frankmask

I'm sitting here looking at my every physical thing from my life for the past two years and trying to think how I can put it in a box in such a way as to prevent it from being damaged in the advent of the basement flooding.

I am now in Minnesota. Woo.

I'm In Minnesota... Fuckers. : )

The basic foundation from which I regard and interact with reality is originates in two very simple questions. 1. What is this thing and 2. is it something which is good to eat.

Everything else follows from there.

I have thought up a new game. In this game the players will use scrabble pieces to string together a long line of vowels and consonants, and then whoever is 'it' will improvise a death scene to fit the sound that it makes. Then they will perform the death scene while making the sound.

At the end of creation I want the Valkyries to sing 99 Red Balloons as my section joins battle against the Jotuns.

Hmm. I think it's working. Since this morning my room has gone from off white to having a lovely blue ceiling and walls covered in bright fuck off orange and red geometric patterns. the intent was to make it feel somewhat less drab and depressing, and even with half the paint done and plenty of detail work yet to do I think it's working pretty...
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I would like to address the following to the category of humanity broadly known as 'Fuckers', which encompasses more or less everyone I consider a friend.

Message Follows:

I am coming to back to Minnesota on Thursday. I am staying for about a week. I want to hang out with all of you goons.

Message Ends.


I got a sewing machine today. My first project...
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I need a fucking hug. And all my favorite hug people are like three thousand fucking miles away. What the fuck? Who designed this fucking reality? What was their problem?

I need love. Or something.