Go to sleep with the weight of the world, my little eagle
It got me. It got me again. It got me good! I thought I was eating it, but really the pizza ate me. I thought I had sucessfully avoided it all day, made smart choices; I bought myself some Healthy Choice Steamers TV dinners on the way home, had one, neatly wiped my mouth with a tidy solid napkin, and went to bed. I thought I fulfilled the days calories smartly—leave room for the late night vulnerabilities, I tells him. Ah, dear reader, the chump, he went ahead and exceeded it, at 4am, no less! It wasn't much—just a couple cookies on top of a pizza. Sleepeatin, it wasn't even 4am—'twas two thirty! His belly, the peasant, must be the size of Hong Kong. A city is way bigger than any human being. Ask anybody. Used to be, he'd awake at four from a disheveled slumber, check his stats, and simply take his reward, a slight cookie; or if lack thereof the page views, he'd eat the whole box. But what's his excuse now? Dreams trying to will on a computer game for more points because he can't come up with new material? Bigger than Chinatown, the size of a country. Shanghai nights, Congratulations.
talk to my publicists, they know who they are. They are in charge of me.
Nicolas Jaar - Tourists (Creange Remix). Went to a KCRW street festival today in Chinatown.
I feel pretty free since I stopped checking my stats and gave up expecting fb to massage my ego. Massage chen anum, babe; massage chen anum ego's! But altogether it's given me more time to do things like lap swimming and talking to people—I usually stop listening, but it's a start. I like it when I find myself thinking outside of my brain. I think that's progress. I fear, or am just constantly wary of relapsing and checking my stats, you know? And I don't know if I can take the results. I don't want to be the guy kicking trash cans anymore, that's for sure, but I might go back and delete everything if I find I've been talking to walls. I don't ever want to pick up cans and scrap taco receipts again, with tissues and put them back in the bin under my desk. Some times when I'm riding my bike, I'll run stop signs and red lights; and if I notice people watching me while I commit such transgressions, I'll slow down and sing to them that song, "Breaking the law! Breaking the law! dun dun dun, Breaking the Law! Breaking the Law!"
I got a letter in the mail from googlebot saying another one of the blogs was not mobile friendly, and a bunch of stuff like instructions I couldn't understand—I'm just Nintendo—and an error rate of 100 percent, it gave me. But I checked the blog on another phone, and it looks perfect to me, so I don't get why the stupid bot is all up in mine hind parts. It keeps using all this webmaster terminology—like, What the hell are you talking about? I write some stuff down, and I click Post. Sometimes I'll click Post too early cause I'm so excited! If I try to fix the issue, I'm going to have to run past the stat page. It's like seeing a new picture.
I'm going to have to run past it.
Anyway—see anyways is what my tenth grade English teacher Mr. Campbell called a demon—just wanted to say Hi.
I've thought it over, and the people at the 24-hour place were pushy. They didn't actually push me, but the first time I went in there, my so-called gym counselor who signed me up for the pass—his name was Juan—before he let me run off and go swimming and play handed me over to his supervisor, who was tall, buff, blond, and tanned—I forget his name but he had a lisp—to try to muscle me into a membership right there on the spot. He said with his stupid lisp and big muscles, What's stopping you from working out with us here? and I said You're stopping me—I'm trying to go work out right now in that room with my guest pass. Then Juan called me around 7-8am the next morning. I was sleeping, and I when I saw the unfamiliar number I got excited thinking it's a potential new client because I had left a lot of samples the previous day for a field consultant meeting, but it was Juan from 24-hour fitness, and I said, Oh, Hi Juan, and I felt myself getting drowsy, and he wanted to know what time I was coming back to the gym, and I said I dunno, next week, and when he said, Oh and said his goodbyes, I felt the tone of his voice fall like a meal in the cafeteria when he realized he's not getting his commision for signing me up and that bastard was only thinking about his money, and I went back to sleep. Then today, when I walked in happily to take advantage of my free pass—Well, first I tried to sneak in past the employee so I could get an extra session—but when he stopped me and I feigned surprise, he said my pass had expired when he looked me up. I told him I hadn't even utilized it yet, come on, guy, and he said Why don't you just sign up with us right now? I realized this tired bozo is trying to sign me up! So I gave him some cock and bull story about not having my wallet and this smartass goes, How could you not have your wallet? You left the house without your wallet? What if a cop were to pull you over without your wallet right now? I dunno how I replied, but he definitely had the edge, the villain. I was sulking inside because he was stifling my good spirit, and sneaking by I had overheard him telling someone he hadn't slept much, so I asked him if he felt tired, but the asshole wouldn't confide in me, so I knew he was an asshole and left, defeated.
