Thursday 12:08am
Breed and die.

I've spent a lot of time on human relationships. I have also spent a lot of time talking about how much time I spend on human relationships. I admit that I am the child of pop-culture's brutalization. I was saturated with sap and girly ideals from a very young and impressionable age. I blame a lot of my neurotic and pussified attitude on this. I was brought up by the digital music era and it's empty influences of adoration and longing. Whether they were screaming, swearing, or promising, I learned what life's goal was through the tinny headphones I wore to block out the sound of my parents screaming at each other and the more powerful floor models that made the woofer, midrange, and tweeter components of my triad of friendship. I remember when my cat managed to blow my eardrum because she stepped on the volume control on the remote while I was wrapped around my speaker with my ear pressed against it. I was 15 or 16 years old at the time, and if I had it to do over again, I would mop the blood of out my auditory canal again. All this made me the immasculine, simpering, girl that I am today. But I am not really talking about the purpose. Just sharing a little bit.

I talk about romantic society because I was raised on romantic society. I didn't even know another way for a long time. No one told me that a man was supposed to be anything but a sensitive and compassionate creature until I got much older. This ended up warping my view of gender order. Once I played out the role set before me, and realized what a sad and damaged creature I wound up being, it was too late to do anything about it. Then I just let go and followed the nearest course: Internal coldness. Amputate emotion because it leads to discomfort. This brings me sloppily into my first point.

I am a minority of couplehood. I operate on a mostly logical level. Sex isn't worth the trouble, dating isn't worth the time, and even a crush on someone is a sign of weakness and illogic in your otherwise well structured life. Most addicts operate on this level. They work all the time, drink all the time, snort all the time, or even sleep all the time to satisfy themselves. What we want and cannot achieve is a blissful track. We want to lose ourselves in the addiction and forget everything else. Namely all our human relationships. Given enough time and effort, an addict can make this happen. From what I have seen of the addict, they have one final relationship failure to confirm they are right to establish no comfort or humanity in anyone but themselves. This is because they seek out the nearest victim personality so they can further their self-destructive cause. They then ruin everything they touch like a goddamn tumor. Break it unless it is part of the addiction plan. Scrap metal otherwise.

If you are not an addictive personality, you can be the victim kind. This is the early stage of addict. However, people can end up in this holding position for a lifetime. They were once, in their formative years, treated as a victim and end up seeking that helplessness for all of their lives. They find the people that will abuse them, neglect them, cheat, and mistreat them. Anyone that might be good for them is immediately discounted for various reasons. They get bored with emotionally available partners and those that might treat them as a person because they want to be abused or feel unworthy of attention. I used to end up with these women, because they saw me as a powerful and domineering personality. They would then try to provoke me to attack and belittle them so they could fulfill their role. And I would do it. That is old school though. Or they would cling to me so strongly because they wanted someone unattainable and I would give them just enough line to hold onto for unlimited amounts of time.

High risk personalities are the next step down. If you had $600 dollars just sitting around, begging to be blown on a stupid body kit for your dipshit car, or it could be put into a stock that might get some yielding done, and you put your money into a high-risk account, then you know the kind of partner I mean. Someone that has some good traits. Someone that is usually an output looking for an outlet. If you are a reasonable person, you find a smart, attractive, intelligent creature and drop some of your spare cash into them. If they perform, then you buy the jet-ski, if they don't, no big deal because you put useless money into them anyway. If you invest too much in these high-risk yields, you get your ass handed to you 4 out of 5 times. They want someone like them. They want a risky persona that will keep their portfolio dancing. They are confused little people that are blessed genetically with just enough to keep them from being pathetic losers. Their ass is tight enough and brain fast enough that they can excuse their lack of center. They aren't in it to hurt you, they aren't in it to help you. They aren't really in it at all until they know they can keep it for the long haul...and even then I would keep half and eye on them. The word I associate with them is monogamously single.

Average guy is the next class. Most of my guys are looking from this angle. I know few women who function from this standpoint. They are into their own thing, but looking for someone that fits basic criteria. Smart, enough, pretty, enough, nice, enough and there is no reason not to. Lay down the safe money and be happy with it. This chick will put your kids through college, she isn't perfect, but you ain't looking for that. She's a good woman, solid, you love her for that, everyone else is nuts. My boy Justin is like this. He rips me for being so picky and icy toward relationships. He says "why not?" and I say "why bother?". That is the average guy.

Average girl. Find a guy she loves, for whatever reason. He is a good hunter-gatherer, he will breed good, he has an ok job. Usually the high risk woman turn into this given enough time. They get bored, realize what they can have, pick a guy with all the criteria and keep him. Average guy/girl couples are the ones that stereotypes are based on. Men that watch the game, women that do the laundry. General stand up comic shit like that. These are the people it comes from.

The lowest kind of human in relationships is the loser. They aren't anything. The jerk of to cartoons and build models all day. They are over or underweight with a personality that can't compete with a cactus. They write Goth poetry and find illusions to immerse themselves in. If they do well in school and get a job as a healer, then they mate with something and have kids and their kids follow the same basic path unless they get all the good genes and then they get date-raped by a frat guy. I don't know where these people come from or where they go. They just seem to be nothing forever and ever. They aren't worth the paragraph, because if I were on a plane, and crashed with these things on it, they would be the first course meal. And unless I found a hold full of bourbon, I would black out and be the second. But that is a whole other monkey isn't it?

That is kind of the quintessential guide to woman and man in relationships. I did skip the player, an empty thing that is so terrified of intimacy that they redefine their security through sex, but they are almost a sub-group. Almost anyone can have that in them. Sexual addicts, victims, even losers and the averages might seek promiscuity. But it usually means something isn't right in the mind. Just FYI you little fuck bunnys.

Just a note, this came from listening to loveline tonight, I was tired of seeing the same thing, and then hearing the same thing. Stop breeding you quasi-conscious carp. Leave food for the true mammals.

More of that shit. You guys remember that first sick ass relationship? Where you didn't know any better and just kept dry humping without knowing anything but that you had them? Maybe this was all guys, maybe some of you silly women had it too. If you didn't, then may you find some cryogenical person to give it to you. That is why men cheat by the way. You drove us to it more than anything else. But remember longing for them, pining for them, defending them, needing them? Now that is what builds character. You can't touch that. It is pure in it's intoxicating vileness. Stab someone for me. It is the only way I will feel better about this. Maybe a really good car-wreck. No one is worth the time you spend on them.

Tuesday 9:47am
An ode to my bottle.

Anyone that can read, and can read this site, will tell you that I am a raving alcoholic bordering on degenerative gutter-drunk. But I want to defend myself by telling you about dedication. I drink to sleep, I drink to go to work, I drink to loosen up before dates and parties. If I am sober for ten minutes it is due to the fact that I have no Nyquil/alcohol/antifreeze/Drano/my own blood to drink for an intoxicating effect. It ruins my sleep, it sabotages my social career, but it makes me feel oh-so-good.

