Words!

For some reason I feel like writing lots today. I feel a strong compulsion to satisfy all of my adoring fans, so therefore I must write lots and lots.

I'm sick of writing. I'm sick of people. I'm sick of people writing. I hate words. They mean nothing. They convey nothing. Punctuation shouldn't define our personalities. Just because I use a lot of periods doesn't make me a hesitant guy. It just means that I have a lot of thoughts and I need to place constant stoppers in my paragraph. Fuck commas. It's a sign of weakness. What, you can't even make a concise point with out breaking it down with a drooping dot? Wait, I'm using them.

They've gotten to me...

Oh yeah, and fuck ellipses. They're so overused. They actually used to mean something, but now the general public has caught on to their existence. Now, everyone uses them to end every fucking sentence. How are we supposed to know what comes after your fucking period parade? I can't finish your own thought for you, stop writing half sentences and then...you know.

I especially hate stream of consciousness bullshit. Motherfuckers think that they can just write whatever comes to mind without regard for any semblance of decent sentence structure and they just babble on and on and on and think that it's 'poetic' and it's emotional, and you just don't 'get me' I'm a tortured artist because look at me I write in MASSIVE chunks of script with no paragraph breaks or anything and it's indeciferable but that's because I'm so hurt inside and yeah...y'know...

Most of all I hate writing, to reiterate. I hate how seemingly intelligent people write a letter to you, and then you realize that they don't know how to convey their thoughts through words. 'lets go2 teh stor' isn't English. It's bullshit. I hate you so much now. You're stupid. You should die. This language hasn't evolved for hundreds of years just to be instantly killed by a bored and caffeine-hungry generation of teenage wannabe-hipsters. It's almost Orwellian, except it's so not. It's pathetic. Die.

I really hate you, too. I know that I'm not a great writer; I'm only sort of able to articulate. But you...you...you're better then me. You can bring me to tears with a single sentence. How? How do you master this fucking language that well? You must be magic. Word trickery, it's dark and evil I tell you. You should burn at the stake for being able to so move me with such a small amount of words.
I hate you. You're smart, therefore I don't trust you. You probably can read my thoughts. It's scary. Look at you, all educated and shit.

Let's burn all the books and all the letters and words, and just communicate orally. That's how it used to be done. Who are we to go against what people thousands of years ago did? They had it right.

Actually, it's all a joke. A farce. Don't worry, I'm not really going to sack the library of congress with a mob of cellphone texter freaks. However, I am going to gather that mob, and then stab them each slowly with the antennas on their precious little communication devices.



(long story short, don't text me cuz it really really bugs me and it costs me ten cents everytime and i'm poor and sad ok thx.) :-)

Late

There are not many things worse than being a ridiculous amount of time late to work. I'm not talking about half an hour late, I mean like four hours late. What excuse can you give for being four hours late? There is no excuse. You stumble in the door, disheveled and smelly. Your eyes have a wild and glazed look, and you when you speak your voice shakes and cracks. The massive bags under your eyes and bent neck immediately betray your reason for lateness. Your hangover is as apparent as a brand on your fucking forehead.
Actually, perhaps actually making it to work isn't the worst part. The worst part is right when you wake up. Your alarm was set for 7:30, and the clock says 1:00.
"1:00?" you think. I never sleep in this late, hangover or no hangover. Then, you remember that you haven't set your clock back yet from daylight savings time, in order to inspire a more hasty revival from sleep when your addled morning mind forgets your clock's inaccuracy. So it's 12:00. That could happen. You've slept in till 12 before when the night was particularly rough. But Jesus, on the one fucking day you have to be at work early, the one day? This can't be happening. Your dawning apprehension of the shit you're in gives you a horrible feeling in your chest. That feeling sucks. Your stomach does a nose dive into your bowels, and your mind starts racing, trying to figure out what to do. Part of you wants to just say fuck it and skip work altogether, let them fire you. At least you still have a bit of dignity left, at least that way you'll 'stick it to the man.' But you don't really want to do that, so you run around frantically trying to find clothes to throw on, and you sprint out the door un-showered and unhappy.

Today is so going to suck.

Ypsilanti

There's something strange about this town. Something that makes you never want to leave, even if you hate it. Kind of like when you're sitting in your room, and you hear the doorbell ring. Sometimes, it's nice just to let the person stand there unanswered and just continue reading your graphic novel and smoking cigarettes. As the rings grow more impatient, the happier you start to get. You really should get up and answer, because it's probably your friend wanting to do something fun. Logically, the best choice is to answer the door and be social, but inside all you want to do is lounge around and get lost in a world that isn't your own.

Yeah.

That's what Ypsi is like; laying around in a place that's not nearly as exciting as anywhere else, but for some reason you mostly ignore the call of the outside world and are content to stay here and observe the weird and pointless existence that most people live.
It's a fucking competition for who is the laziest; who can get the least amount of shit done. Who can put off school the longest, who can blame a 'youthful soul' the most while sitting around and doing nothing.
Let me tell you, I can bring some stiff competition. I kick ass at this game; I am the king of sloth and all that is nothing. This attitude may be frowned upon, but it is the epitome of all that I am, and all that this town is.

Wait.

Let me contradict myself.

It may seem like I'm saying that no one ever does anything productive here, but that would be drawing an inaccurate conclusion. Stuff does happen, most people here do have some cool creative outlet that they show to everyone else. It's like a massive circle jerk consisting of right-brained 'arteests' each trying to outdo the other. But really, nothing is accomplished. Even if your degree is earned and your career chosen, you're still bound to a life of doing nothing unless you can escape here. Maybe that's really what makes this town what it is; people choose this life. People love it, somewhere deep down they need their fix of a dead end existence, even if they're not directly contributing to its fruition in this mini society.

I think the point of this entry got lost somewhere back at the doorbell, if it ever existed at all.

The tables have turned

I'm so thrilled that the American voters have issued such a stern referendum towards our current administration. A shift in power has long been overdue, and hopefully the reign of the Neo-Cons has reached a point of impotence now. Some friends and I watched the election results Tuesday night with beer and high hopes, and holy shit were they met.

With the 'persuasion' of a conservative democrat house, hopefully we can hold Bush at bay for these next two years.

Also, I hope that the strong partisanship in our government will lessen, and maybe the GOP and Dems can actually come together on a few issues for a change...hopefully.

I've been in such high spirits these past few days, and right now I'm enjoying my food-induced coma brought on by a deuce of Bass and a chicken shwarma sandwich from Town Cafe.

Yummy.

Blogasm

This is my first attempt at blogging. I probably am horrible at it, but I need a reason to write since school isn't really happening right now. This is at least starting out as a fairly boring account of my life in Ypsilanti, Michigan. Or maybe not my life, but life in general in our fair city. Perhaps this blog won't extend beyond this first post, but hopefully I am able to keep up with it and even talk about vaguely exciting things, (doubtful.)

Blogenda for this week: Think of more words to make up; eat food at the Double Eagle, then document the morning poop in painful detail; have special "tweaker" post while hopped up on 20 cups of Ugly Mug coffee; etc.