Pop a tire? Find a patch.
Squeaky breaks? Careful with that gas.
Take a spill? Get back upright and hold on tight.
Won't start? Check your shit, wet your hands with spit, try it again.
The road is open, long and narrow. The wind is in your hair, and the motor is screaming. The wind grows stronger and your ass eats the sea. Someone pulls in front of you and hits the breaks. Lay off your throttle, squeeze the clutch and kick it down a gear with your heavy boot. Take a quick glance and see where there are now cars. Now lay off the clutch and PUNCH that throttle hard. Grip the pavement with your back wheel into the left lane. Look to your right and smile big as you flip the folks in the car that cut you off. Your ass is hungry for more seat, and as the wind blows harder it makes a sound like a mating call for your hair. As your engine screams into high RPMs, shift back up a gear. As you watch the car that pulled in front of you grow smaller in your mirror, be open to anything the road may have in store for you.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
"I think its time for you to leave."
I am a mess. The only thing in this life I seem to take responsibility for are the words that fall out of my head, and sometimes even that is a stretch.That's not really true; when I do the crime, I pay the time. Unfortunately, I see crimes to be as much of a load of subjective flim-flam as I find sins. If I don't believe any god has the will or reason to denote me as a sinner, I certainly don't believe generations worth of words and decisions of "powerful" men in control of state forces have any ability to call me a criminal beyond there their own judgmental label. No god nor court will truly judge me.
Yes, we must note it is however, true that when they find it appropriate, they may kidnap me, you, or anyone else they deem advantageous to their control over the general populations. After keeping us in cages, we will be brought into a well-furnished room and the basis of what they call their "judgement" will be a mockery of every human right they ever told us we had. In reality though, the only rights we really have are the ones we decide to have. When someone violates a right you know yourself to have, have they committed a crime? Do you judge and punish them, as the state does you? Do you rely on the state to judge and punish them? How do you judge and punish the state when they violate your rights?
Without thinking about answering any of those questions, and bringing my rant to an end, I'm going to review the high points in the most recent extent of life I have encountered, having not recently been hit by a bus on a motorcycle, shot in the head (well, that did almost happen), or otherwise had my lease in this body terminated in this dementia-- I mean dimension.
First, I graced the Magic Kingdom in Walt Disney World Facilities, Orlando with my presence. Not just my mental presence either, I was physically there. Families and couples from all over the world have the proof of my even have proof of my fourteen hour occupation fun filled facilities they have there in the form of delightful photobombs. My face now travels the globes in the bags and pockets of tourists of all shapes and sizes.
I traveled with my family, and inside the facilities we found much enjoyment. Some rides were pleasant, others were exciting. The ice cream and emu legs were delicious. My only complaint is my family and I intermittently hunted for alcohol for over three hours before we were informed with a smile that the entire Magic Kingdom block of the Disney Facilities is "dry." I can assure you, during my future occupation of Walt Disney World Facilities, I will be spending more time in the "wet" facility block known as the Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow, or EPCOT.
After returning to the scumhell city that is Daytona Beach, with virtually no Federal Reserve Notes to my name, I spent a day drinking on the beach with my family, and enjoyed sushi at night, by way of their hospitality. I went out to see my friend's reggae show in the Seabreeze district, and used a little of my remaining Federal Reserve Notes to knock back a few beers. Being a little buzzed after the show, I visited my friends at the coffee shop. A man was there with acid and beer. I had a few beers with him, and he gave me some acid for later. I took it, and had a strange evening, spending a couple hours in a transcendental meditation.
"Meditation not medication!" I've heard many people say that in many different tones, and I always think to myself after I hear it: "A little bit of everything in moderation." The next day, after that weird shit they called acid began to wore off, but still awake and feeling a little awkward in my skin, I grabbed a four pack of Yuengling tallboys and a couple of fellow dirty crazies like myself came to Daytona from Deland to visit the studio. One wanted to discuss a business initiative he would like to share with me, and the other wanted very much to get drunk. We resolved both matters before I was persuaded to come back to Deland to feast and drink at night and shoot guns the next day. It sounded like the recipe for just the type of weekend I wanted in my mental recovery from visiting the Walt Disney World Facilities.
