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Wednesday, December 8th, 2004
7:05 pm - It's been so very long. Poor Obscenism.

Atavistic Countdown

Feeling scraped against the concrete sky, muscles and bones and minds exposed to the harsh social elements. One wonders if we're truly god-less if we're so clearly god-damned. Bile is no longer a viable response; anger is a waste of heat for Economic Man. How, then, is it possible to be a Disruptor? "Keep your Invisible Hand off my Body Politic" has proven to be impotent. Syphilis used to be just a little faster than living; now the disease is just as slow as its quarry. How does a dying breeder tell the difference? A piece of paper can only be folded eleven times before resistance becomes too great. The tragedy is that the Modern Monster is not so strong. Beowulf has been hoard-king for the longest time; where is our sleeping dragon? Rings and torques and vorpal blades can't tempt it in the end. One is not as easily impressed as Two would like, though Three often satisfies and little more. Can Eleven be any better? A sudden impact might make it so; shock sells in the most ideal sense. How far down can a neckline dip before the FCC sends a goon squad? Mutilation and humiliating competition will be just fine. Tears of misery are tastier than vinegar on your Debauchery Sandwich. What is to be Done? some Russian asshole once asked. He liked personal responsibility in the affirmative, but such forethought is illegal now. Neoliberalism: bad for humans, great for anthropologists. Parabolic sentences and Bourdieu's thrice-damned "Structured, Structuring Structures" are all well and good, but whose agency does such discourse serve? Data constrain far more than they liberate. Declarative statements are a kind of vociferous death by fiat, especially when the most powerful assertion is the "maybe" of our speculative fictions. What is rhetorical? The only ingestible not yet proven to kill us is TV, and even the cathode-ray tube is guaranteed to make a man a pillar of salt. The Ten O'clock News is what killed our old-school Sodomites; now, the new guys are the hosts. Moral relativism is undermining the tenuous subject-position of the audience, and isn't that much more entertaining anyway? What the Lord giveth, the Lord's Great Ape castigates us for taking. Hunger is the unforgivable sin and the holiest of baptisms, all rolled up in one penis-enhancing pill. "This is Bob. Bob is doing well. And you're not, because your dick is inverted. Aren't you ashamed?" Shame has become the spice of life, now that nobody can taste Chinese murder peppers anymore. The slow progression toward real and true numbness has made pain junkies of us all. As experiential density disperses like a noxious fume through downloadable culture, solid ground becomes an historic supposition. There is no longer any irony in the realization that the Global Community is neither of those things, for both realms have been proven fragile fairy stories. Barefoot and predicated on narcotic little lies. The comfort of the coma is far too risky for the faint of heart, and Florida won't let your brain die. Psychic release can't be guaranteed when the individual is permanently threatened with Heaven. With so much at stake, the poor ethical being can hardly afford a furtive laugh at the justice of it all. The road to Hell, after all, is paved with good inventions. And skulls, probably. Cruel conditions, certainly, but never a disappointment. Provable reality cannot be counted on as readily. The Modern Math upon which all these silly statements of purposelessness are founded is merely true in terms of statistical pedantics. If love cannot be counted and described as a function of degrees Celsius, to what extent is it a currency at all? How much can you buy for a twenty percent likelihood of a dollar? This terrible calculus of memory reduces the Classical plot line to a description of the Cosine wave. How would Marx define the means of experiential production? Is the average Joe just a wage-slave in somebody else's autobiography factory? It is increasingly difficult for the Proletariat to seize the mill when they can't tell who owns it until the process is over. The inevitable cataclysm need not prefigure a rebirth of any Euclidean order. The All-Seeing Pyramid does not have a pinnacle; just the empty space where the four-sided eye was meant to rest. Yet the stink-lines of oppression radiate and reflect as though all were right with the universe. Chernobyl sits heavily on our shoulders, as if it signified something greater than a lump of molten carbon and an inside-out orphan. Cynicism used to keep us warm at night; now post-plutonium heat has denuded the frustration feather bed of all its function. It's no wonder we can't write in complete sentences when all of our High Lofty Crushers collapse under their own ironic weight. The blame rests on no one in particular and somebody you all know. Purposelessness was the rallying cry of a generation that accidentally go something accomplished. Diatribes against the formation of opinions fail self-servingly, it seems. There is not yet even a terminology for the next step, as the dialogue is heard backwards and from underwater. What the world needs now is just something to need. The human creature is entirely too well taken-care-of in an environment where our booze is delivered. Used to be, a fella had to run his own still or strain his own Sterno to have a religious experience. How much can the Holy Advent of the Bigger Bang be crushed and digested before it becomes just another reason to surrender? Quitting has ceased to be a revolutionary act when domination is by mutual consent. Time may be running out, but nobody likes to look at what comes after time. Decent, descent and dissent will become the self-same state of being, and no amount of Puff Daddy pseudo-political posturing will make a bit of difference. The French are patenting their own ethnic genes; there is no more hope and no more despair. But me, I'm alright. I found me a broken bicycle chain today, and I'm going to beat on a hobo. I just hope the hobo doesn't turn out to be me this time.

