The Chaos Hangover

Back from the Dead

2010-02-21T17:07:00.000-08:00

Admit it, you thought I was dead. Hoped I was, more likely. But like zombie-Jesus, I shamble forth ready to embrace the huddled masses. And eat their brains in my voodoo communion.

Life now is a lot grunt work and little creativity. Trying to change that, however. Martial arts training takes up much of my free time. Keeps me sane. And I am in the midst of re-reading "The Wheel of Time" series to remember why I became a writer in the first place.

And I have a new friend. Say hello to Odysseus, errant freeway kitty and lost wanderer who has now found his way home:

Fall

2009-10-29T22:54:00.000-07:00

I always get sick this time of year. Between Halloween and my Birthday, this my plague season. I just miss living in a place with trees,with weather that actually announced the passage of seasons. Instead, I have to rely on my annual dose of flu. Yay.

Flying rodents of doom

2009-09-21T16:02:00.000-07:00

So on the same day I'm perusing apocalyptic news about some strain of disease carried by rats in South Africa that's about 80% fatal among humans, I'm also reading up on scientific breakthroughs in levitating gravitational fields to literally levitate mice.

Moments like these make me grin like a mad bastard and thank the chaos gods for such lovely timing. Flying mice and a new nightmarish rodent-spawned disease.

"Go forth and spread havoc," the gods said. "Let the plague rats fly forth on the tides of science (and gravity) to bring down the foolish humans."

I can picture it now, rats hovering below radar across the ocean, ready to embed themselves among the native rodents.

Of course, the more disturbing thought is that, at least within a year, levitating rodents is going to be used in some kind of sexual exhibition/pornographic scene. Because all science really creates is new and exotic porn.

The Face of Hell

2009-08-21T23:17:00.000-07:00

Indulged some more apocalyptic speculations this morning. I blame seeing a 70+ old man in Lycra spankies influencing my misanthropy. But, from a stoic perspective, he's sharing the pain of getting old with all those around him. I can respect that. At least once I get my vision back.

You can see a lot of people entertaining post-cataclysmic fantasies. In books, movies, television shows, mad cults and scientific fears. People are getting all weak-kneed and glassy-eyed at the prospect of some serious Armageddon. Bring on the zombies, the wars, the destruction. Wipe it away, scatter the ashes.

And the reason is that people are pretty damned miserable. Life spirals into a downward pit of uncertainty, chaos, madness and pain. Moving faster, becoming harder to decipher. What people really want is an extended holiday from complication and from the endless hordes of themselves.

It was then I realized, there will be no grand final act, no awesome apocalyptic episode. No, this pain shall germinate into a blossom of unstoppable misery. I foresee the most complex of dying, decaying human existence (but never truly breaking down or reaching death). It will move so fast, will veer and fluctuate so that there will be continue uncertainty, stress, hurt. But it will have built a foundation, like barbed webs, that won't let it crumble. This is the endless Armageddon, hell by endless, twisting degrees.

Unless we luck out and have one gnarly alien invasion, look around, and see the mutating face of the future.

Gut check

2009-08-16T22:25:00.000-07:00

I will finish this novel. I may die a painful death in the process, but then my friends can pull the manuscript from my rigor-stiffened hands and hold readings in memorium.

I'm quite serious. There are two things I wish to accomplish in this span. I'm close to reaching both, and I'm tired of hearing my own excuses.

Tales from the Hangover

2009-08-05T08:00:00.000-07:00

No, not from drinking. Every time I actually slip and a have a few, it feels like I've swallowed several pints of raw Hell. And let me tell you, there is pain in passing Hell through your digestive system.

Anyone who has seen a U.S. weather report may have noted that the southwest is experiencing what is locally described as "fucking hot" weather. Pretty much the hottest July/August on record, not so much with max temperatures as every day being over 110, and it never cooling off ever. I've never missed the concept of cool weather more. I have erotic dreams about shivering from a cold breeze.

Perspective, right?

When I get in the mood to really start bitching, I do that thing us old fucks do, reminisce about when times were really hard. Like when I was a kid and going on vacation meant mom kicked dad out of the house. That meant we could actually watch the shows we enjoyed on television and we didn't have to tip-toe in the morning for fear of rousing the hung over grouchy bastard. I've been through worse.

