Four flame outs later and several lives ago.
Clean with alcohol only. Do not attempt to replace blown fuses. Do not remove access panels. Return to certified mechanic for regular maintenance. Made in the USA.
Showing posts with label time travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label time travel. Show all posts
7/12/19
1/14/17
On The Revocation Of Passports
I understand times do change. I understand that I do exist in a space that is not attuned to the normal speeds and distances of the governing dark star at the center of the Milky Way. I understand the difficulties this presents, trickling down to our branch, our neighborhood, our star, our system, our section, our planet, our hemisphere, our continent, our nation, our state, our city, our block, our ship inside that soup (the governance bubble reaching out only that far to offer resistance).
I understand times do change around us and the space in which we exist has a fixed passport system. Once granted entry into the time lapsed/corrupted/flexed/shifted bubble speeding along with the rest of the system around it, the passport will not be revoked. Granted access, you can come and go as you please. There are rules. Those rules can be tailored to you. I will never revoke your passport out of spite. I will never revoke your passport out of anger. I will never revoke your passport because your times have changed. I will never revoke your passport because my time has changed. Once gifted, your passport is set for as long as you live and nontransferable.
We don't give them out like Halloween candy.
If you ever need to borrow a cup of sugar.
If you ever need a box of nails or a snowblower.
If you ever need a lift somewhere.
If I can help, I will. Just ring before you cross the boundary into controlled space and attempt to buzz the flight deck. The weapons net surrounding the ship is live. Don't be converted to light and dust.
///Nightmares On Wax - "Passion"
Do not forget there are rules. Break them enough times and the immune system that keeps the bubble afloat in the interstellar sea will have some very pointed questions for you.
I understand times do change around us and the space in which we exist has a fixed passport system. Once granted entry into the time lapsed/corrupted/flexed/shifted bubble speeding along with the rest of the system around it, the passport will not be revoked. Granted access, you can come and go as you please. There are rules. Those rules can be tailored to you. I will never revoke your passport out of spite. I will never revoke your passport out of anger. I will never revoke your passport because your times have changed. I will never revoke your passport because my time has changed. Once gifted, your passport is set for as long as you live and nontransferable.
We don't give them out like Halloween candy.
If you ever need to borrow a cup of sugar.
If you ever need a box of nails or a snowblower.
If you ever need a lift somewhere.
If I can help, I will. Just ring before you cross the boundary into controlled space and attempt to buzz the flight deck. The weapons net surrounding the ship is live. Don't be converted to light and dust.
///Nightmares On Wax - "Passion"
Do not forget there are rules. Break them enough times and the immune system that keeps the bubble afloat in the interstellar sea will have some very pointed questions for you.
5/9/15
Less Than Stellar Habits
I've developed the habit of not breathing while I'm driving. Cruising down Allegheny boulevard beside the river with a ton of straightaways, I noticed it. My right hand resting on the stick shift started to go numb. That was when I realized I wasn't breathing. That was also when I sucked a breath in at 45 miles per hour on a two lane with a rumble strip. It's really hard not to process space and time as opportunities to wreck and die. I'm trying to unlearn it. Breathing is very important, especially while driving. I'm not scared of many things. I thought I'd conquered my fear of the road once I started whipping my horse, but I hadn't. I have been holding my breath since all this time whenever situations got even remotely hairy. It makes me a worse driver, not a more cautious one. Constant silent panic that locks up a body. The world is terrifying at speed. But I love speed. But it's terrifying. But it's gorgeous. Wrestling with circumfact.... am I going to die in a flaming ball of twisted metal? Ignore the landing lights. They are not landing lights! Oooh tunnel vision. Stick your head out of the window and suck it in. Canyon run. Someday soon. Don't go too heavy on the gas. I want driving to be fun again.
///Hotchip - "You Ride, We Ride, In My Ride"
///Hotchip - "You Ride, We Ride, In My Ride"
4/26/14
Prelude
Yesh, we are gaming up toward a pouring out of emotion and bad sets. Better than bad sets, though, we're gaming out toward a pouring out of hearts and fauxpaux. Toward an analysis. It's been a long time coming. Put offs and put offs and further put off. Decision time. Decision time not ready. One hard month survived can make another, no? Yes. If we do not go, what can be said. If not now, when? Go!
