And it's one more day up in the canyon, and it's one more night in Hollywood...

((META: In case you've not got it yet. Find the song, play, read =D))
((http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNF1a-ZG1uc))

In no particular order the snow begins to fall...








In swear it's a clover. Shutup.


Who are these hippies and what are they doing in my apartment?


The heartbreak just before leaving a loved one.


Hippie infested apartments.


Young and grungy, old and dusty. Things don't change.


Part of the beginning of not being so relaxed.


Get it? GET IT?!


Grace in form.


Endless voids, further than the eye can estimate.




Deprivation.


'Murica! Fuck yeah!


STOMP YO FACE FROM OUTA SPACE!


Engarde!




No heat leads to cuddlebugs. Even with heat, cuddlebugs run rampant.


Eye of the beholder.


Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!


This is my gat. There are many like it but this one is mine. Without my gat I am nothing, without me, my gat is nothing.


=D


~sigh~ Women...


Right in the goodies. Damnit Sam.


Moving right along.


VIKINGS?! I FUCKING LOVE RENN!


What the shit?


For shame...


To the winters cold we turn our faces to smell the fear of the oncoming masses. To arms!


Stomp.


Crazy fucker.




Spit take.




So sharp they even cut the eyes.




Thanks for looking in the trashcan dad. Jerk =p.






Poised, they raise their heads to their masters call. Or the crinkling of wrappers.




What the shit Arkansas?


They see me rollin...they hatin...


PULL!


Flop =p


Merry Flopmass.


Food?


Hella-Gay.




Holy crap! Roll up the windows! Ewww!






The epitome of silence. The embrace of my trip.


Food?




Stress Relief


Oh sweet merciful Jesus.


Spend your nights cruising.


Someday, once again, I'll be able to pull over and stare at the snow and know that it means change is coming. That everything will be softened, dampened, and our words will be allowed to stand out against the landscapes.




And that's just part of it. Also, partly responsible for the bitchin Mohawk above.


Snark.





Climb.


I saw God by the river...


The Imperial March...with bells.


The days we wake up early, and the snow is trickling down, smothering the ground with the softness of a down pillow. The crisp breath. The weight slipping from your shoulders as you realize that maybe the coming winter will hold warmth, alcohol, and friends and family to spend it with.

But you still don't like to leave...

Fidelity and frugality combined together in insanity. Rhyming words of no meaning thrown together with the fluttering of fingers slowly forming across the screen. Alcohol flowing through the veins and thoughts flowing through the brains of those who know which way to flow. Funky co-medina.

We reach the peak amidst the weak and flicker through the images pressed against our eyes. Some things go and some things blow with an icy flow running against our tonsils in the late hours.

We chat and speak of things we don't truly know and ...

Fuckit. Flow.

The money is what it is.

The money controls. There are some who simply use the money. Agh, White Russians are my downfall in the intellectual conversations I try to control as they surge through. Intellectual. Perhaps I'm thinking a little too highly of myself.

There are a few people in the world. Screams. AGHHH! Those who let the money do the work for them. Not the professional shit. Simple shit. Clean up after yourself, after the storm. Drama. Hahahahahaha. Wash your own vehicle. Plant your own garden. Do your own thing. Those who do seem to live the fruitful life.

We can dine in Paris.

Watch them run from the bulls in Madrid. Terribly wrong ultraviolence.

Spectate as the world's finest break the records set by old men with false hips.

We use the money to sit back and watch others achieve.

And then there are those who take it upon themselves. Don't hire a nanny. A maid. They climb the walls of the mesa, arms flexing, death one wrong handhold below. We, no, they travel the earth, stepping over stones others would drive around. They make something worth speaking about. Compromise.

But I've already passed the point where I can do anything that will imprint my name upon anyone's mind.

All to be forgotten.

As ages long lost have become.

Translations lost as the sand weathers away the faces of stone which once may have held the meaning to what we do.

To have a talent.

To be...something.

Past.

Always the lesson that there is a way for us to be more than what we are.

Equivalent exchange. You must have something equivalent to what it will become.

You cannot simply make energy. You must sacrifice equal proportions of something.

Shit. Step inside and see what's happening.FUCK YOSUHUTUP!

No body listens anymore. The buzzkill of the day. Speak from the heart and everything gets shrugged off by ....





everyone. Goodnight my dears and sleep well, sometime we'll catch the end.

Let it feel like something else, let it be a breeze, let me be like someone else...

BREEEEEEP! BREEEEEEEEP! BREEEEEEEGODDAMNITWAKEUPEEEEEEEP!

6:30 in the morning, you're wide awake and smashing an alarm clock with the bottom of your fist as you almost cry for the pain to stop. The noise warbles out and you're greeted with the most heartwarming sight known to man:



My eyes begin to twitch a little bit as I gaze longingly towards the snooze button, sitting there all proud and mighty and puffed up on its black, plastic throne, just tempting me to reset my alarm.

I punch it just for good measure and begin to prepare myself for the freezing morning stroll of the hound.



Read. Jesus hates you illiterate motherfuckers.




And there you have it. A quick rustle with a plastic bag, a short jog to the trash bin and back up to the room and then to start pulling up our slacks and buttoning our shirts, gathering swim wear for the second job, and getting the puppy ready to spend her day at Dad's, bouncing around like and idjit and keeping the cats riled up.



Some days your mornings start of well. Other days you have a jackass for a room mate and a twerp for a sister.



It looks like a clown yacked all over the interior of my car.



And of course, our morning reading material while we try to choke down as much nicotine as we can before the bell rings for our first class.
Then it's off to work. No pictures yet, maybe in the next one.

And then, if I don't have to teach swim lessons, I come home, walk the dog, and beat the shit out of the resident punching bag.



Then I end up here doing something i never feel that I do an adequate job at. maybe I'm just masochistic. Anyways, no emo crap for now. it's a good evening. I have Spaten, I have Eins, I have A full up playlist to sit and let cruise through my ears as my fingers wave over the keyboard and hope to pound out something coherent.



Have we failed yet?

You think about the strangest things at the strangest times. The past, the future, the current. A thought came to me earlier; They always say "Don't Live In The Past".

Why not?

People were magnificent and inventive in the past. In the current, they're just dead. To look at our heroes of the past and our current models for the moment. I'm just not sure anymore.

But for once it's a pretty good weeknight. My Eins is content, laying amid three torn up tug ropes, half an eaten rawhide bone, and probably some crumbs she snorted out from under the stove. The songs which inspired me to relax, to step back and take a genuine look at life, are still playing throughout the house. The beer that taught me that life is indeed too short for cheap (and shitty) beer. I am almost relaxed. I am almost as I should be.



I've lived here a year and five months now. I like to think I've remained true to who I am and what I do.

I've let a few things slip through but I'm trying to stick the gum onto the paperclip tied to the string to fish them back out.

Just have to watch for the alligators and muck men.

I've proven myself to be a hardcore mafa, able to stand one of the worst bosses I've came across so far. I've proven that I've still got a bit of spring left in my step. That I still know how to shift my weight.

That I still have the patience for small, annoying children, and that I still have the pride in my chest when I see they remember what I've taught them.



I want it to last, and I want it with meaning

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!