A little further into the hospital

Had a really good chat to Emma, she gave me a lot to think about.

Thank you Emma, for being awesome.

It's kind funny how it's always far easier to see the solution to other people's problems than it is to see the solutions to your own. Don't misunderstand me, I don't mean this in the “mind-your-own-business” sense, I'm pretty free with the old unsolicited opinions myself, but instead that I wish I could reflect the same kinda clarity (overly-confident snap judgements) that exists for me with other people back onto my own life, or that someone I trust would just tell it to me straight— and also that I'd have the raw emotional capacity to follow their advice.

Who is gonna come along and sort out my shit for me? Unfortunately it's looking like there's only one grim option available, the unpalatable alternative of actually doing it for myself.

“Enough to kill a lesser man”; I sincerely hope that's what they write on my death certificate

Between half a bottle of bourbon and my own natural tendency towards histrionics I managed to work myself into quite a state last night. I hate re-reading this stuff, just sitting there and thinking: oh, weak, yet more soapy tears before bedtime, sweet jesus dude harden the fuck up. I'm not sure why I should over-react so much, when I get in a black mood I start twisting things around to the worst angle possible, got a splinter of the snow queen's troll-mirror caught in my eye I guess.

I think I really managed to totally fuck my shoulder at the drinking contest on Friday. Trash talked myself into the upper reaches of the stratosphere and then went ahead and lost.

GIRLS ARE GHEY, and any guy who likes girls is obviously pussy-whipped and also, quite probably ,a simpering effeminate queen. You can't argue with statistics. You can't win a debate against the kind of turgid throbbing facts that science can provide. Ninety seven percent of queers have at least talked to a woman on one or more occasions, now I don't know about you but I'm drawing the only obvious conclusion, and, quite frankly, the evidence available looks pretty goddamn convincing:

it rubs the lotion on it's skin

or else it gets the hose again

I dun really know. It's not you, it's me. You need your space, and I'd quite like to fall in love. Incompatible objectives. I'm an idiot, a real class act—so just leave me to die by natural causes, or their nearest causal medical equivalents, A friend of mine tells me that people like to egg-me-on when I'm drinking, like most races people would much rather see a car crash than any run-of-the-mill first place photo op.

I feel like saying; that I'm sick of failing and I want to quit the race entirely and if you want a car crash just keep on watchin cos I truly to aim to please and provide the goods requested.

Leave me the fuck alone, I just wanna calcify like some old stalegmite drippin on a skeleton in the temple of solomon,some peace and motherfucking quiet.

My bed, I find that sleeping with a chair is almost as good as having a girlfriend

Where the magic happens

Haven't been writing much, working on a new minor project though.

Smart girls are really, really hot.

That is all.

Now I remember why I don't do mescaline very often. Takes forever to prepare and tastes like an incontinent hobo's anus—plus this is the first time I have ever fully power chucked or helicopter projectile vomited, covering R.'s toilet head-to-toe in red wine and the retch and gag of San Pedro cactus.

Still, the trip was pretty mint.

Like the brave & noble knights of bygone chivalric times, our heroes battle courageously against tyranny and oppression by boiling San Pedro cactus in a big fuck-off cooking pot

Photo by P.

Five fingers; on twelve triggers; and each weapon deadly accurate to at least a range of a thousand lies – maybe more, give or take a fiction or two—every single barrel pointed directly at the heart of things, locked, loaded, primed and ready to fire at the slightest twitch or trembling seizure of falsehood or deceit.

From here to eternity, I think I will always love you. Whatever that means. As ridiculous and as stupid as it sounds... and I guess I am really a total idiot, the readers digest; complete and condensed fool – a comprehensive farmers almanac of implausibly ridiculous home remedies and cures.

How many people ever say anything like this online? Seems tlike it's only ever just the one, just me, yours alone and truly.

Yours alone! And truly.

Considering my options I was thinking about opting out tonight. It's all a bit difficult. But then! But no. Motherfuckers can't get rid of me that easily. Slit throats always have a good gurgle before quiet time and the teacher reading.

My life is a history of lets-pretend, and I don't know about you but personally I like to make up my memories as I go along

Hello. It's me again, your old friend pedobear—you know? from your C:\Backups\Work\Tax_Returns\tmp\tmp\tmp\private folder? Ah so you do remember. Anyhow I just thought I'd pop in for a bit for a quiet cup of tea and a biscuit, and perhaps also to offer you a little piece of pedobear's patented unsolicited homespun advice.

Get an umbrella. Turds are going to rain from the sky.

On a lighter note, have some child pornography.

True maliciousness is quite uncommon, and it's very very rare that you'll ever stumble across pure unrefined evil in the wild. Instead, it's our simple forgiveable failings, our everyday ordinary flaws that seem to cause the majority of human misery.

Tonight I have been watching people grind themselves to pieces. And for what.

I don't know who to believe. I throw up my hands! I am moving to the moon to become a cheese miner, like my Dad, and his father before him. But for all you leftovers who remain on earth still gathering your gravy on the side of plate: try to keep your face to the sun.

Cos I am sick of seeing what people do to each other, and I am sick of doing it myself. Course, of course (a horse! of course) that won't stop nothing, I will continue regardless, spitting careless razorblades then cleaning the wounds with my dirty fingernails. You know I think it would be a lot more honest, or at least more noble if you guys just stabbed each other in the front, with actual knives, rather than using metaphorical line drawings and firing your volleys of proxies.

The duel is a grand tradition, one that desperately needs to be resurrected.

By the way, and I'm just saying it! I'm just saying so we all realise exactly where we stand, I am the kind of blade it really really doesn't pay to grab by the sharp end; handled without the correct respect and proper protocol I can just as easily cut you to shreds as your opponent.

I wouldn't even try. Cos playin me is kinda like sneezing next to nitroglycerin: GODDAMN FUCKING STUPID, AND ALSO A SERIOUS BREACH OF URINAL ETTIQUTE.

I am very disappointed, in each and every one of us. Somehow I expected better for some reason, despite experience, despite evidence and history and hearsay I was honestly waiting for you to surprise me, I wanted, I needed to be proven wrong. A cynic, I reckon, is anyone who swears black & blue he doesn't believe in Santa Claus, yet somehow still manages feel a bit downcast ever time Christmas rolls around, by the cookies Santa never seems to eat, or the letters he never gets round to answering.

Well, St. Nick, how about it? Rumour has it that you're magic and the papers say you give a shit so how about some general goodwill or just one single day of peace on earth you fat old impotent bastard. This Christmas how about you make everything work out for everyone.

I HATE ALL OF YOU... but every Christmas the mad rash hope remains, a flicker of childhood optimism, that maybe this is the time I'll finally finally get that bright red ten speed.

