waves · of · dead · black

but i keep feeling like i'm always one step behind everyone these days... i got myself out of debt, but i'm still living with family, i have a new truck but i'm unemployed, i'm the go-to guy for personal advice and yet i can't for the life of me even start a relationship, i'm a fantastic artist and i'm wasting my talent on throw away web crap...

fuck.

i'm not bitter about it, but man oh man do i realize the irony here...

Holy fuck... I'm shuddering... I am literally freaking out and going all faint and shit. Fucking fuck fuck.

I feel so weird.

I can't change the joy emoticon,,,, not feeeling joy at all. oh shit oh shit.

You all missed that.

 
 

 There was a time, almost 9 years ago now, when my first summer spent at raves in Las Vegas kicked in. At first, I regarded ravers as dope addled idiots, day-glo clowns listening to horrible electronic beeps and boops, spouting asinine terms like PLUR to the media. And so it started, the point where one from the out-set slowly became one of the group.

I should note that at the time, my view of ravers was colored largely by views of the artists I favored then (digital hardcore and noise mainly) and by the naïve viewpoint that any person will have regarding a clique or subset when they view from a long distance. Up close of course and in person, the views and points and stereotypes started to bend and after some amount of pressure, finally break.

It was, almost ironically, the last summer that the local rave groups would consider a good one. Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, every second, every minutes and every hour, it seemed that there was something going on. Not even a rave necessarily, but something. Raves begot after parties which melded into meet-ups which would break into house parties and from there you’d go to the club, or push your tired body back home, sometimes (luckily to be sure) with a prospective lover to wake next to, befuddled and sleep deprived at five in the evening. You’d sit there, look at the girl or guy next to you, maybe kiss passionately, or awkwardly remember the truths you spoke earlier, which now seemed both cheap and fake in the lowering sun. It went both ways and every ways, and even now the memories blur and all I know is waking up to a beautiful face, framed by a window, which itself was alight with the slow, churning miasma that is the smog laden sunsets of a Las Vegas summer.

These were the only years in which I felt part of something, not bigger than anything and no more noble than any group, but in all ways more insular and famial then high school had ever been. You knew the names and nicknames and personal habits of hundreds of people, you’d meet them at parties or on Strip nights, you’d trust them with your time, your thoughts and with some, your life. I still have people I’ve met, that I, to this day, have never seen in the sunlight. They were just that girl, or that guy; the ones you always saw at the party, on the Strip, in the clubs. But you never saw them at day.

So, it was the best summer for me, and the last good summer for others, and that I came to the party late at twenty one years of age never seemed to matter. And so it went on and on.

It was non-ending, this one summer, there were more production crews throwing parties than ever, on any given weekday there was at the very least a house party or even a small rave, and on the weekends you’d have as many as 4 raves to choose from, followed by 20 after parties or after hours clubbing potentials.

Some people, like the almost invisible Smokey, were remembered as the go-to place for both me and my best friend at the time Kimo. After every rave, trying hard to stay awake after hours of amusing ourselves (body art for me, dancing for him), we’d jump into what was well known as the ‘Tenno-mobile’ and less known as the ‘Nine Inch Nail Battlewagon’, a battered ’84 Volvo replete with necessary adornments – ATR, NIN, AWOL – and jet off to Smokey’s (house? mobile home? shack? does it matter?) to sit and drink cheap beer and listen to DJs spin whatever music could be wrenched from the household vinyl. If you were lucky, DJs from the last rave would show up, crates in hand and spin the newest hits from across the seas or the classics from last year, the year before, the past. You’d sit, you’d sip, or dance as the mood hit you. You’d watch club kids (house, trance) and candy kids (happy hardcore) or junglists (oddly enough, jungle, drum’n’bass) commune, talk shit, make out, fight, black out. The drugged, the merely tired and the plain crazy, bouncing in a small whatever, on some street, somewhere in Las Vegas. You’d live life at your own pace at 8 in the morning, and three hours later you’d stagger out, blearily regard the noonish sun and drive home blasting Bomb20 and drinking Red Bulls.

We would separate, make our ways home, sometimes crash at the same place, and hours later, we’d be back on the road after a shower and a change, ready to fork over cash for another chance to see our friends, hear them spin, draw body art on more kids, shuffle our feet and wave our hands. It was a fast, vivid time of neon lights, lasers and fast, almost at times harsh, almost at times melodic, all the time harsh, all the time melodic. It was forever and it was over all too soon. It was mixed, spun and packaged for us by loving production crews, by production crews that only showed for the money, by production crews that left before the party ended, before the cops came, before the sun rose, before we were done. It was brought to us, part and parcel by people that didn’t care, cared too much, and made like bandits, made not a dollar, made a fuss.

