People,
In a moment of clarity, I'd like to announce that my shitty band's website is up and running. It is located at http://ministersofagony.com. Please check it out and see how stupid we are. Peace out.
Sunday, February 23, 2003
Okay, I've been busy as of late (ie, drinking, not keeping up with school, blah blah blah), so here's a bunch of shit.
The session summary with O'Conner, Betsy, Martinson, and the other two I didn't really know didn't shed any new light into my writing. Like I said, I'm a terrible English major and I don't think anything that these writers could tell me would help my ill English skills. I enjoyed listening to them talk to one another because I had class with almost all of them and enjoyed them as teachers. Betsy seemed to think to be a really good writer you need to be happy while Martinson thought being depressed was a better way to go. I agree with both of them because some of your most serious writing occurs when God (if there is a God) takes a big fat shit on your head. But I also think to write something with great clarity takes happiness. But everybody's different so different shit works for different people. I don't think either way works for me so I continue to drink heavily.
My research report is non existant because I don't know what the fuck I'm going to write about. I haven't really been thinking too much about it because I'm in Astronomy and I fucking hate that class. I devote most of my energy towards hating the fucking teacher because he can't teach shit. I hate Astronomy, Physics, and the fact Mattew Lilliard is still alive.
I failed to make it to either of the readings because I was busy sitting on my ass at Tesoro selling gas and other merchandise to stupid people. Some dumb bitch asked me how much her total was about 13 times within 30 seconds. After gaining this information 13 times, she asked if she could write her check out for more. I told her yes then she asked what the total was. I wanted to blow my brains out. Fuck stupid people.
That's all I've got right now. I haven't showered in two days so I'm gonna go scrub my balls now.
The session summary with O'Conner, Betsy, Martinson, and the other two I didn't really know didn't shed any new light into my writing. Like I said, I'm a terrible English major and I don't think anything that these writers could tell me would help my ill English skills. I enjoyed listening to them talk to one another because I had class with almost all of them and enjoyed them as teachers. Betsy seemed to think to be a really good writer you need to be happy while Martinson thought being depressed was a better way to go. I agree with both of them because some of your most serious writing occurs when God (if there is a God) takes a big fat shit on your head. But I also think to write something with great clarity takes happiness. But everybody's different so different shit works for different people. I don't think either way works for me so I continue to drink heavily.
My research report is non existant because I don't know what the fuck I'm going to write about. I haven't really been thinking too much about it because I'm in Astronomy and I fucking hate that class. I devote most of my energy towards hating the fucking teacher because he can't teach shit. I hate Astronomy, Physics, and the fact Mattew Lilliard is still alive.
I failed to make it to either of the readings because I was busy sitting on my ass at Tesoro selling gas and other merchandise to stupid people. Some dumb bitch asked me how much her total was about 13 times within 30 seconds. After gaining this information 13 times, she asked if she could write her check out for more. I told her yes then she asked what the total was. I wanted to blow my brains out. Fuck stupid people.
That's all I've got right now. I haven't showered in two days so I'm gonna go scrub my balls now.
Friday, January 31, 2003
As a practicing alcoholic, I'm not up to par on a lot of shit. Was it just me, or were we supposed to do a fiction piece on eating snow? Oh well, here's the original "Eating Snow."
First of all, I never knew there were so many goddamned stairs in this building. It felt like we were walking down them for ten minutes. Secondly, I knew I would be the one dude eating the snow sitting on top of dog shit. Thankfully, that didn't happen. I ate the snow and went inside. I experienced no rebirth of my spirit, no closeness to a higher power, or no calming feeling coursing through my body. I just felt relief that the snow I ate wasn't sitting on top of dog shit. Then I found myself longing for an elevator in sight.
First of all, I never knew there were so many goddamned stairs in this building. It felt like we were walking down them for ten minutes. Secondly, I knew I would be the one dude eating the snow sitting on top of dog shit. Thankfully, that didn't happen. I ate the snow and went inside. I experienced no rebirth of my spirit, no closeness to a higher power, or no calming feeling coursing through my body. I just felt relief that the snow I ate wasn't sitting on top of dog shit. Then I found myself longing for an elevator in sight.
Thursday, January 30, 2003
Okay, I'm fucked up right now, but here's "Eating Snow, Part Deux."
"Fucking bitch," Chris muttered, slamming the door. "That fucking no good slut fuck fuckface fuck!" He adjusted his coat.
