Sunday 2:39pm
Coming along quietly.

I don't know what the hell I was talking about on that last update. I can barely read over it if that helps explain it to any of you. Not to mention that I really wanted a catchy one-liner for this update and couldn't think of one. Into the story.

Friday night I went to get drunk with my old compadres from back in the old school. We be kickin' it and taking in tons of beer. Too much as it turned out. I recall sitting at a table with them and then....nothing but blurry moments and the tale woven to me by my friends and the Fort Collins Police Department. So the legend goes: A guy named George cut me off. He and my large friend Paul physically restrained me from reaching the refrigerator. This pissed me off and I managed to completely stare George down. However, I was fed up with the whole scene and exited. Paul and Kamal followed me in a car to try to convince me to go back. I told them to fuck off and tried to hit Paul. I failed at this, but it convinced him to leave me alone. Here I was left alone for an indeterminate amount of time. Since no one saw what I did in this period, I have no way of telling it to you.

My next recollection is caged up in a tiny room in the Police Station. It was a horrible place. It was all white walls, steel doors, and a toilet. I had a 4 foot long bench to sit on and nothing else. No cot, not even a pad on the floor or a clock on the wall. So I had no idea what time it was, or how long I had been there. They fed me by kicking a paper sack through the door with a practiced efficiency. When I tried to assure them that I was now sober enough to be released, they gave me some platitude and went back to ignoring me. Finally at what I discovered to be 9:30 Saturday morning, they let me out. I pumped the officer releasing me for information about the particulars of my apprehension. He said that I had been sleeping on someone's lawn. The owner of the lawn called the police to have me removed. When the boys in blue arrived, I decided to flee. Still drunk, this was a failed attempt. I then tried to attack the pursuing officer. Apparently I did succeed in clumsily tackling him, but was quickly subdued and taken to the big house. Somewhere in here I lost a shoe. Once I was put into custody, I spent the next couple of hours screaming and pounding on the door of my semi-cell. I threatened everyone in the station and their families. I even brought up Darcy and the horrid things I planned on doing to her. All in all, I was generally unpleasant.

I've been in a holding cell before. You lay on the bunk and wait for them to let you out. It isn't too bad. This fucking hole in the wall was nothing like that. You feel caged and desperate when you have absolutely no control. They wouldn't tell me the time, I was freezing and got a nice lung infection from it. I couldn't even lay out to my full height on the concrete floor. I used to have respect for the police and their station in life. I used to believe they were a necessary evil. I was wrong. Kill the goddamn pigs. Nothing makes me hate those tin badge fuckers like being at their mercy and seeing how they use that power. They adjudicate you to death and take that law and order tone when you try to ask simple questions. That was all fine and dandy when I was fucked up beyond all recognition, but when I am trying to be civil, they could take 30 seconds to look at their watch or get me a goddamn blanket. This further perpetuates the theory that individuals who become cops would be best suited as criminals. The distinction between a pig and an outlaw is governmental sanction.

And look at me generalizing them. Exactly what they did to me. So I say game on. I say that a majority of cops are pricks looking for a weaker creature to abuse. This isn't always true. But not all those that break the law are without morals or humanity. A nap on a lawn doesn't warrant a court date to me. While I fully admit that punishment should come from my jumping Sergeant Joe, that isn't even on the list of charges. The law is built to repeatedly fuck you. It is designed so that if you make a mistake you will be tried for that mistake. You will then have to cite that mistake on future job applications. Your single error paints you as a criminal and it self-perpetuates as anyone that sees that makes that distinction until the whole of society jades you. Pre-qualifies what kind of person you are just because, ultimately, all you did was have a few too many and sleep on a lawn. This is why I hate structure and bureaucracy. Just absolve interference in our lives by a judiciary and allow natural selection to take over. Stop caging and rehabilitating. Just allow us to survive if we can and die if we can't. It is natural order. That means that our so called order, our pretense of protecting and serving is just an excuse to abolish natural order.

The long and short is that crime and lawfulness are symbiotic. They feed off each other. It is the laws and the enforcers of those laws that entice me and others like me to disobey them. And it is that disobedience that creates more need for more cops, more precincts, tighter controls. And no one knows where to stop it. No one seems capable of determining where the line should be drawn. And thus the fuzziness between who is the true perpetrator and who is just in their actions. To use a classic Burnz-ism: "Never confuse right with just." *Gets off his little soap box*. But I am refraining from alcohol. Obviously it is too dangerous to combine with my biochemistry. But if I am ever given the opportunity to run over one of our illustrious peace officers, rest assured that I will take it. Because someone has to act righteously.

Thursday 1:51am
Mind full of lies. Lung full of garbage. Gut full of poison.

I don't know what I am doing tonight. I know that I am in my home. I know that I am writing. Beyond that, there is no comprehension. There is no meaning. There isn't even a reason. Just now. Just what I hear in these few minutes. Just what I know while there is music, while there is light, while I terrify myself with tomorrow's children. I can't make you know me. I can't make you understand me. I can't even make this something I am proud of. All I can do is be here now. All I can do is make more little black letters. When I run out of those, then you may eulogize me. You may remember me. You may even forgive me. If there is anything to commemorate, recollect, or forgive.

I can recall a terrified boy surrounded by his peers. He was too humiliated to confess what a weak and delicate person he was even then. I can still see him sitting on a bench in the sparkling abyss of his high school. A place that was his home for 7 hours of the day. I can remember a night when someone, so special at the time, tried to draw him out. Tried to incorporate him. I don't know the date. I couldn't even tell you what I was wearing. I know that we were in the North Gym of a town that has no real name now. I know she was wearing red. It was slightly sequined. She could have asked me to burn the school. She could have requested a bridge fire in her name. She would have had it within days. But she didn't. She asked for a dance. She asked for more than I had. I can be a killer, a manic, an intense creature of passion and yet I could not dance with her. I feared that look of disappointment on her face. I was afraid of knowing that I had given her nothing but a pitiful attempt at something that belongs to lovers, companions, or hysterically close friends.

