East Side Militia HQ

I was listening to Kanye West’s Cant’ Tell Me Nothing and I realised that I had perhaps never voiced the purpose of the East Side Militia.

The East Side Militia is dedicated to the purpose that Man Ought Be Free.

So, fuck off, buddy.

WWTJD?

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Here’s the funny thing about heroin.

People actually do it.

wa wa!

I got quit from my job. I will soon have to mount a campaign to get paid.

Fuck this rotten town.

trainspotting is on. this is some shit.

HEIRARCH SEVERIUS!!!

BRING IT!!!!

btw. canceled race til tom tom. i am worried about my boy-Bowyer. If he doesn’t make it in the chase i will just have to throw jack daniels bottles at every single person i see.

it’s required.

pss- the world is worth it.

psss

1=1

pssss

it is what it is.

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A phone call around 2.
219-something or other

old man voice-heavy Region accent

“Hello.”
“Hello.”
“Hello…Hello.”
“Hello”

“Hello.”
“Who is this?”
“This is George.”
“Uh, what?”
“George.”
“Yeah. Why are you calling me?”
now much more belligerent- “This number…garble garble garble.”
“What?”
confused garble
“Uh…You have the wrong number.”
belligerent confused garble
“Wrong number.”
garble
“Number” “Wrong”
“Talk to my… wife. Talk to…Alice.” yells for his wife-”Alice! Talk to the…”
“Talk to her.”
“Ok. Hello.”
“Hello.”
“This is a wrong number.”
“This number called our…”
“Huh?”
“Called our number.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about who are you?”
first finished sentence of the night: “This number called our cellphone twice.”

This is where I turn it on the woman.

“Yeah. What number did he call?”
“What? This number called ours. He said twice.”
“Yeah. What number?”
She reads it out after a little carousing that I can’t even remember anymore. These two were very confusing.
We work it out and her husband had called the wrong number. Here is a little snippet of that:

“67.”
“27.”
“67.”
“27.”
“67.”
“27.”
“67.”
“27.”

Ah, if but life had a copy-paste function…

The moment it finally sunk you could measure her deflation on a line graph as a precipitous fall.

“Yeah. He called the…”
“Yeah.”
“Buh buh.”

“Yeah. It is a 2 not a 7.”
“67.”
“No. 27. Like not 6, but 2.”
“27.”
“Yeah. Wrong number.”
“Oh.”
” Deuce. Deuce.”
mumble…hangup.

Good to see I can still bust down idiot region rats.

Go out to Leonard’s and take your hate elsewhere. Having a NWI number leads to entertaining wrong numbers. I couldn’t tell if the guy was alzheimered or just a confused asshole.

Deuce!

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Oi!

This is me first post. Dan set this little baby up and it sure is nice.

This is probably the best place for the mission statement of this blog and it reads as follows:

This blog will be a place for Steve to write things. He will write whatever the fuck he wants, whenever the fuck he wants.

And never forget, folks, one day our sun will run out of nuclear fuel and burn out. The universe is expanding and yet no new things are being created so all we are doing is spreading our galactic legs out into the nothingness.

Fuck, now that I think about it, maybe I’ll riff on that. There is much discussion over the shape of the universe, what its limits are, how it is shaped. My opinion as I choose to view it is that the universe is as big as it will ever be and always has been. This is my proof: Look up into the night sky. Sure, there are a few pinpricks of light that are gigantic balls of burning gas light years away, but the rest of it is just blank black space.

Wave your hand in the air. As you look at it, it is surrounded by matter. But, if you were to wave your hand around in space (assumptions that it wouldn’t freeze, explode, burn, etc.) there wouldn’t be anything around it.

Nothing.

So, if in every place up there where there isn’t dust or rocks or burning gas there is nothing, then I would think that that nothing would go on forever, because it really doesn’t go anywhere. I don’t care to write any more on this. I am doing my damndest to stave off illness. I fucking hate illness.

More to come.

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