The YMCA just told me their price the first time, and has left me alone since I've been using my three time guest pass. I'm going to sign up there probably. They're not 24 hours, sure, and I keep running into the biggest member of the club, but spite is a helluva drug.
nevermind...it was a three day guest pass
I got it like a week ago. It expired. I gotta go, this guy's staring at me cause I was taking pictures of him from inside my car.
Elevator? I'm not here to take no Elevator!
So what I do is, right? I go to the Y right? And I get a free three time guest pass. Then the next day I go to 24-hour Fitness or Crunch or the Athletic Club and get 3 time guest passes from them too, and they all try to court me and I just rotate. I'm genius! I mean I'm a genius! Kind of a tramp too but whatever. It's near midnight, and tonight I'm doing cardio—I'll listen to the Eagles Life in the Fast Lane or Depeche Mode or Radzohed live, no problem, while doing HIIT—and going swimming at 24 hour fitness, you bet! The only thing is before I go I sit there smoking a few cigarettes and psyching myself up to go running. It's all about the pysch! Lastly, once I'm ready, I get out of my car and run into the gym screaming. I imagine it must tufn the women on to see a man run into a workout machine screaming.
She has a particular gait
and I just stare at her legs.
When she walks, she is perhaps aware
of the awkwardness of her stance;
She is perhaps just thinking about her day,
And I'm still staring at her legs.
I'm not a monster,
but I should acknowledge myself
...
When I hear other couples kissing,
for me to listen any further
then it's my sickness listening.
I'm not a monster,
but I should acknowledge myself
...
Interestingly, the girl with the gait keeps staring at the kissing couple—those kissers. Maybe she's as annoyed as I am, and I think that's normal. The couple is really young, I think. Maybe I shouldn't be at such a romantic park. There's a fat couple enjoying their time together as well. All I can hear around me is the sound of wet lips consuming each other like playtime would consume me. It still will if I let it. If it's not dead, then it's definately a demon. If every couple I see is her with someone else, then there's something wrong with my head.
Nice, finally a decent couple with a small child. They passed through my cigarette smoke.
I'm not monster
I just need to clear the air.
Essentially, all I gotta do is change the term to babeaholic, and the reading is smooth sailing. I make cute little notes accordingly.
I'm really proud of what my black hole has turned into; I may just wash of my hands of this. I'm not going to check my stats anymore, I'm just going to keep writing. Anything else is me trying to control things, or feed off emotions and sensations. It's insanity.
Maybe it's too early. We have a mutual friend. I saw a bunch likes on one of her pictures. It's like my parents just walked in on me. It's like I just got high. My brain's used to certain things. I'm older than her and she's years beyond me. Fuckin facebook. That black hole. I was hoping she had no life and was just as crazy about me. It's hard to be melancholy when it's so fuckin hot outside. You turn the AC on and it feels like a luxury. How am I going to wallow in a cool room? I hate this city; you can't smoke anywhere because they're racist. Maybe it's too early. I don't know what I'm going to do. I won't exercise anymore maybe. Maybe I'll run and I won't ever stop. If I get high, I'm going to translate all the comments; I'm going to look up everybody, in every platform, in every kind of platform. Fuckin black hole. I was just trying to change the trigger into a positive, get myself out there.
I have no right to do anything but live my life. If I can be vigilant enough all the time to keep accepting it, then she's living her life. I don't know...those bozos, where'd they come from? I was so busy trying to bulldoze her life, she built one.
