Room 22: Triple Set

There was Pike Matton who was in somesortof band with somekind of sound to them. He played guitar, of course -- what the fuck else would he play? The strings were plucked strummed slammed ripped by his prying, frenzied fingers that traced up and down the neck like wringing out a chicken neck. It was dirty. Nasty. Their first track had a tan tshirt feel to it. He had an air about him, one that said a lot, said he wasnt into you unless you drank cheap beer and were a Dragonfly fan. The kind of guy I wanted to fuck but he’d rather beat the living shit out of me for even thinking of getting between the sheets with him, in all honesty that turned me on more than anything that the guy couldve provided in the bed room. There was a half-empty bottle of local shit they call beer that he kicked mid-solo out into the audience -- it hit the lip of the bar and shattered into oblivion spreading it contents all over bystanders who wooooed at the display.  The guy next to me pissed his pants: Im not too sure of the cause, couldve been the bottle and he just happened to be the biggest pussy in all the city or it might be the fact that I threatened to slice off his nuts if he so much thought about washing away all that I had been building up in him since dinner three hours ago -- either way it didnt matter I got what I wanted: a piss soaked stud who’d shit in my hat if I wanted; we rushed back to the special guest bathroom and I fucked him in the stall while he cried, disgraced by the state that he’s in. His weeping sounded like a Sun O))) cover of a Chelsea Wolfe cover of a Black Sabbath song that was being played from a tape found in a dead half-mexican runaway from the Valley who’d been on Peyote as the song jostled girlish in the soon-to-cadaver-mule’s bowels during his death thralls. Oh yeah and whatever fucking band Matton was in was playing some shitty neo-Punk song or whatever the fuck it’s called. I came and went back to band; I never saw the guy again. What was I talking about? O yeah, Matton -- he was hot, literally, Dave Grohl couldnt sweat like this fucker. I wonder what his underwear smells like. About around having that thought or just before it or just before the set was over, I completely lost all interest in him sexually. He was dried meat, now, left out in the sun and coated in flies, wasp, dead fairies. The band was okay, I’d hear better, still ok tho, but for a free show it wasnt half bad. With the last song Pike switched guitar for mic. Half the place cleared, which still makes no fucking sense to me. Whatever. Besides, what I came for was the drummer. He was a coworker of a friend and I at least had a shot with him -- true he was straight and taken but I’ve sweet talked married men into my bed before so why the hell should he be difficult? Plus he had an ass built for my cock: round, fat yet small enough to pack in the trunk of my car. That man had a tight hole, let me tell you. We talked, two weeks later Im fucking him at some party were they’re playing this bands’ cds and as I coat whatever-the-fuck-this-guy’s-name-is’s face with my load the very same song that Im listening to right now live is playing through the thin walls and it occurs to me that the only thing that me and this guy who’s now sucking my dick both in the past’s future and the current past, the latter of course in my mind, have in common is this band. I remember there was this cute couple of fags on the couch Harry got for this place a few years back: one of them kept rubbing the other’s back lovingly and it was distracting as hell -- I just kept staring. . . . . So. . .um, yeah, the band, yeah the band played about six songs I think, I dont know, in all honesty I dont give a flying fuck about this band's history, what it is or what it was or even their songs really, they’re something like a punk grunge garage band that made like chicken clucks with the vocalist jumping around during the song, which we all walked in on. There’s too much shit in the system to tell what’s going on. People I went with: if you’re reading this Im not really sorry, about, like any of that night. Also Im not paying you back. And dude, what’s your face, guy I fucked, the one who smoked a bowl with the Volta, yeah you, um sorry I guess? if you’re reading this, which you’re not, but yeah, like, I’d fuck your guitarist and I’d fuck you again if yer up for it, so I guess...call me? sure yeah, call me if you wanna hook up again. Whatever.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: The Last Day (44) "The Stadium"

know what it is that you dont know. and know you'll know it. -- Run, stand still, run again, go nowhere go everywhere all places are the same, since all places are places. -- 'You'll change, it's inevitable.' I know. 'How you ending it?' -- From a Review: It's shit, no one survives (spoilers), or....or maybe they do? Fuck if I know, it's shit, that's all you need to know. -- I guess, we'll never know.: from another. -- 'So, how?' -- with Silence, I think.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 43 "Secret Observations on the Goat-Girl"

Scribble all the thoughts you have in a journal -- Where did all the people go? -- otherwise it'll all be lost -- 80-90 percent chance Jamie's dead. Deadsies. -- sadly, no one can read the thoughts written out -- El. doesnt mourn anything, atleast today. Today shes out shopping in Rococo, the Pecan Flavored City. -- on the wall you painted -- So many come to Rococo, few rarely leave, and if they do, they always come back. -- behind your hole-in-the-head corpse -- I have, and always will be worthless. -- No amount of New Wave beats will shake the shadow from your root. Yer fucked, accept it, move on, deal. -- She's looking for a gift, this was the best place to look for it. There's so much to find in the dark corner's of Rococian stores. Antique malls that smell of old dissipating cologne and dead grandparents. She took a big whiff when she walked in. It gave her the slightest head rush. -- 'Oh it's beautiful! Beautiful!' -- Nothing says happy birthday like a dead 70-y/o's jewelry hocked by her great-grandkids. -- Jesus. Jesus. ...Jesus...... -- Up stairs, 'This place has an up-stairs?', 'I know, right!', it's cozy. Mostly furniture, an old couch, bunch of chairs, a quite nice poker table. There was a window laced with spider web cracks. It over looked the street. El. took a look (nothing in the attic-up-stairs appealed to her shopping list). There was hobo down there, or a man who just looked like a hobo (you can never tell here), sitting on the curb drinking....something. He had a huge puff of hair coated in dirt, grim, sweat, filth; a leather shirt that was baggy, his pants were dark with stain. He was looking across the street as he drank, staring at the park. His hands were callus, or so she thought. They seem like why should be. I wonder what his face looks like, she thought. She wanted him to turn around, too look up at her, and smile. She wanted to see his round face, to see those sharp eyes hidden in the hollows of his head, that broad flat nose, that toothy smile. She wanted nothing more to catch a glance at the man's beautiful face. 'Ooo! El look! They have some old books,' called Mel. El ignored her. She rushed down stairs, 'I'll be right back,' 'K!,' and out the door. But the man was gone. Gone. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 24 "The Assignation"

