akasnuggles

Playing BloodRayne 2. I'm in the nightclub part of one of the levels and am stuck like a bastard. I know what to do, but cant do it. I'm supposed to hook the baddies with my lil chain thingie and whip em into the speakers. But i cant. Too many people on screen, always getting my ass knocked around. I can get three guys, but the fourth....grr...
i got so pissed off at the game, i damn near broke my new controller. Instead, i paced around clinching and unclenching my fists, cussing. I finally punched my space heater and hurt my hand. Then took a shower.
I swear, i havent the temper i used to. I havent the temper for video games or electronics.

I'm behind in my movie watching. So much so, that i just got around to watching The Incredibles, I Heart Huckabees, Control, and Motorcycle Diaries. I watched them all in that order, and sobbed like a lil baby at the end of Motorcycle Diaries. Cos dats how i be rollin, yo!

Fuckit. Boop.

you're so sweet
your smile, your pussy and your bones
you're on fire
you move like music with your style

let me think
let you think about what?
about girls
and what else
and money and new clothes
and what do i get
thirty nites
uh-huh
of violence
yeah
and sugar to love

closer to the lung
shove her over railing

you're sweet but im tired of proving this love
see you're a bore
but you move me like a movie that you love

let me think
let you think about what?
about girls
and what else
and money and new clothes
and what do i get
thirty nites
uh-huh
of violence
yeah
and sugar to love


FUN WITH ONLINE TRANSLATORS!


Before


I can fill her fully, feel her fully, see her incredibly, draw her beautifullyonly if I feel nothing. No emotion. But I Cant Disconnect
Myself From You. You my, favourite you, my link, goddamnit.
Never have I failed myself so horribly, my pen so hurryingly to write things down to connect the lines, to complete this picture, to see you in this emotionless image of smoke filled intoxication, a hallucination
of an addiction to my own stimuli. A false sense of being with ink.
For blood blue tongues forever being as one with this horrible dream static. Desire filled every essence of my being but you turned back into music, back into what you were.
I cough forever, piss blood from sucking your lips dry paper feeling bee sounding surreal seeing smelling like a dreamcloves.
Wont you smell? Inhale til your heart stops.
Starts again with the beats of a thousand punks rhyming with a thousand poets screaming with a thousand lovers moaning with a thousand children crying with a thousand teens rebelling with a thousand more just being or just one with another.
Others thinking rapidly of lies, believing to see god godless faithless kneel down and pray to a chemical imbalance holes in sheets placing blame on shadows, on lighting, on one thing under another on the
colouring.
Its my fault. You wont listen. Its because of me. Im so afraid of this. Open up to me, ask me. This mean Im so tired of this Im tired of bullshit of fucking around, of this fucking game.
My fucking toy.
I wont see it because I cant. Its not there. I saw you drowned
with a million others.
Tearing flesh spread, it open, seeing whats so special. I fucking
saw nothing I needed, nothing so I get nothing. I speak as a child streaming thru fields, spinning thru pollen filled dresses grass stained uniforms, bee stings and god bites. Caterpillar flawed vision. I
see well the wall you hit, the well you fell down. So deep wet characterized.
Feelings cutting deeper, the shadow shows out, the lint is filling convincingly, its hard to turn around. To turn into this.


After

I can entirely fill it, entirely smell it, see it incredibly, draws it beautifully-only if I do not feel anything. No emotion. But I cannot be dismounted You. You my, favourite you, my bond, goddamnit. Never have me so much terribly, my pen so much hurryingly did not write things to connect the lines, to achieve this image, to see you in this impassive image of intoxication filled by smoke, a hallucination of leaning with my own stimuli. A direction false to be with ink. For the blue languages of blood being for always as a one with this horrible rveuse static head. The desire filled each gasoline my being but you turned again in the music, again in what were you. I cough for always, blood of piss to suck your lips dries the paper bee of resounding feeling to see surrealist feeling like dream-nails of clove. Won't you feel? Inhale until your heart stops. Beginnings still with the beats of thousand punks rimant with thousand pots shouting with thousand in love groaning with thousand children crying with thousand years with adolescence rebelling with thousand to be righter or just together. Others thinking quickly of the lies, considering to see the atheistic inaccurate kneeling of a god to the bottom and to request with the holes of imbalance of a chemical in sheets placing the blame on shades, lighting, a thing under others on colouring. It is my defect. You will not listen. It is because of me. I have if fear of this. Open with me, ask me. This means I if am tired of this I am tired connery to talk cock, of this play foutu. My toy foutu. I will not see it because I cannot. It is not there. I saw that you drowned with million others. Diffusion of tear of flesh, it open, indicator what is so special. I kissing saw anything I required, nothing thus I do not obtain anything. I speak as a running child by fields, turning by the uniforms of dresses, the punctures of bee and the bites of a god soiled by grass filled by pollen. Defective vision of track-laying tractor. I see the wall well striking you, the well which you fell downwards. Wet so much deeply characterized. It shows outside, the fibre fills in a convincing way, it is difficult to turn of the feelings crossing deeper, the shade around. To transform itself into this.


Eat yr heart out, Tzara... Defective vision of track-laying tractor...?

My great-aunt nell used to live four houses down from Richard Pryor's grandmother. It was a whorehouse.