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

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.

Wednesday 7:29am
While I will not die like a lamb I shall bleat like one.

I had a very unique and life-changing experience tonight. I did something that I never thought I was capable of. I actually killed my own dinner. It amazes me that some people can be so blasé about this primal action. As an evolved life form, I never thought that if someone faced me with the decision to kill my food or let another creature live that I would actually reach for the weapon and end a life.

Of course I mean that I killed my dinner from three weeks ago. My place has turned from the post-modern "sty" to the neo-classical decorative statement of "semi-conscious junkyard". When I first walked in the door, the smell told me something was awry. I reached for the light when I sensed movement. It seems that if given enough time, remnants of tomato and basil Alfredo sauce and a molding orange are a serum for creating life from unanimity. It wasn't big, but it was fast and wily. Only by the time honored cinematic instruction of pushing one's adversary into a circuit breaker box, thereby electrocuting it, did I finally overcome the beast.

Have you ever seen the movies wherein the protagonist is grappling with some enemy and flings them into a circuit breaker box or industrial looking generator, and there is enough current running through it to kill them? Now, it might be just around my house/warehouse district but you have to make something of an effort to electrocute yourself or someone you are grappling with. I suppose it wouldn't be nearly as dramatic to have the villain thrown at an exposed light socket tongue first. But honestly, how about you filmmakers think about this. And while you are at it, realize that scientists are not going to reanimate axe murderers, hockey masked killers of mythic proportions, or aliens just to study them. That isn't what science does. Science finds newer and better ways of killing brain cells for recreation and upgrading the snack industry's foods from "cheesy" to "dangerously cheesy". See, science likes to kill you slow; with lots of snorting and withdraw symptoms or clogged arteries, rotten teeth, and a lower intestine backed up worse than the security checkpoints for flights to the Mid-east. Damn you science! Damn you to hell!

Oh you people. You lucky, gorgeous people. I have such treats for you. First, I am going to open with a little of my oh-so-delicious commentary on the law. Just a taste of my unique disgust and loathing. And then, for the finale a story by a man that loves to hate me. And just guess whom it is about? Go on. Please? Fine. Yes, he wrote it about me. Some creative writing class he had and used his unique spin on the internal working of old Burnzie as inspiration. That is damn flattering until you read it. It did make me realize that I have some seriously shoddy punctuation. Going back to school will fix that wagon though. I hope it does anyway. Perhaps then you could understand me without running my whole site through a decoder ring. I could be a code-talker. Someone write this shit down would you. I am giving you gold here. On to more of the me that is just soooooo me.

All right. Let's talk courtroom. And let's do it in fake Irish accents. So what have you got in the courtroom setting? For my own purposes -world domination- I like to think of a trial more as a …masturbatory prosecution ceremony. Perhaps you prefer the term ritual. To each his own. But I am ahead of myself…and falling behind. Ironic, don'tcha think?

So you've got yourself a defense attorney. High priced mercenaries that pedal knowledge and their ability to litigate instead of muscle and firearms. You hand them cash to make the system their special kind of bitch. They are accessories to the crime of every acquitted man that is guilty as sin. But they get to do it from within the system and buy a boat with the revenues. Excellent. This isn't news to anyone.

Then you have the people they defend. Sometimes good people caught up in an elaborate scheme concocted by their evil husband and his vampiric mistress that looks way better in a French maid outfit than is fair to the viewers at home. Usually they are the so-called detriments of society. And a minority of the time, they are me. Anyhow, these folks are branded with the mark of the beast by the state, and our Prosecutors track the disciples of the beast with the same fervor of a clergyman in Salem. Why do they do this? Well, out of the goodness of their heart and desire to see justice done…now stop laughing out loud and read the real reason: Don't pretend that the people who carry the axe are righteous crusaders. They're figureheads to the illusion of safety and timeliness. They're stigmatizing juggernauts that define what a villain is, convince us of it, and then take on the worthless task of tracking them down and putting them on the block. They're revenue generating addicts that fund their own archaic power structure that has it's foundations in ritual and good intentions twisted around by it's practitioners just like a religion. Judiciarian, the worship of order and justice. If court were a ball, these would be the motherfuckers that came sporting those masquerade masks on sticks. A smokescreen of being the dam against the immoral tide. How noble. Really, their job is to rip as much as they can out of people that violate their code. I won't pretend that much of this code isn't needed. But much of it isn't too. Much of it revolves around the simple fact that laws are made by a big group of old, white men in a big house on a hill. They pass some laws that are good, and then they pass some laws to protect the interests of old, white men that have jobs on a hill. Ugly shit isn't that? And their decrees goes through the screening process of checks and balances that includes another old, white man on the biggest fucking hill around, and 9 people that interpret the constitution drafted and updated by old, white men on that same hill. Majestic autocracy they have here isn't it? Rule by the decaying albinos, of the decaying albinos, and for the decaying albinos.