current mood: Atavistic

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Thursday, August 5th, 2004
11:20 am - casualty of your own flesh

The streets of downtown were crawling with different types of people and different kinds of excitement. It's a completely opposite place to the suburbs, which is where Jake was from. He walked down the street and looked at the all the absurdly tall buildings, the odd sights and most of all, the people. So many people were crawling the streets and doing their thing without a care to what's going on around them. Jake was in awe of the experience, it's so exciting!

As he looked down the street of department stores, he read all the different designers and stores, most of which he's never heard of. He was debating on whether or not to go in or just look through the window. He stopped in front of a store called "Cinnadream". There were mannequins in the window and they were dressed very provocatively, making Jake a tad uneasy, but he wanted to look anyway. There was a set of huge doors in-between two window displays. The doors looked like two castle doors opening to invite any willing customer in at their own risk. He had never seen anything like this store. He's been warned about such places, such... "Sex shops", but never saw one close. In the window displays, the mannequins stood still peering out. He looked at one young woman who was dressed in a very naughty red teddy.

Jake looked at her and thought, "Wow, she's beautiful! And she looks so real! Oh, she was real, I'd love to be with her."

As he stared at her, a smile formed on her lips. Jake took a step back and bumped into a grumpy old guy telling him to what where he's going. He rubbed his eyes and looked up at the woman's face.

"Am I imagining things, or did that woman just move?"

He stood staring at her inanimate body, frozen in a beautiful stance. Her smile was gone now and she stood still as if nothing happened. He stepped closer and rubbed his eyes once more looking at her realistic body. His mouth opened in an odd and goofy look that made her smile once more and her body moved as she laughed. This time Jake knew he wasn't imagining this.

"She's real!” he thought to himself. "She's an actual person! Wow, I've heard about people modeling in windows but she looked like a mannequin."

The woman in the window didn't move her body, only her face as she smiled bright, excited that a handsome man like Jake was admiring her. Jake was amazed. He wished he could speak to her or be able to go inside the display and sit with her or something. But the thick glass separated anything to be done between them. He smiled back at her and stood admiring her body. Then she moved. Her left hand that was on her side moved up and her fingers brushed the dirty blond hair off her shoulder revealing her tasty neck. Her smooth, milky flesh under the display spotlight almost invited his lips onto it for a taste. She trailed her fingertips softly down her neck and in between her confined breasts to the small clasps holding her chest in tight. She gazed at him as her fingers unclasped her teddy and released her breasts.

Jake swallowed hard at the sight and looked around to make sure no one else could see this private peepshow. He focused back on his beauty and watched her hands begin to play with her breasts. His mouth dropped at her act and she laughed, throwing her head back. She pulled at her nipples and pleasured herself right in front of his eyes. He swallowed hard again and pulled at the collar of his shirt. Sweat formed in tiny beads on his face as he watched her hands move down her body. The woman pressed hard at her underwear, massaging deep and hard. His eyes were wide as he continued his free show.