I used to have a girlfriend. Actually I used to have a couple...they weren't usually at the same time, and never in the same bed, but I had them anyway. Alcohol beats woman without even trying. Woman is featherweight, alcohol is dreamy uncaringly beautiful weight. They have breasts, which are reasonably nice, if that is what you go for, but it just can't keep my attention. I want lasting, permanent happiness. Thanks to alcohol, I have that. It can be your best friend and your best worst enemy at the same time. Look at that, adversity too, now that is versatility. How many people can be so fickle and yet so reliable? Not a goddamn one.

Leaving Las Vegas baby. That is all I am talking about for film right now. Leaving Las Vegas was Good Good, not like Panic Room that was Bad Good. Nick Cage (I use that because I am not sure I can spell Nicholas right now) has some lovely lines. Liz Shue:"Why are you trying to die?" Nick:"Interesting way to put it. That means this is either our first date or our last. And I wasn't aware it was either." Liz:"Well, isn't drinking a way of dying?" Nick:"Maybe dying is a way of drinking." I love that movie. Something about movies with "Las Vegas" in the title. Dark, edgy, lacking in any moral message. Now that is what film should be. Not this Kitty gets lost and finds it's way home bullshit. Lemme tell you, I've owned kitties, and they couldn't figure out where the litter box was. I put it in point A they shit in point B, I move it to point B and they are shitting under my bed. Thank you you fucking felines.

I am off topic, which works for us drunks. My outstanding friend Andrew reads this site, which means that I am sure he is either judging me, or trying to devise a plan to save my wayward soul. Makes me a little nervous every time I see him. He seeks the admirable life of being like Christ. Basking in the love of God and bettering himself. And he speaks to my sinful ass. I don't really understand. Probably pity. Oh well, I got a couch out of it. And I can't get that damn thing into my house. One thing at a time though. I almost made a new paragraph, but won't. Want to mention that I managed to alienate Randal, former amigo and holder of the key to The One Gate. Good for being a major asshole. Not sure what I did, but I bet it was kinda fun. Too bad anyway, but such is the route any relationship I have must take.

I get to date a shot glass. It is something more pure than I ever had with real people. No fighting, no argument, nothing. It is tons of fun and scads of pain in the same 45 minutes. I haven't had one rational thought in months. I just concoct Long Island Iced Teas and then take shots, wondering why they don't put more booze in those damn Iced Teas. I keep hearing that alcohol makes you emotionally distant, unavailable. Thank God something does. When I was younger, you could get at my emotions with no difficulty. I was one of those pussified little shitbags that believes that life has something to offer and love means something. Ha, I learned that love is a nonexistent promise built up to induce suicide and stabbings of your girlfriend. And that life is more what makes you than what you make of it. We're all big meat puppets. The best you can do is to kill every last braincell that has anything in it at all.

This update was a hilarious idea when I started. Now it is just more of the same. Oh well, none of you pigs read it anyway, skim over it looking for the words "motherfucker" or "cocksucker" and then giggling with your friends about it. I just can't want to think about trying to care. I have work in 6 hours or whatever. Hope I am sober enough to drive there.

Monday 11:27am
I'm Raoul

I don't understand this goddamn Pat Benatard song. It is called something like "We belong" I get that they belong, but other than that, it is a bit nonsensical.

I went to see panic room the other day. This movie is an endless well of....yummy goodness. Sweet, delicious, yummy goodness. Let me start with the outstanding casting.

Jodie Foster plays an idiot turned mother in this hard hitting drama. She is the kind of strong female role that mother's can believe in their daughters becoming: An aging and jiggly chested woman that drinks, cries, and has difficulty setting up phone lines. On top of that, she dresses like my uber-ex (i.e. - two fig leaves is what she wears to church) and can be outsmarted by a 12 year old diabetic. This immovable object is pitted against the only unstoppable force that could compete with her for piss-poor dialogue and nightmarish fashion sense: Three blue collar dipshits. Forest Whitaker is the goodly but down on his luck builder of panic rooms. And I am sure they are well designed too, considering the man came to a robbery wearing a shirt with his name on it. You know, in case he forgets who he is. He really should put it on upside down and backwards so he didn't get confused when he looks down, and after three minutes of his lips moving, managed to sound out his name. Bad finances have sucked him in with Some Guy played by Jared Leto. His character is the brains of the operation which he proves through such authoritative comments as "Give me that" and "I am the brains of this operation." He brings in the muscle, Raoul, played by accomplished actor and three time little britches rodeo champion, Dwight Yoakam. Someone in the casting department knew what the score was when they hired him. His acting credits include that one Gap commercial that came out around Christmas time. We come to learn that Raoul has a very shady criminal past. He is wanted in 14 states for charges ranging from 1st degree being a busdriver to Imitating a 4th grader's imitation of an idiot imitating a terrorist. He's an amoral pitbull that has an imposing 5'6" frame and 97 pounds with a 2% body fat. I know what you are asking, how does he fit through doorways. I think they altered the set to allow for his easy movement through it. Then there is the 12 year old diabetic daughter whose sauciness occasionally catalyzes into outright sas.

The tale opens with Jodie Foster proving that divorce is good for business by spending tons of money to buy a townhouse/brownstone with four floors using her husband's money. She expresses her impressive intellect by not only wearing uber-trendy in 1996 black rimmed glasses but also pointing out that she is about to start attending Columbia University...That is Columbia Cartel's Online University for Learning to Refine Cocaine in your Own hOme (C.C.O.U.L.R.C.O.O.). She buys this 4 story brownstone with separate floors for formal and casual dining. I use a similar separational system for my formal and casual dining experience that operates on the same level concept. If people are coming over, I don't sit on the floor and eat with my hands, I use a chair and suck straight off the plate. Anyhow, they buy this place with the 3 foot steel lined Panic Room. They don't discuss whether it is a formal or casual panic room.

PANIC!

On the first night in the house, three men break in. Well, two men and Raoul. Anyhow, they go through their Oscar contender lines ("This is fucked up" "This was your job" and "They aren't supposed to be here"). Here we are given the realization that Forest Whitaker's kindly character doesn't want to hurt anyone. He is just the lowly constructor of Panic Rooms. Which is harder to break into than you might think considering how easy three feet of steel is to break into normally. He started with Panic Outhouses and after those failed went to Panic Cupboards and Panic Musical Jewelry Boxes. So he is a pro.