We fulfilled reservations for a large group and at the hospitality of my friends, on the condition they chose what I ordered, I enjoyed a dinner of fried liver and onions in a Turkish or Hungarian or some ethnic eating parlor of the likes. While this all may not seem very exciting, after dining we went downtown. Coincidentally, a musical festival was going. Some of my musician friends were producing music for crowds on several stages there, so I broke from the pack and headed to catch of their shows. I hungout with my buddy and the rest of the group caught up to me before long, and the night whittled away into a lull of good music and good people having a good time, all the until after closing time. While we were leaving the bar, a man came from the street, yelling at one of the bar staff members about a bartender who he claimed had stolen twenty of his Federal Reserve Notes. The two yabbered back and forth at each other, until right after the angry man put his hand on the staff member's shoulder. POW! The staff member punched that motherfucker right in the head and the angry man's body jerked out straight, and he fell straight backwards from the impact of the punch with the stiffness of a board. Unconscious, the man was unable to make any effort to catch his backward fall and hit his head made a nice sound on the pavement. The staff member dragged the man to the street and climbed on top of him. Meanwhile, people were yelling that the angry man's female company had just also been knocked out cold about one hundred feet away. The scene of chaos was an interesting environment. I knelt down next to the staff member to get a close view of anything he might do the man, and some people said they saw him continue to beat the man he was on top of, but I saw no such thing. Eventually, the man awoke, and the staff member climbed off of him. The woman he was with also regained her composure and was able to stand and the two of them made their way to their car, which was parked in a gated lot. Everyone cooled down, and seemed to disperse until the angry man made one last comment before getting into his car. In an instant, the staff member was yelling again, and he had a crowd of people behind him, looking like they were all ready to kick the angry man's ass, and the angry man bowed his chest and Mexican gang members came out of nowhere baring switchblade knives. Buzzed and interested, I went towards the conflict to observe what might happen. Small fights broke out, and while it seemed nobody was looking, the angry man and his woman tried to slip into their car so they could haul ass out of the situation. Others saw this happen, as well, because before the car doors could be shut, there was a small mob of people prying the doors back open, grabbing inside, trying to pull the angry man back out. Suddenly, one of the Mexican gangsters brandished a large pistol. Looking frantic and confused, he pointed his weapon at anything that moved while everyone scrambled to disappear. Even the other Mexican gansters all took off, one dropping a switch blade which is now in the possession of my friend's girlfriend. I stood there watching, until the gun found its way to be pointing at my head from about six yards away. I decided then that if it would be in my best interest to clear that area with the others. I showed the gunman a peace sign with my hand and ran out of the parking lot. The gunman jumped into the car with the angry man and his female company, while the staff member shut and locked the chain-linked parking lot gate. The angry man backed up until he had just enough room to gain speed, then proceeded to ram the locked gate with his car and running over a man who had been standing in one spot for some time like a deer in headlights. We stood around, smoking cigarettes and watching the aftermath of the even for about fifteen minutes before it was finally time to leave. The man who was hit by the escaping car was eventually met by an ambulance and likely fine, and although a little blood was shed, no lives were lost during the event, and it must be mentioned the music festival was great. My only complaint is while I was running in the opposite direction of the gunman, I had a pack of cigarettes in my breast pocket which was lost. By the time I realized this, I was already somewhere else drinking a beer. Nonetheless, I went back to the crime scene to scan the ground to see if my weed remained in the pack of cigarettes unscathed. While I found several packs of cigarettes, I did not find mine. I did, however, find the audacity to ask the staff member if had seen a pack of blue American Spirit cigarettes lying around. Why would my pack be the only one missing?
