I used to be the master bee-hunter. That is, until I gained a reputation for it at summer camp. I always wore a hat, meaning I always had a weapon. My accuracy was seemingly dead-on until one day I head about the film "My Girl." Brought up to me in a careless child's way by a figure of such prominence in my life that she was the oldest daughter of the woman who watched me after school.

To this day, I've never seen it before, but through the previews I can recall, I know that the obvious choice for the title track would be The Temptations. Odds are the film was released around the same time the particular song of the same title was free of it's own copyright laws...but more on that another time, I'm talking about killing bees here.

I had a friend at the same summer camp I went to that made me interested in slaying these beasts. The camp was provided as a service to the employees of a large corporation. It was far from being elaborate, and all campers and counselors returned to their respective homes at the end of the day. A pavilion with bathrooms and rain curtains, a playground, two tennis courts, and a baseball field reserved for the company's soft-ball team. There was also a maintained field and small patch of trees used for "nature walks".

One of the friends I had made there would tell stories of using dynamite to blow-up hives that disturbed his neighbors when they mowed their lawns. I was in awe, the thought of a huge explosion and the brutal slaughter of dangerous creatures may possibly have inspired my first delve into erotic fantasies.

Despite the fact that I had no access to explosives of any kind, however, I was also reluctant to put myself into such danger as to get so near the bee hive or the dynamite itself. I had never even heard of bees living underground, I was jealous.

The lack of capacity to exterminate the threat from my home area humbled me, and I committed myself to at least protecting my friends to the individual attacks that plagued the grounds of the "camp." I was armed with but one weapon: my baseball cap, and with it, I would become the sniper of bees. The hat loaded itself with a self-bent rim taught to me through the teachings of my grandfather, and steadied itself with a sweat-soaked lining achieved only through the hard efforts of the sun and myself. The hat was the choice tool for any bee's demise, I was the sniper of bees.

They seemed to represent something to me, a creature of devastation in a compact form. The obsession of death by minuscule form put into my brain by somebody that had seen "My Girl," I was committed to protecting myself and my comrades against any quick and unseen attack that MAY have brought our early and definite demise.

I started casually, taking out only what was within reach, but I soon grew such confidence in my efforts that I moved onto hunting. Stalking them from a safe distance away from the garbage cans, I would move in step by step until I was sure I could take out a stray with a swift *THWAP* of my hat.

I gained achievement alongside my fellow hunter, the one who was also known for his accomplishments at home, and soon we were both called upon to take on the savage little fuckers wherever they were spotted. Together, we were Hemmingway and Pop in Africa. Protecting the society, and adding points to our game card as well while we did it.

I've alluded to it twice, so I may as well bring up where the film "My Girl" would come into play here: I was never quite sure whether I was allergic to bee stings or not, I had not been put through the endearing (and in my case, VERY painful) allergy testing done at the North Area Medical Clinic at that point in my life yet, and I really had no idea. My commitment to clearing out a threat was more predominant, and I never thought twice about it.

One particular day however, I walked right into the war zone to move a friend out of the way of a bee attracted to them. I believe it was a girl, there is a good chance I may have been jealous of the bee, it was getting more attention than I was. As I shuffled the latest POW out of harms way, I soon became the center of attention in the bee's current state of rage. Surprisingly, I handled myself well in the line of potential fire, and I essentially played dead: stood still as a fucking statue.

As it was, I had been successful in diverting the bee's attention away from it's previous potential victim and brought it's attention upon myself. Soon, in my state of complete motionless, it had given on it's threatening swarm and decided to come in for a closer look. A MUCH closer look. My baseball cap clasped tightly in my right hand, and an on-looking crowd of about five, the bee had a clear path toward my face, and landed *SMACK*-fucking dab on the left-lens of my glasses.

It took every ounce of my energy to stay calm and not breath a sigh of relief. My enemy had been averted and there seemed little chance of it moving off the glass and onto my skin. Even if it attempted to move under the frame, my cheeks were pressed against the bottom parts of metal and wouldn't allow it, an uncomfortable, but fortunate advantage.

Soon bored of this nonsense, and realizing it no longer had the original target locked-on, my adversary again took flight, and met his fucking doom. A duck combined with an outward-and-upward right hook sent him flying, and I tracked the bastard down to the ground, where he met a fate called Reebok.