It wasn't her that approached me. This girl in red, this coveted prize. It was the love of a friend. Of someone that saw what life was like for me. He had brought her to me. He had asked her to recognize my isolation. He had pleaded the case as my advocate. My emissary. His name shall be recorded as Julius. It is an pseudonym as old as I am. He clung to me with desperation. He asked me to be the father he didn't have. He did whatever I required in exchange. He did the things I was too weak to do. He drew this girl in red to me. He put her on a silver platter. Whatever I may say about him, he tried to help me. He tried to hand me what I wanted.

I am not an evil person. While I lack what would fundamentally be called morality, it does not mean that I am cruel and vicious. I have tried to protect women from the malice of man's weakness for sex. I have tried to be kind and considerate in the ways I know how. I have tried to love. I have tried to trust. As with many people, I have been betrayed, I have had my sensibilities shattered. My goodness has been corrupted by those of you that most strongly claim to be practitioners of the art of romance. All for not I have put my whole being into something. To do nothing but lose have I believed in people with a center as sick as mine. Too often I have been convinced that I was as much to them as they were to me. I have known what it is to require assistance, and I have then refused it when it came to me. I have given my shoulder and my time to a wounded animal with no recognition given to me. To be a human being is to be used and abused. To be a human being is to mistreat and abandon. Humanity is mostly defiled by humanity. You will die with no more to show for your life than you had in the beginning. You will sacrifice love for success. You will ignore success for the pleasures of the heart. We will all bleed the same color and prove the same irrefutable facts. While I have neither the interest nor desire to ward you with specific examples. Know that there are more than could be documented. Know that life is everything you could possibly believe just as it is as simple and expendable as everything shows you. If you have one moment of joy right now it will turn to a sample of agony just as readily. Here is a toast to whatever you have. It is greater than everyone else. And nothing when compared to them. This is as meaningful as it is pointless. Bleed on for an understanding as profound as the confusion you have for it. I wish you luck in the decisions that have no fate or chance in the charade of profundity that composes everything that the world believes in.

Tonight's Quote: "Remember to forget me for as long as you forgot to remember me."

Tuesday 3:52am
I can speak words only simple. I can speak words only clear.

Ok folks. This is a touchy Burnz post. This is brought on by a recent letter by a former friend of mine...Hell....more than a friend. But that isn't relevant. This shit is:

And the crazy Bitch sayeth unto The Burnz:I love you and care about you very much, more than I really understand at the moment, and knowing about your sort of self mutilation with alcohol and drugs is not a thing I want to shrug off and let you deal with on your own. I care too much to not say that it scares me what you are doing to yourself and what you could be doing to the people that choose to spend their lives with you in the future. I am hoping that someday I will be able to be one of those people, but living and being in love with an alcoholic is not something that I want to do, and I don't want you to have to live with him either. I don't want to sound like I am scolding or being preachy, that is one of the reasons I put this letter off. I don't want you to just let this happen on its own. It is your body and your life, make it your own. I know I cannot be physically THERE for you at this moment in time, but just know that I am HERE for you and if there ever is a real need for me to be there I may be able to work out something. I love you Burnz, that is all this is, love and respect for you.

So I wrote a wee reply to this to try and clarify things for the party involved. I refrained from sending it for reasons explained postscript.
And The Burnz so respondeth: You focused a little strongly on my alcoholism. I wouldn't worry. I like who I am. I never had anyone I could really put a lot of trust in. I had parents that made sure I had charges pressed on me, I had a whore girlfriend, I had a few damaged interludes with sad people, and I knew that you'd try to help me if I tried to explain things to you. You can't help. You can't fix, you can't replace, you can't do anything for me. While it is nice that you are there for me, it is totally unnecessary. I've needed people to be "there" for me. And they weren't. I have everything I need. I would like very much to try to make you see things as I do, however I worry that if I do I'll end up with another person so busy trying to save me, that they don't consider what is actually best for me. What satisfies and satiates Burnz is not the same as what would be needed or wanted in another person's life.

I will tell you what I tell everyone else: Take care of your shit. Don't muck around in my life. You do what you have to do to protect your life and your goals and your needs. "Look out for number 1" because I can't do much of anything for you. Because taking care of me is my priority. There is nothing to be derived from another person but a fistful of bitterness and a belly full of lifetime resentment. And people are expendable. If Tommy don't fit in your life, there is someone that fits there better. Jim, the man I worked with at the Red Cloud told me when I broke up with Darcy that I would find someone I loved more. And he was right. If I am not an influence you want in your life, then you are certainly a variable that I can't control. Saving me, and protecting me, and even really giving a damn are futile pursuits that guarantee that I will hate you. Despite what every woman I meet seems to think, I am capable of monitoring myself. Interference and assistance are fickle and unwanted. That is the long way of asking that you just leave my life alone unless I ask for you to do something. And I will extend you the same courtesy. If I want to self-destruct into a mound of goo then you can either help with it, laugh at it, or ignore it. Otherwise you are infringing on my happiness and should go find someone more desiring of your services.

I would have sent this to the young woman involved, but I know that she will use it against me. Take it to my paranoid parents. Have them see that their son is an admitted drunk that wants no help. Then they will call me, my work, my landlord, and my cat. I don't have a cat, but they will find one just to call it and inform it. I will then be dealing with a squadron of animals thirsting for my inauguration into their microcosm of joyless existence. I've played this game. I know I don't win it. So instead I am practicing what I preach and taking care of Burnz. No information to the bitch. She won't understand and will use it against me. Why can't I find a nice girl that is crazy in that care-taking kind of way? This is turning into a display of mental fortitude and I hate that. Where are the emotionally needy, weak women? Bring them on!

Thursday 1:58am
Surviving the thing I fear most.

