GET ME A HAMMA

That's what I would say if someone offered me a job as a dental hygienist. Just saying. Yep folks, still unemployed. Getting desperate. I just might dress as a taco and dance outside the Mexican restaurant.

No shirt no shoes no service is such a friggin lie. If a woman walks in a convenience store topless and no shoes, SHE IS GETTIN WHATEVER THE HELL SHE WANTS.

"Here are the keys. Will you marry me?" Because you know those fools behind the counter aren't getting any.

Sat in a car for hours today. It sucked. Not because I was in a sweaty seat for hours, but because of the reason for the trip. I miss that dog, I just couldn't say anything around my girlfriend. She's probably going to read this at some point, but by then, her pain might have been lessened and my promise would be fulfilled. I wasn't negative at all today for her, and it was semi refreshing, but I felt like crying with her. I feel awful, because I know my guilt. I hope she knows it too.

Bit of a change of pace, eh? Changing it up again, yknow, I have grown to hate car trips. Because I feel like I ain't had a rash that bad since I was two in diapers. Sweating in the same seat for hours!! It was gross AND painful. Got to thinking about that. No wonder toddlers hate those things, watertight whitey tighteys! Freak, I'd run around the place starkers too if I knew what was coming to me!
"Bobby, here's how life goes, you're going to sit in a plastic bag and when someone notices you've been sitting in your own excrement for an hour or two, then someone will switch it out."

Those hippies might have something about those cloth diapers...

What is thy bidding my master

I'm about to kneel and owe my allegiance to this burger joint wearing a hooded cloak. Had one of the best burgers ever. The Boston. Pastrami, swiss, carmelized onions and mushrooms in a arterial sclerosis bliss. It was like entering a pastrami lined heaven of no vegetable goodness.

Titleless, why do I need a title?

Working at the pizza parlor, this lady walks out with her kids. Names have been changed to protect the fact that I can't remember them.
"Bobby, that's why you go to college" lady pointing right at me.
I wanted to throw my towel at her.
"LISTEN LADY! I am GOING to college and you know where that's going to get me? THE SAME PLACE!"

Also, i was thinking, isn't Clue by Parker Brothers up for a revamp. I had an idea. I call it
APOCALYPSE CLUE
see colonel mustard is this Terry Hogan beast of a dude with a giant mustache, rippling muscles and a gatling gun, Ms Scarlet will be this red ninja, Mr Green will be this lizard zombie man thing, Mrs white will be a white cloaked witch with a flail and a human skull, prof. plum in a lab coat splotched with purple blood stains and his purple hair slicked back straight up in the air, and mrs peacock will be this woman bird, TALONS LOTS OF TALONS.

Haunted house, wild cards thrown in at each turn that are represented by ghosts or zombies or mutants or ghost zombie mutants. IT WOULD BE GREAT!!

I'm gonna write an email to PB right now :)

As I sit

I'm conjuring what to compose about, because as you know, I'm not writing, I'M COMPOSING. Music, as much as I love it, I don't think it carries over much, unless you count the hard rock I'm listening to. I've also got Bioshock 2 paused for a moment, the endless fish swimming by becoming annoying. It's too late to keep going on this game, but I've ended up so close I almost have to. I've been applying at all sorts of places, and even considered doing a freelance bit for Game Informer. That should be interesting, if I'm even considered for the deal.

I'm writing to consider the implications of my last blog. I offended folk, I cussed a great deal, I signed on for ads to be on my blog so I can see a slight trickle of cash in my pocket. and yet. I'm rather indifferent about the ordeal. I stand by what I said about everything and everyone. I don't seem to really care if I offended anyone. All the same, it's not like I didn't think things through.

Writers block. Is it the same as lack of motivation? I feel like it is. That seems to be the only thing between me and commercialism paying for my spa trips to Hawaii. If only I was on the streets and had a better way of organizing my ideas on paper. Or rather written format. I just feel like I have nothing good to write. Regardless of various friends and do-gooders around me assuring me otherwise, I haven't found anyone that has experience in the matter, willing to read something that isn't refined from a student with paper saying they're qualified to write. Can you qualify something like that? Is it quantifiable? The artistic muse, the desire to create, even if it is something as garish as my written prose. Should I not be allowed to express myself, regardless of how poorly, if I don't have something signed by some faceless entity, assuring anyone that reads it that I am qualified to do so?

