My last post, after I looked at it again, it felt dumb. I was about to delete it but...instead I just deleted the dumb picture

...so I posted this video instead. Because I like it.

...in other irrelevant news, I'm thinking about going back to school - - which I've thought about before... but. University of Central Florida has an MFA in Creative Nonfiction or whatever.


When daily routine starts to plow over my whole consciousness, and repetition - day to day drudgery - starts to push away all thoughts and observations of anything new or interesting, and I'm just caught in this infinite loop of images that I see during my routine - - like when working long hours, you finally get away from your desk, but you're still seeing that computer screen that you looked at all day - that computer application you worked out off all day . . . recurrent images appear - like when I blink, that image is there, and when I sleep it's there, and when I'm awake with my brain idling - the image is there. Lately the recurrent images are of the pavement that I see when I swing my legs out of the car and walk into where ever it is I am going. Lately at work, there are tons of smashed acorns all over the parking lot. Before that, it was smashed little baby frogs - seriously. Little frogs just don't know how to get out of the way of my coworkers. Around my apartment, it's always smashed little crayons or smashed candy - M&M's or jelly beans, or spilled drinks - cool-aid or chocolate milk from the little kid that lives next door. I need to start picking my head up a little more I guess.


Reverse Graffiti : Ossario : Alexandre Orion

This is so cool. The cops are baffled because he's not really doing anything wrong.


My mentals hurty
I worked seventy hours last week! Working myself silly, working myself blind, working myself brain dead. I don’t mind the extra scratch, but I reach a limit. I like to be able to have some time to myself. But...it’s always crisis mode...at every job I ever worked... I feel like such a sucker sometimes. Sometimes I think I like looking like the hard working martyr.

I’ll take the extra hours and money, but it really messes with my head on a deeper level than I realize. Like when I’m driving home at night - my eyes don’t really work very well. Or my brain. I start freakin out, wondering if I’m in the correct lane ...did I got on the right side of that median? The headlights are sooooo bright too!

I don't have a single worthwhile thing to say. I started a new book called The Sociopath Next Door, by Martha Stout, PH.D. About 4 percent of the population falls into this category - sociopath - no conscience, no guilt.


A couple moved in to an apartment right near ours, around the corner, a few months ago. I didn’t really know much about the couple until one morning my neighbor told me that the guy beat up the girl really bad, she ran outside screaming and bleeding, and the guy came outside too, yelling that he was going to shoot everybody. The cops came and the guy ran off. He hid on people’s patios and shit, apparently he hid on ours. I slept through all of this, I didn’t hear a thing. He ended up running into the woods nearby, near a lake. He’s lucky he didn’t get chewed up by an alligator, which would have been - like - instant justice. He hid out like that all night, I guess, and then the cops came and got him in the morning.

He went to jail, but he got out, and now he’s back in the same apartment with the same girl. She took him back. I’ve only seen him - like outside smokin a cigarette or a joint or a stem or whatever or just moping outside - I've seen him only a few times because I’m working very very long hours lately. I made eye contact with him yesterday, and he looked like he wanted to play the stare down game with me and all that shit, the scumbag. You know...you’re just tempted to go up to him and say . . .like . . . I don’t know. . . “So, do you ever get in fights with men?” Or, “So, you beat women... do you molest children too?” Or, "Did you tell them what you did while you were sitting in the holding cell? Did they grease you real good?" Or . . . I don’t know, just walk up to him and just start kicking the ever living holy dog shit out of him - just kick his knee out, and when he goes down, have a big stomp fest, yeehaw - commence the brutality - the same kind of brutality that he subjected his girlfriend to. But . .. what can you do? Like, what really? REally, what the hell can you do? Why is this guy not in jail anymore? Why did he do this terrible thing? Why did his girlfriend take him back? Why do I have to see his face? Why does he show his face?


I have a red gym bag full of letters sent to my mom and from my mom – to and from her sisters. There was a major feud in my mom’s family - an everybody against everybody kind of feud – every sister against every sister. My siblings and I rarely heard from anybody in that branch of the family (that I can remember).

So this bag of letters – somehow it came into my possession after my father died (my mother died before him), and we were clearing out the house. I learned that one of my mom’s sisters had attempted to contact my mom before she died, to try to patch things up a little - but she was too late.

This red gym bag full of letters – I haven’t read anything in there – but I’m sure that it chronicles this whole history. I’m not sure when I’ll get up the courage to open up these letters and read them – or if I even should. It’s none of my business, right?