It was at times a bitter little sweet we had, but we gobbled them up the same way the media depicted kids gobbling pills, like every kid that went to a rave was a shit grinning drug machine, shiny with Vicks and sweat, shrieking their new perspective as they tore into what they paid money for now, and in blood and pain later.

I think it was that view that the media had that was the most wrong.

Raves have, and always will be associated with chemical fun, but there were just as many sober exuberant people lining up to get body art from me as there were slobbering idiots, mumbling shit about colors before blacking out on top of me, deep black streaks depicting their movement as my permanent markers dragged along their arm. Sometimes, if they were lucky, I’d draw a huge penis on their face. You know, for the memories.

So, there it was. A perfect summer.

Things changed, as they always do, or at least that’s how it always seems on the inside. People dropped raves in favor of clubs when they turned 21 and they could get their fix of music and chemicals in air-conditoned opulence and glass bottles. Others dropped off the map, sometimes even good friends, as they got older, got pregnant, got clean, got AIDS, got the fuck out, got into harsher drugs, got smart, got dumb. Got damn.

You might see them later, but as the events got smaller and the production crews cannibalized each other or ran out of money, the rave scene turned more and more inward, it was after all a scene that depends on the twenty four seven people, the younger kids that will have the same bright spark of energy when the gates open as when the gate closes. You lose that. No matter what, the way things are you lose that.

But that is what it was all about. A perfect summer. A while I would never call the scene dead, the same as a corpse isn’t really dead when you kick it. It’s all decaying cells, subdivision, maggots and flies and finally mulch to feed whatever comes after. It is no phoenix, rising from the ashes, more the hydra; growing ever more outward whenever the head is split; but you never get the same perspective on it.

You consolidate. You get sick or well. You keep or drop touch. You go on. But I always have that, the memories of a time, where everyone was accepted, where you’d see the same faces and meet some new faces until you had your ocean of heaving colors and light. You’d get out there and just live at a speed far from normal.

You’d just live at two hundred and eighty beats per minute.

 

             

33. More landscapes.
I drank way too much last night. And I look at this journal with barely described horror: oft-updated, hastily compiled, bereft of depth and nuance today. I generally dislike anything I’ve written or drawn in a spiraling off and on sense of loathing, and yet a day from now I’ll look on the days musings and think to myself, “Yes, this is what I intended, this is what I had hoped to wring from my aching head.”
I think that daily writing is tough for me, because I set it to myself to be proper in it’s timing, and timing and properness (propriety?) are looming goblins in my life, setting on my shoulders like tittering jackals, full of ill pranks and salty wit. Meaning I give it effort, but I’m always interrupted and procrasting (Not a word, don’t care!). With goblins. Mental goblins infesting my mental bridges. Mean ones.
I digress. I drew, well, I photo manipulated a landscape today and I called it ‘Death Machine, Michigan’ and I have no idea why. Certainly I, as usual, just sat there until something suitable plopped into my head, maybe from the very sweltering orifice I mentioned in the previous entry, but either way, plopped it did and it felt and tasted right to me. So, ‘Death Machine, Michigan’ it will be.
It is a very dark and moody piece and not quite right, but right enough that I made it into a wallpaper and as I sit here going over my non-fiction essay (hurriedly written in terrible haste) it suits my mood, all the more deep for having drunk copious amounts of tea. Herbal and sweet with natural flavor.

Ah. I must apologize to you all, I find myself using ‘copious’ and ’tawdry’ and a host of other words in bulk when I write. I got them at a very good deal you see. That I have a great vocabulary is moot, that I can use a great vocabulary when writing is much harder. In fact, were we to contemplate my imagery of the mind as a sphincter that sluices imagination into tangible form, you could say that when it comes to clever wordplay, my diet is both boring and tired. I expect to expand said sphincter soon with new books and more thinking.

Mental ass play.

I can’t believe I just wrote that.

Insert pedantery here please. And yes, I’m not entirely certain that word is spelled correctly, but I shant be bothered today good peoples!
   
    Anyways, I worked quickly to push out that artwork and as normal, the words, written perhaps by me or whatever entity chants nonsense into my head this morning, flowed out and might make a very nice postcard someday. Were I ever bothered to put words to paper and then to post them. I find email dismayingly horrifying itself. Sorry relatives. Terribly so.