Jodie Foster awakens at this point and for the low low price of 8 dollars admission, you get to watch her urinate. When that DVD comes out, I sure hope they have outtakes of that. She then happens to look on the bank of monitors in her Panic Room and see three men coming up her stairs...at which point one of them kicks a stray basketball across the floor. In a dramatic "no time to grab a real shirt" implant-flaunting dash, Jodie gets to her daughters room and they narrowly evade the burglars by getting into the elevator. They have seen the robbers, but Jodie feels it poignant to turn to her daughter and say "men, in the house". They lure the men to the bottom floor, and then with a cunning emergency stop and multiple presses of the 4 button get back to the top floor, and into the panic room. I would recommend that those of you who are faint of heart not read on.

For the sake of ease, I will make this a part 2 marker, because this thing is long.

Jodie then has a conversation through the one-way PA system while the burglars write their responses in very correct and well-spaced notes to be held up to the camera. This exchange shows the prowess of the writer when the daughter gets the illustrious honor of telling her mother to "say fuck". Yeah. Our "how do they feed themselves" stupid villains then set to trying to figure out how to enter the room. Raoul and Jared start by pounding through a ceiling with a sledge hammer in the most "why don't we pick a spot where we have some leverage for swingin'" scene in the movie. After showering themselves in Drywall, Forest gets the idea to gas out Jodie and daughter. He access the ventilation to the panic room and with a conveniently placed propane tank that was just sitting on a balcony, rusted as hell and yet still holding plenty of gas, begins to do just that. He starts pumping propane into the room, just to show them that he can. Unfortunately, Raoul turns it up too high, and with his I-shaped body and rippling bone mass, no one does anything to stop him but make weak lunges at the tank and ask in a less than congenial tone that he please turn it down before he kills them. Jared points out that they will just pass out, not die. Raoul contends that they will throw up before they pass out...which totally furthers their cause. Have you seen how hard it is to get vomit stains out of a panic room? I couldn't bear to look at those unsightly stains for more than three minutes before I let whatever lunatic in, provided that he bring some 409 Lemon Scented Panic Formula. Now with more Panic degreasing action. Jodie busts out the fire blankets and the lighter, jams her arm in the vent and lights the gas. Which is cool...except for that whole she should have been a crispy fucking critter for trying something like that and yet her arm hair shows no signs of being singed at all. However, the hose ignites, making the tank a dancing inferno of blue flame that does the charring two-step on Jared's arm before they manage to talk the tank out of further violence. Jodie then gives the motherly advice that her daughter is to "never do anything like that".

PANIC!

Thwarted at this attempt they go back to getting their contemplate on. Somewhere in here, Jodie sees all the guys downstairs and dives out, breasts first (saline is good cushioning) to retrieve her cell phone. Good work, except that Verizon "Can you hear me now?" wireless guy hasn't quite gotten around to rooms that are three feet of steel. Huh, and they say single celled life-forms are the lowest. But Jodie figures out how to route the Panic Room phone through the house line in a wiring miracle that would have taken me three days to accomplish. Now granted, I don't have an angsty and soon to become either a stripper or pregnant 12 year old, nor a 6 million dollar boob-job to assist me, but they managed a minor techno-conjuration. But they get a dial tone, call 911....and are put on hold. Yeah baby. Hold. Now I hear that this happens. Particularly in big cities. Because life is cheap. So Jodie calls her ex-husband and gets his bitchy wife that asks if she knows what time it is. I postulate that she was just being helpful, maybe Jodie didn't know. So she gets her husband, and begins to frantically explain the situation. She is cut off because Forest finally snipped the phone line. He told Some Guy to do it at first, but Guy just cut off one phone. Poor, stupid, nameless guy.

Heh. 6 million dollar boob-job. We can rebuild you, we have the technology. We can make you better, firmer, rounder.

Ok, this is getting long. Anyway, The ex-husband comes in and gets beaten nearly to death to lure Jodie out, and that is all actually kinda good. At least in my opinion. Cuz I like to see old pharmaceutical guys get kicked. Tell me that Valium is prescription only will you. Did I mention he was in pharmaceuticals? They don't say what he does, but it allows him to fuck and dump Jodie, so it must be better than what I do in pharmaceuticals Because she left me. Oh I miss her. They eventually end up switching things around so that Jodie is out of the room, and has a gun. Her daughter is in the room with two of the burglars, Some Guy having been shot by Raoul. They get their stuff, Raoul gets his hand caught in the huge metal door and has to pick up his fingertips later. Which is a painful thing to watch partially because he won't be able to play the guitar anymore. His own fault though. Hey, he's a six-string God, not a fucking person with a normal IQ. Back off. And all this for one urination scene. Please. Cops show up, and she talks them away.

Jodie takes out all the cameras, the guys get 22 million dollars of stuff in the stashbox that sits in the floor of the panic room alongside a dime bag of grass that the former owner had to hide from his mom and his poetry collection. To his defense "Sarah, I don't think you can do so much better" was a very heartfelt piece, if lacking in meter and rhyme scheme and written mostly in blue crayon. Jodie also knocks all the lights out...because that is just what she does. The guys come out, with daughter as hostage. Husband shoots Raoul, Jodie knocks him over railing with sledge hammer, and daughter stabs him with a handful of syringes. Finally Forest shoots him in the head after beginning to flee, but doing the right thing and going back to save them. That Dwight is one bad, mechanical bull riding motherfucker. SWAT shows up, busts in, arrests everyone not dead and then there is a fadeout. And you find out that Jodie and daughter are finding a new place to live. I think we were all relieved to find that out. Because there was some question in my mind.

Synopsis: Very entertaining from a "now that isn't good filmmaking" standpoint. See it with someone smart enough to laugh at it. I love David Fincher, but he blew his wad, like so many directors do, in the first half and hour with interesting camera shots and his token tech-rendered surfaces. After that, it was the same shit as everything else. Oh, but Raoul does wear a ski-mask for like 3/4 of the movie, blue surgical gloves, a kevlar vest, a sweat jacket, and Timberwolf work boots. Tell me that style is for the elite will you. Bah, you hear that? Bah. It is worth it just to see his outfit.

Sunday 12:16pm
I got a keyboard, that's why.

All right, first thing in the morning for me. I'm covering my windows with blankets to stop the searing of the Earth's arch rival, the sun and then pouring my second screwdriver of the day just to take the edge off. I'm worried, children. I feel a great melancholy at the center of my embalmed little soul. No, melancholy is too pretentious a word, and so begins the update process.

I don't know why I bother with this site. Boredom is in my nature. I cannot remain interested in anything for long periods of time. Lemme start by explaining that I mean compared to other people. If someone can smoke for 40+ years, that means that when I hit my 5th year or so, I just won't be interested in it anymore. Things that are just flashes in the pan anyway, such as websites, can't keep my 15 watt mind burning for a full year. No one reads it, no one really likes writing it, so it becomes an obligatory log of what I ate yesterday and penance to my neurosis. Don't expect it to get better.

