Life happens...

Losing game

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 03:13:00 +0000

You're still here.
Still stick.
But still here.

Every time... it's the same thing.
If I can make it in time, you'll be alright.

I never make it.

Something gets in my way.
Obstacles appear. Mountains grow.
Burdens so heavy they weigh me down.

I fail.

I can't make it.

And when I do get to where I need to be...
You are no longer there.
I look and look - every direction on every compass, I look.

No where.
Nothing.

And then I wake.

Afraid to go back to sleep for fear that I will dream the same dream again.
And again.

And again...

nobody

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 01:03:00 +0000

nobody has the right to dismiss your thoughts; your ideas - to tell you that they are improbable or illogical. just because others may be happy with the complacency of their life or because they think they know better than you, does not give them the right to trivialize what you hope to accomplish. you try because you feel it is your destiny, and if you fail ... well, at least you tried. and that makes you better than them.

Oh, I get it!

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 06:45:00 +0000

I parked a yu between an eff and si. A kay later invited itself to the lot. Staring at one happa of a word, I took a picture. Patiently waiting for the right you to hand it too, I marched along. There would be no saints cumming today, as I was much too busy masticating my foot. Awkwardness aside, and with destiny approaching, I did the only thing a southern gentlemen, such as myself, would do: I put my coat over the mud, slipped the picture into her purse, and let her walk on by.

-

"My name is Jie-seuss, half asian, half cat-in-the-hat - I turn water to wine in my free time." He winked. Looking back at him he saw a face distorted in confusion: a car mangled with a tree. He slowly opened this right eye, and realized he held his wink for too long. "Have to remember to open the eye!" he thought. Confidence growing by LeBron like leaps and bounds, he doubled checked that his pants were zipped, and headed out into the world.

"Everything I'm not, made me everything I am"

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Thu, 21 May 2009 00:24:00 +0000

There comes a point during the run when I am no longer able to breathe comfortably. Most people stop when they reach said point. Not me. Not because I'm tough, or because I want to get stronger - Nope. My reasons are a bit more morbid.

See, in my mind, that longing, gasping, and desire for air is what I imagine her to have felt like as she lived the last year of her life: I hate that feeling; I embrace that experience. What's the worst that could happen? Throw up on my shoes? Been there, done that. It was called 'Monday night' in college.

My mom ran a lot. A lot a lot. And while I loathe the pointless activity known as jogging/running, I feel it enables me to connect our soles: enabling me to love her a little bit more.

---------------------

and so we begin the third act...

Selecta

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 02:17:00 +0000

He sat still in the silence.
Letting the reverb of ghosts from days past beat in his ear drum.

The melody: teenage girl laughter: horrible: soul piercing.
The lyrics: j-kwonish: garbage.
T-Pain on autotune with The Blizzard Man couldn't resurrect this song.
Rightfully so.

The song sucked then. The song sucked now.

He tuned out.
Hoping to tune out the tune of this outrageous song.

Housewifely [desperately], he started diggin' in the crates of iTunes for something new.
Something bigger than Big L, Big Pun, Fat Joe, and Lord Finesse.
Bigger than Notorious even.

What he found was audial sunshine. Sparkle!
Every note played with rhyme and season.
Every lyric marinated in meaning.
To borrow from the 90's - this track had flavor!

This is the kind of song he would fall in love with.
This is the kind of song that would change his life.

This is the kind of song - for him...

Fact - You cannot be dyslexic if you are illiterate. Think about it.

"[Un]like the girl in the club - [I can] back it up"

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Sat, 15 Nov 2008 06:36:00 +0000

He grew tired of swallowing his pride; it was too cold: Brain freeze wasn't something He particularly enjoyed. Thus, He disliked ice cream.

However, He did enjoy the cool,refreshing, taste of a Flinstone's Pushup. Much like Fred, He was from an era that no longer existed; A throwback to yesterday - only found at your local Mitchell & Ness dealer or perhaps in the latest rap videos.

As He churned his way through MTV's and BET's rotations, He often wondered what this intoxicating sensation in His body was. Having already amputated most of His emotion due to gangrene, He continued to ponder. Love? Lust? Hadoken? He threw up a gang sign, but it was mostly alcohol. Nevertheless, it was still quite chunky. As the pieces swiveled and revolved to fit into this porcelain board, He flushed: Tetris.