Now don't get me wrong, I like old, white men. I might even become one if science fails in it's homicidal task. But the no bullshit truth here is that they are handing down laws that protect the ideologies typical of their age and gender. Then their legal Prosecution henchmen carry out the punishment for the breaking of these laws and instead of being cast as warriors that want you to be free so they can take whatever indiscretion to get your money and for you to serve their community. No, they are viewed as a scourge upon immorality. Well lemme get you people in on a little secret: There are few crimes of morality that are as severe as enforcing an unjust law. So I am going to contend that there are many many instances (i.e. victimless crimes) wherein I have difficulty identifying the perpetrator. Think of the magnitude of people that are guilty according to our land's laws but still correct in principle. One more time for the people in the back: Never confuse right with just.

The prosecutors are just monkeys though. As I just pointed out, they dance while men on the hill grind the organ. And speaking of dances, how about the little two-step that any court session goes through. All rise (stand) presiding is the honorable blah blah. Court now in session. A person wearing black robes in the never tiresome, always hip style of our buddies the Puritans. This person then bangs a little hammer. Because little hammers = power I suppose. Then there is the dreary and complicated system of speaking in turn and using the jargon of the profession. Sure, some of it is necessary for order…assuming order is your intent. And if you break the cycle then you are found in contempt and put in a cell. I have friends with a system like this: It goes puff puff give, if you break the rotation you are out of the circle (pot smoking reference if you are not a drug user at all). Contempt is the man's way of putting you in time out to think about what you did. And if you are really bad you have to go to bed without supper.

It is a game. It is a ridiculous game. My endless weariness with order and structure and bullshit are speaking in part here. Because this system punishes the party with the least wit. That is the long and short of it. It is all a rousting match of speak-charades where a jury's verdict is the prize, and people's lives and futures hang in the balance. That sound good to you? That sound like something you want to be a part of? That sound like how we should weed out who pays what, who is guilty of what, who should be haunted by a record? Well I don't fucking like it. It reeks of antiquated methodology and improper emphasis.

This isn't about fairness, and the whole idea is a "fair trial". These days that is an oxymoron. This is everyone trying to bilk funds to maintain one lifestyle or another while a grim creature tries to act impartial while twelve generations old simians make big decisions. All this because a person, or group of people were smart enough to deny the mandates set before them, but dumb enough, or unlucky enough to get caught.

Scum defending Scum that broke a law written by Sum who is being prosecuted by Scum. And the goody-proctor looking motherfucker runs the show with his little hammer. I think I will go to church, it isn't so ridiculous.

We don't need laws. We don't need government. We need a little more Darwinism and let the chips fall where they may. Perfect world according to Burnz' punch line machine? Give everyone a gun and one bullet. Good luck and god speed boys. Seriously though, this is contrary to natural order. It is a synthetic, rabid dog that is so big and so integral that we don't even think to rein it in. That we just accept that we need this for our little lives. Your little life and mine should not be pandered to. Government is a womb. And while it protects us, it confines and cripples our further development. (Gets off soap box).

I know this is in generalities. Accept the sweeping intention here. Think of the intent and not the particulars. I know that not everyone on the hill is an old, white man. Just realize I am making a point, get the point, and move on before I get a box full of your bitching and whining about a sentence that I can bet I won't remember writing. And biologically I want to point to the fact that we are one of the longest-lived species on the planet. Nifty us. However, in having slower generations without the benefit of natural selection that means that ours is one of the worst societal structures. Insects have generations in a tiny fraction of ours. That makes them far beyond us. This is why they can live through a nuclear holocaust and we won't. Just run that through your sieve of a mind "Highest life form". Not only is your life pointless, but unproductive to our species. I thank the almighty that man is too stupid to keep itself alive.

