Back to the mushroom caps, back to the beer swilling, back to Tuesday, back to warehouses, the jet-set. The taste of garlic, is one of the greatest tastes there are. There is something wrong with the taste of butter, however. The script is finished, the production, rolling, everything is taking place, cut and dry. The actors have been chosen, the settings, shirts, scenes in the car, and that other place, all of this. I do skip a few steps, but time is of the essence, and the ideas, impressions, are all that need to be gotten across, anyway, the general idea. Then, I walked into the hardware store, and asked for spray on glue, that's all I purchased there. Give me ethics (WOO-HOO)! Flip the notebook over, and read the other shit, then. This experiment, regarding behavioral change, and the expected ramifications, hopes, vague, battle plans, without any weapons. So, I do want to be a priest, but, never will be, because I don't believe, won't believe, and really never have. It still shouldn't be kept a secret, though, that I do want to be a priest. This is one of many, many, many, paradoxical absurdities, that flit through my mind, on a daily basis! Love is difficult shit to squeeze/strain, out. Do not be nice. It isn’t here, it is missing. One thing, does not necessarily, lead to another. Worms are too expensive. In a way, a car crash, is exciting. I am asking that you buy this book, not just flip through. Jail is always interrupting my periods of growth, and development. Don’t let it wreck you. All the yelling and screaming, this has caused. There are no guarantees, things seem to come down to, true needs, which are usually, givens, anyhow. Stay away from Birmingham. I invented a whole series of new dances. Estimates, and inspections, are free, but read the fine print. The myths, and folklores, will always be around, to confuse the issues, to fuck up the reality, of everything The casket is lowered into the cold, wet, ground, after, and only after, all the mourners have left the bier. The workers don't even know there's a body inside, the boss says put the stiff in the ground, and that's what the fellas do. The ground is dug up, the casket is slowly, lowered underground, to rot away. Study the system, the embankment, the accordion, inspiration, incoherence. We are required to do everything, twice (at least). It is a slow go, indeed. I am far, too, far gone, it's been so long, too long, it's too late, I hate you, I love you, I don't know you, yet, leave me alone, don't do so, I'm not sure. This is so simple, too simple, really, and, o.k., I accept it, parts of it, anyway, and make no bones about it (most of the time). Even when penniless, there were people around, to lend me cigarettes, there was always something, someone. I do get dramatic, very dramatic, at times... so, take this with a grain of salt. There, once again; is the rape dream, and it's interpretation, being rather too odd, and peculiar. The creative impulse screams, until it finds actual expression, "psychics" tell you, that you're not getting proper nutrition, or that there's something wrong with your arms, or feet. To put something into words, is difficult, never impossible. And if the power could be achieved, that is what I'd do, and that, and that, and that. No, thanks, but I don't need any help, or guidance, advice, or medication, it's here, I'm it, and at this point, it's just a matter of time. I will have a long obituary, I will eat in restaurants, seven days a week, if I feel like it, I will contribute, to the sheriff's, auxiliary fund, I will be, and this, will be, and that, and the rest of it, as well. The volume will be turned up, and there won't be anyone, next door, to pound on the walls. Bored, boring? Yes, and no, maybe, maybe not. We enjoy amateur videos, of unmarried men, and women, engaging in sexual intercourse. Manic, delusionary phases, perhaps. I absolutely, positively, refuse to fail. In a sense, you know, I am, and am not, think this, so, and that, is such, and really, they both, are, and aren't. The ignorance, versus virtue, arguments, specialness, or uniqueness, versus the commonality, ordinariness. For I have been down, written the Bible, and now, the only thing left to do, is to live. Our anuses, in flames. Thankfully, I know how, and maybe, just maybe, can be some sort of example, to someone, somewhere, someday, maybe. No (you’ll see) accompaniment, the lesson plan’s pitched, dim the lights, slink. Too fat to masturbate? I feel nothing.
What dichotomy? It's over, over, and done. He spoke of running up the Geiger counter, with his factory wife. He spoke, also, of the amusement park rides of everyday life, but, that was sort of a different story, altogether. The most interesting quotes, in the book of quotations, are attributed to no one, they state, anonymous, as their authors. What's the use of, "going out west"? It seems as if it's the same, everywhere. Who was last night's, little darling? Slam the creep into the fake, wooden walls (that were really plastic). If you knew the exceptionally normal, stuff, that I read, you, too, would be a little bit surprised, at why I write the way I do. I'll never know you, but, I do like you, reader. We have a kind of relationship, you see. I wrote this for myself, but also, for you, we've screwed, in a way. So there were slow thrusts, and more insistent, sexual overtures, I ended up on the floor, grabbing at the wooden chair, tangled up with the chair, I got caught with my pants down, tried to cover it up, hide it, act as if nothing had happened, with my ass sticking up in the air. This is the dream that I feel, even though I know, that it's all in my head, attributable to bed sores, too little movement, and physical exercise. Some things, and days, are more upsetting, than others. Overlooked, slighted, thrown into the dump, like an old, rusted out, air conditioner, from 1973. All my problems, stem from, sleeping, at night. Sometimes, we're sure we've finally made up our minds, when we really haven't. This was supposed to go a different way, from the way it’s gone. Why is this happening? Often, the mistakes we make, whether benevolent, or malignant, right, or wrong; are irreversibly doomed, to be vacillated back, and forth, in between, with no real, forward momentum. That previous sentence, didn't make sense, because I don't make sense, even though I try, very hard. Lately, I've been thinking of the past, quite a bit, different people I knew, dare I say, loved? Nothing can bring them back, although, they're not dead, and I'm not dead, they're gone, just the same. I never claimed to be abducted by aliens, only, that something strange, happened, one night. Just change everything, now. No matter what I do, it's not enough, no matter who I am, I'd rather not be. And, to just observe, it's too hard, too much. It's the same, all the same, everything, everywhere. Life sure can be bleak, self-help books, notwithstanding. Never mind, really. Although I try, as I might, what I try to get across, doesn't. You tore apart my life, ruined me. Basically, the reason for this, is that I don't really want it brought out, and I don't know what it is. It's sort of like how we "come back," to an enlightened position, after months, or years, of pseudo- even, outright, unconsciousness. Deny having met me, or tell the tabloid, all you've witnessed. I have very little control, over anything that happens to me, and very little control over what I, myself, do, to be honest. The reason is due to the self-determining, and environmental, constrictions, all over the place. It's easy to see why you're stuck, by reading Skinner, and the behaviorists, but not how to get out of it. No answers are ever given, in any book, you care to mention, no real answers, no possible counterinstances. No, tonight would not be a good night to drink, nor, to even think about, drinking. Most, even all, of us, have within ourselves, more pure honey (if it exists), than we can possibly, ever give out. The secret side of people, is the only one that’s acceptable. Why? Because we don't ever give it out, or, we do, for a while, but then, we can't, or just let it sit, unused. Like slugs on a pole, there is no damn “comfort.” We fuck, once a week, a cold, wet, ridiculous, fuck, in the dark. We didn’t go to the festival, this year. I think that's the difference, between me, and them, but of course, it isn't. The only thing to live for, the saints say, is to die. I offer no solutions, I just define the problems, much like, all of the supposed, purveyors of knowledge. It's a gleepy, little look that I give, to show admiration. I told her it needed a code book, and it does, or it did, at that time. I can't quite hear the drawbridge opening, and closing, the gears, grinding, the nerves aren't wired to the proper places. Somehow, sometimes, the floodgates, sort of open. I am going to get you, let this be your final warning. It will start spinning. Dot com yourself, off. I decided to shrink down the whole frickin’ thing. We’ll pay, when we can.
