Friday 3:58am
Beautiful regurgitation.

Tonight, I feel like talking about the most common and predictable methodology of our society. I was watching PBS, and in this case I am not referring to Pubic Broadcasting. I was feeling a little cerebral having just finished Mad Max: The road warrior. So I thought I would see what our buddies at the big time network by the people and for the people was feeding us tonight. I was surprised to say the least. Normally PBS is overrun with opera, symphony, and other kinds of lost and archaic culture thrown back at us in a vaguely insulting way and interspersed between breaks with Mike Flarison, owner, CEO, and big swinging dick of PBS, begging us to make a contribution to his organization so that programming like "Fat men sing the blues in Italian" can survive. He will offer us a tote to compensate, which is generous in the extreme. Especially if it comes with a mug. Usually I ignore this channel. I am a culturally deficient, arrogant, low class entity that thrives mostly on preaching in my monotone voice and swearing more than in necessary about any topic at all. Tonight I will admit that PBS became my only rational God.

Maybe it is the vehicular combat still rolling around in my tiny, American brain that made this combination work. Maybe it is the simple reasoning. For whatever reason, PBS made me feel nice tonight. What were they talking about in the middle of the normal person's night? It was pop culture. They were attacking, in their educated and accent-less voice, the mainstream culture. It was beautiful. They pointed out so many things that appeal to my anarchist heart. They analytically pointed to Limp Bizkit and their marriage of rage and "rap-rock" as well as their marriage to Interscope records and MTV. PBS was unabashedly scandalizing how middle to low class white males were seeking out such bands as Insane Clown Posse to fight their disdain for commercialism and the culture of the average person. I will begin by quoting the one of the members of ICP "That is our song. That isn't "your song" that is on the radio. That is everyone's song. What your song is is something that no one knows about." Who isn't looking for that? I even find it in the mainstream music. The other night, sitting in my car, drinking I heard something that hit me as it never has before. In that old "We can sell it to you bullshit" song of "The Verve" Bittersweet sym-phoney it says "I want to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me." That found me when I needed most to be understood. When it seemed that isolation was the compounding factor in my pain. We are all human. We all suffer. We all bleed in different ways, and the thing that keeps us sane, the thing that keeps us from eating a bullet is the thought that we are somehow unique. That somehow the people we know and the things we do are worth note. That we are not just animals who follow the sequence of red gates into the final pen of everyone around us. That we are the black sheep. Our tiny worlds, our friends that love or hate us as if we are irreplaceable make us feel like whole people and not demographics. Tonight, to my surprised joy, PBS did the cynical thing, did the thing that I can support and love and pointed to our media programming.

Look at you and me. I bought in. I know I did. I like to think of myself as a free and independent spirit, but I can admit that in the end I am not. I am a man that bought an image more than I am a person that built a free mind. They, the machine, tells you what to think. They say "this is new. This is genius. This is worth censoring. This is speaking to the human soul and everyone should hear it." They tell you and me whatever we need to hear to buy into it. They back it with so many false ads and false backups and false spokesmen that something finds us. Something tells us that we are doing the underground thing. That we are fighting something, that we understand what other's do not. This is all spin. Eminem, ICP, Limp Bizkit, they are all the product of someone. Someone with funding telling us that we are hearing the "Neo-Renaissance". That we are inside an underground movement, that we are the plugged in souls that get it. This is all crap. No matter who you are or where you hear it, or don't hear it, it is all a line of garbage. PBS said this, with no qualms about it. Like a person that I never thought they could be; channel 6 blatantly pointed out that ICP was on wrestling, that Limp Bizkit and their close relationship with TRL and MTV was all backed by money, that they were (as I have put it before) "fed to us in our iron lung through our meal slot of denial". They said, bluntly, that everything that has any kind of following will be taken, chewed up, regurgitated and sold back to us for fucked up prices at any number of retail outlets. That admitted buy-ins like me, and anyone else will eventually be turned into the category of "male, 18-30" or "female 25-40" instead of a person. That everything we hold dear and use as examples of truth are nothing but the maneuvering of three men in suits in the right conference chamber.

