Boys who like girls who are boys who like girls...

This town doesn't fare very well in the respect department.

Serious relationships... scratch that... monogamous relationships are few and far between. People have issues with dropping the "bf" and "gf" words even when they don't plan on fucking anyone else (read: aren't ALLOWED to fuck anyone else). They have even changed the entire lexicon of relationship vocabulary! For example, the word "talking" is frequently used as most normal human beings would use the word "dating". Therefore, if I'm overheard having a conversation where I say "so, I've been talking to John..." before you know it twelve people think I've cheated on my boyfriend with some dude named John (and I'm also pretty sure they'll have about 3 different 'John's' in mind).

Also, being in a monogamous relationship usually garners some sort of respect from the opposite sex. Girls (in theory) won't hit on your boyfriend because they know you've been together and efforts would be futile. Either the boyfriend in question would turn them down, or the girlfriend would curbstomp them outside the Orpheum. Or, maybe that's just what I would do. Guys (in theory) won't hit on you because they know your boyfriend. I can say with 100% certanty that none of these facts have ever proven true for St. Petersburg Florida. Actually, I think I've been hit on more seriously and ferverently IN a relationship than I did before I was in a relationship (breakup break nonwithstanding - all bets were off, boys and girls knew we were both free agents and [more than likely] took advantage of that. I know they did with me). As for my boyfriend, I can not say. I don't like to know who hits on him, I just like to know that he turns them down with little to no lead on.

Who I can't begin to decipher are the people who completely disregard relationships in general. Whether they are in one, or the people they are after are in one. I can't begin to tell you the number of boys who have muttered phrases to me like "I won't tell if you won't" or "So? I've got a girlfriend too." Honestly? What the hell is the point? Is it so someone will pay half your bills, sleep in the other half of your bed? Why enter into a 'monogamous' relationship when you're just going to go and run all over town with other people? Why sneak and slink? Why not just be an out-in-the-open scumbag and own it?

For the record, if anyone reading this ever dates me, please just do me the common courtisey to let me in on your little secrets so I can plan accordlingly. I understand I've spent the majority of my adult promiscuous dating life in St. Petersburg Florida... but it simply can't be like this everywhere.

Always want to talk it through, I don't care.

I've been listening to intense amounts of Amy Winehouse lately. This isn't anything new, except for the fact that she has now joined the ranks of other lesser known (and less talented) musicians in my collection... as someone who is now deemed utterly obnoxious to those around me because of my incessant need to blast her tunes all the time.

Oh well.

I should probably download some more of her tunes, though *I* have now joined the ranks of the old and feeble... I pay for my music. Yes, you heard it. Pay. iTunes makes everything so convenient and nice and easy that shuffling through Limewire hardly seems worth it anymore. All the computers in my house (3) were taken hold by some nasty spyware bug that infested itself into our registries and therefore making said computers utterly useless. It took $80 bucks, Norton, and some love and care to get them back up and running. I'm not going to compromise my hardware all for a free cover of "Valerie". Maybe that means the terrorists have won, but for now I'm willing to back down on this fight and just go about my merry little iStore loving way. 

You can't spell emotions without emo.

So my bestest friend has deterred me from wanting to write in this blog. This will come as a surprise to him. He said that he didn't want me to turn into a whiny little girl, so now every time I feel like blogging abotut something, I'm secondg uessing myself. Whether it's about the hopelessness I feel about this god forsaken town, or my life in general, or the world around me... I still can't help but feel like some part of me is being that "little whiney girl" he keeps describing. I'm going through a rough patch right now. My career (mostly lack thereof concering it's direction) isn't going too well, my boyfriend and roomate basically just got laid off, and my small pile of savings is slowly diminishing because I believe that retail/food/drug/alcohol therapy is the last resort I have. I'm spending 90 bucks a month on anti-depressants that don't work, and chewing xanax like they're tic tacs just to deal with all the extra stress and pressure being put on me at work and at home.

