Sure she's stupid. As shit. Stupid as hell. I mean she's nice on a certain level. I can imagine her being pretty mean too. There's not much separation, you know not that's she's overly ruled by the situation but she's just normal with that. It's me. I'm abnormally balanced and calm. Not immune, no one is. There's a situation that rules your goddamn everything, for everyone. Mostly I could see her going with her friends on things, they're stupid too, and her friends were her choice so while I could see her being better with different friends you know. And hell, better, I like her a fucking-nuff.

So yeah fun, on a certain level. Not very fit or active. Not great at anything, except rolling blunts. Damn she could roll blunts.

Yeah I wanted to fuck her. Maybe even fuck her regularly, we lived in the same neighborhood, she was friend of a friend, and I'd fucked this friend's other friend so it was convenient, imaginable. She would call me sexy, hot, say I could dance, ask for massages, which I thought were sensual, got a couple fucking hard ons during those massages, god, I loved to feel the heat and friction on her warm back. Grabbing folds of her dark skin and rubbing, squeezing. Nothing really happened though, she disappeared a couple times I thought for sure she'd fuck me, cause though I didn't say anything I thought my eyes and actions'd let her know, you know, I was dtf, you heard that before? down to fuck, kind of how she talked or some girls talked at the time around me. I'm not the worse for it, she's fine too, I hear about her fucking a decent amount, that's shit's not dry.

I love the men you fuck too. Maybe I love them more. Even when they fuck bad, just their naked body. Even when they say stupid things, just their warm hands. Everyone has warm hands, almost. Or something warm.

You can find a fuck easy but your kind of picky. I guess I understand your complaining. I could. I don't really want to. Understanding has something to do with wanting to. But you're pretty you know, even with your fat belly. I like your fat belly.

I don't have much in the way of standards. I try to fuck once a month but nearly always miss that quota. I do know eventually I will fuck twice a month, because eventually I will have money. It is inevitable. Men seem to fuck through their money. At least when they don't have much in the way of standards. The fucking will be inevitable.

I will have money. I have to. I will have money or I will die, from not having money. What happens when the debts come in and I don't have money? Do we have debtors prisons? Am I forgiven then, given an imaginary salary while there in prison or once free does it start again. I am kind of worried I can't really make money. But then I'm not really worried, what are they going to do to me? What can they do to me? Who are they?

Don't they know we don't care? I guess not, too often we act like we do.

I can feel some of the heat sink away. I feel the tension and pounding noise of reality. Of the forced relations among others. Perfect glimpses of a workable awkwardness. Hard work that matters for a minute and then a minute longer.

The comedy in every moment. The wonder in letting your desire slip away. The wonder and joy in giving up what you want. I love how it doesn't matter but I hold it together. I love the way events just happen to me. I love anonymous consumption in an incessant spree of similar situations. Ultimately it is all so meaningful and empty. Empty as tautology.

he aroused himself from a mild evening lacunae gripped his obnoxiously large glass of wine and walked across the room. was this corner of the room better than the other? it was because he could rest his arms on the shelf. he rest his arms on the shelf and stared through the gap above the shelf into the kitchen. he didn't really think about anything. he thought about how he wasn't thinking of anything then incidentally begin to think of things but only as a running commentary on what he wasn't thinking. he thought about how it might be normal to think of a few salient things and then didn't think about them. he saw a few things that needed to be done and put down his glass to do them. he did them and returned to his glass wistfully, full of god damn wist. he mistily stared into the kitchen at no particular location.

he might be in love. in love with ...? brushing close to love seeing love giving love the vaguest consideration admitting an openness to the most fullest love from unlikely and unreasonable places. in love with something far away in every way, in love with the intangibility of the situation and the words the situation throws together. oddly smirking to a nighttime indifferent to smirking. watching people as they walk away. walking away from people as they may or not be watching him walk away. he liked to just put the internet audio on and write. write away from the people who walked towards each other falling in love. write away from the comfort societies afforded us in the world as if to defeat the purpose of writing but not that power, not writing so strongly. no one would read the writing really and if they did that was ok. if the writing was good and changed clarified enhanced blurred and so on (modified in some way) people's perception of the world, as good writing does as good writing must.

did I tell a coherent story he sometimes wonders. did I fucking do enough, do what I could to speak to the reader, to speak to myself a month later, to speak to a lost reader every few weeks then gaps of years then no one ever again. to speak to those in my culture. to speak to those from other cultures who can only gain a tenuous understanding but gather the most important themes. really do I want to say that our culture is so much salad dressing? they gather some of the mid-level themes, the low the base is important and under-nurished in their minds, something very important must be lost. I don't know maybe I write to a broad human audience. I want to be understood by all animals, I want my words to be of the simple motion basic to us that gives us our latin name, or wasn't that just we humans giving us our own name? again I find myself trapped in a useless situation but it does not matter, and perhaps this is so so cultural: I don't matter. if we all said that it would be ruin. but here on the fringe of my own self an outsider by choice and designation I say I don't matter and people agree. people tell me they don't matter and I agree. people that matter to me say they don't matter and I understand but on the outside have to disagree and say I love you. I've put people in a similar situation, it is natural to say these things to each other.