Whatever you are part of right now, be it Anarchy, Communism, Capitalism, Alcoholism, Higher Learning, Show-Biz, Terrorism, Patriotism, it is all semantics. Love, hate, fear, they are all words that have been redefined so as to make you, me, and everyone else make them marketable. Whoever you talk to, listen to, or preach to, there is a person or group of people telling you whatever you think and feel is right. You can't escape it. You love your image, I know I do. You want to be the person in your head and not the creature you are and will do and buy anything that furthers this. Especially if it is the thing that defines an individual. What you love and what you hate are what defines you. Argue with me if you like, but you are guilty by you association. Be it God, Satan, Love, Anger, Terror, Patriotism, Filth, or Cleanliness what you are is who you are. Build it or Break it. You can't be your own person anymore.

I guess there isn't a point, except to say you are expendable. Do with that what you will. You are part of a movement. That movement is not of your design. It can't be and never could be. Even if you are the spokesman, you are the figurehead that has been made and sold to a hungry populace. I love you kids, but I could find someone just like you as you could find a thousand people like me. And most of them would use a better set of color scheme's than this site. One day I will have the pleasure of totally selling out. If I haven't already.

I don't understand this world. Ambition, grace, money, success. These things are useless words to me that do nothing but make me realize that I have none of them. Watching Mad Max makes me feel better. Find gas, find food, keep moving. Those are laws and rules that I appreciate. That I understand. This homogenized existence of take out and packaged ideals. This pearl tower of beauty and grace and poise are what confound me. Perhaps I am too caught in my low class homicidal rage. Maybe I am missing the point of what manners and etiquette make a person be. I tire of manipulation and duplicity and long for a place that is full of enemies. A world where I know who is against me because it is everyone. Some imaginary land where I can kill, some imaginary land of blunt cruelty and no more of the maneuverings. Oh to live in a movie. Oh to just be able to scavenge and run. I suppose I was not meant for a time with so many rules, so many restraints. I was a personality whose time had either passed, or is yet to come. A hero or villain of tomorrow or yesterday but who has no reasonable role besides continued drunken confusion under the pressure of a system he cannot fathom. It all doesn't matter does it? Not for some of us. Wait for our soul's rebirth I suppose. It is a messy situation isn't it? Good luck in this quagmire.

Wednesday 6:13am
If you can read this you are not one of my co-workers.

I was watching the X-Files. Which has a misleading name. You would think it would be porn, but instead it is a bunch of people that don't have sex. Ever. But in the episode I watched, there was this "shadow man" (a man who is ironically afraid of his own person. That was a shadow joke if you got it.) who claimed he knew everything about Special (or at least remarkable) Agent Scully. She never really confirmed this. I found that very curious. He is standing there telling her he knows her ATM pin number, where she lives, where she gets coffee, how many kinky sex toys she doesn't have, and what the name of the guy that gave her herpes was. She doesn't ask him to back this up. She just takes his word for it. Now that is good detective work. YAY for the FBI and their crackerjack team of highly trained investigators. "You know my ATM PIN? Damn it all, I shall not go to the simple trouble of asking you to tell me what it is for you are the "shadow man" and I just put quotation marks inside of quotation marks. But that is a special Quantico training maneuver so I really wouldn't recommend it without some stretching and maybe a light jog to get at your target heart rate." I have no idea what a target heart rate is. I know what all those words mean. Target, heart, and rate. How do you know what yours is? For me "still beating" is what I aim at.

I learned something while talking to an asshole. This didn't happen recently, or at all in the real world. But it works better as a story so I am just going to lie to you. You are beautiful. One more lie and I will be done. So me and the shadow man are shooting the shit about the vague childhood he thinks I had, when we start talking about sports. Because we are men and men can only talk about cars and sports. If they do not, they must be gay. If they are gay, they must talk interior decorating and/or sports (only in a gay sort of "his ass sure looks hot girlfriend" kind of way.) So the shadow man and I are talking sports. I tell him I prefer soccer. He calls me a bitch. He says that football is the only truly macho sport. I tell him to suck my dick. He doesn't. I realized after this potential conversation that I hold the best sport talk trump card. If someone says your sport is pussy, just hit them with this little gem: "I like (insert your weak-ass sport here golfer). I use it to wind down after I play my favorite sport. Russian Roulette." No one can top that. Bungee Jumping, sky diving, anything is totally blown away by a guy who sits around spinning revolvers and waiting for the time he blasts his head off. This is what makes me the alpha-male. That and the horns. But they are mostly decorative and used only during mating season or when someone sticks the fucking can opener in the wrong goddamn drawer...Terry!

