Friday

Instead of cutting you open, they give you pills. The pills taste like Sweet Tarts, and they turn your brains and your guts into gravy.

Sunday

this is an audio post - click to play



Questions like smoke around far off flood lights visible
through the forest from the highway or sky
but I must keep my own path in mind
thankful for the gift of a blanket
for warmth and for wear on a mushroom cloudy day
here’s to tomorrow's long walk and a song to keep one sane
I'll waterproof the photos in case of rain
I'll memorize certain aspects of my route
the asphalt slopes up here and falls away there
I'll see my own repeat footprints on the dirt path

in the town I left, I did occupy a seat on the bus
and one on the subway and a desk at work
and an ambulance would be called for me at least once

beside my path I see discarded items: broken eye glasses,
a lug nut, a woman's shoe, a withered glove curled up
a dramatic hand, and a toy car - broken
out of proportion to the road
also: pages from someone's torn up notebook
I never read a single word off of any of the pages
I just looked at the shape of the paragraphs
the portions of thought
I could relate

Saturday



There are plenty of abandoned stores, facilities and factories to squat in. Abandoned farms and small town schools are for sale. Soon enough we'll all be illegal.

Thursday

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if by some unbelievable mishap of the cosmos - I suddenly disappeared from my current location and reappeared somewhere else - like - in somebody's living room. Like if I disappeared off my own couch while I'm sitting there in my socks . . . and there I am - in somebody else's living room. What would I say to the person sitting there in their living room when I suddenly appear before their amazed eyes? "Can I have something to drink? And a ride home? Can I borrow a map? Where am I?"

Tuesday

One time my brother saved my sister from the undertow at the beach when she was tiny - she got washed off this raft and was getting pulled under. He said all he could see was her diaper as she was being swept under, and he grabbed for it and pulled her right out. They were both pretty young at the time.

One time he saved me from getting my ass bit off by this god damn crazy German Shepard in a junk yard. I didn't see the bastard sitting there under a chopped junk car, and he was getting ready to lunge at me to chew my ass off - no shit.

One time my brother had to put one of those junk yard dogs down. It was foaming at the mouth - running everybody inside the building, and it was going to bite somebody if somebody didn't do something. So Brad went after him with his pistol and shot him.

One time my brother beat the hell out of this guy because he was stalking my sister down the street, saying all this lewd crap to her. She came inside crying and my brother was like: Who? What? Where? Chased the guy down the street, and the guy pulled out these nunchucks or whatever. He would swing them at Brad and Brad would block with his arm and kick the guy in the guts. He kicked the guy in the guts over and over until the cops came and arrested the guy.

Brad was indeed Superman.

I'm serious and honest when I tell you : He once raced against a car on foot and won. He raced this guy just to the end of the next yard or whatever. The guy's car was a real clunker. His car would kind of sputter sometimes when he popped the clutch, and performance did not improve much once under way. So by the time he engaged the clutch and gassed it and got it going and shit - my brother was already there - just about.

Super super.

Sunday

Lately two contemplations have settled into my mind, always occurring to me one right after the other, as though they are somehow related. They are not related. Not really. But here they are:

1. I'm thinking that I need a drug, a prescription for some kind of drug. A smart drug. To alleviate the anger, anxiety and despair I get sometimes. I mean - I don't think that I am all that fucked up. I've managed to keep myself out of a cage so far. But maybe I could be doing better. Seems like everybody is on somethin. I don't know. Maybe I should just continue to take these problems on - on my own - clean - take them on head on, Bobby vs. The Storm, or some such lugubrious shit . . . but this first contemplation, which as I said is always followed by the second, is this: I worry and worry over what I should say to the psychiatrist. He'll ask me all these questions - ask me to describe my mental condition to him. Should I exaggerate? Should I sit there and calculate my answers? If my condition seems too severe, he'll have me locked up. If it does not seem severe enough, he won't give me any drugs. It seems like a weird weird form of negotiation.

2. The second contemplation in this inseparable pair is this: I wonder about true crime shows. America's Most Wanted, etc. I wonder how often the actor who portrays a criminal in the crime re-enactment gets arrested - by mistake - The actor instead of the actual criminal. That shit would suck. You're a struggling actor who barely gets roles. You finally land a re-enactment gig, make a little money. You go out and celebrate, get a little drunk, a waitress looks at you a little funny, makes a phone call, and you stagger out of the bar, and thirty cops rush you and start fucking you up, and then they stuff you in a police car because they think you're a child molester. Tough break.