Heat Wave

2009-07-28T21:50:00.000-07:00

This town doesn't have humidity. We have this continual pollution factor that's liquid the way coagulating blood is liquid. It fills the air and fucks up breathability, visibility and sanity. Smog, smoke, dust, exhaust, dirt, sand, debris, chemicals. The air here has texture, flavor, complexity. Inhaling in this town is more than just respiration... it's Russian Roulette with periodic table of the elements.

On bad days, they tell children and old people to stay inside. Why? For fear of their lungs exploding I imagine. Or maybe because there's a paranoia of a race of mutants spawning at bus stops. They even recommend masks that can help filter out the larger particles. It's a dry heat, but it's a dry, toxic vapor of death that doesn't cause as much discomfort as a swamp, but will actually strip off two layers of dermis when the breeze picks up.

It's like a shield, keeping out fresh air, rain, and happiness. It's a dry heat. Much like a nuclear wind.

Morpheus Drive By

2009-07-27T19:58:00.000-07:00

I had a dream about a girl I dated briefly years ago. Actually, what I dreamt about was coming across a book she'd written, a memoir of sorts detailing a failed lover affair with an unnamed man. As I read through the book, I realized it was me she was writing about, and while she was definitely pushing the boundaries of creative non-fiction with the setting and descriptions and other facts, the encounters listed were clearly our own short-lived romantic interactions.

The effect was a feeling unlike any I've ever actually experienced. To discover, so unexpectedly, that I had touched someone far more deeply than she had ever revealed. But then to realize that in our failure, I had somehow given this person a story of such significance that it took on its own life, became a source of pure creation and artistic expression. One she shared with the world.

Some dreams pretty much vaporize upon waking. Others linger, like a smell clinging to skin or a song playing through your mind throughout the day. This particular dream was of the latter type. Haunting.

This is what happens when I write before bed time. My unconscious gets all allegorical and poetic. A weird little foot-note for a mind fuck of an extended weekend.

The sky is bleeding heat. The air seems wounded, bruised. I'm not looking forward to returning to work tomorrow.

Glimpses from the Chaos Stream

2009-07-26T17:30:00.000-07:00

I look around and look around, and I see... what the fuck?

Locally:
At the gas station close to my house, I stopped for my healthy snack (hot dog with jalapeno relish and an iced-tea. Shut up) where I beheld an officer of the State Highway Patrol busily working at his in-dash computer. He was, apparently, updating his status on Facebook. I'm thinking something like "Taking ten for a 100 off the 60" or "Heheheh, Donuts rule."

India:
The old "embarrass the weather gods into doing their fucking jobs" trick: http://www.reuters.com/article/oddlyEnoughNews/idUSTRE56M3G020090723

"Farmers in an eastern Indian state have asked their unmarried daughters to plow parched fields naked in a bid to embarrass the weather gods to bring some badly needed monsoon rain.."

Wonder how the Christians might try to incorporate this into Mass?

Tasmania:
I think of this as the "Dude, wait, what?"
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/8118257.stm

"We have a problem with wallabies entering poppy fields, getting as high as a kite and going around in circles. Then they crash... we see crop circles in the poppy industry from wallabies that are high."

Makes you re-examine every weird UFO conspiracy of the modern area. Time to keep our eyes on those shifty marsupials.

Oddly, these are the sort of things that make me feel at peace with world."

Adrift

2009-07-26T17:11:00.000-07:00

There's a lot of debris in my brain, meandering on the currents of my stream of consciousness, often getting caught in little whirlpools. This debris, in theory, is collecting on the shore into a form. A novel. So far, I've got about three quarters of the frame, part of a wall, and a lot of fucked up decor. But it hasn't quite begun to resemble its full shape.

I can see all the ideas out there, in the foamy chaos of my brain. Drifting, just out of reach. All the pieces are there, I just can't seem to get them to the destination, put them together.

I want to kill Warren Ellis. He writes like a caffeine driven robot of semiotic destruction. I don't actually want him dead, I would then be sad without his words. But I want someone to forcefully restrain him and dose him with transindustrial quantities of whiskey so that he is too incoherent to form complete sentences and maybe, while he's stumbling around naked trying to find his cigarettes, I'll have time to put the debris together.

I'll have a novel, and he'll have written approximately a billion words of fiction, articles, and blogs. But I'll have a novel damn it.

Some days, you just pray for a storm.

8:43 a.m., Westbound on ***** Avenue (Rorschach Up)

2009-07-17T14:21:00.000-07:00

Dead cat on the road to work, today. Bloated from gasses inside, tabby-stripes looked like big lines of smeared mascara. Meat baking on the asphalt, food for the hungry gutters of a feral city. Victims of her parasitic, internal-combustion spawn.