Having treated life like a game for so long, He often had a hard time distinguishing His perception or dreams from reality. Maybe He needed a monocle. Who knows. He didn't. Everything blurred together. Perception and Dreams would cross Reality's borders with tanks and a so called new diet plan: Weapons of Mass Destruction. In turn, Reality would strike back, which would lead to a cease fire, which would lead to, depending on the foreign policies of the time, US intervention. It was all very confusing. Albeit, the temptations were real though, and not just in His imagination.

Which paved the way for him to grow from a boy II a man, with new editions coming out frequently, typically at 1:12 AM or PM dawn, always in sync, but sometimes not, with each edge more jagged than the last.

Sort of like tater tots. He loved tater tots.

You're never too old to make believe

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 06:52:00 +0000

He preferred to live in his fiction.

In his fiction there were ninjas and robots and dinosaurs. Sometimes robotic dinosaur ninjas. Other times, dinosaur riding, ninjas.

In his fiction, jade was still just a color - it had yet to be verbed.
Magic was more than just a card game, and having a dream was more than just a speech public schools attempted to teach every February.

In his fiction, everyone was regular and not full of shit.
The only bull shit to be found came from bulls, and perhaps Chicago players.

In his fiction, the model of his being only appreciated.
The value never dropped as soon as he left the lot, and no one ever tried to suggest how he should drive. He was valued for what he was.

In his fiction, he didnt suffer.
He didn't have suffrage. It was not a democracy.

In his fiction, he wrote better than this.

It is very important to me, to be seen as... bulletproof.

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 05:07:00 +0000

Darkness enveloped him.
Postage prices had risen again: he was unable to return to sender.

Frustrated, with this heavy package he didn't want, he walked about town until he ran out of gas.
Low on change, and high on pride, he was unwilling to fill up.
If only he were an electrolyte-hybrid, he'd be able to reduce the emissions of his soul.
In turn, fulfilling his responsibility to Mother Earth.

At the end of the day, happily he lay down.
Correction. Lie.
A month later and still unable to cope with present truths he rewrapped them: to be regifted at a later time.

Somewhere across town she was getting ready.
She put on her face: eyes then lips.
Then her hair.
Ears last.

She sat and stared in the mirror.
Made sure nothing was crooked, and that everything was where it needed to be.
Such a pretty face.

Blemish free.

This perfect face is what she would show the world.
For very few were deserving enough to see her imperfection.

With a sigh, she turned off the light, and locked the door.

Such is the life...
of Mrs. Potato Head.

I guess God needed her more than me.

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 04:16:00 +0000

"For a mother the project of raising a boy is the most fulfilling project she can hope for. She can watch him, as a child, play the games she was not allowed to play; she can invest in him her ideas, aspirations, ambitions, and values -- or whatever she has left of them; she can watch her son, who came from her flesh and whose life was sustained by her work and devotion, embody her in the world. So while the project of raising a boy is fraught with ambivalence and leads inevitably to bitterness, it is the only project that allows a woman to be -- to be through her son, to live through her son."

Mom, I really miss you.

I'm kind of mad at you though. Cause you know. You made me promise the near impossible task of not getting upset, and you know me. A promise, is a promise, is a promise. Oh and you made me promise not to get that other tattoo. Cheater. But you know me. I'm not THAT mad at you.

Not like that time I got my head stuck in the bike rack at McDonalds. Remember? I was five. You were pretty pissed off. Or that time when I was six, and I got into that fight with that older kid. Remember? We had to sit in the nurse's office during the Pledge of Allegiance cause I had a bloody nose. Remember?

What about that time I came home drunk, and I woke you up to tell you I was drunk. Good times.

Don't worry. I also remember the time you swallowed your pride and cleaned other people's houses to make ends meet when I was seven. You thought I didn't know. But I did. I'm genius Mom. But you knew that. You always knew that.

Oh, and sorry about the time I broke the window. Or the closet door. Whoops.

I told you once, and I'll tell you again. Mom - I'm proud of you.
And no, I dont want you to touch my laundry, cause you always bleach everything and destroy my clothes.

Yes, I ate lunch. No I didn't eat dinner yet, it's only 4.
No, I don't have a girlfriend, but there's this one girl... What? No, she's not Vietnamese. She's Chinese. They're less crazy Mom. And oh so pretty. No, not prettier than you. Yes, you're talking too much. I know, I know - it's what you do.