Just go ahead, go ahead kill each other. I'll send you a postcard, eager lunar hula girls bathing topless, legs spread open like melted butter across the sweet golden bread of the sun drenched sea of tranquillity

you goddamn fucking monsters.

I barely need to eat, in fact, I do not: being maintained purely by the (as yet) scientifically unproven yet still wildly plausible new age process of human-plant photosynthetic soul bonding, merely by fondling tree bark at the correct harmonic frequencies I can absorb the pure, natural energy of our Goddess Mother Earth. I require no sustenance! I am powered by nothing but the sun! plus additionally a clear conscience, clean living and the internal combustion of distilled ethyl alcohol. Reminds me of a short story by Kafka called “The Hunger Artist”, but then again I'm cheating with the appetite suppressants, not suffering enough, taking the tourist route and cutting off the sights and smells of the slaughterhouse in favour of sterile plastic wrapping and flavoured luncheon sausage. Smiling cartoon cows sing camp-fire songs urging me to eat more beef. A cherubic pig with a corkscrew tail winks suggestively and then helps himself to a juicy rasher of bacon. Even the chickens hawk their eggs on street corners.

The other day I watched an angel scorch the feathers from her wings, and by her side were loaves and loaves and loaves of the most wonderful wonderful magical bread, baked slowly at room temperature for a period of several days, and left totally unmixed , so that the flour, having no real alternative, had simply poured itself into shapeless piles on the floor, and I remember a bowl of plucked toenails, most tastefully arranged, shoulder to shoulder, like a little flower garden of petrified infants, and steaming rice pudding with a sprig of fresh mercury.

I could take you! I could show you! All this feast. All this food on offer – the naked angel, the piles and piles of unbaked bread - the toe nails, not easy to obtain—the sixty four busted household thermometers I had to buy and smash wide open just so that everything would be absolutely surgically fucking perfect

AND YOU DON'T EVEN WANT TO COME.

My teeth are rotting in my mouth, and all about me flash the ominous comets and unfortunate omens and the potent stinking entrails of disaster. Still I guess, it could be worse; I could be drinking chartreuse, or else be one of those poor wretches so crushed by social expectation they are unable to express their personal twisted kinks and peculiar and very private infatuations with life. Never been much of a problem for this particular storm cellar obviously—I am incorrigibly unable to keep my trap shut even in the best of weather.

What is really happening? When did things go so horribly wrong? Gangs of impolite youths now roam our suburban shopping malls begging for cigarettes and bus money. Ordinary, decent, law-abiding citizens are afraid to go to sleep at night for fear of having nightmares. Something should be done. I say we hold a town meeting, host a seminar, inform the parents of the potential moral dangers possibly involved. The necessary steps must be taken, a bristle of far harsher penalties drafted into law, strict curfews enacted and social responsibility enforced and absolutely no broken rules or broken windows or any smiling on a school day allowed! without explicit permission from the governor or his closest deputised relative.

Grass won't grow on concrete, only in it's cracks. Wild, multicoloured growths tend to flourish only around the edges of things, clinging to the gaps, concealed nooks and overlooked crannies.

Lying awake at night, too wired to sleep, too fried to write, my thousand yard star fixed blankly at the back of my eyelids.

In the morning I wake up and have to cut another hole in my belt cos my pants beginning to fall down. Still quite a fat fuck overall but noticeably a lot less corpulent than I used to be. Regular doses of pharmaceutical grade central nervous stimulants are certainly not the healthiest way to lose weight but they're definitely extremely effective. Speeds up your metabolism, acts as an appetite suppressant and keeps your brain sharp. A little too sharp sometimes, liable to cut yourself up with all that hyperactive mental trembling. A small price to pay I reckon, guess I'm getting a bit sick of having a “great personality” People self-report that they value all kinds of crazy feel-good disney qualities in a partner: intelligence, a sense of humour, compassion and kindness yadda yadda yadda but scientific studies have shown the reality is much simpler and also far more shallow.

The rules might suck, but if you want to win the prize then playing the game seems like the only option available.

If only: but otherwise

If you haven't read it already I totally recommend Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness"

If you are heading to the film festival I totally recommend "Sukiyaki Western Djanjo"

Recommence me shit.

I invented a new cocktail, pretty much you just have to grab all the drugs within reach and shove them down your gullet. I am scorchingly messed up right now. I've been kinda wondering why it is I can't write sober, I look at the page and all I see is potential inadequacy. Same when I re-read stuff; flaw flaw flaw chomping through to the end of the sentence. Could have done with a solid forty-eight hours enforced bed rest and a judicial poke with replica grade bleeding lance if you ask me, but it's well past pre-school big clock hand points to tiny-bit-fucking-late-now, the element of surprise has been lost.

A friend of mine tells me I'm at my lyrical best when I'm writing about women I can't have. While this maybe true, I'm kinda getting sick of it. Limerance is not a pleasant place to even for a overnight holiday, let alone the kind of location you'd ever want to consider building any sort of permanent structure on, but still! still! I made a tumbledown shack outta shells and pieces of driftwood and decided to take up residency on that harsh and barren rock.

All that happens when I have a crush is that it sucks and hurts, and inevitably I end up making a giant dick of myself in some spectacularly disastrous and also very public fashion. It's like being pulled down into a dark Ukranian meatpacking factory by an invisible nose-ring: you know it's fucking dumb idea but you can't just can't seem to stop yourself.

Sometimes I wish it would all go away. I mean, it's good to have a muse, she's amazing inspiration obviously, but still it's like your guts are all wound up in electromagentic coils and they're getting tighter and strangling. There are the dizzy heights, a particular facial expression, the sloping cadence of her words is enough sometimes to make me think: dear god! you're stunning. But the rapid downhill slide is a long one over rugged and abrasive terrain.

When the depression hits hard, mainly it's when I'm alone, I feel like a total loser, unlovable and worthless.

After Erin it never seemed to ever work out. With anyone.

I want to give up but I can't.

People tell me, when I ask: that their life is pretty much the same as it was yesterday, there is nothing new to tell. Now, personally, I know this isn't true. Things change extremely rapidly. That proud sandbar we like to stand so solid on is quickly worn away by the calculated drift of decimal approximation and the necessity of rounding errors. You think things will last forever, but they don't, really it doesn't. Every situation seems to come pre-packaged with it's best-before date stamped indelibly on the plastic.

All leaves, autumn or otherwise, are washed downwards by the rain, forever towards the gutter and out into the sea.

We could be, you and me, a compliment of opposites: like sweet'n'sour pork... or salt & vinegar crisps. The first time I ever saw you I felt like a stuck pig, bleeding out in pure bliss on the knife edge of your sweetness. You cut me to the quick. No industrial apple corer could ever leave me feeling more hollow, so deliciously empty, full of wanting and wanton desire than you left me, left completely breathless, asphyxiated by your trace.

