So, my last post was a bit of a beat myself-up emo rant. I'm sorry for those who read it. I'm better now. So I will quote Mystikal:
You keep bumpin' me against the wall
I know I let you slide before
but until you seen me... trust me
you ain't seen bouncin' back
I'd quote the rest of the song, but that will take too long... it's amazing how such a deep song could hit the Top 40. Mystikal, how did you do it?
So after my rant, I sat down and read the only Russian Penthouse I own. As an aside, when I purchase printed porn, I want raunch... Russian Penthouse offers up a bevy of beautiful women, but no raunch. I could go to a stip joint in Moscow for more raunch... and head. Or to make fun of my friend, John, who had anal sex with a stripper in Moscow when he was drunk and still atests to this day that he got her orifices confused. Son, one does not confuse the ass with the vagina... *ahem* I pulled the magazine out for a reason. It had a brilliant article on Mayakovsky and his affair with his publisher's wife, Lilya Brik, who he would later kill himself over. He probably left one of the most poetic suicide notes ever:
The love boat has crashed against the everyday. You and I, we are quits, and there is no point in listing mutual pains, sorrows, and hurts.
And who says you don't learn anything from porn! So this prompted me to go back and re-read some of Mayakovsky's brilliant poetry, which I highly recommend! Sometime around two, I would up plotting a story. Some how, I was inspired to plot the tale of a homicidal poet-for-hire, his 'twin' and city spirits. Now, if I can sit down and flesh out its bones, it will be truly absurd. Absurd in an ultra-violent futurist way...
I did suffer from sleep paralysis again last night... this is the one time two many, it's been going on for a week or so. It takes a lot out of you.
Irregardless, I woke up thinking about the Lorax and an ad from Pelevin's Generation P: 'Just do it, motherfucker! - Reebok'
So, I'm going to attempt to get off my ass and write. Maybe I'll make something coherent. I'd like to apoligize to Abra, who's reading some of my stuff at the moment... I apparently have written quite a few sentences that make no sense what-so-ever. A thousand pardons ma'am.
Blitzkrieg scriben! (hmmm, my german ancestors are now no doubt pissed for me butchering their language... oh well)
Rumi was a brilliant man:
People want you to be happy.
Don't keep serving them your pain!
If you could untie your wings
and free your soul from jealousy,
you and everyone around you,
would fly up like doves.
You keep bumpin' me against the wall
I know I let you slide before
but until you seen me... trust me
you ain't seen bouncin' back
I'd quote the rest of the song, but that will take too long... it's amazing how such a deep song could hit the Top 40. Mystikal, how did you do it?
So after my rant, I sat down and read the only Russian Penthouse I own. As an aside, when I purchase printed porn, I want raunch... Russian Penthouse offers up a bevy of beautiful women, but no raunch. I could go to a stip joint in Moscow for more raunch... and head. Or to make fun of my friend, John, who had anal sex with a stripper in Moscow when he was drunk and still atests to this day that he got her orifices confused. Son, one does not confuse the ass with the vagina... *ahem* I pulled the magazine out for a reason. It had a brilliant article on Mayakovsky and his affair with his publisher's wife, Lilya Brik, who he would later kill himself over. He probably left one of the most poetic suicide notes ever:
The love boat has crashed against the everyday. You and I, we are quits, and there is no point in listing mutual pains, sorrows, and hurts.
And who says you don't learn anything from porn! So this prompted me to go back and re-read some of Mayakovsky's brilliant poetry, which I highly recommend! Sometime around two, I would up plotting a story. Some how, I was inspired to plot the tale of a homicidal poet-for-hire, his 'twin' and city spirits. Now, if I can sit down and flesh out its bones, it will be truly absurd. Absurd in an ultra-violent futurist way...
I did suffer from sleep paralysis again last night... this is the one time two many, it's been going on for a week or so. It takes a lot out of you.
Irregardless, I woke up thinking about the Lorax and an ad from Pelevin's Generation P: 'Just do it, motherfucker! - Reebok'
So, I'm going to attempt to get off my ass and write. Maybe I'll make something coherent. I'd like to apoligize to Abra, who's reading some of my stuff at the moment... I apparently have written quite a few sentences that make no sense what-so-ever. A thousand pardons ma'am.
Blitzkrieg scriben! (hmmm, my german ancestors are now no doubt pissed for me butchering their language... oh well)
Rumi was a brilliant man:
People want you to be happy.
Don't keep serving them your pain!
If you could untie your wings
and free your soul from jealousy,
you and everyone around you,
would fly up like doves.
one caveat: have you seen the movie Sideways? it's an independent film in theaters now. from the guy that directed or wrote the film Election. ok anyways, if by any chance you are a writer in the sense that the lead character in that movie is, then i am sorry, i shall have to spank you and send you to an editor. a real one, not a pretend one like me.