9/24/11
Travels
Do you ever wake up and the first breath you take as you open your eyes is like the end of the beginning of the breath you held loosed in the exhalation last as you closed them hours before? The kind of breath that just draughts and draughts like a mug with its bottom smashed out and a waterfall pouring in through your eyes?
I've been so many places I haven't told you about. It truly has been amazing cities and villages and neighborhoods that I did not know existed in the slightest. It's been like holding up a sliver of pencil graphite and peering at it and into it and trying to see the sliding structures of the molecules that make it able to write and as you focus in harder and harder your eyebrow twitches, your right eye scrunches, your cheek pulls a little bit against the corner of your mouth, and you have a lopsided nostril flare as it curls into a black dot and you sneeze so hard you see the white and gray spots of single blood vessels traveling through the tubes inside your eyes until the white and gray static washes away and as you realize what you felt was probably the hardest sneeze you've felt all year and your vision sharpens and tightens and you go back to the task of focusing in on the little stick of graphite to gain some greater understanding of its whyness the focus of your eyes takes in first the space behind it and you notice for the first time that the entire world has changed and you, through your one tenth orgasmic bending of space and time and through modes absolutely involuntary to your methods, have been transported in the pinched microcosm of a microcosmically microbial micronaut of a micromicrosecond into another state of your known universe. And you're like, "awwww, snap. Wait, where was I just now?"
That's what the cross bridged universe has been like. I've got to find a way to slow down somehow. It's like every step, every step in this phase is approximately three feet (I'm a big stepper, though I live my wake state in little steps, admittedly, not by choice), but sometimes across the bridge it becomes impossible not to cover yards and hundreds of feet to a stride. It's alarming to me. Since the city I traversed and loved deeply, and had fairly close ties to, with it's cats that raced tiny v6 motored shopping carts, and its trams and extensive rail system, its modes and methods, and absolutely stunning, despite the time of day, industrial sector, passed to dust through the extinction level event that literally converted pretty much all living matter there to wind blown drifts of ash, knee and sometimes waist high, the entire world over there was silent for days. Dreams of black empty space.
The passage was probably linked to the discovery of an engine, a massively complex machine, whose only visage, comprehensible to me was red space. I remember traveling in search of the menace. There was so much unrest and power in the air. The kind of power that is impossible to control. The sort of power that raises the hairs on your forearms and makes your skin stand taut at a rally railing against a thing that you don't believe in necessarily, but that is necessarily part of the fabric of who and what you are, and your skin tries to wrench away from the sheer electricity of so many voices and hands raised against the isness of its whatness. The preparations for the event. The siphoning off of resources. It felt like the beginnings of war from the middle portions of textbooks on American history. No pantyhose, no lipstick, no zoot suits, no strip steaks. I don't think they're all related, but they rhymed and made funny notes in my head. All the same, I remember the streets emptying. The saving of fuels. The work stoppages because so many people were leaving and then whatever happened, whatever the engine so utterly complex in it's being and overwhelming in its output to be describable only as the color it left seared into my eyes, everyone died.
Then one day I crossed the bridge again, down the stairwell and through the door, across the water, to enter myself there and I searched farther and farther from the place I'd grown into and I started finding new places untouched by the destruction, by the discovery of a motor vast enough to destroy a population in its breach. It's been simply incredible. The world has been intensely sensory and I know that I am not from there, but a refugee from the city of dust. It's been difficult to blend in. I don't know what it means.
I am anxious for the arms race though. Turning laborers on my factory floors toward positive productions or at least neutral destruction. Admittedly I have been doing my best to live toward lower resolution perception. Perhaps stupidly. However, it has made it much easier to keep track of the caucus. All present for a span of weeks instead of days and hours. Well, mostly all present all the time, but have you ever tried keeping six people at the same table non stop for any length of time. Cellphones down, you assholes! I know it's happening (I've been using those rather interchangeably, but I'm making an effort not to). I haven't been dividing and sub dividing my body like I should be. Increased capabilities are a good thing for the people I work for and cohabitate real space with, but very bad for me because it basically cedes me more idle power, and my insides do not idle well before outlets become too infrequent, necessarily so as there's only so much you can physically do in 24 hours and then I drift toward solid state and forced diffusion through shorter out spouts. The better my conditioning the more of a potential and eventual hazard I become to myself. And who the hell keeps moving my toothpaste.
I guess there's an answer in there somewhere, but I don't remember asking a question. I guess mostly I've just been trying to get a handle on the verdant landscape. The wackness. Seeing through it. I'm used to two or three dreams. Two or three stints in dreamland. I've been having ten to fifteen in the new world. It is strange.
