I have a new job.

I raise funds for an enviromental concern.


And it is motherfucking tiring.

I rode home with Brian, 60, who also campaigns for this. On the metro. Unlike the Berlin song, nobody offered to give us blow jobs!

Which of course I would turn down.

I'm an honest guy. No outside sex for me. Despite the chick who, um, never mind. I didn't.

But I'm out. I'm done with you, broadcasting. I'm trying to help while all you care about is money. Fuck you in the ear with Johnny Holmes dick. Hard. I hope you all get a disease and die.

That was hard. I really just hope they get an infection. A deadly infection that burns endlessly.

I have a dream. My dream is that the beast of the inner world will rise up and take my tennis racket. That's fine, I'm lousy at tennis.

The thing that troubles me is that since then, in my dreams, I seem to lack the ability to punch people. I walk in slow motion. I can't solve riddles. Frankenstein is gaining on me!

Yes, children of America, I have a dream. I dream that one day peanut butter and chocolate will be healthy.

My dream is that a boat with several days lodgings will wisk me out to the Bahamas.

You got a problem with that?

My well healed WASPs, I have a dream that I will soon have quartered the market on ethinic dreams. The "I Wish". The "My Grandad Was".

Like you, I am a wispy white boy, carried along by the success of my fellow dominating race. While acknowledging our failures as an oppressive community would probably be best, I instead ask for your money.
...

Been there, done that, trying to avoid the velvet handcuffs.

It can be so hard, trying to be normal. It seems to flow effortlessly from the actions of most. Why is it so hard for me? Why did I wake up on the floor next to D, vulnerable?

Why can't I correct this? Why can't I be normal and live happily like a suburbanite? Why is that extra flavor irresistable? And why am I so weak?

At this point in my life I would be happy to go into that blue tunnel that Vonnegut writes about. It would be so easy. I would welcome it. But unless I take up a bacon and lard diet, it won't happen anytime soon, and I will seek out that which is most harmful to my psyche.

I hate hurting myself and disbelieving it hurts me. I wish I could stop.

I hope. I hope I hope I hope I get this latest job I have applied for. But I have an overwhelming feeling that I've blown it. I've been a finalist in several jobs that I haven't gotten.

This particular position, 150 people applied for.

If I hear good news, I will shut my ass up about everything, thank fate, love life, be happy, smile to strangers, and basically fall in line of those who are good enough. You and me's 50/50 and you can have half of the rest of this world and I'll take my yard and house.

Ghosts have chased me through the burning mist on this one. Have I checked my T's. Are my I's dotted properly and ready to be deployed.

And somehow, and yet, I feel like it is not so. There's something I missed. A ghost over my shoulder haunts me and tells me my failings in my ear when nobody else can hear. It hisses failure and rejection....

Woozical be they matedness. Can a wunderul argument that task? Has the time come for forderliness at last?

Ask your whois Mr. Bosslady to say, what underdates today?

Be ye a a retrophile or newness splendify. Deny you missy, and I'll multiply.



Smiley abunts ondy rip timlerlane. Poplollies swimmatate to frontygut imbermane.