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I've been writing like crazy lately. No useful surface is spared when I get that itch to write in spasms. I've been writing so much with pens and pencils & crayons & eyeliners & anything handy that, when I get on the keyboard, I notice that I've regressed into committing whole new patterns of typos. It used to be about errors of brevity, my battles with the space bar and those keys neighboring the ones I intended. I never learned how to type with both hands, nor ever felt the keys to be an extension of all my fingers and their reaches. I just let that shit fly, NO EYES. I'd say I use about four or five fingers total, but a lot of that is accidental aid or auxilliary improvisation; the truth is I use TWO mainly, and I often look down for split-seconds to check the business and pem at His disposal after a lucrative office job. I got it for a bargain, roughly five cents a pound, and I Used my tenant's truck and dolly to whisk it from Marina del Rey. All Went Well Until the moment I Was Against it to deposit the wall in my room, when to the fierce and Precarious Movement on my part, as brief as the snap of a mouse trap, let the crushing mass drop onto my right foot. My big toe got it the worst. Did not break the bone, But The flattened toe Such That WAS WAS cracked the nail at the root and severed a bit below-the cuticle. Since Attempting to describe the toe will require me to look at it Actually, I'd Rather Leave and misshaped the tumescent flesh on the plate of your Imaginations. My index toe (also smashed) Turned dark purple, now black, as the Blood Rush beneath theection. The pain is just enough to amuse me, so I'm hoarding the cheap opiates for later. These sorts of

Injuries Have A general way of Altering my focus. A busted toe will cripple me my balance and reduce to about 70% of active Potency Slightly more excited in Situations, where, I'd grit-through the pain to Overcome an obstacle, recovering Be Damned. I have a habit of harassing fresh Wounds thoughtlessly. Much of my confidence in life being to eat from my ready-and-able instrument for Any situation, Both Physically and mentally. One state reinforced the Other, so to Weakness in Either Affects the dependability of the whole. The reason That I am overconfident in verbal arguments have a lot to do with my cunning and eloquence, pero a strong feeling That I can physi overseascally and Stock steamrolled by Ignorant Opposition burst of reality, by knocking the fuck out, They Should not no other respectable offer end. Nothing like HAVING EMPOWERS remove options. I Rarely Have to resort to brutality in pacific circles, the pussy sections of towns, but I'm intrinsically gutter and I can not shake it if I get a rise from a fellow hood Some street or pretend. I do not welcome trouble, But a Little Dose of action from time to time will heal the stuffiness of everyday monotony. To Each His Own mode of punishment! But I digress ... What I meant is to ESTABLISH That this injury has made me more passive and agreeable, at least for a season, Which May or May Not Be debilitating.

Ge Single Pole Motion Sensing Switch

The following is my prose translation of a poem by Jorge Luis Borges.

The Gold of the Tigers

By the time the sun is halved by the west, and it bursts into its final yellows, how often will I have watched the mighty Bengal tiger, patrolling its determined path, behind a grid of iron bars, with no inkling that these might imprison him. Afterwards, other tigers would come, Blake's tiger of fire ... afterwards, come various golds, the amorous metal that once was Zeus, the ring that every nine nights, begets nine rings, and these another nine, and there is no ending. Over the years, they've abandoned me, the other beautiful hues, and now, I only have left: the hazy light, the inextricable shadow, and the golthe main stamp of Borges.

No one should pity or reproach this statement from the master of God, which gave me great irony both books and night.


(No One Should read self-pity or reproach
Into this
statement of the majesty of God, Who with splendid irony
solicitada Such books and blindness at me one touch.)






In historical lecture Borges mentions a point s, which I find agreeable, That the English word for yellow, yellow

, sounds like a weakling Compared to Other colors, double STI
Because l
Followed by the
i
ending marks embellished it with a feebly andwilight and dusk Would Have Been a too tardy and atmospheric description. I Had to spread it out something special sunset yellow

Because wasn't doing it for me.

I pulled a very personal take on Borges, pero at least I did not pull anything out of my ass. For Some reason, Reid Either the reader or have babies Words That adds Obviously signify Borges. I May Have Sacrificed Some of the literal Meaning for Better flow, But whatever possessed Reid to add
sinewy-bodied and
labyrinthine is Beyond Me. Labyrinthine, how Borges! There is no implication in the original Suggests That These additions. Powerful

is a heavy intonation of power. I chose mighty for the sake of the Prevailing

i-sounds in thh creativity. Like, hey, Remember That poem by Blake about the tiger burning bright? You know, in the darkness of the night? Yeah, That's What Borges WAS talkin '' bout! Assumed I Would Know That nobody but me, so I thought I'd horn in with the definitive line-drop. Go me! Curious

mention of Zeus. First off, Borges says nothing of showers. I suppose Reid WAS going for the imagery of a lightning storm and the Thought of Zeus pulling the strings behind it. What's so loving

about a lightning storm, Then? Handled That Was not it the rain Demeter thirsting for crops? I think Borges just wanted to juxtapose the vision of lightning and Zeus, the golden element and royalty, but I'm not very sure, so I left it literal, Rather Than Risk an Assumption.

and Turner and to varying shades of gray, and I lost the Ability to discernible Between blue and green. Must Be What Was left similar to the mist of night vision goggles with an overcast of yellow Replacing the green. West



, cardinal point of the West, roughly anything of Western origin, Which Could Include the sunset, the winds, or cowboys for God's sakes ... Reid is a bit repetitious in Un Certain Keeping the reader from confusion. Wonders Are tepid. Glimpses

Are akin to sunbursts, to rays, Things That literaly blind one with brightness.