This would be the beginning of the end of my career as a Bee-Hunter. I soon took a step aside from my recent ventures to become known as the second "go-to" guy around, and I decided on sticking to the minor plagues that threatened our respected field. I moved myself into Bounty Hunter status.

As one can assume from this story, my days of retirement were devastating, the near encounter had worn me thin from stress, and after camp I took simply to the grounds of my parents back-yard, where it was already known that I was the reigning champion, and respectable lord, of bugs.

I sought instead to raise caterpillars and grasshoppers to full growth, while at the same time realizing the captivity and bereavement that was faced upon them when I took them into my own care. (Although, I was not very comfortable around spiders, brought on by an early fear of black widows, in which, one was as the back door of our house as I admired it, and my father smashed it with a log. A Latrodectus variolus, I believe.)

My parents eventually moved to a neighborhood not very far away from our previous home. It was still in the same school district, but a much nicer and larger home. Though through my own upbringing and memories, I will always consider our first house much more humble and modest, and it will always hold the title "Home" for me. This was, after all, the home I was living in when I heard about the movie "My Girl," and some of my fondest memories of childhood stem from that neighborhood. First loves, first injuries, and learning to ride a bike are simply the tip of the iceberg in my stories of there.

As I drifted closer to my rebellious years, my father made an attempt to make me feel I was capable of contributing more to the house. He must have recalled my grounds for bragging rights of the summer camp, because when a large hive was found within one of our birdhouses, I was called upon to take the challenge. My first reaction was excitement which quickly drifted to fear as I thought about the close-encounter in the past, and the idea of being attacked by an entire swarm if I fucked it up in the present.

"Well, nothing but the best," is what I always say, "if funding provides."

So, I insisted on the foaming kind of spray, the stuff that looks like yellow insulation, and I demanded TWO cans of it. (this is a lot of build up for nothing, just warning you...*SPOILER ALERT* I lived.) It was an old bird house, the classic deal with only one opening in the front. I must have unloaded half a can into that cocksucker. But it was worth it, and it was fun. Of course, there was another hole on the side, the right back corner, but all it took was to see one of the scum fly out that exit and I had that one covered in three inches of foam as well. Hell, I considered myself lucky I only needed one can so far, but the second was need as well, I used that in a mace like motion.

The foam doesn't solidify as quickly as a 12 year-old's mind would hope, and I (fortunately) ended up having to take out only three or four escapees. All-in-all, a fun and successful day, and I only used one-and-a half cans of four dollar bug spray. The rest sat in my parents garage for years.

Now seems about the time to mention I eventually discovered I'm not allergic. I've been stung twice, and while the second was casual, I'll never forget the first. It happened during an recreational soccer game.

Pouring rain, mud not quite everywhere, but covering enough of the thick field of grass to make it difficult, and a bit fun. I was on a losing team that year, and had ironically found my element in that particular game. I didn't mind the weather at all if I was on the field, and when the coach made the decision to put me in, I sought my opportunity, it helped I was put into the mid-field position that day. To my recollection, it was one of the closest games that team had that season, we even gave a team-wide "groan" as the sun began to show in the forth-quarter, we knew we were devastated from that point on. Imagine, "cursed" by the sun. Before that, about a quarter-way through the second, my coach put me in. The field itself, mud, dark-green grass, and rain coming in ways to block vision, seemed to help me in every way, completely against the other players. I WAS KICKING FUCKING ASS.

Yup, you saw it coming. Halfway through the third-quarter, just after our fucking "oranges and water" break, I got stung by a fucking bee. Guess what! I fucking lived. I shouted something to my coach and he said, "Slap some mud on it!"

Nothing happened, I kept playing without the mud on my neck even. Turns out that was better, his logic was that the mud would dry to pull the stinger out earlier, works the same way with the skin of an egg shell. Without the mud even, the fuckin' thing pulled out before I even got off the field. Not a fucking thing happened. The mud might have even kept it right there in the skin. I've gotten stung another time since, maybe even a third. Doesn't matter anymore, but I try and avoid them.

this is one of those monotonous blogs that follows up to the one that was waaaaay more monotonous than the one before this. a response to the previous post, if you will...

I will make it obvious, this post is inspired by what I saw on the MySpace homepage as I was signing in, and it may also bring my first serving of hate mail. At least in the form of text.

Hate is everywhere, love is extreme.
One is easier to define than the other.

In short, to prove my release from that dreaded stigma of sexism.....
I offer this first line:

I saw the picture and I signed in thinking nothing of it.

about an hour later, I logged out.

