the man who knew too much completely stole its thematic posturing and overarching narrative from air force one.

errant.

i got a phone i can blog poorly from when i feel weird and have too much coffee in me

right now, i am avoiding playing the album i want a to listen to over the work speakers because it is a hip hop album that heavily employs the word 'nigger' and there are two black women sitting upstairs. now, my enjoyment of hip hop is separated by multiple disconnects, but i think i have an honest appreciation for a genre of music i have little business being involved in. this discussion could go on for days, exploring the justifications and exoticisations i use in my enjoyment of the music. what i really want to know is, is where does not turning on a hip hop album that has racial slurs in it because youre a white kid and black folks around you know that you picked the music fall on the racial political matrix?

Get him in the manner of getting him dead.

it seems that conscious observation of a world surrounding is just as important as the knowledge that one's brain and body parts and the brains and body parts of the people they love are conceived in doom when one is trying to write.

Xmas dulls the senses to a common denominator lower than the boughs of an underground hell tree. That is, a tree that grows upside down, underground into hell.

On Christmas I normally think about how much I hate Christmas and the white people christian consumerist fuckfest that I've seen my whole white people christian consumerist life. 
This Christmas, I'm apathetic and think everyone's an idiot for investing so much in a day during a season that's nothing but stress and unpleasantness.  I guess that's probably just for me though, and I should revert back to anarchistic anger, because at least the awful shit to hate is scientifically observable. 

when i dick you dick we dick

philip k. dick has a talent for making you feel frantically confused for the first half of a book. as if you lost a supplementary non-fiction guide and now have to make due without it.
like, shit what the fuck are psis?

Just writin bout boobs

nothing to see here.

Ten yards is a good amount of yards to get if you're a football player.

It's more than a stupid joke that goes, "Tall? How is that a small? If I wanted a small, I'd order a small, am I right?"

The balance of my anger toward Starbucks has shifted from it being the vast corporate entity that stands for ultra-consumerist-indulgence in something tripled in price without providing more functionality than its basic, beans-steeped-in-water, counterpart to it clandestinely implanting itself into the daily happenings of the American (and perhaps international) English language on a larger level than bullshit like Kleenex or Band-Aid, while simultaneously chopping and screwing bits of other languages and passing it off as sophisticated method of speech and life rather than retarded.

I threw a flower in the garbage today.  I can see it sitting on top of a half eaten tuna sandwich right now.