"Oh, you mean the pack with the weed in it. Yeah, the cops have it as evidence in case the driver threw it out the window. I'll let them know it was yours."
"No, actually that wasn't the pack I was talking about, mine had cigarettes in it, but thank you." I left the area quickly.
The next day was spent shooting targets with a .50 caliber rifle on a bipod, walking around with a 12 gauge pistol grip pump action shotgun practicing my close-range home defense protocols, and practicing my longer distance aim with a semiautomatic SKS and .40 cal pistol. I'm sharing that in case I ever have a daughter's boyfriend who happens to stumble across this nice little blog.
By the next day, I had completely run of Federal Reserve Notes, but my tax refund came in. I went to the bank, and told them to give me the paper Federal Reserve Notes which my account specifies I should be able to receive. They did so, which is nice. What would happen if a bank ever said "No, we cannot or will not give you the paper Federal Reserve Notes your account specifies you should be able to receive from us." I think a public disturbance would ensue, which is amusing, since the Federal Reserve Bank often takes buying power away from the Federal Reserve Notes while they are either specified as yours in your account or in your property as paper. There is little difference between denying you access to a volume of your Federal Reserve Notes in the first place when compared with the reality now when the value of your Federal Reserve Notes are decreased in your possession. Yet there is no public disturbance while this theft occurs, and people say, "the economy is not so good," and "the market is down." I'm sure humor can be found in there somewhere, instead of disillusion.
I had a good meal, then got some pot and smoked it. Stoned, I went to my buddy's coffee shop. They were drinking wine, and making music on a keyboard-synthesizer and singing into the microphones. I was intrigued, and offered a coffee cup of wine, which I gladly accepted. I gave the shop proprietor ten Federal Reserve Notes which I had borrowed from him when I was ten dollars short for picking up new tires for my motorcycle. We smoked more weed. I a little xanax. We continued to drink wine. We smoked more weed. I took a little more xanax, and this cycle continued into the early morning. It wasn't long before my inhibitions were down, my speech was slurred, and I was operating on a very impulsive level. I remember talking to an older woman from a band, looking at her, and asking bluntly, "hey, do you wanna make out?" There was silence for a moment. "Yes." I remember caressing her. I remember talking to a writer about recording music behind her spoken word monologues she composes. My next memory comes from the bathroom of the establishment. The door opened and the proprietor looked in and said "Oh my god. I brought you pizza."
My pants were around my knees, and I was clinging onto the hips of a pantless woman, bent over with her shirt and bra cups scrunched up around her neck and her tits hanging out. It was the crazed out singer/songwriter I mentioned in my entry back in February of this year titled "Music & Cough Syrup." Before the shop proprietor turned around, a spray came from between the legs of the bent over woman. "What the- you just squirted all over me!" She looked over her shoulder at me, straightening out reaching for her pants. "I've never done that!" she said. The shop proprietor shook his head and turned around letting the door close. It was just a moment before my pants were on and I not long behind him. "Here's your pizza," he said, handing both the woman and me a delicious slice of pizza served on a paper plate. I scarfed mine down like a monster. He then produced ten Federal Reserve Notes and said, "take this." I looked at him smiling, not realizing it was the same ten Federal Reserve Notes I had given him earlier. Smiling, since someone was handing me Federal Reserve Notes to put in my pocket. I asked him what it was for, and he said, "You're out of cigarettes, and you gave the writer ten dollars because she said she's coming back. Its been a couple hours, she might not come back," and then he paused for a moment before adding: "and I think its time for you to leave."
"You want me to leave?" I asked him.