I'm a mess. Really.

(I'm also starting to get really into riding my bike, but do not wish to speak about it because I don't care if you like riding your bike. It's like that friend who LOVES his dog, but couldn't give a shit less about hearing you rattle on about yours. I like... possibly even LOVE riding, but I don't want to talk to you about it. )

With all that said...
Bobby, with all due respect. Fuck you.

This is my blog, I'll write whatever the fuck I god damn please.
Love you.

Get to know me a little better... Nice to meet you.

Unreliable narrator

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

This article needs additional citations for verification. Please help improve this article by adding reliable references. Unsourced material may be challenged and removed.(January 2008)

Illustration by Gustave Doré forBaron Münchhausen: tall tales, such as those of the Baron, often feature unreliable narrators.

In literature and film, an unreliable narrator (a term coined by Wayne C. Booth in his 1961 book The Rhetoric of Fiction^[1]) is a literary device in which the credibility of the narrator is seriously compromised. This unreliability can be due to psychological instability, a powerful bias, a lack of knowledge, or even a deliberate attempt to deceive the reader or audience. Unreliable narrators are usually first-person narrators, but third-person narrators can also be unreliable.

The nature of the narrator is sometimes immediately clear. For instance, a story may open with the narrator making a plainly false or delusional claim or admitting to being severely mentally ill, or the story itself may have a frame in which the narrator appears as a character, with clues to his unreliability. A more common, and dramatic, use of the device delays the revelation until near the story's end. This twist endingforces the reader to reconsider their point of view and experience of the story. In many cases the narrator's unreliability is never fully revealed but only hinted at, leaving the reader to wonder how much the narrator should be trusted and how the story should be interpreted.

The literary device of the unreliable narrator should not be confused with other devices such aseuphemism, hyperbole, irony, metaphor, pathetic fallacy, personification, sarcasm, or satire; it may, however, coexist with such devices, as in Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho, a satire^[2] whose narrator is unreliable (and thus not credible). Similarly, historical novels, speculative fiction, and clearly delineateddream sequences are generally not considered instances of unreliable narration, even though they describe events that did not or could not happen.

Some works suggest that all narrators are inherently unreliable due to self-interest, personal bias, or selective memory; "reliable narrators" would be "unreliable narrators without hints or clues of their very own unreliability".

Contents  [hide] 1 Examples of unreliable narrators 1.1 Novels 1.2 Films 1.3 Music 1.4 Television 2 Works featuring unreliable narrators 3 References

[edit]Examples of unreliable narrators

[edit]Novels

One of the earliest known examples of unreliable narration is Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales. In the Merchant's Tale for example, the narrator, being unhappy in his marriage, allows his misogynistic bias to slant much of his tale, and in the Wife of Bath's, the Wife often misquotes and misremembers quotations and stories.

Many novels are narrated by children, whose inexperience can impair their judgment and make them unreliable. In Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884), Huck's inexperience leads him to make overly charitable judgments about the characters in the novel; even going so far as to accuse his author, "Mr. Mark Twain," of having stretched the truth in the previous book, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, an early example of a fourth-wall breach. In contrast, Holden Caulfield, in The Catcher in the Rye, tends to assume the worst.

Henry James' classic novella The Turn of the Screw, in which a young woman experiences ghostly hauntings summoned by supernaturally-powered children, can be interpreted as a novel of unreliable narration, but whether or not the narrator is actually delusional is (perhaps intentionally) ambiguous. It is of note that the story was not interpreted thus until several decades after its original publication.^[3]

The first part of William Faulkner's novel The Sound and the Fury is, literally, "a tale told by an idiot." The other parts are told by other, damaged but perhaps more reliable narrators.

In the novel Zeno's Conscience (La coscienza di Zeno, 1923) by the Italian writer Italo Svevo, Zeno, the first-person narrator, continuously tryies to justify his failures, often telling lies or, more often, avoiding important details and providing excuses to the reader and to himself. Moreover, since under the effect of psychoanalysis, Zeno's point of view on the past events is always changing and never definite.

