be out before this happens, because my hunched body is difficult to explain at the moment. It does help that I just swallowed my tongue.

Juncture: Theatre syndrome - The odd and suddenly permissible disassociation from regular life that occurs in a theatre. To be equated with Beer Goggles and the one I just got the pleasure of naming "Underage Tequila Blues" A double entendre referring to the melancholy felt by youth prior to legal drinking age. Also Waking up with a 9 year old after double shot night at the casino in Taiwan.

The illusion of a nosebleed is nice for a moment. And by golly I cannot convince my brain that it isn't actually bleeding no matter how much physical evidence I site. The introversion starts when the lights go out. Unless you are of such a temperament that you sleep at this point then you jump right into the phase of slight vertigo and way way too many floaters in your eyes. Followed by the whack dreams portion of the program.

I on the other hand float between external suspicion to internal loathing. During this phase I often find it relaxing to arm myself or pad my bed and sleep in the closet. I'll get easily distracted and remand myself for drifting on guard. I then go back to my activity of listening suspiciously, faking sleep, hiding under a car, or staring fixedly at the door. I start to hate everyone around me and always seek solitude, company being non-conducive to my state of mind. I don't trust these fucking people. I downright hate them. I think the next segment will illustrate my mood grandly.

Our circle: Betty Jo - It is her kids asleep upstairs. 4 and 9 I believe. Can't wait for them to start drinking budweiser and beating the dog. Or worse, robbing me at the ATM and raping the girls at the Center for the Developmentally Disabled. Or worse still, listening to Slipknot and Mudvayne. Think of the children. With a role model mother that, as any responsible parent would, refused to partake in our activities, begging off as being "Way too fucking high already." She is a key player later in this little drama.

Beside Betty Jo is Joanna. Joanna is the link between these people and our house, plus myself. She dresses like shit and needs to lose weight. A lot of weight. Consider a lypo-nova because just the suck ain't going to do it for you there pumpkin. I call ya pumpkin only out of a latent carving craving that your personality brings about. She acts like a man and I feel a need to hide meat products in the crisper, knowing her vast appetite seems terrified of anything that might go in that drawer. The good news is her arteries are so hard and clogged she has no choice but to have a heart as big as all outdoors. Assuming your outdoors is somewhere near either a landfill or a gigantic pile of garbage hiding under a lampshade trying to fool you into thinking it isn't a landfill. Joanna loves Betty Jo. Because Jo loves Luke.

Luke - I am going to rip luke's face off through his ass. I hate the dumb, cocky, bland, napoleonic fuck-cricket. If it's warm bang it, marry a stripper, ride a motorcycle (faggot crotch rocket), talk big, image obsessed motherfucker. I am building a hill of glass into a pit of crocodiles just so I can let him look at it while I taxidermize his balls after playing cock in the car door for forty minutes just so he can think of how much better he could have had it. Why is there always a vague sexual, genital reference in any threat guys make to each other? Luke, is a tattooed loser. Luke likes to spout like he's been pimpin' round the big house. "Dude", and "'n shit" pour from his mouth like punctuating marks. As if he is perhaps beginning every statement with "Dude" and ending with "'N Shit" then he can never be interrupted because you just wait for the terminal word. Luke is practically falling off the couch because King of the Ring - Bitchslap Style here is practically creaming "Betty Jo" with the final stroke every night. Big stud wants to play daddy to the spawn asleep upstairs and doctor with their mommy. All the hard case motherfuckers I know are forgoing their long car lifestyle to drop their potential family into the used uteran wastelands of a two time winner of the fertility marathon's grab bag and came back with something that shits and screams. You stud you. But it is totally cool. We are going out on friday to the maternity wing with a flatbed and some Champagne, put on our cleanest overalls and hit on any woman walking out alone with a newborn. Get two people to call me daddy if that night goes a planafiamies.

Me- This is Me. In whimsical boredom I turned my hair a painful cherubic blonde and then dumped turquoise all over it. I look like a rainbow bright villain with my 5 o'clock shadow, glower, and "springtime emerald" hair. I will note that thanks to all the conditioner it is a lovely texture and you'll feel just like you're fondling an anime character if you wanna pet me.

Laurie or Leslie - I could tell she was clearly a host for something. The larval form of the implanted creature had swollen her abdomen until it was a firm, round mass. I will not tell you whether or not I sedated her and forcibly removed the hideous abecedarian life form and then dashed it's head (which it may or may not have had \ still have). That is between me and the blotched eviscerated corpse being dumped into a bath of coke. Fucking parasites come from their primordial homes in the earth and infect our women, ruin our economy, keep republicans in office, and think we are just going to let them? Not if I have to hack open every swollen Beth, Ellie, or Suzie I come across. She was sitting there all night inhaling the gaseous garbage not absorbed by our overtaxed bloodstreams'. I hope the baby is deformed, but if you were to see the mother, you'd wonder if she'd notice or not.

When I had tucked myself away from these bitching bickering devices of immaturity I assumed safety. Until Betty Jo was offered to stay in my roommate's vacated bed with the kids rather than drive home. Betty is a slender, brunette, firecap. Were she less than 28 and had not made naughty with so many boys with powerful swimmers then she, were she to find a pleasing personality, would be fairly attractive. I can see why the fellas got her spread out in the hatchback so fast. The soft knock on my door revealed the wine bottle attached to the end of a shapely arm. When this was combined with the oddly drifting delirium I was having at the moment caused my simple nature to hand my common sense $5 and told it to ride the ferris wheel and then get a hot dog. She sleazed her way in with soft smiles, darting eyes, and more beauty than any one man could safely take into his heart all at once. She was a vision, walking through that door carrying one of those wine jugs that they make in Maryland. It was a red that a man could get lost in. Light got lost in the lightly tinted glass that held the precious fluid. BRainwash in a bottle. It hung there before me in astounding glory, clouding gradually as my gaze drew nearer to the bottom of the bottle. Like the heart of the beast no longer beat and it's vital, heavy, visceral fluids were taking all their jubilant sinfulness reluctantly downward. It looked weighty and sedentary - a passionate sleeping giant.

"I must have you" I muttered.
"Pardon?" Said ...Samantha? Carrie? Kimmy? THe girl with the wine. The glorious, shapely flagon looking ever more lustrous as it sensed what I felt. As it knew the heat inside itself grew as it grew in me. How we would become forever one...

"C'mon, what did you say?"
"Please pour me another, and please do it quietly." I grant you poetic licence to envision the exchange. But suffice it to say that I'll be goddamned if I will ever rock the Betty Boat. Especially with sleeping children that bear no association to me besides the fact I seem to be the only one who is at all concerned for their well being. And I barely have the interest to mumble "whatever" were one of them to decide to make an anti-freeze and Alpo milkshake.

So finally, I mellow. Trying to give you the very best of Burnz on his new feel gÜd trick. During high-school I spent my time between my brighter, more successful, spoiled friends and the toxic bits of our melting pot. I spent much time after high-school feeling the need to relate, as I am doing in this letter, my exact state of mind during any kind of illegal intake so as to inform my less destructive constituents. Chemical Journalism, Cunt Factory, and Brimstone Furnace are the words of the evening. Thank you for watching update with Burnz.

'N Shit.