And so:
 
"I'd like to see you sometime,
to look once more adrift.
Sun burned cactus calling me,
creosote tang, sweat soaked shift.
I'd like to just see you again,
down here.
Out here.
In ‘Death Machine’, Michigan."

And there you have it. Pretty words and imagery, shat from my mind.

I have no real idea if Michigan has creosote, though they’d be quite blessed if they did. It is simply the best plant. But as two teachers have said to me, and as I have always believed, and have read, sometimes the truth is nothing more than what you put down on paper. And it’s up to the artist / writer to put that ‘fact’ into their readers minds.
~~~
This whole thing is so out of whack. It’s all over.

working it all out... 1. As much as more and more things are looking up, there isn’t a second I don’t regret past actions. I ain’t treating them lightly neither, but you can only harbor and apologize so much before it becomes cheap and parody. The more I find out how nasty my particular rabbit hole went, the more self-loathing I feel. I went way past any boundary I had ever set, and well, drunk to the point of blacking out or not, on medication or not, doesn’t change a thing. I didn’t plot that course, but it found me anyways. Fuck me. It cost me a friend and in a horribly ridiculous fashion. That I had never done such a thing, or intended too, and that i remember very little of it. No excuse. One more notch on the cross. You done fucked up Z. I’d say the same thing to anyone. All on you.

2. Looking ahead. I burned a significant bridge. Gotta deal with the extended journey.

3. For the people who keep asking me, i’d rather not get into it. Take the worst thing you ever had done to you, then put me in that situation. Yeah. I may have done less, I may have done worse. 

4. It already cost me one of my best friends. It doesn’t get any more harsh than that. Moreso, it cost me what respect i had for myself. Earning that particular notch back is going to take forever.  

I don't care if he/she was trained or if this is just repetition, its still an animal, painting itself in a clear manner. This world is still so full of things.

Damn it all. What a whirlwind weekend, and to be honest, I think I'm getting involved again with crap I don't need to be. Why do I fall for people associated with badness and drama? Le'sigh. Are there any cute, artistic girls who have patience and understanding for someone that doesn't feel the need to spend copious amounts of cash everyday? Hit me up. Must be drama free please. Thank you. Oh yeah, and having a crush on the nicest fucking girl I've ever met sucks also. She's taken. Bah.

That having been said...

Well my Xbox 360 died after less than a year. Poor guy.

He was well treated, well lit and well loved, and frankly, the real irony is that out of all my friends, that my 360 dies not only earlier than everyone elses, but is also my main gaming system. Go figure.

So I put in my order, got my white box-Jango says everyone is calling it the coffin-and this week I will finally send it on its way.

I had a sweet lil video of my initial reaction, but the vortex of filth that is my room has devoured my camera charger and such great videos I had stored upon it.

Let me just say this, the language content contained therein was not only EPIC but almost devilish in both its vitrol and vindictiveness. I had things to say. They were mostly four lettered and loud. It scared the dog.

Imagine if you will: One man, forlorn and beset by both rage, his right fist upraised to the fickle gods that destroy love and his left hand stroking the coffin that contains his beloved FPS machine. It will shoot no more for him. His eyes are bloody with fire and tears leak as he demands answers for this bullshittery. He curses both heaven and all below it. Picture him enraged beyond belief while his companions twitter and giggle with their Playstation 3’s and their Wii’s. They have 360’s also. Working ones. They also have a lack of mercy.

Damn them all. They know not the pain that is no Halo 3, no COD 4, no Earth Defense Force. They shame me with their nights of gaming. MY FPS machine. It… It is a god no longer. It’s horrendous whirring noise will no longer signal hours of firing bullets to the tune of 1 million shrill pre-teen voices lulling me to sleep with cries of, “You faggot!” or “Dibs on the sniper!” Nay, it’s red eye glares at me like Sauron. Into Mordor it must be returned.

He looks upon his shelves where his computer games lie. Online he will face savvier foes, armed with both mouse and keyboard. Some of them will have headsets and microphones and their settings will be faster and more deadly than their console bretheren. They will still spit the same insults, but the voices will more often than not, be less shrill but more choked with Mountain Dew and Cheetos. It is his hunting ground of old.