If you can tell I am changing the font on here. This is Franklin Gothic Book. Most people should have this font. If you do not then I recommend a lengthy death scene with orchestral music as you walk into the ocean. Naturally this is a PG-13 death, so you shall be nude, but only a silhouette against the moonlit waves. And as with all work environments we wish this one to be totally free of sexual harassment, so if any of the waves are a little too zealous in their crashing, or if the tide comes in in a way that you feel violates your personal morals, do not hesitate to take excessive legal action. We encourage it. Now go shake that ass and call it "acting". I have a real addiction to quotes and parentheses. I am trying to combat this by putting LSD directly in my eye so as to arrest my ability to see coherently enough to type but my body is proving stronger than I expected. Why must I be so hardy and stalwart? Where is the frailty that my asthma and horrible facial disfigurement promised? Where God, where?

This concludes our update. Please tune in next time for another exciting font change as Burnz tries to figure out something that looks good and isn't ripping off someone else's idea. Net Piracy is for the weak and meager and those individuals of questionable backgrounds that may or may not contain Communist roots. We mean you Herr Dostovsky.

Sunday 8:04pm
Extra, Extra!!!! Read all abou... hey, fuck you.

The newly opened bottle of Absolut Citron (they were out of the regular) sitting directly in front of me, while planted here, alone, in the chair (which can barely be used for any sort of sitting device) tonight, calls out openly for an update to Matt's site, and perhaps something halfway cogent that can hopefully clear any possible misconstruances up regarding my situation in Aussieville.

It took me a while to conjure up the ability to tell Matt exactly how the situation was going here, so I was initially very vague. And this stemmed fully (albeit not rightly) from the fear of having Matt disregard me as any sort of friend, or stand-up individual. And in retrospect, that doesn't even make sense, and even contradicts itself, as he always told me to go for it, as the outcome of my three month sabbatical wouldn't affect him in the least. And I sincerely thank Matt for conducting himself in that manner, because, ultimately, he has every sentient human right to be pissed with me.

That said, I'd like to delve into the comment I procured for Matt, that he mentioned in his last update:
I was touchy-feely with a woman I had met barely two hours preceeding.

I know it carries along with it the unspoken sentence of "I am not a gentleman," but this is far from the case, I am not normally like this with women, and I will now commence with the best "play by play" explanation I can provide. As follows:
I arrive in this heat-drenched country early on in the morning of the 13th, December, and, after several units of time of fruitless search for a payphone that accepts my goddamn calling card, I gave the entirety of the airport a defiant and extended middle finger, then proceeded to sit down at their outside eating establishment for a much needed beer.

After two of the Aussie indigenous Victoria Bitter "beers," I extend my search radius for the payphone, and finally come across one that isn't fucked, and furthermore, too aussiefied for my tastes. I'll spare you the details of the call to Sarah, and go right to the meeting, which took place at the exact same table I was drinking at previously. Saying she's attractive doesn't need to be said (or reiterated, rather), as I believe Matt has openly mentioned this little shared opinion before.

All went along fluidly, to say the least, and we stayed at the airport for a rough time estimate of one hour, letting me relax, and talking about a few inane (but not really banal) things. The facets of conversation are unnecessary, and the front page of Methkitchen isn't long enough. Plus, none of you probably give a fuck about what was said, and that's good, because I'm not typing it out.

After that first ice-breaking experience (in which case there wasn't much ice to be chiseled at), we both agreed it woud be a good idea to go home, a) because I hadn't showered in 20 some hours, in the wake of the flight, and b) because, to put it lightly, the outdoors here are hot to the degree of intensity to classify as "fucking majorly" so (that is scientific).

Now, you may wrong me for what I'm about explain, or, contrastingly, condone it, but either way, I don't fucking care, because I don't need your goddamn justification or lack thereof.

Subtle things that took place after I had showered, and we had both settled down, gave me the indication that being "touchy-feely" was in the green area of things, so that is exactly the course of action I chose to commit myself to.

Now let me ask you something more or less rhetorical; If a woman is reaching across your body to grab a sip of YOUR beer, touching you, saying things which carry a sexual connotation, and is looking at you in ways you interpret as "very friendly" (who, all-the-while, you're very ineterested in and attracted to), is it not ok to reciprocate in action and speech with her? I think it is, and I stand by that. If THAT isn't societally and morally acceptable, then fuck it all, we should all just shut our goddamn mouths, and tie our hands behind our backs when it comes to conversation with members of the opposite sex we take interest in.

The domino effect took it's course of movement, one thing led to another, and I believe you know the rest. I refuse to go into detail regarding what I did, and how I did it, as that is imprudent, for one, and none of anybody's fucking business, for another. That goes with the only exception of Matt.

