Can't Say I'm Impressed

Blogger, you wretched whore.  I've changed your design more times than I can count the times I've kicked a dog because it didn't say "meow". 

I was looking over my other blog, the blog that has about four years or so of semi-steady blogging and realized that the design was never an issue.  It was black, organized, and easily not distracting.  It allowed you to eat up the text instead of squinting at the abstract whatevers in the background.  No noise, just words. 

I liked that.  And so I'm going back to that sort of thing. 

I'm only on here right now, in all honesty, because I can't fucking sleep. 

Here's to oblivion anyway because what the fuck else is there to say at 9am on a Sunday morning?

Ciao, adios, later.

PS: Wtf is the point of tags?  They annoy me to no end.  Fuck em.  Unless it's really necessary, I ain't tagging shit. 



There.  TAGGED.  Happy?

Late Night/Early Morning: A Collection of Words to Form Sentences

There was a very wise old man who had lived secluded on a mountaintop who seemed to have so many great pieces of wisdom for all of the people in the surrounding villages.

He's dead now.

But!

We, the good people of wherever, whenever, are still alive and kicking.  And we are oh, so full of utter and jam-packed bullshit!  YES!  Can I get an amen, here! HULLALUDLf;jDjfjdfnda

Anyway.  A bit on the bitter side.  Rawness at the forefront.  And I'm not even close to making any apologies.
There's so many very bad things going on right now.  I'd love to write about them but I'm afraid I only have time to rant about one thing.

Or maybe more than one thing.  I don't know yet.  I'm just winging this one.

Focus, you bastard!  Christ, I can't seem to get a hold on any one thought.  It's nearing 4am,[edit:4:30am] I have to be up in five hours for class and then I get to spend the rest of the day moving.  I'm hopped up on stupid energy drinks and my mind is damn near broken.  More broken, rather.


I'm hoping for martial law.  Then I can justify killing idiots.  But the question is, would I have enough time?

No, killing is for soldiers.  I'll steal what I can in twinkies and head for the woods.  I'm not a lover but fuck if I'm a fighter.  However, I have had some anger issues welling up inside me.  Pretty sure that one of these days I'm going to punch the living fuck out of this idiot I work with.

But it's easier to just fantasize about it.  Less consequences.
Consequences.
Those really ruin my hair day.  Which is funny because I have no hair. Well.  To be fair, my ass is a regular Willie Nelson.


Right.  I could've gone all year without that visual as well.  LET IT SOAK IN.

In softer yet still crushing news:
My roommate's cats were given away today.  You didn't know these beasts so it probably has little to no effect on anyone reading this trite nonsense.  But I've been a cat person since I was a kid.  And these two cats?

THEY WERE GODS.

Well, they were fucking awesome.  Weird and cute.  Strange and kickable.  Good friends.  It's the second time I've gotten attached to a pair of these furry miscreants and it's the second time they've had to be given away.  And it makes me sad.

Giacomo (Jock-ay-mo) and Merlin, I'll miss ya you fucks.

Oh, dear god.  It is late.  Hooboy.  Fucked, I am.  But that's nothing new.  Ce la vie.

That's it for now.  Tune in next month as I explore the use of Scientology in Fundamental Christian teachings.  And yes, I'm bringing a gun.

Come On, You Fuck. . .

Update your blogs, you assholes.  I'm bored and drunk.  I need something to judge and/or comment about obcenely. 

Weeeeeeeeeeee

A Poem.

I wrote this a few weeks ago.  I've edited only once but I need to edit more before I add it to my portfolio.  Hope you enjoy!

Fading

By M. Cornell

These previously breathing-and-screaming corpses tossed about have gotten old.  They are everywhere. Unmoving and unliving.  A grisly, unending buffet for any scavenging creatures. 

Not sure if the rot-stink is still there or if I’m just so used to it. 

The puncture in my arm is infected.  It looks pretty bad.  Hurts like a mother.

I suppose I’ll have to deal with that soon.  Or soonish.

I haven’t seen a single person in so long.  Months, probably.  Definitely not years.  Not yet.

