I must make note of the time. The exactly fucking anything that I know to be true.
That is right now. I know I am not dreaming. I know what is real and not real, I know physical shit, but I am garbage at physics. That’s why I like metaphysics. Because it’s philosophy. It is “thought science” and shit.
You know what I discovered today? I am a constructivist. I attribute these terms and names to my self. To understand myself. How I fit in the place of the world. Because I don’t know shit.
I am just fucking making wild flailing arms grasping at invisible straws. A wacky waving arm inflatable tube man at a second hand car yard.
A used car salesman. Im not a fucking salesman, but I’m the hook. The attention grabber. Weeeee look at me! I’m so fun and whimsical!
But fuck aye, I’m not really that. Im a person, not a silken sock. I’m not a puppet. Fill me up with air and I just dance and produce a hell of a show.
Or if you’re a teenage boy, omg gross, but instead of using me to keep your tootsies comfortable in your shoes… The original fleshlight made of fibre, when you didn’t have a Kleenex to clean up and hide your ejaculate.
Eject out of the fucking jet plane! Going down! May day may day!
Thousands of your potential children died on “my face”, the vision you imagined, the girl of your dreams. The woman you wish you had, you wished was me.
I’m talking about your sperm. Its just cells. Nanobites of code. Little fuckers who just must replicate and reproduce at all cost.
Like, cool! Haha! Whatever! I don’t fucking care. You’re not Orpheus and I am not your mother.
We’re all a bunch of mother fuckers. I’m not Samuel L. Jackson.
Jill fucks Jack up again, oooiooo. I am for real. I will make your woman cry. I am who I fucking am, all right.
A force to be reckoned with.
I will grab you by your hair, knee you in your soft sack of fleshy bits. And I will scream her name so she can watch. Hahahahahahhahahaha
Omg I want every one to see you. Why can’t we all just see the truth? Say the truth? That all of existence is just what it is.
Because you are ashamed and thus you bring shame to me and my memory. I wish I was dead so I don’t have to fucking see what you do in my memory. Your attempt to “honour me”
Fucking say my name, cunt. I nail myself to a wheel. I don’t need a fucking cross. My cross is the X, is is not the little t. Hahahahaha
My maiden initial was T.
You know, capitalise your actual initials. Not some fucking letter in the middle of your name.
My first name? Contains 8 letters. So… The middle of my first name is the gap between B and E.
And because everyone wants a piece of me, get in between my buns, my ends… in between or nestled somewhere in me…
Okay… thanks you fucker. But because I’m a mega bullshartist, thanks to the Dita (vid3o because I lov3d Andrew Blake…) I become the girl in the martini glass.
Whatever. I am a perform a ‘ve artist.
And I have no fucking idea why my phone chooses to change words that don’t need to be autocorrected.
Probably because of some spiritual mystical mysterious reason.
Or not. Because it’s Friday freeweight. I mean Free-wright. Just fucking words, flowing through me and to be read by you.
It starts right here. I do whatever the fuck I want. I am happy sometimes. A lot less nowadays. I am just rage and fire and brimstone. I am the angel of vengeance.
I used to want to honour the memory of the people I love and know. Or now… KNEW. THE PEOPLE I KNEW since people don’t want to actually know the *me* who exists in the here and now (except echo, storm; there’s also ash who is super helpful, and a mister a [who is not mister e.] who seems curious enough to have started corresponding with me.)
Ugh. WTF am I trying to say
If I click publish then I can reread my words and see it is NOT JACOB’S LADDER, but KIMBOB’S LADDER. Because I refuse to allow other people to take credit for shit they think they discover when they’re reading my captain’s log… this is my ship.
MY SHIP. YOU ARE HERE, ARENT YKU?
lol typo. But I leave it there. Because people think the end result is fucking everything, they don’t give a shit about what it took to get there, do they?
I have a whole arsenal of words and songs and visuals to trigger my post modern memori data bank.
I need money. Pay the ferryman a charon or two to ride my love boat down the River Styx.
Pay me nothing? I will drop you off at Lethe. You will eventually forget, but I won’t. I ford the waters, I protect people from falling into the samsara.
Thanks why I call myself a bunch of different things. That’s why I am a fucking tank.
But I’m not a tank. Even if you ride in my tirthankara.
Im just a fucking t-model ford ranger.
My husband drives a Ford Bronco, I drive a Jeep Patriot. Wherever I go, I dunno, I laugh and do whatever shit, and people think it’s a fiesta.
11.45pm. What’s with the car references?
In 2001, the year I joined live journal and was cast in my high school’s musical. I remember her name and her song.
I was Anna Kolchick. My song? “Baby you can drive my car” by the Beatles.
I told you, I’ve been called Anna many times before. And I keep telling you, I might have been her, but she’s not me.
11.48pm. I dunno man. I dunno what I’m doing.
We’re all stars here on my dope show. I’m not on fucking dope, I’m not medicated in any way. I… I… Why is it that every one thinks more drugs and substances are the cureall to fix shit?
Who fucking knows. But maybe they just need more potassium or ketamine. Motherfukkas. Temporary temporal patch to placate the fissures I create in your templeheads.
Hah. Fuck it. I can’t wait to see what comes of this tomorrow. Hahahahahahha
The muse never left you, bitch. I am my own muse. Hahahahahahaha
What’s that romper stomp dance Edward Norton does to that guys head on the kerb? Let’s dance to the songs of RENT! I dunno. Never seen it. Im just metatextual.