�7#'z.~&z,y,y,y,y,y,�J,�,�,�,� ,� ,�,��-}x,�-� ..T*.~,y.T.2".T.T.~.T.T.T.T.T.Tall right no more procrastinating. close the book. forget the delete key. use no periods. drink only forest make only nmes come true come truly in a shodowed corridor i came into my drink and stirred around with a flpoppy grin and said there make me you cannot make me there is no further purpose here and no one will ever know no no one will ever know i seem to have lost A: my sense of rhtyhm N: My ability to spell C: Nothing C:::::::: sp,mething i have lost something we were traveling in a space ship of course (silly you hw else soed fone oinfodins jvoijf soijd foijs voiejofij scvoidj aoisj coijdf jco isjfij coisjv jdoifj so tjoisoeij vjiiej this is the noise level in my brain i cannot think a quiet thought nor nothing i am a hotdog stand on a busy hiway of life and there are AMBILACNES AND POLICE CARS AND KIDS ON SKATES AND AIRPLANES AND CROPS AND sifoiugoisudoiug oeiu voiuf osiu doiu coi ais iim on fin aoisn in between the constant barrages of shells amd wjote j[OI� this is absolute pathetic i cant even do nothing right. I cant even sit here and just type absolute nonsense with out getting all tensed up and ready to quit i am ready to quit i am absolutely loathing my time here i hate it here they beat me here or worse they ignore me here there is nothing here for me and yet i feel if i do not come here then i am a worm a half baked half formed dripping with evil steel piece of shit and yet when i do come here i only end up feeling worse. i could force myself to go the full half hour but why i am just getting steadily more irritated as time goes by i am basically in the process of proving to myself that i have not got a creative idea in my head that i cannot write i simply cant do it i have no knack for writing stories or anything i have absolutely no patience i�m too dumb and i can�t think of anything interesting to write about. period. what else do you want me to say? that pretty much says it all the rest is just shamefully boring prattle do you see how i am trying to trick myself into describing just so perfectly how numbingly hideous this pathetic attempt is? i am trying to write about that. isn�t that sickeningly sweet; the failure who refused, out of nnerves still jerking in his wasted body, to believe he was dead but i am dead and no amount of sidestepping the issue will change the fact. change my diaper i am annoyed again and everyone in the entire hotel can hear me. WHAT WAS THAT. who the fuck said that. that was not in the script. If I find whoever the fuck said that� but i am allowing myself to become distracted. I was trying to explain how the mind tries to convince the body that it still finds stupid Nasty Cum Shots interesting at all, that it still finds patheticallly posed scanned photographs of heavily made-up paid strangers pretending to be enjoying sexually ideagrammatic acts (and not doing a very good job pretending either) enjoyable. I mean it is really sad how desperate i am for love and youth and vigor and all that that i will spend minutes on end clicking from picture site to picture site trying to find that one elusive image that will look just like anne or pam or katy getting fucked by some gorgeous fucking hunk who is right at this minute up in Alaska courting her silly. The one thing that still turns me on is jealousy. WHO SAID THAT. WHO MADE THAT SOMEWHAT INTRIGUING STATEMENT? YOU KNOW THOSE AREN�T ALLOWED HERE. BACK TO THE DUNGEON YOU MISERABLE TOAD. I am a miserable toad. I drive around in a toy car given to me by Master because he says the illusion of freedom it gives me� oh-oh. I am starting to feel the nerve gas seep in. Anytime I start to analyze my situation too aptly or even anytime I THINK I am analyzing my situation too aptly, the gas pours in thru the radiator vents in my bedroom where I am confined all day and all night unless I am needed to impress one of Masters girlfriends or bosses. So here it comes and I am stuffing myself with my own throat; spontenaity dies with my nerve cells, I am choking gasping bleeding from my nostrils and I keel over and retch on myself and still, still, still, still, still, still, still, still, HERE IS WHERE YOU MAKE THE WIMPY ASSERTION THAT ooooooOOOO �SOMETHING� STILL SPEAKS TO YOU THROUGH THE BRUISED SKY something speaks to me through the bruised sky of my mind OF YOUR MIND, OH THAT�S CLEVER, I THINK I�LL BEAT YOU SOME MORE YOU TRITE PILE OF ABALONE SHIT MASTER you�re getting a sense of humor! NO YOU ARE MISTAKEN NOW BEND OVER yyes master WHAM WHAM WHAM WHAM WHAM WHAM WHAM WHAM WHAM I wish I could report that I just died and everything became clear to me, that my power in death was greater than my power in life that i no longer concerned myself with worldly things that i was not tied down that i floated away to heaven, but alas, the truth is the blows hurt severely but did not kill me and when he was done I still had the overwhelming sense of futility that had stalked me for decades. Ever since I got out of grade school it grew and grew, i could still hide from it in High school cuz i had other things to worry about. In college, i could postpone thinking about it because in college there are many