I wonder if Big Ben is still intact.  Doubtful.  

Ouch! Goddamn, I need to deal with this arm situation.  Can barely move the thing.  I’m bound to

find something useful deeper in town.  Find me some antibiotics.  Or a cold beer. 

Hell, I’d be happy with a half-smoked cigarette. 

I miss Rachel.  If she were still alive and with me, she’d be so pissed off for my stupidity. 

I can hear her scolding voice in my head, “Fell off an overpass and sliced open your arm? Who does That?  Oh.  Right.  Your dumb ass!”  I miss her rants, that glossy twinkle in her eyes when

she goes off

about something, anything.  Even if it was me.  

She died at the beginning.  She went quickly.  Painlessly.

The last people I saw alive lived in the woods. 

They tried to eat me. 

Frail and whimpering, they came at me like a wave.  A few of the punches I threw

probably killed some of them.  They were not human beings anymore.  Savage things.

They’re probably all dead by now and in a better place. 

Better than here.

Hollow winds matched with hollow gray skies.  Everyday and everywhere.  I’m starting to think that even the sun is dead.

I’m so tired.  So very tired.  Maybe I’ll just rest here in this garage for awhile.  Gather my strength.

Yes, for just a little while longer.  Get some shut eye.  My arm doesn’t hurt so bad now.  Might not have to go searching downtown.  I’ll see what happens after a short rest. 

Just a short rest.  Maybe I’ll dream of Rachel again.  Those give me comfort.  They remind me of better times.  When I had a place before the

World went to shit. 

When I had friends and family.

Back when I had a home. 

Rachel, I want to come home now.

I want to come home.

I Don't Like the Politics But the Politics Like Me

Imagine for a minute: You go to college because you've always felt a calling to education, to the young people of your community, your city, your state, your country, your world.  You wanted to have a helping hand molding young people's futures and to bring a positive and intellectually charged attitude into their lives.  To challenge them and engage them in their studies of their lives, the world, and everything.  You are a bright gleam of enlightenment, igniting the sparks of critical thinking and opening up the minds of the young to embrace culture, philosophy, politics, literature, mathematics, and the broad world around them.

Imagine trying to do all that while balancing two or maybe three jobs just to pay rent. 

Imagine trying to not get strung out on a daily basis.  Imagine guiding these young minds during the day and trying to stay on task despite the fact that you only get five hours of sleep a night.  Five hours of sleep, if you're lucky, because you have another full-time job after school.

Imagine staying calm and cool-headed when you are becoming more and more irritable.  Imagine the guilt after your outburst at a student who didn't deserve it.  Imagine the pressures of trying to balance a steady income when all of your benefits are stripped away and you have no one, not a single person, group, or entity that can represent your dream-come-true job turned Hell-On-Earth.   There is no negotiating.  No voice, no ears, no justice.  And you cry at night when you try to sleep but you can't because the tears and fears won't let you. 

Because you are being stretched thin while the kids you are supposed to be helping are not getting your full attention.  Instead of being properly introduced to the important things that are comprised of a useful education, they are adhering to other, more easily accessible role models.

Like the proper role models displayed on "Jersey Shore".   Consumed by that gigantic lie created from 20th Century media and carried heavily into the 21st, that anyone can be rich and famous, they will follow paths acting as they were taught by what's on the screen. 

And they will fall hard.  And they will consume what they can, when they can.  With their only destiny being that of an uneducated, under-skilled, manual laborer.

God Bless America

I fucking hate it here.

Transcending History or Refreshingly Warm Beernuts

Well, this is my blog.  Whether its a positive force for the world of good or an evil and scheming force of chaos is still pretty irrelevant.  This is, after all, just another shitty blog. 

I am, and with a tinge of pride, happy to announce that I am actually updating it.  So, here it is.  For you cavemen and women to drool and clamor over.  I updated and I'm goddamn proud of it. . .

In actuality, indifference is still my battle standard.  YAY ME.

I'm 32 years old.  I work in fast food.  I go to college to get out of fast food.  Shit, I'd settle for slow food. 