Doesn't kill my desire to learn the craft, rest assured, I still need an education. But it's almost like identification anymore, not so much education. At least that's how it feels. I'll write about it once I reach the other side.

Don't feel cynical today, so don't expect to laugh. Though I am dreading the moment I set foot in that pizza parlor. Sure is going to be a joy to start up working there again. For crying out loud, I'm a trained banker, not a dough flinger. But there is humility to be had, I'm sure.

Droll. That's what this is. Does anyone care this is written? There's no real value to this, you're not getting a laugh. You might at some of my earlier ones, to be sure.

I weep for my species. Especially if I'm the sample. Good heavens, leave it be.

67th post

I have experienced recent crushing defeat. No one loves a revolutionary.

I thought, ignorantly, that I could make a difference as the little man, unexperienced, but with enough foresight to see that something needed fixing, and I couldn't. I faced the big man, and I was cast down, almost losing my livelihood over it. And all I have to say is: What the hell.

I've wanted to make a difference, and instead I'm on the verge of leaving, my hands clutching my chest as it's hard to breathe, my despair is so deep. I'm so conflicted with the desire to make changes, but I have to resist the urge to speak up, and it's like an immovable object is hit by an unstoppable force, the conflict of my soul. Where is direction? What is purpose? Where are the good things? What am I supposed to do? I've been lost since I left the service of the Lord. Hopping from school to school, different jobs, different living arrangements, relationships, looking, searching. I haven't found me yet. I thought I had a handle on it, but I don't know what defines me. Maybe that's our great journey, that's why it takes 80 years for some folk to find things. Maybe that's why I didn't die at birth. Because I haven't found myself yet. I'm running out of time, only 60 years left.

They Watch

It was hot. That they knew. They didn’t know much, just, how to see really. And by the look on the faces of Their friends, it was hot. They were gripped firmly, in a sweaty anxious hand, as They hung by their friend’s side, listening.

“What’s the status?”

“The 42nd are in position and the 1013th are waiting to begin dropping shells on the oncoming infantry. We’re low on rounds, but they’re confident they can make a solid enough impact to at least make the attack less of a bloodbath.”

“We don’t want to spare those Kremlins anything, after what they’ve done to our country.” Up They go again, They thought, seeing across the dryness, to watch the bad ones. They must make sure they don’t do anything, They mused.

“I meant for our side sir.” The Lieutenant turned to the Sergeant, away from his binoculars.

“What about Camp Little Rock?”

“Haven’t you heard? They were wiped out last night. That’s probably the reinforcements we saw coming into the Kremlin’s camp last night. Scouts report another three thousand have joined the enemy rear guard. It’s only a matter of time.” If They had teeth, They would bear them. They had many family in Little Rock. Now they’re probably broken or worse stolen, being used to see by the bad ones.

“Before they run, fixed bayonets. At least we have a few hundred yards between us, prolong the inevitable,” said the Lt., grimly.

“Rally the men, I want everyone to know their job. We may be out numbered, but we can’t lose this footing. We’ll bottleneck them before they get into the valley.” The sergeant turned to go, but the Lt. grabbed his arm, “And dammit get those civvies off the mountains, they’re supposed to be running west with the rest of them.”

“With all do respect sir, we can use all the help we can get,” and the sergeant was gone. Shouts of honor and courage echoed through the trenches, war cries for family and friends, and blood of the enemy cascaded down the mountainsides like an avalanche, rushing down and sweeping across the dusty brown savanna plain that used to be green Alabama. The binoculars could see the tangible electricity in the air, as if a coiled spring ready to pounce could generate a lightning storm. They are proud of their wit and metaphor. Perhaps that could help Their friends stop the bad ones. Suddenly, almost as if They willed it so, a lightning bolt struck the ground a hundred yards off, and they could see clouds coming in. A heat storm, They heard one friend say. It might make a difference. Drops of rain begin to fall lightly, drops that had run away for years. Hello they cry to their long lost cousins, the seers. Hello They cry back. Make the bad ones sodden! And so they do, because quickly They are brought back to the bridge of their friend’s nose and They see, the rain is hardest on the bad ones. They shout praise. Perhaps Their friends will win now. They look away for an instant, but are brought quickly back to watch the bad ones. What are they doing? Moving, moving side ways and they are many. Then forwards, they’re moving forwards, they are coming!