I came back to the homepage a couple hours later, and curiosity took hold.

I couldn't help but think the first time I saw that picture, and I was DAMN sure the second time I saw it...

Is that....it can't be...IS THAT REALLY MARIAH CAREY?!?!

[picture]

[/picture]
(this picture will undoubtedly be removed from the MySpace server once the 'promotion' has ended, but rest assured, I will do my best to repost it afterward.)

odds are, if anything, attention-wise, were to come of this 'menial little blog', I'll be asked to remove 'that' image of 'said pop-star' from my blog 'permanently' in the face of 'legal repercussions.'

Until then, LET'S HAVE AT IT!!!

oh, by the way, before I forget... I present to you...

the SUB-TITLE:
"This Blog Has NOTHING To Do With Mariah Carey's FINE American Breasts"

I mean really...The same female in the 'leopard skin' bikini on the cover of Rolling Stone I posted on my wall when I was in high school?
(I'm positive I still have that cover floating around my possessions somewhere...a 'pack-rat' to the end.)


For anybody that has ever made a claim that I am 'sexist', this may either be your time to shine in my demise, or your time to shut the fuck up.

Big ears.
Awkward smile.
Eyes that seem to not be looking 'at you.'
A (what 'Cosmo' deems [demonizes?] as a) healthy body with (at least) minimal plastic surgery...
and (by all means don't get me wrong)
she's 39 years old.

This is, OBVIOUSLY, a topical discussion -although, I'm the only one present that is 'discussing' something here- that exceeds well beyond this particular individual's musical ability (a few catchy -and well promoted- songs from the mid- to late-Nineties, but nothing I've never noted as influential or 'ground-breaking'. maybe some disagree.)

first point:
age means nothing. stop stressing about turning 30, and stop using people like this as your basis as to 'how you should look'
just like the saying goes: 'you're only as young/old as you feel'

you are only as attractive as you want people to feel you are.
granted, of course, this girl has a shit load of money, a TON, to be exact, and a lot of people looking out for her public image (phewwwwww), that doesn't mean she is better looking than you are. you should not condemn yourself for not looking as hot as her publicists (pube-li-CYSTS?) make her appear. In the same way that your significant ofther shouldn't condemn that 'cyst' in his pants for finding YOU attractive, either.

On a personal note, I caught my own parents VERY off gaurd a couple of days ago by mentioning that I was looking forward to turning 30. I DO remember how un-elated they both were about turning Thirty, and now I have friends of my own entering upon that realm. Fear not. My own personal regards for looking graciously on this turning of decades resides in the fact of the matter that not many people are successful UNTIL they enter their 30's. This being my sole reasoning for optimism at a family gathering (a site not many relatives have seen in the recent years), my Mother, always the pessimist (Thank You, Mom.), mentioned people like Bill Gates and Steve Wozniak as proof that I was wrong.

She saw through my thinly veiled pessimism, as always, and brought up these two MAJOR influences... yes, MANY people have reached GREAT success before they reached their third decade on this planet, but is that any reason to look down upon ourselves as individuals?

I've passed that theory for quite awhile, as I'm sure many have.
(Maybe turning 16 will be better, I can drive a car!)
(Maybe turning 18 will be better, I can buy my own smokes!)
(Maybe turning 21 will be better, I can buy my own booze!)
(Maybe turning 22...23...24...will be better, maybe this 'BULLSHIT' will end...) GOOD LUCK
so, yeah, Maybe 30 is the new 18? it can't hurt to hope, right?

I read in the Syracuse Post Standard the other day, in the Stars section, quite by...boredom/choice, an interview with a country-music star that disagrees:
[Name-withheld] claims that he 'allows' himself to 'dream' but never 'hope.'

guess that singles him out of the 'religious fanatic' group, eh?

I've tried that philosophy -take these terms as you will, 'try' and 'philosophy'- for, oh I don't know, about three days. the fact of the matter is, it SOUNDS and LOOKS great in print, but the underlying factor is that it is unrealistic, self demeaning, and it only amounts to watching cars go around a circular loop, making nothing but left-hand turns at 200 miles per hour in front of 300,000 hillbilly's. not to mention that HORRIBLE misconception that you may, actually, have any sort of talent. (have you already forgotten that Johnny Cash used to exist? OUTSIDE of t-shirts and movies and box sets and tribute shows????)