And if life is unimportant, imagine the microscopic meaning that this post has.

I am such a hypochondriac that I think I have hypochondria.

Onward and upward anyhow. Have yourself a dose of my mind as seen by someone that hates me. While I wouldn't use the term "Matchbox Speedway" I think you'll find it has a certain parallel to my contemptuous nature. And I will vouch for the fact that he nailed me pretty good in some parts. Betcha click this.

Sunday 1:56pm
It isn't a diary. It is a "Web-Log".

Previously on Terroronthe32ndFloor.com: "God, life is miserable." "I drink a lot." "Every woman I have ever dated is a psychotic bitch." "I hate everyone." "Look at my ego!" "Flame fonts, knife logos, sacrelage, and bluish headlines on a grey background; am I blind?"

Ok. Yes, ok is a sentence. Here is what we need up in the house. I need to learn how to use one of those macho coding languages so I can use the CGI on this site and put up one of those nice comments sections at the end of the post in the web-god style of long-time friend of Terroronthe32ndFloor.com. This decision came about when I read the remarks posted in my whack-job forum by the newest addition to the Methkitchen family, Christina. She gave some reasonably insightful advice on what is necessary sucker and maintain a woman. This would be much better put in a place that is easily accessible by everyone instead of in the forum that even I don't look at much anymore. So on to the complicated learning manuvers.

See, the treacherous part of learning any of the coding or programming languages is that they go far too much into detail about what it is. HTML is really fucking simple. Really really simple. I had trouble learning it at first though. This was because instead of giving me a graduated group of examples with human descriptions, the technical elitists decided that they should keep their stranglehold on the knowledge by speaking in Geek with long expostulations rather than showing me what it is, and what it does. The HTML I know now is admittedly pretty basic but was picked up in a couple of hours via cutting and pasting from other sites. You find a site, see what it does, and then look at the code and break down the components until you have an idea what each one's function is. I finally did that after ages of trying to muddle through the confusing text attempts at telling me what a div tag is. Once again, we have the conflict of the abstracts and the concretes.

I was thinking about this when I arose at the crack of noon today. It was one of those times when you are too tired to get up, and too rested to sleep. So you lie there because fuck it, it is sunday. I have often said to various members of my peepz that I am not a technically minded person. I don't quite fathom cars, computers, math, or anything else that is mostly just rote memorization and right angles. No ambiguities, no real theories. Mostly just right and wrong answers. Action A results in outcome B. Naturally someone will want to argue that Geometry is entirely based on theorem and postulate that works all the time but is conceivable to disprove. Which is essentially the pussy scientific community refusing to put their balls out there and declare absolute truth. Absolute truth is a religious idea, and so the thinkers can't possibly just lay their money on the line. And yes, that is worthy of respect and I admire a group that can drop a whole belief system of what is right and true just because someone smarter than them finds the loophole. But it disagrees with my preachy arrogance that my way is the only way. That isn't the point here though.

I fully admit that I look down on the concretes. Their orderly and clean little fiefdoms of pistons, gears, numbers, and laws makes me view them as bubble dwelling cowards. I am an abstract. I can talk philosophy at great length. Wanna analyze a dream or a system of politics? Great, we can sit around until dawn nursing beers and gradually overrunning the ash bucket with butts as we sit in lawn chairs out on the porch. I'm bored by your market trends and ability to regurgitate your quaint recollection of the facts, figures, times, and places because I'd say for all you know, you don't seem to me to have a concept of what it means. It is what it is to the concretes. And I am so busy overthinking what it means, that I can't seem to just see what it is anymore. Which is why the concretes look down on me. And that is just fine and dandy.

