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the plot sickens |
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the plot sickenswhatever happened to pong?Thursday, October 30, 2003
scary monsters... super freaks... keep me running... running scared...  Monday, October 27, 2003
Just to bring more culture to this page, I've decided to quote some recently read Shakespeare.
"I will incontinently drown myself." "Zounds!" - from Othello as the train left the station... there were two lights on behind... Friday, October 24, 2003
No matter how I try, I can't get the Ghoulies' 'Chupacabras' stuck in my head. They're a great live act, but my relationship with their studio recordings has been one of a few obessions with certain songs. The first was 'A New England,' a Billy Bragg cover, and now the ever-satsifying cascade of vocals in 'Chupacabras.' Having only seen their shows just before the onset of Winter, they'll always be an Autumnal association. Somewhere in a salvage yard there is an orange and black Groovie Ghoulies sticker on the bumper of a dilapidated Dodge Aries. I can't imagine that pail of pistons anywhere else by now.
i am just a monkey man... i'm glad you are a monkey woman too... Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Oh goddamn, this song is skipping. Cheap ass Technics stereo equipment.
i wait-wait-wait-waited for you winterlong... Monday, October 20, 2003
Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you.
(Pong.) you look like a monkey, and you smell like one too... Saturday, October 18, 2003
If I had a scanner the creamiest of the cropped would be posted on fictionfiction for your viewing pleasure, but I guess you'll just have to await my next return.
Last post, eh? Well, I've edited the title and description accordingly. As for your coming D.O.B., I had considered buying you some gray acres on the moon, but I know at least I get sick of looking at the things I own. So, take these notes as replacements, birthday g**. Wait, it's got to upload. Hum hum... Okay, go for it. Out. we want the airwaves... Thursday, October 16, 2003
Well... (Welly welly welly well!) I was noticing our multiple entries in a single day, but I'm glad we've both neededly amused ourselves here for a short while.
I had dropped off a roll of black and white film at a supermarket last year about a week before school ended. It didn't come in until I was back up nort'. I think I sent away for it within days of it getting tossed into the incinerator of the dead photo office. In any which case, I received it today. There are loads of pictures of the New Years party in Nick's trailer. Maybe it's the black and white scheme, or the amount of alcohol running through us, but everyone is shining. Lots of those arms-locking-shoulders pics of three or more people with squinty eyes. And people grabbing the first drink in front of them and holding it up to the camera as the shutter clicks. Negative 4 and 5 and counting. we got to get some beer, we got no atmosphere, from looking into the sun... Wednesday, October 15, 2003
If the looming loss of your connection gives nothing at all, it's given this page some purpose. Kind of like the frenzy of conversation that happens when the last bar of power on a cellphone is about to vanish. I'm a bit of an idiot girl when it comes to the telephone. Can't hardly bear to hang up, no matter the level of interest the conversation has. It's a procrastination tool. Seems the things I have to face after the 'take care's are said go far away when I'm in the midst of the crackling dialog. I generally pause to collect after typing or writing one sentence, and responsibilities flood my mind. School sucks. There, I admit it.
Bet you didn't think I'd complete this lyric: ...i wouldn't change a single thing... even when i was to blame... Tuesday, October 14, 2003
I could live with that sort of merit. Though, I always seem to fail the ASVAB.
Speaking of working one's way up the ladder of success, you mentioned going to the tech recently. (About 3 posts ago, it's getting hard to keep up.) You'll be in the same school as your brother, Boboli, assuming he's still pursuing nurses--I mean nursing. Plus, they use those white dry-erase boards instead of black chalkzone boards. It's all chalk at this school, and it probably grates on me more having my lit term paper torn to shreds before class in front of everyone in it. The whiteboards, when written on, give a pleasant little squeak. Whereas the blackboards chirp and send send shivers. Since Bob removes all the marshmallows from Lucky Charms, I'd imagine him having a problem with chalk-squawk as well. That's all I got. Shoot something back, time's a tickin'. my guts in a knot... my hair in a spike... you think that I'm Spock... I'm Christopher Pike...!
I'd eat and enjoy your rock cookies and further my dental condition because I like rock. (And rock likes me.)
You're making quite the last splashes on the plot. Since you've publicly confided your confusion to me, I'll read not myself into its swath. I think. If not, call me or something. The friend with the gasoline, torch and glimmer in his eyes to see a bridge burn came around today. A long time ago I told him to keep friendships at ground zero. Like a game of Dr. Mario, keep only blocks of a solid color falling, and stack'm so they disappear. Without much energy left, I left it up to him. We had a conversation about pack animals on various continents, drank some sodie and parted. I think I've figured out why I smoke less when I drink. I think my real addiction to both is oral. If something's at my lips, all is right. I wonder what motivation would arise if I quit both. candy leftover on halloween / unified theory of everything... Sunday, October 12, 2003
Like a tournament of rock, paper, scissors, Calculus has kicked my ass halfway through 2 out of 3 assignments. And so I turn to recreation. It's the longest Sunday on record, despite the ongoing change in the tilt of the earth toward our sun in daytime hours. It would generally be 1am as I hunch over the keyboard, but strangely the clock says a quarter to 9. Perhaps it has something to do with my overall comfort on this floor beginning Friday.