Update: Dealt with the panic promptly. Because I got ego, and a dog—and I'm freakin crazy—and it's all good.
Babe dream alert. Get the actors in place. You know, I hope she never changes her profile picture. I don't think I can take it.
Or don't, I don't know. Don't ever change your profile picture. This one time I had three or four nights of a continous dream. I had to wait to see what happened before I went back out.
Sometimes during work
- Yes?
Well, I imagine her going with me, sitting in the passenger seat, and I jokingly have her say—each time I come back from a store—Kyankes, inchkan pogh es havakel? And then I give it to her so she can organize it, and I say each time, Hangarts che goghanas. And if sales are low for the week for that particular store, she says she doesn't like that store to lift me up, that the customers are cheap—they're no good, she says—but I tell her I don't need lifting up, my love, and that I like my customers, and I explain the nature of the business to her, in a rational manner. The weather's a big factor, holidays, gas prices—those are things I consider...sirunes.
I have her screenplay in my hand. I scooped it up from a bus bench while I rode by on my bicycle. Her screenplay followed me to a meeting, and I held it in my hand while I counted the day's calories during a bipolar woman's heart felt share. I held it in my hand as I slowly followed a sychzophrenic woman to hear what she was ranting about. It's going to go home with me, and into my room. I probably won't even read it; I'll throw it atop a bunch of other stuff. She probably left it on purpose for some movie executive to find and discover her.
Municipal Public Radio
I'm a bit P.Oed, but at myself. I've been practically fondling myself lovely over my new perspective on life, the no right to take any life extending to insects and bugs. And while I haven't had a chance to save any human life, I've been seeing news articles about me. This one article on Yahoo!— it's this news website—tried to use codewords, but I'm pretty sure it was about me. The thing is, I was listening to MPR about if there really is a difference between eating pig and cow and eating a dog or a horse.
They joked that dogs and horses can look into our souls and that's what makes us want to feed them instead of eat them, and they have big eyes maybe that's why; but one woman argued that cows have big gorgeous eyelashes, and that whole topic altogether got me thinking about setting a certain long term goal for myself, which I won't disclose, because it'll hurt my mother's feelings and my dad would disown me, or worse, laugh at me.
The Chinese eat dogs and horse. And if you have one too many children, especially girls who may be promiscuous and one day cause a scandal in the village, the Chinese government will throw them off a mountain. There is a canyon full of dead babies in China. Don't quote me on that. Here, are some other quotes by me you can use:
Work? What! Again?!
But the new issue—new to me—that segment on MPR brought up is that people are eating more insects to be adventurous, and in doing so are actually doing a service to the environment and bigger animals, by eating certain types of insects like crickets. And it's a great way to stay in shape, I suppose, because of the protein. See, I usually don't end a creature if I can help it because I figure it's probably aware that it feels pain and I don't want to hurt its feelings by killing it. But, now I don't know what's what. Lady, should I crush the freakin bug or not? I killed a cockroach today. At first, I tried to swing it outside with my slipper, but that wasn't working—I probably broke its leg a few times in the process—and I was irritated about my page views, and people seem to be only interested in a train wreck, so smashed it 17 times. It's dead. There's no question in my mind that it's dead. If it's plastered on the ground, then it's dead. It's over. I won that one.
Fine. Good. Stay there. I've been driving with my blinker on all day to throw people off. Do you want that on your conscience? Do you? Let me asks you a question—eh, at some point I just gave up and called it soccer.
I have to go run now, because I'd like to play a game of soccer one day. Unchecked patriotism is stupid, and dangerous. I sound pretty wise. I wonder how that sounds aloud, and slow.
I. Sound.
- No, not that. The other thing I said. The wise thing. I'm wise now. I put the crack down and listen to MPR. NPR? That would make a lot more sense. I'll google it later. Anyway, from crack to MPR.
- NPR.
- Quiet. It was a natural transition. The crack to MPR.
- NPR.
- Quiet! Both are intellectually riveting.
- Bravo, you finished a thought.
- I hate you.
