Your Body Still Remembers Things You Told it to Forget

"Someone please help the boy.
His hands won't move,
he hasn't written in years.
His lips won't move,
he only whispers fear.
Someone please help the boy."

De merde

Things I'm Pumped Over/For:

Y-Rock = U of PA Radio Station = Excellent Resource for New Music

I would advise clicking in the link above and streaming 15 minutes...

If you don't like it...

I don't give a damn.

I have the biggest hard on for it evs.

Vampire Weekend + The Gaslight Anthem + Metric (who are FUCKING AMAZING) + endless others that I can't think of right now = An increasing amount of debt on my credit card thanks to the convenience of iTunes. No really, thanks. ; )

Gotta go write...

Glass Half Full... Getting Filled Up

Positive thoughts... please send them my way...

Think of my book getting published. Think really, really hard about it.

There maybe something coming...

The Paper Cross

The inanimate object lay under the vendors arm until the man came, the man who bought the dirty magazine for three dollars and fifty cents. The vendor tucked the flat, silent shape near the center-fold. The man took the magazine and greedily tucked it under his arm, peering left and right to see whoever may be coveting his newly purchased treasure. His bulging belly bolstered his posture as he walked down the street and waited for the five o’clock bus. A man with a face hidden behind a beard of hair and dirt approach him and asked him for spare change. The man denied his request and annoyed he muttered under his breath. Just then a large, shining automobile splashed the man with the collected rain water that had stood thick and glimmering with oil, menacingly rippling with any small vibration. The man stood up and shouted then sat back down defeated as the driver drove on to what the man presumed was a large, fancy house--nice enough to match the over-luxurized vehicle that had just drenched him in a dark wet that made him cold. He envied the driver for having riches and treasures even better than his dirty magazine. The bus squealed to a halt and the doors opened mechanically and mechanically the passengers shuffled down the steps and moved in differing directions, blending into clutters of bodies moving throughout the streets. The man got onto the bus and found himself sitting next to black woman who shifted her purse as he sat down. Just as the bus pulled forward and blended into the traffic a young pregnant woman peered down the narrow hallway for a seat, one which the man was certain she would not find. He motioned for her to come and proudly he gave his seat to her and as she passed him to take it he thrusted his crotch forward into her plump behind, his hand grazing it gently as he apologized. A reveling smile crossed his face as he grasped the handle above her seat, her face covered in discontent and disgust. The bus weaved in and out of the traffic and made its way over the bridge, making several stops before finally reaching that where the man would get off. He turned his head to take one last look at the pregnant woman and found her glaring back at him. He smiled and fell in line with the rest of the passengers as they followed in a conveyor belt-like shuffle. He walked four and a half blocks before reaching the brick apartment building that housed him and his seventeen neighbors. He unlocked the front door and stepped up the fourteen steps that lead to his door. He opened it and set his dirty magazine upon the kitchen table. He put a microwave dinner into the microwave, the beep of the buttons breaking the thickness of the silence in the dead house. He took off his tie; he swept his hair across his forehead and sneezed at the smell of upturned dust as he aimlessly shuffled books on a shelf in a darkened corner of the dining room. The ding penetrated whatever thought he was deep in and he drug his feet across the carpet with his hands in his pockets. He removed the dinner, he removed the plastic covering of the dinner, he removed a fork from a drawer to use to eat his dinner, the dinner that he paid one dollar for--one dollar and twenty-two cents counting tax. He plopped down at the table and thumbed through the magazine as he shoveled a mixture of white and brown into his gaping mouth, his eyes fixated on the images of the women presenting themselves to him. He licked the black container clean of the gravy left over and tossed it across the table. He flipped the page and found there, obstructing the parts he wanted to see the most, a filthy paper cross. He tossed it to the side and unzipped his pants. He continued flipping until he found himself obsessively staring at two women pleasuring each other, their buttocks exposed, their breast beckoning his lips for a taste. He grunted and groaned as he rubbed furiously until he exhausted himself and lay sprawled out in his chair, not zipping or cleaning himself up. He stood up suddenly, his shoes thudding on the hardwood floor. He took a step forward and slipped on the thin yellowed piece of paper that lay innocently on the floor. His feet flew out from under him and as he desperately attempted to grab a hold of the table, the slippery magazine forcing him to lose his grip, his neck suddenly snapping sharply on the back of the slated wooden chair where he had recently rested. His body fell to the floor hard and his head smacked the wood, his eyes shaking in their sockets, glassy and absent.

Since the "Onion" refuses submissions of any kind *cough presumptuous fucks cough*

Trent Reznor determined to be son of God.

Thur. Apr. 16, 2009
Fassociated Press

The Fassociated Press reported on Wednesday that the front of man of industrial rock band Nine Inch Nails is actually the son of God. Scientifically the claim remains unconfirmed however our sources indicate that Reznor is in fact the worldly embodiment of the Lord. It was God Himself who purported to set the record straight on Wednesday morning during a televised press conference from the Vatican. God, or as he prefers to be called, The Dude, claimed that man’s view of Jesus has been greatly misconstrued, “[he] has been depicted as such a wuss, look at him,” said the Lord, pointing his finger, his face contorted with disgust, at the crucifix on the wall, “who could ever be proud of that? Have you seen Michael [Reznor's first name]? Adonis compared to this disappointment! Give me a little credit here! Don’t you think when choosing my vessel I’d pick something a little less metro and a bit more bad ass?” God attempted to resolve the issue of Jesus’ alleged crucifixion. “Listen, can one of you explain the logic you’re using when swallowing this load of crap?” He added, “I know I ask a lot, blind faith and whatnot, but come on! Come oooon!” He winked and nudged Saint Peter in an attempt to lighten the mood but his joke fell flat like the stance Bill O'Reilly takes when presenting for Rush Limbaugh. “How did Mary get pregnant huh? I am the All Mighty Lord and all but there are limits to my power. Look at Rosie O’Donnell! I tried to Ctrl+Alt+Delete her but every time I hit ‘End Now’ nothing would happen, she just keeps on living, and probably will continue to... I knew I should have gone with Steve [Jobs].” He said with a shudder. Following the press conference Christians around the world vented their outrage and dismay at the news.