This is the kind of lunacy that could tear a man to scraps and pieces, but, honestly, would you swap it? Seems to me people always tend to complain more about their aches than they do about their amputations, but as for me: I already cut off all my limbs in advance.

Individual moments of pure madness, unadulterated by common-sense and then stacked each on top of one another, falling over, eventually they make up a life.

If only I was ever more than words, my turns of phrase only ever seem to lasso smoke, my nets catch nothing but water. Anyway... aaaanyway, many years of experience have made me pretty good at this whole unrequited thing, but my point is, you will always be beautiful regardless.

You got that with you, it's yours forever, nobody can steal it. Maybe Jupiter slipped a slice of moon in your mouth, who knows.

Anyway, I'll never get to say this to your face: I hear they admire sunsets even in the ghettos of Calcutta—I think you are possibly the brightest star in the entire planetarium.

Anyway, sorry it had to come from me.

On occasion: I am overwhelmed by everything. It all gets a bit too much and the only thing I want to do is build an impenetrable fort in my mind out of blankets and then go try and fit my head inside it.

I feel like a cloud impaled on a speck of dust.

I had an honest to god good time tonight. I feel like everybody is my friend.

I know I'm an ugly motherfucker and all—I mean: I do glow with kind of tarnished inner beauty—but damn! maaaaan! WOMEN, sweet jesus - LORD HAVE MERCY!

After everything said, after is everything done, I think grew up to be the kind of person that I wanted to be. I mean: dear god, I actually do like being Caleb Jonathan Anderson, and I honestly wouldn't accept a swapsies for any other life in the entire range of catalogues available.

I reckon you gotta follow the smell of blood in your nostrils, eventually it lead you (by many twists and turns) straight to wherever, whatever compass your heart is set to. Now I'm no angel! but to me she always wore her halo like a tight dress, voluptuous, full of shadows and curve, to me, at least, she's as vibrant as a plucked harp, but then against at most! at most! she hurts my eyes – she's far too bright! to look at directly without some kind of smoked glass, or other eye protection.

I have to turn my head away; I cup my gaze, because it's like looking into a precious metal being heated bright white hot inside the burning foundry of the sun. It's too much, it cuts, too beautiful.

Probably just my issue. I do tend to think every woman I meet spits full-stops.

The world needs idiots—at least as entertainment.

What the fuck are you staring at?

Antonie Dixon: attacked two women with a samurai sword while under the influence of "P" (methamphetamine), severing one of their hands, before shooting a stranger in the back with a machine gun, killing him.

Not having written for a while (or indeed having anything worthwhile to say really) I thought I'd make one of those trashy substandard what-am-I-up-to entries just like every other boring motherfucker out there. Been working very very hard, and also paradoxically slacking off as much as humanly possible. Ostensibly I am working right now. See how this works?

Loving stencilling, I can't draw at all and this is the first time I've ever been able to express myself visually. Not that I'm super good or anything, but it's fun and makes me think that even though not everyone can be the next Leonardo Van Gough or whatever... whatever! so what! art really is for everybody, and everybody should get the chance and seize the moment and take a can of spraypaint to the nearest wall or billboard.

The devil quotes scripture, and nowhere is this more true than with the Christian right. I've been wondering why Christians come across as such absolute cunts, why it is that the clubs or cudgels of self-righteous legalism should be such a constant trump card over the more compassionate suit of hearts.

I could take the time to tear apart the ridiculous BERL drug harm study commissioned by the NZ police, but all you need to know is that, as Russell Brown astutely pointed out, the study includes the cost of prohibition as part of social harm. This means that for every dollar spent on more enforcement the drug harm index also rises by exactly one dollar, while at the same time enabling the police to count a proportion of this increased cost as a “saving” from each successful drug seizure. Sounds pretty scientific. Yeah, it's total bullshit, but you can bet your sweet cherry ass that they'll be quoting all kinds of comforting (or frightening) statistics from this “research” as the occasion demands.

The devil quotes scripture, at length and in depth, and the unfortunate thing is that people often listen.

Caught up with Mel & Sass & Caroline & Brian and got ridiculously drunk, good to catch up—good times, crazy days, one for the photo album.

Maori Party MP Hone Harawira is describing tough new anti-tagging laws passed by Parliament on Thursday as a tool for harassment.

The bill passed its third reading by 107 votes to 10, with the Greens, the Maori Party and ACT voting against it.

Under the new law, anyone convicted of graffiti vandalism can be fined up to $2000 and be ordered by the court to clean up graffiti.

The legislation bans the sale of spray cans to those under 18 years of age, and requires retailers to restrict access to spray paint, so the public cannot get access to it without the help of shop staff.

It will also be an offence to be in possession of a so-called graffiti implement, which includes only spray cans, and other items such as felt tip pens.

Hone Harawira told Nine to Noon tagging is a symptom of poverty, and needs to be addressed more creatively.

"We've got to do something about tagging, but lets get a lot more innovative about how we do it, than simply pass a law that will do two things ... enable police to harass innocent kids and admittedly won't stop tagging."

— http://www.radionz.co.nz/news/latest/200806201207/13bd8d7b

I'm kinda surprised to say this, but I've been hearing an awful lot of sense coming out of the Maori party recently. Like this and being against banning BZP. I think maybe because their constituency is already so marginalized and outside the mainstream they have more of a handle on what is actually going on.

My friend hates the idea of going underground, but I think she's going to have to :/

Felt tip pens now illegal to carry. Sweet fucking jesus.

But National MP Judith Collins said treating tagging as "some sort of resistance artwork" would lead to a breakdown of law and order.—The Dominion Post

Nice one Judy, well done! I can see you have your finger squarely on the barely discernible pulse of this proud nation. Christ, I swear to God it takes a mirror and a qualified medical doctor just to verify that the country is actually still breathing. Rigor mortis has obviously begun to set in, the skin is cool, nay cold to the touch and any remaining flickers of movement could easily be explained away as just a few rogue nerve impulses, the last pathetic spasms of a rapidly dying brain.

What this country needs is a giant defibrillator, a huge jolt of sixteen billion volts straight to heart of everything, to wind up the springs of this run down clock and set things back in motion.

There's a new breed of miscreant on the streets of your city or town. We're smart and resourceful and we ain't into stealing shit or causing any violence, but instead proving our point, making our mark, playing out just enough rope so as you can hang yourself with it, then tying the other end to the towbar of a passing SUV.

Fuck you Judy. I hope you have all your values securely fastened in the storm cellar cos it looks to me like a moral hurricanes a-coming and the destruction it brings could completely obliterate your obsoleted way of life.

Not a revolution.

A wave.

Mission a-fucking-accomplished. Vodka is in the bag.

