I am balls hungry right now.

Tough fucking world, eh?

The palace has been requisitioned for militia business. This is temporary, as are all things.

Freedom reigns.

That is all.

Message ends.

God bless us all.

All quiet on the midwestern front.

Working near constantly at two low paying jobs.

Listening to a lot of radio.

Using a great deal of petroleum products.

Bling Blang Bloom Booster Seat Buttress!

I used to watch Pro-Wrestling, now I listen to NPR. I get similar types of enjoyment out of the two.

Sunglasses smokes his cigarette. Drinks his drink.

Moxi hides under cover.

The rain splats Sunglasses.

SUNGLASSES
It’s a wonder you can brew this shit still.

MOXI
Whiskey ain’t too hard.

SUNGLASSES
Nah. Cola.

MOXI
Shit, we get the coca leaf from down south. Easier to get than that tobacco you got.

Moxi licks hsi lips as he stares at the cig.

SUNGLASSES
No wonder this shit hits like a brick.

He takes a drag. Looks unsatisfied. Sees there is a hole in the paper.

Covers the hole with a finger. Takes a good drag.

SUNGLASSES (cont’d)
You know why they started making so much bourbon round here?

MOXI
Nah.

SUNGLASSES
Ever heard of the Whiskey Rebellion?

MOXI
Nah. Fuck is that?

SUNGLASSES
Figures.

The rain pours on him. He shields his cig with his fingers. Covers the hole. Takes a drag.

SUNGLASSES(cont’d)
(mutters)
Fucking kids…

MOXI
(mutters)
Fucking boomer.

Sunglasses blows out his smoke. Throws half of it in the new mud.

Blows out mist from the cold air. Like the ghost of his drag.

Snug.

big nose love affair
galang, galang, uh what’s that?
why do they insist?

It’s pretty sweet. This post is being written on Carlton’s big ass HD tv. Everyone I know in Indy has a big ass tv like this. It is a little disorienting to be honest.

And now the impromptu—We’ll see what we come up with here-

Pulsing beat. The singer writhes with it. Alto sounds spew forth in twisting fashion, she toys with soprano as she mingles with the harmony.

Two figures match the tempos. Motions match. Motions clash. The dance goes. The dance flows.

Hands intermingle. Hands barely touch. Hips. Thighs. The beat of the earth filtered through a club sound system infuses the motion, guides it.

Love and hate in two motions, three motions, four. What the beat is, is what the move is. They make it happen.

Time is short and they know it. It infuses with repercussion. It fuses with the percussion. It is subtel but everpresent. The sould and the heartbeat, smacking in time with the drum beat.

Two soul figures amongst many others. At any time any could die, but these two are so much closer to that end and the poetry of motion, the poetry of preciousness sings within them, heightening.

Bum. Bum.

Hiya Hey!

They grind. They swing. They make mother earth fucking swing.

This is why the first atom split. An unnatural natural fit.

To create this moment. To create this motion. To create this pair, moving limbs in the air.

There is little to tell. Reference that the angels fell. Turn that around, and add sound. And this is the picture you will see. The Fates don’t sell this shit for free.

A reckoning will come. But before the bell has rung, we’ll have our time in the strobe light sun.

The bass beats. The heart beats. The tock ticks. The click clocks.

The music plays before the soul pays.

The two dance, while they have time. While God grants them their time. Seconds pass by that will never be seen again. Seconds pass by that will never be tinged by the sepia tone of regret.

Movement. A love letter. Etched in eternity. Captured in God’s 8mm, soft focus, forever preserved.

Perfect.

WSJ Jan 6 or something, the sixth day of the 9th year of the second millenia since Christ’s apparent birth.

We are all debt slaves.

I am a fuck up. I have known this for years. I am the fuck up of my side of the family. This is just the case. It is empirical fact. It isn’t what I should be writing for the whole world to see, but it is the truth. Like every kind of fuck up the world has ever seen I am a lot of fun, and I know this, but I am still what is empircially known as a fuck up. I have a great deal of potential, but would I really be a fuck up if I didn’t . I have fantastic genes. So, yes my sight is bad, but that doesn’t matter in this day and age except for maybe the last time I got drunk with Shawn and Jon my glasses got seriously fucked up, but it was a lot of fun because, reference above, I am a fuck up.

Something really fucked with me tonight. I was watching Bob and TOm on the TV because that is what Rob turns the TV to when there is nothing more ot watch( I turn it to Fox News, Because I am a sucker for hot blondes) and the pschologist said something fucking crazy that fucked with me hardcore. He said that depression is just a form of anger. Now, I know this. Subliminally. Sub-consciously. I know this. I am the angriest fucker I know. This is just a fact. Just a fucking fact. If you are reading this, you know. This is a fact.

I blame it on my father sometimes, because he is, perhaps, the second angriest fucker I know. I made a vow to myself at a very young age, that I would never smoke. If you are an avid reader, you know now that smoking is a huge part of my current life. I made a vow, but I wanted to know what it was all about. Why can’t you stop doing this bs I would as myself(first sentence with improper comma usage). Well, now I know. Fuck.

What pisses me off is that my dad isn’t a fuck up at all, but my being a fuck up makes him kind of a fuck up, because what kind of a person has a fuck up for a son. I work with 16 year olds for fuck’s sake. I kind of like it, because it reminds me that I have the potential to not be a TOTAL fuckup(because these kids are worthless) but ultimately when in Rome, so I am still a fuckup, and the paycheck, oh god the paycheck. I used to make more money in a fucking day than I make in a week doing more disgusting bullshit.

WTF?

So, I don’t know what to say. I sort of try, but back to the whole depression thing, I am so fucking angry. I am angry the world is such a shit place. I just don’t see the point of putting out any god damn effort, because, in the end, it won’t garner me anything but the chance to maybe produce a son that is a bigger fuckup than me. At least I’m not breaking bottles with a god damn golf club anymore. Mostly, probably because I don’t have a golf club.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I smoke less now, because I am not so nearly as depressed and because it is cold as fuck outside. I take two drags and smoke half of one and scuttle in like a fucking refugee. Black people.

And I am out.

Also, I don’t even think that Hamas started shooting those rockets. The conspiracy shot the first 6 and they just played along after. THe whole thing is to keep press coverage away from the riots about the central banks. I have nothing to back this up but intuition. I await the death squad.

You just wait.

I had the first photographs taken of my tattoos in 8 years at new year’s. I think Jason was getting back at me for trying to kiss him.

What a fag.

I will still always love the standby screwdriver, but when I want to act classy it is all about the Bombay Saphire and soda with a twist of lemon.

Yeah, you bet your ass.