Then the evil of Microsoft strikes again.

He realizes that he made the mistake of having Vista installed on his new gaming computer, his gaming is slow with DRM checks and driver version errors; his microphone won’t initialize and he is silent on the internet. Some count themselves lucky for he only would mouth curses and hate at this indignity.

Like a one-two blow to the ballsack he collapses, shrieking his hatred to the thrashing clouds; the bitter taste of bile and Nintendo brand chewing gum foaming out his gnashing teeth. He spits acidic liquid and words in equal amounts.

Behold him, Furious Gamer. Cheated by fate! Cheated by Microsoft!

A Myspace message from Xeno is the final twist of the knife. Xeno tells him that the new Rainbow Six game is in and does he want a copy? It is too much. He will never buy a game again.

In short: Fucking tootie shit fuck. 

I guess this means that I’m going to miss both the new content for Mass Effect, COD4, Halo 3 and all the other crap I was looking forward too dammit.

Only 16% failure? Even Gen’s 360 is having the first stages of Red Ring of Death, and she cares for her systems like most people care for children. The RRoD is no longer cancer, a sickness than strikes a percentage of the population and is feared but preventable. No, no longer is something that happens to some, it is chicken pox, something that almost everyone will experience at an early stage. Only the lucky few have dodged its itchy clasp.

Whatever. Thanks Microsoft!

- Tenno

14. Fashion.

Is ridiculous. I’m not sure if it’s the point where we started pulling every last fashionable thing from the past or what, but fashion in general, and especially urban or street style is so damn fucking ridiculous that I’m not entirely sure if these thugged out fools have any idea that the design ideas were beamed in from the Planet Crayola Box.

 

Take for example the wacky juxtaposition of colors and styles, atrociously organized into a semblance of martial bomb warning codes and then airbrushed onto XXXXXXL shirts that hang like painted curtains. I fear that on a windy day we’ll have a sky full of flailing urban men, with their women running spastically below shrieking in their stretch jeans and fantastically pointed shoes, looking like so many denim spiders.

 

Looking through old pictures of course, raises the warning flag that is ‘the bad choices’ I made when it came to clothes. I’m not denying that, and even now, I usually rock the roll the cuffs look because I’m too lazy to hem the fuckers.

 

Whatevs.

 

So I’m speaking from hindsight, pink kerchiefs and oscillating color styles on sports gear. Had I known the power of chaos, I would have made so much more money selling shirts than I did; oh and the power of airbrushing!

 

The scene kids are just as bad. Somewhere in the 80’s music revival we experienced, someone thought it would be great to revive the fashions… and even if it was done in IRONY, the weird shit I see at the clubs has GOT TO BE STOPPED!

 

Too big sunglasses! Ultra tight ballerina skirts! Neck beards wearing makeup! Perez Hilton!

 

I won’t lie, certain areas of it look good, in a hipster way, but the addition (over-addition amirite?) of the ganguro Japanese fashions, multi-tie-dye-bleach-checkerboard hair and the return of the frizzle have set my heart, black as it is, pounding in fear. WE ARE NOW THE ENEMY!!!

 

I’m not asking people to re-bend the rainbow here, but please for the love of color choice, tone it the fuck down. You can keep the cute underwear, but stop it with the fucking leggings and skirts. Maybe. Whatever.

 

15. Stop throwing the puppies.

Dear sociopathic people.

 

Please stop shooting, killing, maiming, destroying, taunting, winging or otherwise hurling our four-legged friends for no good reason.

 

I understand that war has made you a monster, I understand that maybe you torture animals at home, you may even just hate PETA so much; but please, please, please stop the random killing of cute, whimpering puppies.

 

Unless the puppy you tossed off a cliff was ticking, I’d really appreciate it.

 

Thank you!

 

A Concerned American.

 

 

 

Seriously. What the fuck?

 

Animals are for the most part defenseless, and while I happily chow down on burgers and steak and chicken fingers and acknowledge that those poor dears got the short end, mere cruelty in such a hapadasical fashion is just fucking too much.

 

The internet is weird that way. Instantly I see (well heard actually, I refused to watch it) a Marine, supposedly tossing a live puppy off a cliff with gusto complete with yipping sounds. Prank? Joke? Bad taste either way.

 

I hate stuff like this. It makes the internet like a mine field. Soldiers getting their throats slit, pigs squealing their last seconds on plastic sheets, women blowing into pieces, vomit coursing onto some mans penis.

 

