Tag Archives: life

you’re not supposed to, but you do it anyway: a study

you want to save the world and make use of the complicated. let’s bemoan and let’s be pathetic. let’s depress the objectively deflated and inflate the pathologically insane. figure eight shows you the picture of a duck with training wheels, carefully imagining itself in a world of mass hunger and rabid determination. we’re starving our flocks to write this story and so you should keep being inept and press the ‘donate now’ button. it makes me feel good when i tell you this; it makes you feel even better when you jump aboard this ideological 747 with me. i, you, them, we, deity. all fabrications, with green smokestacks, emitting a purple wave of eccentricity with a positive charge and forty-four days left to procreate. subliminal delineations, danger. squeeze, tighten, fortify, splendor. adapt.

what is the generation thunder that roars beneath your feat, you incredulous tiger of misaligned ubiquity. ask. question. depress. you test your capacity to enlarge by postulating the maturity levels of iron at seven, 4 and thirty-3 years. impossible is possible, just think about it… just make it possible. it’s insanity (all over) when i hear you yelp from across the road, asking for help, disguised in a matter-of-fact gluten-free substance, poised to penetrate. you wish to change, to manage, to massage, to exacerbate, to complicate, to memorize, to show frigid temperatures how to fake the orgasm of amorous professions. or maybe you want none of these things and all of them at once, a paradox among the living, a choice dilemma that confounds the unannounced forces of faux-finished material textures.

go, for yourself, for others, for the benefit of the corrupted few who hold power, devour powder, speak louder, excrete madness and impose the word “rather.” how do you echolocate the entire sound alphabet, as it is spoken by a demented goat, born out of wedlock, its original creator a combination of an acidic substance and an opulent fissure of the most pernicious (but promiscuous) existence. light is a ray and if photos are edible, your subconscious and maniacal tendencies and contrived proclivities can all continue taxing the willing, at the expense of increasing your exposure to risk-free ultraviolet machinations. print, copy, x.

ambivalence is an investment, a radical departure from the convenient features of yesterday, a realization that tomorrow will undertake to completely water-down your nightmares while accentuating your dreams to the point of an introverted culmination of fat-free lipids and kleptomaniac-like reward schemes. but you continue, you continue along the predetermined path of your ethically challenged 99-meter sprint towards dystopia. or perhaps i have become more adept at storytelling than you used to be. possibilities are exponentially raised to import suspicion, but in your case, you infer speculation, add hyperbolic sensationalism and remind your opponent that within the farce that exists the orifice of comedic brilliance, there exists something that is not only available and you can call your own, an offspring, a progeny of mild-mannered motivators, but something that none of us can ever internalize, even if by means of employing harsh light and enlightened inconspicuousness.

my solutions are equally blunt. i can repackage hysteria and resend it. i can .pdf your mannerism and send it back to you, equally possible, especially when reply-all stares the effects of destiny directly in its jealous (and esthetically morbid) face. you have chosen out of a lack of choices. you have created your demise by failing to foresee possible (and expected) alternatives. and now i wish to implode and sideline my own detrimental (to your health) -isms for the sake of procuring a toothless lion, enclosed in a hamster cage, with the same help mode as a surrogate 19th century barn fly.

car keys. please.

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Filed under abstract, critical, life, philosophy, symbols

the star without any end points, a circle in disguise

ready, set, go. attack, pant, begin to flaunt, oh my – is that kant? seriously. go fetch, go play, go emotionally decay. this blister is a complete disaster and someone just called me over to start the other side of their intricate project called casper. what a scene, full of fluffy fluffs fluffing about, can you believe such ignorance, i can’t tell you how happy i am to have experienced another way to lament. oh, continue, don’t abrogate, dictate, dictate…

[scene one]

[a small-ish rat occupies a space. a grandiose entrance, provided by some ill-advised sponsor, is entertained by a piece of cheese…]

[l… c… a…]