"Yes, I need you to go. I will get your ten dollars (that's what he calls Federal Reserve Notes.) back from the writer, you don't have to pay me back. Just go. "
I agreed with him, I had not meant to stay that long, but yet the shop proprietor had never asked me to leave before. I have seen many people get completely fucked up out of there mind doing very fucked up things in that place, including cutting themselves or painting their own feces on the walls (that was the singer/songwriter, actually.), and never have I seen anyone be told they need to leave. I wondered why me, why now. I know the shop proprietor has some kind of weird, special feelings for the woman, wanting to be a fatherly lover to her. He often wears a hat she gave him which reads "World's Greatest Dad." I have witnessed her on a four day, sleepless cough syrup binge, fucking someone on a couch by the stage in the shop, only to immediately go fuck the proprietor in another room while she was still wet from the first dick, just to go climb back on the first dick when the proprietor was out of steam. I silently questioned to myself why this would be different, but decided it didn't matter and left the shop.
My next memory comes from back in my studio, chain smoking cigarettes, drinking beer I bought earlier that day, reading a transcript of a conversation between the shop proprietor and the woman with the fiance with whom I have an intimate relationship. She had sent the transcript to me, the heading stating: I want you to read this.
The conversation included the shop proprietor telling her I was talking about oral sex with the singer/songwriter, and when my lady friend asked why that was any of her business, the proprietor said its OK to talk about oral sex, and he said he needed to come talk to her about it. When she said she was not going to talk about oral sex with him, he went to the pizza shop where she works (hence him giving us pizza). After he returned he told her we ate our pizza after we came out of the bathroom, invoking my name and only implying but not saying I was having bizarre, fucked up sex with the singer/songwriter, he had been trying again to get an emotional rise out of my lady friend and make her feel vulnerable. She again informed him it was none of her business what I was doing, and told him what he was doing was intentionally mean and making her uncomfortable. He tried to carry on the conversation, crafting the following messages to make he himself look vulnerable and confused, with sexually devious intent. She ended the conversation with him and then sent it to me, telling me to have a look, and telling me after I had read it that she knows I have a love for weird experiences, but this would not do. I agreed with her and told her I'd take care of it. I called the shop proprietor and told him that what he did was unacceptable and unfriendly. I then told him I would not be spending any more time with him inside or outside of his shop, and our friendship was over. "We'll see how you feel about that when you're sober," he said. My feelings have not changed with any of the various levels of sobriety I have encountered since that morning. I do not take kindly to anyone targeting my special lady with any kind of malicious intent.
That is how I will conclude this recollection of my last five day bender. I have renewed my application for Federal Student Aid, and I will be considering resuming my acquisition of a Bachelor's degree. I have a bright feeling about the future. Hopefully it will be well executed. Until then, live long, prosper, and don't do anything I wouldn't do.
Yes, we must note it is however, true that when they find it appropriate, they may kidnap me, you, or anyone else they deem advantageous to their control over the general populations. After keeping us in cages, we will be brought into a well-furnished room and the basis of what they call their "judgement" will be a mockery of every human right they ever told us we had. In reality though, the only rights we really have are the ones we decide to have. When someone violates a right you know yourself to have, have they committed a crime? Do you judge and punish them, as the state does you? Do you rely on the state to judge and punish them? How do you judge and punish the state when they violate your rights?
Without thinking about answering any of those questions, and bringing my rant to an end, I'm going to review the high points in the most recent extent of life I have encountered, having not recently been hit by a bus on a motorcycle, shot in the head (well, that did almost happen), or otherwise had my lease in this body terminated in this dementia-- I mean dimension.
First, I graced the Magic Kingdom in Walt Disney World Facilities, Orlando with my presence. Not just my mental presence either, I was physically there. Families and couples from all over the world have the proof of my even have proof of my fourteen hour occupation fun filled facilities they have there in the form of delightful photobombs. My face now travels the globes in the bags and pockets of tourists of all shapes and sizes.
I traveled with my family, and inside the facilities we found much enjoyment. Some rides were pleasant, others were exciting. The ice cream and emu legs were delicious. My only complaint is my family and I intermittently hunted for alcohol for over three hours before we were informed with a smile that the entire Magic Kingdom block of the Disney Facilities is "dry." I can assure you, during my future occupation of Walt Disney World Facilities, I will be spending more time in the "wet" facility block known as the Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow, or EPCOT.