Fine. Good. Stay there. Don't come home. Let me tell something, you are killing my writing! I can't right if I'm not in a good mood. I'm so depressed. All I see is death. President Obama addresses the Cosby situation? Why isn't he addressing this situation! I will not stand for this. I'm so depressed.
Death, death all around me.
All I see is death.
Death, death!
Death surrounding me, its agents
like bill collectors, death!
Canons! to the left of me,
Wounded soldiers on wounded knee,
Canons! to the right.
Here, right here!
You have stabbed a dagger into my lonely heart.
Fine, don't come back. Good. Stay there. I got facebook friends now, I don't need you. I'm going to kill myself anyway. I'm going to find an empty CO2 canister, fill it with matcheads, nails, and ego, stick a wick in it, and blow myself up on someone's page, then post it. That way they'll catch some shrapnel for not responding to my poem. 7 fuckin am again. I'm going to stay real humble today so the praises will come pouring in.
I'm going to rip a few people off at work and it's going to be your fault.
Some Chinese guy hurt my feelings today
I feel like I'm giving away stuff too cheaply on facebook. Before I know it, it's going to turn into another blog. I miss this place. I think I'm going to back off from there. Except, I keep adding more people, peeps—you gotta say stuff like that. I'm going to start posting things like,
You are not going to make it.
Guess I'm just grumpy. I'm so excited about life, I keep waking up at 7am, ready for a new day. Idiot. Everytime someone makes a comment on my page, I jokingly want to tell 'em get the hell off my page. I don't know how to interact with people.
A homeless guy asked me for a dollar, and I walked passed him and didn't give him anything because I knew he was going to ask me for it cause I had cash out and I was examining it and angry about how old and crumpled it was. I was cussing out the store owner in my mind as the bum bumrushed me with his predicament. Saved the good ones for me, huh? I told him, but he was smug and didn't say anything. Really, I was hurt that I tried to talk to him the whole transaction and he wouldn't stand for it; he just wanted my money, and he wanted me out. The store owner, I mean, not the bum—the bum, I understand. The store owner was Asian. An Asian lady before that, didn't feel like making me a sandwich after I ordered it from her. After I gave her my order, I asked her if that was okay with her and she got the point. I told her I wanted salad instead of fries and she gave me a look. When she asked what dressing, I was afraid to say just lemon so I ran away. When I asked if I pay now or later, she said if you don't like it's free, if you do it's double. We both laughed and I tipped her. I felt wholesome afterwards. The bum was black.
- Awwwww!
That should make me famous and praised. Out of spite for the business owner, after a few blocks, I turned around and started looking for the bum, but he was already inside that liquor store.
I've been standing by and watching people try to kill flies, hoping the fly flies away in time, instead of grabbing his arm.
Don't talk to me. I'm not in the mood. I didn't get any page views today. I'll never tell another joke again, for as long as I live, and that won't be for very long. That's right, because I'm going to kill myself. These people on facebook, these so called facebook friends—no one said anything about my poem, and it's been up for a while, probably a day even. Not one like. Well, one bloke tried to like it, but that made it even more pathetic, so I blocked him. Not one girl posted anything about wanting to have sex with me. Before I blocked him, I went through his friends list and added the good looking ones, then I blocked him. These people on facebook—and I'm so humble with them—let me tell you something about these...these miserable insects, they're all conspiring against me. They're going to steal my poems. They huddle together, and sometimes a head turns back to look at me. Then he turns his face again. That's why they won't read my poems, because they're spiteful. They're like Patrick Bateman when he sees Paul Allen's business card, the egg shell white. My poems made them crack with envy, and spite, the worms. I hate them.
What's the point of even getting a P.O. box? Why do anything? It's 90 dollars, but I'm on the waiting list.
none the wiser
He kept on saying you don't listen
you hear only what you want to hear
he kept talking at me
i was about to scream
an airplane flew by and drowned out
his sound, I smiled and nodded humbly.
He walked away having said his peace,
and I thanked God.
I lost a piece of me today.