(for acts such as Mariah Carey, the attendance statistics are apparently referred to, these days, as a 'gigography'. I have tried my hardest to pull up exact numbers, or any numbers, for that matter, to no avail. Perhaps the RIAA may have something to do with this?) THEY STILL MAKE RECORDS?!?!?!

and here I am with my Beta-Max sitting in front of me....

I have only animately brought up one major point, of course: unfortunately, it had to be age. it sucks to hear from a twenty-five year old that you shouldn't worry about it, right? but this whole rant has been about how attractive I find a celebrity on the virge of FORTY!!!! think about it!

the ears, the natural and (still) awkward smile, and the doe eyes really don't play into this particular discussion, (again, I am the only one in the room that is thinking about the topic, in turn, I am discussing it with myself, and you, the potential reader. -Hope you've made it this far.) The Woman IS HOT!

Well, if a 'point' must be made, I guess it ought to revolve around the lasting power and prominence that this female, whom I have no regard for musically, has achieved.

Fact of the matter is folks, I've seen many an attractive girl in my day...
-for the assholes that claim other wise...
(I permit myself to continue this statement because I can regretfully say that I've met many more dick-heads, assholes, douche-bags, complete losers and just downright stupidly-desperate morons than I have hot girls)
-I can hear the chuckles in the background-
those that think they've topped me off by thinking they've met better, heard better music by (for all I fucking care), fucked better, and cheated on better....-
they're just as delusional as the females that try and live up to the IMAGE that is portrayed by the likes of Mariah Carey.

I'm doing my best to not seem like I idolize the woman, but goddam, LOOK AT THAT PICTURE!


FACT OF THE MATTER IS...
don't worry.
you're beautiful, and there isn't a goddam thing that Rolling Stone, SPIN, or Cosmo can
do about it.

So hey, don't worry about your ears, the way you smile at people, and sure as hell don't try and look as skinny as some of those overly-influenced teenage 'idols' attempt to. it's unhealthy, and unrealistic.

Nobody wants to fuck a stalk of celery. if that were true, the restaurant business would be full of MUCH more than just alcoholics.

and I had just as many intentions of bringing Johnny Cash into a discussion about a pop star as I was trying to seem like a misogynistic piece of shit.

good night.

This is just...completely unbearable.
Screw it, I'll just get right to the point:

If anybody knows a single female in the age range of 22-27 that has a natural affection toward short assholes with recurring feelings of inadequacy, please direct them to me immediately....

and if you thought that was desperate and lame, check out what I found in the personal ads of The New Times:

"A relationship with a
job attached. Successful
male internet retailer,
attractive, late 50's, di-
voriced, seeks girlfriend
in the office for long
term relationship. Paid
regular work. Computer
literate, hippy preferred
[phone number withheld]"


I have completely and utterly lost faith in America. below that somebody was trying to find a "Loving Home" for a blind and elderly woman...apparently her own family couldn't provide that. before I get too far off-track, let's get back to this other guy...
it took me several re-reads to actually convince myself that I wasn't hallucinating...
Never...In my entire life, would I have ever come across the knowledge required to prepare myself to expect seeing the words "Hippy Preferred" in a personals add. I am simply disturbed by this. If I really wanted to have myself a good time, I'd enlist a good friend to go and fix this guy's head. He wants a hippy, and I've got friends fucked up enough to make him think otherwise. The mere thought actually brings a natural smile to my face, a rare sight it seems these days.

Whose ever heard of a hippy that wants to be tied down to a relationship AND a job? This guy is clearly delusional, and obviously not in touch with reality.


I'm speechless, it hurts my head to even think that somebody like this exists.
I'm done, I'm going to bed, and I'll probably have nightmares.

...I am unhappy.
This is not unlike many postings I have made in the past, in fact, it almost seems like a digression, and the sad fact of the matter is, not much has changed.

I mean for nobody to worry, there is no cause for alarm, it's nothing new, I'm just not satisfied with what I seem to be amounting to...

I should take that back, the future is so wide that no single person could truly predict that their future may spell despair, and that is certainly not my thought process, but it's been, what, MONTHS since I've written a blog, if you know me, you know something is up.

Is this part of the never-ending struggle to demonize myself? Or is this just another one of those ramblings where I consider the pro's and con's of my own life? (something I do to the lives of EVERYONE I have ever met.)