Awww, the ending, my favorite part. Reid Lays it down like it Should Be Done, Because the Meaning is so beautiful That It Could Be worded Several Different Ways, and Are Touching Each in t

Vitamin B50 Migraines

, Completely gotten rid of it, Usher me back in the fold, done me the favor! I Had Been going to her Regularly thereabout Every 2-3 weeks, to make the MOST minimal cuts here and there, Because I Want to Retain a lengthy style exudes a Bohemian That Would Avoiding negligence while SlovoEd look. Between her barely significativa snips, Would she ask me how my writing WAS going and whether my latest girlfriend WAS well. In order to pass the time, I'd take the liberty of fabricating moral problem Some Practical sense to please her, and she Would Respond with articles of advice she not Doubt That Picked up from the English daytime talk shows That Were always playing on the salon's little television. The more I think about it, the more foolish it seems, Because It Was for sheer farcical ceremonyumbling about coping mechanisms. After three years, my bangs had become so exhausted with themselves that they begged for the mercy of being put to the ground. They did this by forming gangs that would jut out into the air and refuse to settle down. Any fate would have been better than the disgrace of going out of fashion, but little had they known, they had been born into a world that long abhorred them! They weren't so annoying that I couldn't sweep them left or right and out of sight, or tuck them behind the ears, or I could even slick them back like a Mafia don, but I had made the serious decision that I must rid myself of the laziness that their childish innocence evoked. I'm gonna go balding one horrible day, so what's the use of watching the forest disappear from the canopy? I'd rather be close to the devastation than watch it go down in clumps. I don't want to experience the alarming surprise of picking long rogue strands of hair from off my pillow -- certainly not, if they're mine! So, off they fell in a mass. Now, my face has the anxiety of having nowhere to hide, that is, unless you count the new shrubbery. In light of my drastic haircut, I've grown a scant excuse for facial hair, a sort of goattee that doesn't connect and a spiky soul patch. Forget what I said before about my Chinaman's whiskers. I had written that particular phrase with an ignorance of long ago. It seems that the countless shaves over the years have granted me the thickness of a respectable broom. I trim it with much scrutiny so that it might lose the bristling Eastern look andam Shakespeare. As you can see, I take my literary life very seriously.

Final Fantasy And Attentiondeficit Disorder Oh gods, my gods, bring me poison, poison!

I'm going to begin by Saying That I would rather write Something short, delightful and funny Than indulge this accursed and unshakeable daemon of inner turmoil. I'm no Freud and Proust dog or Better not describe or outline the Psychological ravages of sexual jealousy, But of all the ideas Imposing orbiting around my mental focus, These Thoughts on The Fastest spin my condition. The subject Seems too complex to tackle Marcel's Elaborate Without prose, but I'll take a quick stab at it.

The nature of this journal is haunted by the specter of her , Defunct now my three-year love affair, from the very pit of STI Beginning in '03 to the lethargy of the Sporadic present, and I can not continue Any writing of the posts i have in store Without purging myself of this abject spirit. The following is an attempt at a written exorcism, a confession stuffed in a box with breathing holes.

I haven't spoken to her in two weeks. The estrangement is easy. Her physical self is not nearly half the object of my torment as much as the sharp, recurring memories of her and me together. I'm not sure whether I love her or not, because I never really think critically about a girl I've conquered until I no longer have her, in other words, until it's too late. As vain as the word conquer may seem, it's not meant as a sexual or mental boast, rather it represents the highest ground that I've worked hard to land upon and capture, a plateau on which I can operate, at full capacity, the machinations of love. It is the point wBecome a Vacated s empire of hers That Continuously Denies Any comfort of rehabitation. This exposition has Become a testament to my shame and sentimental Weakness. I miss her. Would I go running back to her If I could, if allowed my pride. However, my pride will only allow These confessions. I would rather Claim That I do not think of her at all anymore, me and my girlfriend That Are Involved in One Another happily only, grinning at the wake of past love and Stock, But the truth is That I feel Deprived at Almost Every Hour , and my obsession with her Presence Has Not dwindle for a single moment. Perhaps, it is because i love her That I offer this account of my misery, for her Benefit and satisfaction. I'm sure