no I don't think it is a very great thing to be doing it is just what I am doing

well I don't do things because of value really I kind of have that freedom I guess in giving up what it is usual I guess to believe in

sure I don't speak with a lot of certainty and confidence exactly I mean I'm entirely self confident because I have a strong and powerful grasp of my existence but no real certainty or maybe drive rather except for on the grayest level, a latent kind of pessimism

one thing we can all do is talk a little at least not about much maybe but all the people talking about great things maybe doing a few good things too bores me in the same way that my little talk might bore them

don't get me wrong I'm very practically oriented I cherish each opportunity to develop my skill, but mostly working with my hands or working on better communication as a preface to working with our hands, very much concerned with mechanics and action and muscle

words that do not matter in an emptied space of action and want. words that ring endlessly in this same space but emptied of want. the want there dropped as a heavy burden beneath the unclenched facts of life.

as life stills between all legs and the gentle settle themselves to rest I truly sleep among a blessed bed of actual facts that forever echo truth and reality. at the very least as I am always allowed but sometimes disappointed I construct my world so, among what I hold to myself the dearest and most true.

I leave. I have left. I breathe. I have breath.

when we were wet behind the ears with semiotic fluid. our little parents jaw traps waved endlessly up and down in varying intensity. we turned side to side. we turned and barely balanced beneath our babe paws. we dripped and dribbled fluids down our chin and chest. our fat arms tucked moisture inside them.

as a baby I clearly remember events that far surpass my base adult imagination. in remembering in such a baby way I create with my child tongue deep folds in outer brain. across the chest of the earth I lay limbs and back. with the cleft earth I fold and soak and compress between my long grasp that holds ideas.

moving across the ground deep and slanted. moving with hands and torso. squirm inside my skin. plump like a sausage.

when I was 17 I had a razorblade hairstyle. I had been beaten up at school before. I would find myself beaten up again but the other ended up much worse.

when I was 25 I tried it again. I loved my hair endlessly.

what if your world is populated by a constant ringing emptiness and the possibilities for the vague and transformational realization of authentic life structurality, the baking building blocks of ensconced world-soul, are not possibilities but time that is filled regardless.

we should love immediately. we should love but in loving forget to be loved.

I loved, but love is not love but fascination without consent-to-be-loved. so in reality I was always fascinated and emptied by my fascination. objects of fascination flitted about themselves being satisfied in various ways, in the ways which they would be, and I was insubstantial but supportive for every endeavor.

it was ok because I had given up love like all things in the world. but to be given up does not mean to resist. and regularly be trashed amongst the rocks of the spirit. and regularly be gently wasted on the sweet liquors of the wind that blow from the heart of the world into empty space to be lost.

the air was warm in my room. the space was thick and my actions cutting cutting. I had finally maneuvered into a more comfortable position of collapse at the foot of the door.

it is getting hot. i might as well undress here on the toilet. i might as well awkwardly juggle my cigarette as i attempt to take my longsleeve buttonup off my frame. i might as well ash on the floor. it is my bathroom, or it might as well be. it is hot in here.

i prop open a book in my other hand and squint to clarify. i squish my face together into a thought about reading. i begin to read. my asshole relaxes and i shit while reading. i take a drag.

the various instruments of personal care and hygiene amaze me. i shuffle some items around on the sink and aimlessly flit through the cabinet. i examine parts of my face in the naked mirror still holding cigarette. consider chain smoking because where is that damn box of matches. it's like that most of the time bumming lights with full packs. tangential almost friends in the darkness. but not now. now it is hot and I am taking my socks off with one hand. it is that hot.

every human success a broadside that magnifies my gaping failure
i am far from seeing thru, not near to any accomplishment
unskilled where only skill can matter
lonely in the most thirsty way imaginable
a reader of depressing books

i wake. i do small exercises. i eat what little food i need 2 get me thru the day. i leave my body and enter the social network. i ask for some small connections but they are denied 2 me bco me bco me and everybody else, bco something about us i don't know but enact each day. i want warmth and unquestioning. i want freedom from want which is entirely the wrong way to go about things. on days where my spirit achieves heavy wafting and the grays and blues of city life carry parts of me to all of the perimeter i feel no better but know in my heart it is freedom.

the exercise machines are like flowers and i pollinate them with sexual energy in the various poles of my body. the hips and inner thighs. the sides of my lower torso, abs front and back. my arms push vigorously through heavy imaginary flesh. the cushioning rubs my chest and butt.

i need yu in my bed side 2 side, i knead yr octopus flesh
i need 2 be wrapped in confused in yr long legs
long arms
the length between your foot and breast
the link between your heart and chest
i need yu 2nite like i needed u lastnite
i need 2 listen to the same song 4 an hour
at 4 am like i don't need my bed
to be me for the next 8 hrs
and i need yu but i didn't want 2
and i want yu but i didn't need 2
i need yu in the quiet
when i can't think and can only need yu
i am bad i need yu badly

i was in love. i thought love would change my life. and it did. i sought it constantly and grazed upon every affection. once enraptured i gorged. i didn't only have eyes for you, i didn't need eyes because i have you. of course i've heard of endings and i was already planning my escape. to be absolutely miserable picking up habits for slack. junking junking on the culture wagons that connect us. all i could do was to sweat my own art and finish waiting to break up with you fall off hear thuds in the distance.