Cronenburg had the right of it. We as a species are becoming so indentured, so exposed to the harsh fallacies of cultures and desires, the over exposure and inevitable overflow will be the end of us.

 

It would take the end of the world to take this reality from us.

 

The saddest part? The distinctions of what we should and shouldn’t see are ruled by silly human curiosity. Mind the predictions, as a species we have fed the poor, the disenfranchised and the unlucky to the lions before, and I think we’re nearing that point again.

 

Witch burning, riots, draw and quartering, torture, hatred, evils and lusts. All of it dictated to us through the unflinching eye of media, not Media as an organization of course, but just plain media. The artifacted You-tubes, the hidden smut, emails and glossy magazines, Polaroids. Brilliant HD Color. Tattered newsy print. Oil marked pages.

 

Pray to God, pray to Heaven, pray to the far ends of the Earth and into the voids that separate us from other spheres, pray to the Void itself, pray to Nothing if you must. “Send us a cataract! Blind this eye!”

 

And yet, it is the Tree of Forbidden Knowledge, it is the Big Brother, it is the new new-speak, it is out friend, our conspirator, or loathsome pal. It shines light on the darkness and helps rub the dust from the windows so you can see the millions of defaced corpses de-clothed within.

 

We see. We know. We wonder. We curse. We decry.

 

We know. Oh, how we know so much more now.

 

How many legs must the serpent lose?

10. Sufferance.

Had a terrible dream, well, not that I usually have good ones. It started with me walking up to my parent's house, in front of the door was a baby owl, brown with baby down. I scooped it up as it was outside in the cold and walked in with it. Once inside, I could see a Christmas tree that my parents had set up with a robin singing on the top. The baby owl immediately leapt out of my arms and ran to the tree, hopping up and around to swallow the robin whole.

 

I freaked out and grabbed it down, choking the owl to force its mouth open so I could extract the robin, which was still alive in the owls throat. I'm in tears at this point, one because I'm hurting this poor baby owl, which just did as its nature asserted, and secondly because this other poor bird is still cheeping inside its throat. I know that my parents will be terribly angry that I let this animal into the house to devour their bird.

 

So I manage to extract the one bird, only a little worse for wear, but the owl now has its eye sockets bulging and it's obviously in great pain from me choking it almost to death. I'm pressing lightly on the eyes to get them back in and making this frantic effort to calm it down. Then I woke up very disturbed.

 

I really dislike dreams like this, and even more so when they stay with shocking clarity in the waking hours. I actually have a dream diary my mom got me, so I went ahead and translated what happened based on it.

 

I should note that last night I had that unremembered pleasant sort of dream that is so nice that you just lay in bed so you can keep living it. I really wish I had that kind more often. The only downside was a brief moment where I had been re-emailed a letter to a client, and a phone call from HR that blamed this email on me getting fired. It was a picture of a school, which the client had mailed me with some inane rant, I had typed on the picture, "This is full of WIN and FAIL!", which is exactly the kind of crap I usually return when clients send me some silly rant on whatever political nonsense they're going on about. Needless to say, Monday I will be going in very way. I claim no sense of pre-cognitive ability, but I'm not blind to the ways and wills of the supernatural making their wonts known through sleep. Too many times they've been completely true.

 

So, to the translation.

 

Babies, in any form, suggest feelings of inadequacy and things in which we feel no control, and I should mention that I'm explaining this all under the understanding that I know zilch about explaining dreams,  and to be honest, the book I was given doesn't half the things in my dream anyways.

 

Whatever. More study is needed.

11. The reunion.

My high school has had a pretty tough time getting enough support and monies to even host a reunion, and they barely got it together including classes 94-99.

 

Not enough people, and the school has only been going since 1994 anyways, so alumni support is zilch compared to many other schools. Las Vegas Academy of Nomenclature it seems.

 

I actually realized, and the irony is I was very popular according to many people even though I never knew it (go figure), is that aside from maybe two girls, I barely remember anyone in my class anyways, and of those two, theres only one I would make even a modicum of effort to get to know better.

 

