Found On Boz's Site, Who Found It On Divine Trash's...


Masturbation Personality: George Michael


What's Your Masturbation Personality?
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Fighting The Good Fight...

Many thanks to Prose of Prosemarket for the ultimate props.

Pretty damn cool.

Thank you.

Are You Mad At Me?

Because this is all I'm going to write? Because you're at work, or rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and expecting a masterpiece, or at least a kick-you-in-the crotch-post, and all you get is this? Are you mad at me, because after planning on telling you about The People On The Bus Story Part Two - about how my first interaction with one of the first people that I met on that trip went, all that I ended up doing tonight was kicking back with the neighbors over beers, and then the cops came because, ever since my friend Tom moved in with my friend Al next door - the neighbors hate them. Noise. So the coppers came, Mugsy. And then by the time I came back to my house, it was already getting late, and all I care about now is playing some Star Wars Galaxies and then trying to get some sleep. I even sound like Yoda now, yes?

Don't be mad.
Sometimes it's hard.
Sometimes it's easy.
If I really wanted to, I could, I guess.
But I'm not like I was before.
I had a hole in my heart.
A vacancy in my soul.
It was easier to fill up space.
Now the process is slower.
More laborious.
But, I think, a richer and more rewarding experience in the long run.
Quality.
Versus.
Quantity.
More of a process of sifting through all of the important details,
Than the expungence that ruled my life before.
Writing shouldn't be ruled by guilt.
Writing wants you to fuck it.
Writing doesn't want to be wined and dined.
Writing doesn't want you to hold it's hand.
Writing comes.
Then it's done with you.
Leaving you to wipe up after it.
Put your pants back on,
And get the fuck out, it says...

Sure, I'll call you...

134 Sexy, Simple Hair & Makeup Secrets...

I've reached the ultimate pinnacle of geekdom.
I've sneezed and sprained my neck.
I can't look to the left or right anymore.
What is this crap all about?
When did I get so "make-sure-grandpa-doesn't-fall-down-the-stairs?"

Dagnabbit.

Ouch.

I've Been Spotted...

Somebody from the virtual world actually saw me. Yes, I stripped off my rags and let a representative of the real world actually see what was underneath my Joseph Merrick mask. I hung out with The Hard Artist and MY New Best Friend. They both met each other through me, in a way. Hard and I go way back, and met My New Best Friend through Fat Free Milk. Kinda. We had a couple of drinks at the casa, then had dinner at the plaza, then met Mike Piaza. No, we didn't meet Mike Piaza. I couldn't care less unless he was giving me money or something, or the clap. But we had dinner, then sang some karoake. Hard and I sang two songs together. Love Me by Elvis, and Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond. We kick ass. Sorry to disappoint you, but we do. We should sing on cruise ships. Seriously.

How nice it was to meet My New Best Friend, and how nice and weird was it to actually meet somebody who only knew me through my writing on this site? She didn't run away screaming from me. That's a good sign, I guess. Apparently she has a high tolerance for retarded circus freaks. I think that I could see her tripping out for a bit in the beginning, but that soon died down minutes later. Then she realized that I'm just like all of the people that you see downtown. Except that I smell a little better, dress a little better, speak just as much schitzophrenic nonsense, and sleep in a cardboard box. God, that made no sense. See, that's what she got when she met me. Goobledygook. GoobledyASIAN. I bet that she was disappointed that I didn't look at all like the Charlie Chan, Ghenghis Khan, or Irish bastard that I make myself out to be.

I had a lot of fun. Is this what it's like to hang out with internet people? Are all of you actually real people? With hands and feet and hair and with no visible flesh wounds? What? I don't know. And no, we didn't take any pictures because they forgot the camera, and maybe that's good, because I want to sell my horrible portrait along with some personal knick knacks on eBay as soon as I sign up on it. I want to make a whole dollar. Free money from the curious. I want to start selling things off from around my house and hype up the objects on Fat Free Milk. Everybody likes empty beer bottles, right?

Anyway, it was nice. But I don't plan on meeting anybody from The Internet anytime soon, because I know all of you are a bunch of sick perverts...

There Were Monsters On That Ship, And Truly...We Were Them...

