People just don't seem to get it.

UGH

SO I just filed an LJ Abuse report for the first time in three years. It's actually rather sad, that people are so inclined to make fun of you for looks on the internet. It's like, most of these people wouldn't even have the guts to say shit to your face in real life. They're all closeted, introverted, dummies. But whatever.

Moving on: I wrote another poem today. Squee!

My heart moves fast
faster and faster when
you are around
It palpitates and skips a beat
My inner demons released
All in the name of love
All in your name
I love you, Brandon
And I don't love anyone

...

else.

Oh no wonder

When you vote for a guy named after a women's genitalia he ends up looking for weapons of mass destruction in places they don't exist. He ends up looking like a baboon and desecrating the White House with his stupidity. He ends up dragging everything down in the dirt and fucking us all over with a steel bar.



Then you start to feel bad for yourself. You start to feel bad for being so stupid as to elect a baby kitten eating monster as your president. You start to feel so bad that you need a little masturbation and you masturbate TOO much and your balls turn blue and, well...



And now you really feel bad. You know no girl is ever going to want to fondle your balls. You know you will never end up zipping your pants up again. You know your life is over and your human instincts to reproduce have been canceled out.



Then in a fit of rage you grab up all your mom's prescription pills from the kitchen, lose yourself in the moment and down every last one of them like Dawson in that movie where he downs a lot of pills. You die, ironically with small balls again. The moral of the story? Don't vote Bush, especially if you're in Florida. I know a pansy named Francis teaching everybody a lesson down there. Don't vote Bush.



Smoke pot instead.

Look at these shoes.




These are some of the ugliest shoes I have ever seen. I was surfing through zappos.com and I came upon these these, these things. They're made by All Day I Dream About Sex. I think I vomited inside my stomach when I saw these them. First of all, they chose the ugliest colors ever for a pair of shoes. Shiny chrome and red, I really thought chrome was for the rusty plumbing in your kitchen. But I guess I could be wrong. It looks like some alien took a radiactive dump in a ditch somewhere and an Adidas rep came by and snatched up what was left. Look at the bottom of the shoes. What is going on there? You're like standing on eight mini heels. Some shitty hybrid cross between a pair of six inch pumps and soccer cleats. These shoes can't seem to make up their mind. What are they? Would you wear them every day? Where would you wear them?


Guess how much these things cost?





Two hundred and thirten bucks. Yes, I shat my pants too.

There’s a certain attribution I give to LiveJournalers.

First you have the day in the lifers. “This is what I did today. I got my hurr did and my nails done. I sat on the toilet for a while and a tiny piece of poop came out. It was light brown and it floated. So the doctor says I have healthy poop. Me and Rhonda went to the store today to get weaves for are stink ass hair. I saw Johnny at school and he looked at me. But I didn’t look at him back.” These people tend to be the most annoying people in the world. I don’t care if Johnny put a hole in your jeans with his staring eyes. Either spice that dry mess up or your'e off the F-list.

Then you have the deep and meaningful writers. “The actions of my mind aren’t necessarily systemic to functions of my body. I can’t control my extremities due to unforeseen anomalies ergo failure. Failure to recognize the at enmities a la body soul and mind connections.” I hate people who write like this. It’s not like anyone can understand what it is that you’re saying. I have no damn clue what “at enmities” is and I’m not about to dictionary.com that shit yo. Just speak in normal tones like the sane people.

Then there are the so obviously contrived journals. People will spend five hours just looking for the pictures to enhance their posts. Then they’ll come up with some long drawn at scenario using the fabulous of fabulous words. These people usually have a Friend’s of list backed up to Djibouti. Well I don’t want a Friend’s list backed up to Djibouti. I want my bouti right here and if your bouti happens to tag along, fair enough. But the Dji is staying where it is. Don’t expect anything under the name of reciprocation.

Then there are the funny LiveJournalers who crack the wisest jokes and have the wittiest entries. You know these people most be hella funny in real life. I read a journal the other day that had me on the floor for minutes at a time. Those are the types of journals I like reading best. The ones that make you spit out your soda pop in hilarity every now and then, again. The ones that make your side ache double over in pain. I would have sex with each and every single funn e-persona on the web. Girl or guy. Seriously man. Seriously.

