(no subject)

"If you aint never contemplated murder, you aint never been in love.

If you aint never considered killin' a motherfucker, you aint never loved a motherfucker.

If you aint ever stared at a can of rat poison... for forty-five minutes... you aint never been in love!"

- Loosely paraphrased from Chris Rock

(no subject)

So when is it too late to set things right?

How much of an unbelievable fucker do you have to become, how many lines do you have to cross, before you're all out of "second-chances"?

How many years can go by until the "I'm sorry" doesn't even resonate?

Five years? Six?

Am I all out of time?

(no subject)

"What a buncha fuckin' losers."

"Too much time on their hands. Leads to poetry."


"Never date a writer, honey. Writers suck."


Quotes taken from book 5 of PREACHER, written by Garth Ennis

**Edited to add:
"How much does it cost to piss in your mouth?"**

Deconstructing Jizzle

So anyhow, I tried posting this thing about the sinning before and accidentally deleted it.

Anyhow, here's the lowdown: we all do naughty sinful things at times. Some of us more than others. Heck, I've still got suits pending against me from three different dating services AND the teen chat line.

So I want to hear some stories about a time you were selfish, naughty, devilish, clever, downright evil and rock-awesome.

Post anonymously if you must. Lets dish some dirt!

Now if you'll excuse me, Friends is on, and I find four of those characters incredibly arousing.


So I finally landed a summer job at Chapters... easy, and something I can hopefully keep come September, so long as I can balance it with my GAship.

Its only part-time so Im still looking around... got an interview for a part-time position at Sears Big and Tall tomorrow, despite the fact that I, personally, am neither.

Looks like I get to stay in Windsoria this summer after all. Praise and rejoice.

My brain is melting

Have any of you guys ever hated something (a movie, a show, a song, etc) that seemingly EVERYONE ELSE absolutely loved?

Doesn't it bother you 100 times as much? Like, if I said "Man, SILENT HILL is a bad movie." and the guy next to me on the bus said "True dat, mofo." then all would be well, and we'd have no problem...
But if I said "Wow, Radiohead is such an overrated band." and the rest of the world responds with "WHAT OMG r u serious radiohead is so totally genius theyre the best band in the whole wide world ROFLOL" then it just PISSES ME OFF to an unbelievable degree.

This happens to me all the time, leading me to believe that its likely my tastes that are way off base rather than the rest of the worlds. I am willing to accept this. However this fails to make me feel better whenever I'm faced with another one of these scenarios. Heres another example:

I HATED the movie CHICAGO. Badly cast, horribly cut and edited to the point where you could get motion sickness in the theatre, annoying, pointless, and I STILL don't even know what it was really about. Yet it wins best friggin' picture and people were crawling over their own mothers to see it. This PISSED ME OFF. I genuinely tried to understand, tried to like it... but I couldn't. There are no redeeming qualities, much like the movie SIGNS. The fact that I couldn't like CHICAGO actually became the catalyst for the end of a year long relationship of mine. True story.

Anyhow, I'm going through another one of those situations right now. I DESPISE something everyone else in the world loves. I HATE it despite repeated attempts to overcome. So I wanna know: is there anything you guys can't stand that everyone else digs on? Misery loves company.

Come on bloggies, don't let daddy down.

(no subject)

So I asked a couple people who know me VERY well for a percentage of probability of me getting shot and stabbed at some point in my lifetime. Heres the results:

SHOT: 35% chance
SHOT AT: 50% chance
STABBED: 75% chance

Man, I piss off a lot of people.

You guys know me pretty well - whats your opinion?


Poetry died on May 14th.

Stanley Kunitz, previous poet laureate of the USA, passed away at age 100.
Kunitz was one of the only real poets left. And by real poets I mean people that use language in order to move, evoke, express, generally bring about an experience in their readership. This man didn't toss 80 words on a page and read it to a room of drugged-up hipster fuckwits, he crafted POEMS and did a damn fine job of it.

Poetry is dead. You know it and I know it. No one cares about it, no one likes it, because the people that call themselves poets today spend more time trying to outsmart themselves and layer in six thousand "meanings" into every line break than they do just fucking WRITING.

Kunitz was an artist. He's left his mark on the world. I hope against all reason that one day what has come to be called poetry will be cast aside as asinine and the true artform will be revived - perhaps by turning to the works of people like him.

What follows is by no means his best work (and I urge you to track down others) but I tend to like this one, personally. And its my journal. So nyah.

Halley's Comet

Miss Murphy in first grade
wrote its name in chalk
across the board and told us
it was roaring down the stormtracks
of the Milky Way at frightful speed
and if it wandered off its course
and smashed into the earth
there'd be no school tomorrow.
A red-bearded preacher from the hills
with a wild look in his eyes
stood in the public square
at the playground's edge
proclaiming he was sent by God
to save every one of us,
even the little children.
"Repent, ye sinners!" he shouted,
waving his hand-lettered sign.
At supper I felt sad to think
that it was probably
the last meal I'd share
with my mother and my sisters;
but I felt excited too
and scarcely touched my plate.
So mother scolded me
and sent me early to my room.
The whole family's asleep
except for me. They never heard me steal
into the stairwell hall and climb
the ladder to the fresh night air.
Look for me, Father, on the roof
of the red brick building
at the foot of Green Street—
that's where we live, you know, on the top floor.
I'm the boy in the white flannel gown
sprawled on this coarse gravel bed
searching the starry sky,
waiting for the world to end.

Stanley Kunitz

(no subject)

"I'm sorry. You're right, and I'm sorry. But this is what a writer does: his life is a maelstrom of lying.

I'm sorry. Can I still come on your face?"

(no subject)

Well now Im ACTUALLY in Oakville. Sorry for the premature shooting off of the messages earlier in the week.

I have no MSN here, so I'm just leaving all of these so the peeps in the region in the "know" know where to contact me.