i wish i could talk to birds and they would listen

it's another one of those days where you waited till the end of the week to really get anything done because you were too busy eating and drinking and smoking to do much of anything but eat, drink, and smoke and now it's like a fuckin habit and, even though the real life shit you're taking care of only use about a tenth of your commendable brain, you'd really rather just focus all of it on which emoticon would be appropriate for the last text you got or, better yet, who's phone number that is and why she's so pissed off right now.

So, because trying to figure out what to do with your brain gets frustrating after a while and that leads to being annoyed at your brain for getting frustrated at itself and in the middle of all that, you're wondering when you began to refer to your brain in third person and if that means anything, like, maybe, you're fuckin crazy or some shit, but then you remember that grandma always said that crazy people don't think they're crazy and grandma was as crazy as a loon, so that's just another fuckin thing to use a tenth of your brain, although it is more interesting than philosophies of education, so you might double that to a fifth (are fractions the only thing you can double and the number goes down?), you say to yourself, "self, fuck it... we're gonna put a birdbath on our balcany".

and that would be a brilliant idea because birdbaths are baddass because all the little birds come flocking to YOUR balcony, like, they chose YOU ([even though it's actually more likely that they're programmed to respond to certain stimuli and you just happen to know what it is] don't get too excited just because you figured out that cute, tiny, little feathered things like to take baths)or some shit and they get all wet and make pretty noises and sometimes they'll even eat out of your hand which is really cool (because it is), but you're not stupid and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt exactly what's gonna happen: yeah, they're gonna shit all over your stuff and scratch up your things and wake you up early in the morning screeching "feed me~! feed me!" in their cute little bird language that nobody fucking understands and you're gonna end up sitting at your desk one day trying to write a fuckin essay and not really wanting to, letting your mind wander about whatthefuckever and you're gonna look out your window and think to yourself... "fuckin birds".

peace.

Dry Humping is For Everyone

I never really considered myself to be an intellectual, really? At best, as sort of collaborator of thoughts or somebody who collects ideas and gathers them into one place, considering each equally based on its own essence and, if able, avoiding placing them into independent categories, is what I am. Or, perhaps nothing more than a fool devoid of any original thought, much less the ability to do much of anything with the thoughts of others. In short, I’m not sure what I am capable of, but I seem to do okay once I get started and, like anyone else, I like to be heard. So, hear me now.

What the fuck? Seriously? Do you ever just take a second and look around at the world around you? No, this isn’t going to be a “starving pixies” monologue. You know, I’m not even sure what it’s gonna be, but It’s pissing me off already. So is almost everything else. Like animals. Animals piss me off, because everywhere they go, there’s drama, eventually. Yeah, they start off all cute and cuddly and you just can’t keep yourself from picking them up and loving on them, but you know deep inside that what started out as friendship is going to end in tragedy.
Any number of things could and will go wrong: 1) pissing in the floor, 2) chewing on shit, 3) scratching furniture, 4) making noise for no reason whatsoever, 5) taking over your bed, 6) demanding attention from your friends… all the sudden it’s not “Hey, Tom! What’s up?”… it’s “OMG, what a cute fucking puppy!”, which is, in some ways beneficial (like having a baby), because the hot chicks at the JC Penny think your just tits, but is mostly, really, just a hassle most days (I like babies, by the way) and you honestly can’t remember why you thought the little bastard was so cute to begin with, why you got it, and what the fuck you’re gonna do with it now.

If that doesn’t happen, i promise you that you will eventually get scratched, bit, humped, jumped on, growled at, or puked on at some point. And that, by itself wouldn’t be too bad, but it’s never by itself, is it? No. it’s always in conjunction with one of the afore mentioned negative aspects (yes, I said “afore” – fuck off), which only magnifies the trauma associated with being humped by a four-legged animal that, like people, just wants to rub it’s private parts all over something.

And that pisses me off, too, because when a dog does it, it’s annoying, but everyone just either pretends it isn’t happening or they excuse it away, like “oh, he’s just in heat”. And, while I’m used to the idea of humping something and it pretending like I’m not there, I really don’t understand why people can’t be more like people where people are concerned, the way they are where animals are concerned. Yeah. Read it again. It makes sense. Because, when a dog or cat is horny, we do everything we can, we scour the earth, we call friends, we put ads in the paper, we do every-fucking-thing we can think of to get the horny bastard laid! But if a guys is humping a table at the bar, he gets thrown out. It’s absurd, really. What we should do to a fucker like that is the same thing we do to dogs that won’t stop humping: cut their balls off.

That’s all I got for now.