Tige Flandre Tige prie. Il prie en tout début de matinée et la dernière chose avant lit. Il prie pour que Dieu observe au-dessus de lui et de son petit frère, Todd. Il prie pour le succès des affaires de son père. Il prie également pour tous les petits garçons et filles vilains, comme son Bart voisin Simpson, il est trop mauvaise prier que pour elles-mêmes. Hormis la prière, Tige a plaisir à jouer wholesomely avec son frère et à manger un bon nombre de nachos, le Flandre-modèle ("qui est des concombres avec le fromage blanc!"). Son un regret est qu'il ne peut pas prier à l'école.

Why? I Don't Know...

What Is Your Battle Cry?

Prowling across the tundra, brandishing a bladed baseball bat, cometh Kevynn Malone! And he gives a vengeful howl: "I'm going to clobber you into a new dimension of pain!!!"

Find out! Enter username: Are you a girl, or a guy ?

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I Never Write About Searches I've Found That Brought People To Fat Free Milk...

But this is seriously
one of the best things
that I've ever seen
and just about sums up
the majority of my writing, I think.

The Next Post Is Better...
I hit every single yellow light on my way home from work today. Hitting all greens is cool and all, but nothing like cruising through all of the yellows. How exciting. It sends thrilling little shivers down my pants just thinking about it.

The People On The Bus part one...

Me.

I was eighteen. That was a long time ago, I think. Maybe not that long. 365 days pass, and then we allocate another point to the internal and external atrophy system. I was on a bus. The rest of my high school class that I recently graduated with was slinging down tequila shots in Mexican resorts while I was trying to not take poops on Greyhound busses. My graduation present was getting kicked out of my house. My father and I had actually been getting along pretty well for the last couple of weeks. For us, at least. I was eating some chicken or something when he came out of his dark room into the dark living room and then walked into the dark kitchen. He plopped down an envelope with my name on it. Inside was a card with his signature scrawled on it, along with a check for three hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars? Wow! He didn't get me anything for graduation, not that I expected anything, and for birthdays, I might get twenty-five or fifty bucks if I was lucky. I expressed my gratitude, thinking that maybe this was a combo-graduation-birthday-present-thingy. He told me that it was for moving expenses. I asked when was I moving? I had twenty-four hours to leave. Oh. He walked back into his dark room, and I sat in the dark kitchen, not really feeling particularly hungry anymore. I threw the rest away and went into my room. Looking over a lifetime's-worth of accumulative teenage crap. Where the hell was I supposed to go? What the hell was I going to do? Did I really have to leave?

I did. By noon the next day, I'd thrown away mountains of stuff that really didn't seem as important to me as they did the day before when I had a place to keep it, and the rest that I deemed essential enough to keep, got stored in a friend's parent's attic. I floated around in the next couple of weeks at a couple of buddy's houses. Tried to stay out of everybody's hair. I didn't try to figure out what to do, because I had absolutely nothing to do. Where the hell would I go? I'd always told my father that I was going to get the hell out as soon as I possibly could, but never really thought about what that meant. It meant money. A place to stay. A steady income. I ended up homeless and would sleep in parks or stay up at the only twenty-four hour donut shop in town. I'd smoke, write, and wait until dawn. Wander around maybe, until a buddy got home.

After a couple months of this crap, I finally decided to get the hell out of Dodge. I was losing sanity points. I bought a round trip ticket that was good for one year from Montclair, California to New York City. This was great because this meant that even though I didn't know what the hell I was doing, I could stay in one place for a short time if it suited me, go back to a bus station and get a new series of tickets printed out, and everything would be cool. My father, of all people, dropped me off. He was really the only one who could take me. He seemed sad, and this perplexed me. If he was so sad, why didn't he just let me stay for a few months, stop being the ass that he was, I would stop being the ass that I was - and then I'd get out as soon as I could when I was better prepared. I waved to him as the bus pulled away. He had his hands in his pocket and looked very old. I didn't know what feeling old was, yet. I just felt scared. Confused. Unreal. Like a character in a movie or some cardboard cut out in a poorly written story. We were heading to Arizona, it would take all night, so I tried to make myself comfortable and quiet all of the voices in my head. I turned to my left and smiled timidly at the man next to me. We eventually introduced ourselves…