Friday, February 20, 2004

Karma Police

Written last night.

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I'm pretty dry for writing today. I'm really tired and don't feel like writing. And when I did try to write, it just felt dead. I guess I just need a little break. I have been writing every day this week, about, so I guess it's understandable. And it's just been a long day today. But, I'm forcing myself to write here so I can at least say I wrote somewhere around my 2,000 word goal for each day. Hah, I did write that really long piece two days ago as well; I think that'd make up for today, but still, I need to keep myself focused anyway. I need to keep writing 2,000 words a day nonetheless.

I started writing a piece for Adam. That was, of course, inspired to be done by the post I read of his cat, Paulie (Polly?) getting sick and coughing up blood. I thought it'd be nice to write him a memorable piece (well, somewhat memorable, anyway: it's off to a pretty rocky start, I think). A piece that he could put in his room, save on his computer, whatever, and read to be reminded of Paulie in turn.

Also, I think it's interesting. Paulie is like a symbol of his childhood; he's had the cat since he was very young from what I gather, and many of his childhood memories are centered around the cat. And plus, Paulie's always been a cool cat, if you know what I mean. And that's a big thing coming from me—I haven't much liked cats. My dad's allergic to them, so we haven't gotten many, and it's in turn made me dislike cats in some offhand, foreign way. Anyway, yes, Paulie's a symbol of Adam's childhood (to me, anyway), and I think it parallels what's going on in his life now, as well. The death of childhood. That's what I'm thinking.

I've written a piece recently on that subject. I guess it's something I would like to extensively write about in my ways, it seems. So hooray for that, or something.

Or something.

Got most of my homework done. The Chemistry assignment I had was really long though. Not to complain, but it was definitely draining. I just don't like Chemistry all too much—well, I do like it at times, but, you know, doing about two hours of homework for one class is, well, pretty crazy. That's when it's not fun.

Something like the assignment I had for English—now that's fun. Maybe it's just because writing is, at times, so easily done for me; but it's also that the assignment was easy, or so I'd like to say. The assignment was taking a list of vocab words, and using them in a piece. The piece could be anything: a poem, a short story, a personal narrative, anything. I did a poem. The poem turned out decent, I think. But it implements some of my older poems' ideas, so I didn't think it was too originally veined. But it turned out good, and decent, so that's all that matters, I guess. I'm also glad to say I wrote one poem today. Poetry's been very shaky for my lately, but I'm starting to get someplace in it again. I wrote a poem yesterday, and today, and some other days, so it's nice to be writing a poem a day on top of my 2,000 words goal. It helps to keep me sharp in my writing. And poems and prose are two different things (although I've tried to have them coexist before with some results).

I feel really indifferent right now. Somehow I tend to think indifferent is more laid back than apathetical, which, in definition, I suppose that's true. But I'm just emotionless right now. I don't feel much of anything, and I'm just zombieing my way through this post, getting some random thoughts down as they come. I wish I could feel something, but I find that late at night like this it's not the case most of the time. Right now I just feel tired, as if I could sleep, and my head's a bit pounding in its ways. My head's trying to unwind from the day's crap. Yes, that's right, the day's "crap." The day has a lot of crap, and this crap just piles up and up in cumulative piles. Why a day can't just crap in a toilet and move its bowels there, I don't know. I guess it just likes crapping all around me to make me feel tense and winded up like a toy soldier.

What we need is people to clean up the day's crap. That'd be the bomb. Maybe they could be called The Defecators or something. They would go around picking up day's fresh feces matter before it could infect everyone's mind and be robbed full of flies drizzling around, wanting to nurse in their maggots there. Just imagine it: then the day wouldn't have any crap, and you'd be able to go about without any crap permeating into your ears, and eating into your mouth, and fingering your flesh. Yes, that's right, "fingering your flesh." Yes, that's very right. (You sick perverse cookie, how dare you turn my poetical use of language and accost it with your lame-ass innuendoic bullshittage of tit-anic proportions. Oh, look there again! The titanic was a damn ship, okay? A damn ship, and just because its first three letters spell a particular word gives you no right in the righteous world to turn it on me and make me look like I'm some divine sex god that's just brimming, just flowing, just emanating sexual energy and sexual perversional language.)

