is rarely if ever seen by anyone including me and yet when I think of it it’s as a glaring error or disfigurement of my fingertips I’ll scrape across my face to scare the eyes away not mine but those that see the seedling demons in me sprout whiskerishly reaching
My efforts to train myself to remember Nick Chinlund’s name are finally paying off because I just turned on the tv and there’s a movie on with Nick Chinlund in it and I said to myself, “Hey! It’s Nick Chinlund!”
So, seriously, there may be hope for me yet.
However, I still have some work to do remembering William Atherton, Anthony Heald, Ray Wise and this one other guy I’m not sure I remember at all. Was it Richard Beymer…? I don’t think it was. Well, maybe. I don’t know.
Oh, wait. It was William Fichtner. I just realized that because he’s in this movie with Nick Chinlund. Or, no. I think that was just some guy who looks like William Fichtner.
This is a shitty movie.
I am the Pope of these particular ravioli right here. I do not claim to be the Pope of All the Ravioli, but these particular ravioli right here, I made them and I also happen to be their Pope. I make many ravioli each week. I am not the Pope of all the ravioli that I make. Many of the ravioli I make are apostate. One might refer to their condition as apastasy were one inclined to indulge in insupportable wordplay. These particular ravioli right here are not apostate, though. I am their Pope, undoubted and absolute. I do not make these statements to boast. I do not make these statements to complain. I make these statements merely to share this one simple thing I have come to understand.
Gnocchi are universally Lutheran. I do not know why.
If you’re behind on Breaking Bad, but still plan on watching it, don’t read this post. I don’t think I’ll give anything away, but you’d better play it safe. As a matter of fact, you might want to unsubscribe from my feed and avoid this blog until you’re caught up on the show. Come to think of it, you should probably stay off the internet altogether. Maybe don’t watch any TV at all either. Except Breaking Bad, of course. Then again, there seems to be quite a bit of foreshadowing in some of those earlier episodes, so while you’re catching up, maybe you should try not to pay attention too closely. I mean, it’s a pretty unpredictable show, but you wouldn’t want to spoil things for yourself, by lucking onto a future plot development. Just… Maybe you’d better go ahead and cancel your internet and cable and get your power shut off too. Don’t take any chances. Seriously. This show is a major event in the cultural history of these United States of America and there’s simply no sense in running the risk of screwing it up for yourself. No matter what you do, ask yourself “Could this action I’m about to take expose me to potential Breaking Bad spoilers?” So don’t read anything. Don’t talk to anybody. Don’t leave your home. Don’t eat. Especially not breakfast. Don’t change your clothes. The color of the characters’ clothes is apparently very important on this show. Definitely don’t go to the bathroom. Just off the top of my head I can think of three major bathroom scenes that might be spoiled if you accidentally recreate them in real life. Just don’t do anything. Just wait it out til you’re caught up. It’ll all be over soon. Okay? Okay. And now I’ve forgotten what I wanted to write about. I’ll probably come back to it later, so stay tuned. Wait. No. Don’t. Don’t stay tuned. To anything. Just… Shhhhh. It’ll all be over soon. I promise.
I believe I’m becoming increasingly nostalgic for the days when the threat of mutually assured destruction loomed over us like a magnificent, burning giant ready to hold us close, instantly smothering us in his warm embrace. Maybe it’s the simplicity I miss, or the clarity; both probably illusory. Or maybe it’s the potential quick end to everything as opposed to the slow decay that sometimes seems to be creeping up on us all. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why zombies are so popular these days, that fear of everything slowly dying, gradually coming apart. Anyway, they were interesting times, but so are these. Mostly, I hope we manage to keep the bees.
Nightfiends believe they’ll fend off the dawn with groveling revelries in honor of narcotic gods.
So vivid and so tactile and so tastely sensational summerly-relieving be it so that I can never trust myself. My thirst is ever-present lurking waiting for my guard to drop so drops can overcome me. I am my thirst to a great degree and we cannot be trusted. If I am anything, it’s appetite devising schemes for feeding.
I get depressed, paranoid, delusional even some days. I need to be free to spew the poisons building in me without causing no concern and am out of places to go and bemoan the seemingly meaningful senselessness, the scrolling nonsensical menace of my mind. It seems I’m ever verging ever near the edge. It isn’t true is it that I’m always almost insane as the million monologues of my brain concurrently raining would have me believe? I used to wish to be a song, a sound, but I am only noise. I am a clatter, hatter-mad and hare-marchly and there is no math in me nor science nor even an orderly myth. I am a systemless superstition, my own thoughts haunting my own ghost is what I am afraid of me so frightened away my shadow.
Over the years, I’ve learned that there really are some problems that contain their own solution, problems that will solve themselves. I mean, looking at them, you can actually see how the elements of the difficulty fit together perfectly to build a little machine designed to self-destruct. Meanwhile, you just have to be patient and quietly contain the damage from the periphery. Now, if only I could learn how to be more patient and quieter.