Yeah, I'm sloppy, and I irratate her at times with that, but I don't think it really matters (obviously hasn't thus far).
Anyway, I am cutting myself short here, because I don't have much more time. But I will leave the faithful readers of this site, and my superfluous bullshit, with an e-mail address. Any comments are fine, I can embrace or reject them, just don't expect a four page rebuttle/justification or anything with a hint of semblance to that, because you ain't gettin' it, biznitches!

If I don't respond in compliance with your personally demanded level of rapidity, then you can do two things for me; A) fuck off, and B) wait longer. Because, as Matt can first-handedly attest FOR me, my chances to log on to the www are limited now.

Later, you fucking dumbasses,
Ben

sirmarryat@prodigy.net
P.S. Matt, what is up with those transcripted conversations between us? Half of hem are missing, nigga.

A thought grabbed me as I was about to log off, so I find prudence in making a few more short statements regarding what I just typed.

First off, when I said that Sarah took a sip of my beer, I should mention that she is allergic to yeast, and can drink very little of that substance, and had told me this months before. She sipped it because it was MINE, and for no other reason. Her doing that, after telling me beforehand that she didn't drink beer... well isn't that a sign that it's ok for me to move further into her personal space of breathing? If it isn't, then I just have no fucking clue about human mechanics and thought processes, and I also prefer to remain ignorant of them, because they don't make sense otherwise.

As for Matt's comment that I could possibly be fabricating my experiences... well I can offer no more poof than "no I'm not," which is feeble proof to say the least.

I'll just leave it at this; I don't know any of you, and I have never met Matt personally, so why the fuck would I take the time to create a broadside's worth of lies? To make myself look big? Hardly. Believe what you want, because all I offer is truth, pure and simple. That is all the proof I can give.

Also, I fully realize I misspelled a few words (ie irritate), but I am not going to correct them, because this keyboard doesn't work very well, and I don't care. So please, comments sent in regards to typos need not be sent, as they will be ignored. I don't give a fuck about your ghetto typing error recognization skillZ, you fag.

Friday 5:45am
Be like me. Be drug _ _ee.

That headline was brought to you by Willy. A large scary hulk of a guy I knew in high school. He was later removed from school because the court ordered him to go into boot camp to be "reformed". This means that he goes in a lanky, mean, angry animal and leaves the same only now he is bigger, more frightening, has no hair, and a chip on his shoulder. That is like putting me in a room, alone, with a nozzle directly connected to the primary Budweiser distillery, an arsenal of cutlery, and speakers that pump out "How everyone has fucked you over" and "Why people are useless sacs of walking shit" while I am given no entertainment but a computer with a mean ass connection but no chat programs. Throw in scads of pictures of my Uber-ex all wrapped around random guys (just get them from her, she has a photo album entitled "Pics that make Burnz fight the urge to hit me") and then do it for two weeks (or until the Budweiser distillery runs dry. Whichever comes first). That would be the equivalent "reform" for me.

In quick news. I am slowly recovering from the personal crisis I encountered on my visit home. I did the one thing that I dreaded doing to make me ok with it, but the relative alleviation was payment enough for the reprehensible act necessary. This also falls in the none of your damn business category. So now you have a vague problem with an equally vague solution. Both are not only embarrassing, but also judgement-worthy which keeps me from disclosing them to you. Trust me when I say you don't want to know. The pain is abating and giving way to rage if you care. Which you don't.

The point of the headline tonight is that I have found the black hole that holds the Golden City of my life. Tonight, while on break, a felon I know comes in and says to me he says: "Hey, if you need anything: Coke, Speed, anything I got a friend looking to unload it fast." I did what any of you would have done in that situation. I dropped to my knees, pulled out the ring and pleaded with him to take me as his concubine. He isn't the prettiest picture in the album, (unless that album is "Pics that make Burnz fight the urge to hit me") but he has things that can make me happy. Which is more than I can say for most other people. He did however blow me off tonight when I called him after work for my attainment. We all hope that this is not due to a problem with shipping and handling, and simply a minor complication. Pray for me brothers, that I might have that which is most dear to my heart.

Along that note, I realized that I had previously lied to a woman about my alcoholism's' pupation. I don't find it anything to be ashamed of, and the truth is that you don't know Burnz if you don't know booze. Henceforth I will strive to be more open with anyone that asks. I also know that I promised you an Aussie Watch and am not delivering. I have it right here in Ben's own words. I'll put it up tomorrow because this post is not worth the top of the list. I thought I would be more with the funnyness than I was. Too much baggage going around in my mind right now. Many apologies.