///Linkin Park - "Session" Not trying to create distance, but it's hard to know how far away I travel sometimes because I don't understand how much ground has been covered or how much time passes between what I perceive to be blinks of my eye. Sometimes the days spin by like tracers through sunset skies and it's all I can do not to blink against their rays.
I've been so many places I haven't told you about. It truly has been amazing cities and villages and neighborhoods that I did not know existed in the slightest. It's been like holding up a sliver of pencil graphite and peering at it and into it and trying to see the sliding structures of the molecules that make it able to write and as you focus in harder and harder your eyebrow twitches, your right eye scrunches, your cheek pulls a little bit against the corner of your mouth, and you have a lopsided nostril flare as it curls into a black dot and you sneeze so hard you see the white and gray spots of single blood vessels traveling through the tubes inside your eyes until the white and gray static washes away and as you realize what you felt was probably the hardest sneeze you've felt all year and your vision sharpens and tightens and you go back to the task of focusing in on the little stick of graphite to gain some greater understanding of its whyness the focus of your eyes takes in first the space behind it and you notice for the first time that the entire world has changed and you, through your one tenth orgasmic bending of space and time and through modes absolutely involuntary to your methods, have been transported in the pinched microcosm of a microcosmically microbial micronaut of a micromicrosecond into another state of your known universe. And you're like, "awwww, snap. Wait, where was I just now?"
That's what the cross bridged universe has been like. I've got to find a way to slow down somehow. It's like every step, every step in this phase is approximately three feet (I'm a big stepper, though I live my wake state in little steps, admittedly, not by choice), but sometimes across the bridge it becomes impossible not to cover yards and hundreds of feet to a stride. It's alarming to me. Since the city I traversed and loved deeply, and had fairly close ties to, with it's cats that raced tiny v6 motored shopping carts, and its trams and extensive rail system, its modes and methods, and absolutely stunning, despite the time of day, industrial sector, passed to dust through the extinction level event that literally converted pretty much all living matter there to wind blown drifts of ash, knee and sometimes waist high, the entire world over there was silent for days. Dreams of black empty space.
The passage was probably linked to the discovery of an engine, a massively complex machine, whose only visage, comprehensible to me was red space. I remember traveling in search of the menace. There was so much unrest and power in the air. The kind of power that is impossible to control. The sort of power that raises the hairs on your forearms and makes your skin stand taut at a rally railing against a thing that you don't believe in necessarily, but that is necessarily part of the fabric of who and what you are, and your skin tries to wrench away from the sheer electricity of so many voices and hands raised against the isness of its whatness. The preparations for the event. The siphoning off of resources. It felt like the beginnings of war from the middle portions of textbooks on American history. No pantyhose, no lipstick, no zoot suits, no strip steaks. I don't think they're all related, but they rhymed and made funny notes in my head. All the same, I remember the streets emptying. The saving of fuels. The work stoppages because so many people were leaving and then whatever happened, whatever the engine so utterly complex in it's being and overwhelming in its output to be describable only as the color it left seared into my eyes, everyone died.
Then one day I crossed the bridge again, down the stairwell and through the door, across the water, to enter myself there and I searched farther and farther from the place I'd grown into and I started finding new places untouched by the destruction, by the discovery of a motor vast enough to destroy a population in its breach. It's been simply incredible. The world has been intensely sensory and I know that I am not from there, but a refugee from the city of dust. It's been difficult to blend in. I don't know what it means.
I am anxious for the arms race though. Turning laborers on my factory floors toward positive productions or at least neutral destruction. Admittedly I have been doing my best to live toward lower resolution perception. Perhaps stupidly. However, it has made it much easier to keep track of the caucus. All present for a span of weeks instead of days and hours. Well, mostly all present all the time, but have you ever tried keeping six people at the same table non stop for any length of time. Cellphones down, you assholes! I know it's happening (I've been using those rather interchangeably, but I'm making an effort not to). I haven't been dividing and sub dividing my body like I should be. Increased capabilities are a good thing for the people I work for and cohabitate real space with, but very bad for me because it basically cedes me more idle power, and my insides do not idle well before outlets become too infrequent, necessarily so as there's only so much you can physically do in 24 hours and then I drift toward solid state and forced diffusion through shorter out spouts. The better my conditioning the more of a potential and eventual hazard I become to myself. And who the hell keeps moving my toothpaste.