Fallen.

As I was singing the Batman song on my way to class today, what should fall from the skies right in front of me. It’s a bird, no it’s a plane, no it’s Superman! Actually it was a bird. A fallen comrade from his snuggly little nest up in the Berenstein Bears house. Those bear lived in a tree you know. It twitched and twittered on the ground. I felt so bad for it. A part of me wanted to rip out my heart and give it to him. A part of me, the other part was away getting wasted in Cancun scamming all the fat chicks from the blind dude.

What should I do? I was so merrily on my class, singing the Batman song when such a situation occurred. Should I go to class and allow this bird to die. Or get run over by the vehement monsters on their bicycles? Or should I pick it up, hope I don’t get rabies, and whisk it away to my dorm where I can’t care for it, but I can try caring for it with the nonexistent bird caring items. Or should I take it to the Vet Med building and see what they can do for the little birdie boo.

I chose the latter being the nice guy I am and all. I couldn’t let what could be me in the next lifetime lay on the streets of a foreign land and breathe his or her last breath away. I had to do something. So I gathered up my stuff and sang my Batman song and headed off to the Vet Med. Who needs Psychology class first thing in the morning, am I right? So the people at the Vet Med building took the little birdie in nice and fine. I hope they care for that poor sucker well, or I’ll wish a tornado upon their houses and families.

I did my good deed for the day. I have done well and I am proud of myself. I saved a bird’s life and skipped class with a good reason. God man up above will understand why. I’m thinking about going back and visiting the bird tomorrow. I named him Toots. I will read Chicken Soup for the soul for Toots tomorrow. Hey, if it worked for a stupid fat chicken.

Butterfucker.

The fucker that fucks butter like a butt fucker. No seriously, I’m not joking. They exist. Butterfucker. They fuck butter and stuff. And more things you don’t want to even know about. At first I heard the phrase from my friend and I was like oh yeah that’s a Cibo Matto song. But it’s also a nasty fucker who fucks butts obviously. I’m kinda grossed out after seeing that. But that’s what I get for watching porn with the stupid freshman on my floor. I think they were going to upload it to Kazaa so butter lovers all around the world can download it.

What would you search for on Kazaa to find butter fuckers? Butter? Sweet juicy cream that comes from bacteria. I don’t know. Butterfucker. The things people think of. What’s next? Refrigerating my nutsac sex, yeah probably. Ooh, the cool air from the fridge just feels so good on my warm balls. Ooh. They’ll put out anything that can be put out. You’d think the porn industry would spend a little more time on making some of their lines less cheesy.

I would like to see a good porno with some good lines and without that chitty chitty bang bang horrific porn music. I should direct a movie. Would anyone be interested? Hell, I should star in it too. I can act. I can sing. I can dance. I can fuck. I could so make good quality porn movie with excellent dialogue and the stylings of A List celebrity music. All the cool kids would watch it. No joke man. No joke.

Simplistically back to nature.

Uno. You may know me. You may know me not. I may be the friend in your backyard. I may be a Fed in Iraq. I may be be your baby’s dad. I may be not. I may be your mom. Your dog. Your car. I may suck the sweet juices from your neck at night How would you know? You wouldn't. Could you possibly recognize me as something else? You couldn't. Something more faint? Where am I going with all this. Where where where. I may be a tree.

Dos. Something sticks in my throat. It feels like Satan jabbed a box of toothpicks down my throat and left me someplace to die. Possibly over in France. He left me to die looking at bad hygiene and laying in a puddle of a mess smelling nasty French people. I tried Tylenol. I tried Benadryl. Which I shouldn’t have. Because now I’m sitting here with a high higher than life high. Which probably explains that first paragraph. If it doesn’t.

Tres. Quatro cinco seis. I remember the Spanish lady trying to teach me her Spanish ways back in middle school. I don’t remember her name. Hell, I don’t think she had one. I think we all called her Spanish lady. And she just taught Spanish. Well she couldn’t teach and she taught horribly. The lady barely knew English. So how was she going to sit there and try and teach us conversions of words from Spanish to English. Sometimes I wonder who the fuck gives these people their teaching degrees.