Ahem. Where were we. Ah yes. The day and its need to move its bowels. I've noticed it likes to do it on my head quite most often. Just like some bombing bird sent on a mission from the deepest reaches of the United States government. And that's just not fair. I don't deserve to be defecated on like that. I deserve to be preened, and cuddled, not shat on. That's just not kind, especially from a bird.

If it's going to be like that, I'll just give that bird the bird, finger it to it. Yes, that's right. "Finger it to it." Got a problem with it, bub? You know, I have claws in my arms, and they come out when I'm in need of 'em. I'm like a wolverine on Tylenol, so you gotta watch out. I'll stab you in your stomach before you know it, and I'm not going to "finger it to it" either, no, not at all. That's not my style. I'd stab you in cold blood with them.

Did you actually believe I had claws there for a second? Well, I really do, fool. My claws are my godsend. You got to watch out for them, too, or else they'll go Gestapo on your ass. (I'm sorry to degrade to that term, but what can I say, Gestapo is a funny word. Ha ha, that's a funny word. Practice it with me. Ready? Laugh. Ha ha, that's a funny word. Say it. "Ha ha, that's a funny word." You better be saying it or else I swear your family's going to be instigated by a group of yodeling hippies who steal their sanity and give them nothing in exchange.)

Hold on there, hold on. I got something for you! Hold on there! Just hold on a second, I would tell you what I'm doing with my hands right now if I could quit narrating for a second and just give you descriptive paragraphs and not have to talk about what I'm doing right now.

Oh, wait, here we go, yeah.

Mitch puts his hands into the depths of his pockets. He fumbles around madly in them for a while.

"Hold on! I got something for you! Just hold on! Hold on!" and Mitch is still moving his hands to and fro madly in his pocket. Does Mitch have a gift? Does he have something of importance?

Yes, he does.

Mitch reveals what he has. His hands quickly spring forth from his pockets, magically, and then they are suddenly pointed to the day, who is now dropping a lozenge on Mitch heftily from the sky. Mitch's middle finger stands out in stark resplendence, and shines. But it is too late, and day is not startled at all! The shat lozenge from day's sent bird begins tumbling from the sky, just like a baby being dropped by a gull. The lozenge picks up speed as it falls due to its weight giving it inertia and gravity exerting its pull.

Down the shitbomb falls, spinning rapidly in the air as if the lozenge is alive with contemplations. It can almost be heard exclaiming wildly, through giggles and endless movement, "Where's the Mitch, where's he! I'm gonna slam him right in the face and it's going to be great! Me, I'm going to shat on Mitch! Ha ha, it'll be great! It'll be just like when George Bush choked on his pretzel at that baseball game and it was covered with wide media coverage! I cannot wait for the media to get in on this! Ha ha, this'll be great, it'll be far better than anything else that's ever happened in my existence!"

Then. . .seconds later.

Plop. Mitch stares in belation at his head. What's this that's landed? Oh, it smells warm and it's so very brown and there's little cracks in it, and it seems so alive.

Oh, that's a turd.

Then, suddenly, a great noise is heard as a vehicle approaches. It's a TV van; its dish is on its top, spinning wild, and it says channel 60 news on it.

Mitch laughs as he looks at 60. 60. A 6 and an 0. A long shafty organ and a circle digit zero. Hah, it's genius. Mitch wishes he could be 60-something-or-other. Then he could symbolize (no it's not what you think you sick perverted pig! how dare your mind go so far into the gutter! thou art the most innuendoic thing that hath stalkethed me!) Mitch as only a number.

A woman with large heaving bosoms approaches Mitch (I think you're speaking to me and making me add that "large heaving bosoms" part, aren't you? I should just deleted it, sicko!). She has large blue eyes like the sky and her hand's held out to Mitch. "Hello, my name's Granola." Granola?

Sounds like. . .dun dun dun, a Granola Bar. That chewy grainy bar of delicacies.

"Just like a Granola Bar," says Mitch.

"Yes," says Ms. Heaving Bosoms 2004.

"I like Granola Bars," says Mitch.

"I do too," says Ms. Heaving Bosoms 2004.

"Yeah," says Mitch.

"Yeah," says Ms. Heaving Bosoms 2004.

"Anyways," says Turd Covered Mitch.

"Yes, anyways, what's your name then?" asks Granola Bar Ms. Heaving Bosoms 2004.