I can't stack boxes very well. I do it passably, but nothing like most of those that work under me. They can put the shapes together and make a rectangle. Actually, the pallets at my workplace could tell you which one a person is. Subject X is a moron but managed to put 35 varying geometric shapes into a cube. Subject Y can do it if he focuses on it, but usually have a few that are imperfect. It moves down to me, mine are a mess. Practice and repetition have given me some ability, but I can't compete with the tight stack of a concrete thinker. But unless we are talking about building a machine or riding code or investing in the best bet, they ain't the individuals I would call thinkers. They are being dissected by creative psychological process and following with sociological trends that they don't see and don't care to. Mostly, they follow orders because that is their place in the system. It is something I cannot even imagine anymore than they can grasp improvisational solutions and non-compliance because their orders are ineffectual. In a flawless structure they are perfect because they are not affected by whim. And they perpetuate a flawed system with aplomb.

The ultimate problem addressed by this update is that the coding languages I need to learn now are protocols essentially. So I don't get to see them. I can't find something that does what I need and break it down because I am not on the end that sees what I need to. I see the preliminary setup that leads to the code I need and I see the results, but this middle-man script eludes me. So it will probably be a while until I have the comments I want. Unless one of my gentle and goodly readers desires to help me with a big old page of code that comprises that middle action. Hint Hint. See, the concrete thinkers find their technical descriptions fit solidly inside their realm of perception. They can make and explain while I can destruct and then also explain. They can say "here is this thing, you use it when you want to do this." While I can more simply be taught by being shown what they did with it and remaking it as my own. Seeing what it is capable of rather than being told when it must be used.

Now on to the comments put into my forum by Christina. She advised on how women were most effectively wooed. This is once again pointless to me because she is speaking conceptually. She says "do this to get hunnies". And I can't think of when I would do that. If she said "I got Timbericka to fuck me by going through these steps". Then I can see what she did, how she applied them, and get the concept. Explain the is, I will find the means.

I did understand her though. And realized that I rarely meet someone worthy of my actual effort. My buddy Randal (semi-concrete) will do the things necessary. Be nice, be charming, play the game. He does it, and I've seen the boy do it pretty well. Not for me. I don't care enough, and even if I do, I don't know how to do it so when I try it I come off as being terribly ridiculous or creepy. And then I get to be humiliated by the memory for all eternity.

My breed of social grace is unique. I'm kind of intense and wound up during those times when I am not bitter and apathetic. To me, if I speak to you, especially if I instigate conversation with you then you should read that as the fact that I adore you. If I actually contact you to go out socially, then you can bet that I'd hand over whatever organ you needed at the drop of a hat. Because if I don't like you, I won't talk to you. I will not take your calls. I will avoid looking at you if I run into you on the street. I will not talk to you about my day. I will not indulge in the bullshit "hows it going, are you having a good day that is nice for you I like your hair sorry to hear about the surgery but you can barely tell that one eye used to be higher than the other" conversation. I won't even abuse you. If Burnz has talked to you at all, used an interrogative sentence, made eye contact with you, or really laughed at something you said, then he likes you. Everyone please update their knowledge of the human race with a sliding scale. Please know that if a nice person is kind of friendly, then you are just like everyone else in their mind. If a frosty prick is kind of friendly, you should bronze yourself because you is a special motherfucker. But the ladies don't seem to know this about me. Nor do I understand how I felt a vibe because my scale is a little skewed. That is all.

And for you: New conversation.

Friday 10:21am
Lesbianoge.

The original update that would go here was lost in a whirlwind of my own incompetence. Just to inform you, this is a vague shadow that came from an exhausted mind.

The past few days have been a real blowout. I have committed one of the Burnz cardinal sins and fallen madly in love with someone I don't really know. By love I naturally mean attraction, and by madly I naturally mean mildly. It just lacks dramatic emphasis to say that I have a slightly higher than passing interest in a member (or at least prospective client) of the opposite sex. Of course with my phat self-awareness I get the unparalleled joy of knowing that not only is my interest pointless but also probably rooted in sickness and delusion. So I get to pine (or at the very least oak) for some dangerous succubus that wants nothing more than to feed on my life essence. We've got self-destruction, yes we do. We've got self destruction, how about you? But all of that isn't the point of this update. We have come together today on this day in one of the many years of our lord to talk about Lesbianoge.