I am out of liquor. Combating my painful withdraw symptoms has required that I seek out the most loathsome means to dry up my lake of suffering. I have reached for an ugly B movie. So now you will know, secondhand, why it is I have decided to gouge out my eyes. I will later explain why I sold them to a homeless man with a skateboard for legs. I will tell you that he was an interesting perversion of bio-mechanics. A skateboard instead of legs is clearly more efficient. Not to mention you can bust a phat 50/50 grind and then jump to a 360° Stalefish hold. If you really wanna get ballzy then you might toss in a Derringer grab. But I'll tell you right now that unless you are Tony Fucking Hawk you will land fakie'd. So don't come crying to me when it happens. In addition to the mad trick advantage of the bionic skateboard leg replacement, it also means that my dream of trading my arms in for a pair of the old biplane wings is close at hand. I told you people that I would do it. In your face, Mom.

Have a nice day.

I am going to do something out of character here and actually make a short story short. I am watching "Razor Blade Smile" right now. It is the delightful family vampire hit that those of you living in the Red Light District remember as being banned from Whack Daddypants' adult cinema after all the freak reports of brain hemorrhaging. Any of you that survived this movie should be given the Congressional Medal of Jesus or a Purple Heart or something.

My first clue that this film was bad came in the introductory credits. The writer and director are the same person, Mr. Jake West. That is right, he wrote it and directed it. Just like Orson Wells in his masterpiece Citizen Cane. And also much the same way as Whack Daddypants' short film entitled "Children of the Cornhole". You can bet that if the writer and director are the same person, either they are a genius that has a really powerful vision, or they couldn't hire anyone to hold the freaking camera so they did it and got one of those cloth director's chairs instead. I would urge you to watch the movie and decide which category Jake West falls into. I think you will be pleasantly pleased at how right your pleasing assumption was. And then you get to pat yourself on the back or give one of those creepy "self-hugs" that late night empowerment gurus encourage. Right before they walk off camera and take enough Thorazine to make even me blush. And vomit. Blush and vomit, good times.

The first sequence takes place circa 1800. Two men are engaged in a gentleman's duel with archaic pistols. Here I wish to point out that the director/writer/producer chose to go with the understated black and white film to tell us that it was indeed being shot circa 1800. Masterful. The two men do the walking and shooting thing while a woman rides in on a horse in slow motion. One man kills the other just as she arrives. Let this be a lesson to all of you that insist on traveling in slow motion. She does the whole screaming "Nooooo" thing in a tearful and strained voice and then produces her own lock action pistol and shoots the winner of the duel. She does this because the loser was her lover and women are all sore fucking losers. That is why they don't watch sports. If you have a wife or girlfriend that watches sports, and you are rooting for the team opposing hers you best watch your ass if they lose. She'll bust a cap. Anyhow, the duel winner takes the bullet easily and remains standing to show he is a vampire. His henchmen/duel referee/Director then shoots the woman. The duel winner then takes her to a nearby bedroom and administers the ol' vampire treatment and they swap a little hemoglobin thus making her a vampire.

A "modern day" band.

At this point, the movie cuts to modern day. And by modern day I will assume you know that I mean the 80's. You get some of that sweet voice-over action from Lilith, which is the name of the vampire girl. Or so she says. I don't trust vampires really, so she could just as easily be Karen or Alison. She brings up the interesting point that her biggest problem is as a vampire is combating boredom. That makes sense. If I had that much time on my hands, I'd have trouble being amused too. I would learn to play an instrument and maybe take that pottery class I wanted to. Lilith goes a bit of a different route, in that she becomes a hit-woman. Which is just as good I guess, but lets see her make an ashtray.

To add a real Tarantino Flare, Lilith frequents a bar that is full of crazy wiccans. They sit around drinking and doing a little philosophizing about vampires. It is kind of interesting to someone that is about as dumb as the average Starbucks patron, otherwise you will find it lackluster to say the least. She then leaves to go kill some guy in a big house. On her way to the big house, she happens upon two guys playing tennis. I found this scene comical. Let me tell you why. I'll do it even if you don't let me, but I'll pretend you have an option like I do with the women I pull violently into alleyways. You do not initially realize that the tennis court is on a private residence. It looks as though it was hastily drawn out in chalk in some ghetto park. I could just see future tennis stars of such a court later relating what playing in those circumstances was like.

"Look, I grew up in the hood man. We didn't have no motherfucking cable or indoor plumbing or basic fuckin' grammar. We had shit man. Either you were out there selling dope on the strip, or your ass was laying in a box somewhere. We had to play where we could. Tennis got me and my mama, God rest her soul, out of that hole." That is as hilarious to me as Tiger Woods talking like he is some blacktop baller. Tiger: "Shit dawg, I learned to play on a hole made by a pigs fucking hollowpoint round hitting the pavement. The bodies of my brothers and their blood flowing through the city jungle were my obstacles. I don't regret nothing, but I ain't never goin' back there. To all you kids, keep the golf alive!"

So, she goes in, she kills the guy. She tries to take this ring off his finger that looks like an eye. She drops it in the bathtub. She leaves. I know that should have been one sentence, who the fuck are you all of a sudden? Mr. Syntax? Fuck off. While she is firing a pistol in the bathroom, this dude's wife is somewhere in the house. For no reason the house alarm starts going off and his wife never shows up. She just sat upstairs unflappably brushing her hair or something I guess. The guys on the tennis court turn out to be bodyguards. She kills them and talks about how some blood is good and some isn't. Then it cuts to this group of guys with eyeball rings on their fingers having some meeting about this assassin that is killing their folks. The vampire that made Lilith a vampire is the leader of this group. The Writer/Director/Assistant Editor did an excellent job of foreshadowing a blood sucking showdown. I was on the edge of my seat...with my head between my legs trying to stay conscious through the aneurysm. Then Lilith fucks some guy named platinum (I don't know whether I should capitalize that or not) and talks about how he doesn't know what she truly is (a vampire).

(Here I pause to masturbate)

The next shot is Lilith at home. I would like to point out that she is a Macintosh user. So for all you PC users out there: Beware anyone that has one of those fucking candy-box lozenge look alike computers that Steve Jobs pumps out. Lilith then talks to one of her powerful associates, an online hash-basket named "Chill Pilgrim". He promises to check something out for her, and then goes back to his normal job of scamming high school kids into buying pencil shavings and lawn clippings. A quick moment back at the club and then off to some woman's house to have a really really disturbing vampiric sex scene. Then it is off to bed for Lilith. It seems that vampires dream in under budget blue screen sequences.