Self-Titles always confuse things. -- 'Just keep your clothes on,' -- HP5 is on. It's just there. -- he said, Jamie obliged, of course. Nice place, he thought. The Man, the New One, the Suit, spent more money on his clothes than his place, Jamie noted. The apartment was huge. It looked like the apartment set from American Psycho. -- the Antechoice . . . yet, it is everything. It is all that is and was and will and wont and knowledge power art scheme death sex money, it's everything. . . .the forever pipe that feeds up the goulash of being-alive in the ultimate non-life simulacra. -- Jamie keeps his hands behind his back, holding one in the other. He's recently discovered the comfort it could bring, to hold yourself. He couldnt sit down. -- There are two possible explanations for the twitch, both of them unlikely. -- We exist in the machine, we are the machine, we are the matrices of the machine, the cogs the bolts the construction the power. -- It feels like an October morning. Everything's blue. I suspect there'll be cartoons on the tv in the other room. -- 'You can sit down,' the Suit said. 'Im fine.' -- The story was slow to day -- They go to a cabin to fuck --  It's hot. It's cold. It's much too. -- Jamie is locked in a cage. Something buzzes in his ass. He's been there....hours? Atleast. This guy (should)(better) pay well. The cheeks are sore. -- They were not the same red as they had been from so far away. But still...drawn in. -- Jamie's world stops churning in his head, he throws up. From somewhere beyond the room he hears people talking. The Suit's brought some guys over. -- Their color was no different than the polka-dots of chick-pox. But their thorns were still sharp. -- They come in, do the do, and leave, treating him like shit. He loves it. He's hard even after they leave him, still worked up in the dungeon. He can leave at any point they say. Are they going to kill me? he rubs his arm, scratches his head, there's a twitch in his eye. He's still hard. Still ready. Come-on....,do it. -- Or loneliness. Or sadness. Or loss. Or perceived loss. -- The Suit comes down, 'Finish yourself off.' 'What? no more?' Jamie speaks too loudly. The place echoes. 'Finish yourself off.' The Suit is sitting in a chair. Jamie makes a move toward him, 'I could-' 'DID I FUCKING TELL YOU TO TOUCH ME? I SAID FINISH YOURSELF OFF.' Jamie pouted, hiding his apprehension behind his cutes. -- Or lingering. Or gripping cope. Or an idea that consumes you like a disease like dis-ease like misease. -- Jamie wraps a hand around his shaft, and he regrets it. Like holding dog shit in your hands with a plastic bag in the way, he thinks. He runs his tongue on the bottom of his teeth, exposing them in a frown. They feel funny. 'Move.' Jamie did not. 'Move,' the Suit hissed. Jamie started to move his hand up and down. He covered his mouth with his other hand. It smells like his own ass. -- (Link) (Links) (Unlike) (Link). -- I dissolve in coffee, stir -- After a bit: '..some lube...' creeps out of his nausea curved lips. 'Spit on it.' 'I'd rather-' 'Spit. On it.' Jamie did. It only made things worse. -- there's the fuzz of movement, the blur -- From where he sits the Suit spits, trying to help a slut out. It landed on Jamie's face. -- Stewart wakes up alone. The bed, two sizes too big, is still warm where he had left his lover. Smacking his lips, he finds a tab bit of mango flavored lube hidden in the back, tucked between the gum and the check. What if someone ate that stuff, like as an actually snack? he thought. The room's too bright. The blinds are down, but the curtains are none existent. The sun seems eager to ruin Stewart's sleep. What is today? He looks at his phone (no messages): Tuesday. Hm. Stewart listens, waiting for something. He looks around the room, little is disturbed. Where is he? His phone dings. Cecil: Be there in an hour. 'O yeah,' Stewart says aloud. He hops in the shower, taking extra care. The hot water doesnt wake up his bones, but the coffee does. As he stands next to the counter sipping: Guess he's gone, he thinks. He gets the house ready for Cecile. -- (graveyard?) (park?) (underpass?); black dress -- Jamie's cum spurts on the floor and then the nausea hits him. The Suit stands up. Standing over Jamie, the Suit swirls his big toe around in the still-hot pool. Lifting the foot: 'Clean it off.' Jamie does. The Suit pisses of Jamie and ties him up. Close pins, electric shock, some light ball torture: it's all so typical. The Suit shits on Jamie and cums in the latter's face. Guess we're done. -- Censorship. Synchronize. -- There's no real point to this, any of this, Cecile says. Stewart hates watching movies with him sober. Where's Jamie? he thinks. -- Jamie clamors onto a bus, the directional map, explaining its course, looks like Arabic to him. -- Cecile's in tight khakis. And a shirt that's nice and normal fitting, but the tightness of the pants gave it the appearance of being too big. Stewart suppresses the urge to sign aloud. What are we even watching. Where the hell is Jamie? -- Such dreadful boredom. They can tell you dont give a shit, they can tell you have no idea what you're fucking doing. -- No one will be able to fix my horniness my hunger because it extends from somewhere outside by cock but still with me. Sex isnt what I want. Sex is just something I feel like I understand. -- At least he's cute, Stewart thinks. He puts a hand on Cecile's thigh. Bu this mind is on Jamie and his mind is on the other, and knowing Cecile, he was probably thinking about anything other than Stewart. Cecile's only here for Jamie. Why am I here? Stewart thinks. Seriously. Seriously, what are they watching? Doesnt matter, all that matters is Cecile hates it and Stewart couldnt give a damn. They stare at the screen, the hand unmoving and the only contact. It sat there. -- like slowly unstuck syrup. -- Coming down on a vacant bus really fucks with ya. -- All day walkin' like there was nothing flashing behind --  They're making out to fill up the ennui. -- Am I pretty now? -- Cecile's pants are fucking terrible. The texture of khakis are detestable. -- Am I a writer now? -- Seriously, am I writer now? -- (Cut this Gertrude Stein shit), -- Stewart's got Cecile's cock in his mouth (he's still watching the movie. Stewart didnt care. He just wanted Jamie to come in, and to get pissed off. Fuck that little prick, Leaving me here with this fucker.) -- Look all Im saying is -- 'Are you getting off at some point?' -- The fucking khakis go flying across the room. 'My phone was in those.' O, for the love of fucking Ra, thought Stewart. His thighs are hairless, Stewart notices. I guess that's....nice. -- The bus rattled. 'You sit next to a window, you better look out it melancholic,' rang in Jamie's ear. I miss him, he mumbled. 'What? What'd you say?' The woman in the seat across from his. Eyes wide: 'What?' 'Oh, I thought you had said something.' She looked familiar. -- Checking out cute boys in -- 'Where the fuck is Jamie?' Stewart was pissed, pissed the fuck off. Cecile's lips were sealed, his eyes were unfocused. Practically comatose. He was a terrible lover. 'Shouldn't we up to your room, or something. . . ' he'd said, but Jamie wanted to stay, stay right there, where Jamie could walk in and see. See him slam up and down into the fucktoy he'd shown so much interest in all those times before, at Felicie's party, at Mark's party, at that fucking god awful orgy, all those times and he wasn't even here. Stewart was there, and he hated this prick. Why couldnt Jamie be? -- She looked like his mother, he thought. There was a stirring in his gut. From -- a small town where one probably shouldnt check out the cute boys. -- something. Jamie needed something....to do? eat? fuck? -- crushing, crushing all around, -- Cecile's cock was alright. It was slightly thicker at the top, which Stewart enjoyed. The former's hands ran along his open thighs. The latter's face grew redder and redder. The movie was still on. -- Jamie wanted to say something to her. He stared out the window trying to think of what exactly. He wanted to say something worth saying, something that should be said. Not small talk or idle chatter bullshit. Something she'd remember.-- this place has no place, this place is far from every place, this place this. -- was nothing. Nothing. She was nothing nothing nothing, but this one kept thinking of her. 'e couldn't stop thinking about her. -- There must be something. -- I cant cum under this conditions, Stewart thought. The wider-at-the-top pole up his ass began to feel uncomfortable. He flopped off. 'Im done.' 'What?' 'I said Im done.' 'What the fuck, Im so close.' 'Then finish yourself off,' he shouted from the kitchen, looking in the fridge.' 'At lest suck me off.' 'Dont fucking beg, its disgusting.' 'Oh for fuck's sake.' Cecile stormed about and stomped. A hissy fit? Just because I wont get you off? What a fucking baby. -- On one hand: they're something I always try to hit up, and I enjoy them, to a degree. On the other: -- She got off. He stayed on. Where am I? he thought. -- No Day 15 -- Asses are nice up here. -- Stewart had stopped putting up a fight, he just let it happen. The sad thing is: it felt great. Hella lot better than before. He still screamed tho. The intent unclear. -- They must put something in the water. -- Fuck this story. It's going nowhere. 'Oh come-on, it's doing fine.' Like hell. 'Yer always so critical.' Says you. Can we just fuck already? 'No.' Come-on. 'No, not in the mood. Finish the story and then maybe.' I hate writing this thing. I've fucked it to the point of no return. No one reads this anymore. 'So?'.....Good point. I guess I'll finish it. 'You need to.' Yeah. 'You've almost made it through the book. Plus, think of all you could gain from this!' Nothing. 'Nothing?' -- Nothing. That's what he felt like. Like apart of the chair, apart of the bus. There werent stops for him to get off, just stops from others to pile on or take away. Jamie felt as mechanical as the bus. -- Cum is good for the skin apparently. He never put much weight into that supposed fact. -- When taking a shit becomes homicidal childbirth. -- It felt terrible, not the sex that felt great (now). It felt terrible that Stewart was now enjoying it. Im disgusting, he thought, as eight spurts shot in his load. -- Im fucked, Im gone, I cant even cry, everything's crushing down, I can feel it in my chest -- He finally got off, but he still had absolutely no idea where he was. So he walked. Just, walked. Aimless. -- 'You like that, huh.' 'Shut the fuck up.' 'What the fuck did you just say!?' 'I said fuck me again.' -- and a face and hair and a cock, obviously. -- It was a surprise, but Stewart went along. How the dildo stayed in, he wasnt too sure. I guess he's upset about the no-show too, Stewart thought. The bed was nice, Stewart loves his bed. No matter what. He must be squeezing hard to keep it in, Stewart let out a massive scream as Cecile violently thrust into him. I'll run out of lube at this rate. He still had cum in his hair. -- Yellow. -- He hardly ever used his toys anymore, he's been spoiled by the real thing for too long. -- He kept making eye contact with me. -- Half way thru sex the boy realize that that's what was being done to him. -- Which each passing glance of the lance, -- Sitting at the edge, high up on the second floor, looking down. -- 'So what happens to Jamie?' He shows up in a post few days after this one. 'Then what? That one ended about the same way.' I dont know. 'Kill him. That'll be a nice change of pace.' Maybe. 'Corpse-fucked?' Look I dont know. 'Well you have to know. You wrote it.' -- The urge is so tempting. -- I looked up the definition of Assignation; never knew it. And it's changed everything. I feel like I should have saved it for the end of this, that might have made things more interesting, but what's done's done. I mean, the fact that I did around the mid-way point, and debating whether to continue this at all, mid-way-ish thru, after fucking up the schedule and accidentally lying to my readers saying this shit would be out Tuesday(?) and it's dropping now, instead. Im sorry? No, not really. Look, here's what matters: Im going to finish this, going to see this all the way through, unlike so many other things. This thing has nothing to do with any of yall or anyone, the fact that it's being read is almost unimportant. This is for me, this is mine, this just to fuel my perfection, to glorify myself, once again. So. Deal with it.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 42 "Blue-Bearded Lover"

Death is cum, cumming is death. -- Fuck love: Loving the Fuck. It's hard to get by with love, at least movie love, so true love, the real love. It's really hard to move with the love around the neck. -- Any plans tonight? -- Who's Judith and who's Bluebeard? -- No. -- You're Judith, and Im Bluebeard. -- Good. -- Who's the third guy? -- Alcohol is love, Candy is love, Cigarettes are love -- He's not in the equation. -- Medication is love, over-medication is love, over-dose is love, -- The collar's too tight, I can barely breathe. -- Driving is love, car crashes are love, ozone death is love, green house gases are clingy obsessive love, global warming is love, the consummation of the earth's surface by the over-surfacing water is love. -- Is that my problem? -- Nuclear way is love, H-Bomb is love, World War I II III IV is love. -- Dont you just love the heart shaped lock? It's so dear. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 41 "The Others"

distant ships, all along the coastline. ocean liners out on the horizon like tiny knots in twine. -- fucking T.s. Elliot. Or was it Pound? who cares, fuck'em both. Dont even burn their books, martyrdom is too worthy. Let them sit on shelves untouched, withering, aging yellowing to dust. Until the pages crumble at the touch, and the all the pages fall from the binding -- Sometimes, I would hear it -- to the floor where they would splatter scatter flop to the ground, fanning out. -- down the hall, or form down the road. It was always so far away and I so far along some path a thought sent me down. I'd hear just the tailed end, the least syllable-and-a-half. Yet I knew it. You just know it. Know that someone called your name. -- He wrote a book of poems about cats, for fuck sake. And dont give me that "but they have double meanings" or "applications to real world things". Total bullshit. They're just fucking cat poems. Fucking hack. -- When you realize someone's already had your idea. -- The voice that called you it always airy, always very distant, as if it had traveled over many fields to reach you. It was always female for me. Always a woman. -- They dont come anymore. They've stopped. -- They dont come anymore.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 40 "Train"