Well. That's about it. That should give you a feel for where I'm at, like, mentally or whatever. I get the drug thought, then I get the crime show thought. And I don't know why.
I don't know what to write about, so I'll tell you about the shootings around here lately. Bad shit. This mother and daughter around the corner were bringing in their groceries, and some teenagers shot them. For no apparent reason. Hit the daughter in the stomach and hit the mom in the arm. Lately they're shooting near the corner of 4th NW and Butternut, around the corner from Coolidge High School - on Football Fridays. Twenty, thirty rounds popped off at a time. I live on 3rd NW the other side of Coolidge HS. Last week they were shooting at 4:00 in the afternoon, a few days ago it was around 1:00 pm - right by the subway station. They found a dead guy soaked in his own blood in a car last week on 8th. A month ago a guy got dropped point blank in the liquor store parking lot right across from the subway. My street seems somewhat safe, though, a pocket of relative safetly, a well lit main drag wider than other streets in the neighborhood, a lot of cops drive by. Northwest DC, in general, is safer than most parts of the city. This recent spike in crime around here has people freaked out.

Southeast DC is where the wild shit happens all the time: Anacostia, Berry Farm, around the bases, certain streets are nightmarish: Benning, Alabama, Stanton, Langston, Good Hope Road, Savannah Sumner, South Capitol etc. Kids getting hit by stray bullets in northeast - a few times this year - this young girl was sitting there watching TV a while back, a gun fight broke out right outside, and she got hit in the back of the head by a stray and killed. I think what happened with that case was they figured out who shot that little girl - whose gun the bullet came out of - figured out what city he fled to (Richmond), and splashed his photo and last known location on the news, and the fucker felt cornered, and he drank a bunch of draino and hung himself too - or some crazy shit like that. Lately it's been really bad for teenagers - - more of them hit this year than before - shit - at Ballou High School, kids run in the school and shoot other kids, drive-by shootings, etc. Picked off right at school. This football star at Ballou got killed. You've heard of Columbine High School, but have you heard of Ballou? It's bad everywhere in DC, I guess. It was improving, and then it went to shit again. DC regained its distinction as murder capitol of America recently - it passed Detroit or whatever. But it had been improving from the last time it held that title - back in the early crack years - during the eighties.

There are worse places, I suppose, there's crime everywhere. My college town, Norfolk, VA, I heard shots all the time at night. One summer somebody had a fuckin machine gun, off and on all night: DIT DIT DIT DIT DIT DIT !!, - - - there are definitely worse places - - like FALLUJA!! Falluja right now - currently - at this moment getting pounded by US forces. You know the civilian casualty reports will be down played, down right lied about, covered up - don't even ask. I wish they'd march George Bush down the street in either Falluja or southeast DC - let him see first hand how safe he's made the world.

Friday

The most conscientious driver I encountered this morning was driving a garbage truck. He was much nicer than the ambulance driver . . .

Sunday

When I was very young, my mom and I went to the department stores - Murphies or Roses or Aimes or Grants. My mom drank coffee and talked to people at the luncheonette. I would be in the toy section. The manager always snuck up on me, "Don't play with the toys!" Always. Omniscient. How am I supposed to just look at a toy and not touch it? Sometimes I'd hide in a rack of clothes. I'd slip little notes and drawings into the pockets of clothes. I still actually do that. I actually do all these things. Still.

Friday

It takes more than a hatred of Starbucks Coffee to be a fringe hero.

Thursday

I love you!


. . . but my judgement has been questioned at times.
It's still love, though, ain't it?
They will indeed judge me. And they'll judge you too.
But how good is their judgement?

When you get to my building, take the elevator, and I'll be the one standing in his cubicle alternating between two activities:

1. Throwing puches and kicks at imaginary foes
2. Negotiating (negotiating with thin fuckin air)

Alone in my cubicle. Too far gone. Too far gone for a bonus or a raise or my own personal helicopter launch pad. Too far gone for tight skirts and desk-top doggy-style. Too far gone for the two ball in the corner off two rails. Too far gone for dive fifty-five, left end look-up on two. Too far gone to ruck over. Too far gone for pop shove-its and bong hits. Too far gone for fakey. Too far gone for fifty-fifty. Too far gone for the warm weird feeling I get walking by a church. Too far gone for driving fast, for sniffing the electrons off of pay phones from previous calls. Too far gone for looking up a weird word and hearing it used the very same day in nearly perfect context. Too far gone for crazy, hillarious comments by an elevator mechanic on a shakey ride to the roof. Too far gone for mountain overlook hand jobs, beautiful shots that are so fast they look slow, perfect sprints and nobody catchin me, beautiful people - beautiful through and through, who are noble and magniloquent and grandiloquent and who would stay awake days keeping you cry-free, beautiful people who would give you a kiss on the cheek that you'll remember on the day you die.