Views are limited on my outcome, it seems like my life may have actually (finally?!) come to the point of a "My way or the highway" scenario. Things are going my way and I am still stubborn, if you haven't noticed, but I can also accept that things may not always go toward the direction I prefer. Shit, I work in a bar for minimum wage,
think that's where I expected myself at the age of 25? I sure as fuck didn't, although that simple fact is one of the few things that brings a smile to my face these days.

In short, I set out tonight to be an asshole. I got myself into some trouble. Not while I was out trying to be the obnoxious prick I can simply only aspire to be, but before that. Right, I had a traumatizing moment of revelation, and I decided to shove other people's shit in their own faces afterward. This "horrible" mistake I made? I read Tucker Max's book. http://www.tuckermax.com "I Hope They Server Beer I Hell"

Tucker, thankfully, has nothing to do with the story of my own feelings of remorse and inadequacy. Surprisingly, this jerk-off's words actually encouraged me to be more confident.

The only "self-help" book I own is by Muriel Schiffman and the philosophy is based around Gestalt psychiatry. This book, while interesting, did more to freak my family out than it did for my self-esteem. Never bring a book with the words "Self Therapy" on the cover to Thanksgiving dinner...I can not stress this enough.

I am not a power monger. I can not help but acknowledge that at times I have felt the pleasure that comes with holding fate over somebody's head, but no man woman or child will ever take a breath of air without feeling this same feeling. It is unfortunately, this Earth's next biggest hurdle.

Why...then...after fully realizing these things, am I so damn unhappy? Fuck....I don't know. As I said, it may be all part of the grand masochistic scheme. Lord, I hope not.

I can't ramble any further. I shouldn't, and I won't. All that truly needs to be said is in the direction to the people that I see on a day-to-day basis and those I don't, but will forever care about. Just because I may not smile or get along with everyone doesn't mean I don't give a fuck and I'm not having a good time. Shit, for those real close to me, I TRIED to be an asshole tonight, and all it resulted in was me holding conversations with people that I have utter contempt for. I hope this doesn't progress any further.....

(and as a side note, I'm going to stop pretending to be nice to people that don't deserve it. I think I've had it backward for quite a while now.)

..
*sigh*....
I hope you realize this blog has nothing to do with me.  Yes, it is 4
in the morning and I just got out of work, but that is beside the
point.  If this blog were to truly rant about all that is wrong with
the world it would be on the topic of kids getting wasted off the money
their parents give them.

Instead I speak of a group that does it much more subtly.  Let's just get to the point:

I
want to go to a party that wasn't thrown by a child.  I say this fully
aware that any statement may, and probably will be thrown right back
into my face.  I don't care.  It is my firm belief, that in a day and
age where Prodigy is co-headliner of one of the world's biggest
electronic events, that nobody, apparently, gives a FUCK about the
music anymore.

I love the eagerness and desire to go against
normality that comes along with these events, and maybe some thought we
took things too far...maybe the parties were becoming too much about
personal fulfillment, be it temporary or not, but there was a certain
aspect of looking out for the others of the crowd, whether we knew them
or not.

These days, it seems I may have lost faith, control,
interest...believe what you want to believe.  The fact of the matter
is, I'm still waiting for a promoter who knows the name Derrick
May....and it may turn out to be me.

Fill your head:

http://www.wallstats.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/WallStatsDATlarge.jpg

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thinking_about_the_immortality_of_the_crab

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=HAE3OW9A

theres, downloads, waits, listens...Respond.

'You know you got it, child, if it makes you feel good'

I can not go far enough into detail explaining to you how thankful I am this is not my first blog post of 2009...that would be far more embarrassing.

I will say that this blog contains graphic images that look something like this:


now if you think i'm sick, you should observe some of the conversations that revolved around this picture.  This woman is a pro wrestler in Japan, and people in this country ACTUALLY knew her by name!!!
(fine print: I am in no way responsible for content within the following links, blah blah blah, get over your precious little sheltered life)
http://jizlee.com/wordpress/?page_id=2
http://www.reddit.com/comments/6vq6j/just_saying_wtf_is_not_enough_here_nsfw/ (my favorite quote was "fake tail" by nakp88d)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yinling

she has a wikipedia page!!!!  i don't even have one...yet...
(note to self, get on that)

i also learned what "Kayfabe" is!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kayfabe
it is essentially when a "pro" wrestler attempts to convince the world he/she isn't
1) a complete moron
2) in need of a real job
3) gay
4) constipated
5) a midget in a really cool futuristic body-suit (!!)
or
6) all of the above

can't wait for those body-suits....hopefully by the time they're released to the public they'll come in styles besides "baseball player" or "pro wrestler"

this blog, by the way, attempts to prove no point, i only wanted to tell you I found out about a cool site called Reddit
http://www.reddit.com/
this blog ends now.

