Wouldn't It Be Cool...

To have your own torture chamber?

To write in, of course.

This post is rated...AAARRRRR!!!

there's a man right now living in a lighthouse and he's jealous of me.
jealous of what i'm doing and what i'm about to do tonight.
he may be thinking the same things that i am,
about how i could be jealous of someone in his position.
but it doesn't make it any better for him because I can walk outside.
WALK and WALK and WALK.
going until the hunger hits me.
i can talk and TALK and TALK and TALK and eventually someone will be listening.

the crash of waves can sometimes be a horrible friend.
just ask pirates.
theres booty in the water,
but if you dont grab it-and quick!
then it all SINKS..…..

My Name Is? My Name Is?

Slim Shady.

I will see this movie.

Even if he talks shit on Moby.
Even if he is or was in D12.
Even if he's from Detroit.
Even if Johnny Cash deserves a movie more.
Even if Thom Yorke deserves a movie more.
Even if Longfellow did too.

Even if he's black.

Papa Boner...

God, I can't wait to be old. Serious.
I need to start planning my retirement fund.
It'll be great. I plan on living til' a hundred and eleven.
That sounds good, doesn't it? 111 years?
I want senior citizens to mutter to themselves, " Damn look at that guy! He's friggin' old!
I want to make up stories about myself and to mess with my children's heads.
You know how when you were young, you had no concept of history
and would ask your parents what it was like to live during the great depression
even if they were in their later thirties?
Or to ask them where they were when Lincoln died? I want to tell my children and grandchildren that I helped write The Dead Sea Scrolls,
but the part with "written by Kevynn Malone" got lost. I want to tell them that I created "The Rave". That I smoked Crack before it was "hip".
That I knew the original Betty Crocker and that Aunt Jemima wasn't really that fat. It was a marketing ploy,
she was actually quite the looker and that we once engaged in some heavy-petting after the homecoming dance sophmore year in high school.
I will cackle things out loud in public. I will name all of my body parts and talk to Wal-Mart employees about them like they were real people.
I will have no problem wearing diapers. What was fine for me when I was an infant, should be fine for me as the senior-ist citizen.
Staring at the ceiling for hours on end and breast-feeding. What? Did you think I meant playing with Fisher Price toys and eating baby food?
As I get older, my wardrobe will get worse. If I wear anything even remotely fashionable, I will wear an enormous baseball hat ten sizes
too big for me on the following day as penance. I will pretend to fall everyday at various eateries and make people feel guilty
for not telling me to "watch my step!" I want to watch t.v. for twenty-eight hours straight. All local news coverage. I want to kick ass, though.
Whether it's through my cane or a gnarled, old fist meting out punishment-I wanna be able to kick yo' butt.

I am getting old.

Look what I'm writing about...only old folk do that.

Maybe this is getting old too.

Bah!

Carrie White's ass looked cute...covered in pig's blood.

Brian DePalma's Carrie is dated, but good. There was a short-lived musical version of Carrie which I never (unforunately) saw. Carrie 2 The Rage!!! Apparently not the rage. Maybe it should've been set in a rave. Burning glow sticks and pacifiers set to hard core techno? I don't know. And now I just got done watching a new three hour television version that I, at first was unreluctant to watch, but did. Not that bad actually. It was modernized, had some parts from the book that weren't in the original one and had a sexy gym teacher. Funny, cos 2day I was at the video store with Dawne searching for Charles Manson documentaries for her school project. Last one was on Rosanne Barr. No. Rosie Perez. No. Parker Posey. No. Rosie O' Donnell. College, eh? Anyway I was looking through the horror section and noticed how many either classic Stephen King film adaptations there were in there or how many utterly horrible translated works there were. It's reported that S.K.'s quitting writing. That would make me sad. He's one of the best writers around. I don't want to get into it. The arguments. What sucked, blah, blah. Mass production crap. But he's good. I read my first S.K. novel when I was in fourth grade. I've read everything of his except for the Talisman/Blackhouse-which for the life of me, I can't get through. I've tried a million times and I just can't do it. He's allowed to quit though. It's his right. He's in pain. He says all of his ideas have come full-circle. That's okay. But I don't trust him. You can't take the WRITING DEMONS away from that type. He'll try to quit and just won't be able to. If I am like him in any smidgen, if I have one ounce of the sickness that he does. Please God(s), there's no hope for him. He's doomed forever to put combinations of letters and syntax on empty spaces. Good luck. It won't ever happen.

