what's in a title?
2001-06-26 - 11:06 p.m.
Flatt things on the bottom, stuffed animals on top. I�ve been living out of a suitcase for the majority of my short life...when I was five/six, when my [assumed to be biological] parents were going through the process of splitting-up/divorce, I moved around a bit. But I never really stopped moving, especially since the court decided that I should spend weekends with the non-custody parents (the custody of me switched hands in between six and seventh grade). My Step-mother and Father have lived in this town for the past two years, and I�ve lived at school for those two years...So I�ve basically just moved to a new house each summer. Mum�s house was taken by the government because she didn�t pay her bills. I�ve gotten to the point where I don�t even use a dresser...Everything I need, including all my clothes, can be placed in one backpack. Everything I own can fit in one chest/trunk-sized box. And now I�m packing togo to college...and unpacking and repacking my stuff seems weird. It feels like I�m leaving something behind, forgetting something...but that�s odd, because I haven�t left yet. And even if I had, there�s not anything for me to leave behind. I could get no better Christmas present than the idea of not having to talk to my parents for several years. *smiles dryly*
I do not get quoted by people because I�m too crazy. At least, this is what I like to think, like to say. There�s a lie in everything you say. You said whatever you said because you wanted to say it. It�s in the motivation of the statement. Herein lies the lie. Er maybe I don�t get quoted because I�m a liar, like everyone else.
On my driving skills: �Umm...You�re doing really well with those sign-things.� �Father
After actually knowing something about driving, I�ve really been able to appreciate that I�m still alive. My parents never use blinkers. They refuse to believe that �blind spots� exist. Father usually drifts casually onto one line or another, and Step-mother cannot seem to go less than forty mph in town (but this one might be acceptable, because she�s spent a lot of time in Boston). Somehow, with only about forty-two hours of driving time under my belt*, I feel that I�m the only person that I can trust to sit behind the wheel. (There�s some first-person persona-style psychology goin� on here too, but I won�t get into that.)
It would be strange to be someone like Spielberg. Everyone knows your business. Everyone is either kissing your ass, or asking you to autograph theirs. When your name becomes a statement of quality rather than a system of personal identification...�but it�s a Spielberg film, it�s a good movie by definition.� Aside: �Spielberg� is in the dictionary of the newest version of Word (TM).
I�m halfway in the middle of crossing a road to discover the means to make profit from mischief and mayhem. And I�m really hoping that no cars drive by before I get to the other side. People ask each other why the chicken crossed the road...and I don�t see why they don�t get off their lazy duffs and cross the road to find out for themselves. Anyways, I�m thinking mischief and mayhem. Which leads me to think of anarchist cookbooks...which reminds me that I haven�t eaten breakfast yet...haven�t eaten any sort of sit-down-and-praise-god-for-meatloaf-and-everything-that-is-holy meal in a long time. So yes, merchandise. Specifically, merchandise for the everyday anarchist. Gas masks, black flags, anarchist cookbooks, bleach, weed, computer parts, surplus Y2K/the-end-is-near kits, phoneparts, guns, nuclear silos and night vision goggles...There�s a booming industry in this sort of stuff.
Burnin� CDs. I was fortunate enough to acquire a crappy 2x CD-R (god bless people who forget that they own things, and don�t notice when they�re not in their possession anymore) and have currently burned The Ultimate Eels CD and a compilation of...stuff. Funfun.
Just an excerpt from the non-existent �Journal of a Man Who Lived With Too Many Girls�: �I�m always the one to take out the trash, because it�s �the man�s job to do the disgusting things�. I learned a long time ago to get the trash done quickly and without whining, because they always win, it really only take five minutes todo, and otherwise it piles up higher than the trash lid...someone always manages to topp it off with coffee grounds. The only real problem I have with doing the trash is the upstairs bathroom. Somehow, the bag always gets loose, so that a tampon is allowed to adhesify to the inside...and they tell me that insects and rodents are freaky.�
I filed a couple of my teeph. I used one of phose foot-long hand-held steel files and it worked like a not-so-charming charm. Not like a lucky charm either. Just a plain old charm.
New invention: Fuck-You-upside-down cake. Bake a cake, strip of the top layer of baked-ness, spell �Fuck You� in food colouring, and then turn it upside-down...When someone gets an �F� on the bottom of their slice, they might start wondering what�s up. It�s great if you can get a letter under each one of the individual slices so that the guests are left to decode the message. Cupcakes work as well. This invention is not to be confused with upside-down Fuck You cake, in which dogshyt is mixed in with the cake ingredients and the cake is still flipped upside-down. When someone eats it, they will hopefully make some comment about how it tastes remarkably like dogshyt. Of course, when you verify their connoisseurisms, they spit the cake out and say �Fuck You!�
Post Sanctum: No Sunday Comix. I was gonna post sumthin�. Really. But it just wasn�t finninshed. Maybe next week. Sorry.
*For some reason I believe the expression �under my belt� came from the pilgrims. Or as Deus Atrox (better known as Bob) calls them: �dour, moralist, abrasive, right-wing extremists who intermarried and confused everyone by wearing buckles on their heads.�. Thus, the prepositions �in my head� and �under my belt� would seem to be interchangeable. Or maybe it just came from redneck Vikings who liked to talk about how many girls they had raped that week.