I lost a piece of me today: my rubber purple bracelet to which hung on a lone blue house key. When I was drinking two beers I lost my house keys so often, every body in the city had a spare. So I came up with a bracelet to hold the key, and today, like a hero I went and lost both when I went swimming at the YMCA. I also liked to use the purple bracelet to match my socks sometimes—you know, the unorthadox this matches that, my love. Sometimes when I was high I'd stalk my ex's parents and cousins on fb hoping she'd hidden a picture for me, and there was one picture with her kissing a baby and there was something purple on her wrist, and I said, you old dog, you still got it. I didn't really say that; I was a zombie. I went swimming today on impulse, because it's hot outside, and playtime is dead. I'm a human being and I care about my health. It's important I keep saying playtime is dead. I thought at the pool it would be like Mr. Bean losing his trunks in front those kids. Instead, in the locker room, it was: the older the man, and the bigger the member, the longer he puts it on display for everybody. Some of us clap—a lot of us just cheer. I was checking my figure and my spots in the mirror while twisting the water out from my trunks into the sink and this old man put one leg onto the sink and started drying under his thighs next to me. That's a fine specimen—ow! Watch it with that thing. That man was naked the whole time I was in the building.
marlboro black
for when you take a good shit
Good luck at Porto Iker; I know you're reading this. Congrats on the armband, Mr. Ramos. You're the jewel of Madrid; don't you dare leave us. For your headers alone, I turned gay for you.
- Oh, so now it's a choice.
- Will you shut up!
Ah, what am I saying? The English with their gossip. They're still butthurt over Maradona...and Suarez. My butt doesn't hurt. It rarely hurts. My butt has seldom—can you guys send me some money? I can do the spending if you do the sending. Maybe send me my car keys. I'm going to open a P.O. box. If not today, then maybe this week or maybe even next week. Depending on how much it costs to upkeep a P.O. box. Can you send me money to open a P.O. box?
I'll post up the address once I do.
tour of europe
Pretty soon we're going to get to Armenia, guys! What's your angle?
Also, and I'm afraid to actually say this—are you kidding, you know what kind of mileage the blogs would get if it ended on this note? Well, I've been in such a kickass mood lately, that I'm afraid I'm dying, and nobody has the heart to tell me. Maybe I have cancer—I can feel my liver growing, blacken, not like my jumpstart and say yea! soul—or next Wednesday or Thursday at 4:38 in the afternoon I'm going to get plowed by a drunk driver. In the heat of Hollywood, or Laurel Canyon, either in Valley Village or Pacoima. Oh, mama!
His name might be Earl, or her name Misty, and she would be crying.
What makes me feel better, is that you're all dying too. Everyday you live, you age, and joyous, you're one day closer to—that goes for you too, Earl. Lay off the punch.
Aram didn't invite me to his wedding.
You said you liked me.
Then you didn't like me.
You're stupid.
I don't like you muchly.
boo!
Aram
boo!
boo!
Aram
boo!
Your face is epic
and golden
like an epic golden stupid face
boo!
Aram
boo!
You didn't invite me
to your stupid buttfeast—
(opps, I meant fest)
And that's not fair.
- Awww!
- Shut up.
boo!
Aram
boo!
boo!
Aram
boo!
I was crying.
Where am I—
i'm hungry
What did maman
make me today
Oh, boo!
Aram
boo!
boo!
Aram
boo!
boo your face
She had a bad heart. The doctors told her she coudn't live if she had a child. She had one anyway. She died six months later. Doctors? It was probably people in the village. All the same, this is the only picture of her I've seen. And it was today. I can't believe they forgot to show me this all these years.
Ambition makes Eatkhash look pretty cool yea
Ok ok i will, i will enjoy myself today. Eat what I want, exercise if i feel like, eh im not gonna go to work today. because God is my friend, he's also my dogs, and playtime is dead. When I ride my bicycle, God winks at me.
my dogs knew i was suffering these last few days. When i woke up, both of them were sleeping next to me. I accidently kicked the little one though
People laugh at me when I say God is my friend. Why? It 's not like I'm talking to the guy, I'm just in his social circle. Not everybody can find him on fb. he uses a pseudonym so he can post his dirty limericks and not get harassed by the pope
Ah, finally sweet slumber
feels so good to sleep in today. I ended fallasleep right as i decided i was going to barhop and peoplemingle and asswatch. I had some dreams i was annoying people.