[“hello,” yelps the larger of the two. “perhaps you can guide me to your destination,” continued the belligerent, but this time with more gusto and perhaps even more empathy. i left the two alone to mingle and directed my attention to more pressing trifles, like the platter of duck confit that had arrived, just in time for the wetting of my palate. before i could ingest the floral display of apathetic violence, reconstructed for me by a magician of gastronomic “ooomph,” tragedy had struck. the legal person they called cheese, a blotched, half-empty placeholder, had already, rather desperately, forced its way into a container. it was hiding from the disaster. to spill more acid onto the intimately cancerous scene, monosyllabic doctors, competing for their own cubed foot of oxygenated diarrhea, all kept pushing alongside my leg without excusing themselves, perhaps on purpose. this entanglement further contributed to the pandemonium. the cheese was nowhere to be found by the true authorities and the obvious was lying naked on the floor, suffocated by the pungent smell of an unclassified piece of cheese…]

[this became, of course, a case no longer worth trying, never mind in front of a hot fudge, otherwise known as a fissure between an already widening gap; it is because of such influences that innocuous proper, playing with fire, will often burn at the same temperature as ulterior motives begin to congregate at.]

[r.i.p. rat, 547 grams, four inches tall, 11:43AM to 13:00PM]

there is an exclamation mark that gains perspective whenever you approach it with such sense of appreciation that your decoy is deconstructed the moment it senses and if containment is not preferred, it will also eat significantly more.

blah.

blah.

isms.

and again,

speech broke the silence, all too soon.

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a script, an eleven-forty tango with “CREATE,” the captain of mice

swimming fish

the car

just got back from spain where i had a 1.2 polo. small. but what a pernicious beast. it gave me confidence and i appreciated its character for what it really was (not what it tried to be). the rival it sat next to in the driveway was a peugeot 308, hdi, with all the excessive ergonomics of a marketing executive from a third grade ‘play-duh’ session.

one morning, having awoken from a mass exodus of accumulated urine in my lower chamber, i took this poignant sliver into the sunrise on a mountain road until its ready-to-wear-consumer-shoes began to beg for friction to forgive. incredibility, but reality is measured using ‘sweat factors’ of nine.

part of the trip… the start (at least)

serially, sunsets are manufactured consent. i appreciate it, insofar as i can express it. the burst of a “wider-than-life” bust is impossibly sexy, erotically undefined but almost always tragic and endlessly pessimistic. spain, a country of obsessed one-to-fivers, a playground for the tired, a bathtub of simplicity and a flabbergasted pot of unanimity. i became instant coffee, the moment the airport become a visionary reality. we touched down at some random time, on some random day, on a bed of chaos, the breaks of our bird fighting statistics and reminding its inhabitants of the futility of order.

next came the peeling off of the outer layer. we became exposed to the intricacies of religious miracles. a small “trocadero” reminded us that life in general is sometimes impossible to diversify, but for a slight notice that reads: add salt water, fourteen palm trees and nonchalance by the bucketload. who was i to dismiss novelty?

that the car really had a past

my first was a 528e. old, expressive, full of emotion. rust became it. i recognized its deficiencies, but really did not mind. my love for the animal (incognito) was a precocious prerogative that has yet to leave me. it was a 9-5 on the weekend that car. never will i forget it, never will i forgive it for spewing its guts after exiting one of the more major highways that makes its way from the west to the east, along a colourful barrage of allusions and beast-like accommodations.

second time, i failed equally. probability is a science. and i’m a lawyer. the 325 entered into my garage as easily as it would escape from a three point turn on a roundabout in the countryside. she had two-doors, love handles and a big smile on her face. i would take her out on breakfast, lunch and dinner dates. at the local gas station. insatiable, a love that made humans weak at the… 

my “mode” is now altruistic. my magnanimous inside is on a collision course with my aristocratic outside. walking saves the planet, and i’m convinced that the exit valve on cows are equally destructive. but i refrain from making more waves than is really required by the upper chamber of frivolous disgust and imposed “fees-for-life.”

i miss my two bmws, i will miss them for a while. but now, it looks like i may have a new love, a new hope, a new mistress. audi…

… thank you for making the r8.

