Quality is an old enemy of mine -- especially when walking hand-in-hand with Consistency.
Correction: Quality is an old lover of mine. And, Consistency is pissed.
At least, that's what I fear: that I'll make something good once. And then, never again. But really, this blog is in its pupal stages. For those of you that lack formal education: that's the stage where shit's fucking gross. That's about where I am, and I'm worried that grossness will never fade.
That being said, I'm still excogitating the details of what exactly this whole thing.... is. This... blog thing. It's new to me -- at least in a capacity that doesn't inspire rage. I'm like a college freshman with a naked body in front of me. I've gotten her this far... now what? I'll decide eventually, but probably not anytime soon.
For the time being, I'll post whatever the hell I feel like posting. Mostly drivel. Imagine a cocktail of 1 part 151 rum, 1 part inanity, 2 parts ire, 1 part poop jokes, and just a dash of molten truth (because there's nothing truer than poop). That's me -- all classy, slightly flammable, and kinda shitty.
Today's posting involves two things: the defenestration of certain lexemes, and music. We'll start with music, because music is fun.
This is what I am listening to. It is good.
Music: done. So, there are two words in particular that I have voluntarily defenestrated from my vocabulary. Yes, that's right. I picked those fuckers up by the nape of the neck and cast them out a window. It was a good break-up -- I told them, "it's you.... not me." "Epic" and "Fail" were their names.
I knew them well once upon a time. We were friends -- lovers even. And then, along came the internet. These words are so frequently and infuriatingly misused that I often consider carrying an eggbeater with me at all times. This is so that when I hear a frat-boy (realistically, it could be just any old person, but it helps me to think of this person as someone that already evokes my fury rather than my own kinsman) say, "Duuuuuude, last night was so epic!" I can produce said eggbeater from my coat pocket, I will then proceed to brandish it on high as I make eye contact with this boy, drop my pants and proceed to squash it into my own ass. My eye contact with this person will never falter, and I'll whisper, "you're doing this to my language." Alas, it is my deepest regret that I have but one asshole to give for my country. Thus, this dream will never come to fruition.
Understatement: it puts hair on your chest.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
First.
I've only created a blog one other time in my life. It was for a class. On shit literature. I hated it. And thus, I hated the blog by proxy. The class inevitably ended, and I ended my blogging. However, and this is more and more becoming a very real and somewhat daunting -fact-, the blogosphere seems to be a sort of gateway drug to bigger and better things. Thus, I've decided to reopen the case.
As with my shit lit. class, I hate most things. I listed this among my interests when creating this blog. In fact, it is my only listed interest. I then discovered that I share said interest with other people. There are three of us. The others are quite old. I'm considering the possibility of organizing a meetup, as their remaining time on this earth is likely short. Thinking further, I realize that none of us would enjoy it -- probably.
Like a nervous adolescent in a rented tuxedo, I feel the need to explain my intentions. Anymore, I have little to few to no avenues for writing. Having recently moved, I've entered that awkward stage of establishing new connections and friendly ties. Typically, I would do this through work and/or school. But, as I am no longer in school, that is difficult, and as I am a personal trainer, I don't exactly have co-workers with whom I can get all chummy and whatnot. It's a bit of a weak feeling. Like non-auto non-erotic asphyxiation (which is the bad kind). You know... weak. So, I figured I'd fire this puppy up, put a little lead in the air, and see was flows over. Additionally, I feel a sense of well... necessity. I don't, and won't, consider what I do here to be "work," in fact I almost never "work," but I can see the words of the world -- and they need to be read. Aloud.
Now, before your disbelief sets in and you start shooing me away, suspend it just a bit longer.
Look at your corner. It doesn't matter which. The nearest, easiest-to-look-at-without-snapping-your-neck corner will do. Then, gradually let your eyes go out of focus like you're looking at one of those hidden picture puzzles. You will not see a schooner, or anything else like it. Stay like this until you see it. Something different. Something more than a corner. Chances are you won't, because you're not me, but try anyway. Trying is important. I can see them (the words), yet I've never met anyone else that can. Words that sit together in heaps and build all the things. They make our world real. And, as with all words, someone had to write them. Someone wrote your room. They sat down and wrote "There... was... a... corner."
"There was an orange coffee mug, a laptop with two USB attachments, a nearly empty green water bottle, an empty jar of peanut butter with the spoon still inside, a red pen, and a box of business cards on his desk" is what I see in front of me.
The fabric of space and time and quantum mechanics and voodoo and whatever deity thinks this horseshit is important is composed of and around... words. Written by who-the-hell-knows. The Author. But, I can see them. And, I'll show you.
Eventually.
As with my shit lit. class, I hate most things. I listed this among my interests when creating this blog. In fact, it is my only listed interest. I then discovered that I share said interest with other people. There are three of us. The others are quite old. I'm considering the possibility of organizing a meetup, as their remaining time on this earth is likely short. Thinking further, I realize that none of us would enjoy it -- probably.
Like a nervous adolescent in a rented tuxedo, I feel the need to explain my intentions. Anymore, I have little to few to no avenues for writing. Having recently moved, I've entered that awkward stage of establishing new connections and friendly ties. Typically, I would do this through work and/or school. But, as I am no longer in school, that is difficult, and as I am a personal trainer, I don't exactly have co-workers with whom I can get all chummy and whatnot. It's a bit of a weak feeling. Like non-auto non-erotic asphyxiation (which is the bad kind). You know... weak. So, I figured I'd fire this puppy up, put a little lead in the air, and see was flows over. Additionally, I feel a sense of well... necessity. I don't, and won't, consider what I do here to be "work," in fact I almost never "work," but I can see the words of the world -- and they need to be read. Aloud.
Now, before your disbelief sets in and you start shooing me away, suspend it just a bit longer.
Look at your corner. It doesn't matter which. The nearest, easiest-to-look-at-without-snapping-your-neck corner will do. Then, gradually let your eyes go out of focus like you're looking at one of those hidden picture puzzles. You will not see a schooner, or anything else like it. Stay like this until you see it. Something different. Something more than a corner. Chances are you won't, because you're not me, but try anyway. Trying is important. I can see them (the words), yet I've never met anyone else that can. Words that sit together in heaps and build all the things. They make our world real. And, as with all words, someone had to write them. Someone wrote your room. They sat down and wrote "There... was... a... corner."
"There was an orange coffee mug, a laptop with two USB attachments, a nearly empty green water bottle, an empty jar of peanut butter with the spoon still inside, a red pen, and a box of business cards on his desk" is what I see in front of me.
The fabric of space and time and quantum mechanics and voodoo and whatever deity thinks this horseshit is important is composed of and around... words. Written by who-the-hell-knows. The Author. But, I can see them. And, I'll show you.
Eventually.
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