If you make out here, I will cut your lips and tongue from your head with a, LINOLEUM KNIFE!...

For now you have to deal with what you get.

It's spring, that wonderful time of the year when winter's depression starts to fade away. All the memories slip, the gray skies become blue again with a warm breeze that just lifts your spirit a little bit higher in the air and puts a bounce into your step. People start coming out of their holes and houses, begin to socialize and shed their Scrooge syndromes in favor a more haughty air about themselves, sporting new fake tans that look like they were rolled in peanut butter and the beaten violently to shake off the excess (stick in pan, turn every 5 minutes, cover for 5, serve with a kick in the ass).

~ahem~

Now that the world has filled out with a bit of green, and the mud has subsided for at least another day or two, we find ourselves breathing a little better. Not really, fuck pollen. I do not appreciate nature's sperm clogging my nostrils and making my teeth feel weird. S'not right. Snot right. Hah. Laugh god damn you.

But everyone does seem to be a bit giddy this time of year. It's part of nature. Time to get with the breeding. We are animals after all. Everyone just goes nucking futs over this shit. If only there were a way to send bus loads of them to a foreign country and pray that the extremely stupid ones found something to fuck their heads up so bad that they never returned. Well, hello there Cancun and spring break. Oh well.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this. I feel decent. My back has stopped crying for relief for a bit, my shins still hurt but that's the price you pay. My head is a bit clearer, work sucks a little less, but I can't help but feel this is all some sort of sham. Spring comes, everything is new and green and looking up.

Summer toils along and we work to make it through, trying to fit in as much action and adventure as our little human bodies can take. We sweat and bleed more in the summer, I think. We take our vacations in the summer, so we can get away and see how beautiful other places are at that time of year while the residents of whatever that local is clear out because of all the stupid assholes who have never seen the ocean that come flocking into their pubs and disturbing the patrons with their extremely bad karaoke.

Fall comes and we start piecing together the shattered remains of our dreams of watermelons, some good explosions, a possible car chase or two, maybe a decent movie and dinner in between, and we start stocking up for the winter. We also start beating the shit out of one another so I figure it all breaks even. There's a lot people in this world will forgive for some good ol entertainment. I still swing my shoulders in the car when i start thinking about it. I swerve a little too, so I save those thoughts for when I'm alone, usually in front of the mirror. Shhhh.

All guys flex in front of a mirror when they pass it and nobody's around. Fact.

Then winter comes. Snow. Yay. You know where I'm going with all this shit.

And then the grass turns green and "Maybe this year will be better than the last."

I'll still be planning on finishing what's left of college, even though I'm sure my credits will disolve or one of these nice colleges up here will tell me that my redneck education is worth exactly dick compared to their scholastic excellence. I just know it.

But I need to brush up on the sprechen anyways, so maybe I can stick with that.

The same dreams will happen. Writing, fighting, jumping from buildings and making some big bucks while I still turn out useless words which I don't even enjoy writing at my day job for what I still think is less pay than I deserve for the sheer amount of bullshit I put up with.

I should take up a career as a stable boy.

Everyday I know what kinda shit I'm gonna have to deal with, I know how to deal with it, and I can estimate fairly well how much there's gonna be. And bullshit won't give me that dumbass smile and a line from a self improvement book which will of course win me over and increase my productivity 500%.

You can't ramble and make a book. Not the average person. I need a harmonica neck thing a hoogy and messed up hairOH WAIT. It's at times like this when I wonder what my writing looks like from the outside. You and you and you. You're hearing my voice right now rolling these words off the screen into your heads. You hear the way I emphasize the "FUCK" in this sentence. Is there anything insightful to this or is it just the same things that you hear from me each time my fingers roll across the keys to appease my massive, rabid audience?

I slowed down before I even sped up.

I keep thinking "I'll change". But I never do. I'm still that buck toothed wierdo that I was back in grade school.

Cept my grades are shittier.

I really need to get my whiny shit together and get the Deutsch worked on so i can get that BA and then get that $$ and then get that...well shit, if I've got the $$, that's all that really matters isn't it? I guess I'm cynical, but when you periodically watch someone spend twice your yearly earnings even when the sales are down and companies are feeling the pressure, you start to become a little jaded inside.

