i'm going to fire this one off really quickly. (then come back and do some light editing when i come to my senses - time of sensibility is 1:35pm)
i'm having a son of a bitch of a time writing these days. like right now. just this second. i was like, "hey - i'm going to sit down and write what i'm feeling which is this right here and not get all fancy or try and fit square potatoes through pineapple wholes (i meant to write holes. the "w" was irresponsible) and talk about how i feel like doing push ups right now - i have been for a while - thinking about push ups - but i've also been thinking about twitter and other people and stuff about grammar and other bullshit - i was hoping to make lots and lots of friends to validate some ideas about the possibilities of letting it spew all heart and nice like to bring all the creatures together and create a legion of bad motherfuckers who do things they want to do it with a whole lot of sass and style - like charlie's angels but better. kind of like the free press - which it is - but more so in the way that isn't so god damn fucking stupid. inclusive. and yet i snipe. i wish i had more toys as a kid - and i'm mad i even lost the last few sentences to that one - grammar and the love of twitter without knowing twitter or getting twitter but being too lazy to look for its sexy little hot and hopping prohibition era clit - because the eyes are all of a sudden (sorry - all of a sudden the eyes) are watching (because i post a god damn link to every tweet and typepad and facebook and all that other shit because i'm looking for something to come back at me) and i'm looking into taking up some meditation because over the last few weeks or month or more i've had those moments where i think i'm about to die - aka; a panic attack (so says that bald buy who isn't a doctor but says awesome shit about looking up a pig's ass for a pork sandwich) and it isn''t so great to not be able to breathe and feel your heart ripping out from the BLACK DEPTHS OF MY SOUL (its authorized) - right next the the shack of tender ponies and candyland champions - i know its a panic attack - but i've begun to wonder if it is something else and i'm considering doing some surfin' on the ole web m.d. which to me - is pretty much the most stupid god damned thing just about anybody with a question about panic attacks could do. seriously. its true. in fact, it's true with just about any malady - real or imagined. diagnosed or challenged. when you start looking on web m.d. you're pretty much fucked. and i won't do it.
all i know is that this little exorcise is going better than i expected. shit. just paused again thinking about or feeling bad about wanting to post this to my blog - then twitter for the glory of sex and territory (i'm not sure if i used that zinger already) but why does everybody hate the word blog and the class of fuckers who have been donned bloggers? what gives?
i have my ideas. oooooh weeee. i sure do. but i think people are pretty stupid sometimes. them and their hamburgers and pineapple holes and snazzy furniture. (proper use of the h instead of the erroneous w in relation to my ambition of getting things bang dead).
ok. pardon me. got lost. hold on a second. wait. ok. things have gotten good again. i am in the midst of a writers block. i don't want to talk about the writers block because when i start thinking about the writers (it needs an apostrophe) block i start doing shit like - well its the lingual equivalent of looking for a definitive answer to my malady on web m.d.
get lost. come on. i feel like an epic oh my god black woman with wonderful hair in front of one of those silver cadillac art deco microphones on a stand singing, "get lost- come on. yes. "get lost - come on". she's a hot one like macey or macy gray or grey. don't you even pretend you don't know what i'm talking about. i'll break a chunk of shut the fuck up off in you fool.
wow. that last one may have been one of the best random slurs i've come up with in a while. which bothers me. not that it has been a while for a slur like that. it bothers me because its taken a lot of those god damn slurs to get to trying to put down and express this thing i'm writing right here. (i just started to hit the backspace button to revise - forgive me). (at 1:45 p.m. i come back to this request for forgiveness and realize that this little stretch of letters is fucked) (i'm asking myself to forgive me). (and the seven people who may read this blog to forgive me) (or the seven people who may read this blog to just witness my forgiveness and forget that any of this ever happened - like that summer in desmondu kata hutu when i forgot to rinse the cup after brushing.)
doing it again.
the truth is i'm all backed up. i don't know how to do it anymore. i'm fucking frustrated as all hell and something is not right and i'm fighting hard not to get all little women about it (the movie version starring a very intense winona rider) (she's like a little shinobi angel with a sparkle in her eye) (in that one the heights went wwwwwuuu uu uuu tttt tttthhh thhh thhhhhh eeeerrrrrrr.) (shorthand = wuther - but the inflection and pronunciation is the piece de la resistance.)
i'm fighting hard not to get all little women on it and think about it too much (the writers block) and do the existential equivalent to searching for answers on web m.d. for the panic attacks i'm having and writing about now - which is weird don't you think - because this is where the web m.d. lurks to give the consumer aka: john Q public a nice dose of the terror - or a chance for someone who loves someone to do something active to help their loved one because; at times - i know - it gets really pretty horrible when nobody has answers (speaking of the doctors) and you feel completely and totally helpless.
i guess web m.d. isn't all that bad if you realize its web m.d. and that is what you are doing i guess giving the terror a chance has its benefits. i guess that i've spent another five hundred words (or more) talking about but not really getting to anything.
i just needed to do something. i needed to try. which i think is something that i've held onto back their in my ever loving fucking head was good enough to win the god damn pie eating contest and get the blue ribbon and the picture in the paper and the thumbs up next candy moore - the great american pimple that was never popped.
ok. hugs. love you. bye bye. adios.
love,
felix taco.
breakdancer.
suckerfish.
bombadier.