Don't worry bout me Mom. You built me for this.
Promise.
I'll take care of everything.

Rest now Mom. You deserve it. You earned it.
Tell everyone I said hi.

Oh and Mom...

Thank you.
For everything.

I love you.
Always.

We aint sick. We ill.

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 05:05:00 +0000

This trip made no cents.
Gamblor the God of Gambling was not with us this time.
Recap.

However, ducks fly together: fun was still had.

Push up drinking game - invented.
Spontaneously waking up, at who knows when, and dancing around sleeping roommate then going back to bed - doo-wopped.
Goose. Breakfast of champions.
When life gives you a bottle of Crown and cold Coke bottles, what do you do? You make a bootleg funnel out of magazine subscription cards.
Apparently male strippers eat at Chipotle.
The foundation could not contain the awesomeness within. Many a roofs were raised.
Naked ladies, young and old, with a side of beers [beerses?] for lunch. Yep.
Pretty girls - met.
Pretty girl with a boyfriend - met - but not it!
Did I mention ducks fly together?
French people sleep early, and call security. Fair warning.
Cup cake eating contest. Lost.
Make yourself useful. No!
Bust! Bust! Bust! Bust! Bust! Um, what's that equal? Bust? YEAH!

Ah Vegas...

When I left you at the gate I didn't know what to say.
Confused.
In my absence perhaps we'll grow fonder of one another.
Perhaps we grow apart.
Next time you see me, tragedy will have befallen me.
I will be different.
I will need saving.
and deep down... I secretly hope you can.

Vegas.

I dream in color.

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 07:12:00 +0000

I stare out the window of seat 14F.
Looking down, the city lights lay juxtaposed against the stars.
Looking down... they are the stars.

Towns become the milky way.
Cities become suns.
My imagination begins to run rampant and I make up my own constellations.
The most beautiful one I name after you. Yes, you.
The ugly ones I name after you. And you.
You can decide who you really are.
If you really need help, I'll lend you my prosthetic hand - If I had one.

Note to self: get one.

Lightning tears the sky apart.
Much like when a lovely girl destroys a boy.
It's awesome.
He deserves it.

I look ahead now.
I'm eye-to-eye with Orion's Belt.
Uncomfortable with looking at another man's crotch I look up.
He is smiling.
Awkwardness ensues, and I look away altogether.

I shut my eyes and wonder what it is she's doing.

The plane lands.
I really have to piss.

I really wish the person next to me wouldn't hog all the arm rest.
Fat fucker.

Don't feel like finishing this.

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Sun, 03 Aug 2008 05:59:00 +0000

I have tried over and over again to express my thoughts on my mom's imminent passing.
And.
I can't.

I don't know how.
Eloquently.

At first, I get angry.
Then secondly, I get angry.
The after that, I get angry some more.
Three times the angry.
Perhaps more.

Watching a loved one die, is a lot different than having a loved one die instantly.
It's frustrating.
[John] Maddening.

The other day I came up with what I thought would be a good solution for all this anger.
I'm going to start smoking.
And I'm going to get lung cancer. Just like my mom.
And then I'm going to only take the harshest form of chemo.
And I'm going to beat them both.
And then I will laugh.
And I will stand triumphant.

Because that is what I do.

I laugh.
And I stand triumphant.

However... I was told that, that may be a bit too morbid. "Not a good idea." "Awful."
So... I guess I'll try something else.

I'm out of ideas.

I guess the Social Worker recognized my predicament, or she was just doing her job, and gave me a book on the stages of "Grief." Surprisingly, "good" was not listed.

Alas, I am no Charlie Brown.

Attack me if you dare, I will crush you!

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 06:28:00 +0000

There is no Konami (Contra) code for life. Up, up, down, down, left, right, left right, b, a - does not yield me any extra men - or women for that matter. Perhaps I'm a cat though w/ nine already assigned to me. On second thought, I'd rather not be a pussy. So scratch that.

There is no ten digit password for me to enter so that I may continue my bout with destiny. I'll have to beat it on one try. However, there is a password for Mike Tyson, but the blow trick does not seem to be working today. I'm better off. I can't beat him anyways.

There is no Frog Suit for me to leap over obstacles, or even swim for that matter. I'm destined to sink. Seriously. I can't swim.