I'm only going because my best friends finally decided to go and talked me into it. Jerks.

 

So here I sit, out $80 dollars, and wondering why a meal must cost so much; no free booze for the depressed 20-30 somethings coming together, sponsored by those few of us who managed to climb high enough to make SERIOUS MONEY.

 

I have little to no interest in this at all. I barely remember any of my high school. But I will go and smile and make small talk until either the booze or the silliness of it drives me elsewhere, to spend what money I have on more illicit pursuits.

 

She Wants Revenge has a song with a line that goes, "Someone here is going to fall in love tonite," and in reference to such gatherings, it is totally apt. I cannot wait to see the inevitable burnouts, swaggers and the like, bustling about in an alcohol infused haze, trying (maybe succeeding?) in generating that old-school solidarity that infected us when we were young and mixing and matching.

 

Or my cynicism and propensity for forgetting things may have set me wayward, and it will be an Event. One of joyful proclamation and even more joyful memory; paid for in drink, dance and photos (which you must pay for of course!).

 

Had I been able to swing such things, I would have rented out the Hofenbrau Hause, set the band and the prices to the minimum and let the hordes hold forth in Germanic celebration, with much tubas and pretzels and chanting of names. A drunken maybe celebration of old times and memories all heavily salted in years gone by, new wrinkles, children and $7 dollar pretzels. Ah, the rich things!

Do not hold this against me gentle reader, that I look at the future through the bitter tincture that is my experience. I can and will have a great time if I choose to do so, and I certainly hold it not against you for making the effort to have the group back, however shrunk. But time is a nasty bitter pill, and what revelations it has lead me is that many times looking back is comparative to seeing the very things that chased, hounded you as a young person; and these things are long of leg and sharp of tooth. Wolves masquerading as stags, gallumping along.

 

They coddle and nip with alacrity.

 

Heaven help those who look too far back, and help more those who stand their ground, refusing to know that what is back there is gone and dead and blasted, to be fought over by the ravishing wave of the past. Smothered and smoothed until the humps and ripples of what once was seems like silk.

 

People forget. That silk hides pain.

Actually this would be titled 'idiocy from my ex-girlfriends ex that has broken up with her like 7 times already for the same reason i did but she forgave him for it BORK BORK BORK...'

Le. Fucking. Sigh.

So today I IM her thinking, ok, no drama, no nothing, just be polite and happy because she's looking for a job yadda yadda yah blah blah (YAH TRICK YAHH! stupid i know...) and I get this little gem:

I'm so happy because **********!

Ah, that's right, it's not because her boyfriend (they're back..... again)

1. paid for her car which has been sitting in TOW ME LAND for 3 months
2. finally got her to court to handle her 2 year warrant
3. helped her get a job
4. paid off her old rent that i'm still helping with
5. found a place for her cat
6. helped her get to finish her root canal

or anything else that i had hoped he would get around too doing, but never can because he is "Poor!" according to my ex.

Nope.

They're fucking going on a cruise. To Mexico. For a week. And than makes everything A-ok.

Laugh Out Fucking Loud. I seriously hope they aren't checking warrants. Actually, the last road trip she went on she fought the whole way with her (then) best friend and hated every second of it, now they're going to drive I guess in a car listening to hip-hop (which she hates BTW) and go on a cruise.

And I'm the immature one.

I mean I understand that everyone needs time to get away from it all, but yeesh. And so I ask myself, why the fuck do I even worry. I just sit here mentally tallying the thousands of dollars she owes me, and while yes I forgave some debts, she still owes me for gas, that fucking operation I rushed her to that made me miss my court appearance, etc etc. Apt with my name on the lease still, I handled that thank you. Whatevs.

I really am too fucking nice. Just a complete fucking idiot when it comes to people, I mean, why bother trying to help someone out, when the collective secret to being happy seems to be acting like a complete fucking idiot.

After all that fucking time I spent moving her, twice actually since he's never helped her once move shit, got her to her fucking storage which he wouldn't help with, or couldn't I guess, since he's the one manager of a store I know that can't get time off evidently. Bailed on her car, bailed on her moving, bailed on everything but fucking her life up... and yet again, it's me to the fucking fore, saving the fucking day. As fucking always. 4.5 years of being there, the one person who helped her constantly.