Another class of unreliable narrator is one who intentionally attempts to deceive the audience or other characters in the story. One of the earliest examples is Agatha Christie's detective novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, in which the narrator is scrupulously honest in facts revealed but neglects to mention certain key events. His unreliability is noted in Dean Koontz's Odd Thomas, in which Odd, the narrator, is also unreliable: he admits the nature of his unreliability at the beginning of the book, but the exact meaning of that admission is not made clear until the book's end.

In some cases, as with Vladimir Nabokov's 1962 Pale Fire, the reader is unable to discern among several possible narrators, each with his or her own intrinsically unreliable agenda and bias. This serves to effectively include the reader in the experience of the novel, rather than simply providing a narrative, encouraging independent theories and ultimately furthering a point.

Gene Wolfe could be said to have made the unreliable narrator one of his stylistic signatures. The most famous example is the complicated and self-contradictory autobiography of the Autarch Severian, who claims to possess eidetic memory, in The Book of the New Sun. Narrators in others of Wolfe's books include a soldier who loses his entire memory every morning (Soldier of the Mist) and a combination of multiple personalities sharing one body (Book of the Long Sun and Book of the Short Sun).

Randy Mulray, the main character in C.W. Schultz’s Yeval, easily qualifies as an unreliable narrator. The reader grows to know that Mulray is a very self-conscious man with a low self-esteem, which in turn makes him obviously overplay (or underplay) situations that he describes to the reader. Because he is a drug-dealer and envisions thoughts of a serial killer, there are several hints throughout the novel that Mulray could be hallucinating some of what he tells.

The eponymous narrator of Michael Moorcock's Pyat Quartet is thoroughly and entertainingly duplicitous.

Ken Kesey's two most famous novels feature unreliable narrators. "Chief" Bromden in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest suffers from schizophrenia, and his telling of the events often includes things such as people growing or shrinking, walls oozing with slime, or the orderlies kidnapping and "curing" Santa Claus. Narration in Sometimes a Great Notion switches between several of the main characters, whose bias tends to switch the reader's sympathies from one person to another, especially in the rivalry between Leland and Hank. Many of Susan Howatch's novels similarly uses this technique; each chapter is narrated by a different character, and only after reading chapters by each of the narrators does the reader realize each of the narrators has biases and "blind spots" that cause them to perceive shared experiences differently.

Charlie Gordon, the narrator in Daniel Keyes's epistolary novel, Flowers for Algernon is mentally retarded at the start of the novel but develops greater intelligence and understanding. Following a Rorschach inkblot test early in the novel, Charlie reports that he was told to imagine pictures in the ink contrary to the standardised way of delivering the test. Subsequently, on listening to an audio recording of the test, he realises that his memory was flawed.

In some instances, unreliable narration can bring about the fantastic in works of fiction. In Kingsley Amis's The Green Man, for example, the unreliability of the narrator Maurice Allington destabilizes the boundaries between reality and the fantastic. The same applies to Nigel Williams's Witchcraft.^[4]

Mary Shelley's Frankenstein has often come under fire^{[citation needed]} for being presented by an unreliable narrator. We are being told the story by a sea captain who has heard the story from a dying Victor Frankenstein. It is posited that Victor's pride could have affected the version of the story he tells the sea captain. And further still, the sea captain could be embellishing the story to impress whomever he is telling the story to.

[edit]Films

A more recent example of intentional deception is the film The Usual Suspects, where the narrator is a man being interrogated by the police. He offers a detailed account of the events leading up to a recent crime, but avoids sharing everything he knows about the mysterious crime lord Keyser Söze. The 1945 film noir classic Detour is told from the perspective of an unreliable protagonist who is trying to justify his actions.^[5][6][7] Another recent example is the movie Lucky Number Slevin in which the main character, Slevin Kelevra, claims to be an innocent bystander caught in a case of mistaken identity. This claim is supported by a number of flashbacks, however, many of these flashbacks prove to be fabricated with Kelevra pulling the strings.

