imma eatin a dark reeses realizing it's basically the same as when I was a kid and used to mix chocolate chips with peanut butter. I did that shit all the time.
listening to a Toys that Kill album. Wired Resident is fucking awesome, I need to remember that so I can add it to a punk comp at some point. not enough mix tapes being made by me anymore. I think I"m afraid I will get sick of all the songs on the comps and thus ruin the regular albums for myself.
I have these huge fucking wool socks from Fleet Farm. They are warm and awesome, but I suspect they were made for hunters. So I feel like I'm living a lie. A comfortable lie.
I need a little table to set near my laptop. There's a rubbermade box here with my HTTYD artbook but I am not going to risk putting alcohol near that. Toothless deserves better. Yet I would really like a place to put my glasses. If any activity deserves the company of alcohol it's the interwebbing.
I'm being real, not being mean.
bought the book of Submarine by Joe Dunthorne off Amazon awhile ago. ordered it used off a seller as that was almost half as much as amazon's asking price. so I waited many weeks, and was going to have that be my next work-book. got tired of waiting, read all of Wizard of Earthsea (not a great feat, as it's pretty damn short, but kinda neat to me anyway), then still got tired of waiting so today I started Banewreaker which is actually pretty awesome...only to find out that my copy of Submarine arrived today. It's in excellent condition so I'm thinking about giving the seller a good score; I rarely bother giving sellers any score. Anyway, turns out it was a good thing I started some other book cuz the coverart of Submarine has boobies which I don't think they'd like at work.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
don't ask, I don't know
somewhere, in a modest hut in the outback, lives a small, shrivelled Aborigine man who knows and understands every meme in existence, and loves each of them as if they were his children. and sometimes when he is angry at one meme for its unfairness to Bill O'Reilly he will get out the flyswatter and start yelling at them one at a time because he gets them mixed up and can't think clearly in such times. But he loves them still, and often takes them out for blizzards at the dairy queen, tho secretly this is his own secret pleasure more than theirs, as blizzards are a most sought after treat in the Australian outback.
time moves on and the old man does not age, for if mother is the name of god in the eyes of a child, and if that child is a humorous idea thought up by some bedwetting prepubescent loser on the internet, that man is the god of forever, a domain only lost when people move onto the next big thing. And if every next big thing is but a child to such a man, he is then truly and fully a god in his own right. Bow to the tiny Australian who knows every meme. Bow to him, and despair. For he holds in his hands your hearts and desires, your laughter, your sadness, your wonder at the strangeness of the interwebs. He can give it life or he can destroy it for all time. And it means nothing to him because he can just have another.
and so this tiny tyrant god sits on his throne of ether, both judging the world and terrified of it. but at least he moved out of his mom's basement finally.
and across the expanse of the ocean, in a cramped suburban flat somewhere in soho, lives a metaphor that has been stretched far beyond rational thought. its friends tried to warn him, don't go to that bar. that's not for regular metaphors. and he said, fuck you, what is regular anyway? and so it came to pass that the metaphor became someone's bitch. but he was a stubborn metaphor, he wouldn't admit to being wrong, to being ridiculous, to being retarded. and life was not good for him, but he decided if he were meant to like his life he'd be a simile. such a sad life, the life of the metaophor. Forever abused by idiots who barely have a grasp on the english language.
time moves on and the old man does not age, for if mother is the name of god in the eyes of a child, and if that child is a humorous idea thought up by some bedwetting prepubescent loser on the internet, that man is the god of forever, a domain only lost when people move onto the next big thing. And if every next big thing is but a child to such a man, he is then truly and fully a god in his own right. Bow to the tiny Australian who knows every meme. Bow to him, and despair. For he holds in his hands your hearts and desires, your laughter, your sadness, your wonder at the strangeness of the interwebs. He can give it life or he can destroy it for all time. And it means nothing to him because he can just have another.
and so this tiny tyrant god sits on his throne of ether, both judging the world and terrified of it. but at least he moved out of his mom's basement finally.
and across the expanse of the ocean, in a cramped suburban flat somewhere in soho, lives a metaphor that has been stretched far beyond rational thought. its friends tried to warn him, don't go to that bar. that's not for regular metaphors. and he said, fuck you, what is regular anyway? and so it came to pass that the metaphor became someone's bitch. but he was a stubborn metaphor, he wouldn't admit to being wrong, to being ridiculous, to being retarded. and life was not good for him, but he decided if he were meant to like his life he'd be a simile. such a sad life, the life of the metaophor. Forever abused by idiots who barely have a grasp on the english language.
om nom coffee.
coffee is a coping mechanism. I take a drink and I think. I clear my head and I think about the coffee. I think about the bean, born in harsh conditions in a drug fueled nation, poor underpaid peasants digging through the dirt, going home every day in clothes that are permanently stained because they most likely have only the one pair, taking their meager existence day by day and living a life of subsistence where the greatest hope is merely to survive. I think of those beans traveling the miles, carelessly packed and enduring the journey to some unknown processing plant where they are beaten, pummeled, abused in every way science has discovered before they are freeze dried and zipped into useless bags or cans by some unthinking uncaring machine operated by an unthinking uncaring operator whose life is only slightly more tolerable than the bean picker, whose life is defined by commercials set between tv programming for the lowest common denominator, common dreck whose glazed eye perceptions barely make it past blunt, obvious, and mostly brainless content, whose largest concern is the ticking of the clock towards the inevitable punch out time only to regain his dread anew with the knowledge of the impending inevitable next day. The bags or cans are then shipped, trucked, hauled, forced onto display shelves, sold into slavery as it were, bought, stolen, and inhaled without a thought, without even an intuition of the pain and suffering they had survived. But I think of it. I realize all the pain and suffering in each and every cup. I don't even like the taste. I pour sugar and creamer until the taste is gone and all that remains is a cup of hot tan sweetness. And as I gulp it down I think of the coffee as a god might contemplate a moral. And that is what helps me get through the day.
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