Time fades into a meaningless peripheral of emptiness. The wealth of inebriation gives breath to all the underfed wastelands of youth. So excited over that sound….Sounded like music, but wasn’t quite the alternative. Lights should be blue, green and flowery for something like that. It’s okay. This love weighs sixty men.

Baile. Deimhnigh Iarratais looks better than its English equivalent. Haven’t played Maple Story in a long time. I would get the game going but….Computer is in bad shape now and wish I hadthe chance to get more. Can’t believe there’s no work until April 13th. They must be mad to think a person who was solely reliant on that sort of income could survive. Thank God for artwork.

Got letter from Deborah. Need to write…Write. Wright? Right. Wright Brothers or Right Brothers? Which witch is with which? Strange language. Snickers bars probably won’t get eaten. Finally found out that I can eat peanuts after allergy treatment and find out that I don’t *like* peanuts. Irony is key to a productive universe.

Productivity. Some people so consumed by the concept that they get so caught up in productivity that they aren’t being productive by forgetting to live. Know a person like that. Has a name…Have a name. Like having a dream. Dreams get shot and bleed out on the pavement as people watch. Nail needs to get cut before it cuts into something.

Click, clack the keys. Show Christina your…Why would I want to do that? Ads have no real relevance.

Grow your business. That’s a bit like throwing little seeds into a dirt pile and hoping you grow more than just dirt. In old New York, if I can….start it there, I can finish it anywhere. It’s up to Bill Gates, Bill Gates, Bill Gates. Throw in a string section and you have a hit.

If a Profile takes more hits than a stoner with LSD, does that make you high on Facebook or just high on…Internet? Poor Al Gore. Really did have some influence on making the Internet worldwide, but just gets made a fool out of because his wording sucks. He’s also delusional. Delusions of grandeur. Like Chewbacca. But only according to Han Solo. Since when did falcons become millennial? And if Mos Eisley were more like Detroit would there be more blaster shootings in cantinas or less?

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Can’t believe I forgot about that. Wonder how many times Mom needs to ask same question before she understands same answer. Fifteen times, at least. Minimum. Security. Prisons, lots of prisons. Maybe there is something to be said for prison food. Certainly tastes better than rat stew. Though that has its merits when cooked properly. Wait a minute, how the hell would I know? Ah, right. The squirrel stew. That was pretty tasty. Must be about the same.

Less entrails. Like aliens. They eat them, don’t they? No leftovers. What a bummer. Nothing to bury.

Funeral pies instead of funeral pyres. That’s appetizing.

Deep, dark depression. Like sitting inside of a dark hole and seeing something that looks like light above you, but you don’t trust your own eyes and believe it’s just darkness in disguise again. Everything is what it looks like, but isn’t because you see it wrong.

Can’t understand why people get so uptight when you tell them that their message was false. It didn’t have any bearing on their life before, so why, when contradicted, do it seem to hold all the importance in the world? Cookies are much, much simpler to deal with. If you don’t like what they have to say, you eat them. Cannibalism is not in style these days.

Tackling dogs. Waste of time. Think you’re playing with them.

Gone are the days of enjoying playing Hangman. It no longer holds the appeal. Even drawing a caricature of someone you hate who is playing the hanged man doesn’t make you happy any more. Hanging goats. Now THAT’S pretty funny.

Not literally.

I love goats.

Performance. Theatre lights have eggs. Why theatre lights have eggs is impossible to….Two turn tables and a microphone. Pop culture references are getting annoying. Wish I could get the train that is my mind back on its track. Trains lead to tracks which come from heroin use which is perpetrated by hard times which could almost be the same as smashing a clock with a boulder. Hard. Time.

Whites of their eyes. If Bunker Hill were wearing leg warmers, would it be ….Top. Tops. Fifteen hours of pure hell and frustration always brings about something you never wanted to know. But if you found out….Disappointment? Rage? Acceptance? Which is the direction to follow when you can’t pave your own path? Trees are too thick.

Strategy in everyday life. Prodigious lady bugs. Lady bugs in formation always run in single file to hide their numbers. Two million points after the fact and no one has won the game. Yet. Games were never meant to be won, only played. That’s the whole point of a game. Winning is only a goal if the ….Conquest. Conquest in B flat. Sounds like failure in B sharp. Can’t play B sharp. Only C. Hence, failure. It’s always complete.

White is purity but black is completeness. Completely. Bushwacked is what half the nation is. Not presidentially speaking, though that would be appropriate, but more of a single identity phased into the mindset of a nation, not the actions. What the hell am I talking about? I’m not even talking. Thinking. Will this brain ever turn off? Off switch.