Mentally impaired narrators may describe the world as they perceive it rather than as it really is. In the film, Bubba Ho-tep, the main character is either Elvis Presley or an Elvis impersonator named Sebastian Haff. He appears to suffer from Alzheimer's disease, making it unclear how much of his story is real. In the film Memento, the narrator is a man who suffers from anterograde amnesia. He is unable to form new long-term memories, and is thus unable to provide reliable narration about crucial past events or even his own motivations.

The film Rashomon uses multiple narrators to tell the story of the death of a samurai. Each of the witnesses describe the same basic events but differ wildly in the details, alternately claiming that the samurai was killed by accident, suicide, or murder. The term Rashomon effect is used to describe how different witnesses are able to produce differing, yet plausible, accounts of the same event, with equal sincerity. This kind of unreliable narration has also been used for comic effect in movies such as He Said, She Said and Grease, where the two romantic leads offer very different accounts of their relationship.

You are not your couch.

I fancy myself a hard worker. I enjoy a business/corporate enviornment. Where tasks/duties are assigned and layed out according to job description, current workload, and performance. Things can get a little crazy, sure. But all in all, every little detail is someone's specific responsibility. If someone's health insurance app didn't get processed, you can turn to the employee responsible and ask them what happened. If a paycheck was wrong, you can go to the payroll coordinator and speak to them.

This company, is a clusterfuck.

I currently assist 3 people. I was hired to assist the Contract Development manager, because of my obvious apparent magical prowess with words. I started out retrieving bid documents, reviewing them, and working our vendor registration list. Fast forward 3 months later, I'm now doing recruitment (both ends), HR processing, client AND employee relations, and actually WRITING entire bid responses. I got a dollar an hour raise for my troubles and a promotion to "Support Specialist" which means, pretty much, nothing. Though, it sounds so much better than Administrative Assistant.

Now, I can't really talk to my co-workers about this... mostly because I have very few coworkers. This is a small company that rakes in 2 mil a year. We have 6 people on the administrative payroll, INCLUDING my boss and the owner. I am the newest addition to the company, with my anniversary coming 'round the corner in July. The only other woman in my office on a regular basis is the billing assistant. She's an older woman with not much other than a high school education (if that). She's the only person in the office who isn't busy reguarly. She just told me "I hope they pay you well for all the stuff they throw on you."

Not quite. But once again, I'm getting off subject.

I would love to have a meeting with the entire staff. Ask why 4 different people are responsible for processing new hire paperwork. Why I am writing proposals (not just throwing together, but WRITING) that could win this company hundreds of thousands of dollars annually, but I'm still expected to be the girl who "scans and saves" documents for everyone. Why don't we have an HR coordinator who can handle all employee relations. Why doesn't the owner have an assistant that can help her with the job boards and recruitment. Why am I expected to be everyone's right fucking arm?

It all comes down to money. Though, I hardly think hiring at least one part time employee will break the bank. My boss already has her Lexus and condo on the beach. What else does she need? We've already hired my bosses husband who was out of work. He was working part time for $20 an hour doing "HR", and when he left after 4 months for another company (praise Allah), I got to clean up the mess he called Human Resources.

This bastard gets paid almost twice as much as I do, and I get to clean up his shoddy half-assed work. Yay, nepotism.

So, I guess my question is, has anyone ever worked in a semi-normal office? Am I just stuck being the intelligent girl who needs to shut up and play dumb so no one will notice I can do just about anything? Are my hippie roots showing by choosing to work for small locally owned businesses for the last 5 years? Because all they've ever done was ask me to bend over and grab my ankles...

Fuck you.