For those of you following "Operation Roaches Check In" I have beaten the ant populace. I knew the final days were neigh, and my boys would be coming home victorious when I broke down, went to the pet store, and ordered an anteater. And what kind of dumb fucking name is that for an animal? It eats ants, we'll call it.....ant-eater. This is what happens when pop-divas handle the designations around here. Or fly...of all the things that fly, the fly got the name. The animal namers burned out too. It started big, hippopotamus, rhinoceros, giraffe and eventually trickled down to horny toad. Horns, toad, yeah. But the ants are in remission. I did get to fulfill my bloodthirst last night when I watched a beetle climb into one of the ant traps. It started out great. He thought it was a shmorgusborg I am not going to even pretend I am checking that spelling. He was sending out invitations to his whole beetle family that read "Big food stop party all night stop dude beetle bitches gone wild edition 9: the thorax tho-rocks will totally be coming to film this hardcore throw down I am so stoked stop bring chips stop." And ended with him crawling gradually away from the trap in his death throes. Coughing and giving a one of those lucid, not afraid anymore speeches. "It is getting dark, god, I have wasted so much *cough* time. There is so much in the world, so much that I missed out on because I was too blind to *cough cough* see. No, no, I have to say this. I squandered it. I was weak, I was afraid. *Cough*. I buried the stolen doubloons behind the church in....avenge me, know that my killer is.... the only thing you need to know is..." Which brings me to my second point...or third or whatever fucking thing I was talking about.

I hate veal-eaters. But that is just a symptom. It is this hyper-evolved "we are the highest creature" attitude. Yes, I eat meat. That is outright murder. But that is outright murder of a big, dumb, weak thing that had, until such time as it was slaughtered, lived pretty well for a lumbering four-stomached behemoth. Anything with that many stomachs is food. Veal is torture, veal says that we get to torture something just to please our palette. We get to revoke all joy from an animal before we take it's life because it makes it softer. Fuck that. That is illness. I've got a nice misanthropic streak in me, and by god if I could eat a fucking person I would. I think I would rearrange my diet to consist of nothing but person. Yeah, human cold-cuts with man-butter (non-sexual) and some breast fed baby bread. Now that is good eatin'. Because fuck people. Lemme go on a tangent here. You ever been to the monkey house? Yeah, closest relative to man and they are a bunch of shit throwing, filthy, fighting, beasts. Everything else has some grace, some cleanliness, some redeeming quality. Not the apes. Those fuckers have bigger craniums and that is it. Big, grotesque skulls with these sociopathic brains. And, by degrees, we are the same goddamn way. Yes, I am a Sunday protestor. I have a very shaky dais to preach from. But I ask for a few simple boycotts. Veal, fur, sport hunting. Sick sick sick. Please just stop. It isn't worth it and I don't have the presence of mind to keep on this. Just go away for right now.

Tuesday 3:10am
Sexual mercenaries.

I have been awake for three fucking days. I just want to point that out before I get into this post. I tried to sleep, I got greeted with gobs and scads of nightmares. And not nightmares like you fucking sheep have I mean real terrifying crap. Things about multicolored bears with monograms branded into their stomachs, and ponies with the same thing tattooed on their ass...not that I didn't enjoy looking. But fuck you, lets just make that clear right now. I am exhausted, have been burning nothing but chemicals and adrenaline for a solid seventy....4 hours right now, not counting daylight savings time. I was busy, don't argue with me about my sleep patterns. But if you are going to argue then I insist you wear the powdered wig, it is only proper for a colonial gentleman of your stature.

You are lucky! You almost got an e-mail update. Instead you get to hear about how much, I, the viewer, hates you, the consumer. And that isn't the point of this update at all. It is about technology. I spent a lovely part of the last few days thinking of the concrete vs. abstract logics. Contemplating what geometry would have been like if created by a concrete. It wasn't by the way. Pythagorus was an abstract. And a shitty abstract at that. Probably ambidextrous too. I thought I hated lefties until I met these ambidextrous motherfuckers. Oh my lord, middle brain shitboxes. Very tasty with a vinaigrette sauce however. Pythagorous was talking about points that have no mass, no occupation spatially, and yet designate a placement. I am here, but I mean that in no physical way. And you sons of bitches listened to him. Call me paranoid....actually, before you go and do that call me sexy. Just once. I saw how you looked at that aerobics instructor, don't you think I know? You haven't been happy since we left the meadow. I knew a rabbit was a bad choice. Everyone said that I wouldn't be happy, but the sex was so good I just had to have you.

No. At least not right now. I have seen what has happened. I don't recall the name at the moment of the crazy crackerjack that created the HAL 9000 or whatever that first 2 story monstrosity was called that served the basic binary function of a computer, but I know that whoever did it had some serious-ass psychological issues. Some of the most damaged motherfuckers on the planet are the Geeks. I capitalize that word now out of acknowledgment for their achievement, but also as a realization of the adversary I, and my fellow creatures of chaos and disorder face. They were once like us. Underground. Scavenging against us upground mortals. Those with that prowess stuff that is so popular, and those social skill things that don't render us an empty, mechanical mass. Those sparks and frivolity that comprises humanity and not the autonomy of being the ants I poison and/or shoot/or grenade/flamethrow on a daily basis depending on how the mood takes me. The Geeks are building a hive mind. It is that simple. They have created a need.

I find it questionable to require a paragraph break here. I should have instituted one earlier, but I cannot but admit there is that Sci-Fi writer still in me that doesn't want to see that every contribution to order is one towards totalitarianism. And unless there is some damn fine Artichoke dip in that society I want very little of it besides the well-shaven women and perhaps a nice "Autocracy Loves you" baseball hat that I can wear to the game of the Boston Kirckpatricks, and the Tijuana "Equally stereotypical but not quite as outdated"'s. Did you get that? Probably not, Geek. The Geeks built a society. We are in a capitalist nation. You don't need a product, you need a need. You create a need for a product, and then distribute it. This is what commerce is based on. Not on provision and necessity, supply and demand.

Anymore it is what they tell you you have got to have. You can get what you need to live easily. But now you have to have the Nav-Star system with the touchpanel controls and the calming voice command system. They told you that computers were the future and with a confusing diagram the convinced you. Then they took to making whole other languages for programming. Tons of long, empty, pointless languages that are not necessary. That all do the same thing with a different number of parenthesis. They made you believe that meant something. They took what corrupted and pathetic little knowledge they had, and made it one of the most lucrative resources on the planet, besides fucking over your neighbor. That is still #1. They made things for them, and by them. It is like FUBU, only without LL Cool J backing it, and it makes even less sense considering white motherfuckers buy it all the time. I have lost you. But you are a jackass, so I don't care. They built Hal, they sold the code, they wrote it, the make us embrace it or be left with our lousy "dirt world" emotions and ideologies and the things that make us meat, but also make us people. I am a low-grade cardholder of the cyber-denizenship and I would renounce it for a cheap Radiovox radio and a night with a family I care about. This is the way to being a thing we create, not a thing we are. Being made, not born. Being built and then rebuilt. And it is all because they sold us a need. A "simpler way" that speaks in their language and plays by their rules. You want a society that is dominatory, it is someone that sells. You want one that is submissive, it is one that unquestioningly accepts. They want something to perform an action, they write a language that says "hey jackass, take this and make it dance left to right." But they didn't did they? They made one that isn't pronounceable by the human tongue.

