Lizards eat... insects. Then the lizards shit on our walls. So the shit is dead insects. And we just leave it there.
We don't believe in hygiene.
My mom frets 'cause she thinks the maid will eat my expensive jam... when I'm the one eating the maid's cheap jam. I know, I know, I'm a big-ass commie, right.
So, what other interesting thoughts occurred to me today?
nuna yo beezwacks
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
This REALLY Ain't No Gazeebo
“Hiii…”
Hiram looked up from the book he was reading and shuddered. Then, he slowly lowered his gaze back to his book, softly shaking his head to himself, mumbling,
“Hello.”
It was one of those young crazy puffs again. And one of the bad ones, too. The image he’d just seen flashed into his mind, distracting him from the page he was reading: ultra-tight magenta pants. Tight white tee (through which his bloody nipples could be seen!). Open-toed designer shoes. Crimson toenails! Long (for a man) blonde hair, with big sunglasses on top of his head. Black eye-liner. Blush. A big red leather purse. With a button on it. That said “I ♥ PENIS”. Dear Lord! He shuddered again.
The fashionable young man sat down across from the reading man.
“I’m Sean,” the young man said, smiling, stretching out his hand.
“Hiram,” the other replied, shaking Sean’s hand quickly.
“Oh my god, Hiram, what an awesome name! I’ve only ever heard it once before! It’s such a pretty name. D’you know what it means?” Sean said, with his elbows on his crossed legs and his chin in his hands.
“Uhh—” Hiram began. He knew it all right – it had just escaped him for a second there. “—uh, it means noble,” he said, and looked back down at his book.
“Wow, that’s so cool. It suits you so well!”
“Why thank you.”
“Sure. Say – what’s you sign?”
“My what?”
“Your sign… You know, as in, your star sign?”
“Oh. Umm…” he hadn’t thought about that in so long, he couldn’t even quite remember. “Uh, it’s the goat or the sheep or something.”
“Oh, you mean like Aries?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Oh,” Sean responded quietly, lowering his eyes.
Hiram expected him to say something. What was his point?
“‘Oh’?” he asked Sean, who still made no motion to answer. So, he continued, somewhat irritably “Why ‘oh’?”
“Oh,” Sean began to say, “it’s just that’s, well, you know… I’m a Capricorn.”
Hiram stared at Sean.
“A-and?” he asked, losing his patience. “What’s the problem? Do you need another cabin then, or something?”
“Oh, nonononononono, it’s fine….
Hiram looked up from the book he was reading and shuddered. Then, he slowly lowered his gaze back to his book, softly shaking his head to himself, mumbling,
“Hello.”
It was one of those young crazy puffs again. And one of the bad ones, too. The image he’d just seen flashed into his mind, distracting him from the page he was reading: ultra-tight magenta pants. Tight white tee (through which his bloody nipples could be seen!). Open-toed designer shoes. Crimson toenails! Long (for a man) blonde hair, with big sunglasses on top of his head. Black eye-liner. Blush. A big red leather purse. With a button on it. That said “I ♥ PENIS”. Dear Lord! He shuddered again.
The fashionable young man sat down across from the reading man.
“I’m Sean,” the young man said, smiling, stretching out his hand.
“Hiram,” the other replied, shaking Sean’s hand quickly.
“Oh my god, Hiram, what an awesome name! I’ve only ever heard it once before! It’s such a pretty name. D’you know what it means?” Sean said, with his elbows on his crossed legs and his chin in his hands.
“Uhh—” Hiram began. He knew it all right – it had just escaped him for a second there. “—uh, it means noble,” he said, and looked back down at his book.
“Wow, that’s so cool. It suits you so well!”
“Why thank you.”
“Sure. Say – what’s you sign?”
“My what?”
“Your sign… You know, as in, your star sign?”
“Oh. Umm…” he hadn’t thought about that in so long, he couldn’t even quite remember. “Uh, it’s the goat or the sheep or something.”
“Oh, you mean like Aries?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Oh,” Sean responded quietly, lowering his eyes.
Hiram expected him to say something. What was his point?
“‘Oh’?” he asked Sean, who still made no motion to answer. So, he continued, somewhat irritably “Why ‘oh’?”