How many dudes you know roll like this? How many dudes you know flow like this? Just one, motherfuckers: ME

Technical problem needs solving—I'm the only programmer at my company—big deal, big client. You ever seen startrek: You know how inevitably Scotty tells Kirk that the ship is basically fucked, the dilithium crystal just shat it's pants and cracked itself and that he cannae fix it in less than sixteen hours captain, sixteen hours at best.

And then Kirk turns to Scotty with a terrible smile in his eye and a swagger on his lips and says “Mr Scot, you have two.”

Five hours sleep last night. Nineteen hours straight coding, nowhere near a record but I was already pretty tired. Sometimes I can and do perform miracles. Sometimes I pull, not just rabbits, but entire herds of elephants outta my ass. But it's a hit and miss affair. That's the thing about the miraculous, you can't always rely on it because magic does not obey the laws of physics.

Whenever I do this shit my boss buys me a bottle of vodka. How well he knows the carrot that keeps this donkey trundling.

When I woke in the morning I found my that cheeks were still wet from tears: crying in my sleep I guess, like a little fag with a skinned knee. Judgmental motherfuckers. Nothing like a party, to make you feel totally utterly alone, and also like stringing yourself up by your boot-laces. Well, at least I'm still drunk, thank heaven for small mercies.

I kinda figured that being open and honest would be enough. but it seems that it isn't and I guess that it ain't. Kinda funny, I honestly think I've done hellva lot of very cool stuff, I've done a lot of interesting things that many of these people couldn't even begin to start to imagine, and yet they still somehow manage to make me feel like goddamn fucking worm.

Tried to apologize to Cat, figured she's no stranger to “Sorry”, that she'd understand. It didn't go as well as I'd hoped.

Slowly learning who my friends are.

I like to think that my friends are all, in general, well, they're good cunts, they're solid, they fly straight as an arrow in the absence of gravity. By process of attrition and erosion all the chaff gets chipped, inevitably away, you quickly learn who you can rely on, who the people left remaining that are worth paying any attention to.

I honestly don't think I could survive without such a solid base of bedrock. What would I do? I couldn't imagine. I tend to give people too much off the benefit of the doubt in the first place. I mean, I'm pretty open: I've told my boss about my drug use. In fact... if it was a problem I think I'd just goddamn fucking quit... I actually suggested we do mescaline as a team building exercise. I tend to think that everyone has pretty much the same liberal kinda attitudes that I do, I guess I'm kinda privileged in that sense, cos when I encounter conservatism I'm actually genuinely shocked. Like what the fuck. Go back to 1634 or whatever. I honestly thought you people died out with the inquisition or the hand crafted stone flint spear.

I like think that I am capable of very, very much, and this shit sounds to me like challenge. I mean: I'll race you to the finish you bastards. Cunts trying to tell me I've done too many drugs, ah, what is it you do again? And what exactly have you accomplished? When it gets down to brass tacks the proof is in the powdered glass I'll make you swallow, and I hope to God it cuts you up.

A bit of drunken fucking arc welding, that'll make me feel better about myself.

I guess we've grown apart. These people are as a alien to me as I am to them. More fool me for trying. I just find their sense of values, well, extremely fucking warped. Kinda stupid I guess, trying to fit my square peg into their sandpaper hole. Best, given the available evidence, I guess best left well alone. Fuck this shit, I reckon you should go back to the roleplaying games, you worthless goddamn fucks. Meet you! I'll meet you! You'll see my name in the history books, otherwise, if you have something to say! otherwise lets do coffee! ...otherwise I suggest you go roll dice.

We've come to the divide, I guess, you and me, and you're totally free to tell yourself you took road less travelled, I am lunatic, I figure.

I'm sure you have all kinds of exciting characters to play.

Actually, fuck you. Can't believe I even bothered.

See you in the newspapers. Am I total failure, or a brilliant success? To tell the truth I can't even tell anymore.

Getting OUT, getting out and running away to freedom, that would be sweet. But there's no place left to go to. You can't just make a graceful escape, because everywhere leads back IN, and all the roads go nowhere. That's not what they say though. They say that if you don't like it, lump it, else maybe you should leave. Say that, by staying, you're tacit, you're complicit in the scheme – you agree to concede a generous measure of yourself, and also agree to play by the all the rules in rulebook and jump into the ocean and tow the party line with your teeth.

What do I want to be I grow up? Ah, that's a tricky one. I want to an astronaut. I want to be a fireman. I want to be; a river, in full flood, that bursts it's banks in tempestuous laughter and covers the city in dying fish they must then clear away with bulldozers.

I want to be a punchline without the joke.

Joining bits of metal together is extremely satisfying.

I call this piece "Untitled #4"

I mean: I love scams, but I also have a kinda got a kind of grudging respect. I love pulling cons; —- but they have to, I mean: it's a mush:: or else possible: mane just a must or necessity ; they have to hang themselves, so to say: so to speak: you know what I man bro, or maybe: what I brag: what I mean in this case: I know you mute understands: I'm sure, I sire you wtf watt non-comprehende! I gringo loco total scat fetishist!—- or else whatever fucked up pigeon english we happen to be speaking at the time

Damn. I mean: lubie. Sweet jesus. That's one child I actually wish I was the father of, rather than just paying some random other cunt to take the paternity test for me like I usually do. re

Hey man, we're friends: I know you won't say anything.DAMN! HOT AS FUCK! Just being objective. Honestly, can't blame a cunt trying to be scientific, it's just my statistically significant opinion, you know.

Shut your goddamn mouth Charlenne! i paid for your taxi home! didn't even make you give me a blowjob afterwards! pretty goddamn generous if you condescended to ask me!

To that end, after kiwicon we're going on a WEEK LONG NORTH ISLAND URBEX TOUR.

Fuck yeah. Gonna be AWESOME. Drains, powerstations, old mines, abandoned mental hospitals, the works. Back to back B&E, criminal trespass and avoiding the insidious lurking evil of the passive infrared. I honestly can't think of a better way to spend seven days.

God knows I need the break. Things have been a bit human meatgrinder on the old emotional frontlines recently, you may or may not have noticed.

In some ways I really regret writing the previous entry, and in other ways I do not: embarrassing, well, hell yes, of course! but also, it is also quite illuminating. There's what you're saying, and then what you think your saying, and they're not always the same thing.

For me getting drunk is like sending an unmanned probe down into sunless Mariana Trench of my subconscious, and then forcing myself to re-examine the grainy video footage of whatever strange and grotesque fish have somehow managed to survive in the cold bleak waters of that particularly inhospitable environment. I sink beneath the waves of coherency straight down to the bottom like a concrete slipper. When you write you tend to make unforced errors, you reveal, despite what you may desire, the truth. Being honest isn't always attractive. On the contrary, on occasion the truth is so ugly it cracks one mirror after another. And with me it's all unforced errors. I am compelled, driven forward like a blinkered mule being whipped viciously from behind by a invisible master he is unable to turn his head and see.