Abscess abstain -- Never read a word, never crossed my eyes with the lines of the page, never see nothin' never heard nothin' never said nothin'. -- Sitting still is an impossible chore. His face is hot, specifically, a small square area on the upper part of his left check, just slightly under the bone. Yesterday it burned like acid. -- Dreadful, simply dread full. -- Most of yesterday is stacked with sleep and shame. -- Every gestures is forced. He moves as if it great pain or with monumental stain. Yet he shakes. -- Beg, Plead. -- What is it you want? What do you desire? -- Beg, plead, ask. Beg. Plead. Pleading, shame shot shoot blow out blow, blow out, plead. Beg. Begging. Ask. Just ask, Im sick of asking, sick of begging, sick of pleading. But I need to. -- He could do nothing but prevent it from happening, which was agony. There was no fixing it, there was no solution, only prevention. He had to keep it all up, no matter how much he wanted to shake, fall to the floor and writhe violently, and scream. No matter how much, he had to hold it in.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 39 "Desire"

Want wanton want wanton wont wont wanton want. --

The birdiy came by calling while you were sleeping. You couldnt hear its song. -- I miss having a dog. -- Stewart's -- It feels weird to have this character exist, at all. He's just a terrible combination of inspirations that makes me feel.....weird. -- been changing -- Every little notice, every buzz from the phone, sets it off. -- his daily schedules, the little routines. There's no logic to it. He's not even aware of it. Each morning he'd awake groggy, naked, and then showered. It shook him to now, he could actually be considered alive after the shower. --

The birdiy came by calling while you were sleeping. --

Now he wakes up groggy, naked, late and bolts out the door. -- Now he wakes up groggy, naked, late and he bolts out the door sans any sort of hygiene work. -- I miss summer days out with friends who I pined for. -- All the way around. All that around. The stuff that isnt it but around it. Those. Those. Those are the parts I cant stand. -- Stewart spends the day reeking, wishing he could wash away the built up filth but he's trapped at work. No one seems to notice, he thinks. -- I miss that feeling of attractive before the real meaning of attraction sunk in. --

-- I could tell the differences in the buzz. Based solely off the vibration I could tell what kind of notification I was receiving. FB up-date, E-mail, Apps need upgrade, text: I could differentiate them all. -- Maiesiophilia. -- Hate. -- I could even differentiate, based off buzz, who I got the text from. Which was useful in the way back. --

The birdiy came by calling while you were sleeping. -- It makes me sick. Yet it makes me happy. --

Disgust. -- The birdiy came by calling while you were sleeping. -- I miss certain people. I miss old days, ol' daze, oil haze, I miss. Ms.. miss. I. -- (Cut this Gertrude Stein shit.) -- Now, he showers when he gets home mid-way through the day or late in the afternoon. It feels amazing, it stops being an extension of the alarm clock. It's something pleasurable instead of a chore. -- This thing, this blog thing, has little to do with the original goals and I think I love it for that. --

But Stewart still wants to shower in the morning, he tells himself he will right as he falls asleep. --

It starts in the stomach. It twists, something I'll notice forever is the way it twists. Doesnt turn doesnt churn the from wall of my stomach twists when it starts. Always does. Then the lungs. I can feel the air I inhale. I can feel the empty space that fills up the lungs. It's not the comforting cotton that builds up in the lungs when you take a deep breathe, no. It feels like the void, the empty space, the vacant air that touches the outside of you sink and it's in my lungs. And then there's the buzz, the fuzzy warmth that spreads from my testicles. Pure attractive, pure want bursting out, spiking up like the hair on a porcupine when it readies to fight, like the back hairs of cat when it shivers. Even when Im groomed them smooth my balls send up that feeling of hair on end. Then I exhale, and it hurts, a little, in a some-one-biting-you-for-sex kind of way. Finally, I look at the phone. --

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 38 "Two Doors"

DON'T RESPOND...if...ya...y'know..... -- First time to trust a fart in days. -- No holds doors open, much anymore, for any one. They let the handle slid out of their grasps as those behind just barely reach the threshold. --  Two books, two pieces of toast, two cigarettes, two ??s, two two two, one bunk, -- No matter what Im horny. Horny horny -- Full disclosure: I am /so/ into demons/guys with horns. Deal with it. Accept me. -- two cigs smoked, one cig lost, -- Stop touching yourself -- Do go gently into the good night, fuckit, just fuckit. Die. Die. -- Why do some many people have some form of trauma from seeing a parent/relative naked? Is...Is that really a thing or something perpetuated by media? I've seen my dad naked lots of times and I turned out fine. -- DON'T RESPOND....unless....if...y'know..... -- 'Who is the audience?' Did you already ask that? '...Yes...?' FUCK. Already out of ideas. -- Purging purring motor murder motor mutter purring per pursueing, pursue, Purge, hot cars with hot babes, Kool Kars Kool Kids KUSTOM, custom cus tum cuz ton cos, cause, Hot cars with hot babes sitting on the hood. Hot guys in leather. Leather daddies, wannabes wanna be greasers, greasers, greasers covered in oil, motor oil, olive oil. That moment in 120 Days when Sade points out on such and such day they stop using Pomade with boys. Sex. Machines. Fuck machines, fuck all night. Knight. night. Customs caught up in old campers hidden away were the faire actors fuck at night. Where the car owners take whomever back with to fuck. Sex is everywhere and everything. I think Im obsessed. -- DON'T RESPOND. Well....um, i mean...if..y'know...but...huh...                 Well....

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 37 "Visitation Rights"

My recent pubes shaving really turned my junk into something worth looking at. Which is great. Anything to make my deflated balloon cock look better is always great. (The image of a dead relative flickered in my mind as I wrote that). -- The person decides the personal. -- Look, a mission statement. 'Look, more fucking stupid dialogue bullshit.' -- Holy fuck was today a nothing. Nothing, at all, was gained today except the discovery of an online personality whose blog was once great and now seem kinda shitty. (Maybe they were having an off day too) (and No, no link for you I-Hope-You're-Actually-There-or-Else-My-Life-Seems-Wasted-&-All-That-Money-Spent-on-Cheap-Cheeseburgers-That-Are-Stuff-with-the-Drugs-That-Fuel-Me-Was-for-Naught Audience. No link for you.) -- I have neck problems from the porn I watch. -- Never write about a mother. Never write about a father. Only ever write as a son. Only ever write as a daughter. -- Bor has tattoos on his leg so he never wears shorts, -- Sometimes when I touch myself I feel a prickly fuzz run up my arm -- no matter the weather -- turns out my fingers just got too close to the electrodes. -- which both his colleges and students mock. One day Bor did arrive in shorts, he gave no explanation. But he did have to (repeatedly) explain the ink throughout the day. Which distracted from the questions about the shorts. Something that he appreciated. -- 'This literally seems to have fuck-all t'do with the short story it's supposedly based around.' So? 'Well, I mean-. . . . . ' -- Woooows, and When'd you get those'es and Can I take a pictures (which to this day makes no fucking since) berated Bor for hours. Why didnt you tell us you have tattoos? How could I possible have done that? None of you ever asked or anything, Bor said. (No need to be so snippy, some students said). Bor's tone edged sharper and sharper. Why get tattoos if you arent gonna show 'em off? I didn't get them for other people to see. I didn't get them for y'all. -- 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 36 "Picnic"

Gettin' some serious The Girl Next Door vibes off this one. -- Blonde bound bold bolt bounding bound found lost tossed off love love blonde-black, black-blonde. -- It's gibberish, really. Gibberish. 'It sells' So? 'That must mean it's great.' Or that people are fucking morons. 'Who cares? They buy it. They love it. What does it matter in quality and content if it's something they connect with?' Cuz fuck'em. -- Waiting waiting waiting.. . . . .jesus, I have shit to do tomorrow (sortof) what's taking him? -- Tim's Vermeer, The Night Porter, -- waiting waiting, aw fuck need to _____________. -- Belle de Jour tomorrow. -- Fanfiction is the only place to find true love anymore. The decimals and the pixels that make up the blind code of language, of text, that's the only place left to find anything of worth. Online. It's all online. All of life is online. -- waiting waiting buffer buffer bumper buffer buffering waiting wait waiting. .. . . . I wonder what he does when I dont show up? What does he do on the nights Im not conjured? I should probably know, or atleast think about it. What does he do when I tell him to fuckoff? What does he do when I dont appear? Does he finger himself? Does he shower? Does he yank it? Does he shove that little lube bottle up that temperamental ass? What does he do after I leave, after a bad show? What, what, wot, wat waht hwat, what waht what? Good god. -- Good God. -- The flicks were fine. -- I've done so much in here. Written a shit load of things. Written porn, written romance, written horrors. Almost cried in here a few times. Watched The Color of Love in here. There's a lot of me in the coffee shop, a lot of past in this place for me. I wonder if that'll ever matter? -- Running away. Run away. Way. Return. Retrieved. Unnoticed. Sneak snuck, never tell never tell this is the secret never to tell never to tell tell tell --  waiting waiting waiting, Ok, fuck it. He's taking too too long. Im going to sleep. Fuck him. Im going to sleep.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 35 "August Evening"

She sat by the door waiting. He's late, she thought. Or did she start getting ready too early? It's so difficult to keep track of time. -- Look'd a head: Desire seems weird. -- It's only been over for 8 hours but the weekend seems a millennium away. It's always been like that. A week ago is a month ago, a month ago is six months ago, a year ago is a decade. -- She's been told she's good at it. By a few in fact. It's a compliment, she supposes, but not something she feels the need to brag about. Something to keep to yer self, she thought. In fact she never told anyone about it, as if it were one of her secrets. Often, when she sat alone, usually in the semi-dark, thinking about her secrets and who knew them, it would come up as if it belonged. As if it was meant to be with all those other things. The things she would tell no-one or very very few. -- Yesterday was a daze, nothing came of it. It was recovery. Recovery from the day before and the day before and the day before and all the mistakes after that day after that day and after that day. Could have got laid. Is that something to be sad about? This celibacy has begun to sting less and feel more and more appropriate. Fuck sex, I just want cuddles. -- She's till sitting by the door, waiting. He's most definitely late, most definitely most definitely.  

