20080107

Waste Exhibit

One quarter of an hour to three in the morning and it's just me and an ice pack. Refrigerant filled plastic sac meant to provide relief to battered scrotum manages only to coalesce antecedent pain with cold searing for which my gonads call me asshole. Missives of discomfort travel to upright brains from hanging ones so I dispose of the offending cryotherapeutic aid. Several attempts at creative expression end in more self abuse than words written so I try my hand at the paradoxical art movement inspired by me, anti-ideaism. Developed by The Kid anti-ideaism consists fundamentally of repeating anti-ideaism as much as possible and not creating under the philosophy that any ideations have previously been ideated and if not it's because they weren't worth ideating to begin with. That is to say it's all been done so don't do shit. Four hundred thirty eight chants later, a lewd idea forms and I realize I've been lilting panty I needs 'em for half an hour. A little closer to three in the morning. Hermitic urges conflict with vagabond tendencies. Food and wanderlust no longer strong enough motivators for travel marital status and solitude leave no means of discovering how quotidian lust would fare. That isn't to say there's anything ordinary about my lust. I'm no Mrs. Grundy. Lengths of "time" and low quantity of fingers when tabulating trends of affection depresses but I can't help whose flesh chemically pleases my gray matter without the help of genital duping ethanol but that's a lot of work and really who has the time? Eight minutes to three in the morning. I’ve much nothing to do.

20080102

The Boy Who Cried Waste

One quarter of an hour to half past six in the morning and it's just me and a shitty romance novel. Aching fatigued mind glancing over too many pages of middle-aged homemaker escapism. Freshly returned from first excursion to the outside world in several rotations of Earth I make plans to make it several more rotations until the next. I'm no claustrophobe. Too many servings of boiled semolina dough metabolizing in my digestive tract purveyed levels of energy my rapidly decreasing mass hasn't had for months leading to particularly altitudinous sense of primordial malevolence making normal gait a perfectly postured animal saunter and limbs feel lithe despite one hundred thirteen million three hundred ninety eight thousand ninety two point five milligram frame. That is to say I'm feeling tough. Driving at a speed reckless by even James Dean's incorporeal standards I think those at my destination fortunate I'm sans Jack Daniels. Ambling in from a side entrance concurrent with another patron from a front entrance I muster an aura unfriendly as is possible without a darker skin tone or firearms. The male, naively unaware of his status as omega quickens his pace to the counter but my entrance was closer, rendering me the next in line by default and without that fucktarded half run. Finally realizing his status in our temporary pack I prepare to order but the infection currently inhabiting my maxillary and ethmoid sinus cavities imparts a nasal gargle to my vocal emissions which the omega quickly utilizes to order over me before throat can be cleared. A little closer to half past six in the morning. Ahem.