…and without the means, the ends would have turned into knots…

50 mm 1.8.
+ kit.

i don’t believe in the kit, but the 50 is all i shoot with, religiously. 

i have shot with many, many camera[s] (+ obviously… ), and only really feel connected when (abstractly) attached to ‘my 50’ while on the run hunting for “the shot” or being hunted by those who feel my presence is leading their existence into a chaotic depression.

lens hunger is ubiquitous, but extremely unsatisfactory. purpose should really drive your appetite, rather than a desire to accumulate slash horde for socially inexplicable reasons. that’s just “my own” escaping…

wait.
an attempt… end?

so why was it explosive. why was it emotional. and why was it so disturbingly beautiful while at the same time satirically constipating. maniacal equations are required to explain. my small back pocket – and i have two – offer little in the way of “a solution.” it was life, full of it. the sand was neither moist nor dehydrated. we are all “counters” and at the very same time “weights.” egos define us and will eventually ruin us, slowly, bit by bit, until the last living seagull will find another “bone to pick.” but this is traditional. amorous, polyamorous and all of the feelings in between. on the record, there were no regrets, just impetuses and small hostile drags with nothing to pray on but ineffective plastic hairs and carbon fiber. meticulous. m…ind… n… umb… in… g.

ants live in colonies of x numbers. their abode is garnished with cubism, their artistic tendencies preferring the less double, the less famished. i’m stuck. seriously.

i’ll come back later. wait for me…

00:0x.

[note: these are excerpts from things that i wrote on the day i published this blog. these excerpts were not written FOR THIS PURPOSE, but came together to form what is before you. boo.]

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Filed under abstract, life

you_43/438_equals_12.356

APHORISM

Into this world, I welcome a steamship. The sound, the melodic sound is whispering to me. Slow, begin slow. No need to escape into the unknown, just be wise, proceed with foresight, caution tape, and a large sum of vocal chords. Sometimes. Oh, sometimes, and then it kicks in. So delightful, let it guide you. I’m chewing on softness. Sometimes the vibrations can consume the mind numbing pain that my ears interpret on my legal behalf. You, see, you did it again, you interpreted the wrong side for a better one. Searching, methodological power.

a mental condition, present from early childhood, characterized by great difficulty in communicating and forming relationships with other people and in using language and abstract concepts.

6

a mental condition in which fantasy dominates over reality, as a symptom of schizophrenia and other disorders.

What fear surrounds the machine that built the citadel without performing another form of a ritual. And then the boycott began, the inside rescinded all contracts, purported to sacrifice and surreptitiously declared another war with the outside. The external. A door begins and bespoke manual contraptions reenter into the ‘gain’ equation. Forgive me, but the solarium awaits me to another side of this world.

– noun Psychiatry

The beginning of spring, economica. Grab another pen, sit down. Define for me, the following four letter words: M ON E Y. Fooled, but that’s the game, the nature of the gastronomic exaggeration. Voltaire once said, forget what Voltaire said, don’t paraphrase, quote as given and please attach all Mr. Potato Head subscriptions to my invoice. Another problem, another solution, and so the chain begins again, back to front, inside to outside, speaking two dimensionally, solutions attempt to reconsider. Small wombats don’t even speak this kind of fallacious language-ness.

5

|ôˈtistik| |ɔˈtɪstɪk| |ˈɔːˈtɪstɪk| adjective & noun

4

An introduction to hypothermia is needed. My brain works to consume a hungry batch of ideas, daily. I do not presume you’re incompetent, I know fully well how not to experiment with absentia. This one pathetic and small … I refuse to accept that just because your well paid neurons happen to also distinguish themselves among the non-swimmers, my equally potent prodigious few can also withstand the test of voluptuous consumption. You are equally boring; yes, you, the impossible apothecary of mind-numbing stupor and formidable turpitude in light of your astute denials, speak up. My generosity begs your forgiveness, my apologies yearn after your candour, my parasitic ineptitude mistakenly believe that you are their only ex-. Not even close to walking. Mr. Go get me some chips. Still in fucking spatial disruptions. Cannot crawl well, but can have the ineptitude to want to walk. Perversity imbibes me, from x to y, from x to z, from y to the left quadrant of indulgence without a discretionary warning sign to the weaker probability. This is the feeling that is intended to be transported into your harbour. Acquiescence is only permissible in those instances where your dog’s leash is impregnable. Listen, small infant of sequentially mentioned aforethought, dispatch the largest xylophone you can find between your pecuniary loss and the space between the most important members of your constitution, ethics and membranes that do not inhale when they breathe.