Saturday

When I was very young, and sittin there watchin TV in the front room of our house, I would hear my big brother's motorcycle as he made his way homeward across the field in front of our house. A lot of teenagers had motorcycles in our neighborhood, but I knew my brother's by the sound of his engine. When I heard him, I'd run outside and open the garage door for him so he could just ride right in and park. "Thanks, Jeesher."

'Jeesher,' he called me. That or 'Captain.' "HEY CAPTAIN!"

My mom called me 'Little Bear.'

Wednesday

Old people walking around in jogging suits carrying big sticks just daring you to try something . . .
When I die, I'll be the kind of ghost who occasionally goes back into the past and drops in on my own self when my own corporeal body is still kicking it. During tough times, when my body and me are still alive and together, I'll make a mental note for my ghost to come back and help myself out, to be there in spirit, maybe write a little advice in a steamed up bathroom mirror or something - double team my problems. I'll also come visit you. As a matter of fact, I'm there with you right now - my ghost is, I mean. You're looking well. I have to say, however, that the thing you just did a few minutes ago was pretty gross, but that's okay. Yep, you're getting twice the Bobby. I'll help you too, really. Like if you ever get lost, I'll rustle up the leaves in a straight line in the direction that you should go.

Tuesday

Every time I let slip a secret, I wonder if I've just disqualified myself from membership in some elite society, some secret group. Like there are scouts out there among us, looking for people who excel at maintaining confidentiality in all things. People who are able to suppress their urge to gossip, and maintain confidentiality in all things, are secretly recruited into this secret society. They all attend meetings and sit there and don't tell each other anything ever. They don't even look at each other. They sit in the dark.

So . . .

Tell me a secret.

Monday

There won't be enough room in the ground for all the coffins by the year so and so, but it is still kind of funny to see your old car, the car you sold so long ago - to see it parked somewhere or just broke down, and you know it was yours because of the dent that happened that time you made that ‘misjudgement.'

My banged-up old car - I'd drive it, and when I beeped the horn, instead of beepin' she'd go "LOVE! LOVE!"

Saturday

I'm going to start carrying around some of those fake blood packs - like they have in movies - they splat them on their bodies to make like a wound. This will save me in awkward situations. Like if I get in trouble at work, I'll splat one of those packs on my forehead - grazed by a stray bullet from a nearby gunfight, I'll say. A bullet came in through the window. They couldn't possibly stay mad at me. I'm hit! Or when I forget somebody's name - SPLAT! Grazed by a stray bullet from a nearby gunfight, I'll say, and they'll forgive me my thoughtlessness. Maybe it could help me negotiate. When I'm buying a used car, splat, shot in the head, hey, gimme a break - and the man will feel sorry, and give me a good rate. When I go into H.R. for a raise . . .

Tuesday

. . . and traveling and broke the bottle of bourbon that was in my bag . . . because . . . collided with a concrete pillar and my bag hit hard and the bourbon bottle broke and the bourbon saturated everything in there: my clothes, my writings, my gifts for my nephew -


It seems like every time I contemplate where I am, I am right here. Like every time I ask myself, "Okay. Where am I?" I'm standing here looking at this coffee machine. Existence is caffeine. Like that TS Eliot thing: measured out my life with coffee spoons.
You know what is almost as bad as a nightmare? Waking up and having a bunch of creepy thoughts and being unable to go back to sleep. So here I am. On the Internet at 3:05 on a work night.

I thought I heard a big thud earlier though. I killed all the lights and looked out all the windows of my crappy basement apartment. Who knows? All the killers from an escaped death row could be sneaking around out there it's so dark. People in my neighborhood have had their doors kicked in by dumb asses lately. If they did that shit and came in here, they'd fracture their skulls on the low ceilings in here, the low doorways, the pipes hanging below the ceiling . . . trip over my bike or something . . . step on my cat, and that bitch can squeal! If I heard some shit like that, I'd be on that intruder's ass so hard with a claw hammer and my cel phone dialing 911. I definitely have the ‘home advantage' knowing my way around in this dark, cramped basement.