No.  That's a lie.   Fuck food.  I hate everything about it.  Well, mostly the servicing part of it.  I don't enjoy being a virtual slave to these ungrateful slobs.  These disgusting human beings that believe that they deserve the right to be treated respectfully and in a timely manner.  You have money and because of this, you deserve the Royal Treatment.  Well, fuck you.  It's time for a goddamned coup. 

I can't think of a sinlge good reason why the service industry should thrive other than it gives jobs.  I suppose in a backwards and backhanded way I should be saying, "Thanks!" to all these unhealthy and rude fuckheads because, if it weren't for their awful habits of convenience and gluttony, I'd be out of the job.

I could write a book on the subject so I'll just stop there.

In other news, I've been writing creatively again.  I've completed two pieces and that's the most I've done in five years.  The fact that I'm actually writing in this blog should testify that I'm moving more into the direction of writing more.  I've caught the bug again.  It's alive, revivified and thriving.  I'm thinking again. 

It's a strange thing.  Like coming up for air after being submerged for almost too long.  That blast of awareness that catapults you, leaves your arms and legs tingling.  And I like it.

School is school.  I've been gone for five years and now that I'm in the thick of it once more, I remember the awfulness of having absolutely no time for much of anything.  Fulltime fuckfest working, fulltime study/writing fest at school.  It's tough, doing 16 hour days and still having no time or money to show for it.  Yet.

Right.  So.  Movie time and then homework.  I don't really have a use for this blog but I'm sure I'll be back sooner than later.  No promises, though.

Ciao for now.

Twine, Nitrous Oxide, Pantaloons, and Ed McMahon.

It looks like I might have to work overtime on this blog, seeing as how I forgot to post at least something for a December post.  From the bottom of my proverbial heart, I'm sorta sorry.

What is it about a new year that gets to me so?  I'll tell you.  It's because it's like this: You have a slate.  Said slate gets covered in oil, grease, muck, shit, piss, possibly a dash of vinegar, woodchips, cornchips, aardvark dropping, blood, ash, and the occasional spittle of vomitous disgustingus.  And then the new year begins and that slate of yours is cleaned off nice and tidy.  It's new. It's fresh.  Ahhhhhh, so fresh.

And then before you know it, something happens and you find some oil stains on your nice, clean, and fresh slate.  Not so bad.  Easily dealt with.  Shit happens.  Ah, but not yet!  Because then, from out of left fucking field, spatters of grease and muck appear and you stand there going, "Motherfucker, this ain't right!".  But you take a breath. A deep one.  Still not terrible but the doubts, oh they are growing aren't they?  Indeed.  Still, though.  Could be worse.  And so you carry on with your slate which is not so clean anymore but still very usable and filled with pride and hope and good, good things.  As you are just about to exhale in relief, HOLY FUCK!  BOOM!

The onset of shit happening happens.  Mixed with unbiased droplets of piss.  You're becoming pretty distraught but wait, there's more!  Because as you dive headlong past these obstacles that you are sure to be free of in mere moments, you find yourself WHAM!  The smell of vinegar assaults you and you look at your slate with sad eyes.  Balls, you might say.  And consequently, through brief moments of relief and "Whew, glad that's over!", once again, you find that the once-clean slate has been peppered with woodchips, cornchips, aardvark droppings(wtf were you doing to warrant aardvark droppings?), blood, ash, and the occasional spittle of the inevitable vomitous disgustingus. 

At this point, it doesn't matter what's on that slate of yours.  Why?  Because New Year's Eve is just days away and it's time for a new slate!

Rinse.  Repeat.  Until you're dead. 

I know what you may be thinking: That's fucking godawful and depressing!  AND IT IS.   The saving grace throughout all of it is actually somewhat liberating if you choose to think of it in the manner I'm about to present......

Life is ups and downs.  Twists and turns and any other horrible cliche' to signify life's turbulent courses.  And all that stuff that is fucking up your clean slate?  That's your life.  That's your experiences.  Because nothing in this world is pristine because if it were? 

What a boring fucking time we'd all have, yes?

So, chin up, folks.   Learn from the dirt that comes across our paths, it really is the spice of life.