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Currently Listening The Low End Theory By A Tribe Called Quest Buggin Out |
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Currently Reading Don Juan By Lord George Gordon Byron |
The above suggests a hefty combination of the highest amorous intentions of the romantics with the funkiest intentions of the Tribe. Of course it could all be a lie, but then again, why bother, I assume its a typical enough combination among bloggers my age, or at least not atypical enough to merit attention. But what about the character who lies about that which merits no attention? Well, I guess that’s a fairly strange fellow. I won’t lie, I’ve been that type of strange before but I’m a different type of strange right now. A constant of course remains. Some might even say “Yo shorty back here buggin’ out” to quote the tribe. And constantly at that.
So maybe puberty comes late for a cultie. I hope so, I hope this shit ends one of these days. I can’t take hormones fucking with me, I’m too linear a dude.
As far as scene 7 goes, I’m guessing it just wont come right now. I’m not feeling it, and though I could pull some shit out my ass right now, it just doesn’t align with my original intention (the same one I’m not feeling) and so it would be messing with me which, I guess, is another way of saying I’m being slothful about this story. Then again I suspect I’m going to hell. The classic catholic fears worry me not and I will pay what I need to pay to afford this lifestyle of laziness.
And so…
Greetings, people.
My mind is blank and yet I feel the pressure building in my chest, which normally means I need to vent in one way or another on this forum, so pay no mind to my lack of mind, and keep on reading, assuming you exist and all, dear reader.
If you are just some Russian/Chinese Casino/Viagra/Valium/Real Estate bot trying to spam the comment sections of this website, keep on spamming, for that literal one in a million might just be the one in a couple of billion reader on this little piece of internet farmland. This blog _is_ the American Dream. Imagine us plugged in, tubes tightly tucked in, and blissful. Currently my position is horizontal, my state-slightly inebriated, my intentions- good enough to write with, and my patience–dwindling.
Stick to what you trust, and you will trust what you stick to.
The opener:
–2147
Can’t vibe to the rhythm, feel strange sitting, spitting on the floor, blasting blood on the marble surface with my head wrapped up in a worry– what a circus, and the time is running out and the animals are coming out their cages, and are hungry. Tell me what can I do to soothe their nerves? Save for music, maybe so, but who will save me? Who will make the effort to reach out for his brother and if not help then at least not hurt me, and accept that this brother will probably remain thankless doing nothing of value, except if he somehow becomes moved by the whole thing, which I not only highly doubt, I doubt, collecting doubt from multiple sources and trading my better angels for it, with doubt I gloat, and hang that medal on my god damned coat.
–2152
–2008
And so I’m standing high, as in stoned, and am staring into a friend’s eyes and in between us is a scene straight out of some soap opera, a guy yelling at a gal over some thing not worth our time, and we don’t hear it anyway, though the scene is real–we are abstracted from it. She’s yelling back and I give my buddy a nod and he seems to be in the same space and all of this is amusing to us and I don’t know what to say or do except to plug in my headphones and nod to the beat while witnessing this melodrama. The funny part about it is that the actors really seem to enjoy having an audience, even one as messed up as us and so the show must go on. And what can you say to that, really? I say nothing and keep on nodding as the actors start overdoing it a bit, not even sure themselves if they are pissed at each other or want their drama exported to the greater audience now available. Me and my buddy are joined by some onlookers, seemingly sober, even though we are at some sort of afterparty, in observing this bathetic scene. The additional audience also register some level of dissatisfaction within themselves with the scene, but have not the gall to ignore it altogether. This being their inner state, they exchange glances among themselves and take the time to acclimate themselves to the hectic climate, one so at odds with the dance floor where they came from. Me and my comrade in smoke decide the scene is conventional enough to depart and enter the darker room where the bass rules and make our voices heard, within our heads at least, yelling at the top of our lungs in our separate spaces, drawing ever farther as the crowd swallows us. I nod and he responds, and then there is nothing more. A scene from our time and nothing more, youthes in our daily situations, a little puzzle and a little more.
–2241