Finally we find out the great backstory on the wife of the man Lilith killed. She did what most grieving widows do and followed her husband's killer. She is explaining this to a man with a ring just like her husbands. It strikes me that a secret society is easier to keep that way if you stick with complicated handshakes and not unique pieces of jewelry. The way these morons are going about it, clowns or mimes would be a better hidden underground. There is then a charming little piece where the writer/director/key grip /best boy has some photographer get his cock bitten off by Lilith and I took my cue to enter the action and turn the damn movie off.

So I don't know how "Razor Blade Smile" ends. What I am going to do for you good people is give a few alternate endings and you can pick the one you like the best. Unless you are a woman, then you can pick the one that you think would cause me the most pain and suffering. Assuming you can stop putting all your focus into your vain primping long enough to even read through these.

The alien landing that could possibly have been in the finale of "Razor Blade Smile."

‡Lilith's wacky neighbor fixes her vampire mix-up with some saucy straight talk and breaks up the shadow group by luring them into a stadium rigged with cameras by hiring them to haul off 35 bodies of school girls. He then coerces them into hot gay sex with an armada of drag queens, blackmails them with the tapes, and warned them to never show their face again

‡Lilith's chief partners her with a by the book detective thus perfectly combining her bloodsucking, chaotic nature with his systematic methodology. Fearing that this new partnership is coming too close to the truth, the shadow society bribe the corrupt commissioner into suspending their badges. As rouge operatives, they have three nightmarish sex scenes and eventually bring down the conspiracy against them by randomly slaughtering anyone wearing the distinctive eyeball ring. Several innocent Goth junior high students die in the man hunt, but...well we didn't need them anyway did we?

‡Lilith takes her grudge match into a pay-per-view event in WWF's Wrestlemania. She is defeated by the men with the rings when they revive former WCW belt holder vampire hunter Dr. Von Helsing and bring him into the cage match unexpectedly. A rematch is expected once Lilith gets out of the hospital.

‡Through positive self-image, avoiding drugs, and staying in school Lilith not only conquers the shadow society but teaches them the values of friendship and compassion. Her and her woodland friends then leave to live out the rest of their lives in a forest hideaway.

Wednesday 3:25am
I am an intricate, complicated sac of hot air and bullshit. But I can talk about myself a lot and make pointlessly long titles. So Ha.

Well you unlucky bastards. You catch me on a bit of an introspective soul searching type of night. The kind of night that makes me not want to listen to the crap I will shovel around with impudence. However, I weild the flaming sword of power and thus can show no remorse about what I make you read. Bleed peasant!

You might recall Loveline. It was a show on MTV for a while, and was previously a radio show. It still is a radio show. I listen to it. On the radio. You would know that if you were paying attention. They were talking about alcoholism. Wait. Lemme step farther back in my mental chain.

Bright light. Very bright. A man with a mask is cutting the cord coming out of my mother. Why? He is swabbing the mucus out of my throat. My God, what is happening? I was so warm and happy in there. Put me back, please. It is cold out here.

Perhaps that was a bit far back. It was however the root of all my problems and life has been progressively worse since that day. I know the name of the motherfucker that yanked me out. Maybe it is time me and him sat down and had a little talk. Only instead of sitting we would be standing. And instead of talking I would be hitting him with a bat dipped in rubber cement and rolled in shards of broken glass. Or perhaps many many many animal claws and teeth. But I would rather not collect a surplus of those parts. I like animals. Snake fangs. That is the ticket. Combine my hatred of snakes, my desire to wear a jacket made of rattlesnake skin, and my need for a doctoral beating instrument. That is a beating instrument for doctors, not one that a doctor would use. I know we were a little confused on that fact. Me more than you all, but let's not split hairs about confusion levels.

The crazy chick that I asked out (Erin) was talking to Lawrence (Lawrence). I feel bad for this girl now. Which bothered me in that I usually pride myself on having no sympathy for any human being. Particularly one that blows me off. Like she could do so fucking much better. But she is nuts. However, it really isn't her fault. It is a rough lifeline that made her who she is, and she can't help but seek out people and things that will perpetuate her destructive lifestyle. Thus making more misery out of a little misery. Like meat loaf. You turn a little ground chuck into 3 lbs of family feeding goodness. So I felt like I should do something to help her, but it isn't my place, my business, or even an attempt that would be welcome. I just don't really like to watch someone with good potential implode because their idiot parents decided to ruin them totally. Like meat loaf. You really need to follow certain cooking instructions or it just ends up crying for no reason and sleeping with cruel and emotionally unavailable men, and there ain't enough barbecue sauce in the world to cover up that taste. Or whatever.

This thought about Erin led me to start thinking about myself. And not in the way I usually think about myself. Normally I just go "goddamn, can one person be this mad cool and shit?" "How do I, without outside assistance, continue to break not only my personal greatness records, but also the expectations of all humanity. Even renaissance humanity. And my lord I am hung like an army mule. Or a really robust Caribou." This time I considered my extremely singular lifestyle, my snowballing alcoholism, and my more and more reclusive and hermetic lifestyle. I was also considering what someone recently said to me about my tendency to shed friends like dead skin, hair, or my outer fur coating in the summertime. I came to a series of decisions, and a light personality profile.

I shouldn't date. I will also just be seeking out women to help me sup at the table of self-loathing and emotional co-dependancy. You know, women to act as ring master in my carnival of pain. Or those that will act as caretaker and nanny to my semi-fermented patterns. No thank you. I should really be seeking professional help. Or entering a 12 step program. But I won't. And you are saying now "but Matt, why? Why not help yourself? Why not try to make lemonade out of life's lemons? Could you please take your hand off my leg and stop asking for back rubs?" And I am, like, totally scoffing at that. Partially because I find it absurd and partially because I am just a scoffer and if I don't fill my quota, the Bureau of Dismissive Gesture Enforcement (BaDGE) will most certainly cart me off to some hell hole where I will be saturated with a barrage of meaningless, banal, insipid crap until I recede so far into my own mind that I become inextricably contained inside it. Thus I will be unable to outwardly show any interest in anything. Hence making me a perfect machine of dismissiveness. Like Kurt Russell in Soldier or Van Damme in Universal Soldier. Only I would be straight. But I wouldn't care who I was fucking. That is the terrible price.