I hate seeing dead cats on the road, or dead dogs, or any of the animals routinely preyed upon by the freeways and streets. Cars, not wolves or pumas or even hunting tribes of men with dark skin are the modern predators. Steel and plastic and glass sharks trolling the black lanes, with empty human minds guiding them. They kill without caring and warning. Only the growl of the engine, the primal screeching of tires and the rhythmic, ceremonial sounds of music vibrating through the windshield is there to even acknowledge their predation.

The bodies melt on the streets under a desert sun turned violent by the concrete and iron and shards of brown bottle scattered like seeds on the sidewalks and parking lots. I often wonder what is growing from it all, what phantom non-vegetation creeping from the cracks, creeping vines of metropolitan entropy grown strong on the diet of festering meat, anxiety and blackened air.

I offer up silent words for the souls of the dead, fed the city so it might continue to thrive in the sands and the sun. Not a prayer, more an invocation. How long before It eats the rest of us?

At night you can smell her, feel her shifting. The sounds echo across endless miles of hard, constructed surfaces. The wind blows, and this sweet, rotted and musky scent drifts on the air. Not human, not animal. It smells of diesel exhaust and putrid water, sweat and stale beer, burnt rubber and cheap perfume, despair and dried blood.

I see visions of the hordes dead cats and dogs, coyotes, legions of crushed cockroaches and dessicated scorpions rising forth like mottled tide of scuttling vengeance. It consumes everything in its wake, a geophage, scouring this flesh, cleansing like terrestial maggots.

And this… is what happens when I give up caffeine.

Cinematic

2009-07-16T17:20:00.000-07:00

Wasn’t it in the eighties that the basic romantic film formula was: hot but unpopular girl longs for hot, popular asshole who never noticed her while said girl ignores her caring, nerdy guy friend? And by the end of the movie said girl realizes it’s actually her friend she’s in love with and blah blah yay they end up happy? You can pretty much tell this was written by a guy who failed miserably in romance in high school and had to express the pain in the form of a movie script.

Now the formula seems to be as follows: blatantly hot girl longs for blatantly hot guy who for some fucking reason is “out of her league?” so she turns to her equally hot but totally egotistical, hyper-masculine womanizing, um, friend? who for some weird reason helps her understand the greasy male id in order to make herself more ideal for the man she desires. The twist of course is she falls in love with handsome scumbag and somehow turns him into an almost likable, decent fellow.

Very clearly, this was written by a woman who failed miserably at love, likely by always wanting that very unavailable yet-oh-so-appealing man who slept with her but obviously never actually called back.

Yes I’m generalizing. I can do that. It’s fun. Particularly because the films themselves are terrible, sweeping generalizations yet so many people go see them and in turn seem to think it has some sort of real life application. Like this lady I work with says she has no interest in wasting her time on unrealistic, fantasy-type films but absolutely loves “Sex In the City.”

Yes that fine, full-bodied taste with a hint of cashews and cinnamon is indeed the flavor of epic irony.

She didn’t like when I pointed out that Kim Catrall looks like a wizard, beard and all, in subdued lighting. And despite my protests, they will not let me wear a kilt (a dress kilt even) for professional dress days. I’m tempted to site cultural bias and file some sort of complaint, if I get bored enough.

Er, blog?

2009-07-14T17:15:00.000-07:00

Oh yeah. I have a blog. Shit.

Is it just me, or do other people sink in and out of reality on a fairly regular basis? I don’t mean the Right Wing-stick-your-fingers-in-your-ears-and-scream lalalala-pretend this-shit-isn’t-happening reality schism. I’m talking more like I’m driving through the mountains, enjoying Reality FM playing all your classics and every time you pass a peak, it fades into static. When the broadcast comes back, the song has changed, the world looks a little more fractured, and everything makes just a tad less sense.

So, I sort of come to again, resurfacing into the turbulence of the world around me. I’m watching the TV while I try to explode my heart this morning (see also: Running on a treadmill) and I see one of those lawsuit commercials. I have a lot of theories on why these monstrosities run so much during the early morning, but that’s a topic for later. The commercial at hand was for Mesothelioma, that rather nasty result of inhaling too much asbestos if I’m not mistaken.

In said commercial (they call themselves a public service announcement, yet it was a law firm that bought air time for their pending civil suit) they described Mesothelioma as a “serious form of cancer.”