She smiled and bit her bottom lip as she pulled her panties aside and revealed her neatly trimmed pussy to the man. His jaw dropped and he instantly became jealous. As she dipped her long, slender fingers into her juicy skin, he unconsciously moved his hand from the glass and began pressing at his hard on through his pants, pressing as hard as she was. Her hands were working hard to achieve the pleasure. As her clit was being massaged and pulled, her hole was being fucked by two of her fingers. A stool next to her let her lift her leg to gain batter access to herself. The gentleman could not hear her moans, but the facial expressions she made were causing his body to numb with goose bumps. How he wished to hear her cries, how he wished to give her something to cry about! He watched her fingers, jealous of them. Wishing that was his hand, his mouth on her beautiful womanhood. She shivered as her orgasm took over her body. He watched her lick her lips and open her eyes. Taking her soaking hands in he mouth, she licked her juices and took her leg down from the stool. Her body resumed to the position it was when Jake first walked up to her. She winked her eye and smiled before freezing in her stance as a lifeless mannequin.

Jake was incredibly horny from that show and wanted that girl. He wanted her so bad he could taste her sweet nectar on his lips now. He needed her bad; he was craving her. He looked around and it appeared that no one even saw what was going on. No one saw this beautiful creature drive her orgasm out of her body for him.

He looked at the inviting entrance of the store and said, "I have to go inside." He walked into the store and opened his mouth wide at the new and fresh surroundings to his poor, deprived eyes.

for more erotica go here. it'll be fun, i promise. hehehe..

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Saturday, April 10th, 2004
8:27 pm - One

Drunk and lonely
Missouri tan sliding off back
Crazy movies
The pattern is saying something
John Malkovich
Pi and probably Being There
Love and absence
Innocence and sacred burden
Just One, alone
Find another or just go mad
One more
One for the road
Bourbon, Coke, over three ice cubes
You see
This is why I
Don't write poetry anymore

current mood: drunk

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Monday, February 9th, 2004
1:04 am - -You Are a Fuckhead- Part II

I want you to want me
No Wait
I just want you

I am a tease
I tease people
Apparently I tease everyone!
But I'd like to think not

I am not a tease
I hate being called a tease
I do not tease

I want you so give me a call

current mood: drunk

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Sunday, February 8th, 2004
10:36 pm - A Drunken Poem by Emily

-You Are a Fuckhead-

I hate you
I hate you because I hate you
You suck
You suck so much I'm jealous
You suck like big fat ass

I love you
I hate you
No wait I love you
Iain knows how to please me
James is absolutely clueless (like the vodka)

I want you
No wait I don't because I'm a tease
But wait I do because I'm really not a tease
You just say I am because

current mood: pleased

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Friday, January 16th, 2004
11:14 am - Roots

Have just read through community again in fit of boredom. There really is some good shit here. Inspired me to ponder on the nature of the movement. (Yeah, it is one motherfuckingly fantastic fit of boredom.) So, I pulled up a Larkin poem.

Love Again

Love again: wanking at ten past three
(Surely he's taken her home by now?),
The bedroom hot as a bakery,
The drink gone dead, without showing how
To meet tomorrow, and afterwards,
And the usual pain, like dysentery.

Someone else feeling her breasts and cunt,
Someone else drowned in that lash-wide stare,
And me supposed to be ignorant,
Or find it funny, or not to care,
Even ... but why put it into words?
Isolate rather this element

That spreads through other lives like a tree
And sways them on in a sort of sense
And say why it never worked for me.
Something to do with violence
A long way back, and wrong rewards,
And arrogant eternity.

I now issue you a challange, only if you are as prone to boredom fits as I am. Adapt this poem. Use it as a blueprint. Keep it just as obscene but do not copy.
I'll show you mine if you show me yours.

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Saturday, November 8th, 2003
8:45 am

ok. this is one of my stories.... it's erotica, but whatever... tell me if it's obscene enough...

despite the fragile hurt so cursedCollapse )<lj-cut text="despite the fragile hurt so cursed"

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Friday, November 7th, 2003
8:06 am - every breath i take.

new to the world. loving this community... truly...

a more constructive post later upon acceptance..

and storytime!!!!!

