Saturday, February 01, 2003
Maybe I should go back to Dreamers, the Store for Lovers, explain the situation to the cute blond porn store employee, and then ask her out. What do you think? [hi-jinks and hilarity ensue]
Whenever I come home from any public social event (or just whenever I come home from being outside in the world at all), I immediately check Auschron.com's Shot in the Dark page to see if I missed any opportunities. Just FYI.
Whenever I come home from any public social event (or just whenever I come home from being outside in the world at all), I immediately check Auschron.com's Shot in the Dark page to see if I missed any opportunities. Just FYI.
Friday, January 31, 2003
Let me tell you something! I may not know much, but I do know this: there is no way in Hell that black licorice is candy! Frankly, I think it's racist to make the black version of an otherwise delicious candy taste so God-awful foul!
A friend of mine is doing some freelance writing for a couple of adult magazines, so tonight I went to Dreamers, the Store for Lovers, to find one of the magazines she's writing for. I wandered around the store until I found the magazine section, which is close to the counter. As I eyed the titles, the cute blond porn store employee asked "Sir, do you need any help finding anything?"
"I'm looking for last month's issue of Leg Action."
She said that they probably did not have it and explained that they usually did not get magazines until two months after they had initially come out. I thanked her and left.
When I got in my car I saw myself in the rear-view mirror and I had a big zit on my face. And I wondered what must be more unattractive to the cute blond porn store employee: a guy who is apparently so into feet that he obsessively collects back issues of Leg Action or that same guy's exploding face?
A friend of mine is doing some freelance writing for a couple of adult magazines, so tonight I went to Dreamers, the Store for Lovers, to find one of the magazines she's writing for. I wandered around the store until I found the magazine section, which is close to the counter. As I eyed the titles, the cute blond porn store employee asked "Sir, do you need any help finding anything?"
"I'm looking for last month's issue of Leg Action."
She said that they probably did not have it and explained that they usually did not get magazines until two months after they had initially come out. I thanked her and left.
When I got in my car I saw myself in the rear-view mirror and I had a big zit on my face. And I wondered what must be more unattractive to the cute blond porn store employee: a guy who is apparently so into feet that he obsessively collects back issues of Leg Action or that same guy's exploding face?
Thursday, January 30, 2003
Today I said something I never thought I'd ever say: "If I'm buying foot fetish porn, and you're not in it, then I'm just a freak."
"No, no, no. Don't get me wrong. She's... pretty, but, jeez, it's not like she's Korean or anything."
Just because you intentionally go out of your way to ironically look like an idiot, it doesn't mean that you're not an idiot.
"Eat my fuck" is my favorite word.
Her mind is like a multicolored string of blinking Christmas tree lights.
And now a reading from The Blog of Pain!:
"But I'm all Milhouse! Plus, my mom says I'm the handsomest guy in school."
- Milhouse Van Houten, The Simpsons
"No, no, no. Don't get me wrong. She's... pretty, but, jeez, it's not like she's Korean or anything."
Just because you intentionally go out of your way to ironically look like an idiot, it doesn't mean that you're not an idiot.
"Eat my fuck" is my favorite word.
Her mind is like a multicolored string of blinking Christmas tree lights.
And now a reading from The Blog of Pain!:
"But I'm all Milhouse! Plus, my mom says I'm the handsomest guy in school."
- Milhouse Van Houten, The Simpsons
Labels: The Blog of Pain
Wednesday, January 29, 2003
Best thing overheard last night at the anti-war rally, amidst an incensed cacophony of varied sloganeering, Dopplerized staccato car horns bleeting unity, and cheerful human yelps in celebration of solidarity: "This is my favorite song."
Tuesday, January 28, 2003
What the Hell goes on inside that rabbit porno you call a brain?
"Man, that singer's throat must be as calloused as an imprisoned child molestor's ass."
Actual reader response from yesterday's entry:
"Gee, BigSleep666, I always knew you were a fucking pussy; I just didn't know to what extent you were such a fucking pussy."
And now a reading from The Blog of Pain!:
"They're playing love songs on your radio tonight.
I don't get those songs on mine.
You keep fucking up my life."
- Jets to Brazil, I Typed for Miles
"Man, that singer's throat must be as calloused as an imprisoned child molestor's ass."
Actual reader response from yesterday's entry:
"Gee, BigSleep666, I always knew you were a fucking pussy; I just didn't know to what extent you were such a fucking pussy."
And now a reading from The Blog of Pain!:
"They're playing love songs on your radio tonight.
I don't get those songs on mine.
You keep fucking up my life."
- Jets to Brazil, I Typed for Miles
Labels: The Blog of Pain
Monday, January 27, 2003
“Thirty-Two of a Thousand Wanting Instants"
You are the anarchist, the master arsonist, who started the Chicago fire and I am just a Cub Scout haphazardly tossing matches into a dumpster.
I want to write poetry and not just messy words scrawled in a darkened theater where the couple in front of me is making out.
I want to love you in a thousand separate instants.
I want to make out with you in a darkened theater.
I want to slow dance with you at a rave.
I want our prurient eyes to meet at the Rodan Musueum in Paris.
I want us to be 4000-year-old vampire heroin junkies who shoot each other's blood.
I want to be the homeless man you kiss on the cheek.
I want you to be my third grade teacher who tucks up my chin with her knuckle when I can't add correctly.
I want to be the Russian Cosmonaut that makes a mid-space connection to the American shuttle you alone pilot.
I want you to be the doctor who heals my gunshot wound.
I want us to be trendy Japanese lovers on December 31, 1999 who, after a long kill spree, leap off the tallest building in Tokyo, smacked out of our minds on a thousand different drugs, while fucking.
I want to be a five-year-old Italian boy playing tag with you alone in an olive grove.