Wednesday 2:18am
Miles and miles of pain.

I would love to tell you people about my night. I want to tell you what made it so....agonizing. I want to tell you what I had to do in the car to try and alleviate the suffering. And I wish I could make you understand how difficult it is to keep from chugging sleeping pills. But since I am just not ...ok with that right now, I will instead give you:

†Burnz Best of Music Video Installment #1†
•Best Walking - The Verve - Bittersweet Symphony - The lead singer is rolling down some city street doing his lip-synching thing and shoulder checks some woman walking along. She spins around and hits the concrete.
•Best Expression - Eve 6 - Here's to the night - The lead singer is sitting on a couch during a party and some girl comes over to sit near him. He sourly glances at her with the "get off my fucking couch" look on his face.
•Best Weapon - Bush - Greedy Fly - Gavin, from Bush plays a double roll as a lizard/demon thing and an guy with large angelic wings. At one point his lizard persona grabs a circular saw and carves through a wall. He then attacks his angel persona.
•Best Pre-Music Introduction - Puff Daddy - Song Name forgotten - P. Diddy is riding on a motorcycle through some corn field laden area. He hits the hand brake on his little crotch rocket and just pitches to the side, eating pavement. Now that is entertainment.•#2 - Bush - Greedy Fly - Since this is my favorite all time video, I will endlessly refer to it. Gavin is sitting in a dingy police interrogation chamber with one of those big dog collars on that they use to keep animals from tearing casts or bandages off. Cop says "You want a cigarette?" Gavin says "No, I quit." Cop: "When?" Gavin:"While back." You would have to see it. It is just so grim. Gavin's delivery of the phrase "While back" gives this timeless impression of someone locked up so long that it all runs together.
•Best severe beating - Enrique Iglesias - Hero - I don't know why Enrique is outside a church in this video. I don't know why there are criminals there. I don't know why one of them beats Enrique to death. I don't care either. Just so long as someone is doing the world this great service. I also don't know why the police that arrived just stared at him while he died or why he was beaten in daytime and it suddenly switches to night.

Finally, here is some shit that landed on paper when I first got home:
Returned to what I shall call my latent...What is word? Fears? No. Anxiety? Not quite right. Emotional retardation? No. I know who I am here and it isn't the person I have been living with. I laughed when I jumped the fence, caught my foot and had to come down on my back. Halfway to my makeshift home I could feel the old Burnz angst arouse. Like nostalgia it crept on me with one feeling reminding me of another until the cumulative product was the home nurtured Burnz. The man who endlessly pestered his girlfriend insomniacally. I even wanter there as I crossed that yard. This somehow wasn't me.

I think something about the atmosphere. The surroundings alter our thinking more than we know. Familiar things keep us in rut responses. We don't cope like analytical beings. We cope with patterns that were mistakes since there creation. I know there is a neurobiological explanation. That we are controlled by the neural pathways we scorch in our minds. Action A leads to reaction B one time. A precedent is hence set. This isn't news. People don't change until they see the folly in thinking. Hell, the whole concept of psychology is to expose these patterns brought on by initially incorrect thought. The only summation, a realiztion that I come to while writing this is I will not be old Burnz. I see now, after seom absencse, some of the flaws and qualities of old Burnz. I can only use these to compare against an ideal and then seek the ideal rather than settle and be disappointed. Compare what I would do were I at my new home, with new Burnz against what this neuro-rut is dictating.

That won overuse of the term Old Burnz and New Burnz didn't it? Well, I failed. I tried to be logical, tried to go at things with my logic hat on. It worked for some parts, but...when it came to the big questions, the questions that are now weighing heavily on me, the issues that I am hoping will fade under the wheels of daily monotony. When those came into mind, there was too many variables to make a right decision. And there wasn't a right decision. If I had it to do again, I suppose I would have spent those three days the same. But in that I am re-learning how many different kinds of pain a person can feel. Done now. Next post is a good Aussie Watch.

Friday 1:20am
I have decided to take a wife.