In Paris, TX at the Miracle of the Lord Baptist church, Father Bobby Joe Gilstrap was "flabbergasted to be utterly honest with you. That guy?! That is our savior? I can't take this religion seriously anymore! God’s asking for a whole hell of a lot more than blind faith with this one. I’m going to the strip club.” Christian title-toting and sexually abstinent Barnie Scurge, from his living room in Nazareth, NJ said, “Is this the guy who sings that song, the one about fornicating with animals? So that’s okay then… good I’ve been wondering because I told my girlfriend that I’m still a virgin and I would hate for that to be a lie, being that it's a sin to lie.”

Reznor's fans, however, are ecstatic. "It's simply confirmation of something we already know," said self-proclaimed number one fan of Reznor, Clarice Harrison from Denver, CO.

Taking full advantage of His time on earth, God attempted to explain some of life’s great mysteries, “The roof of your mouth gets butchered by Cap’n Crunch for a reason you gluttonous sons of bitches,” and “on the seventh day I rested because I got high," mimicking Afroman's 2000 hit, Because I Got High.

He warned, “Don’t touch the Queen of England. If you do you’ll be forced into spending an eternity being the single sweaty bed sheet shared by George W. Bush and Tony Blair during their “NATO (Naughty Ass Taint Oyster) Summits.” He even shined a light on mysterious-o super villain Kim Jong Il who he said "is actually an eighty-five year old Korean woman going through an extended period of menopause.”

At the time of publication Mr. Reznor could not be reached for comment.

Next Week: Satan claims his soul has been absorbed by Ann Coulter. “Burr! It’s cold in here. Help me. Please,” he was over heard saying through her gritted teeth during an intimate moment with Wednesday's Douche Bag of the Day™ winner (inset).


™Registered trade mark of Trent Reznor

*the photo of Ann Coulter has not been altered in any way with the exception of the inset photo

Alas

Capitalism is the cause of this.

And Christianity the cause of that.

Humans the cause of that...

and if you therefore subscribe to the monotheistic theology that includes a god then God is responsible for this fucking economy and

my mother's lost job, my father's failed business...

I wonder if I'm the only one approaching life with this mathematical mentality?

Cause=Effect.

1+1=2

There is no god, how can there be, logically, realistically, with all that we know?

Science is my god. Fact is my scripture. I subscribe only to reality.

Frustration consumes me. I am alone.

Alas! Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d'Holbach: "What has been said of [God] is either unintelligible or perfectly contradictory; and for this reason must appear impossible to every man of common sense." I came across this while doing research for my little adventure report thing for my creative writing class. There is so much truth to that and there is something that reminds me of thoughts--fears--I had when I was growing up: that I would find out that God is just like Santa Claus: a lie.

A life without God serves me far better than when I did believe. I don't find myself waiting anymore. I'm not putting my faith in fate. I have adopted the concept that not only doesn't God exist but that there is nothing out of my control in regard to my own fate, meaning where I end up, what my life becomes. It is my responsibility. No more crossing paths, no more praying to meet movie stars & musicians, no more seeing God in things. A life absent of God. An existence far more fulfilling if you ask me. Knowing that life ends and that's it motivates me to spend more time with my family, striving to always have the best time possible, taking advantage of late nights with friends, and most importantly, I am motivated to write as much as I possibly can.

Ye old days of Friendster and LiveJournal...

I'm "tweeting" my ass off over here. I'm addicted to this stupid thing! Damn it! Idle hands are Twitter's playground! See! Now I have to put that on my Twitter!

Hold on.

Okay. I feel better now.

Twitter is crack for Facebook/MySpace addicts. I remember a lesser time, when there existed only a dial up internet connection, one where if you had call waiting and someone called, you'd get kicked off or if you're mom didn't know you were on and she picked up the phone to call your grandma, you also lost connection. Because in those days grandmas didn't know how to text message, they didn't even have cell phones.

Now there's this Twitter thing, this 140 character text box where you type pretty much whatever you want. It's not used entirely for it's intended purpose of "to stay connected through the exchange of quick, frequent answers to one simple question: What are you doing?" As if text messaging was too cumbersome, searching in the phone book much too difficult when wanting to tell Tyler you're shopping, it being far easier and saving your thumb one less straining motion by choosing "Twitter" instead of "Tyler" or logging on to the internet from your little blackberry.

Yes people use it like a blog too, I've seen it, esp. on John Mayer's. Example:

"You could really freak the neighbors out if you lit strobes in your house, screamed really loud and left a pile of top hats in the yard." Followed immediately by:

"Even if it meant a pile of top hats gathering in the yard, I'd still be about it."

Do you see what I mean!?

I guess Twitter is good for one thing: catching snippets of the random thoughts of members of America's pop culture. Whatever that's worth...

Ah Twitter you are my Romeo and the tweets of others my poison, you will be the death of me some day.

For more from the douche ("your body's a wonderland" that's all I hear, that inaudible drivel, every time I think of that fuck):

http://twitter.com/johncmayer