1 possible explanation: an increase in lame stimuli - bad tv, office job, dreary weather and shitty classes. at least i am wearing a scarf. aye.
anyways, mark this (my words) on a calendar of some sort! i have achieved a personal victory - I am online WHILE AT WORK! sorry for those of you with jobs in the fast-paced coffee-making world (tom you do not need to explain any further! :) smiley face) but i am now officially THAT GUY. hey i have put in my time (3 years) in the fast-food industry. Distributed jean pants into boxes for 9 straight hours and even cleaned bathrooms at a large concert venue. so i allow myself to pat myself on the back .....and relax. STOP. here is that sentence again in poem form:
i allow myself
to pat myself
on the back.
well i am writing an entry just for a lark because i am being paid 6.50 an hour. but there is no aim on this comp as of yet. however my associate Christine (...pause while i think of a celebrity to describe her....FUCK I WILL HAVE TO USE WORDS.
bob marley, jimmi hendrix and jessica simpson fan
checked out two seasons of the bachelor, the cbs, nbc (scrubs is TUES @ 9:30) fox and abc websites and some mitch hedberg quotes.a. time well spent b. time poorly spent c.six dollars for a conversation about my big fat obnoxious fiance and that cameron clearly wants brad!> I sporadically burst out with multiple choice hits so pay attention!
poem by e.e.cummings (in a genius move had his name officially changed to all lower-case)
here's e.e.cummings writing about his writing:
"At least my theory of technique, if I have one, is very far from
original; nor is it complicated. I can express it in fifteen words, by
quoting The Eternal Question And Immortal Answer of burlesk, viz.
"Would you hit a woman with a child?--No, I'd hit her with a brick."
in other news the misgivings about mine and Thrasher's relationship have abounded again.
Here is an example of what el-oh-vee-eey should be:
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.
(that is again, from an e.e. cummings poem)
here's a lesser example, but relevant nevertheless:
And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,
in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.
ofcourse these are not mine and thrasher's. ours is a pale and hungover love that gets fired from its job due to lack of ethic.
i will keep you updated. i should also mention it is technically not a Love since both members have yet to delegate it as such. our one-year anniversary is in a matter of weeks. here is a thought directly related to the last one: anniversary is most likely derived from the french word annee which means a year. so couples who celebrate their 'anniversaries' monthly are officially bullshit. whoops sorry G_ _ _ . no offense.
here is something for nathan and keenan who vaguely participated in the vague debate about whether math was art.
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what's happening,
it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
from bob hicok again. Old Battersea bridge was a bridge over Thames River linking Battersea to Chelsea in north-west England. It was the subject of a Painting by whistler. at this point I am simply wasting time at work and it feels as delicious as a ripe cheeto.
get this: i have midterms tues, wed, and thurs! plus a poem due wednesday. why did I take such a retarded winter quarter! 2 poetry classes and a class about art and pop music???
so long. farewell. i have to toot.