To be honest I only remember writing about sixty percent of the shit on this site, the rest was produced, almost automatically, in a kind of alcoholic semi-trance or stupor; I go elsewhere, elsewhere entirely, and I come back from these furious alcoholic blackouts clutching a fist full of torn pages, from a book I cannot find, anywhere, on any Rolodex in the entire library of daylight.

I am compelled, and I'm not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing, but it's a thing.

Apparently I was a total mess the other night, as usual can't really remember any of it, apologize to anyone that had to deal etc.

Tries to organise an orgy at our flat.... Total and absolute; an appalling and abject failure. In the end I just ended up sucking my flatmate off, while his girlfriend drilled me up the ass with an eight inch strap-on dildo. I mean: it was fun and everything, but a little bit of audience participation could have made a simply average night TOTALLY GODDAMN AWESOME. The applause at the end was good though. It's nice, feeling that your talents have been at least somewhat recognized.

I dunno bro, I mean, I didn't swallow—I just let that shit drip from my lips like so many dribbling drops of off-yellow spray paint –- but, you know, unless there's a chance of some AIDS going on I kinda think it wasn't really worth it, I guess I kinda have a death wish. But it's like this with everything, everyone wants to be a spectator—and nobody wants to be the spectacle.

Because being in the position of the watched is some harsh steel wool scrubbing on your skin. You must be willing to open yourself up to criticism from every angry angle. Hey, don't hate the PLAYA, hate the GAME. Hate the stark irreducibility of the black and white chessboard that lets me continue to let make my money: SYSTEMATIC IGNORANCE motherfuckers, it's IMPERFECT INFORMATION that leads to the MARKET INEFFICENCY that keep the Sir Edmonds flowing through my hands.

I have everything you might need. I am a purveyor of the purest distilled substance of dreams. I got the chemical formula to every problem you may possibly encounter.o

Man, my problem is I actually care. and the shit, the people, don't care about me back, cuts me like a broken window pane. God I'm such an idiot. To even imagine; this reciprocal,lunacy unpredictable by the most fortuitous of prophets.. What was I thinking. Basic, basal insanity. Base levels mmMagical wish fulfilment.

She is beautiful, but more importantly: smart and total. like a solar eclipse.

In comparison: I am dull shadow. And so stupid, so fucking stupid.

Why? Why! Do I fall in love? With anyone? I guess God really does play dice. So, so goddamn impressionable and so, so goddann stupid. I fall in love with these girls but you know, no matter. Flag it man; I've tumbled down too many stairs already.

Fuck it. They can crash into my iceburg, rather than vice-is-versa.

Man, at this late stage of the game, well, I've been clocked in the face a fair few times: but love is the most brutal thing i have ever experienced.

Fucking women man, like I got a clue what do to.

There's something about getting scorchingly high and going on a cop killing rampage in GTA-4 that just makes me feel so much better, about myself and the world around me. Perhaps it's simply the reversal of the usual roles. Instead of: you, insect—undoubtedly up to some kind of borderline illegal mischief—snivelling your pathetic excuses and transparent justifications to the all seeing, all powerful truncheon of the police system...

...instead of that it's: YOU, with a pump-action shot gun, about to blow some motherfuckers head clean off for daring to suggest that you might, possibly, oh go on, maybe like to put your hands in air, please sir lets not have any unpleasantness.

Yeah.

It is extremely goddamn satisfying.

In India they had this guy called Man Singh, he was a legendary dacoit, or bandit. Killed 32 police officers personally. Today Man Singh has a temple in his honor in Khera Rathore. Those Indians, they knew the score. Venerated him as a wise man and so he passed from mere history on to godhood.

See you at the top of the clocktower.

I always feel desperately embarrassed on the morning after one of these outbursts. Re-reading is the worst bit. My guts bunch up like a pair of panties and I want to melt into the floor and disappear.

Mind you, there have been plenty of other cringeworthy moments along the wayside. I still recall those tragic days when I used to wear a long black trenchcoat and carried a superfluous cane and drank absinthe, oh dear god.... Eventually I had all records expunged from city hall and the photographs incinerated to fine grey ash via the (perhaps) over-enthusiastic mechanism of atomic furnace—but still! the shame! it still lingers; like a peeping tom at the bathroom window.

Or the time I got into the silos of the heathcote maltworks through a small hole in the ventilation system - only to get stuck fast on the way out and therefore thus requiring both the push and the shove assistance of my combined companions to squirm like a bloated tapeworm to freedom. I do believe I ripped my trousers to immodest shreds upon finally making my exit.

Shit man, I dunno. All about me; some are crushed, while others bloom like skyrockets. And there's nobody, absolutely nobody that got the answers in advance, 'cept to say that if you can do it, well, then I guess it's ok.

Someone told me recently that it wasn't worth trading my sanity to be able to write. Yo! Motherfucker! I would trade what remains of my sanity for talent in a second: I mean the Devil's blood wouldn't even be dry on the contract before I mainlined the fountain pen, squiggled my signature on the page and sealed the deal. There's far too much sanity in the world already. What we need a lot more of are the flailing grand gestures of lunatics. Been soul touched by anything ordinary and plain in the recent past? I didn't think so. We have always, always always hitched our little ploughs to the erratic backs of jesters and madmen.

In times as fractured as these it's difficult I know.

But it's about, and always has been: what you can inflict, how hard you are willing to push your shoulder to the millstone of the universe. It's about having a resolution as firm and unwavering as the edges of the earth. If sanity is a consensus then rationality permits nothing really different, at least in any interesting way, and if you want electricity then I reckon you have to be willing to be struck by lightning, or at least willing to stand in the storm.

Motherfuckers! you got nothing on me—except evidence. If there was any justice in the world at all I think I would have been locked away quite some time ago.

But there isn't, so I ain't. But yeah, you're probably right, it would probably be a mistake, I do have a lot of “bad habits”. Personally, well, I like to think of them more as “hobbies” or perhaps “self-destructively cool interests”, but... you know how it is, I say “syntax” and you say “semantics”, all much the same thing really. It's all covered under the unifying insurance of linguistics. Mandated by royal decree, signed and witnessed by certified members-of-parliament.

I am, on occasion, a genuinely evil motherfucker. I mean: just plain malicious and out to cause harm. I think the best tactic is to think of the people you're hurting as totally other and so not worthy of any real empathy or consideration, think of them as the human equivalent of tasty worthless animals, trust me it becomes a lot easier to cope with the remorse.

Then up comes a man with a hook for a hand

Man, I give you everything on a regular basis. I mean: I serve up myself with a scalpel and also cut out all the fat for you and where is my return-on-investment? When are you gonna make good with the feast? I thought you would, at least, make a gift of everything important. I mean: what else is worth giving away?

Actually, I always write drunk.

Always.

Actually, actually i think if failure was a verb: well, i'd like to be it's adjective.

