Posted on 2010.07.09 at 07:09
My roommate used the last of the toilet paper on the roll. Instead of placing a new roll on the spindle she took the new package of toilet paper from the hall closet and left it sitting in front of the toilet. Apparently opening the package, taking out a roll, and placing it on the spindle was too much for her.
Goddamn, Batman, but that's lazy!
Also, I can't get a song out of my head. The lyrics go like this:
Suck my dick
Suck my motherfuckin' dick
Suck my dick
Suck my motherfuckin' dick
Also, I am sweaty. And smelly.
Posted on 2010.07.08 at 06:16
I am not a fan of the hot. Once the temperature gets over 75 I start to wilt a little. And humidity? Well, humidity is bad too.
It's been in the 90s all week. With lovely damp humidity as well. I am always flushed, my hair is an insane frizzy mess, and I've been sweating more than a gym full of steroid queens.
All-in-all, I've never been less attrractive. And thus, as it goes, more dirty-minded. The other day I was talking to someone on a website and he was telling me all about how he doesn't have any limits and everything turns him on. So I told him I'd love to see him covered in peanut butter and fellating a guy dressed liked a clown while an elephant anally violated him.
When people tell you they don't have limits it usually means they don't have an overly active imagination.
I don't know which amused me more: the way he freaked out and ran away or the fact that he thought I was serious.
Posted on 2006.11.12 at 15:00
This morning I read a book called The Man In My Basement by Walter Mosely. (Reading a book in a morning isn't as impressive as it sounds. it wasn't a long book and was fairly easy on the mind.)
The book is about a black man named Charles Blakely who is approached by a white man named Aniston Bennet. Bennet wants to rent out Blakely's basement for the summer. Blaklely eventually acquiesces and Bennet moves into the basement to live in a cage and be treated like a prisoner.
The book is told from Blakely's point of view and follows his attempts to understand both his mysterious tenant and himself. It's a book of ideas. A book about the methodology and application of power. A book about the mysteries of sex. A book about a crazy ass white guy thinking he's going to have a pelasant vacation living in a cell in someone's basement.
I liked Mosely's prose- this is the first book of his that I've read- but I found the book a touch simplistic. The msot interesting relationship in the book- Blakely and Bennet's relationship- is never really explored. And the real-life examples of how power is manipulated in relationships were a bit obvious. But I enjoyed it overall.
Alos, there was much penis talk in the book. mmm...penis.
Posted on 2006.11.05 at 16:24
Saddam Hussein has been sentenced to death two days before the midterm elections.
In other shocking news: the sky is now widely believed to be blue and falling from a great height may indeed lead to injury or death.
Posted on 2006.11.01 at 07:31
Yesterday wasn't so great. Work was kinda evil and my supervisor was kinda a bitch and I spent way too much time alone last night. So, all in all, yesterday kinda sucked.
Hope today is better.
Posted on 2006.10.31 at 05:06
Last night I feel asleep on the couch while listening to the soundtrack to The Hours and reading Go Down, Moses by William Faulkner. Slept that way, all sprawled out awkwardly, for maybe 20 minutes or so before hauling my ass upstairs to bed.
This morning I am motherfucker sore in my shoulders and arms. Ouch! Hopefully I'll feel better after soaking in the shower, yo.
It's 5:07 A.M. and I wish I still had my sleeping face on. I hate the stupid fall time change! Grrrrr....
Anywho, Happy Halloween to you all!
Posted on 2006.10.29 at 06:46
So last night the clocks were all changed over and everyone else in the world got an extra hour of sleep. Not me. I wake up at the same time every day pretty much. And the clock saying it's 4 AM instead of 5 AM didn't change anything.
It's like this for me every time the clocks change. I'm always off for a few weeks until I get tired enough to have my waking pattern switch.
I don't mind waking up early. I love that feeling that the rest of the world is asleep and only I'm awake, watching the day start. It's a good feeling, a quiet feeling.
The wind is truly howling here this morning. The weather's changing. It's been very cold the last couple of days. TOmorrow it is supposed to go back up into the 50s. So that will be nice.
An amusing Rochester thing: Kevin got a text message from a friend of his in Seattle last week. It seems that the temp dropped below 50 and people had gloves and jackets on. We laughed heartily. Last night it was about 38 when I went to dinner with my mother and my sister and I was wearing a sweater, no jacket, no gloves. And I was pretty much in line with everyone else. We're used to the cold here. We accept it. When spring rolls around and it hits 50 there will be people outside in shorts.