Serious cancer. As opposed to all those light-hearted, whimsical types people have. “No, no, I have serious cancer. Not your girly, ascending bowel cancer.”

Every so often, I worry I’m getting a bit too sociopathic. But then I watch the cattle-call for law suits, please sue someone with us because they didn’t know that X insulation or Y medicine, at the time, was dangerous. Life not going the way you want? Blame someone. Blame anyone. But not yourself. You’re a moron, and obviously you shouldn’t be trusted to wipe your own ass.

Not five minutes later, there was another lawsuit commercial, this one for any recent patients of open-heart surgery who also had to undergo dialysis. According to this commercial, some patients may have been given medication that caused kidney problems, including failure.

So, of course, the smart move is to ramp up huge lawsuits attacking the very doctors, nurses and drug companies who, just coincidentally, saved your heart from melting in your chest. That’ll show them to try and, you know, HELP sick people. Bastards.

Let me clarify. I believe the Healthcare industry, in particular for-profit drug companies which regularly push new products past the FDA so quickly their head spins are in dire need of reformation. But throwing litigation around like they’re dinner mints seems a less than ideal way. But that’s just me, and as we all know, I’m disconnected from reality.

But not so disconnected I couldn’t avoid the media blitzkrieg about Michael Jackson’s death. There were birds on my patio squawking about that. We have truly reached an age that unless you’re in a cave somewhere and the stalactites get crap reception, some information just can’t be avoided.

But much as I complain, that’s a good thing. I like to think that, in the age of instantaneous information, people will not longer be able to justify ignorance. “I didn’t know!” Wrong, you did. Companies won’t be able to hide the side effects of their products, politicians won’t be able to pretend ignorance, people will not be able to sue rabidly..... no, that's far too Utopian of a concept.

Sorry, reality disconnect. See you on the other side of the mountains.

The Last Act of Defiance

2009-02-10T11:47:00.000-08:00

Borrowing the title from an Exodus song (from the album Fabulous Disaster. Thrash metal circa 1989).

Lately I've felt little inclination to interact with the outside world or play about in the online realms. Might be a touch of information overload or a malaise of apathy. Or the fact I've pretty much stopped drinking and that was about the only real inspiration I had for clawing my way up the bodies of enemies and proclaim my greatness and magnificence to the world. Now, if I could be arsed to make the climb, I'd mutter "Fuck off" and take a piss of the edge, and crawl back to my cave. But it seems like too much work.

There's a sense of anticipation all around. The air is thick with worry and all moist. Like the world is waiting for something to happen. Or maybe it's just me waiting for something interesting to rise up, many-tentacled, and chew the corners off reality and shit them into some interesting new form. Yog-sototh and Cthulhu, are you listening?

Just one zombie, that would make it all seem worthwhile. A mad scientiest unleashing a plague of mutant locusts that devour all the nylon in the world and bleed fire from their carapaces. Something. You're fucking killing me here.

Where's a giant radiation-breathing dinosaur stomping down cities when you need 'em?

Year 9

2008-12-31T14:38:00.000-08:00

So we're on the cusp of the new year, effectively the day we somewhat arbitrarily as a culture decided to say the old shite's done, let's dig in for a new pile of steamy goodness.

I don't much by into the hype, don't create resolutions, don't think of it as a fresh start (seriously, change is moment to moment, in small bits, these boundaries are complete constructions) but I do like to use it for some reflection. A check point, if you will, of convenience. Within the depths of a glass of tequila (likely me last for a long time), a chance to consider if where I'm at is where I want to be, and if I'm pointed in somewhat close to the right direction.

It is a time to evoke the spectres of chaos looming through the haze of cigar smoke, stare the past in the face with bloodshot eyes and say hey, fucker, we're done. Even if it's not quite done with me. Because even though we can't change the past, it continues to fuck with us. The past is brain-damaged monkey dangling out of reach from the branch of the tree of life, hurling it's shit at us. The things we do have a way of popping back up on us, even if we've forgotten all about them. And it frequently likes to wank off at us, mockingly, humping the air madly in arousal at our transgressions, our mistakes and our failings.

So as you step into the New Year, be ready to duck.

This will be a year of chaos. And that's a good thing. Because you can always depend on the break down of order, on things never maintaining the status quo. Use it to your advantage.

Not dead yet..