I guess there's an answer in there somewhere, but I don't remember asking a question. I guess mostly I've just been trying to get a handle on the verdant landscape. The wackness. Seeing through it. I'm used to two or three dreams. Two or three stints in dreamland. I've been having ten to fifteen in the new world. It is strange.
///Linkin Park - "Session" Not trying to create distance, but it's hard to know how far away I travel sometimes because I don't understand how much ground has been covered or how much time passes between what I perceive to be blinks of my eye. Sometimes the days spin by like tracers through sunset skies and it's all I can do not to blink against their rays.
4/2/11
Counting Down Seconds
Counting down the seconds until I have to go outside again. It helps when it's dark out. It feels like there are two inch diameter screws pushing into the space behind my ears and doing their best to touch in the middle.
The wind blows up through the corner of my building where all the boiler rooms and utility closets align. I'm pretty sure I could climb down through the entire building to the basement through there. I'm pretty sure whatever's in the basement can climb up if it wanted to. I try not to think about that space. Sometimes I come home and that door is open. The lock on it is broken. Or maybe it never worked. I stuff socks in the door jamb to keep it shut, but socks don't have magical powers and it doesn't stay shut. I'm thinking about nailing it up.
Yesterday I was working so hard I started drooling and I didn't realize it until I felt the little tug on your shirt that tells you your taco just let a glob of skin temperature oil loose on the middle of your chest. I took it down a notch. The work is hard, but not hard enough. I like it when it's demanding. It helps me forget who I am. I'm no longer me. I'm levers and pulleys and little motors and wires and for loops and if then switches and I love that. Part of me wants that to be all. To rip away from the rest in a maniac's pursuit of perfectly synchronized movement. I'm clumsy. But when I've memorized all the actions it feels so good to make the calls to the functions and then revise them knowing they can't become worse.
I'm thinking about teaching myself to be a butcher, since I didn't get the post. It would be a fun pastime. By the time I can afford to buy the animals I'll be able to afford a freezer to put the parts in and have a nice place for all the tools too. Then I can extend the work from my job through the anxiety of my home and feel that relaxedness roll through me again. But that's a little ways off. It'll be fun.
I had this dream that I went forward in time to the same burned out bakery next to the house I want to buy. The house with the door boarded up in the front and all the doors and balconies open in the back where there was a fire that started at the furnace exhaust and worked it's way forward across the roof and slashed through the face of the third floor like a stroke of side armed bull whip. The place wasn't lived in. Or at least, when I looked in the one open window at ground level I didn't see any blankets in there. The day was already getting on by the time I came to and walked next door so I decided to head East toward the blight and see if I bought any property down that way since I didn't end up taking the home in the shadow of the bakery after all. It was a long walk and things were turning the blue gray of a rainy evening going dark for coming overcast more than precession. I came to the fields of weeds and tumble bricks and lost shopping bags and knit hats from past years turned into multicolored sidewalk band aids glued to the ground by leaves and dog pee and I started stopping at each building standing singular and appearing unoccupied, but none of them were mine. It took me an entire season to move as far ahead as I did and the trees were shedding and blowing across the ground and I was watching them go when my eye took on charcoal writing on the wide boards of a porch with empty windows. There was writing everywhere and it cut and curled like the shadows of crossing tree limbs if the sun were striking at first daylight. I didn't know whose house it was, but I had to know who would trace the veins of a building like that so I walking across another field where a home was knocked down into it's basement and covered over with dirt and crossed a street empty of cars and kicked an empty milk carton on my way up the stairs. There was thick black writing everywhere and on every single step and some dead vines that tried to impress, but were cut at the roots and left to rot. I went inside through the window into the dimness and walked through a living room that sagged in the middle where rain must have collected year in and year out. Walking along the walls to avoid the softest parts of the floor I found a sleeping bag with me inside and I took off my gloves to maintain a slip free grip and I started strangling myself until I felt my larynx collapse like a matchbox and I knelt there squeezing as hard as I could waiting for my eyes to open, but they never did. I left. I went back to the bakery beneath a starless sky and I didn't lay down to go back to my own time until the rain threatened earlier started to fall and I felt peaceful. I slept so good. And then I woke up.