If I had a serious point in there, it was lost. But it is wanderingly valid. Perl, Javascript, ASP, PHP, they aren't built to be used by meat. They aren't built for human consumption. They are ultimately made to separate the men of the silicon from those of the world. They are made to complete their stranglehold on information and how it is used so that meat like me and you are stuck with our quill pens and feelings, while they upload to live eternally in a neurochemical and gland free world of wantless techno-masturbatory exsersize. All because someone bought that their leadership is what we desired. Theirs is the shrine to prey at. They are the new key to salvation, because digitization is forever, and in front of you. Something God never could be.

I know I don't make real sense. Thankfully, I am not feigning some of the madness that came with seeing this. With realizing how much the self-perpetuating Cyber-Tholocism community is the fresh thing, and my ideals are dying with the other pointless and soon-to-be rewritten philosophers. "So did Nostradamus claim a calm of lights would come unto the world." I don't even have a line between joke and loss anymore.

Incidentally the name "sexual mercenaries" refers to the mates of our "future rulers". Creatures meant to appeal to their physically southern appetites. Things of curves and fake tans. Here is the downfall. But apparently that is another update.

Saturday 4:18am
Feud or Jihad?

There is conflict brewing. I can tell the moneychangers and insect populace were restlessly stirring in their respective evil dens. And some were shaking, not stirring in their insubordinate evil dens. The trick here is the restlessness and the evil. And I sure do like to play with words. Big white geek that I am. When I became aware of this stirring, I immediately leapt into deciding that sometime later I would consider leaping into action as slowly and half-assed as I could. And as someone that knows me very well, that is pretty damn slow and half-assed.

The first adversary that arose from the ashes of the last adversary that I thwarted were the ants. Don't get me wrong, I like insects just fine. I like loner insects. I like spiders with their intricate weaving patterns, at least until they turn so bloody pretentious that you cannot even talk to them anymore and they spend all their time down at the coffee house tapping on Formica tables with pictures of Kafka embedded in them and listening to Russian poetry. Or Grasshoppers, just enough wings to get them there, but not so much that they are fully airborne and thus potential fodder for my bug zapper's reign of terror. I don't like ants. They are too Prussian. Too organized. Too much of a hive mind. You don't know precisely what their agenda entails, but it somehow involves the Heinz 57 sauce sitting on a plate you left on the floor and while that sauce makes Chicken Fingers taste like deep fried heaven, no plan that involves it can be much good for anyone involved. Unless it is a plan to make more of it and give it to me for my chicken fingers. Call me a cynic, but I just don't think that is what the ants have in mind. So the ants began invading. A slow and frightening encroachment onto my territory. I have held the line, but at great cost of bleach, glass plus, and combat quick kill formula. I am unsure that our reserves can withstand this kind of punishment. But if they want a war, then by Jeepers I am going to give it to them. I apologize for taking Jeepers name in vain. If the ant traps I laid out prove ineffectual, then our tactic will be much more aggressive. I will hit them where they live. I will first need something stronger than store-bought poison traps. I was planning on upgrading to a .357 magnum and a dozen concussion grenades. I will also be using my droves of empty beer cans to construct a makeshift iron curtain. I'll be goddamned if those mercenary swine are going to overrun my home and ruthlessly begin the systematic radiation exposure that will turn them into the man-sized overlords that 50's pulp comics predicted. And you fucking liberal hippies should pick up a gun and stand a post before you even claim to have the right to bemoan this conflict. Die longhair.

You can't trust the ants. Peace is impossible. One day they are your faithful allies, the next you come home and they are sitting on your couch, your girlfriend is knocked up with their kid, they've eaten everything but the Cream of Chicken soup, and they taped over your best German anal porn with an old episode of "The View." I would rather die than to live in chains like those.

With the ant menace gnawing away at most of the time, I was unable to see the onslaught from the Wells Fargo bank. If you are not familiar with this history of Wells Fargo, then I will simply say that it was founded by a bloodthirsty tribe of spectacled monsters which may or may not have worn those little green visors and that strange armband made chic by stereotypical piano players in western films. Their policy seems to include the violent and repeated insertion of space shuttle sized objects into my colon...and they take the uncomfortable route in the implementation of this procedure. I have voyager 1, 2, and 3 in there. And I don't mean in line, I mean abreast. Those rotten sonsofbitches Charge my savings account with worthless service charges until it is totally drained and then they charge me for being overdrawn. Quite a racket, I think I will go back to putting all my money in the hands of Tino "Widowmaker" Monsitrino. He was much more honest and trustworthy. He would also drive 18 wheelers into the living room of anyone for Colombian white ice. Now that is a fucking banker, man. My plan here is to absorb the power of mom and pop shopkeepers by tearing the roof off this sucker with my mad beats. I will then wrathify the bank old school and drink a 40 all up in the lifeless husk that once was a lifeless husk that handled money matters. And then chant prettyprettyprettyprettyprettyprettyprettyprettypretty for no logical reason, but it makes the stewardess awfully uncomfortable. Well maybe if you hadn't supplanted my honey roasted nuts with cashews we wouldn't be having this discussion. Now hop to and fry me up some cake.

And I want to share good drunk with all of you. My nigga and witness for the defense, Justin, got wasted (alone thank you very much) and awoke his girlfriend by repeatedly opening and closing the microwave door. When she asked what he was doing, he told her he had no idea. Goodtimes Justin.

Friday 10:32am
Allergic to sleep.

I think I put the time / day at the top to remind myself when it is. When you work nights, in addition to having to suck the blood of the living in order to maintain your eternal virility, you also lost track of days. Your circadian rhythm gets all fucked up and you start to paint spirals on your walls and ceiling and carve long, nonsensical, equations into your friends. So that is the story behind that.

I want a nickname. There are some good ones floating around out there. Things like Clutch, Diesel, DT, Detox, Hammer. I am just so bloody tired of bearing this single name cross. It is heavy and the hill is steep.

