So I wonder what she felt that morning. Remorse? Regret? Revived? I will tell how I felt. Repulsed. Keep Y.O.U.R. hormones on there tiger. That is what I felt. What I loved was the inane timing of it all. The universe and I have these great personal jokes going. Usually I laugh daily. Cry weekly. And breakdown yearly. And the universe, well, let's just say has me wrapped around it's little finger. The universe always gets the last laugh - which in turn makes me giggle uncontrollably and stop (the fuck) taking things so seriously. So back to that morning. Hilarious. It signified my age, my phase, my distaste and my sobriety. Perhaps is there a word for jealous, that isn't so much as jealous but oozes with, "I am so glad that is not me, but maybe if that was me I would be ignorant of the consequences that now so likely means that will never be me?" Ponder. Ponder. So uninteresting it may be, but I have had writers bloc (yes I dropped the 'k' but it looks better don't you think?) for about 12.5 months now. I have had verbal diarrhea but textual constipation. A boyfriend will do that to you - apparently. Well in fact any happiness will do that to you. It kills. Suffocates and stuffs your creative lungs full of unpolluted, fresh air so that you breath easily and think more benignly. Which of course is a good thing. Great in fact. I fall asleep more easily, but that gives me no wee dark hours to write. So this current ambiguity may give me the laxative I have needed. And what did she have to do with it? Nothing. Nothing except that marked the date for it all, and she is writing. Suck on that.
What do you think of when you hear AGENT?
On Sunday (the 9th of August), 10,000 people gathered in Ho Chi Minh City to rally for 'Orange Day', raising funds for victims affected by Agent Orange. Read the article here.
If you do not know much about Agent Orange or the ramifications it is still having people's lives, it is an eye opener to research. Agent Orange is a combination of two herbicides used in the Vietnam war by the US Army to reveal where enemies were concealed. Some things made by man are just horrific beyond belief. I never knew the extent to which it deformed people. I have only put one photo below because I did not want to use victims of Agent Orange for 'graphic affect' as I found it disrespectful on this blog. I felt that if you are interested you will search yourself. Some really informative websites: Victims of Agent Orange, Agent Orange.
So it comes to my attention that I, a confused person, have no idea what I may be doing at any given time and am lost in a perpendicular sphere of continuum into nothingness. In addition I most probably always speak in oxymorans and have no idea what I am saying at any given time of verbal intercourse. Facts are most likely an object of my fiction which is a frayed remainder of my illusion of reality. My basic existance elludes even the simplist forms of interdependence for which I may appear seemingly confident in conducting before you at a given time in the day or night. Although I am perfectly normal, I am unaware of what perfection is or any sense of normality in myself or my cohabitants on this earth plane or any other planes still residing on the earth or flying in realms above me or below me, of course relying on the latitude you are situated on at the point of time of you reading this typography. In time or of time? Are we of time or are we a continuum of it, as an infinite imprint in this milky way. That is not the question - it it? And besides I am intolerant to lactose. No not really that is not THE question apparently the question is to be or not to be. Suicide. O SHIT. Shakespear was suicidal and transfered his own need for understanding his futile existance into his characters weaving a portrayal of love and death and romance in which Twilight was nothing but a time in the day, not a competition between Ninjas and Pirates.
the girl with the chewy cigar.