The whole thing made me wonder how many unsolved murders are suicides. It's probably in horrible taste. I'm sure someone somewhere is probably being brutally raped and murdered by someone else who will never be caught. Maybe I'm already on some course for that to happen to me in my bids to connect with people I don't know. But how many people are killed by their time traveling suicidal selves. I don't want to meet myself. Not yet anyway, but I'm counting down the seconds until I have to go outside. I need some time to work on things. I hope I get some time off soon, even though I don't want it. My head hurts.
///Groove Armada - "At The River" Let's dance a little. Please? Don't make me dance by myself again.
The wind blows up through the corner of my building where all the boiler rooms and utility closets align. I'm pretty sure I could climb down through the entire building to the basement through there. I'm pretty sure whatever's in the basement can climb up if it wanted to. I try not to think about that space. Sometimes I come home and that door is open. The lock on it is broken. Or maybe it never worked. I stuff socks in the door jamb to keep it shut, but socks don't have magical powers and it doesn't stay shut. I'm thinking about nailing it up.
Yesterday I was working so hard I started drooling and I didn't realize it until I felt the little tug on your shirt that tells you your taco just let a glob of skin temperature oil loose on the middle of your chest. I took it down a notch. The work is hard, but not hard enough. I like it when it's demanding. It helps me forget who I am. I'm no longer me. I'm levers and pulleys and little motors and wires and for loops and if then switches and I love that. Part of me wants that to be all. To rip away from the rest in a maniac's pursuit of perfectly synchronized movement. I'm clumsy. But when I've memorized all the actions it feels so good to make the calls to the functions and then revise them knowing they can't become worse.
I'm thinking about teaching myself to be a butcher, since I didn't get the post. It would be a fun pastime. By the time I can afford to buy the animals I'll be able to afford a freezer to put the parts in and have a nice place for all the tools too. Then I can extend the work from my job through the anxiety of my home and feel that relaxedness roll through me again. But that's a little ways off. It'll be fun.
I had this dream that I went forward in time to the same burned out bakery next to the house I want to buy. The house with the door boarded up in the front and all the doors and balconies open in the back where there was a fire that started at the furnace exhaust and worked it's way forward across the roof and slashed through the face of the third floor like a stroke of side armed bull whip. The place wasn't lived in. Or at least, when I looked in the one open window at ground level I didn't see any blankets in there. The day was already getting on by the time I came to and walked next door so I decided to head East toward the blight and see if I bought any property down that way since I didn't end up taking the home in the shadow of the bakery after all. It was a long walk and things were turning the blue gray of a rainy evening going dark for coming overcast more than precession. I came to the fields of weeds and tumble bricks and lost shopping bags and knit hats from past years turned into multicolored sidewalk band aids glued to the ground by leaves and dog pee and I started stopping at each building standing singular and appearing unoccupied, but none of them were mine. It took me an entire season to move as far ahead as I did and the trees were shedding and blowing across the ground and I was watching them go when my eye took on charcoal writing on the wide boards of a porch with empty windows. There was writing everywhere and it cut and curled like the shadows of crossing tree limbs if the sun were striking at first daylight. I didn't know whose house it was, but I had to know who would trace the veins of a building like that so I walking across another field where a home was knocked down into it's basement and covered over with dirt and crossed a street empty of cars and kicked an empty milk carton on my way up the stairs. There was thick black writing everywhere and on every single step and some dead vines that tried to impress, but were cut at the roots and left to rot. I went inside through the window into the dimness and walked through a living room that sagged in the middle where rain must have collected year in and year out. Walking along the walls to avoid the softest parts of the floor I found a sleeping bag with me inside and I took off my gloves to maintain a slip free grip and I started strangling myself until I felt my larynx collapse like a matchbox and I knelt there squeezing as hard as I could waiting for my eyes to open, but they never did. I left. I went back to the bakery beneath a starless sky and I didn't lay down to go back to my own time until the rain threatened earlier started to fall and I felt peaceful. I slept so good. And then I woke up.
The whole thing made me wonder how many unsolved murders are suicides. It's probably in horrible taste. I'm sure someone somewhere is probably being brutally raped and murdered by someone else who will never be caught. Maybe I'm already on some course for that to happen to me in my bids to connect with people I don't know. But how many people are killed by their time traveling suicidal selves. I don't want to meet myself. Not yet anyway, but I'm counting down the seconds until I have to go outside. I need some time to work on things. I hope I get some time off soon, even though I don't want it. My head hurts.
///Groove Armada - "At The River" Let's dance a little. Please? Don't make me dance by myself again.
1/4/11
Back From Space
Hello world.