I like my life. I like being secluded. I like living with a nice melancholy and being preoccupied with chemical addiction and don't want it to change. It would be worse for everyone involved. I see the problem, can admit it, but choose to buy into it rather than repair it.

This sure got longer than I intended.

Sunday 5:23pm
Finally rousted myself.

I know it was a long time between updates. I had some Burnz stuff to attend to... namely sagging around the house and using my new deep fat fryer. I have reached that point in my life where eating pizza rolls cooked in boiling Peanut Oil can easily compete with sex. And I mean sex with another person, usually a woman. Just today I had some Jalapeno poppers and laid on the floor while I felt sorry for myself. How can you top a lifestyle like that? I'll tell you that you can't. And then I will look you up and down and scoff. Right this minute I am going to move my TV so that I can sit at the computer and see it. And I will thank you not to give me any shit about it.

I shouldn't give out this address to people I know. It occurs to me that there are a few things I would like to talk about that I'd really be better not sharing with the 2 people that I have contact with. To circumvent this, I am going to be very very vague and censor the hell out of what I write.

I had a frustrating thing happen to me the other day. I was writing an e-mail to someone I hadn't talked to in a while. I had been thinking about them of late, and started the self-defeating task of armchair psychoanalysis on their previous behavior. I think most people have a few states of understanding when it comes to their friends and acquaintences. There are those that you understand intrinsically, those that you will never understand, those that you don't want to understand, and those that you think you have labeled right but will occassionally jump out of a closet with some action that confuses you to the point that you end up standing outside in the rain with your arms spread for no real reason.

I'm trying to figure out what the fuck I was talking about. I was making a point, but not the one I wanted to. Let me try again with this: When you look back at something, it is so much clearer than when you are in the middle of it. But I am in a state of mind now that seems to be that sort of retrospective clarity even though I am still involved in the thing causing it. I don't know whether I should trust this feeling. Because if the old adage is true and hindsight is 20/20 then I worry that I will look back and realize that my current feeling of hindsight was imagined. I am under the impression that I am lucid on the events around me. I don't like the omnience of a metaphorical tomorrow leading me to actual lucidity so that I might feel greater guilt and humiliation about the actions that were the result of this delusion. Thank God I have Randal to talk to about this. I have sure wasted some of your prescious time with that. However, I know that if you are reading this, your time wasn't so goddamn valuable in the first place.

To take up some space, you can read the amusing e-mails my co-worker sent me. I didn't get his permission, so let's hope that he doesn't bother reading my drivel.
Justin - Oh yeah, oh yeah. Well you can just go and eat your own poop then. Okay. Okay. you know you've had a few too many when that makes you laugh like a school girl. To my surprise strawberry/banana/oragne juice is a really good chaser for whiskey. And one more thing I was thinking that a humidifier is a must have for a drunk. You turn it on at night and hopefully you're not so dehydrated the next day. I think I should write a book with all of my wisdfom. I'll call it "You turn it on at night and hopefully you're not so dehydrated the next day." Well I've got two beef gordita supremes in the fridge. I shant keep them waiting any further. Taco bell and whiskey I'm sure glad I'm not me tomorrow right now. Alright gorditas prepare to enter my mouth... NO Jess (my former boss. A closet fag). You don't need to be jeleous. There's a time and a place. I need to be drunker for it to work, alright! Don't touch me there. Badtimes.

God. Nyquil is unbelievable. Its been twenty-four hours and I'm still buzzed. I swear to god gravity is is about 25% stronger but in a good way. I am convinced that if I really focus I can make the guy next door grow brests. He's going to wake up tomorrow and be all, "Whoa man, titts!" and its going to blow his mind. I bet you didn't know I have an enitire navy at my command. Well you're right I don't, but my good friend nyquil makes me believe I do. Its a grand old navy. Yes sir. Off I go 'round the cape of good hope to bring back spices and animal women. Hoorah!

I can't make small talk anymore. I was never good at it, but my ineptitude now is easily as large as half the sky on a winter's day. And for anyone who has been through winter (which is a good 85% of you) you can imagine how immesurably huge that is. Oh well. Someday I hope you all will see how little is served by chit chatting about crap. How long and arduous the task of socializing is, and how much time you waste just to realize that the face in front of you is someone that is wasting time that you could have been spending with yourself. My measurement of a person is simple. I ask myself if their company would be preferrable to a night eating fetucini, drinking whiskey, and maybe getting a slurpy at 4am. Using this social filtration system and my incapacitating fear of unfamiliar people I have cut my circle of friends down significantly. Now I don't have to worry about the reactions and thoughts and desires of anyone around me. I don't have to argue about where to eat or what to do. I don't have to try and nod comprehendingly as they talk about their fucking cat or how much fun they are having in their eco-sci class. No one gets drunk and sobs, no one screams at me for using words like "wetback" and "abortion buffet", and no one whines about their idiotic relationship or lack thereof. I got a couple of people to chew the fat with and 99% of the time, I can keep my moods at one level. Lots of people are afraid of dying alone, more and more I am afraid of living with you babbling meat poles. Go yammer the ear off a phone psychic or toss a couple bucks my way if you expect a sympathetic ear or a gabby dinner where I get all the fascinating details of your bank statement, STD treatment program, or bout of phobic panic attacks when you come in contact with pay phones from which the yellow pages has been stolen.

I was going to put up "Peter Rabbit's Black Ops by Tom Clancy" but I didn't finish it yet so I think I will just hold off.