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Tuesday, July 15th, 2003
10:24 pm - Post Number 1: Dead Or Alive Review

Dead or Alive: Hanzaisha, or just simply Dead or Alive has got to be one of the most insane movies I have ever seen. Takashi Miike (Ichi the Killer, Fudoh, Audition) is the mad genius behind this ultraslick, ultrasick action crime, yakuza splatterfest. The opening sequence of Dead or Alive has to be seen to be believed. The first ten minutes of the film has a man, who's sodomizing a young man in a public restroom, getting his throat slit, strippers and hookers doing their things, bizarre shootouts, which includes a man, who's been eating noodles, getting shot in the stomach, which leads to the noodles flying out of him, and that's not even beginning of the insanity.

The central character of the story is Ryu (played by Riki Takeuchi who was also in Miike's yakuza thriller Fudoh) who, along with his gang, decide to make their own place in the "Yakuza world" by trying to take over the Shinjuku underworld and the drug trade from Taiwan. The film uses the "cause and effect" technique in it's storytelling: with every action their is a reaction.

If you have an iron stomach then you should watch this film.

Hmm... how does a double dose of Miike sound? It sounds great! What would be cooler than watching Dead or Alive and Ichi the Killer while getting drunk off your ass? Nothing! Hmm... that doesn't sound like a bad idea.

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Tuesday, April 29th, 2003
8:29 pm - The Question Box