“Oh,” Sean began to say, “it’s just that’s, well, you know… I’m a Capricorn.”
Hiram stared at Sean.
“A-and?” he asked, losing his patience. “What’s the problem? Do you need another cabin then, or something?”
“Oh, nonononononono, it’s fine….
There Was a Man
There was a man
There always was a man.
Listening to the alleged voices inside my head.
One cannot be (too) sparing avec les fruits. C’est vrai. Vraiment vrai. Vraiment véritable. Vraiment véritable vrai. (Very table). You know, sometimes I think there are ghosts poking me. And think about your sleep. Man, do you know what happens whilst you are a-sleeping? ‘Course you don’t. T’es out. Sawing loggies. Loggiwogs. Assuming there are ghosts, don’t you think that that would be a time when they would come out? Don’t you think that while you toss and turn your last few times, trying to make yourself as comfy as possible, right when you’re about to hit unconsciousness, a ghost will come in and poke you ever so softly on your side?
Listening to a song on drugs.
Gosh.
It’s a little traumatic. It’s like déjà vu and fever and insanity and a grinding mix of a lot of the sounds you heard before in your life, and maybe the sound of how you’re feeling right now. Poor paranoid people. They must hear shit. I think I’m paranoid. Sometimes when I listen to it, depending on what I’m on, and I guess on how I was before too, it sounds like grinding. Like a machine. Like an awful truck going by right next to your window in traffic. And a bit like static. And also a bit like a monster. So you’re frightened because you think it might eat you. Maybe this is just a ‘bad trip’.
There always was a man.
Listening to the alleged voices inside my head.
One cannot be (too) sparing avec les fruits. C’est vrai. Vraiment vrai. Vraiment véritable. Vraiment véritable vrai. (Very table). You know, sometimes I think there are ghosts poking me. And think about your sleep. Man, do you know what happens whilst you are a-sleeping? ‘Course you don’t. T’es out. Sawing loggies. Loggiwogs. Assuming there are ghosts, don’t you think that that would be a time when they would come out? Don’t you think that while you toss and turn your last few times, trying to make yourself as comfy as possible, right when you’re about to hit unconsciousness, a ghost will come in and poke you ever so softly on your side?
Listening to a song on drugs.
Gosh.
It’s a little traumatic. It’s like déjà vu and fever and insanity and a grinding mix of a lot of the sounds you heard before in your life, and maybe the sound of how you’re feeling right now. Poor paranoid people. They must hear shit. I think I’m paranoid. Sometimes when I listen to it, depending on what I’m on, and I guess on how I was before too, it sounds like grinding. Like a machine. Like an awful truck going by right next to your window in traffic. And a bit like static. And also a bit like a monster. So you’re frightened because you think it might eat you. Maybe this is just a ‘bad trip’.
bengladeshibeastofburden
The tall dark grass… interspersed with stripes…
…was unusually still.
The dark man in the lead with the sickle slashed the undergrowth like he was whipping it the same way he and his ancestors for many generations back had been whipped all their lives…
indifferently, thoughts someplace else.
Their skin was slick and brown; their massive black eyes rolled in their sockets at every sound until their eyes too seemed to be perspiring.
The world resonated with the crazed yawps of the gibbons – louder; louder – merely echoing the voices in the men’s skulls. But they were used to the devilish cries of the jungle.
Hack slash hack.
The sickle chopped the undergrowth harder.
It was never good when they didn’t find one near or in the water.
Fowl cawed crickets hissed… Claws out… tails swished.
A rumble so deep-seated it rolled from the stomach.
The leader came to a halt, where the other nine men’s eyes grew to the size of white fists and immediately uncovered their arms.
So… the devil is… the flying… orange-coated, black-striped… spirit… of a feline,
was the last thought of one of the men, called Raffa, as he stupidly stared up into the air at his fate.
Most of the men scurried to a safer distance – the leader, his son and whoever else was left tried to hack at the dragonlike feline with their long, thick blades; the leader’s son quickly tried to shoot him with the old rust-colored shotgun, but accidentally shot the canopy instead.