My blood is boiling. There is a rage crawling under my skin that I can not begin to name, or decipher. Perhaps it is the fact that my schedule is out of wack. I don't know when I'm hungry, sleepy, thirsty, sad, happy, angry, or tired. I'm an invariable mess. Have been all weekend.

I think it all comes down to having to interact with other humans. A wise old man once told me he wished nothing more than to live as a hermit in a cave on a mountain amongst the animals, so he could send mailbombs to presidents of large corporations. I agreed, then remembered that there's probably no post man to come and get said packages, let alone to deliver my Netflix movies. There's always something standing in the way of my happiness.

I decided that I needed to start going to the gym more. Need to watch my food intake/calorie consumption. Take my allergy medication. Drink more water. Sleep on a regular schedule. Save money. Do the dishes. Fold the laundry. Walk the dog. Daily. But I have none of the energy to do any of that. I'd talk to my shrink about it, but he just nods and writes prescriptions on pads that no one can read. I digress.

Basically, on days like this, I've noticed that the world is full of morons, and I am one of the lucky enlightened few who gets to travel amongst the damned wishing her *heartlight would kick on so she could be mindlessly shipped off just like the rest.



*That was a Logan's Run reference for anyone who was still paying attention.

Mrs. Halpert

Jim Halpert, once again, sets the bar. Buying the ring the first week that he and Pam were together. Then letting Pam in on his secret, just enough to fuck with her. Every chance he gets.

While Jim had plenty of time to get to know his future bride before ever laying a hand on her, mostly due to the fact that she was personally involved in another engagement, I will take that into consideration for transferrence onto my own life. Also - they work together and therefore had only each other to cling to, against the storm that is Michael Scott, Dwight Schrute, and Angela Martin. I'm sure that counts for something.

I'll just make a vow right now that I'll never marry anyone who doesn't love me as much as Jim Halpert loves Pam Beesley.

And in no way is that pathetic.

ATTENTION: OFFICE SPOILER ALERT

OMFG.

The only proposal I could actually stand to see lately, is PB & J. So fucking great. <3

Dear Tom Anderson

An open letter to Tom Anderson, Myspace's founder:

A. I'm not a fan of facebook. If I were, I'd be on that a lot more than I'm on here. The more you make myspace look like facebook, the less I'll be using it. The more applications you add to Myspace, to make it resemble facebook, the less I'll be using it. I know I'm not alone. Do you get the message?

B. The "captcha" images were a great idea. Optional use. For friend requests and comments. Though, these days, it seems as if in order to login I need to fill out a fucking captcha form. I am not good at this, Tom. As you can see, I'm no bot, just a bored underpaid college graduate at a boring desk job. I just had to fill a captcha out to MESSAGE somebody. SOMEBODY ON MY FRIENDS LIST. TO MESSAGE THEM, TOM. And, I had to fill one out three times before I got it right. What's the difference between a "Z" and an "N"? How about two "V"s and a "W"? Yahoo and Craigslist manage to have "captcha" forms that I can accuratley use. What's your deal, Tom?

C. Myspace "secret" shows aren't a secret. To anyone. Ever.

D. With all these new innovations coming along with myspace, why can't you create some sort of "douchebag blocker" so people like this will stop requesting to be my friend. All the "must have last name/email" widgets in the world won't stop people like this from knocking at my Myspace door asking if I want to be their next "muse". Ew.

Thank you,
Ms. Judith

Waiting for the next bandwagon to jump on?

Dead Tired.

I believe I have an emotional hangover.

I've spent the last few weeks taking care of people other than myself. It's in my piscean nature to do so. While I do it without regret, I have noticed that my basic needs (sleep, eat, exercize) have been compromised on a larger scale, in great proportions. Besides all this I miss my boyfriend, who I only see in passing, at meals, when we go to sleep. I miss my puppy and my kitten. I miss having a moment or two to breathe. I miss not having a schedule, or someone I need to call.

I am, by nature, a hermit. While I can be an extremely social creature I long for a lazy Sunday. At least, metaphorically.