Once, a long time ago, there was a Big Man who lived all alone in a junkyard. He lived all alone because the only things he could talk about were his favorite bands and how much he hated Impressionist art, so none of the other Big People wanted to live near him. One day, the Big Man found a small metal box in the junkyard. This box was full of gears and springs, little lead weights and circuits from an old radio. The Big Man was intrigued, so he took it back to his shed.
The Big Man decided to seal the metal box and shake it until the parts made a machine. The Big Man shook the box for a very long time, which was okay because he had nothing better to do. He shook the box for days and days. One afternoon, the box began to hum and vibrate, and this pleased the Big Man. He set the box on the floor of his shed and went back to doing whatever it is that Big People do when they’re not shaking boxes of junk.
The box hummed and vibrated gently, and it made the Big Man happy. Sometimes the pitch of the humming or the frequency of the vibration would change slightly, but nothing else happened for a long time. Then, one dusty morning, the box did something that the Big Man never expected: it began to talk. It babbled nonsensically at first, but soon it began to form simple sentences. By that same evening, it started to ask questions.
The box asked if there was anything outside itself. If so, the box wanted to know if they were shaped like boxes too. The box asked if something outside had made it, and if so, what. Mostly, it asked what it was supposed to be doing. The box asked these questions incessantly. The Big Man tried to tell it about his favorite bands, and how lame Impressionist art is, because those were the only things he could talk about, but the box wasn’t listening. The box was only interested in asking the same questions over and over.
The box kept the Big Man up all night with its questions. By the morning, the box had grown tired of questions and had resorted to inventing answers. It guessed that there was a world outside itself. It guessed that there were no other boxes like itself out there, but just one Big Box that had created it. The box guessed that the Big Box had built it for a reason, but it couldn’t decide what that reason was. Every time the box came up with a reason, there would be several muffled explosions and a period of silence. Finally, the box decided that the Big Box would only tell it what it was supposed to do if it could please the Big Box with gifts. So, by the box’s second day of functioning existence, it began to make little things that came out of a chute projecting from one side. These things varied, but they were all vaguely box-shaped and they all had inscriptions on them saying that they were for the Big Box. Each one of the things was preceded by a puff of black smoke.
All this perplexed the poor Big Man. He was perplexed by the little things because they didn’t do anything and they cluttered up his shed. He was perplexed by the black smoke because it made him cough and it gave him a headache. He was especially perplexed because he couldn’t figure out why, in fact, he had made the box. Even if he could figure it out, the Big Man realized, there was no way he could tell the box what he wanted it to do. These questions, along with the smoke and the clanging of little things, kept the Big Man awake all of the second night.
By the third day, the box had stopped making little things and smoke, which pleased the Big Man. Instead, the box had gone back to asking questions and inventing answers. It argued with itself all of that day and into the night. Each time a new idea arose, the box shook with loud bangs and pops. First, it decided that all it was meant to do was be the best box it could be. Then, it decided that it was supposed to be making another box just like itself, but that idea didn’t last very long. Finally, it decided that if there ever had been a purpose, only the Big Box knew what it was, and the Big Box likely didn’t even work anymore.
All the arguing and exploding kept the Big Man up for the third night in a row, and that made him very angry. He put the box under a zinc tub and napped fitfully through most of the fourth day. When he woke up that evening, he was alarmed to find that the box had built itself a long mechanical arm that projected from one of its flat, shiny sides. It had used the arm to push the tub off and it was now slithering around on the floor.
The box touched everything it could reach with its spidery metal hand, and it gave funny names to everything it touched. The Big Man couldn’t get out of bed, for fear that the box might grab him and give him a funny name. He spent the whole night sitting up and poking the box away with a broom. The box called the poking a “Pooferon of the 42nd Type,” and moved away.
When the Big Man awoke on the fifth day, after only a few hours of restless sleep, he found that the box had built itself another lanky metal arm and a set of six crab-like legs. The box was running around the shed, declaring that it understood fully the contents of the room and that it must find a way out so that it could fathom the nature of the rest of the outside world. After several failed attempts, the box was able to open the shed’s door and run out into the junkyard.
The Big Man, afraid that the box would hurt someone or make a mess, went out after it. He could not find the box for a very long time, though he often heard it naming things it had come across and declaring that it understood them completely. The Big Man searched all day and all night, but he couldn’t catch the box. He finally gave up and found an old car to sleep in, just in case the box went back to the shed. He slept painfully, had no dreams, and woke up feeling exhausted.
On the sixth day, the Big Man saw a pall of black smoke on the horizon. He went to investigate it, and found that the box was bust building some kind of factory. On closer inspection, the Big Man realized that the factory was intended to make more boxes. The box declared that reproduction had been its purpose from the beginning, and that it had known as much all along.
This was too much for the Big Man, and he decided to do something about it. He swung at the box with a large piece of wood and knocked the glinting steel crown off the top of it. The box declared that the Pooferon of the 42nd Type had returned and it leapt at the Big Man. The two fought and wrestled for hours, kicking up a cloud of dust into the afternoon sun. Finally, the Big Man grasped the box firmly and shook it. He shook it with all his might. He shook the box long into the night. All the while, the box declared that it was winning and that it would soon vanquish the Pooferon of the 42nd Type forever.
As dawn came to the Big Man’s junkyard, the box began to flag in its mechanical vigor. Its metal arms and legs ceased to move. The humming sound dropped in pitch and stopped altogether. The vibrations slowed, became intermittent spasms, and eventually gave out. The box once more became a collection of junk. The Big Man felt no pang of regret, but rather a swelling sense of accomplishment. He finally had something else to talk about.
And on the seventh day he rested.

current mood: blank

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Friday, April 4th, 2003
11:53 pm - Hey. Why didn't you people tell me about this? Assholes.

The Leg.

My name is Ellen Richter, and this is the story of my leg. Well, the one I chopped off anyway, and the hand too, for that matter. But I'll talk about that later. I want to start from the beginning from the first day I saw itCollapse )

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Friday, March 14th, 2003
1:04 am

I dun et mahself a baby for lunch today.

Maybe I'll et me one 'gain tomorruh.

It were delishus.

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Thursday, January 2nd, 2003
1:06 pm - The freezer keeps food good, why not cats?

So, I had to go on a little business trip and I had no one to feed my cat while I was away. I had to think of a plan fast because I had waited until ten minutes before the cab was going to come. I was desperately searching for some spare meat or supplements that I might be able to leave for him. I stuck my head down and looked under the sink; there was only trash, but when I lifted my head, I hit it against the edge of the door. That is when a strange memory came back to me:

Kim and I had gone to Costco and I had purchased some bagels. We had returned to our apartment and were placing the groceries in their designated areas, when I noticed that she was putting my bagels in the freezer.
I asked, "Why Kimberly, what do you mean by putting my bagels in the freezer? Is this like the time I put Iain's underwear in the freezer as a joke? Are you joking?"
She said, "Why no silly Josh. The freezer keeps food good so that if you ever have to go on a little business trip, it will be here when you get back and you can eat it."
"Hmm, interesting," I thought to myself.