Webster's dictionary defines Lesbianoge as "typical Burnz shit that he conjures up to be gimmicky". But the 1999 Terroronthe32ndFloor.com definition-bee winner said that Lesbianoge is a marriage of the terms Lesbian and espionage for the sole purpose of showing the innate unfairness of homosexual women. So take that Webster. You keep going at this rate and Roget's Thesaurus will catch you, bypass you, and serve your minced ass at the next convention of Word Warlocks.

My recent encounter with Lesbianoge begins with a story, It also ends with a story and lots of confused nausea.

So there I was. Knee deep in just the other night. I was walking into an eatery with a few companions. Two gentleman and a woman. In case you've forgotten, they are the things that carry the babies. Needless to say she was bound and gagged in compliance with the laws of escorting an admitted estrogen carrier. Anyway, in we rolled to a favorite restaurant of mine; drunk on our own sense of power. At that simpler and innocent time, we had no clue what was about to happen.

We immediately demanded a table for 3 + 1 female. Seeing the animal glimmer in our eyes, the hostess fetched a handful of menus and put up a brave front by boldly saying "right this way".

We shamelessly pillaged the seats of the booth she led us to. In addition to misusing pillage we went on to riotously misuse many other words. Good, pure words like anthropomorphic and jellybean.

To draw out suspense, I am now stalling with some pointless bullshit about atmosphere or the dies-ease that gripped my entrails. Or my outrails. Or my inbetweentrails. And then, all of a sudden, I get to the damn point.

Our waitress soon came over to the table to take our drink orders. She was quite a bonny lass. A fine specimen of womanage worthy of being killed, stuffed, and put in a museum. It would be ungentlemanly of me to further describe her beauty, but suffice it to say that it would take very little persuasion to get me to stick my penis in her repeatedly. Without a lube. Rough and hard and long.

But seriously. She was a foxy one. She had blonde hair and a tongue ring. She also wore glasses. There is something about a woman with the right pair of glasses. There is also something about a woman with the wrong pair of glasses but it isn't the same thing. She was certainly worth a couple of trashy romance novel paragraphs or at the very least a soft focus picture with something like "Forget me not" scrawled on the back. Assuming that the handwriting is legible.

After this lovely young piece of fuckable tail had scampered off to do her womanly duty of fetching us what we wanted, one of my associates informed me that our waitress liked to troll the same waters as most men. She shopped at the same stores if you get me. She danced to the same tune. She paid for sex from the same gender if you know what I mean. And I think that you do.

I began a vigil of this girl throughout the evening. She certainly seemed more interested in the woman of our little group than any of the three eligible and gorgeous men. She used endearing terms when addressing her, and laughed most loudly at the comments she made. Lousy pronouns made that kind of confusing. But you liked it anyway. Don't lie, I know you did. I could tell by your body language. Furthermore, the hostess that had originally seated us seemed a bit preoccupied with our waitress at times. A fairly good-looking man came in and appeared to be trying to get his mack on with her. Across the room, the hostess was staring at him with the same look that a mother coyote has when a rival gang member is too near to her eggs. It was adorable in that cute "she's killed before, she will kill again" kind of way. After glaring at him, the hostess came over and took the hand of our waitress and they walked off into the sunset.

Now my asshole accompaniment says there is no ambiguity to the statement that this woman was indeed a lesbian. I say that women are often affectionate to the point of holding hands and putting their arms around each other. There is even some rare documentation of otherwise straight women videotaping lesbian intercourse. There is nothing about this that makes them "gay". I still am not 100% sure that our delightful waitress was a filthy clam digging, muff diving, rug munching, carpet cleaning, taco tonguing, clit rancher. But I will assume she was.

So I will tell you what irritates me about this. I was under the impression that there had to be some kind of lesbian registry and formulated code of appearance. I figured that I could go my whole life without ever meeting an attractive lesbian. Despite what Cinemax shows me, I figured that in the real world lesbians were ugly, wore combat boots and cut their hair like Mick Jagger would if the marine corps cut his hair. And yet here I was faced with a very attractive girl that had no discernable markings to establish her as a dyke. No macho swagger, no "Kiss me, I'm gay" button, no scarlet letter around her neck, no "I have penis envy and all I got was this lousy tee shirt" tee shirt, no "ask me about my love of women" bumper sticker, nothing to alert me to the fact that I had 0 chance of landing her. I could have very easily been shot down by her if I had the balls to actually ask her out. And why? Just for my gender. That is Lesbianoge.

