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beautiful agony (p)
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real doll (p)
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PO BOX 780398
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last---past---next---now
�2006 Candor Communications


2006-01-03 - 4:32 p.m.

part of an entry almost written


this week was full of work at work, therefore no writing there and then, this week was full of college football and snacks and lounging around away from the computer (it's the finer side of vegetating and couch-potatoing) at home, so very minimal writing here (there is always writing, even when it's very minimal {or all in my mind} and mostly stolen moments {or stolen words} that no one will ever see)...

well, in my mad dash to nowhere this week, I swiped this from Forbes Magazine who could probably sue me cuz they're so rich and I went ahead and took their list, code and all, just so you can click and see their little blurbs about eat of the fifteen richest fictional characters... don't thank me, it's the least I can do for you... really, the least... but I figured I'd go down like Robin Hood cuz there are no perfect people, only perfect intentions and I was amused...


Rank Name Net Worth
1. Santa Claus $ oo
2. Richie Rich 24.7 billion
3. Oliver "Daddy" Warbucks 10 billion
4. Scrooge McDuck 8.2 billion
5. Thurston Howell III 8 billion
6. Willie Wonka 8 billion
7. Bruce Wayne 6.3 billion
8. Lex Luthor 4.7 billion
9. J.R. Ewing 2.8 billion
10. Auric Goldfinger 1.2 billion
11. C. Montgomery Burns 1 billion
12. Charles Foster Kane 1 billion
13. Cruella De Vil 875 million
14. Gordon Gekko 650 million
15. Jay Gatsby 600 million


ok, so it's been around a few years and some of you might have seen it before, even if you don't watch The Daily Show (what?... you've never heard of The Daily Show?)...

you'll note Robin Hood is not on the list... he might be, if the list was the top fifteen people who transfer funds the most...

and I must take exception to #1... imagine, the people at Forbes think Santa Claus is fictional...

I always wanted to be Richie Rich... I bought all of his comics, which is one of a long list of reasons I never became Richie Rich... heck, I never even got called Richie or Rich, even though my adopted name was Richard... my birth name was Brian... maybe that is why... I might have been a smart and snarky dog, I suppose...

and I always thought Cruella's last name was spelled De Ville, like the car... maybe they were going for the abbreviated version of Villian... what a clever spelling accident... unless mine is the accident and in that case it's not nearly so clever cuz she obviously afford a much more ritzy ride than a Cadillac... I can be so wrong... maybe... just one more useful idea listed in The Holy Toilet, circa 2002)...

no really, imagine straight deadpan...

I feel like Stephen Wright...

or Steven...

yes, I am deadpanning it at the moment... I get like this when I have too much on my mind and nothing to say, or vice versa... also when I am thinking too much, or not enough... it's not like I am trying to be profound... there are just these rare moments when my thoughts get brief... my thoughts are not into boxers though... even though I am just a poor boy and my story's seldom told I have squandered my resistence...

are the statements any more or less profound if they are separated into individual paragraphs?... not that I am trying to be profound, just asking...

I know I am a couple or few days behind... wait, this is probably the way one of those Lists of Things entries are born... I don't know what we'd be waiting for though, really...

suddenly, I am quite sleepy...

more some other time...


. o O ( la la la la la la land la la la la la la ) O o .


and then I got into some heavy reading (yeah, man) and flashed back to when the love generation was in the groove sailing on a THC cloud (so much more spaced out than the dense intensity of LSD, though experiencing the movement of sub-sub-atomic particles and quantum energy matters much too)... singing: oh Canada...

it's all in the chocolate, man...

and so there I was stuffing my face with potatoes and barbecue sauce followed by fun sized three musketeers bars when suddenly fell in love with a girl on Firefly... the young girl named River, but really named Summer, on a ship called Serenity, a little touched in the head, sliced, even, but she seems to know things, and she says the Bible is broken... yes, broken... she says, "it doesn't make sense"... with such innocent and knowing eyes...

sigh...

it is her story I am most interested in, having been a test dummy for early psychomaniacs with legal medical doctoral and parental permission to probe an innocent mind as early as nursery school... I am very lucky I was not born in the nineties or I'd probably end up institutionalized for life...

wonder if that would have been more fun...

of course the idea that people take intergalactic travel for granted and still use six-shooters is a little far fetched even for my sci-fi loving imagination, but the power of the mind is still the most exciting adventure of them all...

meanwhile, in my sliced and diced brain, all that talk that was going to happen last week about getting back into shape (burp... 'scuse me) was exciting, no doubt, but I caved in to the living room tail gate parties and had a ball, a stationary ball, but still a rolling good time...

so another step toward ethereal nirvana and another foot in the grave by the common knowledge of this life at this time... but what if they're wrong?... I mean, they are the government, after all...

and today, casting aside sleep and common sense, I ramble on in various parts from various angles and in ways that will keep me awake beyond reasonable circadian rhythms and therefore not have the heart energy to actually make it to the gym for yet another day, extending the rest period to longer than the breakout exercise period and so, it may have been a false alarm, but on the other hand, it's been two years, almost exactly, since the last kick start and I do have this thing for this annual calendar we go by, even though mine is a little different, but that's besides the point, maybe...

I just have not challenged myself (and my internal organs) enough yet, I suppose... and perhaps my death wish is stronger than my ka, or pah, or anima (ka, pah, anima... almost kinda sorta like sis boom bah, but different)... on the other hand, I'm still here so I couldn't be death wishing that hard... just feeling bloated, belly full but me hungry...

maybe I should just return to a simpler time when wandering around in high stoner mode was all there was to do until running a dozen or two miles before bed... it was a wonderful life, so stress free and actually healthier than I am now... much more in love too, enhanced sex, though still almost as lonely...

maybe I'll have an entry for you after I get some sleep... I mean an actual entry about something and not a meandering hodge podge of fragmented memories and fantasies and links to a chemically enhanced past... hey, I never took steroids... I think...

maybe it's time to re-read The Electric Kool-aid Acid Test... or maybe it's time to take the test again... living the Illusions, after all, is better than Waiting For Godot... and what about the Thirteenth level?... mantra tantra kantra bo bantra...

some time before this time, on the white gold sands of blue Hawaii, as the Pacific told it's story to anyone with ears to hear, the love we made was equal to the love we gave and everyone who cared was saved by honest love, long before the phrophetic rapture or gamma ray garden, they lay nude and splayed under the stars as the universe vibrates in tune with their DNA dance...

there was no time, no tense, no tension, just free radicles, leptons of sorts of a variety as yet unknown, perhaps, but felt nonetheless but senses we don't even know we have for sure... creativity begins where imagination ends and then, feeding back upon itself in a cycle of thought, the world is created and destroyed a thousand times an instant and nobody knows, except those who's eternity is an instant...

I need sleep...

you have fun out there, whatever you're doing...






. o O ( NOTES ARE THE NEW HAPPY PILL ) O o .
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