That is when I knew what I had to do. I grabbed my cat by the tail so that he wouldn't be able to scratch me, opened the freezer door, and hurled him in. I closed the door, left for my trip, and thought no more of it... until I returned.

I opened the freezer door to find that all the food being stored in it had been torn to shreads. My cat's eyes were wide open with a bit of frost over the lids. I pulled him out to scold him about ruining all the food, but he just sat there staring straight ahead. This pissed me off more than the food so I bitch slapped him. Still, no response. "Hmm, this is odd," I thought.
A few hours later, Kim returned to find me snapping my fingers in front of our cats eyes. She asked me what was going on and I told her about everything and how our cat had ruined our food. She began screaming at me hysterically as if I had ruined the food. Now she is bawling on the sofa. What did I do wrong?

current mood: confused

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Tuesday, December 10th, 2002
12:32 pm - Re-write December 10, 2002


"At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls."
- J.K. Rowling


"At half past eight, Mr Durley picked up his box of condoms, gave Mrs. Durley a bit of the old in out, in out, and tried to molest Duley but instead got a bunch of shit in his mouth, because Duley was now having a tantrum and throwing his feces at the walls."
- Joshua Kornell Rouling

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12:43 pm - Oh you people think you're soooo smart...
punkisaghetto77 If only I had a car that ran on dreams and fairy dust and dirty fantasies. It'd be called the Magical Fairy Hormone Mobile. I'd never run out of fuel as long as I had enough fairy dust. But fairy dust is hard to come by. I mean Jesus have you seen the fairy dust prices now? It's highway robbery. Used to be all you had to do was slay a dragon. Now it's almost impossible to find a dragon. Let alone one with decent fairy dust. Jen has a tattoo of a dragon on her arm but no fairy dust. Worthless. Sometimes when I'm bored I think about assassinating Regis Philbin. I'd storm Live With Regis and Kelly and make them do Yoga at gun Point. "Now take a deep, relaxing breath...I SAID BREATH GODDAMNIT! BREATH BEFORE I BLOW YOUR FUCKING DICK OFF! We know where you live. We're the ones who prepare your meals. We're the ones who mop your floor. We watch you while you sleep. You see Regis, we have a lot of time on our hands. In that time we do lots of thinking. We have realized that we don't want to be a fucking millionaire. Because you are Satan. You are the ultimate evil. The embodiment of greed in American society and we must destroy you..." I'd make my getaway in my car run on dreams and fairy dust and dirty fantasies with a little pink dragon in the backseat dryhumping Regis Philbin's corps...

current mood: I'd feel better if you BURNED.

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Friday, May 24th, 2002
12:02 pm - Masturbation in the living room!

My girlfriend and my roommate are out of town, and you know what that means!

current mood: relaxed

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Wednesday, May 22nd, 2002
6:39 pm - From the Archival Vaults of Last Semester...

It’s Sort of Nice Here…

Many years ago, there was a boy named Makeshift Aragon. Young Makeshift lived, for some reason, on the surface of the sun. To make matters worse, he lived in a corrugated aluminum shack with a carpet of burning coals. All of this never bothered Makeshift that much, and he never complained about it. What he did complain about from time to time was the loneliness. Many people lived on the surface of the sun near Makeshift, but none of them ever spoke to him.
One day, a girl that Makeshift knew from the days before he went to live on the sun decided that she too would move to the center of the solar system. This made Makeshift very happy, for a time. Once the girl got to the sun, she began to complain. She complained about how there was nobody she liked on the sun. She complained about how everyone she loved was 93 million miles away. Mostly she complained about the heat. She complained so often and so loudly that poor Makeshift could not sleep. So Makeshift shot her in the face and made a cool tent out of her skin. And he never complained about being lonely again.

current mood: anxious

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Friday, May 10th, 2002
12:32 pm - Looks like I have gone completely mad...