They have this horrid subterfuge now. The dykes are learning to live amongst us as normal people. We can't find them which means we can't hunt them for sport. They can beguile us and draw us in and then take us to the rejection cleaners whether we want to go or not. We can be made to feel like total inadequate jackasses because little miss firm thighs decided that Barbie had what she was looking for and G.I. Joe didn't stand a chance. That is dangerous and offensive to those of us that have enough trouble with women. We have quite enough wrenches thrown into the gears without adding gayocity. And look what they are making me do, I am making up words left and right. Someone stop the madness.

So that was my life since the last update. I have been fraught with another pointless attraction and deceived by a lovely lesbo. I am just an irrepressible malcontent. No two ways about it. It is hard to be me.

Sunday 5:56am
Some say flamboyant, some say gauche, some prefer to act aloof.

I am wondering if Jodi Foster or Gina Davis is in the husband market. I am so damn picky that there are very few celebrities that can keep me interested before and after I ejaculate. Most men need a firm body and for them to be kinda nice. Not me. I require 3 personal references and a psychological screening before I will date you. I don't need the Sarah Michelle Gellar mess over again. She is cute, but she is neurotic. Blah blah blah "I can't feel love" blah blah blah "I don't know who I am" yadda yadda yadda "help me, I cut a vein". You can't get them to shut up. I tried to explain that I was watching Star Trek and that I would be with her in a moment. But with those diva bitches it is all now now now. Not just anyone qualifies as being worthy of my romantic interest. Every time I meet a woman I start projecting what she would be like a week from now. A month. A year. And then I start to act like I am Sigmund fucking Freud and by the time I have run the poor girl through my "crazed bitch" filter, I have moved on to eating fish sticks and laughing at COPS episodes where they have to hit the suspect. Needless to say that I am too busy to care about romance. So they have no chance of even arriving in the terminal of Burnz airport of hot lovin'. And if they want to get out on the tarmac, they are fucking dreaming. The point of that is to express that I am picky.

I am extremely picky about women. The more time I spend alone, the more I realize that I don't need a woman. I am also better off without one. These are not groovy things to be thinking at the tender age of 30. Since I am not 30, they are even worse. I can't do the dating thing. I couldn't do it when I tried to do it, and I will be goddamned if I am going to make the effort now. Meet them, play the flirting game, talk a little, ask them out, listen to their insipid conversation about teaching underprivileged sea mammals, drug them, tie them up, beat them erotically, invade them, and eventually sell them to Canadian slave marketers. Who has the energy for that? I can barely find the ambition to cook corn dogs and mix lemonade in the same 88 hour span. I cannot play the game. I don't want to. I plan on living a short and unproductive life. I don't see why I should waste my time on courting a vile and deceptively pretty creature. In my cynical opinion there is no such thing as a good woman. Ugly women have good personalities, pretty women are out for blood. They have a thousand ways of coming for your life-garita but they all will. They will all find a way to manipulate you into a corner by lying, ignorance, malice, damage, misanthropy, or straight sudden brutal mistreatment. You can't survive a woman until you have stopped caring if she lives or dies. My problem is that I prefer she dies. Chicks don't like a homeboy that wants her to perish in a fiery wreck. Well that is just fine. I got maybe 10 years to live anyway, I don't need your poorly washed nether-regions, wench. You're God's answer to the succubus How about you go make me up a nice Gyro and try shutting up for fifteen minutes. NYPD Blue is on, and I am trying to listen. Isn't there something upstairs you could vacuum right about now?

That is just raving though. The truth is I would like to be madly in love. Ever since I was a kid I wanted to find some woman that would make me happy like I didn't even know I could feel. I wanted to find the one. I wanted a creature of light, color, and magic. I found out that they don't exist. I found out that picking a bride is like finding a pill that will be the most exuberant death. Choice is a matter of luck. Except that you can take any pill. Women are far more fickle.

