More than lackluster, less than exhilirating: April 2008

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Crapplebee

I just got back from dinner with mom. We went to a family favorite: Applebee, which will hereby be a new adjective for all that is morbidly repulsive. I can feel my arteries being clogged by an army of fat bulging turds (don't know the scientific name for that one). It's making a noise very similar to sludge slowly coursing/piling through a duct that is about as ready to rip as a man who has just engulfed 100 cans of refried beans in 10 minutes. Why someone would engage in such a masochistic activity, I do not know, but here I am, feeling swollen from head to toe. Turning multishades of constipated poop. ARE YOU GROSSED OUT RIGHT NOW? Because even if you are a fraction closer to smelling the vomit that is slowly trudging up my throat, then you'll have an inkling of what I am talking about.

Abblepee, packed with a whole lot of "family fun", can drive me to bulimia. That's right, I'm going to vomit until I see my duodenum. If you never see me again, this entry shall be exhibit A in my lawsuit against chain restaurants that attempt to pass year old stinky rotten toes dipped in vats of liquidated, maybe congealed, foot fungus as "SIGNATURE RIBLET PLATTER."

I hold my stomach and GRUNT at you CRAPPLE BEE!

Smells Like: a yeast infection covered in bbq sauce
Memory Tag: Acitivities that should never be given a second chance, no matter how much you think the palates of obese families might have evolved.

: Name: Mix; Location: Phil-A-Delphia, United States

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[I]t's the small stuff that we crave. That's what gives us the illusion that life is infinite, the only thing that saves us from the terror of consciousness, the root of which is that uniquely human knowledge that we are going to die.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way

The law will never make men free; it is men who have got to make the law free. They are the lovers of law and order, who observe the law when the government breaks it

Why isn't my life like a situation comedy? Why don't I have a bunch of friends with nothing better to do but drop by and instigate wacky adventures? Why aren't my conversations peppered with spontaneous witticisms? Why don't my friends demonstrate heartfelt concern for my well being when I have problems? ...I gotta get my life some writers.

The saddest part of a broken heart Isn't the ending so much as the start The tragedy starts from the very first spark Losing your mind for the sake of your heart

You know, Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocketship underpants don't help.

See, it looks a lot like staring at the sun and it sounds so much like broken glass. Perhaps you're reeling from an awkward pass and it feels just like you want to die and there's no one left to watch you cry. I've got to convince myself and just about everybody else that there's no love.

Kilimanjaro is a snow-covered mountain 19,710 feet high, and is said to be the highest mountain in Africa. Its western summit is called by the Masai "Ngàje Ngài," the House of God. Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude.

Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality against which they are dashed to pieces.

My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it.

Why have I sold out? You think I'm supposed to grow old, beating some trite old protest drum that people don't hear anymore? Please; protest is now just a backdrop for a Diesel clothing ad in a slick fashion magazine. My goal is to create a metaphor that changes our reality by charming people into considering their world in a different way. It's time -- for me, at least -- to be clever and seduce people by entertaining them. I'll never be heard if I'm always ranting and griping.

Let me tell you something you already know. The world aint all sunshine and rainbows. It is a very mean and nasty place and it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it aint how hard you hit: its about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving foward. How much you can take, and keep moving foward. Thats how winning is done. Now, if you know what you're worth, then go out and get what you're worth. But you gotta be willing to take the hit, and not pointing fingers saying you aint where you are because of him, or her, or anybody. Cowards do that and that aint you. you're better than that!

Common sense is the collection of prejudices acquired by age eighteen.

Patience. n. A minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue.

A loving person lives in a loving world. A hostile person lives in a hostile world. Everyone you meet is your mirror.

The child is grown, the dream is gone. I have become comfortably numb.

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww.

I started a blog, which nobody read When I went to work I blogged there instead. I started a blog, which nobody viewed. It might be in cache, the topics include: George Bush is an evil moron. What’s the story with revolving doors? I’m in love with a girl who doesn’t know I exist. Nobody hates preppies anymore. I started a blog, but nobody came. No issues were raised, no comments were made. I started a blog, which nobody read. I’ll admit that it wasn’t that great. But if you must know, here’s what it said: One hundred of my favorite albums. Two hundred people I can’t take. Four hundred movies I would like to recommend. Ten celebrities, four of whom I might assassinate. I started a blog, I sent you the link. I wanted the world (you) to know what I think. ~Sprites