Thursday 7:44am
Sleepy Brotherhood of the Crouching Tiger Hidden Wolf Dragon Hollow

Yesterday I couldn't help but feeling that something was lacking in my life. It was like being hungry but you don't know what for. You try eating stew, and that doesn't satisfy it. You try eating the cat, but that is too wearying because the cat can climb trees and now you have a whole other problem that typically requires the use of the fire department. Partly to get the cat out of the tree, and partly to spray your unfairly hot neighbor down because she was wearing a wet tee-shirt. That will teach her to not have sex with you. And to think, you are paying the fire department to do shit like this. Your tax dollars at work ladies and gentleman. And you think those Dalmatians are cheap? Well think again buster, because they charge by the spot. Someone should make a coat out of those damn dogs. Of course, you would need like 101 of them to do that. Why hasn't anyone thought of this before? It is so simple.

Moving right back into my point, I needed something that I couldn't put my finger on. Besides my unfairly hot neighbor. The epiphany came to me (as so many things do) while I was practicing my calf roping. I just tossed the also around a branch and it came to me. "Subtitles." That was what I needed. I then pulled the statues head down, waited for the bookcase to spin around and slid down into the batcave to use my supercomputer to locate theaters playing something with subtitles. And I mean the Tim Burton batcave, not that pussy Joel Schumacher batcave. Honestly, I wouldn't store my huge collection of "My Little Pony" action figures in there. And yes, they are action figures, Buttercup has the Kung-Fu grip.

Where was I? Oh right, the batcave. I logged onto Moviefone and promptly located Brotherhood of the Wolf. It is a French film with the irrepressible acting talent of Le Jean-Claude Francois de La Guierre. And the bottomless pit of action machismo of Tres Sissy-Dusponse Praline de Creme. There were many more accents above the letters in those names, but I translated them into ugly American just for you.

Long story short, I saw the movie. Unlike most French films, you could figure out what the hell was going on but, as with any other French film, you didn't care. The plot seems simple. There is a beast. It is not (you discover halfway through) related to Eminem in any way. The beast is getting wiggy with the terrorizing of the countryside near some small village. There are men that come to stop the terrorizing. They are not related to Eminem either. I did suffer some confusion at this point. The village, and the terrorized countryside, are in France. Thus, I don't know why anyone would want to do a damn thing to help. I personally would be laying a saucer of milk out for the beast and maybe a Dogloo. That is like an igloo only cheaper and with a much more ridiculous name. And it is used for dogs or large cats and not Eskimos. Don't try to use it for a hedgehog or mongoose. I am not kidding about this.

The most butch guy in the film.

The plot got a helluva lot more complicated. To the brutha's in the audience: Shit be mad hard to fucking get your dig on dawg. Damn. The film had a lot of assets and a lot of potential. It be full of mad whack shit and froggies in the hizzy too tho'. Damn. To the crackers in the audience: It also had many drawbacks and was brimming with Frenchmen. I made a hard-core comprehensive list below of these factors.

The female lead.

Asset:Naked women.
Drawback:The women are all pasty and not built to the standard of plastic beauty I am accustomed to.

Asset: Fight Scenes.
Drawback: People just don't understand that in a fight with a group, they do not attack one person at a time while the others dance around in a menacing manner. They just don't hand out street fight etiquette pamphlets. You have to go down to the rec. center and pick one up yourself. And even if they did hand them out in the movie, they would have been in French and no one would have been able to read them.

Asset: That stop-action camerawork that has sudden bursts of fast and slow motion. Not to mention the director used some seriously cool shots.
Drawback: He blows his load in the first 20 fucking minutes and by the end your stuck with something that a first year film student wouldn't put his name on. Unless he was mailing it straight to hell and had to put the return address. Even then he might use a pseudonym. But do watch the first part, in the rain. Unlimited cool.

Asset / Drawback: Gore. Gore can be good. A little blood and guts can really make an action movie feel right but there are things I do not want to see. Don't show me a guy gutting a wolf or breaking it's jaw. Keep the entrails of a gored woman's bloated corpse out of the scene. And no more puss or foaming at the mouth. Secretions = bad.

It could have been something real. Something beautiful.

Drawback: I'm fresh out of assets. This is just to say that no action film should have a message. This had some murky anti-church overtone and a muddled attempt at mocking decadence. Oh, and incestuous rape, I've seen all the Die Hard movies, not one of them had incestuous rape. Why is Europe so fascinated with siblings getting their freak on? I know they are mostly inbred, but so is the south and their isn't nearly as much film or literature about how hot sis looked in those overalls.

So that is basically what I thought of the movie. The story was sleepy hollow, the fights were Crouching Tiger. It is fine with me if you rip something off, I just prefer it be done well. And the beast was a B- computer graphic of a dog in some kind of big papier-mâché exoskeleton. I have no idea what was going on with that. This movie gets my 30 and 30 award. Watch the first 30 and the last 30 and nothing else. Actually, you won't miss anything at all if you do that. By the way, it was 3 hours long.

Wednesday 7:11am
Step 9

Ah ha. I thought that seemed like an appropriate inaugural statement. It makes me seem as though I have understood something relevant. E-Gads. Another useful one if you use it cryptically enough. I almost went with the outdated but ever popular "Eureka". None of these really work, but I am nodding in a very Yoda-like manner that I practiced for hours. The hardest part of that was the green makeup. Greasy, but it does make me presentable for the camera.

I was thinking about the past today. Thinking about Boulder for some reason. It occurred to me that I haven't heard the name "illegal pete's" since I picked a fight with three rather drunk Mexican's. Specifically my mind got a hold of the name Penny Lane, a coffee shop that I believe it is still daintily placed on pearl street. What a fantastic place to really experience the "hipster" mobs of nightmarishly bad poets that wore berets or army jackets to their recitals. I believe I first went there for some psychotic woman and her obsession with hemp. That place was the liberal hole of Boulder. You really got to see the worst of the homeless SUV driving lunatics and their multicolored bong collections.

