September 2, 2009

• REMEMBER ME!?

   Over the course of the last couple of seasons, I haven't posted very much. I haven't been engaged much in blogging since last December, but I pop back in occasionally, kind of like driving through your childhood hometown to see how it is, and you see some of the same people, some of have moved away. The sidewalks are cracked, the houses need paint, there's garbage on the broken avenues, and that little shop that used to sell those gigantic lollipops has closed down.

  As I stroll down those tattered walkways, people wave to me and say they miss me. I missed them too. They smile at me, and I smile back. They ask me where I've been, and I say...

  An ominous charcoal-black windowless full-size van came screeching from beyond yonder spontaneously as I stood posed in serene equanimity. Suddenly, I was punched with the compunction to be terrified; my legs turned to liquid, the cartilage transmogrified into tapioca pudding. If I was canine, the hackles would factually stand on my back, however, my limbs would render themselves immobile as if latched in cast-iron shackles. Lurid silhouettes orbited by malign ambiance awarded no contradiction to my steadfast optimism, as they darted about ubiquitously. I became infinitesimally miniscule, but remained fastidiously captivated by the capricious cavalcade of camaraderie surreptitiously circling in the shadows. No doubt they were rendered flabbergasted by my profluence of equanimity, and had I been able to navigate through a labyrinth of lenient masked harbingers, I certainly would've evaded seizure, however, they were relentless. Prior to being tossed like Caesar Salad into their van, I opened my thesaurus and said "Well, this is quite...", turning a page to find the word I said, "...vexing." They did not engage a tête-à-tête.

  Anyhoo, I was kidnapped by a quinessential polygamist cult with it's citadel situated in the heart of Wyoming (Where else would it be? Nebraska?). You know, an insidious anti-hedonistic threshold of hypnotized lemmings serenading a singular totalitarian esoteric ostentatious modern-era messiah with a litany of hallelujahs, or verily be ostracized by the cattle-like stoic congregation, envisaged as a prefidious Benedict Arnold to the Sovereign Savior, who merely confabulates fabrications fabulously and causes the fabric of reality to stand flabbergasted as his mere whim constitutes ultimate unequivocal actuality! Upon arrival, he brusquely began courting me for coitus, as his role as fucking Jesus revolved about a routine of copulating preadolescents of the xx-deoxyribonucleic acid persuasion, but also an occasional fully-developed female mammal.

  So naturally, I escaped with a nail file.

  Fucking weirdos. So, after I made haste from the cult (I was saved, in part, by a time-traveling, crime-fighting monkey named Nomac, who slashed peoples' Achilles Tendons as his main attack.) I got on a bus that took me to Kalamazoo, where I took a plane to Albuquerque, and then I took a helicopter to Ouagadougou, and then I took two aspirin, some painkillers, a Jack, and a coke, and woke up in a crate that sent me back home, where I finally sat down to blog, but I had such a headache that I was able to write was "CRIPES!" before passing out.

  I actually wrote a lot of posts, but I never made any of them public, because they didn't "feel right". Maybe you know about those posts that you write, but keep going back and deleting whole paragraphs that just came out wrong, then, after finishing it, it still wasn't right. You looked at it, and concluded to yourself "I guess some things are just better off left unsaid."

  Remember when Obama said that police officer acted stupidly? Sure, it's stupid for arresting someone for trying to get into their own house when they clearly identify themself as the legal resident, but apparently, the President wasn't allowed to have an opinion, because it "undermines the police's decisions". Really, that makes sense, because there are times when a minority person pulls out a wallet that looks like a weapon, and he has to be shot 127 times. Anyhow, the point is, I had things to say, but I didn't post them for ze world to see for a change, thus disengaging me from the Xanga Scene for awhile. I still feel disengaged, disgruntled and disconnected from the Xanga world in general. I stilll feel guilty about some of the things that I did on xanga before, and I have cloud over me telling me that I'll never be as "big" as I was before.

  It's both freeing and disappointing to not be writing for an audience of thousands anymore, because in general, mass audiences don't catch subtlety very well, but laugh at pictures of sandwiches and pop-culture jokes. On the other hand, if you think it's fun having a handful of people care about what you write, imagine having a fuckton more people caring. That kind of grew on me for awhile, and I had a hard time letting it go. Most of my life, nobody has cared about what I thought, and I mean literally nobody. I'm not trying to get pity points by saying that, I'm just saying that when you crave validity, and then it comes in truckloads, it's very overwhelming but incredible.

  If you're worried about me, never fear... I've grown up somewhat since I started this blog, and I feel like I have more confidence now, and I think the people in my life notice it too. To be honest, Xanga may have something to do with that, so thank you.

  Peace!

  • 4:11 pm
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