– early 20th cent.: from Greek autos

I feel determined, pre-determined, like a fabricated machination that only performs in code. It’s abysmal, but choice was not in writing and certainly not in contract. It is my agency, my debilitating dyslexia that recommends an otiose remedy to a large brown idealist on Sundays past four perimeter meters. There must exist a beginning attached to this dead end. Hope is present, but fallible and hypersensitive to other personal obstructions of justice. Emergencies are ephemeral and sometimes intransigent (at best). Should is not an attempt but a dependent variable acting in a rash field of magnetic violence. On the other hand, we can only be obsessed with what we can defend; the two points require a place to come and breed and dispel insidious violence and evil desires with a batch of ulteriour motives a la carte. At face value, you are bringing this temporary chaos upon yourself. And that can only be a reassertion of the existence – at the very least – of a chance, a hope, a magnanimity. To persist is noble. Your convictions are well founded, the oracle has confirmed them all to me, your caregiver, your personal concierge with a ‘but’ of ‘butler’ inside; it is a joke, you either feel it or you not only not get it, but you will never get it either. Advance, adapt, Autopoiesis.

3

– ‘self’ + -ism .

You barely passed the test, but you passed it. You may begin the countdown. You.

Signed,

Your score, 43/438, equalling 12.356322 and a percentage value of 12.36 – rounding up for error skimming.

– autism |ˈôˌtizəm|

–v&p* //*08

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Filed under 12.356, abstract, autism, you

one eyed purple-pee-ple party like monkeys with underwear on their heads

[experimental: 2]

photo-29.jpg

the life of rock-star small mouth bass-like fish(ies). append your list of niceties here, and then replace nice with a creation that shadows your most excited state of being.

it all started out with two formen, drilling holes into a party scene that kept the spirit alive in both the letter and the decapitated latter. j1, plug extraordinaire and prodigy child winner of the 2007 Largest Plug without a Socket Award, while j2 had enticed monkey into a preliminary headlock, proceeded to award the latter party with the former party’s most dedicated piece of dentistry, a toothbrush. don’t fear what happened next. j2, upon discovering that spain had in fact defeated the british (in his dreams), then (and without doubt), extracted the foreign object from his sherwood forest of fairy-tales, three legged motorboats and detrimental affairs. it was tragic, but not as tragic as movie-speak. monkey was not impressed, of course. however, this time, instead of woofing, he barked and then bit.

d started to philosophize about suns and their correlation with other proximity objects, like [more] suns, neighbours and other first year anomalies. requirements aside, it all really started with a blow of the horn, a vicarious attempt at reminding the south-side that the kid they call ‘oprea’ really did exist and was not just a distant cousin of the party animal loch-ness. fuck you. and fuck snow white and the seven little chemists. how about that for a feature film review?

resuming.

snow-fights only happen when wild colombians embrace pacifism with the intent to prosecute freedom and the expression of reproduction. without any concern for wild animals, small foreign game, or other superior creatures, the anti-socialist riot begun. left. right. back degrees. similarities, differences, exponential criticism – they all survived without the consequences of settled dust. and then there was the biggest government intervention of the Year of the Ceasca; consider this: if nicaragua had pinochet, we would all have been incarcerated for eating ice-cream and sucking lolly-pops.

d said mommy. or maybe it was mummy or maw-ma-wee. it’s the sun allusion that still survives. and then whisky was mixed with chili and they all spoke tongues that have not been heard for seventy-four dog years (ears are for the phonetically challenged, those with ADD and prolonged dyslexia).

resuming again.

some chevys, some levies, some pasta and s just asked if we’re blogging. d is talking about santa-claws. “and he let them know that he ain’t kidding.” t3, a strong chemical in and of itself wants to tell you a joke: “chuck naw-mate-norris just counted to infinity.” it’s true and so is t3’s dedication to early-pubescent virgins. i spoke too soon… or maybe it’s chuck norris that has that proclivity. fucking precocious.

nbc? mal-infringement? left and right leg? water? watertight? who the fuck is g4?

don’t read the below, read the above.

j3 wants to spank my monkeys, although, we will concede that the real monkey can’t and won’t have any of that nonsensical shenanigan(s with four plural ss).

here comes the 2007 award winner: “crocodiles without gats? small kittens? or fluffy snowballs, but really, i wouldn’t use that word to be perfectly honest with you…

ok, you can read now but skip…the diseased pet and the one-eyed flying purple people eaters…

p.s. t3 spilled a 97% empty can of ginger-ale on the macbook. donkey ass.

