I was innocently babbling along as I always do, just minding my own and everybody else's business, when I was reprimanded underhanded and totally misunderstanded (which is just another day in the life of the kid from goofyville)... 30 Seconds to Mars are supposed to be coming to headline an outdoor festival concert on March 10th and the venue doesn't have it listed as an event yet... weird... and I just found out that Warped Tour will be back on June 25th... tickets went up by $12.50 (80% rise from last year, think they are in business for the music or the money... alas, everybody sells out sometimes... except me, double alas)...

I actually might consider some sort of selling out now that I've lived a million years and have not yet sold out, but the circumstance and price and most of all, person or people would have to be right... I'd sooner sell out this body before I'd sell out my ethics and ideals... but then, you might think this is all a ruse to convince you that I'd sooner sell out this body than sell out my ethics and ideals... but then, you might think a lot of things cuz you have a mind and after all, that's what minds do...

I've taken to burning candles to distract me from the stench... yes, the dishes have been in the sink that long again... he waits for her to clean up and she ignores his requests and I refuse to clean up after them because that will just put me in the position of doing it all the time once they see I will... cups, bottles, papers, bags, knapsacks, stuff everything... on couches and tables and counters and the floor... alas, no wonder there's no social life for us here... and I stay for the family feeling and the cost reductions...

and the selling out sounds all the more appealing now that I've taking a good look around (and sniff) of the place tonight... I am so much better off when I remain semi-asleep and mostly dead (sensually speaking)... Jim Morrison reverberates in my head with the end... I want a new drug... I want to fall in love... I want to cuddle on a clean couch in a clean house with a clean and comfy fit and healthy person... maybe one of these days I will want it enough to actually do it...

and then Rasputin wakes and comes out into the living room to drink more Diet Pepsi and fart (if only we could be paid by the fart) and turn the TV back on to find the same nothing that prompted me to turn the TV off, but he'll watch it anyway and then leave the TV on when he leaves the room... and the lights on, of course... nose oblivious to the stench, eyes oblivious to the lights, anus oblivious to the passing gas... life at home...

I think I whine like this to amuse myself because it amuses me to write as if I am helpless and unhappy... that makes sense to me cuz I am laughing, but then, you'd have to see things from my perspective where you are not, so you probably see things from your perspective where you are and therefore do not get what I mean as precisely as you would if you were in my head... it smells good in my head... and the lights are off...

the point being that sometimes we wish for miracles so much that we sell ourselves out to our own imaginations and create whole extensive historic documents that tell the tale of days gone by when men were men and mice were men and spotted leopards were men too (or so the natives of the land poetic about)... and we all roam the woods singing thank heaven, for little girls even though nobody had ever heard of heaven in those days before the whole cross hanging rituals...

ideally she will be someone who looks like one of the top twenty or so people on my visual libido list and has the energy level of a four year old hopped up on ten pounds of chocolate and a dozen Code Reds and the creative imagination that contains infinity and beyond and believes in true love for all eternity and can actualize unconditional love and unconditional trust and dances to the music of very different drummers and maintains the most open mind in this or any universe... at least... cuz otherwise it would be a really huge compromise...

did I mention this is a performance piece?... I didn't tell you because your not knowing was part of the performance until just this moment, or, perhaps it was a moment ago... it is not a precise performance piece... it is a piece in progress forming as it is performed (as opposed to being pre-formed, get it?)... yes, the voice in the woods is calling your name and daring you to hug the trees... for the world is not an oyster, my children, but rather it is a clam shut down and crossed off it's own list, and a big brained organism with it's head buried deep in the sand of it's own mythology and lies rules the roost...

breathtaking sarcasm, no doubt...

but it's really just a dream you know, an illusion felt by the few who reach the eleventh level of the prophesies, an imaginary tale told by an imaginary idiot contradicting about 97% of all that's been known since the great mind-closing cataclysm of centuries past (but we aren't going to get into the big dong and dance finale number just now because we are out of time (or simply awaiting the right one to come along)... so in the end we can save love by making love (not war)...

. o O ( NOTES ARE THE NEW HAPPY PILL ) O o .
(just let me know you were here)