End. Omega. Absolute zero. Greater than. > Symbols of oppression.

Johnny Cow. Johnny’s cow. Would be funny is Johnny had a cow. A theatrical cow. Like Bessie. Onstage, doing a jig in a short skirt and tights that barely qualify.

Shouldn’t be such a hard thing to accomplish.  Sleep.  Eyes close, brain shuts off, eight hours goes by like nothing.  But all I hear is TIK-TIK-TIK in the middle of the night.  Wide open eyes, breathing not-so-slow, totally away at 3am after only attempting to hit the sack at 1am.

Naps are for old folk and little children.   It’ll be 2pm and I will be napping.  I think that makes me old, but my proficiency with all things LEGO and Star Wars says otherwise.

Three snakes.  Coiled.  Under my hand. All drinking mint tea and wishing for a simpler future.

>blank<

>blink<

This mind-jumble is getting to be a little old.  Perhaps the desert rose on the front porch is to blame - it’s sucking away my soul.  Thanks a whole lot Sting.  Thanks, Cheb Mami.

Oh and thanks to Daler Mendhi for choosing my wedding song in the future.  Whether he knows it or not, I’ll be dancing to Tunak Tunak in a dress one day.  Or not.  Do I need hooves for that?

So.
Aptitude.
Lost.

There are two minutes to go and the horses are out of the gate, the Fiat’s in the driveway and the queue is definitively on hold.  All bets are off.  Two Tuesdays into a Sunday and I still haven’t managed to find my happy Mondays.

The sanctity of patience is wasted on the dumb and blind. Fools. Edger Allen Poe had it better. Maybe Hunter Thompson got it right. Was that a .45? Or a .38? Nah. Probably .45. Colt. Yeah. Tragic. Mysterious portraits all fall in line in the walls that are made up of my mind. Schmitt would be a terrible name to have if one could only…Change.

Pennies. Lots of them. Need to roll them. Wish I’d thought of it earlier.

3 foot perimeter. Big, yellow and dirt-moving. Earth. Earth-changes. There’s change again. Starting to sound like Obama speeches in here. Possible MACK truck. Bulldogs. Bulldogs are cool but no fun to cuddle. Feels like cuddling Al Pacino. Definitely wrong.

Johnny…Don’t think about him. That’s a bad idea. Could ruin a perfectly good moo—-oh, there it goes. Miss him. Aoífe. Would probably call girl Aoífe and boy after Johnny. None of that John crap. Straight Johnny. Probably won’t have kids any way. Don’t like diapers. The dirty kinds. Ew. Fixing….

….a hole where the rain gets in. Stops my mind from ….Well, no, my mind will continue to wander. Don’t think that’ll stop any time soon. Wish my brain had an off switch. Sometimes this all gets….so….

…..blank. Blanker than a plank on a ship named Smack. Why would a ship be named Smack? Smack like drugs? Smack like Smacky from Get Fuzzy? Smack like crack like knick-knack like flack? Flack that you get from corporate officials for doing exactly what they tell you to by not doing what they said. Which makes you prime for the market. You’ve been had.

Thunderstorms. Lots of them. All writhing around in this cacophony of wails that makes up my head. It’s like short disillusioned men running around banging pots and pans along an electric fence: altogether too dangerous, but fun. Way too noisy, but calming. Completely impractical for getting your brain in order, but there’s a part of you that believes it’s doing just that.

There’s a harp on my guitar. There shouldn’t be - that’s inter-instrument mixing. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal in most places. But if it is, how the hell were balalaikas made? Hmm. Definitely something fishy going on here.

I really want to catch those bastards in my ponds. Bet they taste like the water smells, but I still want to catch them. Preferably not by tickling this time. And preferably not because my ring is in one of their gullets.

Why won’t this thunderstorm stop? At least create some lightning. Do something other than pound away in my head. It’s much worse than…I’m not really sure I’m equipped to become someone’s savior. You can’t save someone when you have barely begun to save yourself.

It reminds me of Stabbing Westward. But I don’t think anyone pities me, nor would I want them to.

‘My life has been a nightmare

My soul is fractured to the bone

And if I must be lonely,

I think I’d rather be alone.’

Yes, definitely Stabbing Westward. I knew I liked them for something.

Freaking goats.