I also wanna hit someone. Not just with my hand though, that has been so done to death. God, how 13th century do I want to be? No I have a whole list compiled of things I want to hit someone with. Or stick them in. Like a bowling ball return. A cardboard baler. Blender, cuisinart, box full of starving basset hounds, communistic system, parallel world where no one has a left ear, garbage truck, giant subwoofer. Oh I like that giant subwoofer idea. Jack the decibels up and shake someone to death. Badtimes for them. Am I making any sense? Whatever, on to the objects to hit someone with: heavy glass ashtray they put in nice hotel rooms (amber colored), cinder block, TV (grosse point blank style), off-color language, rubber dildo (lock, stock, and two smoking barrels style), 50th anniversary edition scrabble box, meat hook, cow bell, snare drum, uncomfortable silence after an admission of guilt.

You know what are badass? Grouper fish. I might have spelled that wrong. Well, I mean I know I spelled "that" right, but I might have spelled that wrong. I mean, I have never seen it written. Lemme point out that I have seen "it" written, several times actually. I am not trying to impress you. I am very lost in why the hell I am writing an update. Got a nice crackhead appeal to it though. Speaking of that, and I'll thank you to stay on topic, I was explaining to a couple of people that I was trying to monopolize the compound word narcotic site address industry. I have been thwarted. Opiumden.com, crackhouse.com, acidfreak.com, they are all taken. I think I should be grateful to have landed old Terroronthe32ndFloor.com. But Grouper fish are hardcore. There are only two things that sharks won't eat, barracudas (also very badass and a good nickname.) and Grouper fish. The Grouper's secret weapon? It tastes like shit. That is it's big bad defense system. They have a really sour look on their face and taste horrid. Now that is a power worth writing home to mama about. Assuming she doesn't already know. And if she doesn't then it is because she was too busy bailing your stupid "mailbox baseball" ass out. So how about you act a little thankful instead of handing out the "fuck off" fliers. But I like to think of myself as a Grouper fish. Not strong or fast or smart or any of that. Just mean and too tough on the palette. And on top of that I am growing weary of the handle "Burnz". I got a friend, more than one actually, but he likes his age-old online pseudonym. Not me boy, I need variety. I might just have to change to the always fresh, never duplicated but often imitated "Cancerman".

Back in the day I even wrote a little ditty that goes with the name Cancerman. Story time. *Tunes up his big '57 Gibson*. All right, I wrote this song on a cocktail napkin in some seedy bar right after I lost Cheryl. It was one of those mornings, when you've got a 4 alarm hangover and a handful of keys that you don't remember acquiring and don't fit in anything. *strums once*. The cops were hanging around after a 3rd shift bust and the bartender was playing solitaire at a table. You knew what was on tap, you had the mug. Help yourself he said. And help myself I did. *Plays the first four meters of a familiar tune*. Anyone from Ohio here tonight? Whereabouts? Cleveland, really? Beautiful town if you can look past a all the shit and grime and murder and rock and roll hall of fame. How about newlyweds? How long? 3 weeks, wow. So you are still in that honeymoon phase huh? I'm into couples if you wanna meet me after the show. Oh yeah, fuck you too buddy. I wouldn't bang that skank if my life depended on it. Hey, don't leave fuckwad, the kennel will be along to pick that bitch up. And it goes a little something like this.

*To the tune of "Candyman"* Who can take the sunshine? / Sprinkle it with death / Take a little Drano and make some crystal meth? / The Cancerman can / *eerie children's choir* The cancerman can / When your bookie wants his payoff / And you can't cover the bets / Who can use a camel to sell you cigarettes? / The Cancerman can. *Slips into the "My Girl" melody* I guess you'd say what can make a straight guy gay? My Girl....My Girl, talking 'bout my girl. My Girl. Man, I am beginning to see why online musicals never caught on.

And while I was spell-checking this thing, the computer didn't find "fuckwad" in the dictionary, but suggested that I change it to "duckweed". I put fuckwad and duckweed on the same level of need. I will petition the people that make computer dictionaries (and also make computer dictionaries fun) to add fuckwad in.

Thursday 5:27pm
I'm a pussy.

Saw my old chummer, Andrew, today. He's an interesting motherfucker. Heavyweight Christian that is about to get married. Needless to say, this makes me feel old. He is one of those people that has the best luck of anyone I have ever seen. He knows everything will work out and it does. Needs and engagement ring, one falls into his lap. If I weren't the neighborhood heretic, I would say that he is evidence to the existence of God. Check this out, he has a little thing for this chica. He says "Yo, big G. Either you bring her to me, or you take these feelings and you smoke 'em, bitch." And God rolls up and she comes to him. And 9 months later they are getting married. Needs a place to have the wedding, someone offers. Needs a priest, they start lining up. Needs a honeymoon, hasn't got it yet, but he will. I sat here with the boy for almost three hours and I got a couch. All I have to do is go pick it up. While I talk about personal evolution as a result of the whims of the great magnet, he's working the cosmic system to get what he wants out of life. Maybe he just put out so much good karma that he has it to burn so he gets me a couch with a little of that nice spillover. I, on the other hand, put out so much bad karma that I have to go to court and am flat broke. This is what I get for bucking the system. The man is bringing the hammer down. Letting me know who wears the daddy pants up in this bitch.

You might have noticed that recent posts have been more in the realm of the philosophical / socially critical with a smattering of whining and a dollop of bemoaning life's travesty. They have not been terribly amusing or clever. I don't have that in me right now. This week has been kinda hard on my mind for some reason. Peaks and Valleys. I apologize for the dull content. And I want to say that one of my hardcore motherfuckers called me a pussy partly for this update. I don't give a fuck. I am a girl, and I don't give a shit. Hit me badass, it is a good way to find out what ICU looks like.

I would like to start this paragraph with some love and some clarification and then I plan on edging into paranoia and praise of anti-socialism. I said in an earlier post "Ladies, most of us view you as partners, it is time to act like you deserve that designation and put your self-esteem on the line. Grow a pair of "balls" and do the right thing. Just shut up with your beliefs and do what you want." I claimed that they didn't do this. I implied that this never happens. I want to point out that I am rarely literal. If I say never, I mean generally. Read nothing I say as specific, absolute, or even accurate. That was to clarify, because one of them did kinda lay it out there in just the past couple of days. She is a pinnacle of womanhood if ever I saw one. Her name shall be scribed in the stars along with pioneers like Sadie Hawkins, Giraffes, and Louise Woodward. You aren't even looking up that last name are you? Lazy bastard.