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 34 "Face"

Legs enlaced like crochet, a finger dipped in. Inflated balloons, facial reconstruction based around the concept of ego destruction, unleashed id to thaw through the bean stock soup feeding the marchers on their way to the Sorbonne. -- Lips like licorice. -- Day-dreams kill. -- Im sad, gotta listen to Black Metal. -- I casually sitting around fantasizing about my open wrists and surviving. Watching tv which deep death blood draining down my hands. -- I see a qt with his qt gf, they exchange dating niceties, even kiss before depart. I've got no chance. Still. I keep staring at his ass, and day dreaming. -- The corpses of pages past lie about the floor. Cum has drenched some of the brittle old paper and now turns yellow -- Yellow. -- and among the tore-out-bits are more tore-out-bits. The fan spins and the everything goes flying. On the one working tv left int he building plays the movie version of Fahrenheit 451. Below: smashed chairs, some condoms full of blood, a pentagram of shit on the wall, a tv with the screen busted in, a sink on fire, the ceiling fan barely hanging on by a chord. And a corpse, a knife in its gut, wrists slit so deep you can see the bone from across the room. And piss. Lots and lots of drying, yellow piss. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 33 "Señorita"

-- Like faces mirror to mirror, an image unimaginable a forged forsaken. Each face a reminder that you're fucking up, you're doing it wrong, a reminder that you arent making it and you wont. -- Too much to be done. Too many lives to save, too many lives to change (first of all yourself), too many things to keep up with, Sometimes I think I wasnt meant to survive, and you can find little piece from all the little things, the minutes, the minutes, everything adding up and everything amounting. And when you try, when you've almost got it, you're almost there, just there, a second away, it could be done and you'd be fine but the weight is too much, all the pieces that led up, all the tiny steps that push toward one singular event, that head down one ultimate direction you cant fight it, you cant do anything to it, you can win. It drags you down. You try to move quickly but your finger's shaking, you're shaking, and that slows you down. Atleast that's what you tell yourself. That's one excuse you try to pass. But then it all falls, as it was meant to fall. And you cant even cry, you can only scream out one loud FUCK, but you cant cry it's the one thing you need yet it wont let you, the tears wont let you cry, you wont let you cry. It was a mistake, plain and simple, a mistake, but one you made and one you'll have to deal with. -- Each face that appears, a reminder that you're doing it wrong, that you're never going to make it. -- And then there are the moments and the rest of the day where you tell yourself you're gonna change -- this is your gunman in the crowd, assassin, your defeated bugler, your thwarting robber -- only for it all to chant back, to return to the refrain. It's all apart of the process. Death is natural in the life cycle, cycle of life. To die feeds the life to come. It's only a coincidence that everything stays the same, that the lives all run together to form one face. One face (J) One face, dream dream, keep dreaming it allows thing to pass by unseen, unseen (I see), unseen (I see a single face) unseen (and see a thousand) unseen (possibilities) unseen. -- No peace in booze, only a buzz in the chest that screams cliche, no peace in being chained up, no one to chain. All I want to do is slip into a mask and sleep. -- It's difficult to become someone else, practically impossible. -- But Im everyone. Im everyone. Everyone and everything. -- This song reminds me of death. It reminds me of one specifically dead, but not their life, just that they are dead and that I am reminded of this fact, that is all Im reminded of when I hear this song. It has doesnt even have anything to do with them. Stars. I think of stars as well. -- Dont date writers, it wont end well. -- It's difficult to become someone else, practically impossible. You fall for your same old tricks. You fall for yourself. You only become you in different robes, with different hair. I want to become beyond. I want to become something beyond me. I want to become beyond me, besides myself. I want to become something beyond me, besides myself, behind I. I want to remove myself from me. I want to become new. I want I want I want, want want want. -- Im insane. Reference Evidence: Previous days. I guess I've except, I guess Im excepted. -- Never explain yourself, it comes of condescending. Allow for other everywhere in your life. Never preach. --

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 32 "A Sentimental Encounter"

R. stared at a statue of h'self. It has been put in the rain for too long; in parts the rebarb shows, coming up like arterial spray, flashing their rusty ugly heads among the smooth stone whose paint is slowly chipping away. 'What do you think?'. Curtly: 'Hm.' 'You should see mine,' said B. R. had. B. had blue hair today,  light creamy blue, the color you'd paint a baby boy's room. 'How much longer do we have to without seeming rude?' Yuppies, beatniks, hipsters, punks: they were all here. 'I'd say another...10 minutes?' R. didnt respond. Meet 'n' Greet. Ugh. 'I hate art.'; 'Then why are you friend with Marvello?'; 'I like artists,' someone put on a record, 'I hate art.' -- Do you find it Ironic, or Lazy? 'B. and Marvello are basically the same person.' I know. 'Try giving them more-different physical features, that might help a tad.' I dont know if I can they all look like J to me. 'Well that's your problem.' Yeah? 'They arent.' -- Repeating a symbol gives it meaning. Repeating a phase gives it power. Repeating an action, in text, gives it permanence. Repeating an action in life makes you insane.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 31 "Superstitious"

Ridges rigor rises rose rose rise arise arose a rose. Differ to differences differences differ, block block out, remove move away so no one may find bind find, blind you you blind you are blind bind bound. Intrinsically you you instrumentally are you, you are you you are. There are only I me my's and you yours theirs they them, No escape. Escape not, escape knot release. Monogamy monogamous must, bust, lust. -- Hospitals. My mind rotates around them, right now. Mostly because of this, but from something else as well. They seem like an unreal place. No one would build a monument to disease and death, would they? I say that because I've never really been trapped inside one. Never locked inside, never caged, there at least. So they're something other, something not, something not real true truth-bound allowed. I dont even know where the hospital is, in this town or any other. I have no idea where the one I was born in is located, except for the city name. -- How much do I reveal? How much do I uncover? -- Most of this has nothing to do with what began, both for this day and the. . . .experiment? this project? I can see it's end coming and it makes me question everything I've done since the beginning. -- Only one day lost, and it's never coming back. There will never be a day 15 seen by anyone. Day 24 is coming, it's a whole new beast and it needs time to grow in it petri dish. -- Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Fucking, oh god who cares. -- El. does something, Stew, Stewie and Stewart do something -- Have they ever met? Do the the 3-Stews know of each other, do they interact? Hm. -- My days have been dull, so not much to art about here. -- You can always tell when I've read the story at the end of the day instead of the beginning, or at least I can. -- I smoked my last two cigs today. -- Blah blah diary blog blah. Boooooooooooo. -- Writing rite wrote right rights riting wrought. Rot. Rot. Colors seem to me something worth knowing, atleast their theory. (The opposite of Yellow is Purple, not Green. Green is a byproduct of Yellow + Blue so they're related not opposites). Who cares? Good point. Stop talking. Never. You dont have anything to say, not anything at all, nothin'. Like that'll stop me. It should. Since when does having nothing to say prevent anything from being said? -- 'e's spillt somemore on the carpet. Fuck! It was that damn cup, 'e thought as the penance of cleaning took h' attention. The cup in question was tilted, at a slant to mimic a ship's smoke stake. And when 'e held it, subconsciously, 'e titled until the top resembled a regular cup, which gives the coffee extra ease to escape. 'e loved it tho, loved it so. That's why it's still around, in spite of the shit it pulls.  