Quatro. People seem to be misinterpreting my words. They seem to be confusing me with things that never happened. They seem to be playing off my mistakes and acting like everything I’ve ever done was a mistake. You can’t judge a book by the first chapter and guess that the following chapters are just going to be like the first. That’s like eating a scrumptious lemon meringue pie and expecting the first bite to be as good as the last. Not always is the case.

Some pie please?

I should get a job or something. So I’m not poor. So I can buy those shoes I ordered offline. And I can get my fake ID from the shady man up in Kentucky. I need some money. I should grab up one of those paypal donate to me things and rock it in my userinfo. I wonder if anyone ever clicks on those things and actually gives out money. I wonder. Maybe I should do that. It would just sit there. No one reads this mess anyway. But oh what a fine collaborated mess it is.

I’m listening to some old school rock and roll. Some classic stuff. Eye of the Tiger. I downloaded it because of that stupid “Glen. GLEN GLEN GLEN!” commercial. I seriously don’t know what it is, but I have such an attraction for songs featured in commercials. I never liked this song in that Rocky movie it was in, but when that commercial came out, Bam. It was like we were making sweet love all into the night all along.

I’m also sickly obsessed with that Sarah Jessica Parker and Lenny Kravitz Gap commercial. When the thing first premiered, it premiered as a fifteen second teaser. Sarah, but unknown who it was at that time, walked down a hall, pulled up her pants, gave me a boner, and everything faded to black. Why did I find that so hot? Anyway they premiered the full thing on the MTV Movie Awards, which we’re not going to even discuss how sucky they were this year. Anyway, I recorded the ninety second almost a music video of Sarah parading around Lenny Kravitz in his girl hairdo so I could watch and masturbate to later.

And speaking of things I didn’t like until they hit the commercial base. I hated Sex and the City. I thought they were all a bunch of whores wishing for a banana up their pies. Sarah Jessica was the ugliest of them all, besides the fatty red chick with the fat thighs and the fat everything. But on this Gap commercial I like her. I like her a lot. Bye.

The fresh life.

I boarded the bus today early in the morning, groggy, half asleep, dead tired. I sat down next to a fat girl, and another fat girl sat to my right. Have you ever seen that commercial with the cookies and the cream in the middle is singing, "Squeezed, in the middle. Smack dab in the middle"? That's how I felt. Squeezed. The last girl to board the bus was some frail rail thin girl. As she was standing their swiping her card the bus zoomed off.

She fell flat on her butt. I couldn't help but laugh. So did the rest of the bus. Some guys at the back were chanting, "Freshman, freshman!" Its always like those freshmen to do the stupidest thing. I hope I wasn't that stupid when I was a freshman. Hope being key, because I know I'm a pretty stupid kid. But it's absolutely funny watching freshmen interact with the new enviroment. Orientation doesn't teach you crap except how to sleep during a boring presentation. I like how all the freshmen can't figure out how the bus system works and they stand there with confused eyes asking the bus driver where he stops. I almost feel bad for them. Almost.

Some freshman started talking to me in my Psych 101 class too. He asked me if I met a lot of girls. He said he wasn't good at doing stuff like that. I immediately said GAY. He was a pity of a freshman too. Acne all over his face, looking like a Pizza child. I think his shirt said Osh Kosh Begosh. I hope it didn't. His hair was a mop of dirtyness. He talked and stuttered his way through the conversation. I did everything in my power not to laugh at his sorryness. But god-D was he sorry one. Its okay, one day he'll grow up to be just as cool as me.

Something you don’t care about.

My father raped me in the ass. I was young, about seven. We were playing. He asked me if I wanted to play another game. Seven year olds never disagree to playing another game. My father raped me in my small ass. He went in smoothly, I think I started to cry. Tears dripped down my face. They splattered on the bed that would forever hold my dad’s sin. He raped me in the ass. He banged me like I was a cheap hooker looking for a play on the street corners.