Our water is back to normal again. The house that was on fire has a big sign posted asking for any information on how the fire started. They think it might be arson. Nobody was hurt, and the building wasn't burned to the ground.
The really cute guy who lives next door has been growing some unfortunate facial hair. Kate and I blame it on his horrible girlfriend who we sneer about because we both think he's really cute. Sometimes I am shallow as a brook.
I finished reading a book by Bill Moyers about journalism the other day. And I'm picking through the book companion to his tv series on the book of Genesis. I should check and see if any of the libraries have it. The Central library has it, so I've placed holds on the first two parts. I should ahve them for viewing next weekend.
It's been quite a while since I did any religious poking around. I don't know why I'm in the mood now. I've even started lurking and posting in the yahoo religion room again. There is occasional religious debate there. Most of it I've seen before. But it's good to get back into the swing of things. The only bad thing are the horny indian programmers. it seems that every male in India with access to a computer goes online and sends you messages with the same three letters: asl???????????????????? And if you don't nswer they BUZZ you until you either ignore them or say something. So now I just reply to asl???? with "Suck my cock, suck it deep, oh yeah, baby!"
They tend to not continue after that. Wonder why.....
Posted on 2006.10.28 at 14:52
A bit of drama on my street today: there was a fire. Two fire trucks and everything. They've been here for more than an hour, they're doing some cleanup now. As a result of the fire hydrant being used, our water is all brown. Which is icky. Hopefully it will clear up soon. I know it's just dirt particles stirred up by the high volume pressure, but it's still creepy.
Posted on 2006.10.25 at 16:26
New Roommate Kevin and I were talking- at great length- last night and he mentioned his favorite author was William Faulkner. He also mentioned the speech Faulkner gave when accepting his Nobel Prize in 1950. It's a good speech. He edited it afterwards to make it stronger. here is the edited version of the speech:
I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work--a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand where I am standing.
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed--love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
Posted on 2006.10.24 at 06:28
Yesterday morning I woke up at 4:30 A.M. I did not want to wake up at 4:30 A.M., but I had no choice. I had to wake up early in order to meet a certain celebrity whose initials are P.R. He and I were meeting for a secret, romantic tryst. We met at a hotel room and I proceeded to worship every part of his body with my tongue. When he came it tasted like chocolate milk.
After that I dressed quickly in an outfit I'd made by ripping apart a Balenciaga outfit and re-sewing it into a pair of hotpants and a suit jacket. I call it my "look out motherfucker, I'm one funky bitch" outfit. I wore this to work even though the hot pants were a little tight and made my balls itch. When I got to work I discovered it was nudist day at work and all my 40 and 50-something female co-workers were naked. I colored dresses on my glasses so that I wouldn't have to see their nakedness.
I took a half day from work in order to get my hair cut. Due to excessive amonts of Flintstones vitamins when I was a child, my hair is incredibly strong and can only be cut using a welding torch. So I have a welder named Georg who cuts my hair once a year. Georg is a refugee from an Eastern European nation and often speaks to me in French of philosophy and art. I do not speak French, but I understand exactly what he's saying due to my impressive knowledge of body language. Georg wants me to orally service him, but I prefer ourrelatiosnhip to remian strictly professional.
With my newly shorn hair I drove to the secret meeting of the political group I belong to: We Are So Much Rightier Than You. We discussed how much rightier we are for a little while and then we drew straws to see who was going to be the "bottom". Poor Frank drew the short straw again. This is the fifteenth time in a row. So he was the one who ended up getting tickled with the feather duster while we sang the naitonal anthem. Poor Frank.
Following this I went to tea with noted American author Phillip Roth. In about twenty minutes I had him agreeing with me that his works have become parodies of themselves and that heterosexuality is really quite used up asa topic for novels. He swore to call Don DeLillo, Cormac McCarthy and Thomas Pynchon and convince them to form a jerk-off club in order to inspire them to greatness.
Then I took a nap and, in my sleep, created a cure for toingue cnancer. When I woke up I faxed it to a noted cancer researcher. Hopefuly something will come of that.
For dinner I hunted and killed a small peacock and had peacock steak. It was quite delicious and I wove the feathers into a neclace which I sent by courier to the Queen of England with a note that read "Thanks for seding the Princes last weekend. They were delicious. Hugs and kisses, Chad"
Then I watched a really interesting television show with incredible writing, good pacing and immaculate acting. Unfortunately, none of you will ever see it because it is produced solely for me.
When I was done with that I had my manservant Pierre tuck me into bed, orally pleasure me and tell me a bedtime story. Then I went to sleep and dreamt of many, many things. Most notably, this weblog entry.