My biggest complaint with Boulder wasn't the hippies and their weed. It was the Californians and their parentally funded rebelliousness. I can't tell you how many blonde lunatics in tank tops took up an argument against me about politics or prostitution or abortion. They were pretty, but had mental abilities that could only be rivaled by zoo animals. And I don't mean the docile peacocks or Giraffes.

Speaking of reefer for the last time: I can't claim to really follow the patrons of marijuana myself. It usually makes me extremely paranoid and cold. That is about the extent of my interest, but if someone offers it for no cost, I can't help but hope that 'this time I will get something out of it'. Usually I just find myself crouching in the dark with a sharp object while I watch the door with my bloodshot eyes. It is not fun, but determination is the God to which I pray. I'll act like that didn't sound strange and change subject.

Moving to the topic of makeup. I hate it. There is nothing more frightening than having a woman remove her makeup, hair extensions, and various enhancing clothing to reveal that when she is placed in sweat pants and a baggy sweater, she looks more like me than any kind of female. Not to mention it has a horrible smell and an even worse taste. Makeup is nice if you are a news anchor, or some other visible career that gets tossed into people's TV's like slop to a pigs bucket, otherwise it has all the appeal of drinking bleach through a straw. Good bleach, not the generic kind, but no bleach is that great when you drink it through a straw. Don't ask me how I know. Long story with lots of dragons...at least that was my take on the matter. There are various versions floating around.

I am not the opera fan that I seem to be. I don't like the blues, and I don't like the blues sung in a language I don't know by people dressed as sad clowns. It frightens me...especially if I'm stoned.

I should stop doing my updating after work, but before passing out drunkenly on the floor. And long before waking up wondering where I am, and whose clothes I am wearing. Whoever it is, they have terrible fashion sense. An orange checkered shirt and blue slacks....monsterous.

Ok, I admit it, if there is one thing I lack in (and there is only one) it is color coordination. I have actually stricken sinners blind with my choice of clothing. Just sinners, somehow the righteous can withstand seeing a person with two different shoes and a hat with an ostentatious(sp) feather sticking out of it. This means that I then have to manually remove the gift of sight from them. Sometimes with a screwdriver, sometimes with a nail-file I sharpened while I was in lockdown. That depends on what whimsical mood I am in, and which voice I decided to listen to. I hate the righteous. And their constant muttering.

I am sick of doing everyone's job where I work. I used to think that in order to be a valuable employee, it was necessary to excel at whatever task they assigned to you. Now I know that if you simply show up a big 50% of the time, then you are golden. Somehow swearing like a sailor and abusing upper management are also noteworthy attributes. This means that I have practically been elevated to the stature of minor god. Very few powers go along with that, but you do get to drink ambrosia and breed with unconscious mortals. They claim there is a way to dance on the head of a pin, but I have yet to find it.

I didn't sleep well this morning. I mean, for the love of Crimeny I am up at the crack of noon. And if you love Crimeny, then I say you belong together. Go on, I'll just mind the youngin's. Come on Kids, old Blue treed a Coon, that there is dinner for tonight so don't let it get away. Bring the net. Now provoke it with taunts regarding it's ancestry. Imply that it is related to marsupials. They hate that.

I am going to see a movie today. It occurred to me that I haven't been in a theater since my village was torched by the damn Yankees. Might even bootleg it. Oh, that would be just a dreadful thrill. It would certainly feed my adrenaline addiction. I can't get enough of the tingle that comes every time I lift that video camera. I've been doing things to get cheap thrills in the meantime. Like throwing rocks at abandoned buildings and pretending to be old friends with random people on the street. I am that crazy. I am going to go roll my cigarettes in my sleeve and lean against something in a very complacent way. I might even get oily fingerprints on a store window. It isn't easy to be this big a badass.

Final thoughts anyone? I like to think I am one of those slightly extreme people that must be taken with a grain of salt. Just a personality and lifestyle that mixes perfectly with a spoonful of sugar. This isn't really true sometimes. I ain't a nice person, and I make no apology for my lack of tact, gentility, and breeding. Sometimes I take it a bit far though. I push people the wrong way and don't back off because I find something funny at the time. Or rationalize an appropriate reason to be abusive. Everyone around me used to worry that they would be with me when the great justice finally came in the form of 5 or 6 pissed off Mexicans that thought my wetback humor would be best appreciated if I delivered it from an Intensive Care Ward. This will probably still happen one day when my filterless vernacular puts me in the swing arc of a tire iron or fistful of keys and quarters. But in the more daily regiment, it isn't passerby's that are influenced by my snappy little mouth but rather my friends, family, and coworkers. The very people I use for company will too often become cannon fodder to my avalanche of tasteless words. For this I can only apologize and express that my intent is never simply to offend. Sometimes it is a joke gone awry and sometimes it is badly delivered constructive criticism. I don't know when it is too much, and I plan to make a concerted effort to better censor myself in the future. Except when I am talking about Mike or Ethan. It is always open season on those motherfuckers. To everyone else: I'm sorry.

I think I will do an update on how to perform the 12 steps of a 12 step program. That sounds hilarious.

Monday 2:46am
Men are from Mars, Women are from some other planet where they grow stupid bitches like corn stalks.

I thought I would start this little update with some more of my endlessly useful advice on romance. I have recently been privy to the failure and astronomical success of a few relationships around me. I took what I heard from these couples and am now trying to throw out a quick guide for all the people out there that want to make their arranged marriage with Count Fendobar work as best as it can. I am hoping this leads into a more interesting topic. As usual I am going to be gradually getting drunker as I write this. I call this the "creative metamorphosis" or "falling off the wagon".