Perhaps I'm better off learning my life lessons from the Bible, or Scientology. I dont know though. I've never seen Jesus put on a Tanooki Suit, or fire a spread gun [*note to self: write about alternative Jesuses (Jesi?): ninja Jesus, predator Jesus, to catch a predator Jesus, etc]. Tom Cruise probably has though, I'm not sure. I haven't seen all the Mission Impossibles.

On second thought...

What's good ma?

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 07:40:00 +0000

I sit in the middle of the park.
Amongst the trees and wild flowers: Man-made Eden.

I'm contemplative. Pensive even. The cries of a lonely sax accompany my thoughts. Hans Zimmer could not have orchestrated a more fitting soundtrack.

The wind sings in harmony with the birds. The rustle of the leaves serve as the lesser known members of nature's boy band. Jesus must be JT.

I glance around and notice another person sitting. Writing. Is he better than me? No. Couldn't be. I am cocky and confident. I'm me and he's he. On a scale of one to me, with me equaling greatness, he'd be a four. No, wait. A two.

Children bike by with their moms.
I miss her.

The sun is setting. Hues of blue and streaks of pink mix together to paint the sky whatever color it may be. Plue? Bink? Either or - it's pretty.

Don't look directly at the sun.
It's blinding.
I do it anyways.

Shadows have now entered puberty. Growth spurts abound. They sway to and fro: fearless: the swagger of youth emancipated on the sidewalk.

These 3 old ladies run by. Struggling.
Disturbing my serenity with their... um... elderliness.

I wonder if they used to be hot...

What I had meant to say was...

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 06:24:00 +0000

She asked me if I was ever lonely.
I said no.
She questioned the validity of my response. My integrity had yet to be validated by a participating restaurant.

I told her a story.
She said it was sad.
I assured her it wasn't. I had learned something. Learning is never sad. Unless, of course, you are learning about sadness.

Loneliness. Sadness.
Those two channels are not part of my current Comcast package.
Therefore they do not exist in my space. Nor in myspace [I don't have one - Fuck you, Tom - friend that!]. Although I have heard those two stations are now offered in HD. I still won't be subscribing.

Loneliness. Sadness?

I glance at my watch. 11 pm. Regardless, I have no thyme for those, or any other season. Whether it be spring, or fall - the recipe of ladness is not one for me. I do not prefer it's bitter after taste; real diet-coke like.

I started to speak. Instead, I just laughed.
She laughed.

And I left it at that.

Chicken heads

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 06:02:00 +0000

As I'm waiting for the bus I see these two pigeons, PiJean [it's French] and Pidge, walking around each other. Checking each other out.

After eye-dancing for a while, PiJean walks up to Pidge and they proceed to have the following dialogue:

PiJean: Say ma, what's good? May I get you a bread crumb?
Pidge: No thank you, I flew in from NY this morning, so I'm kind of tired.
PiJean: Word? Aight. If you change your mind though, let me know.
Pidge: Aww, that's nice of you. Thanks.
PiJean: Don't sweat it ma. It's a pleasure.

Feeling slightly defeated, PiJean makes his way to the other corner of the planter. He can't help but look back though - never had he met a bird this fly. Flustered, he sends a chirp out to his boys. Advice was needed.

Pidge didn't know why she turned PiJean down. To be honest she was intrigued. He had this swagger about him. The way he clucked about was charming, to say the least.

After a couple more crumbs PiJean finds the courage to approach Pidge one last time before he headed to another planter.

PiJean: I'm bout to head out, are you sure you dont need anything?
Pidge: Actually...

Pidge interlocked her wing with his, and led him to the bar. One crumb led to another, and next thing you know they were pecking out. As the peck out session intensified, PiJean decided to mount Pidge in the middle of the planter, for all the world to see, and do, what is known in the animal kingdom as, the nasty.

It looked like this:

All the other planter-goers turned away in disgust. Not me though. I was enthralled. A group of girls, next to me, were fascinated by the scene as well.

When PiJean and Pidge were finished, and they had unruffled their feathers, they exchanged numbers with the hope that migration might take them to the same place in the future.

The bus then pulled up. There were no hot girls on it. It was a cold day.

*Authors note: All bad puns intended. You try writing about seeing two birds boink. It's harder than it seems [that's what she said]. Honestly, I just wanted to draw the picture.

