9 Tweets I Didn't Tweet

Who wants to co-write the script for BloodCourt with me?

Ric Flair vs. Raven Simone vs. your aunt in a Weird Bodies Competition.

It’s either you want to puke but can’t, or have to puke but don’t wanna. CARPE DIEM

: Working to build a better boner.

Now, I will rewrite The Abortion in Google Docs and listen to Converge at a normal volume.

How many James Bonds will there have been when I die?

Dump a can of chili into a pot of mac and cheese and tell me what you know about economics.

sleeping on top of a lot of paper bags: a sign of something?

This morning I woke up to the doorbell ringing but I had a big erection so I didn’t answer it.

because he didnt want to be.

he had a very difficult time not being critical when he was stoned at a stoner metal show.

All I want is someone just to try and protect us.

Holy fuck, Moneyball is a fantastic film. 

A serious thing happened when an Oscar caliber movie came out and the Chicago Cubs hired Theo Epstein.

at this point it

is ufsi 4 lyfe.

Caution words.,

I have a Google Docs file called "Caution words." that is turning out to be one of the best things to come out of my brain in years. 

It's a catalog of the words I've noticed I need to use with caution.  One of the words is:

"Count the cigarettes you've thrown in the toilet."

Sometimes your neighbors are having very rhythmic sex above you.

Sometimes your roommate is gracious and drives your car to work to pick you up because it's the first snow of the year and has been snowing all day.
Sometimes your car is unreliable, because it was made in 1989 and you don't take particularly good care of it.  A light starts flashing on the dashboard while you're stopped at a stoplight and the light says "BATTERY."
You say, "Fuck," and your roommate pushes the 1989 Camry toward the side of the road while you steer and gesture meekly at the cars behind you to "go around," but they're hesitant because it is very snowy. 
When you get to the side of the road you say, "Godfuckingdamnit," and then, "My girlfriend has my fucking AAA card." You feel angry and know it is not justified.
Your roommate starts making phone calls because your phone is dead and the slush builds up around your feet while you smoke cigarettes in the street.
Your roommate is also making phone calls because you can't keep a cool head or stop swearing.

Friends drive up in 45 minutes and jump start your car.  You say "Thanks so much. I owe you guys so many beers," and as they drive away, the light on the dashboard that says "BATTERY" comes back on.
You swear some more. It sounds like a balloon being deflated.
With one foot on the brake and the other continuously pumping the gas, you attempt to get back on the road and call someone that cuts you off "a cunt," and feel awful about it even though he couldn't hear you.  To be fair to yourself, the dude was driving like an asshole.
Sometimes you mutter words of encouragement to your 1989 Camry the whole drive home with a constant foot on the gas pedal.  Things like, "Come on baby."

You make it to your street and the car dies while you are trying to parallel park.  It's funny though, because everyone laughs.

this is what i just texted jesse:

im filling in in a bowling league tonight. lol

Bro, I'm in the zone.

IN DA ZONE BABY.

dialogue lady, get it?

Is it fair to transfer the burden and responsibility of a lack of creative and motivational inspiration to the fact that I don't have a desk? I don't think so, no. But seriously though, where am I supposed to sit down to really buckle down and break through some writer's block or chug through the demanding and time-consuming process of editing what little I already have written down? I guess on a bed or a couch or a kitchen table. My kitchen table is kind of messy. It has Christmas cookies and some bike parts and a box of Mike and Ikes on it and I think some other things.  That's only clutter and can simply be moved or removed.  If I had a desk, I would not have to worry about blowing cigarette smoke into my roommate's bedroom, because that's exactly what I'd do if I cleaned off the kitchen table and put my notebooks and computer there.  I'd blow cigarette smoke right into his bedroom and he probably wouldn't say anything, but I don't think he'd appreciate it much either, I mean, he doesn't smoke and people who don't smoke cigarettes don't normally enjoy having cigarette smoke blown at them or into their living spaces. This image of a writer at a desk smoking cigarettes is kind of played out, huh? I imagine there should be a glass of mid-shelf scotch on that desk too. Fuck.  I really wish I had a desk though.