After returning to the scumhell city that is Daytona Beach, with virtually no Federal Reserve Notes to my name, I spent a day drinking on the beach with my family, and enjoyed sushi at night, by way of their hospitality. I went out to see my friend's reggae show in the Seabreeze district, and used a little of my remaining Federal Reserve Notes to knock back a few beers. Being a little buzzed after the show, I visited my friends at the coffee shop. A man was there with acid and beer. I had a few beers with him, and he gave me some acid for later. I took it, and had a strange evening, spending a couple hours in a transcendental meditation.
"Meditation not medication!" I've heard many people say that in many different tones, and I always think to myself after I hear it: "A little bit of everything in moderation." The next day, after that weird shit they called acid began to wore off, but still awake and feeling a little awkward in my skin, I grabbed a four pack of Yuengling tallboys and a couple of fellow dirty crazies like myself came to Daytona from Deland to visit the studio. One wanted to discuss a business initiative he would like to share with me, and the other wanted very much to get drunk. We resolved both matters before I was persuaded to come back to Deland to feast and drink at night and shoot guns the next day. It sounded like the recipe for just the type of weekend I wanted in my mental recovery from visiting the Walt Disney World Facilities.
We fulfilled reservations for a large group and at the hospitality of my friends, on the condition they chose what I ordered, I enjoyed a dinner of fried liver and onions in a Turkish or Hungarian or some ethnic eating parlor of the likes. While this all may not seem very exciting, after dining we went downtown. Coincidentally, a musical festival was going. Some of my musician friends were producing music for crowds on several stages there, so I broke from the pack and headed to catch of their shows. I hungout with my buddy and the rest of the group caught up to me before long, and the night whittled away into a lull of good music and good people having a good time, all the until after closing time. While we were leaving the bar, a man came from the street, yelling at one of the bar staff members about a bartender who he claimed had stolen twenty of his Federal Reserve Notes. The two yabbered back and forth at each other, until right after the angry man put his hand on the staff member's shoulder. POW! The staff member punched that motherfucker right in the head and the angry man's body jerked out straight, and he fell straight backwards from the impact of the punch with the stiffness of a board. Unconscious, the man was unable to make any effort to catch his backward fall and hit his head made a nice sound on the pavement. The staff member dragged the man to the street and climbed on top of him. Meanwhile, people were yelling that the angry man's female company had just also been knocked out cold about one hundred feet away. The scene of chaos was an interesting environment. I knelt down next to the staff member to get a close view of anything he might do the man, and some people said they saw him continue to beat the man he was on top of, but I saw no such thing. Eventually, the man awoke, and the staff member climbed off of him. The woman he was with also regained her composure and was able to stand and the two of them made their way to their car, which was parked in a gated lot. Everyone cooled down, and seemed to disperse until the angry man made one last comment before getting into his car. In an instant, the staff member was yelling again, and he had a crowd of people behind him, looking like they were all ready to kick the angry man's ass, and the angry man bowed his chest and Mexican gang members came out of nowhere baring switchblade knives. Buzzed and interested, I went towards the conflict to observe what might happen. Small fights broke out, and while it seemed nobody was looking, the angry man and his woman tried to slip into their car so they could haul ass out of the situation. Others saw this happen, as well, because before the car doors could be shut, there was a small mob of people prying the doors back open, grabbing inside, trying to pull the angry man back out. Suddenly, one of the Mexican gangsters brandished a large pistol. Looking frantic and confused, he pointed his weapon at anything that moved while everyone scrambled to disappear. Even the other Mexican gansters all took off, one dropping a switch blade which is now in the possession of my friend's girlfriend. I stood there watching, until the gun found its way to be pointing at my head from about six yards away. I decided then that if it would be in my best interest to clear that area with the others. I showed the gunman a peace sign with my hand and ran out of the parking lot. The gunman jumped into the car with the angry man and his female company, while the staff member shut and locked the chain-linked parking lot gate. The angry man backed up until he had just enough room to gain speed, then proceeded to ram the locked gate with his car and running over a man who had been standing in one spot for some time like a deer in headlights. We stood around, smoking cigarettes and watching the aftermath of the even for about fifteen minutes before it was finally time to leave. The man who was hit by the escaping car was eventually met by an ambulance and likely fine, and although a little blood was shed, no lives were lost during the event, and it must be mentioned the music festival was great. My only complaint is while I was running in the opposite direction of the gunman, I had a pack of cigarettes in my breast pocket which was lost. By the time I realized this, I was already somewhere else drinking a beer. Nonetheless, I went back to the crime scene to scan the ground to see if my weed remained in the pack of cigarettes unscathed. While I found several packs of cigarettes, I did not find mine. I did, however, find the audacity to ask the staff member if had seen a pack of blue American Spirit cigarettes lying around. Why would my pack be the only one missing?