Anyway, this Carrie movie reminded me of high school and if I was cursed and had to repeat high school, I would take the often-ignored-Eliza-Doolittle-type of girl out. Just as long as she didn't mind drinking a couple of Pre-Prom beers in a park somewhere. I actually never went to my senior prom. I went to a girl's senior prom when I was a sophmore, but she ended up getting Bronchial Pneumonia and I surprised her on that night at the hospital with a corsage, Taco Bell and in my tux. I made the nurses cry and they even turned a blind eye when we snuck outside to go smoke a cigarette. Her lungs be damned. I was too busy to go to prom when I was a senior. I told everybody I wasn't going, and then...it was all over. I overslept on a couple of final activities, arrived late at a senior barbecue, lost twenty bucks in the school pool, went to some dumb parties and watched wrestlers spit tabacco juice in dixie cups. My father never had any interest in me or school activities anyway. Just my hair length, earring and my attitude. But out of nowhere he bought me a Grad Night ticket. I wasn't even planning on going. Most of my friends weren't. But I think that my father was afraid of the three a.m. police phone call telling him that his son was dead or in a Tijuana jail cell. So I went. Had nachos in a bowling alley, hung out and played blackjack with the girl that I had a crush on for almost all of high school, won a mini tape recorder in a raffle that I actually got alot of use out of years later. I used it to interview bands for a magazine. I sat through ceremonies. That was it. I played a game of basketball with Joe in front of my house the first day after graduation and then eight days later my father gave me a $300 dollar check on my birthday. I didn't get for graduation (not that I expected to) and thought that this was a combo gift. My father told me that it was for moving expenses. I asked when was I moving? He said Tomorrow. I put down the drumstick that I was eating and watched him walk into his bedroom. I wasn't hungry anymore. I left the next day. One month later I was awakened on a Greyhound bus by an ex-gangster from the Bronx telling me to, "Gett up nigga! We in Pittsburgh! "

Eat your heart out Stephen King.
I've got some horror stories too.
You just have a lot more money than me and are a much better writer.

I suck.

But you aren't listening to "Tiny Dancer" by Elton John right now are you? Thought not.

Pig's blood! Redrum! They're coming to get you Baaarbaraaaaa! Dead By Dawn! Dead By Dawn! Candyman! Candyman! Candym-

Oink! Oink!

Hmmm...Time Is Passing...

Look what I just found. Not the best interview-not the worst though.
Geez, I didn't know what I was doing-give me a break, punk! 1996? Wow.

Warren Fitzgerald=Member of The Vandals=Good Stuff

One of the many reasons why I'm a bad boyfriend...

Girlfriend asleep on couch. Kevynn on computer.
Girlfriend says in sleeptalk, "Where are we going?"
Kevynn gets up, kisses her on forehead,
leans close to her ear and whispers..."HELL".

Decisions, Decisions...

Oh my god, I'm going to go to Dumb-Guy-World
or Hopeless Island or Blogging Idiot Planet or something for this...

I was smoking in the backyard and caught myself deciding
on whether to write a movie review of "Colors" or to write about bald men.

I suck. Serious.

Woke up this morning to:

One friend asleep on the kitchen lounge chair thingy.
Four on the floor.
One on the couch.
And two in the other room.
Two muffins hidden in kitchen drawers.
One in a flower pot.
One on my bedroom window sill.
One in a bedroom cabinet.
One behind the pictures on top of the t.v.
Two in kitchen cabinets.
One under the couch.
And one inside a ceiling lamp.

I also woke up to ONE big headache.

Thank you.

Like Mark said in the comments section of my last post-

I'm having a party. A cray-.......what? a cray?
a Crawfish party? No crazy hat party. Stupid fingers. Dumb typo.
Wow. I'm so wacky. Get a load of this guy, eh? Stand back. He's sooooo funny. Ahhhhh...no.
Yeah, we're all going to stick crustaceans down our pants and everybody at the party
has to guess what you have down there.

Hey what you got there? A lobster?

Naw. I've got Crabs!

Nyuk Nyuk Nyuk.

I'm lame. I need to start drinking.