Now here is the real catch-22. And here is the fake cach-22. So I get what I want for the world. A woman that has the cha-chas to get their man on and do the testosteronic thing. And I am happy about it for 10 freakin' seconds. Then it moves into the pessimistic lobe that comprises all of my higher brain. I start to wonder things. Bad things. Unclean things. Things that are not worth this much buildup. Things that are longer than 4 letters, but don't act too impressed with themselves. Things like "why?". Oh, I suppose it isn't longer than 4 letters. My first thought, and that of your friend and mine, Randal, went something like this: "She and I argue a lot. She hates it when I call her the pumpkin bitch. For all intents and purposes I am her adversary. What greater victory than to woo and wound your foil?" That sure would win the argument, because no matter what I say, she'll have blindsided me sufficiently to undermine my ego. So there is that. Beyond that is the Murphy's Law fact that she lives a solid 2 hours away from me, so is kind of pointless. And the big factor, she's met me. Only whack-job lunatics are attracted to me after having contact. I mean really, does she not notice my truck-driver vocabulary and fondness for random destruction of private property? It is the old adage that I don't want to be part of any club that would have me as a member. I think the distance is the endearing component. I'm adorable when viewed from 90+ miles.

On top of that, how interested am I? I mean...sloth is my all time favorite sin. It beat out wrath. I mean, fucking wrath man. You think that is easy? Oh you would. Idiot. I hate that early dating game thing. I can't do it. And if I could, I wouldn't want to. I would be like one of those cops that is the best at tracking down serial killers, but retires because he just doesn't have the stomach for it. But I am not. Because I hate cops, and dating. When do you call? How often? How long do you talk? Where do you go out to? Do you go out? How long before you sleep with her? Not to mention that women enjoy subterfuge and guile when it comes to humiliating you. See, if I get bored with them, I am very concise about ignoring them to death. But if she gets bored I won't know it for god knows how long, and then around the third trimester I get a "40 and loving it" mug and divorce papers. That is how they like to do it. And I think the worst part of this scenario is the fact that I am thinking about it. Look at all the post space I used on this stupid, trivial thing. Neurotic is as neurotic does. I think I am just going to be flattered and remain a recluse. So this is what happens when you go after a man ladies, you just keep that in mind before you go being all masculine and chase them. God, what happened to femininity? How about you try that for a change. I am such an asshole.

And on top of that, it is the pumpkin girl, which means that my 4.2 ranking ass won't last too long before I am all over the goddamn pavement and racoons are harvesting parts of me for nourishment. For those of you that don't know, the pumpkin girl is a person that is perpetually carrying a "pumpkin" representing a man until she finds a better pumpkin and then the original pumpkin recieves the old drop kick. Badtimes.

Wednesday 6:50am
Bad breeding.

Ok kids, here is the score. I wasn't about to try and reformat my horrid horrid horrid horrid horrid, awfully horrid old archives into this new format. All the old shit looks like all the old shit. Deal with that. I am a little concerned that this is hard to read. It can be a bit rough on my eyes at times, so all you lurkers out there need to gimme some feedback on this font color. I can always put the old gray and black on here or whatever. Talk to me here munchkins!! You'll have yourself a new update soon. *Looks at bottle of cheap vodka* Maybe very soon...Archives are in the archives link. I thought I would save myself from the scads of badly spelled e-mails begging me to guide these cyber-sheep to the remnants of another ugly fucking stab into the already mutilated corpse that is web design. Oh, and the Pornemon section is all fucked up right now. I wouldn't go to it if I were you. I need to either update it or kill it anyway. *Sighs like he is carrying the weight of the world* No, go ahead and play with your friends, I will be fine here wrestling code alone. Maybe your father can help me. Oh, no, wait, he's still dead from the heart attack you gave him you ungrateful little bastard. Chain yourself to the bed and I will be in with the broom handle in a moment.

So here I am. Middle of the morning for the rest of you. Most of you so called human beings are waking up with their mind full of another horrid day full of books and menus or whatever it is you do in your spare time. I am still up with visions of rock stars. Channels of terrifyingly similar minstrels and their deadly vocalizations about the same blight that has stricken mankind since we rolled a stone block on a wooden spoke and called it a wheel. I am talking about the oldest disease. The relationship.

I know I talk about human relationships and so forth quite a bit. I know that anything that could be said about them has been not only proposed, but also regurgitated. I am trying to move away from that. And yet I find myself here again.

Let's just say it, no matter how bright and powerful we are, there is some time in our life when we don't want to be alone. There is a need in all of us, man and woman, to come back to a hearth. We want to forget about the infidelity we committed against that hearth earlier that day with our new tramp secretary that won't last eight more days because her prowess is best seen bent over a desk and not in front of a computer. Fuck like a minx and type like a liberal. You won't go anywhere but a rap video that way darling. Anyhow, even after a long, hard, sex binge there is a part of us that needs the familiar. I am a pussy, which means that I need the familiar more than most men. I just don't see much point in getting my rocks drained and then going on to bed to begin the hunt again tomorrow. I was talking with Kevin, a man I work with, and he agrees with me on this. Maybe I am too old or too weak to hunt the bed-rockin' frivolity, but I just can't see what it has to do with my idea of where life should end. I understand it objectively, but can't really do it too well. I have tried, I have triumphed, but I have not liked it. My concept of a woman is gauged more simply. Let me elaborate:

Whenever I meet someone that might be female and might be interested (which are rarely the same thing) I pull out the weight scales. I make a single fundamental decision about them. I take the enjoyment I have with a couple of episodes of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and some liquor and I weight it against the pleasure derived from the company of woman X. Typically woman X falls short by quite a margin. Pick somewhere to go, play the game, try to play cryptographer with her signals and your responses. Espionage starts to look like a night at the Hilton by comparison usually. I am a blunt person, if you can't make my small mind understand that we are enjoying eachother and should do this again, then I will not bother a second time. It isn't hard. It is actually the simplest thing in the world. Ask me, do your thing and when the terminal point of the evening comes, then just lay it out there. But look at me back on the wagon of relationships. I admit they have been on my mind.

The last three days have been introspective ones. I haven't talked much or wanted to be bothered. I have wanted to ponder a little and not fight or bullshit. I have wanted to take some Burnz time instead of spreading my concentration among the peons that wander in and out of my life. I've asked myself about my motivation. About my intent. This is harder than it sounds. Even to me.

I am an atheist. This isn't a secret. As a matter of fact, I am almost as proud of my heathenism as I am of anything else. But sometimes it seems that life flows according to the great magnet, whether you agree with it or not. No matter how much you question the whims, there are times that build you and times that ignore you. With my arrest and subsequent reaction to events, I feel as if I were on the upswing. It is partially describable, partially not. Everything functions in congruence with dreams and random imaginations. A surreal perception pervades and you have a constant sense of doing nothing but riding a wave bigger and powerful than yourself. It would take much more than I want to print here to try to explain the whole of it all. And even then I fell I would fail. Feast or famine with fate I guess. You swing at the right curve balls or there is nothing but tense holding in the box.