"My name's Sexy beast, and I've come to put my sexy beast moves on you!" says Sexy Turd Covered Beast Mitch.

"Ah," says Ms. Heaving Bosoms 2004 Granola Bar.

Now, cue the corny porno music.

Too hot for post. Deleted.

"That was fun," says Turd Covered Now Happy Sexy Beast Mitch.

"Yes, it was," says Ms. Heaving Bosoms 2004 Granola Bar Now Sexed. "I liked how you [Too hot for post. Deleted] and put that thing [Too hot for post. Deleted] and then put your hand on [Too hot for post. Deleted]."

The porno music stops. Mitch awakens and realizes he had fallen on the ground and was fantasizing.

"That was quite a fall you took," says Ms. Heaving Bosoms 2004.

"Yes," says Mitch. "What's your name, again?"

"Granola."

"Like Granola Bars?"

"Yes. Like Granola Bars."

"I like Granola Bars."

"Yes."

"Yes."

Mitch scratches his head and realizes the turd is still there. "Excuse me for a moment," Mitch says. "I'll be right back, then we can get down to 'business.'"

"Okay. Hurry back then, so we can get back down to 'business.'" says Ms. Heaving Bosoms 2004 With New Added Line "Business."

Mitch finds a tree with bark. He rubs his head on it and the shat comes off. He holds his fist to the air, and triumphantly flips a bird to the sky.

"God bless America," he says. Then, "Granola Bars. . .mmm."

He walks back to the reporter.

"Hello," says Mitch Now Without Shat It's On The Tree.

"Hey," says Ms. Blue eyes. "So, let's get down to 'business.'"

"Yeah, let's do." Mitch stares at her. She stares at him.

Then, suddenly, her face changes. It contorts to the face of Richard Simmons.

"OMG," says OMGing Mitch.

"WTF is ur problem?" says Ms. Heaving Bosoms 2004 Richard Simmons.

"NM," says NMing Mitch.

"OK," says Dick Simmons Heaving Bosoms 2004.

"Is this IRL?" asks IRLing Mitch. "OMFG, if it is."

"IMO, it is," says Dick Simmons. "Anyway, let me ask you a question, okay?"

"Fine, fine," says Mitch.

"WTF is where you were born?"

"Excuse me?" asks Mitch, brow furrowed.

"WTF IS WHERE YOU WERE BORN!"

"Could you speak English, please? I don't know what W-T-F means."

"Winging Titter Flies is where you were born?"

"What? What did you say?"

"OMFG! WTF am I supposed to do! I can't even understand what I'm trying to say."

"Eh?" says Mitch.

"And I wanted this story alot! WTF, I can't even write a sentance of it now!"

"A lot is separated, you know. It's not one word. And I'd advise you don't use it so much, either, Mr. Simmons. It's a stupid, overused term. And what does it mean, when you look at it? A lot could be where you put cars. I know about those lots. And sentence is spelled with an 'e.' It's spelled s-e-n-t-e-n-c-e. Did you get that down? And I'd advise you don't use acronyms, they make you look stupid, and lose credit as good reporter."

Richard Simmons starts breaking down.

"OK, OK, I admit it, I'm a failure! I can't spall at all, and my grammer and sentances is terrible! So I guess we can't help eachother, can we? WTF, and all I wanted was a story about you and ur day shitting on you!"

"Can't you ever get it right, Dick? Dick, grammar is spelled with all 'a's.' There's not a single e in it at all. Just think about it before you write it down. And 'each other'? Each other is separated. I know it sounds like it's all one word, since that's how I've always said it. But I've said it more like, 'e'chother,' than 'each other.' I guess it's just another slang. But it's separated. And please, dear jesus, don't use shorter forms of words. It's just lazy and makes you look like a bumbling fool!"

"OK, me sorry. Me promise to get better at grammar. Me promise."

Mitch, seeing no hope for poor Dick Simmons, turns and walks away. Me promise? Me promise? Mitch shook his head and felt like he was going to cry tears to the grammar gods.

"Why couldn't you just have been the girl of my dreams?" Mitch mumbles as he walks away.

"Why couldn't you be the girl of my dreams? Where did everything go so wrong with you? Why did you have to turn into Richard Simmons?"

He goes off in the distance, and as he walks, another turd falls on his head.
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