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 30 "Adulteress"

Retrospective action retrograde. -- Hypnotic repetition, spike spike lull spike, the pattern of removing and replacing the pattern, cycle recycle (Are you next to nothing?). -- Tie me up, tie me down. -- A desire to go get what you want, a desire to have what you want give to you. -- Stewie feels. . . .odd . . He's never really been anything other than vanilla, but now when he reads in the paper (who the fuck still reads those) of some something getting kidnapped, tied to a post, tied up gagged, taken taken away taken to someplace and . . . .he get's hard, insanely hard, his nuts tight in their sack, he cant see straight he cant keep his hand away. Madness. Madness Madness. -- 'Show dont tell' Fuck off 'What Im just trying to help' Im just trying to get this shit done. Donesnt matter. 'Does matter, you want something good out there dont you?' Yeah, but . . . 'No but. Do it.' -- Scream. -- Scream fear shame guilt guilt scream, return to the gave return to the womb return return return -- 'Quote something.' What? 'Quote something! Bring up the past, take a line from one of the past DA and work in.' Naw. 'What, it'll work! "Retrospective action retrograde," repeating what you've said; It'll create an intertextual context. Self-referential.'  Pfft fuck that. -- Ya like that Stewie? Ya like those three fingers deep inside you? Stewie's stopped using as much lube when yankin it. The friction burns but he cant help but find that fact hot. He's daydreaming of tied up women, of being tied up by men. . . .by Jamie. . . . .god. He came. Hot, like molten lead, and just as heavy. -- Commit adultery. It's so in right now.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 29 "Stroke"

Today's a good day for death. Not that Im dying, or rather, dying quickly. There's just been a lot of permutations of death in this day, thus far. Near death in the story. Actually death in a different short story I am forced to read which was written by a classmate. The death of literature and good taste brought on by the latter of those stories. The inevitable second death when people praise that rancid shit. And, yet again, when it more than likely becomes published in some format, gets famous, makes money. When that day comes it too will be a good day for death. All the suicides by those with taste will see to that. Dying in the literature, winter's dead, the sun is dying, ozone trees copper, someone somewhere, an animal's probably being run over right now. A stabbing here, a stabbing there, a stabbing in a another other text, both literal and figurative. Im seeing death everywhere. Hell, why not. Why not embrace the on slot of death symbols? It's everywhere, unavoidable so why not have death on the mind. Why not? Why not. -- Jamie's in the city of Rococo, crying. He found his way there from Houston, where the streets are paved with assholes and the buildings out of cocks and pussies. Dont worry, most cities are, every city is. Austin, Topeka, Portland, San Fran, New York, any city you can name it as orgy of fuck and fucks not given. Except Rococo. And maybe Baltimore. Maybe. Jamie wandered in the city of smears like everyone else, with tears in their eyes. A throat parched of something that cant be drank. The street lights vigil to his dreary shuffle, he'd found the place that'd be his tomb. The city never lets go, not matter how long, far.The darkness has flashing behind the buildings, down the alleys, in the abandoned hotel rooms. It felt like home. He missed his pup, missed his home, he thinks. Jamie cant be sure. What was home? Where was it? Who how were what will when went where was wont will not may may not, Jamie's mind churned up any word that could stand on its own as a question to knock them down without an answer. The loud scream of a car horn clipped his arm. he didnt really care. The pain felt nice in his arm, felt agonizing nice. Jamie found himself looking over a river, on a high bridge. The water was black. He stared to cry when he noticed. My arm's broken, he thought, shit. He got over the rails as best he could. There was the slightest edge, the lip of a precipice. Below: the water. The wind howled. The cars screeched. Rococo moaned. Jamie stared down at the water for a long time then turned his eyes up, tears leaking out like a busted levee. Distantly he heard.
The moon was waxing gibbous. The stars were twinkling, indifferent to him, to us, only concerned with their own burning. Jamie stared at the horizon, at the river stretching back for-what-seemed-ever. Jamie listened to the wind whipping around his ears.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 28 "Party"

Everyone hates me. I can smell it. It's in their eyes, clues hidden in the lies slipping out of their lips. -- From Jamie's Blog: I found a bottle of wisky in the bathroom. Empty. It wasn't mine. -- Piss piss 'em off piss piss, piss in the bottle piss the next guy off, get pissed get pissed. Piss in the bottle, piss the next guy off. -- Stew Stewie Stewart -- This is a no kudgement zone -- Stew Stewie Stewart -- Yeah faggot, no judgement. -- From Jamie's Blog: I wonder if [Stewie] is as kinky as [Stewart]? Or is [the latter] as vanilla extract as [Stew]? -- Piss on, piss off, get pissed, piss, piss in the bottle, pissin' in the bottle, pissin somebody off -- An empty bottle of wisky, he sucks so hard on its dry tit he hits his teeth. All gone and nowhere to go. He needed to pee. No one around to wetten, how annoying. -- Ibwonder if he is as kinky as him? Or is he as vanilla extract as him?

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 27 "Shelter"

Speeding trough town, crossing the lines drawn on the tiny tiny google earth, street view. -- The air is stale down here. -- Rot. -- Rot. With a german accent. -- Set down the rows and rows and rows and make the lines out of cement tarmac asphalt so it can never never nver never change like immutable words of ancient plays marching under the banner of cannon. -- 'Speed Hump' the sign says. -- Trapped in the earth, a coffin a tomb, an idea that we can never survive. -- They, those in the story, are in a nuclear war bunker. -- A moment's hesistation in the engine when you hit the gas, taking a breathe before the scream. -- The bumps the needle left. -- Speed: the additude. -- Nodding off between your girlfriend's legs. Feeling the kick in the back of your legs, while she's on top of you. -- Limp ambition, devastated motivation, a loss of the naivety need to try and change the world. -- Rise/Fall/Ascend/Bend/Descend. -- Rot. -- Rot. -- Red Rot Rot. -- I watched a movie today, where the world ended. At the end, but it was ending the whole time, slow slow slow, and one of them almost shot up some H. Saw some other snorting, dont see that too much now a days. -- Rot. -- Rot. -- Rot.  

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 26 "The Bystander"

Too many hours. Too many hours. Too, too many -- She's got something itching in her, it crawls up her back. Discreetly, she tries to get at it. When at home she take a hairbrush to it, for it's gone too close to the center of her back, on the valley of the spine, where she cant reach. -- Jamie finds some asscme, this bothers him. It's too young to pop, to young to take out of this world. Apparently. He hopes that no one will notice tonight. -- Too many hours spent sleeping -- Bobbi stares at himself in the mirror. Looking at his face: nothing. His eyes are too blue, so bright. As he stares he expects them to move without his doing. -- She cant get it to stay away. It always come back. -- A thousand faces. Why even describe a character? Over time, their image will alter deform shift as the reader's mind forgets what it was you said about their skin, its color texture freckles, about the way their hair falls. Over time the character becomes a projection of whomever the character reminds them of. Or who they want the character to be more like. -- A woman in her 50s stops a robbery. It enlivens her thereafter. And she daydreams of taking things into her own hands. -- The inch isnt even there and she scratches. Almost religiously. Her nails scrap across the flesh where nothing is irritating it. She's reminded of lovers' caresses when she does, specifically those fucking bastards who destroy her, did that to her, took what they did. Left her, like this. She drew blood, once, from her scratching. -- They can tell, they can see it, they can hear it, they can smell it. No dont be silly, they dont notice it, it isnt that noticeable. They know. -- Bobbi's hand runs over his genitals. And she winces grimace makes-a-face, he leaves, leaving on the fan but not the light. Getting dress in the dark, he hums a song from his past, distant, like a hymn you only sing when you've got no songs left in your repertoire. -- They knew, they notice, they whisper of it. -- She'll stop her scratching when the itching's gone. -- 'Im going to look good tonight,' Bobbi mumbles in the near-dark. -- Too many hours. Too many hours sleeping. Too many hours working. Too many hours spent on what should only have taken a few. Too many hours. Too, too many hours. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 25 "Fin de Siècle"

Sitting some place private. -- Creaking -- Sitting in a public stall, in a public restroom, images from Brite's Exquisite Corpse float up. -- People can hear you, people can see you -- Not too sure if it's just my queer eye, but I think, at the end, the niece is trans, in the text. -- even in a stall sound carries, people can look thru the crack between the door and frame work that holds it up. The nasty things you and your lover do in the stale can be viewed by anyone if they try hard enough. -- There's a dire urge not to over-exaggerate, but that seems nearly impossible when your life appears as your own personal melodrama. -- Horror films grace the back of my mind. -- Pauline Réage, Oates, Anaïs Nin, inter porn, fan fiction. A lot of my female influences wrote/writs porn, does that make me a bad feminist or a great one? -- At the end of the day, the mania. -- The yellow pollen has faded, dissipated. Now there's only the tiniest mention of yellow. Like it's been weeks since mustard gas sucked-face with any available surface, not days. -- Fin de Siècle -- How many beetles have I accidentally stepped on? How many spiders have I swallowed in my sleep? How many stings have I avoided simply by wearing jeans, or stepping in a certain direction? How many deaths have I unwittingly avoided? How much have I benefited from what I dont know? -- Once, a misstep, probably, a misunderstanding about what it was that was done, a misunderstanding of what we were, a misunderstanding. -- Jamie's back from the dead, they call 'im Lazarus in the local places. -- Jamie's eyes adjust to the light, or lack-of. He really wanted to swallow -- (Porn is art, porn is the vanguard, porn is the place from which all new things will spring) -- (Murder, Murder, justifiable murder) -- The restraints feel comfy -- (why matter, why try, why survive) -- he moves them about so their little chains clink, rattling in the dark. 'Quit,' said the dark. He smiled, did it again, 'Stop.' The floor is cool under his bare feet -- (make sure to lick your fingers before twisting the nipple) -- (art is the ultimate turn on, ergo art is at the heart of all art, whether or not the intent of the pornographer. Raising the limp cock to stand, the Eiffel to the body Paris, is to create, and creation is the purest form of art) -- Waxing philosophical?' said the dark, 'dirty whore, thinking you're fucking Proust, keep quiet.' Proust is nothing but a waste of shelf space, Jamie thought. He wanted to speak, wanted, atleast, to smile in his confines, but the gag worked all too well. -- Twice, a misstep, more-than-likely, a misunderstanding about what it was than should have been done. A misunderstanding, yup. just that, a misunderstanding, all on me, on my part. Always my fault. Well, looking back, atleast once, one time, it wasnt me. -- A dribble of spit leaked out of his mouth. Jamie rattled the chains again. Silence and then from the dark came the familiar sound of electricity running through Zeus' Cock, as they called it. And he smiled, as much as he could. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 23 "Maximum Security"

Fuck everything, skip everything, do nothing, complete nothing, do no work. And then get infected with ache. With pain in the temples. With eyes half closed, squinting at the light, mostly blind. -- Slept till 3 -- twelve hours -- Sometimes you just want to abandon. -- Sync. -- Write, read, eat, touch yourself, work, write, die. -- Sync -- Write, read, eat, touch yourself, work, write, die, sleep, drink, awake, sleep, eat, die. -- Sync -- Sitting at the edge, high up on the second floor, looking down. The urge is so tempting. A voice whispers endlessly about it and there's not a thing one can say to shut it up. Temptation so tempting to fall into. Or fall down, into, rather. -- Prison's a dead metaphor, deader than a crucifix nail. -- When you're sitting next to the edge it's hard not to throw the laptop over it. Sitting next to a large window, it's hard not to throw a chair through it and flying out to receive it. Standing atop a tall building it's hard not to jump. -- Apolitics dont pay respects to Apollo in the temple of sodomy. Understanding is for the weak. To be obscure is to be deep, too deep to properly deep. Why do you need to understand when Im not too sure I understand? If the words speak what does it matter. -- Sometimes words are just sounds. -- Hi Keaton. Sorry about appropriating your commenting style for this shit. I do it out of admiration. I swear. -- 

-- 'Your words dont word.'