Dreams of Bon Jovi being stuck in my basement. Richie Sambora filtering up through the base of the chimney and out like so much smoke. Mr. Bluesman traipsing down a River of Love via the Church of Desire. Lawful heads all combine to form the most digusting milk I’ve ever tasted…Which is saying something, because I don’t like milk to begin with. Though I would happily drink blue milk.

Because it’s Star Warsian. Warsian. Timbuktoo-ian? What makes something an -ian as opposed to an -er? Er. Er. Her. She’s gone mad. But I’ve not gotten that far down yet. Sonar. Pulverizer. Like meat, only with fish. Which would be meat, except it’s fishy.

Fishy like Bob Dole.

Like Dole fruits. Fruit wasn’t meant to come in a can. SPAM comes in a can. Fruit grows on trees and stays there until it rots or is plucked by those too smart to buy canned fruit.

Red and black. Good colour combo. Terrible for a partially rotten apple. Reminds me of…Volcanoes. Which remind me of Joe. I knew a Joe once. A Joe Guido. He was a little furtive. Gave me two big Star Wars Marvel comic books from way back when. Bought a bunch of McFarlane figures off of him. Wonder what happened to that guy.

Tuck. Tuck and run. Tuck and Hood. Tuck is a buck which looks like Huck Finn. Wonder if Huckleberry is Finnish. That’d be a trip. Sometimes Craigslist says other…..

…..Clipboard. Maximum price. Maximum gear. Solid. This is bull*&^ of the finest quality.

Smells like mushrooms.

Cleared up in the breadth of fifteen minutes. Nothing you say from here on out will ever make any more sense and it all plays out like the best thing in the world. Time never seemed to be an issue before - always felt as though I had much more of it than everyone else. How the Hell else would I be able to cram so much into a single day?

But now this time is working against me because I’m dealing with someone else’s time in addition to my own. My time enters a negative zone. I still think I’m coming out on top.

Who buys their kid a monkey for his fifth birthday? Really? And then shoots it in the head? Come on, now…

Need to get my creative flow up and running again. It’s stopped like a bad drain. Need to pull out the Chewbacca-sized lump of hair that’s making me unable to process anything requiring an abstract thought.

Ugh. I think a had a birthday party at McDonald’s for my fifth birthday. I remember not liking it. Too many kids I didn’t even know all that well. I would have rathered had my party in the woods instead of wearing those horrible cardboard crowns.

It never works to have five worms and a medicine cabinet all in the same place. Could you imagine…Stupid phone keeps ringing. I don’t know how people can function when the phone rings off the hook all the time. All that wasted time just spent answering a thing that, in the long run, has no real social value. My book is ready. Ready? No. Ordered and in. Sweet. Finally get to see what happens at the end. Wonder if Nik will want to watch the end of that Robin Hood series tonight. He’ll probably be too tired. Elephants. They never get the spotlight unless they’re stupid. Like Dumbo. Stupid phones - stupid elephants. April 3rd.

Why am I concerned with April 3rd? I don’t think there’s anything going on - oh. OH! That’s what it was. Nevermind. Guess I’ll have to keep better track of my dates. Speaking of dates, I haven’t had one in a while. Maybe will have to take him out to a play when he gets back. Assuming, of course, I’m not already AT said play and doing something. Good grief, how did my life end up so hectic? And complicated?

I think it’s been this way since I was 13 and am only now reminiscing on the “good old days” when all I had to worry about was having a cooler lunchbox than the kid sitting next to me. (Inevitably a boy, because…Let’s face it. I was a little girl and wanted to be one of the boys. Wonder if it’s that subconscious wanting to belong to the male crowd that led me to going to school for auto mechanics, or if that was a genuine ingrained interest. Wonder if it’s a blood trait and not just an environmental pick-up. Wonder, wonder, wonder.)

Can’t seem to understand streaming audio programs. Simplicity is key, or was it that sometimes…Freakin’ A! Does this notification bar ever turn off? I can’t believe I finally got through those books. They were indescribably horrible. Having flashbacks of Rusty from Twister. What the heck do I want to think of that guy for?

Fifty-eight bottles of beer on the wall…

Ray, George, Seth, Gemima, Geo…Geo? Geo Challenge. Challenge to a race, or maybe five. What about Imperial insignias? Draw, oh right. Calling card. Like the Joker. But with a white tunic. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous…Mice. And men. Or just mice. Rats taste better with seasoning. Black Plague ruined everything. Seth can’t be associated with Texas. Doesn’t make sense. Four hicks and a barrel of clowns makes more sense than Seth equals Texas.

Christ that’s a long tone. Probably should change my A/C adapter before that box blows up or burns a hole in the floor.