It didn't matter, really. I mean the dripping. Where it came from and all. Auntie would always yell "get your fool ass over here and soap my neck! Damn fool, always looking at that mildewy corner of the den!"

Auntie has the cellulite sags so she can't lift her arms higher than her shoulders. I put arsenic in the homemade frosting of the cakes I bake for her every week. When I'm rubbing soap on her squishy neck I chortle to myself on the inside. On Friday evenings after the cake I listen to her through the keyhole asking god to please stop the punishment of her gluttonous ways. I think to myself "no."

Sometimes the drip would run red like blood or cherry Kool-Aid. Cherry was my favorite. Ever since I cut off Lester arm by accident auntie won't let me have the cherry Kool-Aid. What I say is he shouldn't have been waving that gun at me while I had my Paul Bunyon imitation ax with babe the blue ox carved and painted on the handle.

He said I was going to die like my daddy. I told him I never knew my daddy. Then I threw the ax at him. Lester used to juggle so he thought he could catch the ax with his freehand.

Dr. Wains said it couldn't be reattached because of the damage the dogs did while playing tug-o-war with Lesters severed hand.

The dogs were used to dried hooves so when they saw that hand bounce on the ground they made like greased pigs with it behind the barn.

------------------

Leon killed his puppy. "The damn dog didn't listen fer shit anyway." is what he said. We were digging a tiny grave out near the bails of hay. The dead puppy was real small so it only took a half dozen shovel scoops to make a hole big enough. Leon had the dog a total of 34 and a half hours before he rung it in his hands like a wet rag.

Me and Leon have been friends even since the day Molly Stevenson died from moisture abrasions. Her older brother Chuck was in charge of the pressure sprayer that day. Every student at the middle school was helping to paint a mural of local merchant and social activities. The pressure sprayer was being used to clean the walls so our paint would stick and be bright and pretty. Principal Masters picked the west facing outside wall of the gym for it's location in relation to highway 25. Highway 25 and county road 2347 cross each other in the center of town.

Molly wanted a drink of water so she took the pressure sprayer and put the nozzle in her mouth. A high powered jet of water exited right out the back of her neck. It severed her spine. The sudden trama caused all her muscles to lock up, including the one holding the pressure sprayer. Before little Larry Waller hit the kill valve on the sprayers motor mollys body had done two full cartwheels in the air. She was tiny so the power from the hose lifted her clean off the ground.

Since she had checked out in the first few moments of the fiasco, and the whole event was caused by water there wasn't much clean up in ways of blood. They ended up painting the wall shady grove green. It's our school color. Well that and gold, but the gold paint wasn't out of stock so Ernest Waller wasn't gonna give it away like he did the green.

Ernest and Lester drink Pabsts Blue Ribbons at the Hickory Hole together. The Hickory Hole is on the northwest corner of highway 25 and county road 2347. Dugan's Draft's, Cindi's Supper Club and Cocktails, and Frostys Pint House sit on the northeast, southeast, and southwest corners or the intersection respectively. The town church shares a parking lot with Dugan's.

I once watched Billy Conrey skin a cat behind the dumpsters of Dugan's. When the bells in the church tower started I nearly pissed my levi's. They were loud and we were supposed to be in woodshop class. Billy had told us how he'd been riding his bike down past the church when one of old lady Merriam's strays took a fatal lump from a Transtar Global Semi passing through town on it's way to the west coast. He scooped it up and hid it under a pile of flattened cardboard boxes behind Dugan's. He told us this at lunch and suggested we skip woodshop to go look at it. I said the only way I would skip woodshop is if he skinned the cat and let us watch. I like woodshop almost as much as professional wrestling. The only good part was the sound that cats skin made as it slipped off the muscle underneath. It was the same noise sliced cheese makes when you pull the plastic wrapper off, except more sticky sounding.


------------------------

nomorelove
I'm over it. I need something to calm the white noise. My heavy head is marketed and cookied, now i got raw code strings and unix commands tattooed on my tongue - always starting to learn never really understanding. I have no computer science education, and this shit is confusing for a dopey chubby lump headed freaky freak. While statements and parsed xml and chmod and all the other mess. I can't even think about php or building my first linux box. But i want to understand and code and grow in knowledge and be able to make things that make themselves so i can be lazy and respected. I want to be one with the machine, have the intristic knowledge and confidence in the language to write and build and operate. Javascript is simple enough, I just have no discipline or maybe my brain chemstry is opposed to gripping the basic ideas so i can build a foundation of knowledge. I understand but i do not know. bah humbug.