Just my luck, today is a Tuesday.

Love and Marriage

There are a group of websites that I visit frequently to combat boredom whilst at work. Namely gossip sites. Perezhilton, Jezebel, Popsugar. I mentioned the latter, specifically, because they have several sites under the "sugar" blanket. Food, house, beauty, fashion, etc. They also, apparently, have an I DO Sugar. Yes. You read that right. The sole topic is weddings.

Apparently April is engagement month. I understood that there were specific 'seasons' for weddings, but didn't think that an entire month devoted to engagements was in order. Everywhere I look it's "How would you rather be proposed to?" "How important is that ring?" "Get that wedding day body in just 30 days!" et cetera, ad nauseum. Yuck.


Have I mentioned there was a bachelorette party at the Orpheum on Saturday? Yeah.

As a woman in her mid-t0-late twenties, in a long term relationship with her live-in boyfriend (read: non-spinster)... I'm really fucking sick of it. I'm having weddings thrown in my face left and right. Coming from someone who honestly believes in the sacrament of marriage, and the seriousness of the situation... I call bullshit on all of it. I know so many girls who want to get married just for the party. The white dress. The diamond rock on their finger. I know girls who are still on their parent's payroll who are getting married. I know girls who have known their fiancee for 5 months, that are getting married. I know girls who have never ever even lived on their own, who are getting married. I know girls who aren't even in relationships with guys but are convinced they're getting married.

What gives?

Have I just reached that age where two are becoming one? Or have I just fallen so low on the dating totem pole that I'm just destined to be in this revolving door of stable long term relationship after stable long term relationship with no future commitment to look forward to? Girls who I saw grinding on two different guys at the bar last night, are wearing all white and traipsing down the aisle. Girls who I saw making out with other girls last weekend, are currently trying to write their own vows. I'm not complaining, per say... just wondering where my marriage potential dropped off the radar, and these very young/very stupid/very simple ladies got on.

Am I ready to get married right now? Probably not. Considering my reasoning for that answer (mental instability, debt, lack of personal motivation), would I ever be viable marriage material? Probably not. Does that upset me? Of course. But, I've got time to work on it. Who knows, maybe on day I'll meet someone who wants me to stick around long enough to help him find his dentures.

But if my phone rings with another shrill voice screaming "Guess what?!" somebody better be knocked the fuck up.

(she) makes (me) shake.

Saturday took a lot out of me. I needed a handful of xanax just to survive the party. That coupled with alcohol and marijuana lulled me into a false sense of security that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be OK. That feeling was smashed as soon as we decided the Orpheum was where we would be closing the evening. Between having to be the bad guy and kick people out of the party house (I don't play hostess for a reason, mostly because I don't know how to tactfully deal with the people who can't take a hint that the party is OVER), calm myself down after having a fit in my bedroom over wardrobe (whilst a friend sat in the living room helping the situation immensely by complaining about how long I was taking), I was in a fine mood to drive to Tampa and enter the 7th stratosphere of hell known as sink or swim.

I hate the ping-pong that is the Orpheum. We get there 2 hours before last call. I spend the majority of the evening slithering past children who congregate in walkways and bathrooms, intentionally downing too many drinks to make my tongue so loose no hateful words will slide off. I also need to drink enough liquor to dance to the same 40 minutes of songs they have been playing since 1996. Sometimes I'm so lucky, I get to play this game all evening, running between my boyfriend and my group of friends. Nine times out of ten I end up pissing off someone because I'm not spending enough time with them. Ten times out of ten I don't even want to be there in the first place. 99% of the time, someone ends up going home crying. Fun, fun, fun. Sunday, well, I already have an entry about that now don't I.


48 hours later and I'm still in the downward spiral that was this Saturday. Still the insecure little girl rifling through the Juniors section getting angry that she doesn't have the prepubescent body required for such fashion choices. Still agonizing over actions and missed opportunities. Still hung up on fact vs. fiction. Presently, biting my nails at this blog entry hoping that I have the balls to post it. I never used to be this way. I promise. I don't know if I would be able to function on this high of a level if I spent most of my adolescence thinking this way.

