It also describes how many hours I've been up and how much sleep I've had within those hours. I am corkscrew caramel post-modern, set against the sun and between sand-studded breastworks. There is no jelllo for this venture. There are brambles and grasshoppers who sing and occasionally act as CPAs, dancing in the undergrowth, around the shadowlands, and back to brew tea for the lonely.

I have developed a platform positon with the aid of the Neo-Conservative Neo-Liberal Conservative Republicans in the White House:

I have declared a pre-emptive moratorium on bullshit. This will be a war on bullshit. Where there is bullshit in the journal, I will be there, with empty promises and a sincere lack of money--but endowed with pride, clothed in pride, ass-butt naked with very little else but pride for my particulars and peripherals. A penis pride pauncho, protecting against the wiles of Bullshit for a more free and Democratic empire of me.

The revolution will not be televised. It will be in my pants at approximately 8:15pm. Valet Parking. BYOB.

Zen jelly donut headphone Orwellian wheat-grinder face. Give CPR to your nostrils and play a tune for an old fuck by a young man. I am Aqualung, with peat-moss and scraps of beard flung into muck, with an addled gardener's hedgerow of teeth.

This morning I became so angry I sincerely wished to emotionally maim and desecrate. The fact that I still feel little guilt about this is good. I had overly sensitive to the melieu of lighting fixtures and apoxy webs. I had bought VHS without looking at Beta. But now I recline in a Laz-E-Boy: my shades are on, the subwoofer has started, the butler is missing his cue. I sip my tall glass of extra carbonated mineral water, sighing a heady chorus of insults and condemnations off the top, just enough to stir the bubbles.

Just enough sensation to remind me what was worth fighting for and, subsequently, why war is a lie.

I see a hurdle of flesh mounted on itself, gargantuan beast, feets to shoulders, hands to asses, teeth set to the air for balance--over a wide gulf of inequity. They said it couldn't be done; they said it was foolish to believe in this world when redemption by the hand of White Dude was nigh. They didn't bother to see the toll-booth where I scalped my "give a fuck" charity ticket, moving up north to sell moonshine to infants by the sides of dessicated steel factories. Plug 'em and chug 'em, rack 'em and stack 'em. The avenging angels plunged down toward the sky and spread like jam across the Savannah.

Regret is the wooden splinter driven in, gradually shed with skin flakes, dead hair, the condemnation of lesser hearts and half-wit augurs. There will be no skull fucking today. I have paid for premium and will tempt the valleys with dust and lies.

Representation of dementation gives forth the case. It is vellum, smooth and seductive, curved, toned in its excesses with the haughty interior and painfully neat varnish. Set within is a piece of lead, squared, chipped, sanded, scrapped, stabbed, beaten, warmed and chewed. I paid the births of fifteen damnations and several cadillacs. Are we to be ass stools for such commonalities?

I say emphasize the pre-emptive moratorium. Emphasize the need to smack down rank-and-file shock troops with pre-planned agendas 1 dimension wide and defying physics in its lack of length. I say emphasize what they are good at.

Never quit your day job until you are firmly sleeping with or cannibalizing the human in charge of pushing you upward or forward.

You have to give up. You have to give in. You have to realize that conflict is not only necessary, it's fucking hilarious in hindsight. We are our own Club Med; we are our own entertainment center with dolby surround sound. Shit or Shinnola, you are basking in the fruits of your manipulations.

We are a soundbyte that has continued for far too long.

Never quit your day job. That too will become fucking hilarious in time, given time.

I want my money back.

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