But the war-painted animal had seen these small, emaciated primates and their firearms before and knew that with them, it was a different sort of fight. He’d landed with his mouth on Raffa’s head, and, with an orange trunk-sized forearm, he enveloped him, pulling Raffa’s body and himself away from the other men.
…was unusually still.
The dark man in the lead with the sickle slashed the undergrowth like he was whipping it the same way he and his ancestors for many generations back had been whipped all their lives…
indifferently, thoughts someplace else.
Their skin was slick and brown; their massive black eyes rolled in their sockets at every sound until their eyes too seemed to be perspiring.
The world resonated with the crazed yawps of the gibbons – louder; louder – merely echoing the voices in the men’s skulls. But they were used to the devilish cries of the jungle.
Hack slash hack.
The sickle chopped the undergrowth harder.
It was never good when they didn’t find one near or in the water.
Fowl cawed crickets hissed… Claws out… tails swished.
A rumble so deep-seated it rolled from the stomach.
The leader came to a halt, where the other nine men’s eyes grew to the size of white fists and immediately uncovered their arms.
So… the devil is… the flying… orange-coated, black-striped… spirit… of a feline,
was the last thought of one of the men, called Raffa, as he stupidly stared up into the air at his fate.
Most of the men scurried to a safer distance – the leader, his son and whoever else was left tried to hack at the dragonlike feline with their long, thick blades; the leader’s son quickly tried to shoot him with the old rust-colored shotgun, but accidentally shot the canopy instead.
But the war-painted animal had seen these small, emaciated primates and their firearms before and knew that with them, it was a different sort of fight. He’d landed with his mouth on Raffa’s head, and, with an orange trunk-sized forearm, he enveloped him, pulling Raffa’s body and himself away from the other men.
Growing Up
What have I left here to do?
The ordeal is over.
But was it really an ordeal?
How old am I now… really?
I look behind me and I don’t see a line.
I see a mess, a great choppy mess with sections dislocated, pushed in different directions, so it looks perhaps more like a pattern than a line.
My knees are trembling.
I’m getting way too old way too fast.
I don’t see what all the agitation is about.
Oh, I do.
It’s a wonderful thing, you’ll be free. You’ll be a woman.
But I’m not sure I want to be a woman.
That’s ridiculous.
Think of a full-grown man wearing diapers.
So harsh, just like your mother.
So wait, I don’t have an option?
Do I?
Do you?
Do you want to depend on your daddy forever? That’s just like the man in the diapers. A little girl dependent on her dad is okay, a full-grown woman, not quite so!
Are you just being lazy?
No, it’s not that, I’m just talking about the things that matter to me being driven out.
It’s simple, just live in a way that you preserve what is important to you!
Yes but sometimes, perhaps most of the time, I won’t have that choice. What about the vestibular? Do you have any idea how hard I’m going to have to study for that?
But it’ll all be worth it when you get in.
Yeah. It will be a major accomplishment.
But what about all the dreams I will have to forget to wake up early and study the whole day?
The ordeal is over.
But was it really an ordeal?
How old am I now… really?
I look behind me and I don’t see a line.
I see a mess, a great choppy mess with sections dislocated, pushed in different directions, so it looks perhaps more like a pattern than a line.
My knees are trembling.
I’m getting way too old way too fast.
I don’t see what all the agitation is about.
Oh, I do.
It’s a wonderful thing, you’ll be free. You’ll be a woman.
But I’m not sure I want to be a woman.
That’s ridiculous.
Think of a full-grown man wearing diapers.
So harsh, just like your mother.
So wait, I don’t have an option?
Do I?
Do you?
Do you want to depend on your daddy forever? That’s just like the man in the diapers. A little girl dependent on her dad is okay, a full-grown woman, not quite so!
Are you just being lazy?
No, it’s not that, I’m just talking about the things that matter to me being driven out.
It’s simple, just live in a way that you preserve what is important to you!
Yes but sometimes, perhaps most of the time, I won’t have that choice. What about the vestibular? Do you have any idea how hard I’m going to have to study for that?
But it’ll all be worth it when you get in.
Yeah. It will be a major accomplishment.
But what about all the dreams I will have to forget to wake up early and study the whole day?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