I could create a whole blog around living in a basement. Bobby's Basement Blog. Living in a basement could reflect my actual status in life or something, a metaphor for my failures and obscurity and personal weirdness. It'd be interesting for a couple of days.

Sunday



The police would come looking for my brother Brad at his job, but it was nearly impossible to find him out there. Brad built houses back then. He could be at any work site out of three hundred or four or five or six hundred that sprawled across a newly cleared field. It was southeastern Virginia Suburbanization - neighborhood construction on a tremendous scale - Virginia Beach - big ass big - as big as any of all Hell's resort towns. But down the street from the biggest navy base in the world and the ship yards to stock it. Brad was out there building homes for people to live in. And Brad never broke a law that wasn't fuckin stupid to begin with.

Where Brad worked, there would be roads that were not even named yet. There would be hundreds of houses in various stages of completion. There wouldn't be phones. There would be brand new sites with cinder blocks sticking out of the ground where no wood had even been nailed down yet. That's how a house starts (a non-slab house). Just a bunch of cinder blocks sticking out of the ground, set in cement, looking like a little cemetery. Then the framers come and build a wooden box on these cinder blocks. Then, using chalk boxes, they pop lines on top of the box, the floor, where the walls will go - they read from blue prints where to pop these lines, where these walls will go. Then nail three layers of 2x4 where the walls go (tack the second to the first). Then pry off the top two, nail studs perpendicular to the bottom of that, and stand that jank up, tack it, level it, nail it off, and you got walls. Haul up the roof trusses next. Well - my brother could have been at any of these sites, engaged any of these various phases of carpentry. Or maybe he was wandering around selling little sandwich bags full of nature's best. You know. There would be hundreds of houses in various stages of completion. There would be hundreds of long-haired wild fuckers out there. Buying and selling. Getting high in half built homes on beautiful days. Tan and muscular and wild. And high. Climbing and perched on the skeletons of homes, passing joints, hanging down like monkeys, tool belts with tools clanking and the guys making jokes and stoned. Crazy music blaring out of a boom boxes. Hard-core fuckers spiking up in port-a-potties. Stoned fuckers speaking in strange lingo, talking about bags of weed, songs, shows, and skateboard tricks and girls and about the cops.

Finding Brad out there was nearly impossible even though just about everybody out there knew him. They bought weed or whatever from him. He'd make hundreds of dollars a week doing that shit. Brad offered good product at good price, and he discouraged competition. He was funny, cunningly funny, screaming and groin pull hernia funny, and he was friendly and he was in and out before you knew it.

When police cars entered the developing development, word spread fast. Guys peeked out between the bones of skeleton houses and yelled to each other - site to site: "Cops!" "Cops!" The other side of the neighborhood knew they were there almost immediately. Brad wasn't the only one with charges or suspicions. Guys who had charges or were being sought or whatever, would calmly take a little break. There wasn't exactly a Human Resources department where the coppers could go and ask the whereabouts of so and so suspect. Guys worked above and under the table. Contractors don't keep the best records. And if you go in there asking for a tall skinny guy with long hair, well, that could be just about anybody out there, except the short guys. So the cops rolled around in futility, and the guys who knew they were being looked for - they hid in places where it would be impossible for any outsider to find them - because they had built their own hiding spot. Their own hiding spot - they built it. And they wait there until the cops leave. And when the cops left, the guys would resume their work. So in a way, the cops drive up the cost of your homes. By disrupting the construction process. You should file a complaint.
Last night I met up with some old friends at Peabody's and got drunk. I left that bar, and I walked out onto the beach. There were people out in the water laughing and splashing around. I couldn't see them very well, it was dark, and I was pretty drunk. "Are all those fuckers naked out there or what?" I ran and dove in and swam blindly at the bottom. The ocean is dark as shit at night when you're swimming under the surface. I heard their garbled laughing as I swam under water. It was cold. I swam back in.

There were a lot of military type guys and girls around the beach. I was thinking: Okay, some of these folks have actually been to war in Iraq. Some of these folks have killed people and had people killed right around them. These military guys and military girls looked really young to me.