And as for me, as it happens: I is rolling, I is gathering the absolute bare minimum of moss possible. Personally, or so I reckon, personally I think: I am the mess that's left after the chinless world finally fucking decided to blow it's brains out, I is: the zombie stumbling through the rotting meat aisles of the supermarket,, complaining – and I am always with with the complaints —- complaining about the lack of vegetables and the supersaver vouchers avao;an;e;etc and so forth and on the advice of my counsel about this. this: that, and, you know, and the other thing.

What the fuck? Do I look like I care? About whatever platinum the calculator condescends to give me as sweet apple source privilege of whatever reminder arithmetic happens to be left over after the long division is finished it's workings.

Honestly, some days I think: what the fuck am I doing? why am wasting so much goddamn time? I should, really, just get this shit over and done with, slip, strangle my way via the noose into the suffocation of legend. Bang! But no. still, still I subsist, a wood carving living on the chainsaw snores of dreams.

 God. God. god you are:
 are gorgeous. If only I: 
 I had the balls to approach,
 you
 which! evidently!
 I do not.
 You are gorgeous
 Just sayin.

Yeah, so sometimes i write poetry. Like you cunts are gonna do anything.

Sup lucidspin, really sorry I had to cut things short the other day, extremely rude of me but I'd been jonsing to finish this place for ages. Maybe my priorities are all screwed up but opportunities like this don't come along very often. Let's catch up again properly!

Behold! The Meat Works!

Victimless crimes man, they're a godsend, they even let you feel good about yourself the next morning. Ah yeah, sweet sherbet dreams and a clear conscience – that's candy to the tongue. I know, I know! it's kind of childish but there's just something about breaking the law in harmless petty ways that I thoroughly enjoy! Kinda pathetic, me, a grown boy of 28, playing at criminal, or at least it's closest, most comfortable middle-class alternative... but at the same time; makes me alert, awake, fluorescent with risk and goddamn! charred with the joy of it.

It's weird, afterwards I feel almost like I've done something actually genuinely worthwhile. Like I achieved an important milestone for this quarter, or crossed one more to-do COLLISION IMMINENT! PULL UP! PULL UP! item off the old whiteboard list and explosively carved my face into the avalanche prone mountains of history. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Still, the idea of stencilling absolutely appeals. Basically, it sounds like a hellva lot of fun. Plus—makes the world a drip more colourful and keeps things slightly interesting. I honestly, I do, like to think of this shit as almost being a public service. Here I am, I mean there I was: me, an upstanding responsible member of respectable civil society and role model for several children, proudly determined to perform my civic duty and make the world a better place.

Afterwards I feel that I have cross-hatched a bit more of the woodcut, I am heavy with paint.

I guess it's mostly a case of whatever spins your wheels. so I guess this gasoline is the homoeopathic equivalent of pharmaceutical-grade rocket fuel, the kind of covert CIA horse-steroids normally reserved for cup day at the rings of Saturn.

I guess you have to do things you enjoy.

Low barrier to entry with stencils. Anyone can create a design, cut it out on a piece of lino, grab a can of spraypaint and get straight out to the vandalism. I often find that approaching a subject you know very little about can be quite intimidating—there's no other way to go but humble—but at the same time it's all kinda fresh and new and I have everything to learn and clamber on.

I regularly forget, entirely, who I am. Getting too old, can't find the map with the pin. Like misplacing a set of extremely important keys, you just had them in your hand, they must be close by, retracing your steps, room by room, interrogating the ashtray and shouting ugly accusations at the vacuum cleaner, fuck, what was I doing again? But you can also lose yourself, moment by moment, absolved completely in what you are caught up in doing, seems a better way of spending time.

Whenever I'm not precisely swimming, that is to say; sinking, with my limbs flaying about me wildly like an epileptic puppet, my head sliding, slipping silently beneath the sub-zero surface of the flooded quarry of despair, whenever that isn't happening: I do have to, I must admit: life can be pretty goddamn fucking sweet sometimes.

Sometimes, on occasion, sometimes, at least periodically, I just goddamn fucking rule, you know? Sometimes my steelcaps manage, by pure happenstance, to connect with the right pair of teeth. Sometimes, shit works out.

Despite how I might sometimes feel, as melancholic, as lonely as empty crib, the tumbling dice of fortune, somehow, still seem loaded, fixed heavy with the weight of fate direct and rolling, bouncing, straightforward against the will of God and steadily in my favour. The weird stuff I get away with. Those strange, unsigned boxes, filled with gold, delivered, without postmarks, that come my way on a regular basis.

I am extremely lucky. Are there any limits to my limits? Possibly not, if I am willing to push them far enough. I have always set my compass to the horizon, and then drifted, felt helplessly inadequate when I failed to reach it. On the other hand, maybe, maybe I've already floated further from shore than most.

Maybe I've already got a lot to feel proud of.

theblackoven has some TOTALLY METAL!!! \m/ BAKING.

I am, and will probably remain, at least for the foreseeable future, an idiot. And with this idiocy comes, you know, certain unalienable rights and responsibilities. Namely that I have to tell to truth, as I see it, constantly. Yeah, it is definitely a bit savage; and yeah, this shit, it most definitely cuts both ways.

You are. So, so goddamn amazingly beautiful. As phosphorescent as a sea current. Have you? ever seen? your sweet perfected reflection in the scared and pitted chromium of my head? The way you look: to me, it shears diamonds, in pale and in two. I mean, that you leave me shattered, and afterwards there can be nothing left but pride and broken porcelain.

Never doubt that you are beautiful. You are. I have seen far more, far far more than my fair share of ugliness. Eaten and eaten of that particular pie till my stomach exploded forthwith; burst apart at the seams and split entirely open and spilled it's guts to the world. You are beautiful, I can judge, because I have been privy to the honest comparison. These things I've seen and done.

You sweep, you have blown me with a breath, kite-like, away into the sky, you are the tide to my sandcastle, and even though you might be, completely, out of my league, you are. you remain. still. so so goddamn beautiful, and I thank you for it.

Never doubt you are beautiful, because I always see the executioner in people, but inside you I can also see the priest.

Love ain't blind, it's hopeless; and lady, if you was a gun, I would be your fellatio, in a second.

It seems to me, on some days, that my problems with women are a lot like my problems with drinking. You wake up the next day with a throbbing headache, full of sincerely genuine regret and remorse, and then end up swearing black and blue to yourself that this time, THIS TIME will be the absolute last. No more, no more, you are completely finished with this crap. Done, kaput, it's over. Not worth the cost.

There's plenty of porn on the internet. And I do have quite a few female friends. So it's just a simple cut-and-paste job in photoshop and then I reckon I've pretty much got myself a relationship sorted. And THAT is some serious return-on-investment financial genius rogue trader dodgy hedge fund shit right there. No stumbles, no missteps or stuttering shyness or flowers required. No over-analysis or reading-too-much-into, no vague lines or blurry coke-bottle boundaries, no grim and Aztec crystal pedestals requiring the blood sacrifice of a human heart—to uncaring gods indifferent anyway.