I want to be kissed by boxer dogs as you enviously look on.
I want to grow old in your skin and young and smart in your memory.
I want to be the hired clown at your daughter's fourth birthday party that you mischievously look upon, toying with perversity.
I want to look up at you at my book signing and misspell my own name.
I want to be the squatter you take home to bathe.
I want to throw bricks at the police with you at the Democratic Convention of '68.
I want to be the longhaired thirteen-year-old leaning against a wall, wearing a dirty Metallica t-shirt, smoking shoplifted cigarettes and trying to look cool in front of you, the girl with the biggest hair in the mall.
I want to be the elderly black butler who makes love to you while your husband is away on business trips and whom you only smile at knowingly when your husband's drunk at his own crowded cocktail parties.
I want to tease you and the latte foam on your button nose.
I want to spend an eternity in Hell and then return to your fold.
I want us to talk about atmosphere as if it were gospel and the end of the world as if it were a fad.
I want to pry the electric stimulators out of your tear ducts with my tongue.
I want you to be the director of my favorite movies.
I want to be the lesbian who lets you be the first one to use a strap-on in me.
I want you to be the nurse who unplugs my life support in the dark.
I want to be the snoring pug cradled in your arms.
I want to tell God to go fuck himself as I leave the priesthood and catch your luggage flying from your convent window and toss them in the back of my convertible destined for a blue jeans commercial.
I want to be the idiot man-child who kicks your abusive boyfriend's ass.
I want to be the stutterer who recites uninterrupted sonnets only in your presence.
I want to fall under your sword in combat and have you spare me with a boot to the head.
I want us to runaway from the plantation in Georgia and flee to Canada together.
I want to be the boy at a hardcore show who catches your eye and then looks affectionately at his feet, only to have you kick your way through the pit, climb on stage and dive towards me, mashing your lips against mine.
I am full of wants, but my truth is bullshit.
I want to be a spiritual architect who constructs an invisible staircase of ignored hopes in a forgotten nowhere that stops abruptly at nothing and dedicate it all to you, but I'm still, after all your tutelage, no good at math.
You are the horizon I am forever setting in.
You are the anarchist, the master arsonist, who started the Chicago fire and I am just a Cub Scout haphazardly tossing matches into a dumpster.
I want to write poetry and not just messy words scrawled in a darkened theater where the couple in front of me is making out.
I want to love you in a thousand separate instants.
I want to make out with you in a darkened theater.
I want to slow dance with you at a rave.
I want our prurient eyes to meet at the Rodan Musueum in Paris.
I want us to be 4000-year-old vampire heroin junkies who shoot each other's blood.
I want to be the homeless man you kiss on the cheek.
I want you to be my third grade teacher who tucks up my chin with her knuckle when I can't add correctly.
I want to be the Russian Cosmonaut that makes a mid-space connection to the American shuttle you alone pilot.
I want you to be the doctor who heals my gunshot wound.
I want us to be trendy Japanese lovers on December 31, 1999 who, after a long kill spree, leap off the tallest building in Tokyo, smacked out of our minds on a thousand different drugs, while fucking.
I want to be a five-year-old Italian boy playing tag with you alone in an olive grove.
I want to be kissed by boxer dogs as you enviously look on.
I want to grow old in your skin and young and smart in your memory.
I want to be the hired clown at your daughter's fourth birthday party that you mischievously look upon, toying with perversity.
I want to look up at you at my book signing and misspell my own name.
I want to be the squatter you take home to bathe.
I want to throw bricks at the police with you at the Democratic Convention of '68.
I want to be the longhaired thirteen-year-old leaning against a wall, wearing a dirty Metallica t-shirt, smoking shoplifted cigarettes and trying to look cool in front of you, the girl with the biggest hair in the mall.
I want to be the elderly black butler who makes love to you while your husband is away on business trips and whom you only smile at knowingly when your husband's drunk at his own crowded cocktail parties.
I want to tease you and the latte foam on your button nose.
I want to spend an eternity in Hell and then return to your fold.
I want us to talk about atmosphere as if it were gospel and the end of the world as if it were a fad.
I want to pry the electric stimulators out of your tear ducts with my tongue.
I want you to be the director of my favorite movies.
I want to be the lesbian who lets you be the first one to use a strap-on in me.
I want you to be the nurse who unplugs my life support in the dark.
I want to be the snoring pug cradled in your arms.
I want to tell God to go fuck himself as I leave the priesthood and catch your luggage flying from your convent window and toss them in the back of my convertible destined for a blue jeans commercial.
I want to be the idiot man-child who kicks your abusive boyfriend's ass.
I want to be the stutterer who recites uninterrupted sonnets only in your presence.
I want to fall under your sword in combat and have you spare me with a boot to the head.
I want us to runaway from the plantation in Georgia and flee to Canada together.
I want to be the boy at a hardcore show who catches your eye and then looks affectionately at his feet, only to have you kick your way through the pit, climb on stage and dive towards me, mashing your lips against mine.
I am full of wants, but my truth is bullshit.
I want to be a spiritual architect who constructs an invisible staircase of ignored hopes in a forgotten nowhere that stops abruptly at nothing and dedicate it all to you, but I'm still, after all your tutelage, no good at math.
You are the horizon I am forever setting in.
Sunday, January 26, 2003
"The only good thing I've ever heard about this guy is that he's really good looking, and for you in particular to put up with anything less than total fulfillment, he better look like a fucking rock star.
"And you know what? He doesn't."
If it weren't for bathos, I'd have no thos.
A Haiku:
All you ever are
Is a system of atoms
That thinks it's human
"And you know what? He doesn't."
If it weren't for bathos, I'd have no thos.
A Haiku:
All you ever are
Is a system of atoms
That thinks it's human
Labels: haiku
