I was playing a card game with my friend while typing this entry, and, at a certain moment, I realized that it would be good for me to photograph my hand. (By hand I mean the cards that I was holding.)
This is where comas come into port.
I do not want understanding but creative misunderstanding.
Go fetch your evening espresso while I make my morning martini.
I will gladly dance like Eric Wareheim’s Officer De Luca at your funeral, if you promise to stare in perplexity like Mark Burnham’s Officer Duke at my own funeral. (See WRONG COPS for reference.)
I love Nietzsche’s Antichrist and loathe von Trier’s.
The only reason I refuse to challenge you to a Pretty Contest is that I’m afraid I might lose.
Instead of actual fire, I’ll substitute a giant fan with yellow & red streamers taped to it. (If anything other than this appears, please blame other peoples’ deities.)
The enigmatic quality of masterworks comes from the fact that they closely mirror life itself.
I cannot thank you enough for helping me discover that I look like a princess with radiant hair and a coffee.
On the deepest level, we are all bikini servants in the terminal bath.
After considering the choices, I decided to check my gender. So I checked my gender. And it was so fun that I chose to write the following short story:
The dog and the piglet mothered each other up into Utopia.
I just KNEW that he digitally altered my badge as well as my lab coat and my face and hair and glasses and skin and body-type! (That man is a genius.)
A YouTube link is worth a thousand dictionaries.
That was a custom installation. I speak of both arms as well as my interior ape (which, by the way, replaced my moral compass).
I acknowledge your catcall with a deep and lasting curtsy.
Long live thoroughlessness and self-flagellations. In the next lesson, we’ll work on adding intention to our mistakes. Great job today!
I consider teaching and ideals and even knowledge to be wicked and immoral—but I don’t really understand what I’m talking about; saying these things simply keeps my imagination alive.
I’m plugged in and charging:
If our world comes to an end, I don’t know if the aforesaid function will still be available. So try not to destroy the world until AFTER you have researched all of your stuff.
When driving a motorized vehicle, one might make an attempt to avoid hitting pedestrians.
Don’t be too hard on your dictionary. Words can be difficult.
Usually, when I want to know about spirituality, I look at the giant physical ink-and-paper contraption that I keep by my side; but, since I wanted a screen image to show to you, this time I typed the phrase “define GOD” into so-and-so’s search box.
That’s one vote for “yesssss.....” Now I’ll count the ballots. All right, YES WINS!!! (I really love my brutal dictatorship.)
Dr. Dre approached me with a contract to record an album with his brand of G-funk. I said I’d let him produce it only if I could title the project Defunct Soft G. Rap with Extra Non-Sequiturs.
Regarding the online universe: My advice is to ignore the place until you feel inspired to fuck it up.
I think that my book will please the happy few; the tough job will be convincing the rest of society that they have this need as well. I must persuade logic-addicts that absurdity is the superior drug.
It’s super easy: all you have to do is combine with a creature whose cells possess electrical vibrations compatible with your Jeep.
The way our world works is that, as long as I crave the spotlight, I’ll remain unknown; and, as soon as I learn to abhor the notion of popularity, I’ll get cursed with fame.
What a coincidence—I heard that God is an old Texan boy, too! But God don’t talk much.
I played my rap demo during Christmas dinner, and my mom stood bolt upright and acted like an offended aristocrat. Involuntarily.