The snow that had started falling lightly earlier had picked up and the flakes were the size of quarters falling from the sky. Chris turned from Mary's house and looked forlornly down the sidewalk. He sighed and began the long trek home.
i'm too fucking young for this shit, he thought. I'm 22 fucking years old and I don't need to get shit on by chicks. Am I just a magnet for shit? Someone drove by and splashed a combination of salt, sand, and cold snow on his left leg. Spectacular, Chris thought, his question answered. Fuck. He cast his eyes up to the sky, glaring hard.
He spent the next three blocks trying to comvince himself that it wasn't his fault; the goddamned bitch was at fault. She was fucked in the head, as are all women. But even he knew that it was his fault. Fueled by Captain Morgan's, a few friends, and his hormones, he licked and pawed his way right out of a good relationship . Absently, he tried catching a snowflake in his mouth.
I want to remember the time, he thought, when cathcing a snowflake on my tongue was fun. As he thought, he spied an empty baseball field to his right. He glanced around to make sure no one was looking and entered the field.
He stood on the pitcher's mound and with one final glance, he fell on his back in the snow. He began to make a snow angel, complete in earnest.
In trying to catch snow flakes in his mouth and in making a snow angel, Chris almost forgot about his problems. The fact his girl troubles (which was his fault), his credit card payments were late (again, his fault), him failing two classes at the local college, and his shitty job (McDonald's fucking blows), all melted away like the snowflakes he caught in his mouth. Smiling, he stopped his making his snow angel and watched the snow fall gently to wear he rested.
Catching snowflakes one at a time only seemed to wet his appetite for a time of complete innocence. He rolled over on his stomach and licked a large amount of snow with his tongue. He swirled the snow around his mouth, packing the snow in between his teeth. He felt the snow making his teeth grow cold, slowing melting away and he felt all of the problems he had at that moment melting away, until he focused on the spot he licked the snow from. There, laying in the area he just sampled innocently, was the biggest piece of dog shit he'd ever laid eyes on.
Chris realized right then and there, after vomiting up the Taco John's he had had ealier, that no matter what he did, good or bad, he was never going to escape the fucking shit that was his life.
"Fucking bitch," Chris muttered, slamming the door. "That fucking no good slut fuck fuckface fuck!" He adjusted his coat.
The snow that had started falling lightly earlier had picked up and the flakes were the size of quarters falling from the sky. Chris turned from Mary's house and looked forlornly down the sidewalk. He sighed and began the long trek home.
i'm too fucking young for this shit, he thought. I'm 22 fucking years old and I don't need to get shit on by chicks. Am I just a magnet for shit? Someone drove by and splashed a combination of salt, sand, and cold snow on his left leg. Spectacular, Chris thought, his question answered. Fuck. He cast his eyes up to the sky, glaring hard.
He spent the next three blocks trying to comvince himself that it wasn't his fault; the goddamned bitch was at fault. She was fucked in the head, as are all women. But even he knew that it was his fault. Fueled by Captain Morgan's, a few friends, and his hormones, he licked and pawed his way right out of a good relationship . Absently, he tried catching a snowflake in his mouth.
I want to remember the time, he thought, when cathcing a snowflake on my tongue was fun. As he thought, he spied an empty baseball field to his right. He glanced around to make sure no one was looking and entered the field.
He stood on the pitcher's mound and with one final glance, he fell on his back in the snow. He began to make a snow angel, complete in earnest.
In trying to catch snow flakes in his mouth and in making a snow angel, Chris almost forgot about his problems. The fact his girl troubles (which was his fault), his credit card payments were late (again, his fault), him failing two classes at the local college, and his shitty job (McDonald's fucking blows), all melted away like the snowflakes he caught in his mouth. Smiling, he stopped his making his snow angel and watched the snow fall gently to wear he rested.
Catching snowflakes one at a time only seemed to wet his appetite for a time of complete innocence. He rolled over on his stomach and licked a large amount of snow with his tongue. He swirled the snow around his mouth, packing the snow in between his teeth. He felt the snow making his teeth grow cold, slowing melting away and he felt all of the problems he had at that moment melting away, until he focused on the spot he licked the snow from. There, laying in the area he just sampled innocently, was the biggest piece of dog shit he'd ever laid eyes on.
Chris realized right then and there, after vomiting up the Taco John's he had had ealier, that no matter what he did, good or bad, he was never going to escape the fucking shit that was his life.
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