a tool enabling a.m. radio like static and self serving dribble from people with little substance.
Fear. It drives and decieves. It lies. I see it in every 'blog. No truth, just gradious posturing and masturbatory kneeling to the god of cool. Subserviant is I. Callous and free of empathy I tread like an angry farm animal across all their delecate textual mumblings. No pity or excitement. Just calculated clicking. Never mind changing of jobs or sick children or 'I started a meme, I'd fuck myself if I had a clone' postings in the honest impersonal intimacy vein of online existance. Just assume no one reads it. Thats what I do. Hell, no one will ever read this right here. I could say the most sordid secret of my life and I would have very little fear of anyone finding it out. It's like someone who goes outside in a raincoat with nothing on underneath. Completely naked under a flimsy loose garment. A 'blog? Same thing, no one SEE'S what is really there, they just read the rockstars dick wagging or the sensitive girls reaction to everyone else lack of reaction to a funny story of death and loss. Then you got the assholes with there self-styled "Sense of Humor" taking funny to the masses in the market they targeted with witty banter about their interwoven lives (or lack their of). I prefer to stay alone on this great wide wired mess of egos and confusion. All I see is ego and confusion. But we do see things as we are, not as they are in truth. I've met my share of online personality. You know what? Most people online you respect or actually genuinely like have aspects to them that never get shown on the website. Substance. It's whats for dinner. I had this idea that I would attract readers by my sheer insanity, but all I've managed to do is scare away people that were digging it until they saw the shady side of my bubbly character. My webcam says "I am not what you see." Same thing for every web property I own or put my name on. I am not a web page, or a piece of writing. I am none of these. I am a couragous, inspired, introspective artist that seeks meaning deep inside the void of context. But don't believe me, remember I'm not what you see.

I am 25.
I am male.
I am hetrosexual.
I have kissed another man on the lips and been ok with it.
I believe in love.
I understand hate.
I like my dog (finally).
I pray daily.
I am sometimes afraid of the dark.
I sometimes feel desprately alone.
I have faith.
I miss the ignorance of youth.
I cry at sad movies and songs.
I feel Jimi.
I am a poet.
I find dark hair and dark eyes incredibly attractive.
I've had more one night stands than I am proud of.
I've never been to the east coast.
I was once locked up for mental health reasons.
I do passion very well.
and
I am ok.

Whats your story?

contextmotherfucker-muthafuckin'context,bitch
White trash women should get fat, learn to cook and make welfare babies. Not get aol accounts and fucking make judgements about intelligence. Nothing worse than someone with a small intellect thinking their intellectuals. It's kinda like the incompetience that shines through the over zealous claim of competience and ability that makes most people in the given situation squirm with discomfort and embarrassment for the offending character.

homestate getdown
Trippin' home 14 hours north on 35 from DALLAS to MINNEAPOLIS. Long dive went quick and easy, except of the thunderstorm's and overturned 18 wheelers in Oklahoma. It rained forever and ever amen, all the way to just past Des Moines. 8+ hours of 80+ speeds on wet freeway with added sleep deprivation made passing big truck freeway wake a nerve wracking experience to be classified with extreme dental work and sex with fat chicks - a rush but not all too pleasurable. AH! Homecomings always put me smack dab in the middle of some softsided mental viewing of the past. Pictures in my mind of the way things were, home has lots of memories. Made me homesick. Oh well, I get paid enough in DALLAS to make it easy to go back, besides nothing ever stays the same thats worth a shit anyways. A joke 'em if they can't take a fuck. By the way, go buy a Martin Sexton CD and feel the love, or don't.

nipplepicturegagfest
That close up of a viewing makes me feel feel like I wanna puke, nasty shit. I'mm all about licking 'em, sucking 'em, even pinching & biting 'em a little. But fuck that whacked out close up pictures of them on the internet thingy - thats nasty as all get out. Now I'm pucky (or maybe it's the soy nuts). Beware, the link contains hair and pink flesh - just like 98% of the rest of the internet....

i want a metacam page full of naked bitches
I'm gonna get a webcam and then get all buff and permaflex for the world and get lot's of e-mail about my large muscles. then I'll pet the kitty.

I'm seeing the seed drip off the flab on her abdomen and I'm thinking to myself "Was I really THAT lonely ?".

Yea, but now all I want to do is be a nasty boy and talk dirty in a real deep breathy voice, telling her how to use her tongue. it feels real comical and forced at the time, and in retrospect I want to bang my head aganst the wall and scream "STUPID! STUPID! STUPID!".

But she did get better at it in the few months i didn't call her.

moogooalabammabingdong
fucking monkeys. always messing up the either if or continue to see what it was. I have bad audio body effects with odor accompany... I wanna be like all the other really creative types and say some cool shit that whacks peoples heads for an afternoon.... but only for a little while. then i want to be having sex. Not even good sex, just sex. you know?

Drivetime: 6 hours 30 minutes. Three cities, Dallas, Austin, San Antonio. 40 hours later. Drivetime: 5 hours 30 minutes Three cities, San Antonio, Austin, Dallas. My thighs hurt. Traffic in Austin sucks very large cock. Why can't you hip happinin' assholes with your tech knowledge and tech money solve a smile traffic problem. MY PRECEPTION OF AUSTIN: "Were too fucking cool and hip. Look at me and my tattoos and decerning taste in music and my oh so ultra cool attitude while I drink my beverage with the hard to pronounce name wearing my thrift store threads and simple/echo/puma lowtop sneakers and multiple piercings. HA! I live in AUSTIN, I'm COOLER than you." But what do i know, I grew up in a state with an effective social service system.

Waa waa waaaaa..... in the house! I feel as flakey as whitefish under lemon on cheap china... but on a tighter weighty flame thing i think it is tried and true to just be lusty and free or guilt....