I'll bet you were thinking I would mention vampires right off the "bat"(HAHAHA!), didn't you?

I really...I'm sorry, I did not intend for the previous Chiroptera pun, but it happened anyway, get over it.  I learned how, I'm typing on a laptop keyboard that has no "T"!!  Howsabout that?

So I was playing the MySpace poker game, I got bored...  prob more of the "I lost all of my fake chips" kind of bored, you know the kind?  I finally broke down and formed a vampire clan.  I got tired of the home page loading and went straight for he apps page where I found a distinct quote.  the following is the next half hour of that quote bouncing around my head, enjoy:

you have not blocked any applications
you do not have any blocked applications
you have not any blocked applications (British, in the Sherlock Holmes style)
fear any applications you do not have blocked
any applications you have not blocked
please do not fear any applications you have blocked
blocked you have not any applications (Yoda)
do not fear, any applications you have blocked will please
Thou hast nay blockethed thine applications....eth (cheating in the old school way, I know)
blocked applications will please you, do not fear, have any blood?

that's right!  it was a plug the whole time, and probably the very last thing you expected from the likes of me, anyway....Join My Clan: http://myspace2.vampires.zynga.com/track.php?uid=6217592&code=%ZS_CODE%&value=%ZS_VALUE%&next=accept.php%3Ffid%3D6217592

Oh, and sorry I haven't posted in a really long fucking time.  Good Night, and Happy HOLLA!-Days

3.5 cups polenta

1 qt heavy cream

1 qt half half

4 cups water/chicken stock

boil, pour in polenta, stir in polenta, cooks fast

salt pepper

garlic chives

Red bells, finely chopped

spread on sheet pan and let cool

cut and pan fry!!

". . . Where's my fuckin coffee?"

Hey all, internet connection's been acting a little funny at the apartment.  seems to be my pc, actually, I can download via UTorrent and even check my email, but I can only surf the net for about fifteen minutes before the browser and a few other programs no longer recognize a stable connection.  Anybody with advice is a blessing.  Due to these constrictions, I hope you will forgive me for not posting anything in quite a while.  After all . . . is this not a day of forgiveness?

enough with the neo-religious psycho-babble though, I'm here for another update.  happiness is working at a tiny pizza shop with a boss that yells at you everyday.  I get the feeling school is right around the corner for me.  I dread it in a way.  everyone I mention it to is encouraging, and it's appreciated, but please . . . spare me the generically hypocritical banter.  I don't want to hear it.  the next person that tells me what a "great idea it is" or that "it will get you back on your feet" . . . ya dig?

simple fact is, as somebody of the "Generation Y" era, I do a damn good job when it comes to making rational and independent thoughts, in comparision, of course.  So why am I the one getting shit?  I stand alongside those who never even stood a chance, and on my own accord, at that.  Yet, I take constant fire for being a slacker, or not living up to society's rules.

The simple fact of the matter is, well . . .

I do not want to turn 30 and come to the realization that I have never stood behind a belief that I formulated on my own.

case in point:

A kid I work with that enjoys listening to raw music by the likes of Hell Rell and Dipset . . . yet he can't name a song by the likes of The Beatles or Pink Floyd.  mind you, the kid's favorite artists sample those bands quite frequently.

A thirty-eight year-old that has helped their family run a restaurant, only experiencing the outside world through those that come into hers.

A fourty-seven year-old that rides the bus everyday to god-knows-where to do th same things they've been doing since they were fifteen.

you know I have no conclusive point, at least nothing I am personally able to formulate into words yet.  But we all know what I'm getting at.  some will tell me to "relax" and that there's nothing to worry about.  others will tell me I'm worrying about the wrong things.

but, no . . . that's okay, quite alright.  I'm sure you don't mind at all.  go back to eating your ham and cake, mention "our" soldiers during your grace without ever giving thought to the people that are being killed at their hands.  It's okay, you'll be fine, and so will your children, somebody else will clean up the mess.  You have nothing to worry about.

God bless America, and fuck the rest of the world for saying otherwise, right?

originally posted sometime around Easter '08