Communication is the cornerstone of any good relationship. If you are looking to ruin your relationship, then miscommunication is the cornerstone. Unless this relationship is with a family pet or your asshole neighbor that plays Iron Maiden at 3:00am. If you are trying to make things work with your dog, there are things he doesn't need to know. Just don't come home smelling like another dog's urine and you should be fine. If you are trying to make things work with your neighbor, try flash-bang grenades and a herd of skunks. Otherwise, you'll want to communicate with a series of chirps and squeals to your mate so that they can understand when you wish to breed, when you wish to eat, and when you wish to flee from a Killer Whale. If you do not communicate with your mate, then you will get stuck in a psychological pattern of denial, suspicion, divorce, and (if you are a professional athlete) battering of your spouse. You might also find yourself creeping about the perimeter of your house during the hours when you are supposed to be at work. You will probably then have to rappel through the skylight as your spouse is innocently rubbing lotion on the pool boy while bass heavy music plays and a man with a small camera scope on a string around his neck yells "lick your lips, now smile at him. Touch his chest...gently...". And you didn't even know that this was something your husband was into. What went wrong here? Communication. And odds are you don't really want that to happen to anyone but your young, firm, neighbors and possibly your fifteen year old daughter. Hey, related or not, anyone can see that she is a handsome woman.

I sure use a lot of alcohol/pedophile/drug/sex/family humor don't I? I was reading an e-mail from someone this morning (and by morning I mean night) and their jokes were....repetetive. I worry that I am doing the same thing. Not using enough variety in my subject matter and thus my so-called comedic content. I will make every effort to amend this with a quickness. From now on I promise you more stalking/body fluid/terrorist/extraterrestrial/Chernobyl humor. Because as you can tell, I am all about pleasing you. I am much like the ideal wife in that way only I don't cook. And when I do, I am just making combat grade mustard gas or a stew of Nuclear Fallout travesty (the terrorist/Chernobyl laugh-fest begins!).

I feel sorry for hermaphrodites. I bet they have a very high suicide rate. I would lose it pretty quickly if I knew that no one of either gender would ever want me. At least now I can hold the delusion that someday I'll find someone that isn't batshit crazy, vicious, and has an interest in breeding with me and then having me abandon them. Although, if you are a hermaphrodite, then why the hell would you need another person? I mean, with a little flexibility training, you can be all the company you need. Pretty good life. Now I envy hermaphrodites.

Honesty is also important in a relationship. Make sure they know that you will fire them if the union is ever to end, and that they must keep their damn mouth shut about it to your boss or that will also result in their termination. Then pat their ass and wink and say "get back to work now sweet cheeks."

People who just made my beating list: Ja-Rule. First off, what kind of fucking name is JA-Rule anyway? Besides that, he is another one of these pretentious hip-hop cretins that prays on the young and attractive creatures whose careers in the music bid-ness is suffering. He then makes up some fucking bullshit excuse to work with them and gets to seem like the big pimp in the neighborhood. Yeah, pay me enough and I could stand beside Jennifer "I have no talent but rebuilt tits. Thank you Plastic Doctor Ben Keminson" and act like a badass too. But he isn't anything but a lucky nigger. Let's be serious here. He is like 5'1" and has that charming prepubescent mustache on his lip that is as impressive in a man as a Russian accent. Put money and television together and you breed creatures like this. We envy him, and yet we are the stupid animals that breed people like him. IF we stopped watching this shit, we could be free of it. But there are enough undereducated and thoughtless fucks to make JA-Rule a whole empire and not just a man that needs to get a real mustache and some musical talent.

Has there ever been a time when actual emotion counted for something? When loving someone meant something? There are a lot of good, solid, intelligent, guys out there that are willing to marry and settle down with a woman that is passable. But that doesn't matter to the female populace. Everywhere I look I see hot women seeking out abusive sociopath with blood on their mind and no real ambition or conscience. And men that are looking for damaged, diseased goods to fuck and forget. This is now that status quo. This is now the people that will be breeding the next generation. The good, kind, intelligent, people won't be in the gene pool for a variety of reasons. Our progeny are going to be dumber and meaner and more shallow than even us. I am so glad that I won't have to see it.

It is true. There isn't two ways about it. White trash Neanderthals are having three and four kids while the true humans with thoughts and perception are refusing to put their two cents in to the gene pool. They are smart enough to see what being a parent means. Raising a child is, to them, a sacred responsibility that they refuse to partake in. They see themselves as unfit as parents, or as forever unable to properly bring up a human being that they could believe in. That they could be proud of. But the mongoloids are making babies faster than I can write insults for them. Because they are too dumb to use simple birth control or too dumb to perceive the responsibilities of parenting. They just don't see all the facets of father/motherhood. They fuck and deal. Fuck and deal until they are the overlord of 4 lives. Those 4 lives are so much like them that I cringe. Drug use climbs, dropout rates climb, hope dwindles. Thank you modern evolution. Thank you for the death of Darwinism. Weak and mindless are our children.

And somewhere in all of this mess, we are to find a person worth caring about. I have difficulty finding someone that I want to live. Finding someone to care about, finding someone to love, that is impossible. Armageddon is too good for most of you. Hell is running out of space for man and it's impossibly terrible souls.

I sure am bored with this update so far. Ok, here is the archive link for the last set of updates. I am going to go find a ROM to talk about and maybe some new pornemon characters.

That didn't really work. I sat here for like three hours playing Shadowrun for the SNES. Sadly it is a pretty good game. Not to mention that it speaks to my cyber-punk heart. Anarchy, violence, mutation, alternate reality. I am far too in love with the system represented to ever think of a cruel way to attack it. It just isn't in me. If there are readers of this that do not understand cyber-punk, read some damn William Gibson. I doubt you will understand it, but at least that might explain it to you. Try "Neuromancer" that was a mainstream book. If you want the whole vision, read the Shadowrun RPG (Role-playing Game yes I am a geek at heart) or maybe look into Rifts. Most of you will just condemn these things as being far too silly for you and dismiss them. That is partially true, and partially because you just don't get it. I am going to do something else now.

PS - Here is the e-mail I sent to the people that lost tons of shit that I needed.I bet that it won't do anything, but I liked writing it:

Dear ____, Next time you dumb-fucks make an update, you might take into account the fact that when a partial upload is completed, the user might want to retain the partial file rather than lose the entire thing. I've got 83 megs I have to re-upload thanks to your lack of perception. Improve, but do not start subtracting features when you upgrade, morons.
Burnz.