Yesterday at one point during work I excused myself to the restroom to piss, to urinate, to have it all. It was a sucess. I washed my hands like a warrior and returned. About thirty seconds later, I was pacing a little while working and I wondered if I had gone to the bathroom because I recalled my mind telling me it had to have it all a few mintues ago, I headed for the restroom again before I realized.., I had been up for four days, suffering from insomnia.
Hit of a post
Do you know what it's like to be up for four 5, maybe three or two dayswith nonstop thinking? Almost exactly like the missions and mental mazes you guys put me through when you catch up to me at my favorite resorts. The soap is good hear. All the good, all the bad. The Soap is a tissue. Except, this time, I'm not high. And playtime is dead. Just ego and writing, egowriting, if you will. At the end of the day, I realize people are not looking at me because they know who I am, but because I am a human being. And that fuckin sucks, man! I need to be on Days of Our Lives.
I have to be on Days of Our Lives
Oh, Days of Our Lives
hear me now!
motherjunker
It makes me wonder, it makes me muse— stepped on a cAt. It makes me wonder whether I really am going sychtzo, and that you guys...it's not gone if it was never there, manifested into thin air
paper thin
Garsh! Oh gosh, what am I saying? If only grandmother could hear me now...she'd smack me upside the head and say finish eating. But my sweets, my sweets, my sweet little babenesses. mini babenesses, yellow in Hollywood, minions but Greater than I'll ever hallucinate to be. Babeness is a Religion. God is love, but it could also be like, and "cool," and rad
my sweet,
my dear,
my darling,
you're so Mitch and
...Eugene
im so tired...sorry for being obnoxious in the future posts
This woke me up.
Love,
babe
this old man keeps staring at me during the meeting. it's so pact like sardines in here. help. i can feel his look. my legs are crossed like a woman. im wearing slippers and there's a huge hole in my pinky socks. i just found god and this old pervert is giving me sexy look # 11. i yawned and when i tried to cover my mouth with my hand i accidently made a fist into my mouth and i could see his legs get nervous. he fidgeted in his chair. out the corner of my eye i felt his glance rising like a cloud. i keep scratching my head real thick to turn him off. im in my pajamas. pact like sardines. now im getting hot. maybe the bozo is turning me on. stop staring at me old man. my grandpa will beat you.
i haven't been able to sleep for four days. i keep smoking.
I've been sending some really funny texts today. I'm sure of it. At least six of them, I'm certain are stellar. Real solid material, no question about it. I can just imagine the kind of kudos I'll soak in from their respective recipients, like eat up, my little children. Thus far, though, all I've gotten are replies.
eh, Shakespeare's a chump...
Can I tell you a secret? I hate it when another man is a writer. I hate it. Great, now I have to make sure he doesn't say anything witty, in case she decides to go with him. I hope he's one of those guys that tells people he's a poet, he goes to the gym, and that his poems are cheesy—please let his poems be cheesy. Oh, the sweet wave of relief when his poems are cheesy...or else, I don't know...or else I'll throw my shoe at him. And if his wit starts flowing all over the place, I gotta make sure they don't notice my sulking; worse yet, if the bitch identifies my nonchalance as a defense mechanism. I hope he busts out with his notepad and while everybody—God, I hate him!
...wait a minute, number change!
Ah dammit! I told you not to track my page views. Oh diary, I wish the sea would just wash them all away...
just...just flush them down a giant flushing toilet. The world—the earth!—is better without them.
Let me tell you something about this little blogs of mine
It's funny—it's actually pretty pathetic, or would be for anyone else, but I'm used to it by now—if I don't get a single page view a day or two after a post, I give up on life right then and there on the spot. Why diet? Why exercise—Why do anything? Shove a stool down my throat, or a burger, like eat it you fat cow!
...better check my stats, see if anybody wants to say hi. Bastards! I should just kill 'em all.
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