I am sick of the whole thing. I have a crush on one of my bosses that is silly and painful everyday that I see her. That isn't borne in reality, it comes from a place that I made for futile and endless pursuits of things that do nothing but hurt. And I won't ever posses her. And even if I did I would beat her and eventually threaten her with a blade. Unless she was truly the one and then we could play knife games and start making shivs. It could be like a prison yard. A couple of nasty words and before we know it one of us is stabbing around in the body of the other for a vital organ. Forget that. I can keep a good handle on my sick personality with much more effective and singular methods. I don't need more nights driving recklessly and beating on the the steering wheel like an animal to try and find release. I have Burnz and he is a pretty good son of a bitch to live with. More animal than man. More criminal and demented than he admits. But I love him. Pressure that, and I guarantee he will Molotov cocktail your fucking house. He is getting better at victimless crime. Like slashing a cops tires and throwing a softball into random windshields. He ain't got charm, but he got a nice core of hatred and self-righteousness. Surround that with an ego and you are not contemplating much of a person. More like an output looking for an outlet. I can't stand you.

Thursday 4:41am
Bred or built, I am a tomorrow's baby.

That's right prenatal children of the apocalypse: I am back on the sauce. Burnz without booze is like death without pain. It doesn't have a point. Ooooooooo. I like that analogy, I plan on selling that to Pepsi. When some leather-clad bitch is vomiting it onto you, don't act all hurt and shocked and just swallow until it hurts. Yeah baby. I am home again. I don't like sober Burnz, and nobody knows what to do with him anyway. He is fast, intense, and has some kind of playful joy that isn't befitting. Maybe if I grew a mane of black hair and learned to play the guitar. Maybe then I could be a fad. Maybe it is my inability to hold a microphone or throw hotel chairs that makes me unremarkably deficient. Maybe I just need an attractive spokeswoman in vinyl. Whatever it is, that isn't what I am talking about. The whole matter has been solved with the cunning use of imbibing. Rest assured that I know where I belong. I know that death is what stops drinking. That is the nature of my people. You die to scare off your demons. Until then, you toss them a glass and tell them to keep up or get the fuck out. So until I fluctuate again, those are the rules of the house of Burnz.

Tonight's ride on the mechanical bull of failure and loathing should have a little psychology to it. Some Jung, some neo-forum, some jackass on PBS whose name is important but I am too drunk to recall. I am talking about the self. And since MTV is on the TV with the mute in full effect, you bet your ass you get some of that too. As long as I brought MTV up, let's talk about Brandy. Who the hell set her eyes so far apart? She looks like a hammerhead shark. If you split them any farther you could add 63 points and put it in a children's book as a connect the dots puzzle. My thought is to use her topographically by adding the Mediterranean sea between her eyes and using her face as a map of Europe and the middle east. Or the mideastern axis block. Or central east shit as it be known in the hood. Damn.

Women are built by how many times daddy fucked them. It seems it is common place for poppa or step-poppa or his brother to do the horizontal flipper-baby mambo with you, so it is just a matter of how many times. Guys are built around how gay they are and how deeply they repress it. In my case, I am open about the fact I make sweet, sweet man-love to all kinds of guys. This means I am healthy. Or more healthy than you and the throne of boys you sit on because it "proves to your girlfriend that you are secure." She is secure too, and when you meet Daddy Longsman you will believe her. So deal with that. Or pretend it didn't happen like you did with that incident when you joined boyscouts. Of course you quit because your cataracts were acting up. We understand. But that was a nice triple-knot he got you into regardless. I wasn't filming it. I swear.

You fuckers should watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It has a great line by the best character. He says "Buckle in kiddies, daddy is going to drop the hammer." I wanna date a pop diva so that I can get a mouthful of foundation and mascara. How many licks does it take to get to the woman center of a platinum album selling ho. And I don't mean the garden tool. That is 100% real, which is 99% more than anyone on music television.

Those motherfuckers built us. They are the fear of Nietzche We are a socialized video revolution wherein popular media figures become reality, become our idols before anyone has a chance at our crippled minds. Goddamnit. Not only am I now too drunk to explain to anyone, but I am also too distracted by breasts. Please go find a book. Stop reading. And unlike me, stop jerking off to random women on the tele. One more Victoria's secret and I swear to god I will tell. Then it will be "Victoria's Obvious". And you don't want that. Because look at my ex. She was the spokesperson for an ad like that. "Victoria's Obvious, your imagination is better than we got".