Monday morning and I'm in my wifebeater and yoga pants. I don't think I washed my face or brushed my teeth. I'm currently on the verge of tears. If I had an office door, I'd close it. The thought of cheery small talk with co-workers is making my stomach turn. I'm thisclose to putting the hood on my sweatshirt up and ignoring anyone who comes near my desk. I wish I had brought my puppy to help diffuse the situation. She's amazing for those sorts of things. Come to think of it, I should have just brought her on Saturday. Do you think they'd let dogs into the Orpheum?

So I've finally found a theme for this blog. I rarely have the opportunity to speak about the inane thoughts bouncing around in my head. Some are so irrational I can not bring my self to utter them aloud. The rest are too mean to bring to light. Most friends are too concerned with their own dramatic lives that I can hardly get a word in edgewise. The rest, are too far away to concern with the trivality that is my day to day life. So, think of personalcoma as my own public therapy session.

The doctor will now see you. Please be mindful of the automatic doors. Welcome to the ride.

Between the weed and the weather, it's a pretty gloomy day. 

Cuddling on the futon with the puppy seems to be the only satisfying thing I can bring myself to do. 

Tampa just takes something out of me.

Serotonin?

Endorphins?

Chemically, we just don't seem to mix. 

Pamela Jean

Thanks for being born and having me party 12 hrs straight as a result.

<3

Tonight, I realized

sometimes all a girl needs is her puppy. 

I was in the middle of writing a blog about how I was going to keep this blog personal poetry, but I then decided against it because I knew way too many people who could find this site. I'm a freak, I know. I'd rather be judged by strangers than acquaintences. Probably because they're acquaintences for a reason. You know?

I digress.

So, this will probably be a mixture of both. Just like LJ. Just like Mindsay. Makes me a little bit sad because I rather enjoyed the melodramatic lack of color, title, and pseudo-identiy I set myself up with on here. Oh well.

Perhaps blogspot.com was trying to tell me "No, do not succumb to societal norms and pressures of keeping everything deep and dark inside, and only letting your sacrastic witt and biting criticisms of society shine through" by deleting the post that I was writing, similar to this one.

Or, maybe the internet was just being a motherfucker. Who knows.

tntya

what are we trying to accomplish
keeping bedsheets warm
playing house to an orphanage
where did it all go?
life is what is happening around us
while we play cerebral games
live in fantasy worlds

egotistical egomania
just an evil little girl
driven by knee jerk reactions
gut feelings

demons bouncing
jumping
dancing on bellies full of fire
making ways down tongues
through mouthes
reaching lips then retreating
though i can still hear their cackle
echoing through my ears
when the night is still
and the wind is quiet
"they'll never take you alive... they'll never take you alive..."

daydreams

dradamsfilms.com - pages filled with quotes concerning inspiration, location, advocation and provocation.

he is the other koi
forever chasing my tail
exorcizing the sensical thoughts from my skull
paving the way

one day we'll have absinthe filled delusions
crouched behind strangers
on crimson velour couches
in a dank and dark part of town
pass the smoke back and forth
watch the lighting exchanged betwixt fingertips
as we laugh at the green fairies who taunt us
and comiserate our failing plans for world domination
though, we'll never give them up.
take them to our shallow graves
before ever admitting defeat

_________________________________

Ah, sweet inspiration from famous strangers.
The only type of intimacy I can stomach.

Hello

A clean page is a clean page
whether that page is virtual or palpable.

I've found inspiration in unlikely places
turning lemons into limoncello
through warmed sand partitions
I laugh at the blue raven
dancing on the limb of a cypress

taking tips from corvids
both feared and reviered
make mental note to follow in his footsteps

Oh, life.
It's like a dog sometimes.
Are you walking it
or is it walking you