Tuesday

Fuck life and the world.  I'm going to buy this skating rink on eBay in Glasco, KS for $24,000:
 
http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&category=15825&item=4311873285&rd=1#ebayphotohosting
 
I'm droppin out of life, and growing my own vegetables; and I'm gonna just roller skate until I die.
I was driving down the road earlier today, and I saw a bunch of stuff strewn up and down the sidewalk in front of this comparatively low rent, high-rise apartment building. Some person or some family had been evicted. There were people milling around, picking through the stuff, taking things, walking away all gleeful. I don’t think I saw any of the evictees around. They would have been pretty easy to identify, and these other sniffing fuckers wouldn't be quite so audacious if the evictees were still around.

I can imagine the sad sad scene when the evictees were still there standing around – like right before they walked away to a bus stop or whatever - leaving just about all of their shit behind. What do you do when your ass is OUT, and all your stuff is getting thrown on the sidewalk by some dead hearted, scary looking gang of goons? And your kids are running around crying and screaming, and other residents are staring at you, and cars are slowing down and sarcastic ass holes honking horns, and the sky is clouding up really sinister and already you are feeling some rain drops - and your possesions look weird and foreign to you outdoors with rain splattering on them and the problem – THE PROBLEM – whatever it is that caused you to get evicted – that reason, your understanding of it, your feeling about it – is pissing warmly down your spine – the worse feeling – the worse combination of the worse feelings on the worse day of your life.

Saturday

Today I was walking into an ice cream shop, and this little kid came running out of the place. He was five or six years old, I guess. He had an ice cream cone in his hand. He was running really fast out of there, and he slipped and fell, he fell completely over – onto his side. Somehow, quite incredibly, amazingly skillfully, he was able to keep his ice cream cone upright and intact - it never left his hand even though he fell. He did not drop a single dab of ice cream, and he stood, pushing himself up with his free hand, and continued on his way.

Way to go, little man. Way to go.

Wednesday

I'm feeling so inferior, I decided to act very superior . . . and really excel at it . . .

Friday

Most alive and most aware on the trip to work and the trip home from work.

Thursday

I've been letting the crowd of rushing commuters stampede around the subway station without me. I just stand back and wait and let them crush each other.

Sunday

If you took out my brain and spray painted it white and punted it up into the air, with enough hang time, it would look a little like a cloud floating up there, but then it would drink down on you like a ton of brick flavored admonishments. My brain thinks I know somethin – something separate – like down in my spinal cord there is some hairy goo clog of cognizance.

There is good news about thoughts and thinking, good news for short thought thinkers: There are still many pairs of words you can put together and put quotation marks around and search at google - that will bring you nothing back. In other words: There are still thoughts conveyable by two words that have not already been thought and keyed in and published on the net. Fertile soil.

Saturday

One time my dad dropped my mom and me off at the grocery store, and something wild happened. We were walking up to the entrance of the store, and this guy came running out of the store with some stuff under his arm. He was a young guy. There was a cop running right after him. My mom started praying for the guy who was running away, "Lord, please let him get away. Lord, please let him get away." My dad was driving away from the store, having just dropped us off. As he was going down the road, the runner had made it across the parking lot and across the road, and the cop was right behind him. The cop was a pretty young guy too. My dad was driving away from the store right as the cop was crossing the road. The cop ran right out in front of my dad's car, and he slipped on the asphalt and fell because of his slick-bottomed cop shoes. My dad had to jam the brakes to avoid hitting him. Why was my mom praying for the runner to escape? The runner reminded her very much of Brad, my brother. Why did that runner remind her of Brad? That is a story I'll have to tell you some day.

Tuesday

This morning on the train I was sitting behind this woman who was reading a book. I looked over her shoulder, like a jerk, to see what she was readin. Her head blocked most of my view of the book. I could only see the words on the edge of the page. I’d like to report them to you, because it was one of those cases where those limited, visible words seemed to tell their own little marginal story, or they constituted their own little poem. So the following words were visible to me, and I was able to write them down quickly before I had to get off the train. I’ll type them line by line here:

“ . . . and she . . .”
“ . . . returned and it was . . .”
“ . . . Polaroid . . .”
“ . . . just as she was . . .”
“ . . . and secures the . . .”
“ . . . who is busy ring- . . .”
“ . . . –looking young woman. . .”