2008-11-17T23:04:00.000-08:00

Still blogging also, amidst Nanowrimo chaos. But I've confined most of my operations here

http://www.myspace.com/chaoshangover

Open profile, so if ye want to peruse anonymously, you can. But I encourage you to add me and thusly have the freedom to properly hate monger and post criticism to your hearts desire.

Chaos Bits

2008-06-24T17:36:00.000-07:00

My coworker looks over at me today and says "Does Motorhead at high volumes actually cure disease?" Silly question. Of course they do. It's an immuno-stimulant that allows me to deal with this insufferable corporate whoredom.

It's summer, so that means tequila. Lots of it. After 4+ days of 114 degree heat, the thought of bathing in it is becoming very attractive. I sit out on the patio with a glass of something pricey and properly snobby (but not fucking Patron) and listen to trees scream at ultrasonic frequencies because some dickhead decided a decidous oak tree native to the northeastern part of the country should fit in just fine the fucking desert, you know, despite the lack of seasons or water or soil with actual nutrients.

Yes, with enough tequila, you can hear the trees scream. You generally also become super strong, witty, and can drool with pinpoint precision.

Really, there should be more saxaphone in black metal. It's a properly chaotic sounding instrument. Trust me on this.

I've rarely given much thought to my wardrobe. The other day I was looking at my clothes and I realized that other than garments specifically needed for work, I have bought nothing new in this particular department in a very long time. Possibly due to the seizures and projectile vomiting that occured in three previous attempts to get through a department store. Something about the eye-fuck seasonal colors and the toxic vapor cloud hanging over the perfume section. Next thing you know my friend is throwing water in my face and I've got bits of someone else's clothes and flesh hanging from my teeth and was quoting Oscar Wilde in broken Yiddish. Or so he claims.

You know what I haven't done in a while? Bowling. Just saying.

Furniture shopping

2008-06-08T15:01:00.000-07:00

I was looking at the furniture we bought for the new apartment (we moved in about three weeks ago). Somehow, all my choices ended up being what we bought. Even after I was banned from the furniture store, or even furniture shopping with the girlfriend ever again.

It's not my fault, frankly. After the seventh or so time a salesperson asked me if I needed help, or not-so-smoothly tried to sell me on whatever vomit-looking bedroom set happened to be near me at the time, I stopped feeling the compulsion to even feign politeness. The salesbastard who asked me not once, not twice, but three fucking times if he could make some suggestions, I asked him if he could recommend which particular type of material best hid blood and semen stains.

Questions of "Did you have a particular set up in mind?" "Yes," I said, "which of these couches is most likely to not break under the weight of a horse?" or "Sure, I know it would look great with cherry wood, but if you force someone's face into it, how likely are they to smother?"

What I got was not horror or shocked silence. No, instead, I watched these saleswhores attempt to come up with an answer, fumbling through "Well, uh, I imagine" or "I'd bet it could problably withstand leather bindings, I guess..."

Defeated, I gave up and was asked by my girlfriend to go wait outside. Before I made it to the doors, one last sales person assured me he could really get me a deal. I said "Dude, if I wanted a whore in a bad suit to suck my dick for money, there are websites. Fuck off."

Sales. It's not a job, it's a religious cult with white shirts and fugly ties instead of death shrouds. From twenty feet away, they look and smell the same, vultures reeking of carrion and their own filth. Except I'd rather have a vulture vomit the decaying remains of a week-old road kill on me than sit through a timeshare presentation. I have limits, after all.

The furniture looks nice. I keep thinking what would really tie the room together would be the corpse of one of those salesbastards hanging over the entertainment center, however.

Dis-meme-berment

2008-06-06T13:42:00.001-07:00

Wasn't so much a tag as a suggestion, but I'm at work works for me.

Rules: Answer the questions and take another flimsy excuse to talk about yourself, tag people to make them read it and then repeat, passing down the spotlight. Sometimes, there's even interesting factoids revealed in the process.

What was I doing ten years ago?
Had moved to Flagstaff into my first apartment with Dana and other (odd) fellow. It was very warm that summer as I recall.

What are five non-work things on my to-do list for today?
1. Drink. Priority one this evening. No workouts, and tomorrow is Saturday. I crave stout.
2. Make sure my friend who's been uber-mopey gets off his arse and joins me.
3. Avoid actual work for the next four hours if possible.
4. Listen to Leviathan's new album. Bought the bastard two weeks ago but still haven't had the time to give it a proper listen.
5. Sleep.