In those moments, I wasn’t his son. In that instant, I was just an easy piece of meat that he could rip into. I remember how he felt inside me. He was big. Too big for me. With every in and out I cried out in pain. I didn’t like this game. I didn’t want to play this game anymore. Little did I know, I would be playing it for the next six years of my life. I was seven. Just a measly seven year old with my daddy inside me.

As I sit here and cry myself to sleep reminiscing on my painful memories, I realize that I’m a faggot. I’m a faggot for ever pretending to care. For pretending that people care about me. For pretending that my friends were my friends when they don’t call anymore. For pretending they ever care. Hell they don’t even instant message me anymore. I need to get out and make knew friends. But I sit on my derriere typing away at this keyboard listening to the clickity clack and whining over my nonexistent friends. So I’m going to continue being mad at myself for doing nothing wrong.

To my friends, I hope your backstabbing and evil ways catch up to you one day. I hope you feel the pain and hurt I feel today. I hope you step on a crack and break your mother’s back. I hope you one day will have to question where is the love. Where is the love, the love, the love. I’m sick of it all. I’m going to commit suicide tonight. I’m going to down a bottle of pills and slit

God I suck. I can’t even write emo. Here I am calling myself a writer. Here I was thinking I could write but I can't even write like an emo scenester kid with twisted upside down pictures. Jesus Christ, some one flame me to death right now. I’m not kidding. Maybe my dad should rape me after this crap post. Bye.

AIM high. But not too high.

I’ll admit it. I am a geek. A stupid internet geek who is absolutely infatuatedly obsessed with AOL Instant Messenger. It’s better than shooting crack up my veins. It’s better than the sex I’m not having.

I have this obsession with checking my friend’s away messages every couple of minutes too. I’ll even check the same one I just checked one second ago. I am completely and utterly obsessed and it sickens me so. So I decided to try a little experiment. An experiment that could possibly kill me and take me away from the rest of you’s. I decided to shut off AIM for one week. That one week ago ended today.

It was hard. I was like the crack patient in withdrawal. I shuddered every time I opened up Internet Explorer. There’s this little AIM logo on the top next to the search and favorites button. I had disable that button because I almost clicked it a couple of times. To be honest with you, I didn’t think I could do it. I thought I was going to die and all my friends would miss me forever. But I did it. One week. Without dying. Someone needs to buy me a bottle of Bacardi and a birthday cake. That wasn’t easy. Seriously I suggest everyone who uses AIM should try it.

When I signed back on today, I got IM’ed by a million people. “Where the hell were you?” “Did your computer break?” “I needed you!” Oh. Really? It’s not like I have a phone. It’s not like there ever wasn’t another way to reach me. People are becoming so obsessed over technology. I know I’m already there. I would never leave my computer if I didn’t have to. But I want to downplay some of my geekness, so I’m going to leave. Right now.

It's true.

These stupid emo kids do dress like this. It sickens me to think that someone can so easily classify a group of people by the styling on their bodies. I think I laughed for about an hour after I saw all of this. How many of you will this piss off now?



I most especially had that stupid ear plug in his ears. Why would you cut a hole in your ear and put a piece of plastic in it? Do you know how not cool you're going to look when you get a job? Or when you grow over the age of thirty? You're going to be pretty uncool dudes, pretty uncool.



It sickens me to death that I have a pair of Saucony shoes. Does that make me scene or emo? I hope to God not. I had these shoes before they were the cool man's cool.

I think I’m ready now.

No. I know I’m ready. I am so ready to go back to school right now It’s not even funny. I could kill a rabbit. No a bear. No a plane. That’s right. I’m so ready to go back to school I could kill a plane. It would try and leave the run way, but I’d smash it the fuck back down and devour its nose like the Tasmanian Devil. I’m ready. I haven’t been this ready in my life. Ready me up, bitches.

I can’t take another single fricking moment of my brother. I can’t take another single fricking moment of my parents. I’m sick of this neighborhood, I’m sick of watching the birds shit on my car. I’m ready. Ready for this all to end and for a new beginning to begin. Please be the twenty fifth already. Please be the twenty fifth already. All the other kids got to go back to school already. Why are we starting so late? I’m ready. I’m ready for this cesspool of parental control to end. End. End already. End my pain.