"Oh, you mean the pack with the weed in it. Yeah, the cops have it as evidence in case the driver threw it out the window. I'll let them know it was yours."
"No, actually that wasn't the pack I was talking about, mine had cigarettes in it, but thank you." I left the area quickly.
The next day was spent shooting targets with a .50 caliber rifle on a bipod, walking around with a 12 gauge pistol grip pump action shotgun practicing my close-range home defense protocols, and practicing my longer distance aim with a semiautomatic SKS and .40 cal pistol. I'm sharing that in case I ever have a daughter's boyfriend who happens to stumble across this nice little blog.
By the next day, I had completely run of Federal Reserve Notes, but my tax refund came in. I went to the bank, and told them to give me the paper Federal Reserve Notes which my account specifies I should be able to receive. They did so, which is nice. What would happen if a bank ever said "No, we cannot or will not give you the paper Federal Reserve Notes your account specifies you should be able to receive from us." I think a public disturbance would ensue, which is amusing, since the Federal Reserve Bank often takes buying power away from the Federal Reserve Notes while they are either specified as yours in your account or in your property as paper. There is little difference between denying you access to a volume of your Federal Reserve Notes in the first place when compared with the reality now when the value of your Federal Reserve Notes are decreased in your possession. Yet there is no public disturbance while this theft occurs, and people say, "the economy is not so good," and "the market is down." I'm sure humor can be found in there somewhere, instead of disillusion.
I had a good meal, then got some pot and smoked it. Stoned, I went to my buddy's coffee shop. They were drinking wine, and making music on a keyboard-synthesizer and singing into the microphones. I was intrigued, and offered a coffee cup of wine, which I gladly accepted. I gave the shop proprietor ten Federal Reserve Notes which I had borrowed from him when I was ten dollars short for picking up new tires for my motorcycle. We smoked more weed. I a little xanax. We continued to drink wine. We smoked more weed. I took a little more xanax, and this cycle continued into the early morning. It wasn't long before my inhibitions were down, my speech was slurred, and I was operating on a very impulsive level. I remember talking to an older woman from a band, looking at her, and asking bluntly, "hey, do you wanna make out?" There was silence for a moment. "Yes." I remember caressing her. I remember talking to a writer about recording music behind her spoken word monologues she composes. My next memory comes from the bathroom of the establishment. The door opened and the proprietor looked in and said "Oh my god. I brought you pizza."