It Would Be Easier If I could smoke pot to subdue these remembrances of her That seems to bubble forth from by Being, That Arise Without fail from a boiling desire, to torture me fifteen to twenty times a day, half of them to be sexual, the other half various, heartwarming instances of her blind adoration. It Was the pot That Kept Me From Leaving her. Consistent blunt after blunt of smoking over the span of four years, the time Following my father's death, clouded my perception of the truth and doting Kept me along. I WAS mad from loss. Either she wasn't my type, But she Reflected my emptiness and remind me of a more innocent era. My art and inspiration Were slowly thwarted by her company and drawn Into regression. I entertained a foolish confidence in Figuring That the Continued Exposure to my bold personality, Combined with the weathering offake-Breakups, Could Forge a Better partner for me, That She Could Be Forced to take on my winning Qualities, my intelligence, social aptitude, and empathy ... I Dreamed the hopeless dream That She Would learn to perfect herself for me. Our stubborn ACCOMPLISH Would love it! It Was That She Hated herself Evident, That she wallowed in her own futilities and Would Have No Other alternative in seeking to Improve herself. Instead, she sucked my will Weakened STONER Expanding Into her abyss of self-doubt. More and more, I started Becoming like her ... lazy, apathetic, lonely, desperate. I Was infected by her Incapacity. I chafed Wants and Needs Against her, I rose my freedom to protest, only to fall back and latch onto her weitere. I lost all romantic energy. I cheated on her for gasps of fresh air, and to Prove That I still Had What It Took. I bedded new lovers, But I Was so conditioned to Requiring her modes of sex, They Became That in time of little worth to me, and my attentions Careful That won me so much favor in Their Eyes Would trickle away and vanish. I Was shackled in place, more so sown, and I Could not enjoy the passing events, beautiful faces.

i have four months left of court ordered sobriety, But Even So, relying on drugs is a kind of Cowardice No Longer That appeals to me. I'll only drink in a social setting, pero Scarce to avail. I've Always Been Able to simulate the comfort and fearlessness That eating and drinking alcohol with Any Further provoker my savage impulses, like picking fights. Had

She always read my little posts with animmutable fear That I Might reveal Any or all Aspects of Our union That Could turn the stomachs of mutual acquaintances of ours Who Might perchance read my journal. She Was horrified the world of What Might Be allowed to think at my insistence vulgar! Imagine Their disappointment upon the discovery That she wasn't really a quiet and mysterious

intellectual, an optimistic subterfuge silence her raven exuded Might Have, But wings, She Was a boring and bottomless, sexual symbiote, and That All I Could Possibly record About Our Relationship Is That it consists of us fucking Each Other Into a state of total vapidity. I remember the sickly langours in bed, the heaviness at the end of bliss. Under the pretense of an indestructible love, Would we forego intimate conversation and Stock, which was a waste of time, due to our lack of connection, and proceed to numerous sessions of industrious fucking. We were no strangers to pleasure. Up until I met her, I had racked up so many lovers, my past could be mistaken for celebrity. Initially, she held back the experience that would become apparent in her movements, so that I wouldn't suspect the crowd of lovers preceding me. When I found out that she had fucked nearly a third of my count, which seemed to me, for a girl of her calibre, vastly sluttier than my own. I reconciled by telling myself that I had what I finally deserved, a Madame, a
sexpert
. She knew what she wanted and she knew that I could give it to her each time. My joys rested in the finalities of her pleasure. My selfless goal in our sex was alwanformation. She would tell me everything about her new man, where he would take her, what she would do, down to the minutest sexual detail. She would have to leave nothing to wonder about. Love would forgive her each and every thoughtless transgression. The worst that could happen is that the sufferer would cease to love and be pushed towards the road to recovery. Of course, her powers of description and analysis have always been poor and her reasons left me even more unsatisfied. I would hear her stories and it always seemed that this older sucker with the corny qualities was buying her off and using her for sex. I couldn't bear that someone else was toting my prized trophy as if it was his latest trifling bauble.

I broke into her diary one night and that took care of
that
. Our working plan called for full disclosure, but what I met in those pages was a startling account of selfish deceit, a deplorable narrative stranger with the vilest of plans and intentions. She was purposely fooling herself into a new love and toying with my lingering heart in the process. All the information she entrusted me with was at best incomplete. I became convinced that she could not only effectively lie to me, but that I couldn't help but continue to believe in our pact en toto, like a love-struck fool ... Really, I should compliment her on all of her LIES. They were well-executed.

The fact that I never wrote a sweet entry just for her or even a short complimentary poem must have irked her. I know for a fact that the strangers that would cometo compliment my journal annoyed her to no end. She Would not dare complain or comment at the Risk of sounding out of place or stupid. This reservation echoes her reluctance to tell me anything, to mention Any Thought She Might Be HAVING, Despit my urging her to reveal her Every notion. She figured beforehand Would That I Had to find whatever she say intolerably dull or commonplace, as if my life experience or erudition Were a wall too daunting to approach. It Was Almost myth ... I Was everything, She Was Nothing, That never spoke two halves, bound to constant collision and an intermingling That Was Purely Physical. I do not know myself, But I Communicate Constantly in an effort "to rein the fragments staff and find a pattern, the monstrous spine. I speak in contradictio