[O?] 

'Not at all.

[Well damn.] -- (Prison's a dead metaphor.) -- 

Im listening to Manic Street Preacher's Journal for Plague Lovers and I feel 17. Im back sophomore year High school, when I was really into this album. --

-- 'What happened to the Stein repetitive shit?' 

[Fuck off stop clinging to the past.] 

'But-' 

[I said, fuck off.] -- 

-- I can see the lines that lead to me now as I listen to JfPL. The sample of Hubert Selby Jr. which lead to finding Last Exit to Brooklyn, and then there's reading that at the beach with family, and J. was young then and still something to really love, then I find his other books, especially The Room which leads to list of "fucked-up" novel's which leads to Bret Easton Ellis, Joyce Carol Oates, Kathy Acker, too many others, and Dennis Cooper, and Dennis lead to finding My Loose Thread and then to never being the same, eventually leading to Dennis' blog and an admiration-love that borders on the obsessive which leads to more and more and more writers artist poets films porn everything, and finally to the Trill's birth and then finally this shit. Listening gives birth to seeing everything. 

-- 'Where's the porn-self-loathing-masturbatory-ego-fuck-love-making? The readers will hate this new stuff.' 

[Fuck 'em, they dont deserve my cock in their slutty magpie pussies. Now open wide and take it like you should.] -- ART ART ART -- Look at me, look at me, [O for the love of god, Cal, cut the shit. Sorry.]. 'Talking to yourself again?' [Yeah...sorry] 'It's ok.' [Do you love me?] 'I am you.' [So? DO you love me??] 'I'll get back to you on that. -- Arent I pretty? -- Async --

I finished this earlier today -- Look mom, paragraphs! Am I proper writer now? -- and then accidentally deleted most of what I had done. So Im re-writing all of it right now, and then all this new madness came in. I like it, tho it make come off as amateurish or something. In all honesty, I've written stuff like this before, so now this experiment, this affront to my typical style has fallen into the old ruts. -- Write, read, eat, touch yourself,-- work, write, die, -- Do I feel bad about that? -- sleep, drink, -- Not really. Fuck everything, as god, I'll do as I want. -- awake, -- Deal with it. --sleep, eat, die -- Sync.

____________

Quick Note: Hey there, Readers, if you're there (Blogger says you are, so). I apologize for the general inconsistency on when the Daily Assignations go out. This is my first time doing anything blog-y, really, so that is a factor, but no excuse. Tomorrow should have all of that worked out, but I cant 100% grantee that. Be sure to check it out, it's gonna be a bit special. Any way, I wanted to tell all yall that for the next few weekends the DA will stop and then pick back up on the respective Mondays. That may or may not become a normal thing from now on, it really depends on what the future holds. I also wanted to thanks you guys for coming and reading this when yall do. It's nice to have an audience. Anyways.

Sincerely, 

Cal.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 22 "Heartland"

A visit. -- My family came buy, we went for a meal, atleast a part a section of us did. -- Things dont stay the same -- The bottle only gets emptier and emptier which each use abuse -- We ate -- is it a crime to wish for things to never change? -- not much to it. -- or is it simply foolish? -- My family left and friends came by. -- Could have conjured a lay, easily, from the air. -- They stayed over night in a room much more fit than for her (and she was raised in it). -- Which each passing glance of the lance, with each rattle of the blade between your ribs, something is lost. It takes chunks from you. -- At one time we took a relative to the hospital. I remember reading as if there was nothing around and then a boy, my age, limped out on crutches. In his underwear, pajamas. I wanted to take him home. -- When my friends left, I found a few things of theirs that they had forgotten. And they, accidentally, took something of mine as well. -- The bottle is a dark translucent purple in his bed room. He takes it into the bathroom and it becomes lighter and the liquid  inside appears clearer in spite of never really changing yet changing altogether. -- We agreed on another visit.

The FOER Programme by FOER: An Album Review by Dieter Klo

The FOER Progamme (Cover)

Today, music will never be the same. It is rare to see the birth of a new genre in this day and age, but I am proud, nay, I am honored to present to you: FOER and its self made sound: Font. Four MIT drop outs have gathered their collective skills and diverse taste, along with a healthy/unhealthy obsession with music, to create the newest, greatest mechanism to be introduce into the confines of music. The most life-changing thing that has ever... thinged in the music industry. FOER, a computer program that is all at once the band in of itself and the instrument has been born. FOER uses tech jargon and computer shit to create the compositions based solely off words plugged into the program. Genius! FOER has millions of reference points within its data bases, such as: sound bites, pre-recorded sounds, never-before-recorded music, sheet music, critical reviews ranging from the highest music review, such as the New Yorker and Encyclopedia Britannica, to the lowest, dark trenches of internet reviews such as Pitchfork, Sputnikmusic, and, the horror, Youtube Reviewers. But that is the glory of the FOER Program! it takes even the plebian's non-opinions into account for its work. Genius! 

So what racket does the music sound? you ask. Well, Each track is an experimentation with the FOER machine -- a new type of instrument? it's only natural. The program itself only requires a selection of words from its human aspect to produce the music, the Humans, they being Fred Almis, Ols Vår, Ellen Ztar, and Paul "Rice" Janes -- or so the linear notes and billing says they're called ("Rice", really? Really?) -- plug in words for the program. These form the titles of the songs. Most of them taking the shape of actual thought out phrases but then divulging into what are in essence nonsensical lacks-of-sensicallity. Let us sojourn through them all, track-by-track.

1. "The First Track by the First Man-Made Music Maker"

A lyrical beginning to a landmark album, which is ironic: this track is instrumental. Minimal piano sing-songs played over a building Fincher/Ross/Reznor soundtrack death drone that feels like Nirvana (the Buddhist concept not the 90s concept of "good" music).

2. "What's that Sound?"
Distorted post-punk guitar, female vocals a la Nico. Arrhythmic drum spikes with no discernible beat or scheme with an indifferent synth plopping in and out. It creates Foreign atmospheric xenoscapes with the textured cacophony of death.

3. "Austin, Texas. Dallas."
Hypno-repetitive banjo riffs with ultradramatic electronic BRRAAAAAAMM spikes like it's Inception or some shit. A mid-castration punk screams in an echo chamber made of bone flutes, about random locations in Austin, TX. Mostly talking about what horrific things happened there. The BRAAAAMMMMS turn into a Phil Spector wall of sound for like 3 minutes. I think that's the 'Dallas' part.

4. "Math Heavy Gypsy Tango"
Bongos. And Balkan sax.

5. "Minute Static"
A voice whispers wordlessly, with tiny static twists, a la Coil (Moonmusick era) -- three parts each a minute long. The Programme took the word 'minute' to mean small and a duration of time, but felt the need to create three different versions that are basically the samething. Yet totally different.

6. "Post-post-post-post-post-post-post Music"
I have absolutely no idea what is even going on right now, you just have to listen to it. They dont have words for whatever this...thing is. The closest we have are "sound", "nihilism", and "fishsticks". *shudders*

7. "The Time Skip Disco Forger's Hi-Fi Hip-Hop Zydeco Goth Routine"

The longest of all the tracks, clocking in at 17 hours. It's one of the disgusting prog-revival songs. Brooding esoteric guitar with a bootle neck pic, with a bass that sounds like time is slammimg against it. The drums come from Mars and feel just as dead and the random flute solos sounds like the flutist is gasping for air. FOER goes through each of the listen genres in the title at thripple speed and then sort of forgets that they're there. The concept of the song (cuz there has to be a fucking concept) is about Buddha and John Travolta going through a wormhole or something, I wasnt really listening.

8. "Eowoqye dopw ei (Wg7s Susso)"
Post-industrial meets Industrial with...you ever hear the sound of a banjo makes while raped? Picture the opposite of that.

9. "The Penultimate Tract"
A quiet track about the existential decay of man, know as Father Pastor, incapacitated by the echelons of age, observes the dejected rejection of a happy man's life. This pious man weeps at the fate of his poor ucalegon. The lyrics are moving, in spite of their unintelligible cohesion. What saves this downfall is the timbre of the words and the laconic, lilting guitar (which plays like piano off the vinyl). A beautiful song. One truly feels for the Baptist Bishop, tract in hand, as he watches tragedy unfold before him, but incapable to assist. Arresting.

10.
The track is left untitled. It's almost like a hidden track -- hailing back to the good ol' days of proper CD music. The silent build, the teasing of the wait. It's beautiful. They make you wait so long, so long I couldn't take it. I had waited an hour for that next track, but it was only silence. Stronger Listeners than I will find that track. Hidden at the end of that silence that seemed to go on...forever. Genius!