Fuck this bullshit.

[14:54] tenno vs 10o: dude i'm totally listening to 'human nature' by micheal jackson yo
[14:54] commandfile: wasn't that madonna ?
[14:54] tenno vs 10o: yeah you can build your own drying box
[14:54] tenno vs 10o: fuck no
[14:54] tenno vs 10o: jackson man
[14:54] tenno vs 10o: song, not album
[14:55] commandfile: i swear Madonna did Human nature song when she was all dressed up in black leather in the video
[14:55] commandfile: oh well
[14:55] tenno vs 10o: why? why? whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy does she do me that way? whooooooooo stabbin!
[14:55] commandfile: both crazy fucks anyway haha
[14:55] tenno vs 10o: why she do me that way?
[14:55] tenno vs 10o: I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE MICHAEL!!!
[14:55] tenno vs 10o: do you think its true?
[14:56] tenno vs 10o: that Michael Jackson learned to moonwalk to escape his dads punches?
[14:56] commandfile: hah ahah ahha LMFAO
[14:56] commandfile: seems reasonable..
[14:56] tenno vs 10o: and grabbing th crotch? totally defensive man, same with the spinning
[14:57] tenno vs 10o: he was just being protective of his child fisher
[14:57] tenno vs 10o: I WANT TO LOOOOVE YOU! PYT!
[14:57] tenno vs 10o: yes i will! ooh! nothing can stop this burning!
[14:57] tenno vs 10o: dont you now is the perfect time?
[14:58] commandfile: LFMAO
[14:58] tenno vs 10o: i want to love you PYT! PRETTY YOUNG THING!
[14:58] tenno vs 10o: son has the BADDEST fucking synth beat ever towards the end
[14:58] tenno vs 10o: OH SHIT HERE IT IS!
[14:58] commandfile: haha haha WTF
[14:58] tenno vs 10o: PRETTY YOUNG THING OOH!
[14:58] commandfile: and is icp next on the list ?
[14:58] tenno vs 10o: HUH HUH HUH HUH!
[14:58] tenno vs 10o: NAH NAH NAH!
[14:58] tenno vs 10o: NANANANANANANAN! NAH NAH NAH!
[14:58] tenno vs 10o: oh you're fucking missing out man
[14:59] commandfile: haha i bet but serious..
[14:59] tenno vs 10o: what ICP? yeah me and toddness are mad juggalos man
[14:59] tenno vs 10o: and then i jackiechanned over the gate! CHICKIN HUNTAHS!!!!
[14:59] commandfile: haha haha haha wasn't taht off of riddle box ?
[14:59] tenno vs 10o: cut yah neck get yah neck wet fuck all you bitches RAR!
[14:59] tenno vs 10o: i'm going chiken hunting tonite!
[15:00] tenno vs 10o: red neck get his neck wet
[15:00] commandfile: i can't remmeber riddle box or milenko haha
[15:00] tenno vs 10o: clown love bitch
[15:00] tenno vs 10o: ahhahahaha
[15:00] commandfile: i swear it was #6 on riddle box
[15:00] tenno vs 10o: THE. GREAT. MILENKOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
[15:00] commandfile: LMFAO
[15:00] commandfile: omg are you high on crack ? wanna freebee ?
[15:00] tenno vs 10o: the great milenko is their black album man, everything after that sucked
[15:01] commandfile: haha haha haha the disney album haha
[15:01] tenno vs 10o: metallica: black album, ICP: The great Milenko
[15:01] commandfile: yeah ...
[15:01] commandfile: ok so on the screen printing shit..
[15:01] tenno vs 10o: the thing that crossed their palms was money, the thing that passed under their legs? a fucking wonking great shark man
[15:02] tenno vs 10o: what you want to talk business when i'm fucking TALK TWO OF THE GREATEST ACTS EVER?!?!??!?! ICP AND MJ?!?!???!
[15:02] tenno vs 10o: THEY ROCK YOUR FACE!!!!
[15:02] commandfile: HAHA haha hah haha OMG
[15:02] commandfile: hahha
[15:02] commandfile: caps lock pwns you
[15:02] tenno vs 10o: yeah yeah yeah, save this convo for posterity, have a ball

[15:04] commandfile: are you alright there?
[15:07] tenno vs 10o: lol
[15:07] tenno vs 10o: yeah i'm done

smell is an infinitely complex and desirable thing in this world. it has the power to enliven us, warn us or even relax us; we taste with smells, we temper with them, they permeate our existance.

which makes it doubly horrible when for the last two days i noticed two of the places i visit every once in awhile smell horrible: that being the male restroom at work and the male restroom at stetsons where i eat a lot. well that is i eat at stetsons, not in its restrooms.

the thing is, it isn't the nasty smell most people associate with bathrooms, which would make sense... in this case the restroom at stetsons smells like minty old tobacco chaw and vanilla which is vile beyond belief, while the restroom at work smells like what you would get if you combined windex, that orange shit they spray on floors and old, cheap cake icing, like someone just washed and waxed a dead clown.

ucky!

[09:57] DaBuG911: ship?
[09:57] tenno vs 10o: i'm in a rocket ship now
[09:57] tenno vs 10o: i'm waving to the crowds, theres thousands of them
