Mortal Epiphany (Luther's Victory)
2002-04-03 - 11:27 p.m.
There�s a guy, at this moment, pissing in our (jointly shared by this guy and myself, not to mention about six other guys) hallway. Pissin� on someone�s smashed phone that�s hangin� out with the smashed soap dispensers. All smashed in one night of drinkin�, and a couple sabotaged toilets to boot. Anatomy and Physiology test tomorrow mornin�, 8am. Just another night at the Ida.
The battle lasted less than 30 minutes. Luther stormed the swamps and burned the trees. At exactly 12:31 this morning, something clicked in my head. Didn�t even need a watch. Goblyn was enslaved by Luther...presumed dead. This is why the future stopped. I am now almost entirely human; so close that I can�t tell the difference. Or maybe I was human, all along.
The battle was won by the swing of a revelation. Realized that I was stuck in a child�s mind...I haven�t changed in a year...it�s time to move on. Grow up.
Amendum: Later, I typed to Becca, and she reminded me what being childish is all about. Blees her sweet little neurons. Unfortunately, my brain wasn�t in the mood-sharing sort of mood. Luther still sits on Goblyn�s throne, and Jessica is nowhere to be found. The Sirs have been silenced, Simon has been turned to stone, and Jimmy is as wide-eyed as ever.
Biohazard tattoo on my shoulder with a permanent marker, and one on the hand. Funny trial things...it washes off in the shower.
Drunk every other day this week (alternating between buzzin� and sluggishin�), and can�t remember much at all...people said hi to me today that I can�t remember ever seeing before. Must have been doin� some serious table dancin� to meet so many people and not remember them...but Becky and Meghan won�t tell me what did transpire upon such occasions.
Hallyway girls hittin� on me...yeah, you know the type, always...hangin� out in the hallway. It�s gotta be the jacket (JamesII). Unfortunately, them hallway girls don�t be packin� no ice packs, and not no ice packs neither. Ain�t too helpful, to get hit on by them hallway hangers if�n all you be lookin� for is an ice pack girl, �cuz you hurted yer finger.
Comments from the Pre-Metaphor Holiday, in Mynd which has since ben postponed: 'Put down the torch and picked up the flamethrower': modernized his dedication to something.
'Bit the snake on the leg and bought the only poisoned mime on the shelf': liar with a messed up mind.
'Diggin� in with the you-go-girl gophers': self explainitory.
�Because you never get a second paragraph to write the first sentence.� �Nemo, except from his non-existent book on writing, �If a Dodo Jumped Off a Bridge, Would You Do It?�
They says that Reader, the communal third-person should-be-used-in-first-person term for the receiver of written ideas. Reader, for whatever reason, thinks that you can Write something provoking, even if you can�t Write; even if you can�t Provoke. But real Writing insults Reader and yet keeps Reader reading. Like the main character�s best friend, who stays with her, page after page of thick and thin verbs. Real Writing doesn�t require verbs. Or subjects. Just warning signs that they are about to be used. Real Writing makes Reader think or do something that Reader wouldn�t normally not think or do. Like music. Nobody bobs their head to the sound of silence. But the majority of Reader don�t understand that. They think thet writing just be werds, and nuffin� more than dat[a].
Revelation: There is no such thing as an exact science. Just practical collaborations of theoretically exact sciences. And all these years, they lies.
Sorted through my e-mail today, while finishing up
So I created a new digital box, wrote �drawing room� on it, and tossed them in there [with my unfinished stories and unsuccessful poetry], for later sketchwork.
Related Sidenote: Yes, the attic is empty. But it exists for potential; and for that, it gets points. *point-getting noise*
Progressive. My upon-exiting-the-building thought has changed from �wow, last time I was outside, the sun was still out� to �wow, last time I was outside, it was Saturday�.
Absolutly two vodkies. Becky and Meghan were in the wanting of drinking, and I happened to know of a person. We also happened to know of the time that it was, and the time that stores tend to close. Very similar times, those two, so we raced over to buy us a bagful of alcohol. This event resulted in two things: I feel as if I owe this person a favour, whereas before we just hung out; and I have, for the first time in my life, paid for alcohol. Neither of these brushes is capable of painting a pretty picture.
One of the millions of unmentioned or forgotten children of thought. Wore a du-rag (sp?) last week. Just fer a day, just fer fun.
�Spare no embarrassment in life. An avoided embarrassing moment of today will never mature into tomorrow�s funny thought.� -Nemo
Smoked too much weed, and I was out of it for days afterward. Something about a happyplace and a squeakyvoice. Chocolate-flavoured fatty with all the equivalency of six bowls in my system. Watched MADtv for hours, and got stuck in the middle of Meghan�s room. My brain was stuck doing Ad-Libs even days after the spaceyness wore off...but part of the spaceyness is also attributed to lack of sleep, as I�ve only gotten about five hours in the past four days (insomnia strikes again!). Anyways...looking at my normal personality from this vantage point (retroflectionos en post weedus smokum): I�m a bitch. I�m a depressed, fatalistic prick who insists that everyone keep in mind the small details that I am aware of, while making up all of the details I�m not.
Later, in reflection of my at-weed state: But on weed, I�m a box of cardboard. Corrugated.
�He waits forever, for his old lover, and always wonderin�...� �Marcy Playgound
It seems, sometimes, that only the crazy see the sense in waiting for certain things.