Verdict: 9.863/10 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 21 "Ace"

The weather's got it all wrong. Licking wind in the low-light morning only to have the sun shine everything too vibrant  by noon. It's spring. The dead leaves are still on the ground. Instead of falling in fall as they should, they detached  from the branches in winter, and even too late in winter for all of the leaves to depart. There was not one barren branch for all the chill of the year end. Now, spring came and the brown autumn leaves where strewn about. The pollen has popped and the fine dust of it is everywhere. It's not as bad as yesterday, the powder has dissipated so now there's  only a dull hue's hint to everything. Everything was slightly yellow. -- Jamie's cum got on the carpet, missing his intended  target. "Damn." The rent boy smiled, licking the lube landed cock. "How did I miss?"; "What does it matter?" said the kid, he looked underage (which was part of his appeal), and he was too high to know much of what was happening when it was happening. Half way thru sex the boy realize that that's  what was being done to him. "Get on the bed," the boy obeyed. Jamie lifted the whore's legs up exposing the already-loose mussy. He tried to remember the rent boy's name as he stared into the hole. His face held the same expression as if he were looking at a bus schedule. -- Spring brings out the crazies. -- It's freak season. -- News Flash: It's now been declared open season in this great state of ours. Open season, that is, for Diddlers, Heathens and All Around Degenerates. -- A gaggle of Flashers/Diddlers stand about in a forest, cocks out, of course, shaking a bi in fear. Then comes the sound that all people fear: A ford f 150 with a dixie horn blaring AC/DC coming through the trees. Hicks dressed to the nines for a hunting occasion, woo that way that hicks woo. The Flashers/Diddlers scatter, cocks limply flopping about, making their clucking sounds. As they flee the hicks fire off their shotgun rounds and the forest is filled with the sounds of boom extravagance. Today was a fine spring day in America. -- Everything has a little tint of yellow. Like fading phosphorus. But the world smelt fresh, As if it wasnt dying. -- The crazies were coming out. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 20 "Secret"

Yellow. -- Another day, another sexy english lecturer. And this one recognized me. Which was such a turn-on/panic-attack-trigger. -- Yellow. -- Let us go then, you know the rest; -- His name is Matt. -- T.S. Elliot, or Toilets as he is know as, or Exaggerated Yap-Yap Fist Fuggler as he likes to be called while Erza Pound eats his ass than fucks him like a brothel bottom bitch, wrote poetry so now people proclaim him as The High Grand Almighty Inventor of English and the Spanish Flu. -- Yellow. -- He kept making eye contact with me. Not too sure if that’s b/c he was interested or from the fact that he and I had some form of loose relationship. On top of that I was one of the few who spoke in that class, atleast for today. Normally that gathering of disillusioned college-somethings is made out of major highgrade awkward. -- Orgies are logistical a nightmare -- Matt had a thick wallet that made his ass look bigger than it was on one side. I saw little of the other. -- the best of sexual multi-person adventure are those with rooms full of copious couples copulating -- Yellow. -- then all you need do is ask to "cut in" like ballroom dance. -- What's Jamie up to? Well, Reader, let's see: Not much. Still sexually (repressed, suppressed,  or repressed). -- She has a secret, he wont tell her. -- He has secrets he doesnt tell him, but those come out quick. He still keeps secrets from her. She finds out. Shit hits the fan. -- Nothing amounts. -- 'O I have a secret, that no one should know that I should tell-e-ll.' -- 'If I wanted you to understand, I would make it so you could understand.' -- The pollen has popped around campus. Everything is covered in it. Everything is covered in Yellow.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 19 "Pinch"

TIMELY WARNING TIMELY WARNING TIMELY -- Jamie calls Stewie: Hey. 'Hey.' Im all alone over here. 'What do you wanna do?' Yeah. Do you? 'Cant right now.' Ok. -- Do you know what it is like to be ugly in your prime? -- TIMELY-WARNING. TIMELYWARNING. TIMEWARNING. TIMARNING. -- In my honest opinion, having tits must blow. They just seem so impractical, an added worry to routine day-to-day everyday actions. -- Media blackout. All communication cut. Train technician: 'We've lost contract.' -- It's not like having a dick, or testicles, is practical or anything. They seem to cause the same amount of discomfort and problems. But we can tuck those away easily. Not-to-mention, most dont want to fondle balls. . . .but quite a few want them fondled. -- TIME WARNING. -- Mark Wahlberg: "With whom?" --  Jamie: How about later? 'no.' -- Technician: "With everyone." -- TIMELY WARNING. -- Happening happening. What's happening happening happening. -- Jamie: Rejected. By my booty call. Fuck. -- Pinch fetish must be a thing, right? -- how do i fetish w/o tumblr, r u insane. -- Fuck. Fuck! FUCK. fuck. -- An unidentifiable pain, in any region, is annoyingly worrying, for me at least, and I guess everyone I guess. -- Jamie took a nap. While he slept his phone blew up. When he awoke: Stewie refused to do anything, people on-line seemed to ignore him, and his texts go unanswered. -- Fuck. -- 'Pinch' is about a woman who feels something hurting in her tit, goes to the doctor's, gets some x-rays and examined, and her tits hurt from the x-ray ray gun tit clamp and then they have to do it again. Im pretty sure the doc was going a little harder at her boob than he needed to, kneading it, that is. The narration isnt malicious and I have no idea what is done to one's breasts in examination, so. -- Jamie calls Cal: Hey. 'Hey' What's up? 'Do you wanna...?' Im already with someone, sorry. -- Responsibility kills the -- 'ok then.' Sorry. 'Later then?' Maybe. -- Responsibility kills the -- TIMELY WARNING: 15.30 yesterday, White male, local park: Caught with his pants down, figuratively, with his cock out and fondling it, literally, while looking at. . . .One must assume the people in the park. No shirt. Faded blue jeans. Witness says: white medium build male 50-something with clothes and a face and hair and a cock, obviously. Wonder what kind? Big fat and floppy? limp as a biscuit? long like a noodle loodle? no description, total bs. How am I s'pose to know if this is the right guy, if I dont know his cock shape and size? -- TIMELY WARNING: Few days back, at some apartments at 18.13 white male thin male late-30s to 40s, with glasses blue t-shirt and black gym shorts with a black baseball cap. He came at some girl coming in to her apartment. She saw him with his shorts done, rubbing dat meat. Still no description of the actual cock. Boooooo, Jamie thinks. He gets these emails, he reads these reports and they are always a disappointment/hilarity. -- Jamie: I wonder what stange I can find online. . . . .-- Responsibility kills the -- the cure for loneliness is be served with a knife to the left kidney, otherwise the pay-off wouldnt be worth it. Only bleeding out till near dead does the rescue get any (a)credibility -- TIMELY WARNING: white male (of course) in his something-50s caught again with his cock out at some local apartments near here @ 8.00. Believed to be the same guy as before, but different from that other one. -- Nothing comes up, nothing materializes. No apparitions today, none at all. -- Still no description of cock. -- 'Is this what you do in your free time?'

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 18 "The Quarrel"

Im depressed. Woooo. Like that's a shocker. -- Cute, he’s into english, has a job -- Elderly gay men, that's who occupies the story today. Which is good, they dont receive that much representation, unless as a joke. -- Break my habits and I die. Break my habits and I die. Break m- -- Looks like a guy in some music video I was subjected to a while back. Also about gay men, Lots o' gay today. -- Depression's sticky, like malleable candy full of filling. -- and a listenable voice, sweet, like candy, with a timbre of sfumato, dark, charred but with out the grit, more like black burnt pages that crumble slightly at the faintest touch. I think Im in love. -- Break my habits, Break my habits, People have major alterations, changes you cant come back from, and they move on, cope. My daily schedule is fucked for a week, the days on the clander slip out of the grid, minute problems arise and I lose my fucking shit. Break my habits and I die. Break break break br- -- Im fucked, Im gone, I cant eve cry, everything's crushing down, I can feel it in my chest -- The two gay men, the partners, in the story are falling away a bit, or rather their relationship is getting a little stale. At fifty and fifty-five, respectively, that's not too outlandish. They're almost robbed -- And a nice ass, not the greatest but a pretty nice one. I'd love to -- And then go to the police, they describe the attacker quiet differently, and then -- get a tongue in between those cheeks. For the rest of class I disrobed him, pinched a nipple, heard him moan, red his ass with slaps whips paddles, topping it all off with an ass-eating worthy of legend. I wonder what his screams sound like. -- get in a fight about it. Actually, not a fight, a quarrel, about it. It's a bit venomous, then calms as days years go by. They never speak of it. -- After safely tucking the cute english guy's image into my fantasy zone, and after class ends and we students gtfo, I discover I feel better. Thinking about sex made my depression lesson. Am I that sex obsessed? I've heard/read so much about depression killing the libido and now my libido cures my depression, or atleast lessened it or fought it off. What the fuck. Ugh. I cry into a novel and feel even better. Maybe fantasy is what cures, not sex itself. I've busted a load in whomever when riddled with black dog and felt worse afterwards, whether from shame or guilt Im not sure. It seems more that anything you might have built up inside to combat that day's hour's night's hazey fog of dread and it shoots out of you when orgasm hits. Like reverse orgone. Anyway, I, just....huh. Whatever. -- Break break break, break my habits break my habits, -- Anyways. -- Break break break -- he was still really cute. -- and I die. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 17 "Anecdote"

