Ha.

Today I want to talk about old music. I'm sure many of you are familiar with a very popular rock band, The Eatles. We've all heard songs like I wanna hold your ham and All you need is lunch. Also very famous, Yellow sub sandwich, Maxwell's silver meat tenderizer, but as researchers have proven, 100% of the National Socialist party of Germany consumed food, so it was no surprised when they released The White Supremacy Album, or songs like Hey Juden.

Za burues.

If you dampen that wood, boy
It won't sound as good, boy
Teardrops on the guitar,
Won't get ya too far

-guitar bit-

Blues ain't about tears, boy
Or expressin' yer fears, boy
It's the pain o' the chain
At the bottom of the glaaass~

-more gutar-


Will resume some day mebe.

The nature of the beast, part 2.

I really like red, the colour of passion, for it is passion that fuels me, partly, alongside defiance.
Red, like wine, like blood, surging through your veins, like iron and steel freshly plucked from the flames of the oven, ready to be shaped into something new.
Like the flame of the eternal phoenix, spreading contrasting red and orange across a blue sky as it rises from its ashes and soars amongst the clouds, with each death and rebirth finding new heights.
Red, as the spark ignites in your cheek when there's a flaming tornado being spun inside.
When the cold, damp blue of doubt, fear and calm give in to the warm light, being replace by a firestorm of passion, a rush of blood to specific body parts the author of this text would rather not mention, for reasons unknown.
When rust supersedes the shine, and shows the wear of time on something subject to use.
When one more second or minute is all that matters in the grand scheme of things, and your will is able to overthrow reason, when desire overcomes need, often becoming it.
When oxygen rushes to your muscles out of no particular need, but your breath still won't slow down, even accelerating as if to make some point, ever unwavering in the face of its own mild discomfort.

Red is often the colour of love too, burning deeply and brightly, igniting the darkness and deepest corners of ones soul, a feeling as known as it is mysterious, as strange as it is familiar, and as shallow as it is deep.  

Red is a colour that spills and taints, a colour that flows to provide warmth, that gushes to vibrantly stand out of both white and black, that jumps in the eyes and sticks.

I like red, the colour of passion, and I might just like you too, depending on your true colours.

Some poets, writers and artists were drunks, maybe because words flow easily as alcohol flows to the bloodstream, but I am none of those, bar an infantile demeanor surging through an ever-changing body, fascinated by the deep crimson of wine on a dreary Tuesday afternoon, wondering if a better place in the world could be found for my head, searching for a lap willing to accept it, for a mind to lay my thoughts with.

Addendum, to the person reading this: I wrote some of this thinking of you, though I shall not disclose which parts of it. You know who you are, as Red is a name I've given you.

I felt like writing.

It's nice to, at the end of the day to have a place to dump your thoughts into. Now, that place can either be a piece of paper, digital or not, or a person. I'd argue it's nicer for it to be another person, so you can have some feedback on it, but shooting shit at the wall to see what sticks is fine too. I lost my train of thought. I might write some more soon, maybe, probably.

This movie gets it.

Yeah, fuck you, too. Fuck *me*? Fuck *you*, Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it. Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back. Fuck the squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car - get a fucking job! Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. SLOW THE FUCK DOWN! Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped-up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35. Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English? Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from! Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds! Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gekko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for FUCKING LIFE! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Worldcom! Fuck the Puerto Ricans. Twenty to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, 'cause they make the Puerto Ricans look good. Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, their St. Anthony medallions, swinging their Jason Giambi Louisville Slugger baseball bats, trying to audition for "The Sopranos." Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermès scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart! Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take five steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on! Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus-violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust! Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck J.C.! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin' Otisville, J.! Fuck Osama Bin Laden, al-Qaeda, and backward-ass cave-dwelling fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fuel fire in hell. You towel-headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal Irish ass! Fuck Jacob Elinsky. Whining malcontent. Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass. Fuck Naturelle Riviera, I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back, sold me up the river, fucking bitch. Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar sipping on club sodas, selling whisky to firemen, and cheering the Bronx Bombers. Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row-houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue, from the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park Slope to the split-levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it, let the fires rage, let it burn to fucking ash and then let the waters rise and submerge this whole rat-infested place.

More complaining and depressing shit

    Some people are just sad. Some people will always feel sad and alone. I'm one of those, as you can probably already tell. I'm perfectly capable of feeling happy, but it never lasts more than a few minutes. All the sorrow I have to bury in myself just finds a way to come out, eventually. Built up and strong, too. And with no reason. I've barely any reason to be sad other than the fact that that's just how I am. I don't want to justify it with anything, I must be honest with myself. I am a sad, lonely person who just likes to complain. Who the hell wants to be around someone like that? The people that do slide by me don't know, and the people that don't matter I don't care if they do. I don't know what I want. Maybe I just want someone who I can be sad with, yes, sad with, not happy, sad with who will still accept me. Like any other human, I want to be accepted, but I am too selfish to change and I don't care enough to anyway. I just like to complain, I can always find any little thing to complain about. I don't even want a relationship, at least not a real life touchy-feely relationship. I want a thought vessel who I can complain to and who can complain to me in the same way. Not seeing each-other as people, but as thinking entities. I don't like people, I don't like the physical aspect of being social. Sometimes you just smile weird, some day you're walking funny, someday your shirt has a stain, someday you're just too rough, every other day something about you is just wrong. It's just little retarded bullshit that people make out to matter when I would love not to care about it in the slightest. But it's hard to go against majority and deal with retarded remarks each fucking time. Oh my, the stares and the little laughs, and then you check back on yourself and you see nothing wrong. I have many insecurities and they're not just that, they're things that I am part of. I don't like being ugly, but how much choice did I have in that? I don't really like being THIS weird, but again, did I really chose this? Fuck it man, why must stupid shit like this matter? I like being social just at the thought level though, I like talking to people, but not straight into their face. I don't want to look them in the eye, because that's further from perfect than just talking and I want things to be ideological and perfect because I'm scared of change. I'm scared, really,  scared that my appearance of manner would mess something up, so I'd rather just be a thinking entity to people, because in the end that's all that matters to me.
Some people are meant to be with people. And others, like me, are just different. I'd rather hide myself for the rest of my days in a small enclosed room, I don't have the need to see other people, and in all fact, I hate it because I know they don't like seeing me.

I uh

Oh man, in retrospect all these things are pretty depressing to read, man. Shit.