[09:57] tenno vs 10o: all waving to me. they love me
[09:58] tenno vs 10o: i strap myself in, i'm taunt with excitement, the very first person to visit the rabbit king on the moon
[09:58] tenno vs 10o: they lock me in and the countdown starts...
[09:58] tenno vs 10o: 3...
[09:58] tenno vs 10o: 2...
[09:58] tenno vs 10o: 1...
[09:58] tenno vs 10o: BLASTOFF! WHOOOOOOOOOOOSH!
[09:58] tenno vs 10o: I break free of Earth gravity! I am so free!
[09:59] tenno vs 10o: I can it all, it is glorious, this creation of man fee like a dolphin amoung the stars
[09:59] tenno vs 10o: i unstrap myself nd float, just float...
[09:59] tenno vs 10o: i am at peace.
[09:59] tenno vs 10o: as my ship drifts over the continents, i see australia below me
[10:00] tenno vs 10o: i am masturbating.
[10:00] tenno vs 10o: OH AUSTRALIA!
[10:02] DaBuG911: i see
[10:03] tenno vs 10o: i wrote that for you
[10:03] tenno vs 10o: you can blog about it even, that whole story
[10:03] tenno vs 10o: then we can start and internet war, where i deny saying i masturbated over australia.
[10:03] tenno vs 10o: in space.
[10:04] tenno vs 10o: whoops here comes the bossman
[10:04] tenno vs 10o: they'll be like, "JEREMY! writing out interstellar masturbating again!?" "No raise for you my good fellow!"

and maybe start anew...

i'm not so sure where this leads me anymore; the weekend was fun, but it was nothing more than sugar in quantity, and by this I mean it tasted great and to great effect, but after the final spiky drops pass your lips, you realize that the bright glow you had for a short time, is nothing but the final moments before another wave of crippling apathy.

i'm tired.

really tired of this somber, turgid lifestyle i've had lately. i have no passion for anything anymore, i wake up with knife marks on me i don't even remember perpetuating; with bright, slashes of color on clothing i barely remember removing, i wake on couches, i wake from blackouts with the cold, relentless hiss of static in the air.

i have nothing going for me, mentally.

the one bright point of my life, and yes it seems meaningless, now is gone, and my nasty, sad habit of being happy because i make someone happy rears it's grey head and it's eyes, oh it's eyes are the teeming pool of the abyss; all hate and selfishness.

i gave too much, and the gravity of my last actions are pulling me down.

money, hope, etc etc... is it just bereft or lacking?

i don't even care, i stood to make a choice lately and even as i made the call, the first things from her mouth are, "we are back together, everything is great!," and i merely gave congratulations because she is least happy and i'm happy for her.

it wouldn't have worked anyways. i can't very well make anyone happy if, even in my brightest moments, all i ever possess is the spiteful glee that is self destruction.

"look", i seem to scream, "look how fucking happy i am today!"

i have these issues you see, and i nod when i relay them to myself. yes yes yes, we all have this little black ink in us don't we? and some days, it swells into a nasty little puddle, and then again into a pond, a lake, an ocean of self loathing; self denial and a bitter hate of everything and everyone i blame for my current moments. oh and myself? first and foremost i loathe every single bleeding beam in my eye...

i HATE where i am right now, and i'm SICK of even trying.

so, let's just wash it all away shall we? no no no, not with knives or bullets or sex or smiles or laughter or games or writing or friends or family or drugs or blood or guns or razors or help or need or want or happy wilting thoughts... none of this will get me any farther.

lets blur the lines for a time. let us just gaze on the vast vista of this dead, black water we have raised before us and let us just gaze into it's depths; every hate filled thought, every petty desire and then let us cast our lines in, lets just fish around a bit.

and when we feel that first tentative tug, that first pull of the line that signals something alive, lets pull it, gasping, into the air; pull it ripe like fruit, wriggling in a new, and too it, poisonous environment and let's explore it's hideous geometries, this fresh fish, this soul, manually aborted from it's dark cloak of gravity and water and held aloft on strings of thought and hooks of intent.

behold your own leviathan; the metaphysical dream-beast.

let's just give him a breath of fresh air. let's just give him his time in the sun. let's give him a little horizon line.

let's cook that fucker till his meat tastes clean and wholesome.

this whole week has been almost the darkest i've ever had, i couldn't get things done, my art is sucking, didn't sell shit, family drama, friend drama, and i found out my ex is pregnant.... not mine, but i just want this horrible dark month to end already.