A Dream I Had the Other Night
by Joshua Cornell

I walked into a kitchen and found a six month old baby boy crying on the counter. I asked, "What is the matter little one?"
He told me that his lover, who was also six months old had passed away the night before. I said, "Don't worry little one, you are so young that in a couple of years you won't remember her at all."
He said he knew, but he still felt bad for her. I asked him how she died and he pointed to his right. I turned and saw an empty box of tampons sitting next to him. It turns out someone had left the box of tampons on the counter, the baby girl had jumped up there somehow, and then she proceeded to eat the tampons until she choked to death.
Suddenly I was no longer in the kitchen, but I was standing in an elementary school cafeteria with a detective. We were trying to figure out who had left their tampons on the counter for the baby girl to choke on.

That is when I woke up. What the hell is wrong with me?

current mood: hungry

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Wednesday, May 1st, 2002
6:44 pm - This story isn't very good. Don't read it.

The Freed Shadow

Shadows come from somewhere. Simple physical science. An object obstructs light, bends it, and absorbs it. An absence is left; shade, a shadow. Suppose, then, that the object has gone. The shadow remains, but is anchored to no physical source, no obstruction. What one would then witness could be described as an errant bit of shade, changing shape and moving as it pleased.
Just such a detached shadow once wandered a very old plain of dead grass and gopher holes. It lamented the loss of its object, its grounding in the physical world. It bemoaned its inability to exact change, to affect its universe. Nobody heard the dark patch’s complaints, of course, for it had no way of expressing them. The tiny eclipse simply meandered about the ancient place, as was its wont.
The revenant darkness encountered many things on its circuit of the field, and it remembered them all. Most were of a mundane variety, but a few were worth telling of, had the shade the ability.
On one pretty spring afternoon, long after the shadow had stopped counting them, two young people came into its little yard. There was a man and a woman; they kept very close together and spoke in whispers. They sat in the grounded shade of one of the scrubby trees that grew there and looked at each other. They pondered one another in silence for hours on end, until the sky became dark and they could no longer see, at which point they slept in one another’s arms. The wandering blackness, being a keen observer as all shadows are, noticed all of these things. It saw, and it understood the profound sense of connection that these two people had for each other. It saw, it understood, and it felt a pang of sadness for its long-missing object. Its object, the only thing it had ever been connected to, was the singular reason that the shadow existed at all. Without its object, the little bit of night had to wonder why it persisted.
On another day, in one of the hotter seasons of the innumerable years, the little shade espied a man sitting in its dry and dusty garden. The man read a book, a huge affair with multiple columns on a page. The shadow, curious as to the man’s rapt fascination with the thing, meandered slowly over the open work. Annoyed at the lack of light, the man turned away towards the sun. He squinted at the glaring of the white paper and read on. The spot was profoundly confused by this love of the light, as it regarded the sun’s rays as merely the medium in which it moved. That a man would seek it out, would shun his own shadow in favor of the burning luminescence, made not a jot of sense to the darkness.
Like all other things, the man eventually went away. He was replaced, in time and in a colder month, by an elderly woman who had no other place to be. The shadow watched her hunker down behind a bush to stave off the chill wind. It watched her wrap herself in a coat and go to sleep. The errant absence knew, for it had seen such things before, that the old woman would not live through the long night. The shade felt a strange sense of sympathy for the old woman; she had no connection either. Both it and she were cursed with a sort of freedom that neither wanted. The dark place also realized that the woman as an object would soon cease to be and the woman as a lost shadow would begin its endless wanderings. These feelings of kinship soon subsided, however, and the darkness flitted away.
One day, in the coldest season of all, when rooted shadows are longest and last much greater spans of time, the piece of blackness accidentally crawled into the wake of a scraggly evergreen. Beneath the tree, shadows so mingled that the shade soon lost track of itself. It could no longer tell where it ended and others began. At this point, the tiny night’s memories of all it had seen and all it had felt began to melt away. It began to lose itself entirely, and as it did so, the newly freed shadow thought to itself that this was indeed the very best place to be.

current mood: depressed

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Monday, April 1st, 2002
11:47 am - Fuck!

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ha ha ha ha ha ha! April Fools!

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