I’m ready. And that’s all I can really say right now because I’m so anxious I could eat a fucking tiger. He would taste good and he would have tried to fight. But I would have ripped his claws off and yanked his teeth out and put him in my belly. I’m ready for the deviousness of Friday/Saturday nights. I’m ready for the boat load of work and work and work. I’m ready to go back to what is that I do best. Please be another day

I am the only one who finds this absolutely hilarious?





Look it.

They both have titties.

It's the spice that's right. Old spice.

I took a picture of my cock and sent it to my ex-girlfriend. Except I really sent to her mother and her father. First clue, is when they all got similarly looking letters in the mail the same day. But my girlfriend's pretty dumb. So gene's tell it, her parents must be pretty dumb too. I got a call from my ex today. She yelled at me saying how could you send something like that to my parents. Oh hey baby, at least you remember what my cock looked like now that you're not getting any.

She said her parents were absolutely disgusted. Don't lie. I know your mom put it under her pillow and wiggles her P-joint every night when daddy's not looking. Don't lie. She yelled me at some more and a boat of extremities came out my other ear. I just got lonely baby. I wanted you to remember what you're not getting anymore. If you want you can cut it in the shape of a dildo and shove it up there. I won't mind. Just watch out for the papercuts. Then she really went off.

Hey, I know that sounds mean, but at least she didn't get a mailbomb, am I right? She said to expect anthrax on the next letter addressed to me. How sweet. Somebody's thinking of me. I hope she was calling me on her cell phone. They record all cell phone calls, you know, looking for words like bomb or terrorists or anthrax. I hope to God somebody catches this.

Masterpiece Theatre.

Stop. I will not tolerate anymore sightings of fat chicks at the beach wearing thongs that they shouldn’t be wearing. I would be ever so pleased to see you in something called underwear that fits your ass. If you have jiggle, and you ladies know when you have some jiggle, do not attempt to wiggle your fat ass into a bikini and rip the eyes out of my head therefore.

Stop. Bands that suck and play really good suck music are a burden onto my sensitive, sensitive ears. If you can’t sing, don’t. If you can’t play an instrument, don’t. If you can’t collaborate music, don’t. Please stop bringing the suck to my neighborhood. I do not want your suck bands playing at my hangouts. My friends and I don’t want to listen to one emo thing coming out of your lips.

Stop. Smoking is not cool. It never was cool and it will never be cool. I don’t want to sound like the Surgeon General on the back of your five dollar death packages, but do not smoke in my vicinity. Do not smoke inside my mouse. Do not smoke next to a mouse. Do not smoke near me in a box. Do not smoke near me with a fox. Do not smoke near me with green eggs and ham. Do not smoke near me, Sam I am will kill you dead.

Stop. Lesbians were cool when they weren’t over hyped and on daytime TV twenty four seven. I don’t want to have to watch my beloved Passions and see a makeout session between Butch one and Butch two. I want to see chicks slapping dudes and frankly, chicks slapping chicks isn’t that attractive to me. Please jump back in the closet and continue your nefarious lesbian ways.

Stop. Sluts are sluts and there’s nothing you can say to remedy the fact that your girlfriend, wife, lover, sister, daughter, or mother is a slut. They’re sluts. That’s what they do and that’s what they’ll be forever. They’ll slut around until they catch AIDS or a meat hook in the crotch. They don’t give a damn what you say. They only care about the sluts they are.

Stop. Pretending you are better than everyone is just lame. You are not better than anyone else. And for thinking you’re better than anyone else, you’re actually less better than everyone else. I understand that you have a high self esteem and I understand that you think a lot of yourself. But no one else does and we’re tired of you promoting yourself like a Laker’s game.

Stop. Just stop it all. Stop breathing, stop using my oxygen. Stop living.

Oh no.