I also have a big survey done. Rather than ship it out, I am just going to post it at the bottom of this update. Nothing special, just usual Burnz survey humor. You have to admit, Kimberly here sure is fucking adorable. But I suppose she wouldn't be in Hollywood if someone didn't find her worth coveting. And in all honesty "The War at Home" was a good movie about readjustment by Vietnam Veterans. And you can watch Kim here sparkle her blue eyes a lot. What else could you want? Hunnies, family fights, and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

The last item, I thought about putting on another post. But I figured I will throw up one big one, and then not do another update until after I get back from going to visit home. I am sure that will yield some kind of hijinks or something worthy of talking about. So here it is, it is what you want, it is what you wait for it is:

I am putting part of the conversation with Ben along with the survey here.That is just for anyone that wants to skeptically call me a liar. The long and short of it is that Ben is irritating the Loony Aussie Twat. He is knocking her rugs around, picking on the natives, and messing up her precious house. While he has not hung her stuffed dog from the ceiling fan like I did it sounds like he should be living in a hostel just as I was. But he isn't. And more than that, he is getting ass out of it. That is right, the bitch that didn't give it up to me is laying it out for him. The reasoning behind this is fairly simple. From the moment he met her, he was touchy-feelie. And he turned that up. He put it up to the next level while I went in with my icy demeanor and big black jacket and oozed my usual "don't touch me, don't come near me" vibe. If I had started strong, I would have ended with a bang. Good punnage. But I had my distance respectful "Let her come to me" attitude and that kept me celibate and put me out on my ass. Not to slight Ben. It is possible he is just cuter than me, more her type, and all around a choice that 9 out of 10 women would make. That or he is lying to me for whatever reason. In any instance, make a note of this in your "how crazy it is to meet people from the internet" notebook. Ben isn't the first I know that has had a little horizontal action out of it. So power to him and I have something to mentally dissect. Win win.

To any of you that I won't see when I come home, much love. Get fucked up on New Years. Tell them Burnz said you had to. Got kinda picture happy on this post. It was the newly found ability to add them in with the text. Needless to say this is a stolen talent via cut and pasting code. But I think I know how to do it. However, piracy is just simpler. If the Internet were an ocean, I would have an eyepatch and a peg leg. I would also have a ship that capsized all the time, but fuck your criticism.

Tuesday 8:29pm
Questionable humanity.

First off, I archived the last set of updates.

So it is Christmas day, with all that is implied in that. Namely chain smoking, fighting heartburn, and sleeping off the Christmas Eve hangover. Which was a bad one, I tried to watch Scarface last night and that didn't really happen. It started out good, but then the story got muddled, the camerawork was blurry as hell and for some reason the captioning was on. This might be due to some directorial flaw. I don't know. Possibly because you can't understand a damn word that any of the Cuban characters are saying over your wall punching and constant muttering of such things as "Where is my fucking glass?" "Whooo stul mahh ffffffffffffucking lighghghgter?". With all that going on, Al Pacino is hard to hear. And so I eventually turned it off and fell asleep on the floor.

Today I was watching Gilmore Girls, and I don't care what you think about that. It had some murky message about family in it. They usual bullshit "I love my daddy" "I hate my daddy but realized how much I loved him after he died" "The tribe chieftain was rough but kind in putting the hooks through my nipples" "Mommy is trying to give herself a vodkabortion (that is vodka+abortion) which made me realize how much I love daddy" or whatever. The point is that everyone I know cares about at least some part of their family enough to grieve when they die. I can't say as I care about anyone that much. I wonder why it is that these days, someone could die and my biggest concern would be how long I had to wait before I could make a joke about them. Like when a survey asks "Friend that lives the farthest away?" How many years before I can put "Tim, because Hell sure is a long fucking way from my house!" I don't care about people. I mean, I see relationships with trust, or acceptance and...there are very few people that I know that I don't complain about bitterly and none of them would affect me too much if they died. Certainly not enough to grieve. And I made sure I had to work Christmas Day so I could avoid having any reason to go back and see my family.

Now I was trying to decide if this was a problem I have with keeping people at an emotional distance, or if I am just a prudent person that knows shitty people. In that vein I updated my people page with a little more realistic descriptions. I will spit more acid as it occurs to me. This is why I like alcohol more than most sentient life-forms. They are a spectrum of sick animals. Thus, I keep them at arms length, emotionally, because I know the kind of havoc that would occur if I cared about them enough to accept them. TV people are nicer, prettier, kinder, and much much more intelligent than human folks. I think I will stick with loving them, and cry bitterly when their show gets canceled. It is possible that I am just detaching, but it hurts less, it makes more sense, and you don't seem like such a fool.