“Artillery! Drop shells on those Kremlin fools!” shouts the Lt. Yes, they cry, rain more on them! Back to the bridge again and they see. They see across the dampening waste. Explosions of dry and wet land scatter the bad ones, and like a rapidly healing wound, the holes are sealed with more bodies. Running and shouting, black metal shining like the blood of death. Oh how They hate them. They have watched them for years, for They are old, but still see. It will be over soon, They’re not afraid to die. They watch the bad ones come closer and closer. Our friends are not strong enough, They realize. There are too many. They are doomed, They understand, horrified. They can do nothing but watch. Watch as they get closer, burning, running, hating. Then, a shaking blast roars through the valley. Like a thousand elephants, stamping and roaring.

“What in God’s name is that,” mutters the Lt. Let them see, They will tell you. What is that dust cloud, They ask themselves.

“I don’t believe it.” I. Interesting concept, They muse.

“Sergeant are you seeing what I’m seeing?” I. It is a way to refer to Themselves. They’ve heard it many times before, but never thought about the word.

“Sir all I see is a big dust cloud. Sounds like truck horns though.” I. A way to refer to one’s self.

“Sergeant, I’m looking at longhorns on grills and semi trailers armored to the gills. Are those tank treads? Each one has a fifty cal. mounted on top, some are out the sides. Good God, is that a smoothbore? Is that from the 102nd armor division we saw get destroyed?” I. A way to refer to ourselves.

“Lieutenant! Your boys weren’t using their armor anymore, so we decided to go to shop and help you all out. The kremlins are getting close, we’ll lay down some fire for ya!” I. Yes, I am one. I am individual. A bearded man with a slight beer belly leans out the top of his trucks cabin, wearing a ripped red flannel shirt, his gigantic arms barely being contained.

“What’s your name sir?”

“Jack! Jack Darrow! This sir is the refurbished 102nd! Mind if I play Sweet Home Alabama to kill Red?” No, play it Jack. I like that song

“Know what. Sounds appropriate. Cover the left flank and bottle Red before he gets to the valley. I don’t have to tell you what it means to our country.”

“Yes sir!”

“Carry on Mr. Darrow. God speed.”

“All right boys! Turn it up!” Then, a cacauphony of horns blast a tangible wind of red, white, and blue towards the oncoming enemy, while tarps are torn off of loudspeakers to shout a rallying song echoing across the open savannah. Emboldened the soldiers arm themselves, bearing courageous teeth and watching Red break the last hundred yards before they’re upon them. Up the binoculars go. Yes, Kremlin. I know who I am now. And I’m watching you. In an instant, I shatter, as a bullet rips through my right eye, and all goes dark.

Names

The names sit abandoned. Dusty and alone, but together with their cousins. Simply names. Allen lies on top of Germaine, who’s on top of Alexis, who’s on top of Jason. Collected and prone, and praying for light. Forgotten, lost. Never to return. Though they all have a chance, they’re generally common names. They all look at Kylander. Shutup guys, he says, looking away angrily. Their mirth lasts momentarily as they remind themselves that their purpose is spent, yet they remain. Never to be used again. They hear voices, words, shouts, and tears, but no one shares it with them. The oldest name, sitting on the bottom, tells them their hopes are fruitless. Donald tells them all, no one will come, trust him, he’s been there for years. He lost hope many years ago, after he had prayed so many years before. Fruitless, pointless. Eventually he’ll crumble to dust, but until then, he wallows in his own misery. Days, weeks, months, decades.

Suddenly, light blindingly cascades from the top of the drawer. A hand comes down and grips them. Can it be? Could they possibly need one of us? Allen is tossed aside, Alexis is pushed away. What are they searching for? Finally the hand rests on Donald. It can’t be, they all gasp. He’s lifted out into the light, and out of shock he loses conciousness.

“Donald, welcome to the team. You can place this name placard on your desk, no need to waste money and make a new one. I knew I had it in here somewhere.”

“Thank you Mr. Gibbs.”