I say I am on the crux of something . Good or bad, I am about to be faced with something I need to grow. Something that will show me my priorities instead of a quagmire of hormones and post adolescent, quarter-life crisis. But I might just be searching so hard that it is impossible not to find something. But I am not a searcher. I try to remove myself from the position and situation, try to quantify it. When things are in upheaval, usually it turns out for the best in the end. All I have to do is allow the disdainful powers above me to weave their plot, and then follow it.

Make no mistake, this doesn't agree with me. Waiting with my dick in my hand is my least favorite position. I like to be doing something. I like to be building something or tearing it down. I don't care for feeling like a victim. I am not partial to handling the will of this obscure fate but I have no choice. The universe makes rules and I violate them and as a result I am given tasks. To me it Herculean, but I have yet to find be forced into something that didn't endow me with something that I needed to take on myself. It just surreptitiously usurped my conscience. All I do now is wait and react with my gut. On to the chopping block.

Saturday 7:43am
You'll die like this.

Ok kids, here is the score. I wasn't about to try and reformat my horrid horrid horrid horrid horrid, awfully horrid old archives into this new format. All the old shit looks like all the old shit. Deal with that. I am a little concerned that this is hard to read. It can be a bit rough on my eyes at times, so all you lurkers out there need to gimme some feedback on this font color. I can always put the old gray and black on here or whatever. Talk to me here munchkins!! You'll have yourself a new update soon. *Looks at bottle of cheap vodka* Maybe very soon...Archives are in the archives link. I thought I would save myself from the scads of badly spelled e-mails begging me to guide these cyber-sheep to the remnants of another ugly fucking stab into the already mutilated corpse that is web design. Oh, and the Pornemon section is all fucked up right now. I wouldn't go to it if I were you. I need to either update it or kill it anyway. *Sighs like he is carrying the weight of the world* No, go ahead and play with your friends, I will be fine here wrestling code alone. Maybe your father can help me. Oh, no, wait, he's still dead from the heart attack you gave him you ungrateful little bastard. Chain yourself to the bed and I will be in with the broom handle in a moment.

I was in love with a girl named Tina. She isn't relevant to anything, She was the first stop in a long experience with romance. She taught me that trusting females is dangerous. That their rules are different than ours. She was fallen. She was broken. I couldn't have bred a better partner. Someone wrought with sickness and dysfunction. Someone with years of therapy ahead and tireless resistance behind. Sometimes, when I was sitting on a park bench in the middle of the day with a meatball sub I have thought of her as I stared at tree branches. Nothing specific, just a curiosity as to what she has done with herself. Whether she is a mangled, frigid beast with a core of icy granite or if she found herself. It is little more than a childish moment that seeks no resolution but it's own hypothesis. I hope she is doing well. I hope she is ok. I hope she has found a ward against the typical illness of a broken home. Whatever else she was, she was a factor in realizing my own weakness. If I can wish her luck, then I will. Someone should.

Tina and I were fallen from grace. We were luminous things. We were prized as being strongest of the light. Without much practice, we excelled among our peers. We were built for something. We were intended for something. We were points of brilliance. We found our release in something else. We found the gratification and decadence so prolific in our abysmal society. I know that something pulls in me. Something fights for a person that should be. A man with a greater good. A man that knows what he must. Instead of trying to find his presence, I thwart him. I envy and destroy what I can of order and peace. I can't believe in this. I can't care about this. I am afraid of tomorrow. Not because of it's upheaval, and not because of it's typicality. It is an emptiness tomorrow. It is a false promise and a filing of nostalgia. There is no race to win or lose. There is only death, Slow, inevitable death. And what then? Nothing matters in a cosmic sense. Nothing changes anything, nothing we do makes anything worthy of note. Out engraved stone is our only testament. It is our legacy.

In the end we forget, and even if we remember, we don't heed. But that is not the point of this paragraph. This point is simple. I have argued with some people about the function and execution of romance. Stop thinking about it. Stop fretting for two minutes. If someone matters to you, tell them. Stop making rules around it, stop caring what they will do to you tomorrow. You can always apologize later. You can always make amends. Write, or call, or draw, whoever it is that is on your mind. Stop bitching and whining. Stop excusing and thinking. Make the move, hang it out there. Male or female, shut the fuck up. I am tired of listening. Isn't it better to have the closure? Isn't is liberating? stop with your rules. Stop with your pretense. Just put it down and let the chips fall. I have listened to enough complaining and self-effacement. I hate you too, so just deal with it for 5 minutes, down a shot or 10 and get on the wagon train. I have known little happiness, but when I found it, cowardice wasn't the thing that brought it about...however I am not taking my own advice. I am realizing that I am too weak to make the move. Too weak to say the simple words. So, to quote a bad musical line "goodnight my someone." Because I don't think it is prudent. Because I would prefer a tin shed of preservatives over the chance. There is always an excuse. I regret it even as I write it. Don't make that mistake. Tomorrow is a work in progress...finish it for god's sake. Because I am too much of a pussy too. Because all I have to say here is built on being something more than I am. You know you are better than me. You know that you could make better graphics and grammar. So prove it by fighting where I failed. And mock me for this update because you know it can wound me. Because a human is a horrid thing to be in this day in age. Because emotion is a woman thing. Forget me.

It has been said that my previous girlfriend's "settled". That they were fools to chose me. That something must have clouded their mind. I am not a bad person in spite of what I have done. In spite of what has been said. I am not lacking in anything. I admit that I have erred. Greatly. There is no denying that. But you were not there. You are not me and you have no right to pass judgment without fighting as hard as I did. Without the pain and effort I wonder how dare you presume to know me. How dare some of you make more than a cursory inspection of Burnz and claim that in your simple findings make a verdict. While I know you don't care, I want to say that I have defended, I have protected, I have embraced. I don't point to these things because I find them embarrassing and trivial. But for all you two dimensional creatures, don't pretend that you're qualification has any validity because it doesn't. I have seen that the truth is malleable. That it can be manipulated. I choose to give it all up front. I choose to admit to it with no prejudice. I am not proud of all of it. But I confess to what I am. Can you do that? Honestly?

On top of all that vague confession I want to say that gentrification is bullshit. I have come into contact with a woman that believes that men are responsible for the inauguration of the courting. They should hang their balls on the line even if brutally shot down. That is ridiculous. I wish to say that gentrification of this kind is paramount to my seriously declaring that women belong in the kitchen with a uterus full of baby and a pan full of homecooked meal. Men are not automatons that are deserving of being the romantic hunters anymore than women are the stereotypical nesting homemakers. Ladies, most of us view you as partners, it is time to act like you deserve that designation and put your self-esteem on the line. Grow a pair of "balls" and do the right thing. Just shut up with your beliefs and do what you want. What fucking bullshit. Don't tell me either gender has any responsibility to the other. Either way, that is an obsolete belief. Just stop whining and do the thing that you want. All of you.