51 Syllables

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 06:45:00 +0000

I wish I could be
typing creative stories
but I can't. Tired.

So...I'm going to
lay down. Nightdream about her,
or pizza. Then, sleep.

Or rather... pass out.
For this daymare will end soon,
much like this haiku.

Famished

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 06:01:00 +0000

"Yes, please."

They sat across the table from one another. Food already boxed - ready to go. He looked at her. She looked at him. He smiled.

"I'm going to kill you," he said.
She smiled her lovely smile back and said, "Sweetie, I love you."

He leaned back in his chair, for effect of course, sipped his wine, his red, red wine, and replied, "I love you too. I've always wanted to smother someone... with love. Perhaps you'll be the first."

"May I get a bit more please?"

She sat alone. The check came at the same time her food did. That's fucking depressing. She must not enjoy her own company. She probably tells horrible jokes. Or interrupts other's sentences. What a bitch. She stared at her salad. I wondered where her family was. She must've killed them. Murdered them. One by one.

The husband left the toilet seat up. She fell in. He also forgot to put more toilet paper on the holder. She couldn't wipe. Her son, while driving to the store to pick up cleaning supplies, wrecked the car. He got bleach all over the black seats. The daughter, who's only 15, is pregnant. The father of the young girl's child is a homeless man. The daughter loves this man because he is worldly - that and she believes it is her civic duty to help him in any way she can. She was born in San Francisco.

That's what must have happened.
It all happened right before dinner.
They deserved it.

"No maam, I'm good."

Or maybe... Maybe her family is at home, and she's eating dinner without them. That's it. She's eating this delicious food, while they have to eat their own cooking. What a bitch.

"May I have more napkins please?"

Finally. Pizza's here.

Random note: Never fall in love with another's pizza. It's not for you to eat, and you're better off not imagining how great it may taste.

But he started it!

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 06:09:00 +0000

The kid said something to me that I did not appreciate.
I hadn't forgotten.

So when the opportunity arose, I snuck up behind him: told him that his voice turned me on - and then I slit his throat. I silently laughed to myself. I accidentally laughed aloud. Whoops.

As I round the corner, I see another guy I had words with and shoot him in both knees. I stand over him. I contemplate letting him bleed out, to die a slow, sober, and boring death, but my knife... it beckons. Like a mosquito, I draw blood slowly, and frequently, from this man who questioned the integrity of my clan. Stab.

Stab.

STAB!

With each victim, and with each grudge settled, new planes of ecstacy are felt. Bombs rain from the sky, and bullets tear through limbs and vital organs of my enemies. Bullying the weak. Empowering.

The world fades to black...

I look up and it's 10:30, so I decide to turn off my X-Box. I figured it was time to go to bed. Or at least to play my Game Boy.

While showering in my blue, Nike, swim shorts, I ransacked my brain in an attempt to gain a better comprehension of the English language. For I wanted to explain to a girl how I truly felt about her. Unable to mix the perfect letters, to sculpt the perfect sentences, to convey that which is in my imperfect heart.

I turn to the language of love... 1337 sp3ak.

In short: g0d used pWn8ge haX0rZ when He made U!!!!!1111!!!!!eleven!

Fuschia? What is Fuschia?

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Fri, 23 May 2008 02:06:00 +0000

The other day on the train, I watched this guy drink purple Gatorade. Also known to some people (me for example) as, "purple drank." Lisa likes purple. I hate purple.

Mom likes Lisa.
Lisa's mom likes me.

Lisa doesn't get Chris. Thus, Chris talks louder.

In college, I once pushed Lisa out of a chair during class. Finance, I believe. She must've not heard me say "mine!" cause she sat in the chair. So, I pushed her. Everyone looked. I laughed. Another time I dropped her on her face in the middle of the street. We were drunk. It left a bruise. I laughed.

Legend has it, that the color purple is named after a knight from way back when. Probably before 1983. His name was Sir Purpleton, hailing from Purpledonia. He spoke with an accent. An unpleasant accent (like Jar Jar Binks [they're probably cousins]). Now Sir Purpleton was only a knight by name, not by action. In fact, he was a douchebag. It's a fact. It's even in wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sir_Purpleton . *edit: I created a wiki page for Sir Purpleton which verified this fact. Wikipedia however removed it because it "is not constructive." Wikipedia is a douchebag. It's a fact.