My pants were around my knees, and I was clinging onto the hips of a pantless woman, bent over with her shirt and bra cups scrunched up around her neck and her tits hanging out. It was the crazed out singer/songwriter I mentioned in my entry back in February of this year titled "Music & Cough Syrup." Before the shop proprietor turned around, a spray came from between the legs of the bent over woman. "What the- you just squirted all over me!" She looked over her shoulder at me, straightening out reaching for her pants. "I've never done that!" she said. The shop proprietor shook his head and turned around letting the door close. It was just a moment before my pants were on and I not long behind him. "Here's your pizza," he said, handing both the woman and me a delicious slice of pizza served on a paper plate. I scarfed mine down like a monster. He then produced ten Federal Reserve Notes and said, "take this." I looked at him smiling, not realizing it was the same ten Federal Reserve Notes I had given him earlier. Smiling, since someone was handing me Federal Reserve Notes to put in my pocket. I asked him what it was for, and he said, "You're out of cigarettes, and you gave the writer ten dollars because she said she's coming back. Its been a couple hours, she might not come back," and then he paused for a moment before adding: "and I think its time for you to leave."
"You want me to leave?" I asked him.
"Yes, I need you to go. I will get your ten dollars (that's what he calls Federal Reserve Notes.) back from the writer, you don't have to pay me back. Just go. "
I agreed with him, I had not meant to stay that long, but yet the shop proprietor had never asked me to leave before. I have seen many people get completely fucked up out of there mind doing very fucked up things in that place, including cutting themselves or painting their own feces on the walls (that was the singer/songwriter, actually.), and never have I seen anyone be told they need to leave. I wondered why me, why now. I know the shop proprietor has some kind of weird, special feelings for the woman, wanting to be a fatherly lover to her. He often wears a hat she gave him which reads "World's Greatest Dad." I have witnessed her on a four day, sleepless cough syrup binge, fucking someone on a couch by the stage in the shop, only to immediately go fuck the proprietor in another room while she was still wet from the first dick, just to go climb back on the first dick when the proprietor was out of steam. I silently questioned to myself why this would be different, but decided it didn't matter and left the shop.
My next memory comes from back in my studio, chain smoking cigarettes, drinking beer I bought earlier that day, reading a transcript of a conversation between the shop proprietor and the woman with the fiance with whom I have an intimate relationship. She had sent the transcript to me, the heading stating: I want you to read this.
The conversation included the shop proprietor telling her I was talking about oral sex with the singer/songwriter, and when my lady friend asked why that was any of her business, the proprietor said its OK to talk about oral sex, and he said he needed to come talk to her about it. When she said she was not going to talk about oral sex with him, he went to the pizza shop where she works (hence him giving us pizza). After he returned he told her we ate our pizza after we came out of the bathroom, invoking my name and only implying but not saying I was having bizarre, fucked up sex with the singer/songwriter, he had been trying again to get an emotional rise out of my lady friend and make her feel vulnerable. She again informed him it was none of her business what I was doing, and told him what he was doing was intentionally mean and making her uncomfortable. He tried to carry on the conversation, crafting the following messages to make he himself look vulnerable and confused, with sexually devious intent. She ended the conversation with him and then sent it to me, telling me to have a look, and telling me after I had read it that she knows I have a love for weird experiences, but this would not do. I agreed with her and told her I'd take care of it. I called the shop proprietor and told him that what he did was unacceptable and unfriendly. I then told him I would not be spending any more time with him inside or outside of his shop, and our friendship was over. "We'll see how you feel about that when you're sober," he said. My feelings have not changed with any of the various levels of sobriety I have encountered since that morning. I do not take kindly to anyone targeting my special lady with any kind of malicious intent.
That is how I will conclude this recollection of my last five day bender. I have renewed my application for Federal Student Aid, and I will be considering resuming my acquisition of a Bachelor's degree. I have a bright feeling about the future. Hopefully it will be well executed. Until then, live long, prosper, and don't do anything I wouldn't do.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Money
Some people think money is a joke to me, and it is. Some may say that's only because I have it, and I'd appreciate it much more if I didn't.
Let me say this: I've had it, I haven't. I care to, and I care not to. I love what you can do with it, and I hate what it can be used for. The very mention of money gas such an influence that even after the words are uttered, it seems to exist even if it didn't before it's mention. It can be the difference between naked and hungry and a warm meal to be embraced by.
How much money is your mind worth?
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