I want a realdoll, with your face on it.

But I give up! On women! For real! Just like a thousand times previously, and like a thousand more times to come.

It's not like I am miserable all the time. Or even most of the time. Cos, mostly I am generally actually pretty much okay, but there are these certain sharp minutes when the earth splits open—fractured chasms gape and gasp—and then, my friends, the lows are very low indeed. The womb of the world is ravenous for love; she sells seashells, and desperately craves the bitter chocolate of our company.

I have only vague memories of writing that last post. I had consumed nearly an entire bottle of vodka at the time (pro-tip: white spirits are the heavy drinkers secret weapon in avoiding the cruel consequences of the inevitably painful morning-after, or, as is more likely, entire next day) and was quite surprised at what I found when, finally, I forced myself to examine the archaeology of my bender. Don't want to worry you people unduly, you know this is just my way of blowing off steam, the all-important safety valve that keeps this poorly manufactured and much abused engine of indifference from overheating and exploding outright in an anti-climatic wheeze or cough. The faded yellow sign sticky taped to the side of the machine still reads: “Caution: contents under pressure” and “Intentional misuse of this device by deliberately concentrating and inhaling contents may (often) prove harmful or fatal (1 in 6 chance).”

You only see the valleys and the peaks. I have given you not my whole soul but only a biopsy, enlarged and exaggerated by the optics of the microscope. One of the reasons why I find the idea of the “mundane” so suspect I guess. The difference between apparent banality and novelty being merely a matter of the amount of repetition.

So how can a cake with so many layers as the inner life of a real person ever fail to be rich and delicious?

Take the frequently overlooked case of the common household door-knob. I don't know how they work. I might hazard a guess as to the workings of the mechanism, but still, I couldn't make one from scratch.

It has really been bothering me. And I really have been thinking a lot about it recently. Unfortunately, I am forced to say, a lot of these uppity feminist bitches come up with is actually, for the most part, pretty much correct. You can fluff around a bit on a periphery a bit. This and that, etcetera, you know. I really did not want this. I did not. Definitely, definitively, absolutely did not want this to happen. But the force! of the argument! there's only so many times you can withstand the persuasive flash! bang! apparent explosion of the truth.

It's made me think. I've been tossing up. Whether I want to be a decent person or not. To be honest, I'm leaning towards, the answer is NO. I mean, you know, everyone likes to think they are decent person generally: But when you actually, exactly, demand to see the list of demands that are put upon you, well! how the hell! you've seen the scroll! what the fuck am I supposedou co to do with this!

I can quite capably justify myself, to myself, at any time you like to ask, but please. sweet jesus, god, don't ask me to justify myself to everyone.

I guess you could call me a nihilist, in so much as these problems scare me as I cower before them, but I kinsda feel like there are no ultimate solutions to these problems, that everything is vanity, all is vanity; vanity, vanity.

But still, bro, I got this cup, that I might fill with empathy; or else disperse to the ground, whatever I felt like.

This cup is not made of clay,, we shape it, we apply our force, direct from of our hands.

Friends! bros, associates... acquaintances, and so forth. I know what you think. I used to think the same thing also. It bothered me for a long time. But I can't deal anymore. And if it's the easy way out, well, fuck it. Cos after ten, twelve, whatever years of this shit I'm really getting sick of feeling unwell. Every day bro, every day of this shit hammering on my head, malicious malformed gnomes of the silver hammer despair beating, beating day at night. I can't cope! By myself! And I no longer care! whether it actually solves anything or not, or whether prozac is just some feel good drug that makes me feel better, because I think I've reached my purchase limit. I reckon this is near the end of train ride. I can longer keep carrying on, carrying on this way I have been previously. All my well worn strings are getting frayed and warned, forgotten anchor ropes forgetting rubbed worn thin.

Shit for me has gone all algebraic. Want to keep making the effort, or x. Don't bother calling cops just yet, this cauldron been bubbling since well before personal.

Let us not forget, despite all this emo expression that: a) I could probably (at any time) beat you into a vague & bloody pulp & b) most definitely, under certain, admittedly relaxed rules, drink you under the table

kiwicon2k8 has been announced!.

So come gets your hax on. Last year was SIMPLY FUCKING AWESOME, and I completely expect this year to be at least as spooge worthy, if not more so. Gotta get my A into G so I can present again, so much fnu.

I am uncertain, that is to say, I am dubious; extremely doubtful, as suspect and suspicious as a handful of apparently free candy from a foul smelling stranger, or the completely unsolicited offer of a ride home from the police.

All I want for Christmas is a girl at least as messed up as I am. And I'm totally, you know, willing to overlook various physical flaws or certain varied pick-n-mix deficits of moral character, even clinically diagnosed personality disorders in return for similar concessions from her side of the fence. Talking allegorically, of course.

Say. Has anyone told you. How beautiful? Well. Yeah. More than once I guess, more than probably. I think I may have, perhaps, retreaded the well worn rubber on that particular line a few too many times already. But! science! has already definitively shown that a omnivore at the point of near starvation will eat pretty much anything. This is exactly what I have been waiting for. The human mind, in extremis . Finally finding that one, special, wonderful person: scouring the mental wards for examples of the limited, finite capacity of the homo-sapient brain stretched far far beyond any previous credibly peer-reviewed breaking point and fallen irrevocably deep deep deep down into the murky bottomless pit of madness, malicious evil and despair. In that case, possibly, I could score. Maybe. It would be a fair throw of dice at least.

Let's go on a date! Set shit on fire. Go rob a grocery store. Do something interesting. They will write our names in the history books, I swear to god, or else we could just scratch them into the paint of the toilet cubicle ourselves. Either/or. It's all okay with me. Sure, I know you might have met a lot of idiots in your time but have you seen idiocy on such a grand scale as I can bring to the table, tell me truthful: have you ever in your life encountered such a blind and wilful ignorance as insanely ambitious as this is?

Dinner and a movie—and I really don't mind if you want to be Clyde, you can wear a suit and I can shave my legs wear a dress and be Bonnie. We'll bring machine guns to the restaurant. Kiss accidentally while eating a single incredibly long strand of spaghetti prepared especially by the chef. Go down in a hail of bullets and then stand back up on our feet again, but I seriously suggest we go to your place, my room is full of vermin.

Has anyone told you how?

Yeah.

I'm willing to bet they have.

Albert Hofmann, 102, \m/, your problem child grew up to be a well respected semiotic terrorist.