The Way of the Weasel is such a true book.

I want to finish the book. I want to get the degree. I want to find the job. I want to finish the trip.

I would like to complete one thing.

Just one single thing.

Give me no shit about application. You can hammer a nail with a small kitten, doesn't mean it's gonna be worth the effort, or even work correctly afterwards.

And I'm sure you can hear my voice in that.

LINOLEUM KNIFE!

hahaha, aight

Time to drag your tongue across the sugar cube, and hope you get a taste...

Holy hell, September 11 is the last time I updated?

I do apologize to my fans out there.

Gag, spit and let's try this again.

So I've got the apartment, I've got the girl, I've got the job, I've got the roommate with the wicked recipe for crab cakes and an appreciation for music and beer.

Now I need the dog, need the time
need the money and the will to rhyme.

I'm starting to itch again. I've been in a place for a year, some new surprises to keep me on my toes and stressed to a bearable point. But then I look at the lives of others, the financial and intellectual side, and wonder where I fucked up.

I can feel myself grow older, lazier, still easily cowed by others. I think I've learned some new ways of coping, of releasing my own little bits of karma and spite. All in all, things are well, and I am enjoying myself. At least from five till bedtime.

I want to write a beautiful poem, an enticing story, a work of art again. Or maybe they were never works of art. Maybe I am becoming smarter, clouded less by my childish mind.

But is that really what I want?

I wish I could take pride in the way my fingers glide over the keys. The way thoughts can spill out through the fingers and onto the screens to slip through the translucent tissues of your eyes. But I want to be able to make people feel through my writing again. I want to be able to push the imagery, to make them see the shadows play along the grass and hear the laughter bubbling on the breeze, but I think I've lost that.

Or it's not the same audience.

The experiences might not match up.

Shift.

The wanderlust is rampant in my head today. I found a picture of a woman strapped in to a snowboard, carving the face of a dune. This picture led me to the site of a man who has been travelling the east for four years, with a myriad of pictures and tales.

(But nothing of his past except pieces you have to pull together yourself.)

Just up and left his job as a banker, went on to be a photographer with a 6x6 Land Rover, a Moroccan wife, two children, and pictures that instill in me the greatest desire to just see that I have ever felt.

(Not that I'm wanting to leave things behind.)

But he had a skill to fall back on. An Artistic talent. I could quit my job and start travelling. But I'd have nothing to support me. Nothing that could be done without settling down and faking my way through shit.

And that bothers me. What a waste of a human fucking being.

It seems everyone else has a talent. Musical, Singing, Dancing, Painting, Photography, Socializing, Craftwork, anything. Everyone I know has something they can do well. Exceptionally well. Well enough that if they truly pursued it, they could excel beyond what they would have ever thought possible.

I talk with people often. Botanists, Chemists, Doctors, Master Electricians, Professors, Specialists. People doing well. People I have always talked with and regarded as friends.

And I think to myself "Fucking hell, I'm the god damn dullard of the group, aren't I?"

Nothing to be set aside by.

Fucking aggravating. Some things we're born with. Others, well, I guess I just refuse to learn.

I get my dog soon.
I get my fight.
I get a story to remember.

And then what?

Fucking depressing. I'll write more as it comes to me. Thank you, and check out the link below.


www.thisfabtrek.com

WhyshouldIwhyshouldIwhyshouldIshouldIwhy?

So it's been a fuck of a time. Juggling my jobs, my personal life, and my incredible addiction for video games. At least I've managed to not make work my life this time. I've been able to completely seperate that from any of my personal matters. I don't spend 14 hours a day concentrating on work. I've done overtime, I've done worrying, but I've at least learned to let go and relax.

Maybe that's the secret. Maybe that's the problem I've had.

Back to writing unstructured bullshit and skipping off of one subject and landing on the next.

Blame it on the stress.

So I'm not sure if I'm going to get shit canned or not. But today as i was sitting on my OSHA 30 class, I realized, I certainly wouldn't give a good god damn right now. I drive to the lube station at lunch. It's a bright day, a little chilly. Reminiscant of the old days...of even 7 months ago. I feel relaxed. I realize work can be a struggle. That it's not supposed to be easy. That it's fucking work. But I don't think it should always be a constant battle.