that night i brought ice cream home. it was the wrong kind. and i had ate all the good stuff in a fat sluggish motion. certainly i must be despicably lazy and indifferent now. unrecognizable package. we deposited our complaints and adjusted the balance of our station. finding instances of absolute bankruptcy on both sides chapter 11 was completed and we went on to catalogue our lives separately. think of the hideous boring life-books and their near random intersection.

you have a shepherd's eyes. a flock of spurious birds furrows. your milk mothered betrothed Baymont weeps gaiety. growing girth aglowing magnificent. your eyes are like the eyes of well lit dolls. parts of us are very empty hollow as well. we few creatures of resplendent decrepitude of praised petulant attitude and aggressive self interest. we are valued aggrandized becoming the movement of lofty bodies idealism. but we are also idiots very lonely and self impressed not expressed or expressible. flexible as soppy rigid.

we set us the table. resplendent self congratulatory. self praise and thanks. gentle self witnessing weeping in the balcony. eyes staring over hushed hot coals stewing smoke and brushing heat like friendly paint.

a few souls lightly pack the pistols in their eyes. several young souls pack it in, hungry-ness for experience ruining their image. a man is growing fat in the corner of my eyes. i admit myself to the hospital.

i walk up and down the halls pacing. i admit to myself that this is not the hospital i bargained for that i am making a mistake. the music isn't as good as i thought it would be if it would be good it should. i begin to read and write laying on my bed looking out the window at something grey.

i am becoming the hospital. i am housing witness in my body, urges to be rehabilitated. i'm sure they all were once healthy. nothing sets out crooked all settles. i stress the pieces connecting the pieces constituting my body as an organ of organs and an organ of desire and interactions. as a surface in people space as a surface in service of my daily exploration of space.

magasus tightened the rear. pritfin produced the tongs. nearby I clenched the acorn, source of my incredible power, and exploded numerous faces.

henry flicked henry's head on. flash lightening. the engines were moving, grinding claustrophobia. numerous and explicit apparatus engaged distangled locked clicked steamed pulsed swallowed vibrating. I was nauseous instantly, a minor setback as I begin vomiting on henry's face, tearing at henry's loins feverishly.

magasus begin pounding, squishy limbs distended dangled from headless domes. pritfin was up our new informant's ass and I tightened mine like an echo, dangerously because soon henry's second wind was on me, brushing heat and metal against my face.

I quickly thinking quickly about something quickly to save me grip the acorn and die pleasantly.

ask those you love those who love you 'how can I love you more successfully?' don't expect any answer give your self over

bc u find beauty in the world i rly don't i mean i recognize ur beauty i find beauty in how u-all find beauty in the world but i just don't find it beautiful myself there behind the broken tracks pure bright graffitis pianos in the crumbled tenements narrow streets with bright paint in japan i love how u-all make it meaningful its not 4 me its not mine u gotta take what u take make it ur own and i feel u but its not me u kno

ain't no joy n bein dumb n in love. jobmarcharcossanisland finished typing his story and banged send in a furry that resulted in a beautifully permanent battle scar on the back of his laptop monitor. he got up. ah i hate the world so much! furious he grabbed breakfast snaks nd stuffed em in his mouf. while eating he thot about things so he wuld be eating more to be thinkin still. good thots good thots. agghh all i have is my own small apacolypse just as sad as a million jews just as goddman sad! don't judge me! don't fucking judge me everything! agghh jobmarchacrossanisland was painfully stuck in his own head. god damn i need more breakfast cereal he thot.

at the grocer he was a pervert. while checking out he was a pervert. goddman why won't consensual love fall in my lap job reamed himself. job reamed himself repeatedly. job was skull fucking all possiblties of children. I'd drown them in my love he screamed alone in his car. the roof was torn and bleeding. bleeding cheetos sour cream hot sauce chips chiclets gauss magazines.

job ran ran ran ran. fucking ran miserable thru the streets. run run run fucking run. job was tearing his hair out. job was skull fucking his brains into his penis hole.

j didn't have beliefs. j didn't have opinions. j could think of no grand narratives shaping history. j had context. j had situations. j's philosophy was j's actions given situations. j developed j's philosophy constantly.

'u want to kno wat i think of sumthing ask me how i'd bet on it, not that it's about money.' j was caught up in being a rational actor since j studied probability theory. 'rational is one of those empty words that just means wat is, how culd sum1 not be rational? rn't we all livin by sum standard in our structure !nd that's all it means, u live by ur standard, u maximize to the best of ur knowledge what u deeply $nd at bottom want to, at least as much as u r a person, or a personality.' we don't have to b ppl j thot. we rn't always. we r other things 2. *nd we r many ppl.

'neway thats all garbage, i kno i don't kno til u put me there and do it, then i still don't kno but i kno better if i am graced w\ such a memory as at present i am.'