Digital Hardcore...

Yeah, like you care what I did today.
I'm writing like a seventeen yr. old...god I hate my brother, Blaine is cute.
Or should I say hez a qt bcz he iz da bst in da wrld brb.
Nothing against seventeen yr. olds. They're superduperubercool, aight?

See, I'm so old, that I don't even know how to do the whole internet lingo thing. Crap, I didn't even know what BFF meant, how am I supposed to know about all that other stuff?

Crap, now I don't want to write this anymore.

My back/neck is still all messed up from sneezing the other morning. No wonder Frankenstein killed that little girl - he got sick of having to turn his head all stiff-like to look at her. The girlfriend lost her keys on Saturday night. So, I spent time looking for them. Nothing turned up. I'm giving it two more days until I get a new lock for the front door. Her car is her deal, though. I don't know what to do about that. So, if you don't hear from me after Thursday, it means that somebody snuck in and chopped off our heads. Shit, I shouldn't laugh about that. That's not funny. Me with no head is funny. Her is not. What kind of sentence is that? Her is not. Do I write like Frankenstein now too? You're saying, now? You've always written like the living dead, Kev. Whatever. Pshaw.

I stopped by famous-rock-star-Tony's house and made him go to the library with me. Suprisingly I didn't get anything. Not even a comic book graphic novel. Maybe the fact that the stuff that I turned in will cost me about twenty bucks in overdue fees had something to do with it. Then I went to the hardware store for no reason what-so-ever. I already knew that I was going to give it a couple more days. So why was I there? Urmmm...don't know, I just was.

Then after that I found myself driving in the direction of the toy store. I hadn't planned on going in that direction, and had to turn around. Unconditioned responses people. Watch out for them. Then I went to stop by a pottery/plant place to get more pots. The damn new kitty, Spyder - keeps on breaking all of the pots in the house. Stopped by a fiend - I mean, friend's house. Nobody home. Had the urge to get some chicken. Had the urge to go in and ask them if they had any open positions.

- What position would you like to apply for?

Chicken choker, please.

Wound up at Tower Records/Books. I've been trying not to buy anything recently and have done extremely well. I have so much stuff to get to at home, I shouldn't really be adding more words to the home-mix til' I get through some of it. I rationalized that I could get a small paperback if it was cheap. I get frustrated at book/video rental/and music stores because I spend a lot of time at home thinking about things that I have to get, and then when I'm actually at a store my mind draws a blank and I end up wandering around aimlessly. Yeah, like an old man. Yeah, like Frankenstein. Yeah, like Boo-Berry. Yeah, like Count Chocula. Yeah, like the Groovy Goulies.

- Stop it, Kevynn.

Stop what?

- Stop rambling. Don't be an idiot.

What? Shut up. You're the idiot. Stop talking to me. Stupid-voice-in-my-head-always-man. Why're you always picking on me?

- Oh...I don't know. I guess I can't resist that big ol' target painted on your head.

Hey, voice...you hear that?

- huh? Hear what?

Nothing.

- Wait. What? I don't hear anything!

Exactly. ( sound of a door slamming. Locks being turned, dead bolts, etc. )

Then I had dinner with my girlfriend's mom.

Now I'm having a beer and finishing this story.

And maybe I'll read some of my new book.

I was going to tell you what it was, but I can't find it now. I lost it already.

Doh, said Homer.

I Just Erased What I Wrote Here Before...

I spilled my Mimosa on my foot.
I sang Part Of Your World from The Little Mermaid at Karaoke last night.
I should be getting ready for work.
I should be shot.
I have to go now.
I love you.

Danse Macabre...

I hate politics and hate writing about them more, so this is about as political as I get. I wish that all of this California Government crap would end. By now, I don't even care about who gets to be governor. Larry Flynt should just film a porno with all of the rest of the candidates. What would that accomplish? Nothing, I guess. But I've always had a thing for Gary Coleman.

I wish Stephen King could be governor. I know that he lives in Maine. But he'd be great. The governor's mansion would look like The Haunted Mansion from Disneyland. He would tell scary stories instead of giving boring speeches. His bodyguards would be two-hundred pound rabid dogs.

That would be cool.

He'd have my vote.

Shit...

I cuss too much, don't I?

CSI Why?...

I'm not one to rag on television. It's like your sexual preference - it's a personal choice. But, the CSI crap? C'mon. How many are there? CSI. CSI Miami. CSI Brookylnn. CSI Gotham City. CSI Playboy Mansion. CSI Marilyn Mansion. CSI Pee Wee's Playhouse. CSI Green Acres. CSI Mayberry. CSI The O.C.

And are we sure that we should have a show on that teaches everybody what people did wrong when they commited murders? Is this like, a primer for people who don't want to fuck up killing somebody and get caught?

Actually, forget I said all of this, I may need to tuck this away for future reference...

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


Masturbation Personality: George Michael


What's Your Masturbation Personality?
brought to you by Masturbation Techniques

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...