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Filed under abstract, anomaly, belligerency, biology, categories, cigarettes, cognition, collusion, corporate, corruption, creative, creativity, empirs, fights, kings, one, party, snow

sixteen hours of my life: walk, bus, train, tube, plane, car

british airways
(c) – jonezi06

The 7:16 AM to 12:05 AM ‘walk-bus-train-tube-plane-road-trip…’

7:16 AM

Fuck. Already? Shut up!! ZzZZz… Snooze button one more… Time. Ugh, here we go…

My email to Rob at 9:12

“So I woke up this morning to some whistling, banging and even more frightening (correction made here…), the sound of labour being put to good use. In other words, someone came and washed our staircase, including a complete garbage run.

Initially I thought that some bum was bathing in the riches of others, but to be honest, once I saw (correction – saw not was) Aunt Jemima busting out the Mr. Clean and the super sized bucket, I was sold.

On the train to Marylbone now, catching the rush hour buzz with Dr. Prakash and his many minions slash clones.”

9:30 AM

Chiltern Railways has just introduced a new ticketing system that allows customers to exploit the infrastructure we all refer to by its first name: technology. About time, (insert rolling hills comment here – but after the next station). I purchase my e-ticket online and Chiltern sends me an SMS with a link to a website. The matrix barcode that is found on that website then gets scanned by a man wearing a highly fluorescent suit, who says he works for ‘them.’ Notwithstanding morals, the effect of having your blackberry scanned by ‘Mr. InSharge’ is rather impressive. Did everyone just get off? Or did they just moved away from my spatial presence?

12:05 PM

London Underground. British entertainment is awful in general, but the exception to this rule is their love-affair with this midget-sized-human-carrying-loaf-like buggy, that they baptized the ‘tube.’ Common courtesy needs not be adhered to when riding the rails. Shove, contain, pick, tickle, stare, yawn, poke, cajole and if you can’t muster enough courage to contain your mischievous side, entertain a local favourite and discard a-la-open-air, a fart.

And now I must continue to nurse the gratest-good-for-the-greatest-nunber-myopian-horseraddish-served-chilled-and-on-a-vidictive-broodje bullshit, inter alia, otherwise to be referred to, from now on, as the bump on my head that I got while peace-keeping a wild game of undress the genetically modified pony in South Kensington.

2:04 PM

The exhaustion is obviously starting to set in. I asked a man if (and if, where) a Pret-a-Manger exists at Heathrow T4 and he surprisingly managed to process my nonplussed babble and output a reply. “Yes, just make your way down that hall and turn left at WHSmith.” I followed his directions religiously, but my atheist nature still circumvented my one and only chance at lunch. I got lost, in an acorn shell, only to find myself face to face with a Pret employee, condescendingly and contemptuously staring him down. I am adamant about my gastro-intestinal preference for Posh Cheddar and there was no way on planet Francaise that I was to forego such digestive pleasures.

Initially, I went in search for food due to hunger. That however, and much to my surprise, did not last long. After I had to tisk-tisk this woman at the self-check-in counter, who was waiting for Summer to come around before selecting a seat she would be comfortable in (note to woman: economy class discriminates equally), I lost it. Anger does wonderful things to human beings – including accentuating my pre-hunger to the extent that it became starvation.

I almost forgot about security. What motherless inferior thought that neurons are best fired in the wrong direction(s), and invented a ‘body scanning device?’ The hell is a ‘body scanning DEVICE’ (Insert a further analogy here, an additional digression, on human relationships, sex and body scanners)? What really worries me is that the now archaic ‘scanning’ devices, left to rot in the underbelly of the Tate Modern, were also intended to explicitly ‘scan,’ implicitly ‘a body.’ I don’t want to talk about anachronisms, but such is technology; giddy to go to the park, but when it gets there, none of the kids want to play with it, or even worse, call it ugly. But enough about the Western imperative.

(Allow for the ingestion of a Venti Latte with an extra shot, here).

4:31 PM

A stuffy bus. British Airways, I hereby declare war. Let me start with the unacceptable first. You simply do not smile and say ‘Right this way,’ before you ask two hundred of your most loyal (and paying) customers to board a bus that will (naturally) take us to a plane that still requires fuel, a crew and a final baggage check. I understand your impatience, but please accept the reality that my patience lacks discipline and that the next time you keep me locked up in a bus, like a gladiator before a scrap, I will unleash my pugilistic proclivities…period.

