i like watching the birds in the tree beside my back porch. there are some neat ones.
i like joni mitchell when it is cold.
need coffee now.
constantly in the darkness, where's that at? if you want me i'll be in the bar
blue is a great fucking album. maybe my favorite of all time. me mom was some kinda weird version of a hippie folk chick when she was young, and she would sing me that and these other folk songs and play guitar and stuff. from what i can tell from pictures and stuff, my weekends up until i was 6 years old were spent running around in the park on picnics with my folks and my big sister and our doggie (a scottish terrier with a napolean complex). by the time i was in college, my parents had somehow aquired a new lifestyle. my younger brother and sister never got to run around in the sunshine at the park or eat spam pizza or drink grape check sodas at the lake when it was 1000 degrees outside. or, most importantly, sit on my pops' lap and drive his VW bug that he and my uncle made into a convertible VW bug with a hacksaw and some beer (preturbochurch days for my fam). blue is a really good album, though.
to meet my dad, you'd never know it, but he owns a dulcimer. i think he even made it. the tools are in his closet somewhere. those things are fucking hard to play. i cant get a sound out of it. i tried to every time i'd be home sick from school rummaging through every closet in the house.
its only 10, but i could really go for a beer after this coffee cools off in my belly.
stupid sundays. stupid documentary on derrida (RIP). i don't even like deconstuctionism--why the fuck am i thinking about it?
i dont have any romantic notions about california. thats the only thing wrong with the album. too many references to california. fuck that state.
beer within the hour. horseshoes within the day.
**11.02- wine flowing like pee from an alcoholic alimentary canal after being in the drunk tank for the night...
and we're off to the races. contemplative introspection had a big head start, but alcoholism is gaining fast.
...
quiet contemplation --> coffee induced jitterings --> neil young sadness --> drinking wine alone at 11 in the morning --> listening to radiohead --> listening to tool =
now my stomach hurts. eventful lazy sunday.
now cant stop listening to old neil young. fucking neil. i'd like to build a house with him. that'd be fun. i think he'd be good at hauling wood, but prolly couldnt nail a nail straight. he looks like the type to hold a hammer at the top end. trying to guide it all the way in. never works like that. silly misguided artistic grunge types. they smell like construction types, but can't build for shit. rolling around in the mud and looking dirty isn't the same as work.
anyone care to have a 4 hour conversation about why Martin Heidegger held that work precedes cognition? Please? I'll buy beers if you have anything decent to say about it.
Or why Neil Young says a man needs a maid. I live in filth and get by pretty well.
i like joni mitchell when it is cold.
need coffee now.
constantly in the darkness, where's that at? if you want me i'll be in the bar
blue is a great fucking album. maybe my favorite of all time. me mom was some kinda weird version of a hippie folk chick when she was young, and she would sing me that and these other folk songs and play guitar and stuff. from what i can tell from pictures and stuff, my weekends up until i was 6 years old were spent running around in the park on picnics with my folks and my big sister and our doggie (a scottish terrier with a napolean complex). by the time i was in college, my parents had somehow aquired a new lifestyle. my younger brother and sister never got to run around in the sunshine at the park or eat spam pizza or drink grape check sodas at the lake when it was 1000 degrees outside. or, most importantly, sit on my pops' lap and drive his VW bug that he and my uncle made into a convertible VW bug with a hacksaw and some beer (preturbochurch days for my fam). blue is a really good album, though.
to meet my dad, you'd never know it, but he owns a dulcimer. i think he even made it. the tools are in his closet somewhere. those things are fucking hard to play. i cant get a sound out of it. i tried to every time i'd be home sick from school rummaging through every closet in the house.
its only 10, but i could really go for a beer after this coffee cools off in my belly.
stupid sundays. stupid documentary on derrida (RIP). i don't even like deconstuctionism--why the fuck am i thinking about it?
i dont have any romantic notions about california. thats the only thing wrong with the album. too many references to california. fuck that state.
beer within the hour. horseshoes within the day.
**11.02- wine flowing like pee from an alcoholic alimentary canal after being in the drunk tank for the night...
and we're off to the races. contemplative introspection had a big head start, but alcoholism is gaining fast.
...
quiet contemplation --> coffee induced jitterings --> neil young sadness --> drinking wine alone at 11 in the morning --> listening to radiohead --> listening to tool =
now my stomach hurts. eventful lazy sunday.
now cant stop listening to old neil young. fucking neil. i'd like to build a house with him. that'd be fun. i think he'd be good at hauling wood, but prolly couldnt nail a nail straight. he looks like the type to hold a hammer at the top end. trying to guide it all the way in. never works like that. silly misguided artistic grunge types. they smell like construction types, but can't build for shit. rolling around in the mud and looking dirty isn't the same as work.
anyone care to have a 4 hour conversation about why Martin Heidegger held that work precedes cognition? Please? I'll buy beers if you have anything decent to say about it.
Or why Neil Young says a man needs a maid. I live in filth and get by pretty well.
VIEW 7 of 7 COMMENTS
chelsea:
thanks for the set comment/compliment.... 
merry:
I am not now, nor have I ever been naked on the intarweb. I chock this up to my amazing ability to attract stalkers and psychos, both in real life and online. 