1. Fresh fruit, particularly apples and pineapple
2. Jalapeno and cheese hot dugs (yes really)
3. Pita-bread crackers with tzatziki
4. Olives (green, stuffed with garlic)
5. Beer

Things I would do if I was a billionaire:
1. I'd fund thousands of homeless people to protest the most random things, like wearing ties or only getting two ketchup packets when you get food at Wendy's
2. Start my own music club/venue and only book bands and artists I personally want to see.
3. Hire people to take care of my mother. And also to hunt down and beat upon my siblings.
4. Hookers and blow.
5. Invest in experimental contraceptive bombs.

Places I've Lived:
1. Arizona, multiple locations.
2. Denial.
3. Confusion.
4. Hell.

Jobs I've Had:
1. Teacher
2. Cab Driver
3. Door security in a strip club
4. Salesperson in an "adult-botique"
5. Call-center whore

I've had so many fucking crap jobs. The one I have now just pays more.

Who do I tag? If you read this, you've been tagged with sub-nucleonic particles that will force you to participate.

2008-04-29T17:28:00.000-07:00

How is it that all the women in my life keep trying to play mother?

My coworker says I have to wear a tie to my interview tomorrow. She threatens to bring a tie for me if she sees me without come lunch tomorrow. She's joking, but she has this look in her eye that says she'll do it or she'll hang me from the fan by it if I refuse.

I get a lot of this. My college professors, co-workers, casual female acquaintances, my girlfriend. Some part of me must scream "I need female nurturing."

There's nothing like getting a text message from my dear friend overseas who in her liberal-feminist lesbian crusade, still finds time to lecture me about smoking cigars and how what I really need is a woman who can take care of me. She'll tell you exactly how traditional male/female relationship dynamics are a primary cause of social injustice, yet somehow it doesn't apply in my case because everything would be just fine if I had someone to cook for me(?)(!)

I grew up without a father, not a mother. Am I really the confused one here, or did my divergence from reality just get that big?

Random bits

2008-04-13T14:45:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamt I turned one of my short stories into a comic book. A little black and white affair that I printed about a thousand copies of and sold online and at local comic shops.

Not a bad book, either, in the dream. I find myself wishing I had not given up art and drawing so readily when I was a kid. I've put together some random notions for comic books here and there, I even have something serial brewing in the margins of my notebooks that seems so suited for comic-dom.

I wonder if I'm too old to pick up enough basic artistic skill to give it life? Or should I seek out an artist willing to collaborate on this endeavor?

I need to finish up my short-story collection first.

An author was handing out flyers for her novels at the Barnes and Noble. Plugging her "culturally relevant, southwestern themed mystery novels." On the one hand, I congratulate her. Writing is good. On the other, I find myself wishing people would be more adventurous and break away from the formulaic stuff. Seriously. My soul can only suffer the pain of so many niche suspense "stories" with the same cookie-cutter, overly likeable but completely boring protagonists.

McFailure

2008-04-08T13:23:00.000-07:00

I'm having the kind of day where I want long-term and slowly painful self-destruction; the kind you can only get from eating the worst fast food. Fully envisioning my arteries clogging so badly blood is forced through my very pores and my heart exploding at the age of forty from rot and preservatives, I headed to McDonald's. I'm thinking double quarter-pounders and fries, extra salt. I want soda in straight syrup form, so much high-fructose corn goop it runs like jelly poured into a gallon-sized cup with no ice.

A meal that leaves you in physical pain for a whole day after eating it.

Picture a meal so ridiculously unhealthy the vapors rising off the hot fat glistening on the cardboard packaging cause flies to plummet from the air.

What happens is I start feeling guilty, even before I make it to the counter. Guilt about the animals who died to make people fat, about the pure environmental destruction contained within the four walls of the McPlastic interior decor. I walk away with a Fillet O' Fish sandwich, no fries, and an iced tea with no sweetener. My great gesture of physiological masochism sobs pathetically into mopey silence.

I can only hope to compensate for my poor lunch performance by drinking myself half-blind tonight while playing Heroes of Might and Magic for the thousandth time. If I'm lucky, I'll slip into a coma around midnight and wake up QWERTY permanently imprinted on my face.

Vanguard

2008-04-07T17:38:00.000-07:00

My current endeavor is the creation of a new type of martial arts utilizing various types of cheese as my only weapons. I hold a brick of sharp chedder, contemplating its violent uses in my new "Fromage Fist" style of gung-fu. This will be epic.