Secondly, the clapping of my hands right now is an act of acknowledgment. By upgrading the Iranian family that was sitting next to me, to business class, I managed to escape being subjected to the limited English lexicon, of the patriarch sitting to my right. ‘My bag,’ repeated every other four seconds, does not only compel a mind numbing stupor, but it also allows for the summoning of gentle but insidious voices, in my head, telling me to create a positive space around my intentions or else unleash the seventeen legged virus and be done with it. Ah, life [with(out] for now…) geriatrics!

8:27 PM

I absolutely hate being stuck in a sardine can for this long. There are benefits, however. Firstly, the sunset I just experienced is angelic (and I don’t even subscribe to The Religious Times). Secondly, you can watch people sleep, which, I won’t lie, is quite scary. Seat 35D had some slobbering, while 37A, a neighbour, looked more like a pretentious warrior princes from the 16th century than the 33-ish year old man that he was (or still is rather). It is comforting to realize that the lower-back pain, that is imposed on you when you are cleared to fly, can be temporarily relieved with a little wishful thinking (see chapter one, page three of book seven, entitled ‘on my way to the washroom, at 30,000 feet) and some red vino (which the two girls who are sitting 20 degrees and 41 degrees east of me respectively, seem to have fallen in love with). Actually, on that last thought, I’m going to ask one of them what else she has fallen in love with over the duration of this flight; I might even get an opportunity to finish ‘on my way to the washroom’). We’ll see…

8:40 PM

Blah, blah, blargh. I feel like an enslaved camel awaiting emancipation via an Ottoman Letter of Intent. Ewan McKendick’s ‘Contract Law’ is positioned right in front of me, ripe for picking, but it looks like the only person who didn’t eat enough is my neighbour. She’s from Mauritius.

10:51 PM

We’re landing in 30 minutes. I have managed to keep myself on the road for almost 16 hours, covering terra firma by foot, surface rails, underground rails, bus, plane and…that’s it actually.

The descent has now begun and everyone is overcoming their anxiousness with the reality that in a few more minutes, Toronto will be scraping the bottom of their feet. As for myself, I’m exhausted. The amount of work that I have to keep myself preoccupied with over the break, seems rather overwhelming but not impossible. Focus, keep focused.

Customs and baggage: I don’t want to talk about it. Fucking moppets. Anyway, I’m tired, irritated and out of energy. We’ll confabulate later and further discuss the intricacies of public transport in a market economy.

Ah, it’s good to be back, but I’m not sure that this place can still be called home…

Sent using BlackBerry® from Orange.

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Filed under airport, british airways, bus, car, labels, plane, story, symbols, trademarks, train, trip, tube, walk

what i think of haute couture christmas: stage one, prefabricating

72112759_96f85a33b7.jpg
(c) Manuel Bóo

life is much more like a box of mermaids than it is of chocolates. abstinence should be treated with absinthe and not ‘concoction-depressing.’ lunacy. in my experience, as a photo-journalist, those who undertake to conceal, reveal. it matters little whether or not a myopia has defining characteristics. what is more critical, is whether or not there exists a feature to begin with.

why do aberrations have two tails and no heads? why is it that the burden of proof can lie with both the plaintiff and the defendant in those cases in which no law exists? my first understanding of walking was crawling, and even then i wet myself. the terrifying existence we all live in, is manufactured by ourselves, deprived by our surroundings and reinforced by a perverse proclivity to disgust. a machination is only surreptitious if all the parties to a bargain have equal bragging rights. even though a time machine speaks to you in linguistic hues, you never quite foresee the sort of colour that could have been, but for…end of sentence.

utopia, myopia, -opia. the creations that we absorb ourselves with are mere obsessions of an unforeseen, unpredictable and absurd reaction. forgive me if my precociousness is pretentious, but my mother once wrote on my birthday card that presumption can always offer – quote reasonable, unquote – solutions. for the third time, i’m not mentally deranged, just speaking my mind (howsoever defined).

and yet the wind blows through a particle board with the same velocity that it blows through an imperceptible void. it is there because you want it to be there, not because the freedom of expression act, post nine nine nine nine nine, felt it legally compelling to consider you. i am vomiting on my own ideas, my own legitimacy, my own future. presents are not for christmas, they’re for undeserving children.

santa claus is dead. hope and courage are not.

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Filed under auto-surrealism, christmas, consumerism, general, life, media, proclivities, psychology, santa claus, surrealism