It is an ultimate betrayal when a normal body function becomes a source of pain. When breathe becomes more deadly than it already is, when it burns and torments and cinders in your chest like a soul in hell. When taking a piss sends a spike of orange agony up you. (A pain so foreign that it doesnt fit with the color scheme). When taking a shit becomes homicidal childbirth. When childbirth becomes a prolonged surgical removal of a gripping tumor by way of pushing extra hard or with the edge of some hyper sharp knife. -- Conundrum: do I jack off and then go get McDonald's? or do i go get McDonald's and then jack off after i eat? which degrading pleasure do I indulge first? -- Only tell story if your a fuck up, only tell the if you fuck up, every anecdote starts somewhere where someone's fucked up somehow. -- Out a sync -- Out of -- Our -- Everything's gone to shit. Cant even get the basics done. People survive change all the time, live thru intense alterations. I fall apart at breaks in rutine. Pathetic. I fucking hate this. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 16 "Bad Habits"

They must put something in the water. They must put something in the water. There must be something in the water. They must put something in the water. -- Asses are nice up here. -- "Bad Habits" -- Seen so much magic, seen so much magic. -- They must put something in the water: the asses up here are nice, round fat delicious, smackable fuckable eatable squeezable. -- Jamie and Stew are high as fuck at a show. Going in-fucking-sane. They keep to themselves in here. Other's might hear. -- They must put something in the water. I. I. I. -- (There'll never be a day 15, deal with it, move on). -- It's hard not to get hard, It's hard not to get hard while looking at these asses. They just need to have cock shoved in them over and over. Doughy. Needs to be kneaded. They must put something in the water. I want to rip them open and know them inside. -- Jamie cant keep his hands off, Stew's too high to stop him, 'Want to..?' 'No' 'We'll just slip off into the bathroom, no one'll come in-' 'I want to watch the magic show.' the magicianing Illusionist on stage makes some hot piece disappear. 'I can make something disappear,' Jamie whispered in Stew's ear. -- They must put something in -- Ass is delectable, ass is collectible, they -- They must -- They they must -- Bad habits, bad bad habits, got an ass addiction. -- Jamie's hand rubs Stew's thigh, he really needed it. The illusionist disappeared, the dull box he was in opens and there's nothing but fire. He runs up past Jamie and Stew, in the middle aisle. Scared the living shit out of them. -- They must put something in the water.  They must put something in that ass, they must have something shoved up in there, what a waste if they dont. 

THE DAILY ASSIGANTION: Day 14 "Romance"

I hope I can fix this. -- I hope I fix the unfixed. -- I hope I can fix the unfixable. -- FLAW. -- States apart. -- Romance is a dead junk draw, is an affixed obsession, again, with the unattainable. Loneliness is only really a problem for people who've fallen too in love or for those who just cant cope with existing or those sorry few who fall with no friends to catch them and that idea is something they cant handle, cant handle anymore, cant handle. -- Fixed, never will will I -- States apart, trapped in repeating states, trapped in our fixed place in this divine comedy. -- Drink me sexy. -- What will I become? what will be come? -- Jamie stands in an empty room, tho he doesnt know it. There's nothing, nothing, nothing but dark; pupils dilated and still nothing comes in. Jamie shakes from it, shakes from the hands of fear tickling him head to toe. A noise, beastly, guttural, horrific; Jamie pisses himself. -- What will you become? what will be come? -- Light! Jamie is saved, taken away from the darkness, brought returned to the world of light only slightly blind. Interviews, questions queries, a task force of support to get over the horror of the dark. Safe. Safe, he's safe now, the endless night is far from him forever. -- What will we become? what will-? -- Jamie is shaking, head to toe, head to fucking toe. He spent too long in the dark, adjusted to it too well. Now he was outside. And he's afraid. -- I invent someone new to love, it's not too dull. Keep him around, still havent fucked -- No. He's not afraid of being out in the light again. In the darkness there was the sound, the horrific terrible sound. But only the sound. In the darkness, the total pitch, there was darkness on all side and everywhere. But only the darkness. The sound would stop, sometimes, and return. But it's maker would never harm, never strike. And the darkness was always. -- We'll see how things play out -- There was always the expected. Now, in the light, there was none. And it scared the living shit out of Jamie. -- "Romance", the title's ironic. There's little romance between today's boy and girl (only ever boy and girl, when it comes to the genital shuffle). -- I have this weird relationship -- She tries to seduce -- I have this -- the guy, and he rejects her many attempts, which is good, and surprises him. He then -- I hav- -- goes by her place, one twice thrice few times a week or so, just drives by and looks. -- I have this weird weird weird, this weird this this this -- He sees a man, or guy or dude or kid or person with a penis about the age of the woman, the dame the chick the broad and the guy is theoretically hot. -- I have this weird relationship with zoos. On one hand: they're something I always try to hit up, and I enjoy them, to a degree. On the other: They cause slight storms of distress and pity for the animals cooped up in the cages. Sometimes it puts me in an utterly foul mood and I despise the place entirely. Yet still I go by any time I have the money and/or excuse to. The one we hit up today was odd. The town is crazy religious and this zoo escaped none of that: Strewn about were these sign with random quotes from the bible printed on them. Nailed to trees, next to whatever exhibit. It was odd. The quotes didnt even have somesort of connection to the animal. If you're going to do something like that, why not have the quotes printed have some connection? Like have one about the lions daniel was thrown to next to the lions or something. It was weird. But, really, that was the only difference from any of them. All zoos are the same, when you get down to it. Look in a see them napping, oblivious to those watching; eating the chunks of meat, pieces of veggies; the bits or feed that one buys and throw at the animal (if you're one of the little shit who were at this particular zoo today). And they dont really take notice of the people that arent in the cage, that arent really a part of their closed environment, sure people enter or come close to them and they of course take notice and befriend a few but nothing really inters in their sphere of self, unless they're poliamorous, but even then it's just adding one more person to the exhibit and excluding anything/one else -- Watch the animals fuck. And you might get of from that but you arent a part, you're removed, dislocated, which might be hot for some but -- It does nothing, it's all the same. Even the ones you find cute. You might 'aww' or you might talk about how cute they were but it never really impacts you. It does change you forever to go to a zoo. Not unless you're a kid, but you dont really understand anything about it. You just think the animals are nice, and that you one day want that, that one day you could have what they have, what the people on the screens have that fairy tale wedding that some sort of -- You might find the animals in their cages cute but you're never permanently affected by one, you go home to the empty place and you've got nothing but yourself and the place and you dont feel bad that there isnt any boa constrictors or baby wolves or cougars or leopards or a fox or a kamodo dragon or a ferocious tiger. Everything is just kind of cool and you're cool with that. And if you arent you get a cat or dog and everything's cool. You feel no need to have anything extravagant. But then people, other people, say 'why dont you have snake pit?' 'why dont you have a polar bear grizly bear black bear?' 'why dont you have [insert animal here] like me or us or them or him or her' and then you shrug, and then you go home and now your cat/dog isnt enough, you want something you hadnt wanted before so you go to zoos to find someone go out into the jungle out into the wild out somewhere to find an animal to occupy the new hole in your life. You try bars, coffee shops, shindigs, set ups from friends, online. You look everywhere to find something you hadnt wanted, but now you do, now you wanted what before you saw in the zoo and only though 'cool'; now it's something you cant live without. Cant survive without. So you try a Zebra but it kicks out the windows. You try the ocelot but it shits on everything. So you try the panther and it just ruins everything. And you try and you try and you try to find someone who will fill a hole you didnt have before and cant cover up or repair or reverse once it's been made so you're fucked, you're fucking fucked. Maybe eventually you find something that works, some round peg that fits in that round hole in your heart punched in there because other people think it ought to be there. Maybe you dont. And you might be happy, it might make things worse. And in all honesty, there's nothing wrong with it all, if you think that way, you dont regret much of it and you may every well be content. But others just go to the zoo with their friends and they're cool. They laugh, the love, in a friendly way, and they fuck some random person in the bathroom and they're happy. They just look into the cages. They only look in on the exhibits. Only look in on the others. And go home. To their cat, or dog, or fish, or to no pet at all. And they're happy too. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 13 "In Traction"

Suspension. Suspended. Bookstores are open graves. Magic seeps out there, as if the words come to unravel, yet everything opens up -- welcome arms -- the city, the town -- Boat. -- Suspended. -- There is no read to understand. -- Suspended. -- Like welcome arms -- crushing, crushing all around, -- this place has no place, this place is far from every place, this place this. -- The whole town is a tourist trap. The streets are line with giant attractions, eye-grabbers, unnecessary bombast. -- Metal rods hold up a broken girl, shattered by her choices, in the story. -- There's mini golf that looks like an entire theme park shoved between a giant replica of the front half of the Titanic and a multi-storied go-cart track. The rocks and dying/leafless tress have been replaced with urban decay and buildings meant to suck cash from wondering strangers like mountain mosquitoes. -- the books are old, very old, most of them paper backs or hard covers that have lost most of the vibrancy from their covers from too much sun or too much time or too much time in the sun. -- This is the first real story told in 3rd person in the book, which is interesting I guess, I really dont fucking care. Liquor has dulled anything that could assemble in my jangling mind, clinking and clanking around my gray matter has become ice in a glass waiting whorishly for cheap ass whisky and knock-off 7-Up. -- Could fine nothing, must return, I will return, to get something, have to get something, -- Suspension. -- Another story about sadness, in a way, this is very direct in this one with one of the characters actually being depressed and this being stated in essence but the other characters, by other characters directly, by other characters. So there's that, so. -- something from this place where the books are wedged in the shelves side was and they reach up to the ceiling yet still there are piles on tables and stacks one the ground, under your feet, and then there'll be spaces where there's practically nothing on the shelves, as if they place needed breathing room and there're only a few books on the maybe two out of all of the ceiling high pile of rows. Have to come back, have to get something -- Suspension. Something. Welcome arms. Something. -- Have to come back have to come back have to come back have to... --