Friday

Nobody reads signs made of metal, concrete or wood, or signs bolted to walls or cemented in the ground. The world changes too fast. We always look for the piece of paper or cardboard scotch taped to the wall or on the door, or taped over the existing, permanently fixed sign. We look for the handwritten messages, not what is painted, engraved or pressed. Sometimes people endeavor to make a sign by writing a message on paper, and then they really tape the shit out of it, you know? They will use a whole roll of tape on the fucker – strips and strips of it, practically laminating the message. The tape will get dirt and bugs all over the curled edges of it. The paper will get yellow like piss under the tape, but these people really want their message to stay up there, and they're too pathetic to get a sign made of metal, concrete or wood – or even plastic. I like sticky notes, post-it notes. I know they can fall off easily, but my messages are never very permanent, except the ones I throw in the trash at work. The cleaning crew just dumps my can out into a bigger can, but leaves the same plastic bag in the can. It saves money. Every sticky note I ever throw away sticks to that plastic liner and stays in my trash can for weeks. These are the most permanent messages of mine in existence – the ones in my trash can at work. "Call Jim." "Change 2nd sentence on Bay cover letter." "Insert rates." "Help desk ext. 4978." I called Jim over a month ago. The help desk guy at 4978 never picks up his phone.

Thursday

Why don't you ask security guard at the Art Museum something? Why don't you ask the janitor at the Art School? Ask them something about art. They've been lookin at art thirty years, cleaning up the residue of art, protecting art from the Booger Hand . . . . ask those in closest proximity to it, day to day - those exposed to it the most - the mutilated freaks hit by the radiation of it.

Then at the end when the floor's buffed nice at closin time, and all the doors are locked, and you run out of questions to ask about art . . . and he puts on some funky beats on his transistor radio, and he breaks out the bottle of 180 Proof Day Softener and starts to unfasten his utility belt - then sisters and brothers - then is when you might learn somethin about art.

Monday

The great thing about blogging is that you get to meet a person's thoughts before you meet the person - that is: if you ever even meet the person, in person. Know what I mean? You just meet their thoughts - those thoughts that are salient enough in their heads for them to key them in. You may never see what they look like, where they live - you might never know about their manner - any of that. It's totally different than meeting somebody in person first. Really - it is purer.

Sunday

my moment may have been the time when I came hauling-ass down 49th Street from campus, on a skateboard, fast as hell in the middle of the night, right past where that Dunkin Donuts used to be, and I went up over that big hump in the road like it was a massive ramp, and I popped an air over that fucker - high and fast - AND on the other side of that hump, was a real, live, drunk, college chick - - and I've just blasted this monster ollie, just a straight ollie - and I am up in the air right before her very eyes - three feet away from her - and my board was about at her chest level, and I'm on top of the board, arms outstretched for balance, flying. And she was loaded - I could tell. And I flew past her, and I landed that shit and kept on gittin it down the street fast as hell - and down the street, when I turned around, she was still standin there watchin me. NOW - I skated on and off in my youth - never was that good at it, played other sports, was better in other sports, did better tricks skating / did worse -you know- that very night there were probably scores of skaters out in Norfolk tearing it up, skaters that were ten times better than me - I think I had just come from a session where this kid was doing this kick flip to nose wheelie to this ledge and then heel flipping off of there - I was nowhere near what this kid could do, worse than some, better than others - I was - I don't know why this particular moment stands out for me, this straight ollie - no flips, no varial, no shove-it or anything to it - not a fancy trick, but kind of high and fast - and for some reason, I have a feeling that I'll never match that level of Absolute Cool ever again. Not that TYPE of cool anyway. And I don't want to. More than ten years ago. What's next? Something, I hope.

Thursday

Once again, day-to-day life - routine, ostensibly boring life has provided me with potent subject matter for a blog entry. This particular blog entry has been this particular blog entry.
I carry around a bouncey ball. I love it. Any time's a good time to bounce that thing. Bounce it off any thing or any combination of things, and with a carefully chosen route selected considering the geometry and the physics, it always comes back to you. One time at a bus stop, I threw it, and I spaced out, and I missed it - it took off down a side walk and then out into the street. It was bouncing along next to a bus rolling full of people. And here comes me, Mr. DORK, running after it, fuck it, I don't care what those fuckers think, my bouncey ball was getting away. Finally I caught up to it - trapped it under my shoe. Almost got hit by a bus for my bouncey ball. True story. It's fun until you get carried away with it. Just like that fuckin glitter habit I had for a while there. Bouncey balls are helping me come down off the glitter. That shit is like craftsman's crack.

Tuesday

. . . wrote so many reminders on his hand, his blood went septic. . . . was just tryin to help himself . . .
. . and then strange objects began to appear on his desk . . .