I woke up this morning with a cramp. Oh no, I thought. I’m a girl. That’s the only explanation for me having cramps in the lower abdominal area. I must be a girl. There’s nothing else to it. I will not except the fact that I have a splitting cramp. Girls get cramps. What is this? Who made me? Why did God make pain? I feel like shooting someone. Oh no. That’s PMS. Guys don’t get PMS. So I’m a girl. I have to be a girl. There’s nothing else to it. I must be a girl.

God.

If the someone I’m not shooting will do me a favor and shoot me in the head. So these abdominal cramps seem miniscule compared to the gaping hole in my head . I will pay you five bucks and you’ll get to keep the gun too. Fifty Cents won’t be the only thug in town. Playa Playa. Someone. Someone, someone, someone beat me over the head with a frying pan and shove a fat fist of greasy bacon down my lungs.

I’m going to die.

Don't live. Don't do anything. Just exist

I finally got the talk. The talk you’re supposed to get when you’re pre-teen, prepubescent to keep you from doing all the very bad things that I do know. My parents were slow on the uptake. But they got to it. Eight years later, they got to it.

1. Don’t take candy from strangers. Because some of them might want to grab you up and molest you in their vehicle of love/child molestation. Never take candy from strangers because they are vehement creeps just looking for a little pedophilistic play. Thanks guys for being about fifteen years behind on this one. I swear I won’t be tasting the scrumptious candy of the perverts who ride down my block every now and never.

2. Drugs are bad for you. Dare to resist drugs. They kill you. Watch and listen to the commercials on TV. Put your values in those shitty DARE commercials. Tommy did drugs and he DIED. Oh the shame of it all. DIED! Never do drugs because you’ll overdose and DIE. And I don’t want to see my baby dying, not ever. So say no to drugs son. Just say no.

3. Peer Pressurers will peer pressure you into doing something that you won’t want to do. If your friends go jumping off a bridge, are you going to jump off a bridge with them. No you wouldn’t. So why skip school with them? Why do the aforementioned with them? Why have any fun at all? Don’t let your friends put you up for something you don’t want to do. Don’t let them bully you into beating another kid shitless in order to prove your worth. You’re better, better, better than that. Better.

4. Have safe sex son. No don’t have sex at all. You shouldn’t be having sex. You’re too young. Abstinence and masturbation is the right thing to do. Masturbate until your hands go numb and your crotch goes raw. Masturbate your life away son, because you don’t want to get AIDS. AIDS will mess you up for the rest of your life. Herpes too. So be careful son, be very careful.

5. Junk food is bad for you. A salad a day keeps you out of a coffin. You don’t want to live your life without doing drugs are succumbing to peer pressure only to get cardiovascular and die. Keep your heart healthy. Eat the right foods. Eat them fucking string beans even though you don’t like them. Eat them lima beans, brussel sprouts, and spinach. You can be just like Popeye. Strong like a dyke.

6. Exercise, along with eating a healthy diet, you must step your butt on a treadmill or get out and exercise. Play a sport, even though we won’t allow you to play a sport, get some exercise. You’ll figure out something that you like and is not a sport. Sports are dangerous. People get inured playing sports and we wouldn’t want that for are dear baby.

7. Do not go to the clubs and get drunk. You will look like a fool, act like a fool, and smell like a dirty friggin’ tomcat. You don’t want to smell like a dirty friggin’ tomcat. And don’t let the sexy girls spike your fruit punch. Alcohol damages your brain cells and you already have enough damaged brain cells as it is. Alcohol hurts your liver and you don’t want to hurt your liver, now do you?

Teach me heathens. Teach me.

Someone really needs to teach me how to work Photoshop. I want to make animated dot gifs and shit. Some of the things people make are so ridiculously funny its not even funny, but it is. I feel like I’m not tapping into my complete powers by diving into the funny animated world that exists on the internet. I don’t have Photoshop, but shit, I’ll illegally download it off Kazaa. And they'll never know. Bwahahahaha. And you mafuckers will teach me how to use it too. Less I hold a gun to your head and have a shotgun animation session. You know, like the weddings? Shotgun? Fathers would hold a gun to their future son-of-law's head, oh never mind.