Feeling a lot better today. As if the emotional convulsions of the past week had allowed me to vomit up some of the poison or shit out chunks of the parasite. It helps a bunch that I have a significant number of high quality friends, I really do know some real stand up, stand out individuals, and I am truly grateful for each and every one of them. God, I honestly dunno what I'd do without that support network, because, perhaps then, without those people, rather than just being a bit of brain spaz, an occasional mental aberration or cyclic synaptic abnormality, my life in actuality simply would not be worth living.

So thank you.

Sometimes I flip out for no reason. Like a ninja.

I was raised a Christian, fairly hardline—I found Jack Chick tracts in my fathers old room—and I do still read the bible occasionally. Not because I believe in God. Because I don't, because I reckon that lecherous old drunkard passed away quite some time ago and is currently buried with a stake through the heart, wearing a rosary of garlic in an unmarked paupers grave in some barren potters field, far, far out of sight of any church or other place of worship. They don't bury suicides on consecrated ground, or so I've heard, and cirrhosis of the liver is a kind of suicide, or close enough at least.

But I do still read the bible on occasion, in times of trouble, or else when I've hit the liquor, whichever happens to come first. Because that shit is pure poetry. No use denying it, the ringing of this myth resonates through every cell of the Western organism like a microwave oven. Just give me a little Ecclesiastes; and afterwards I will hit the Revelations like a goddamn angry pimp, each finger clearly outlined in gold leaf upon the page.

“hell followed with him”, and it follows with me too. I'm good, I think, at what I do well. Which is causing trouble, raising hurricanes from the egg to the bird to the prey. I try, I'm trying to change, I really am, I swear to God, but, you know, could just as easily ask the bark to change the tree it covers—or the fire to throw up it's coal.

I will live forever and never die, or so I reckon, or calculate, by sexton and starlight and sliderule, cos, like the wandering jew I am cursed with immortality and serve some kinda twisted purpose in the mind of the divine or else (at least) (or maybe, quite probably, at most) his relatives: the otherwise heirs-apparent and assorted far flung second cousins and various descendants of dubious credentials and whatever other varied claimants of implausible and unlikely genealogy to the estate of the celestial realm exist. A good friend of mind once told me that “eating is cheating”, and I really do find myself forced to agree, given the slim-pickings, the limited options available. Vodka! It's what's for dinner. And ritalin, the two twin strings that keep this puppet upright, perhaps a blurry photocopy of a blurry photocopy of a bad facsimile of a hasty shaky sketch of a puppet, just a shadow cast by too many candles, a vague grey smear flickering scared and timid and uncertain on the wall of the living room.

When I was sixteen I tried to hang myself by my belt from a door frame, but I pussied out. It hurt! A lot! Bet you didn't know that Ma. Not unsurprisingly, considering I never mentioned it, to anyone, ever, until now. But not your fault. Or Dad's. I was born with a broken wire in my mind, a dry socket, an unfortunate accidental bad soldering of the neurological variety, some kinda loose mental connection that made me what I am. Bill Hicks sez you should “play from the fucking heart”, and I guess that's exactly what I am trying to do, with whatever few unbroken stings are left of it

Some people, idiots mostly, tell me I can write. They (generally when under the influence of psychotropic and extremely illegal drugs) say I that might have some talent. Well! You know! Thank god! I thought I was totally screwed there for a second. Buy my products. Given five minutes and a pirated copied of microsoft paint I'm sure I could come with some kind of numbered, limited edition, one thousand of a one-of-a-kind never to be re-released obscene digital prints or lead-based sharp cornered action fingers.

The marvellous James Vance travelling circus sideshow and shotgun blast spectacular, have you seen it?

Fuck this shit: I am a goddamn one man symphonic orchestra: I play every tiny violin there is at once. Time to twist my guts inside out, externalise this internal inquiry, get some fucking answers to this double blind placebo controlled randomised questionnaire because my answering machine messengers have always dripped dulcet soothing tones, I got my notes mathematically aligned, like so-many dead ducks in a row, like the entirely coincidental scattergraph of early onset dementia in irritating close friends and wealthy childless relatives.

Anyways. Anyways. Anyways, I wouldn't go out with me either. Got all these people, think I'm some kinda goddamn legend, the things I've done, the lies I've told, the half-truths I've managed to get believed and the deeds I've somewhat implausibly “apparently” achieved, at least accordingly to common rumor or monograph, but it, you know, it always stemmed and flowed and raved and ranted from the person shaped hole I have inside me, this endless sucking emptiness that exists just one sixth of inch beneath the surface of my skin.

If there was easy access to guns in this country I think I would have been dead ten years ago.

As it is, as it is I think I might just take out a metric fuck-load of life insurance and go provoke some half-sentient borderline psychopath into knifing me in the guts.

I'm kinda drunk. Might go pass out. Me and a bottle of vodka, I think we've had a worthwhile chat. A hunch, a hope, a sting, a scratch. If was a really a prophet, then trust me, all your sticks would already be snakes.

About that last post. Yeah, I was drunk, and I tend to exaggerate when I drink. Totally a gesture, rather than anywhere near the real deal. You know how it is. My head, never the calmest storm at the best of times, is a bit topsy-turvey upside-down pudding right now. I recently went back on the filthy old prozac, and am also cutting back my drug use from "almost godlike" to merely somewhat excessive. As if this isn't sexually suspect enough, I'm also considering going to counselling (!) which I fear will put me quite clearly far, FAR over the border of fruitland and deep into all-the-way-gay territory.

I'd rather just forget all about it, to be honest. Let's put those things that have occurred chronologically previously to now firmly in the past. I'm a dick, you're a dick, he's a cock, she's a cock. Each of us terrible people in our own unique and special ways.

Friend of mine comes up to me, sez he really, really agrees with everything I said in my last post. Like I was some kind of spiritual guide, some guru, a gourmet of those tastes as yet unsavoured by the mortal to1ngue. Which I find, well, kinda funny actually, considering I was actively attempting to OD at the time. Heh. Heh. You know how it is. Life is complicated. Nothing more embarrassing in the world than a failed suicide attempt. Sweet jesus, can’t even get that right. Okay, I admit, I exaggerate. To tell the truth: it was more of a general ambivalence as to whether I woke up the next day or not. The same uncaring indifference the sun, that great, irrefutable, brute immoral fact, shines down on all of us. Nothing I did mattered a shit damn anyway, no great loss and nothing to cry about.

We'll see, I guess. I guess we’ll see tomorrow.

We! We are wild, and absolutely anything possibly conceivable could happen, and does, and frequently. We are scavengers, feral dogs, eaters of carrion and left over table-scraps. We, you, me; them and yours and each of us, as overgrown and untamed as the bottom of the ocean. Say: ever have one of those days where you feel like a complete failure? Yeah. Me neither. Intelligence being a verb not a noun, a continual flowing action rather than just a static state; and inspiration! inspiration moves quick, runs fast, is swiftly fleet of foot and must