they once made their own language

--just the two of them. this was so they could speak in public about their habit of jacking off while they shit and eat all at the same time. they viewed this as the closest they'd ever come to "coming out" about their little ritual.

according to the renowned expert in language acquisition, Dr. Theton Lansfordshire, all the world's language were birthed in this way.

two guys, one secret, and multitasking basic/shameful bodily functions.

this one time

i was holding my little brother's face inches from a mound of dog shit.

he was desperately forcing his head backwards, struggling to counter the force i was exerting on his head with my arm. he was doing surprisingly well for his small stature.

whether it was due to this stalemate or some brooding sense of empathy for his plight--for i was acting not out of vengeance or retribution, but for reasons utterly arbitrary--i realized that i didn't want to actually put his face in a mound of dog shit.

so without warning, i let go.

within half a second, before the crunch and blood and blackness, i realized what chain of events i had set off. he was still pushing his head backwards, away from the dog shit as if his life depended on it.

the back of his stiff-necked head had collided with my nose, breaking it.

the irony of this was not lost on my younger brother, who was now laughing harder than i was moments before when it was his nose that was in peril.

through the blood and watery eyes, i understood god more that day than any other.

my balls

are church bells

ting-a-ling, monkeyfuckers

ting-a-ling

it dawned on me today that

guys count bjs like girls count "i love yous"

this is one of those things

where you don't stop typing no matter how utterly retarded you sound. instead, you lose your inner-editor that holds you back and keeps your from your blogger opus. here, in my stream of consciousness, my art is laid bare, and its got 6-pack abs and a huge wang. here in the click, click, click, its hot and sweaty and ready to do some dirt. the thing no one tells you about this exercise is that maybe when you are laid bare, you're art looks roughly the same way you do naked. just normal, because that's what stream of consciousnnes is, the way you normally think. the editor that keeps you from writing is right--you are better left to doing laundry, watching marathons of Law and Order SVU, and not picking up your dog's shit. maybe your editor is right and you are an ignoramus and even if you had something of use to say, your prose fellates goat dick and you are better off just keeping your insights to yourself. perhaps you are right, and what we call life is not only completely void of intrinsic meaning, but also completely insustainable and maybe even fundamentally immoral. maybe you are better off writing about a) what you know the most about, B) is only thing with a vocabulary trucated enough for your void of talent, and c) is already considered low-brow. maybe you should just start writing about the blonde in the corner that keeps crossing her legs whenever you glance her way, showing you her lack of panties. maybe you should confess to the online world about eating her in the bathroom while i lightly finger all i really want from her--her asshole. spiting on it, licking it, then trying to hit it before she turned around and told me i had the wrong hole. so again, just like your writing, your sex life is normal and without renown. so stop writing, because your editor--which is you, you sack of rotten foreskins--is 100% right about everything he said.

now, be a good waste of resources and go play some Halo 3.

somewhere, someone explains thusly:

I'm an unobtainable fossilized version of myself. The problem is that because D.Q. has been mass produced and my drawing about it is digitally reproduced it's aura has been decayed, and it's location in space and time has been voided and it's cult value has been replaced with exhibition. But the fact that I chose Grant as my phallus was totally unconscious but we we're on facebook chat at the time.

I can't deny it anymore

the void that mormonism left in my life is almost unbearable. slightly more bearable than being mormon, but barely. 

i'm less suicidal than i was when i was LDS, even though i feel like my life has absolutely no purpose now. but being less suicidal just means i'm not driving myself out to remote locations with a gun, writing notes, and crying everytime i arrived to a destination without getting into a fatal car accident (ahhh, the BYU years). it's always still there, whispering in my fucking brainstem, aching to shut shit down for good. 

realizing that you really are all alone and the universe doesn't give two shits and fuck about you almost paralyzes me sometimes. maybe that's why i work harder than ever--because i know its all on me.

there is also the sense of relief that comes with the belief (or hope) that consciousness ends at death. this is a nice thought. 

i just don't know what to do with myself anymore. i've lost a lot of roles to fill. 

okay, i'm done bitching now. 

Existential Crisis Averted:

Tony Soprano: 

"So he's sitting there and he asks me 'if there's no god, why was I born?' He tells me he's got no purpose..."

"I told him it costs about 150 grand to bring him up so far, so if he's got no purpose I want a fucking refund."

You know who you are

there is no stripper

that is not a financial analyst

realization II