The more you think about it, being human only gets harder. It reeks havoc on your third person. It only makes you feel more like an alien.
Like a spacey martian.
A third kind.

I am locked in my third kind. You are all weirdos.

http://www.jasonmclean.com/peep/

(courtessy of octavio)

I'm in a mood to write something stupid. something punctuated by many many exclamation points. I am surprised I am not exhaling blue smoke. Maybe I'm horny. No, no, I'm always horny - that's not it at all. I am ELECTRIC! I feel NOSTALGIC! I might just give powerful and arbitrary high fives or spin ornate dinnerware on several precariously ( Read more... )

My lungs are powered by fushia. All around is the purring of snowmen. My balls itch. My pockets feel dramatic. I wish his name was Bin Lazer.

Potato.

ooooh, whuh? unga bunga. duuuuuh. pbbt! SNORT! uuuuunnngh.

I'm imagining specially designed wedding rice engraved with names. I'm imagining floral print curtains lit from the other side, where pretty, naked things are forever going on behind. I'm imagining rescuing a strange wife from drowning of a winter beach crowded with snowmen, my clumsy heart stopping as the manuscript for this movie explodes ( Read more... )

So Fluvog outlets then. Or Danier Down.

I know we'll find ourselves beneath pressurized star-lit domes for Eatons centers, spacey video arcades and fashion concerns set against European seasons, but wouldn't you like to think of the moon as a chance to start over?

Am I the only one day-dreaming of another kind of success boyond the brief and unamusing anecdote that is this?

fuck school.

There's something true beneath that feeling of a fever, about things in commotion and in absolute stillness, and in the weight of a pinch of skin. Like when trying to catch stars on the end of your littlest finger before they hit the bathroom floor, how overwhelming your body becomes. I still think everyone is crazy! and dangerous!!! I still ( Read more... )