Sir Purpleton razed, raped (livestock), pillaged, and pilfered. If he killed a man in battle, he would then sleep with the deceased man's wife. Cause well... she was no longer the man's wife. The man was dead. Despicable, no?

Who knows what happened to Sir Purpleton and Purpledonia. One popular theory is that Purpledonia was torn apart from within due to warring factions: Bluetterdam and Redmelvort: a battle that is still fought today as the Crips and Bloods.

To learn more about Sir Purpleton please feel free to email me.

I've known Lisa since the 6th grade. She was fat. Not so much anymore. She's pretty pretty now.

Comcast is purple.
The crazy girl who talks too much at the bus stop is purple.
Lung cancer is fucking purple.

I threw up on my cousin's carpet when I was 7.
It was purple.

It's not really incest.

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Wed, 21 May 2008 06:23:00 +0000

I hate walking behind people when going up the stairs of the MUNI station. I hate being behind people on escalators as well. No one really gets it. No one really gets my friend Chris either.

I do.

His girlfriend lets him go to strip clubs and get lap dances. She even lets him get on stage. Sometimes the bouncers get in his grill. When he gets kicked out of the clubs, she lets him go to the park and eat 5 dollar hot dogs.

One time over a meal of red beans and rice, biscuits, and fried chicken, Chris and I figured out how to be our own Grandfather's. It's simple. All we have to do is marry each other's Moms' (process explained at end). My mom has Stage 4 Lung Cancer though. She doesn't smoke.

When I walk behind people on stairs I want to push them down and jump on their heads. As I land on each head I want to hear the Mario-jumping-on-Goombas-sound play over the PA system. Some of them will drop coins. It's only fair. If not the PA system, maybe Chris can hold a boombox and play the same sound.

Chris hates his job. I hate these people. I don't know any of them. Wow... That girl's pretty.

Mom told me to be happy. Mom wants me to be happy.

I made it to work without jumping on anyone. That probably makes Mom happy.

Step by step process on how to be your own Grandfather (w/pictures):

First I marry Chris' mom. Thus becoming his dad.
Chris marry's my mom. Thus becoming my dad.
Now here's the tricky part. If I am Chris' dad and his son, and he is also my Dad and my son - the family tree looks like this: Me, Chris, Me, Chris, Me, Chris, Me, and so on. Resulting in me becoming my own Grandfather, and Chris being his own Grandfather.
Done

Prologue

noreply@blogger.com (tL) — Tue, 20 May 2008 07:34:00 +0000

Back before 1983, lots of things were cooler than your mom. I for one can't remember any of them, because well... I wasn't born before them. However, thanks to the magic of Google (and TV), I have come up with the following things that, perhaps, might have been cooler than your mom prior to the year of my birth (1983 for the slow folk):

Rambo: First Blood
Pez
James Taylor
Rotary Dials
Original Star Wars
Some kid born in 1982
and other things that I cannot think of at this moment in time

However, since then, I have been the self proclaimed definition of all things cooler than your mom. I've been known to go on ninja raids, bite labradors and beagles, become boxing champion of Best Buy (who by the way do not have the best stuff), and sometimes... sometimes, charm women. If that's not cool. Then I don't know what is.

Really. I don't.

**In all seriousness. The other day I read a book entitled "EEEEE EEE EEEE," by Tao Lin, and felt completely liberated. It was almost as liberating as the first time I took a shit at work: those of you that work in an office know what I'm talking about, taking a dump at work is quite possibly the greatest feeling ever: joy. Tao Lin's book showed me that fiction, and writing, did not need to be confined to any sort of grammar school structure/etiquette that we once learned. The sentences don't even need to relate to one another. Nothing needs to make any sort of logical sense! His writing is weird, easy to read, somewhat emo... but I loved it. His thoughts were all over the place, and at times made absolutely no sense, but as I read and read, I couldn't help but think, "If I wrote a book... it would be exactly like this..."

That is why I created this blog.

As a child I had all these ideas, and all these stories. As an adult I have all these experiences, and all these lies. So now... I'm trying to combine the two. Maybe I'll turn out something great. Maybe it'll be a piece of shit. Who knows?

Just know that I don't have an ever expanding vocabularly. And I cleerly don't have an editor. I just want to write... about me, my life, and anything else that I can possibly fabricate.