I really don't get along with anyone at that fucking office.

At least I have the weekends and the right people to spend those few days with.

I doubt my position with my current company will endure the present strain from upper management. I'm gonna fucking snap and let the whole office know what I think about them.

At least, I will in my mind. I think I'm a little too timid (cowardly) to go that far, but I can feel it building up to the point where I can't in good consciousness continue to put up with this shit.

I am a whiny bastard.

But the girlfriend is working out wonderfully. It's a pain in the ass to not have someone within arms reach to poke fun at me and get my mind off of things, but she does a wonderful job.

I grow old.

Nobody better do shit for my birthday.
Why?

Plans on my birthday will always get messed up, things will not go smoothly, something will happen, and everyone will be stressed out and upset.

Even though I'm not.

Until I get stressed out because everyone else is letting things get to them.

Hell, the 17th is a fucking MONDAY for crying out loud.

Oh well, maybe something more interesting tommorow.

WhyshouldIwhyshouldIwhyshouldIshouldIwhy?

Afternoons, will be measured out, measured with, coffee spoons...And T.S. Eliot...

So I’ve moved up in the world, using an actual copy of Word now instead of some MS knockoff, packaged version. Such a badass rock and roll lifestyle I’m living now. I know I’ve been slacking, dear readers, but I’m trying at least.

It’s difficult to find time in the day anymore, time to sit and breath. Now, don’t take that as a complaint. I’ve got a full time job with decent pay to get me stocked up on cash, I’ve got a part-time job that makes me feel like I’m actually doing something for my fellow human beings, I’m seeing a beautiful girl who is a complete and total smart-ass. I think I’ve got a good thing going on.

Just need a place with a fence and my wingus, dingus, wiggle-butt dog.

And DSL, but a paycheck is coming in soon. My first for this job. As long as the taxes don’t continue to ream me into utter and complete poverty I think we can make this work. Good luck on hoping though, eh’?

Anyways, had a thought last night hit me, a rush. You know, those pure moments of feeling that just feel so god damn right, that kinda cut through the almost non-existant depression and shine a surreal little light on your ass and show you the words. Pity I couldn’t write it down then and there, but hey, once again, not complaining about my busy little self. At least I know I’m not a complete lazy ass anymore.

Busy man, with shit to do.

But I’ve got my sneakers on my feet, a good sturdy pair of pants, loose enough to fit the mood, my laptop bag strapped to my back and one nappy ass hat fitting my head oh so nicely. I step out of the house, with a goodbye thrown to all in the area and hear the screen door flop shut behind me. I didn’t even shut the solid door. Didn’t need to.

And the moment hits.

Here I am, lookin good (HAHAHAHAHA) and feelin fine, a place to go, some things to do, the air outside is almost tolerable, if not a bit bland, and everything hits that surreal mark.

Don’t have to lock the door.

People…no…families are outside, sitting on their porches sipping their after dinner drinks, chatting away like good folk. There’s the vibrant sound of a lawn-mower running it’s way across an already neatly trimmed yard a street over. Probably some guy getting the chores in after a nice day of work, with his kid in the already mowed back yard playing as a kid should, and embedding in her mind the memories she will never forget.

The smell of fresh cut grass, something she will always love and remember, even when she moves to the city to make it big.

The smell of her mother’s cooking drifting from the kitchen window, and the casual but careful face of her mother peeking out now and then to make sure she’s not digging up buried treasure.

The taste of dirt.

The smell of grease and sweat as her father picks her up and slings her over his shoulder as they both laugh and trot inside to sit down at their respective places.

I can almost drive the whole day with the windows down now. Still way too cold at night, and I’m still using the heater on the trip to work in the mornings. That won’t change. As I coast down the residential streets I find it’s all…perfect, in a way.

Things I never really got to see or experience as a child. Maybe that’s why they strike me as surreal. Fake. Straight from the big screen.

I hope I don’t grow accustomed.

So I sit here and read Transmetropolitan, which I recommend to any cynical and sarcastic bastard out there, and figure I’ve written enough for today.

Yeah.