Two friends in adjacent dorms let a heated arguement over the constituents of urine escalate into a bridge burning. And I fear, by association, mine's been charred, if not atomized. I'm running out of building supplies and my crude twenty-year-old social mending tools are becoming worn and useless to rebuild after each episode of pyromania. Somehow, though I'd rather the arguement have been avoided altogether, it was an elegant transaction. Because of nothing anyone can do before me do I question the higher script. I will ask who the hell is writing this shit, at times. But, my inner-narration ties together the shitty and the fabulous. If others are sailors in this same ship, why then, do we fall into the doldrums over our own inelegance--And solely because?! The late Joseph Cambell, in interviews on myth, folklore and religion has addressed this. What makes a sit-com work? Everyone is missing some cards. The story of our blink on this planet works the same way. Decks of a number shuffle together, but each person's unpolished facets show sometimes, and attact interest. Imperfection is the MiracleGrow of the many hybrids of love. Sorry. Got off on an Arctangent. Just trying not to let this page go gentle into that good night. I wish you the luck of a migrant worker winning the Powerball as far as the Internet is concerned. Inked letters sound cool. Out. they call it lovers' rock... Saturday, October 11, 2003
Dear nothing_girl,
When the Internet ceases to flow, will the plot still continue to sicken? love, freebasehero somebody called me on the phone, said 'hey hey is didi home...?' Wednesday, October 08, 2003
(I still have that crayon drawing of 'Cactus Jim' between Jerrod's Senior picture and Matthew's 1997-98 Merrill High School Identification Card.)
baby say 'i miss you,' just say you miss me too...
Doubtlessly, the elusive trinket is something I will treasure--Like the Clash and My Bloody Valentine CDs--or the US Postal Service patch--or the scrap of paper on which you drew a pumpkin headed scarecrow with message of seeing me on All Hallow's Eve (Heh heh heh) last year--And I will wonder either how you became so generous and knowing of the kinds of things that I keep in my wallet, and admire from time to time, longer than buried coffee shop punch cards.
With the loss of Internet Service Providence, perhaps you can focus on becoming a true gamer. I wish I had the time to game. I'd use that time wisely, and probably not gaming. Guilty, I am, as charged, of being a gamer, however. My fast-twitch muscle is atrophied now. I couldn't get past the third platform on Donkey Kong in a bar earlier this week. I know what the second level looks like anyway. Maybe I would be intrigued enough by flaming monsters that grow out of buildings to let myself be swallowed by a modern action-adventure. I wish I had the money to buy music. I'm dredging the depths of my collection for those pristine CDs, free of the scratches of obsessive abuse. You know, the only kind anyone owns that could be resold, simply because they despised the vocals or lack of pop-influence in the first three tracks. Since they are the only ones fit to resell, they are recycled, and the listener loses insurance for when they are truly without melodies that doesn't sicken them from their predictability. I rediscovered the Replacements and their 33 track best-of has not been replaced in the 5 disc changer for days. Stay tuned. a lot of people love that jerome, did you hear he missed his comb...?
That blows.
i walk the thinnest line... Sunday, October 05, 2003
I've got to wait 15 days until I can go through with my prepared birthday blog entry?
casino queen, my lord you're mean... Friday, October 03, 2003
I have stiff little fingers, and am finding this to be much like typing with splints on all of my digits. Fictionfiction.net's server was raised from the depths of its unannounced outage, and I feel a responsibility here. Oh, it's such a chore, really.
I see our Italic exchange of lyrics has assumed a tangent. From "my mind grows dirty while my clothes get clean" to "my brain is hanging upside down." Shall we continue this 2am-at-the-truckstop style association chain? And when we can successfully bring it back to a line in a Dead Milkmen song, that blogger gets a point. When Judgment Day comes, we can redeem our points for turns on the grab-bag. I hope God has fun-size Snickers. I'll probably get the toothbrush as always. Speaking of mass death, I will be posting my own blueprints for Hell shortly. What the hell are Riceboys? Hipsters People who consider an emoticon a response Fitch Abercrombie River Styx Objectivists River Phlegyas College students who touch each other in class Pompous sociopaths The Pope Apparently shortlier than I thought. I had to redraw the prints to allow for some people that almost got away. Also, I was immediately faced with the question of whether Abercrombie was eviler than Fitch. My lithium-quartz clock says 12:02am. Only 17 more days, you. i'm going out to the barn to hang myself in shame... Thursday, October 02, 2003
Strange. I've been getting nothing but this message from my ftp.
"No connection could be made because the target machine actively refused it" May I still blog? Testing. my mind grows dirty while my clothes get clean Archives09/01/2003 - 10/01/2003 10/01/2003 - 11/01/2003 11/01/2003 - 12/01/2003 12/01/2003 - 01/01/2004 01/01/2004 - 02/01/2004 02/01/2004 - 03/01/2004 03/01/2004 - 04/01/2004 06/01/2005 - 07/01/2005 09/01/2005 - 10/01/2005 10/01/2006 - 11/01/2006 05/01/2007 - 06/01/2007 12/01/2008 - 01/01/2009 Current
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