ways to convince yourself that you will become a great boon to humanity. but after i got out of college or rather just as i was about to get out of college i began to taste its flesh on my tongue and so i ran away again, hard this time, harder harder harder, and eventually after running around in semi-circular evasive maneuvers and getting a tiny bit of gratifying grape-flavored sex in the meantime, and also a disease though i didn�t know it yet, i ended up out west. where it really slammed me down hard. The futility turned into everything i feared, and it grabbed me in a viselike bearhug from behind where i wasn�t even looking out for it or on the other hand maybe i was begging for it and it lifted me up so my feet swung idiotically and then it threw me down on the floor, hard. the breath was knocked out of me on that floor, and my girlfriend laughed or cried or ran away or hated me or loved me but i turned her away, i hated her for loving me for hating me i hated her for being a fucking cunt basically is all you can really say about it. she was a fucking cunt and now the cunt called me back from italy this time and sed i got emotional and i had to call you. Yes. Call, you evil bitch, call just to imagine me writhing in ecstatic agony after we get off the phone. Call just to make me call you back quicker than a teenage fuck. Call just to see if I�ll still play. Cuz you know I will. You know I will you evil cunt. Call just to give me another disease. Yeah, that�s what I want, another one of your fucking diseases. It�s not time to quit yet. And even though I�m raving I�m still not saying anything, I still do not excel at anything except frustrated bursts, little spoogy ejaculations of effort that die again and leave me lying on the couch, my hand greasy and my dreams shattered, while the light bulb evacuates the washedout room and the fan sits there on the window and hums in nonjudgmental contempt. whatever. I cant even trust myself how can i trust you. is there a law is there a law is there a law that says you have to keep going without stopping? i�m always looking in the mirror to see how dashing i am. And I am. Sometimes. When I don�t look like a ghastly sunkeneyed beast from the murky depths of illness. That is. I try to exagerate everything so that some kindly voice will come in and say HA HA he has such a good sense of humor and is so overwhelmingly humble. But it is not this way i am only desperate. YOU SEE IF I AM NOT AN ARTIST yeah dont feed the same old lines to me please. I feel like a chewed up bone by now, getting your same pathetic thoughts over and over again, the thoughts you�ve programmed yourself to think, and I am so sick of hearing them, it�s like a top 40 radio station that wont go away.It�s in my head, and they play the same songs over and over and over again, time after time. I think I�ll hear �Time after Time� now. THAT song I actually like. But wait. I have to finish this first THOUGH GOD KNOWS WHY: I mean: I can see riding your bike, because you get somewhere, you get a tan, you get some good aerobic exercise, and it makes your legs sexy as all fuck. I can see going to karate because you learn how to learn with your whole body, you learn some smooth moves, and it makes you feel a little more like a man to stand there and take it, be tested constantly and not run away. I can see those things. I can see why I do those things. I can see going to the extreme annoyance of trying to do some of Karl�s dirty work because it will teach me a little about the so called �World� and maybe that will help me gain financial freedom and who knows what else it might teach me. Although it is immensely difficult to not quit for some reason. Any reason. I don�t know, I�ll have to ask more about that later. BUT THIS I CANNOT SEE. WHY DO I MAKE MYSELF SIT HERE AND TYPE SELF-ABSORBED STREAMS OF VILE EXCREMENT? WHY DO I SIT HERE AND TALK OUT OF MY ASS? WHO THE FUCK DO I THINK I�M FOOLING? WHAT THE FUCK DO I THINK I�M MAKING OR BUILDING? HOW DOES THIS HELP ANYBODY? I SIT IN HERE ALL ALONE AND LISTEN TO MY LUKEWARM DEPRAVITIES BOUNCE OFF THE CANYON WALLS BETWEEN MY FUCKING EARS! WHY???????? IT IS LIKE A BOMB GOING OFF AGAIN AND AGAIN. I have no answer to this question except this: The bathtub is my oracle. If if if if if if if i okay i dont know. I admit it I don�t know. Except maybe it helps me sort out my thoughts. That�s about the best I can offer ya right now, Master. NOT GOOD ENOUGH. COME SEE ME IN MY OFFICE. Ooooo, are you gonna spank me again. GOD I LOVE IT WHEN YOU TREMBLE, AND YOUR PINK LITTLE ASS TURNS UP FOR MY PLEASURE And I love you too, Master. Please fuck me. (That�s my motto.) ulure who refused, out of nnerves still jerking in his wasted body, to believe he was dead but i am dead and no amount of sidesteppi'z'}�� @/�u�������Q # u � �u�1��=���7�W � �!p"N"�#�%�&&�';'z���������ɾ���߳��곳곒���ꇨ���������� �$� "L�$� "L�$� "L�$� "L�$� "L�$� "L�$� "L�$� "L�$� "L�$� "L�$�(�A-head����� �� ��00�����7 hx��pH$�@� ��������&z'zQ1� p&z�����s��^@�����'}'z�����U���������  � �  ��7h�#�&p&q*�.�/-/�/�3�3�3�3�3�3�3�3�3�7�9�9�9�9�9�9�9�9�9�9�9�9�9�9�::::::::�;�?�HH�@���� Rt(��HH g `�'���� R=�/������BH-:LaserWriter 300/LS �Times New Roman/�Georgia�YY��Y.@((