I've missed you. <3.
///DJ Hooligan - "Hear You Now (Grand Chillas Mix)" i see you in so many ways.
I've missed you. <3.
///DJ Hooligan - "Hear You Now (Grand Chillas Mix)" i see you in so many ways.
11/17/06
close the deal 11/17/06
Subject : close the deal
Posted Date: : Nov 17, 2006 6:12 PM
ill admit it. i dont know how to "close the deal." I am just not a closer. i cant tell when its time to stop hitting on a girl and whip it out. i have no idea how thats supposed to even work, and whats more is that sometimes im not even sure if im hitting on them or if my advances are registering as something else. i know im a charismatic guy, but so was satan and im pretty sure hes not getting laid that often.
using lines like, "do you wanna go upstairs," just seem to me like bullshit. utter bullshit. why cant i just say "lets fuck". how come honesty isnt appreciated. well maybe it is. i guess i just have to find that girl that appreciates honesty. i dont want to date in college... i dont want to put in weeks of work on something that will only last a couple of nights... and i dont want to have my fucking hands tied up all day for a wet hole to put my penis in at night. i want my cake and i want to eat it. all of it.
okay... rant over. on another note... i went to get beer today and the beer garage wouldnt take my license. this is the second god damn time they've done this and i have no idea why. im pretty sure its not because im black. i just got the id a few days ago. brand fucking new. why does maryland make non-scannable licenses! what the fuck is going on with the world!
to hit yet another note... i read the most widely circulated coloumn in america yesterday. it was a coloumn written the day after 9-11 and it was terrible. it read like an over blown steroid shooting coaches speech to his team after they were down 28 points at the half. it was clearly a bunch of emotional crap that people would eat up like margarine rolled in powdered sugar and it was totally bullshit. to sum up the coloumn i will say one phrase because this was essentially the only point the coloumnist made: "we're gonna mess you guys up for this, man." that was it. the language he used was so broad and so sweeping it made me want to wretch right there in the middle of class. just yak all over my desk. it was awful, it was presumptuous, it was horribly biased, it was hateful, and it ignored the scope of the event in the longer run. it was as though bush paid the guy to whip it up and help get everyone here riled up and saber rattling. lame.
its times like these that i wish i could go back in time and assassinate people. fuck going back in time to make money. i just want to go back and adjust the gene pool of America cuz she is getting mighty retarded these days.
Posted Date: : Nov 17, 2006 6:12 PM
ill admit it. i dont know how to "close the deal." I am just not a closer. i cant tell when its time to stop hitting on a girl and whip it out. i have no idea how thats supposed to even work, and whats more is that sometimes im not even sure if im hitting on them or if my advances are registering as something else. i know im a charismatic guy, but so was satan and im pretty sure hes not getting laid that often.
using lines like, "do you wanna go upstairs," just seem to me like bullshit. utter bullshit. why cant i just say "lets fuck". how come honesty isnt appreciated. well maybe it is. i guess i just have to find that girl that appreciates honesty. i dont want to date in college... i dont want to put in weeks of work on something that will only last a couple of nights... and i dont want to have my fucking hands tied up all day for a wet hole to put my penis in at night. i want my cake and i want to eat it. all of it.
okay... rant over. on another note... i went to get beer today and the beer garage wouldnt take my license. this is the second god damn time they've done this and i have no idea why. im pretty sure its not because im black. i just got the id a few days ago. brand fucking new. why does maryland make non-scannable licenses! what the fuck is going on with the world!
to hit yet another note... i read the most widely circulated coloumn in america yesterday. it was a coloumn written the day after 9-11 and it was terrible. it read like an over blown steroid shooting coaches speech to his team after they were down 28 points at the half. it was clearly a bunch of emotional crap that people would eat up like margarine rolled in powdered sugar and it was totally bullshit. to sum up the coloumn i will say one phrase because this was essentially the only point the coloumnist made: "we're gonna mess you guys up for this, man." that was it. the language he used was so broad and so sweeping it made me want to wretch right there in the middle of class. just yak all over my desk. it was awful, it was presumptuous, it was horribly biased, it was hateful, and it ignored the scope of the event in the longer run. it was as though bush paid the guy to whip it up and help get everyone here riled up and saber rattling. lame.
its times like these that i wish i could go back in time and assassinate people. fuck going back in time to make money. i just want to go back and adjust the gene pool of America cuz she is getting mighty retarded these days.
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