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05/12/2005: "Sun showers."

::Sits down and stares at screen while moving hands towards keyboard, but stops them about an inch away. After a moment, he looks down at the keyboard. Another moment passes and he screams. He moves his eyes back to the screen, and screams again.

He stands up, walks out to the living room, and opens the inside front door so he can look out of the screen door onto the front lawn. It's a dark night. All light from the moon and stars are blocked by a heavy covering of clouds. It's not raining yet, but there's a sent in the air that says it'll start by morning.

He screams again.

He closes the door and walks back into his room. He sits back at his laptop with arms hainging limp at his sides. He suddenly starts in and actually starts writing.

::

Is there a singer named Roy Obrinsen, or something like that? I want to use that name in the next part of my story, but it seems to familar. It's throwing me off.

Yes...my stories... I want to work on my satire some more cause I just had to do that essay on the age of satire (Which I'll let Jenna hand in for me so it seems like I joined in on the boycott (neeeenjaaaa...)). Plus, I've been getting really involved in the book Sheila lent me, American Gods. There are only certain kinds of books that I get really involved in, and I'm not sure what kinds they are yet exactly, but this is one of them. And if I reat it, it must be good. Or really fucked up. One of those two.

::takes a small break to hum a song, which is blended into other songs quite improperly::

So then one of the next things I wanna try is shooting my self in the head. You heard me. Not because I'm suicidial or trying to be morbid, but just because I wanna show that I can do it. Should be simple. Just use the gun. Then make a mark on my head for tracking, and one on the wall just for refrence. The whip up the blood in photoshop, and just lay it over frame by frame, using the mark on my head to track so it's in the same place as my head moves. Short, simple, sweet, and...disturbing...

::stares down and to the left for a moment while considering how bad that last part must look, and how bad it might actually be. Then realizes it's not at all like that, and goes back to normal.::

I wanna work on real movies again too. But...you know, S.A.C. ...kinda. That could be part of the headshot thing. Cause you know...non-cartoons have a lot more trouble going along with that "die and things are fine next episode" thing, and when you kill off a character, you kinda have to stop using him. Well, unless you do some really wacked out stuff. And I think a lot of my stuff falls under that category, soo...

And on the same note as my weird shit, I found all the symbolism in taking a shower.

Where are you going? Com'on just follow me on this one.

The mind and body are not seprate. They are one. To clean your mind, you must clean an your body, and you mind must be clean to cleanse your body. And before you can wash either, you must lose your bonds to society, and return to a more primative state where the essence of both are open so you can then procede to clean. Lemmie tell ya what I have to leave behind...

I have this necklace, which is the only one I've had over the years which hasn't broken. It's like a link to the past. New shoes, new hair, new gadgets, same old necklace. Fisrt to let go of the past, so it won't hold me back from the future.

Then the glasses. Vision blured, the world around me mean less. A blur of colors that just means I'm there to deal with what's in my mind, and nothing else.

Look at your shirt. Does it have a logo on it? Yeah...you're a billboard. Lose it. How can you expect to gain some inner fucken peace when you have corprate America usuing you to make other people want to give them money?

Pants. You can know a lot of things about a person from their pants. Oil? Grease monkey. Paint? Artist, or someone who does the walls. Ripped? Well...that could mean a lot of things... depends on how it's located and what else is on them...but they're just as telling. Big pockets? Like to travel light. I'm telling you, between hands and pants, you can tell quite a lot of things about a person...

And then off with the last shreds of clothing. Your last connectons to the world of laws and business and society and all that other muck. Now it's just you and your mind. You have time to think. Think free. Unconstrained by anything at all. Go ahead. It's allright. It's what this time is for. You'd be supprised how much better you'll be for it once you get out of the shower.

And once you do come out...you put everything back on, and come back into the world of men. And...I dunno...do your nails or read a book or something. Point is, spirtual event is over. And now it's time to go back to whatever things you do. But you'll be better for it. I swear.

And when you see that this is what the whole shower thing is for me, can you see how a major spirtual even every day would be over whelming? Shit, even chuch is only once a week. (Yeah, you say what you want. I got some choice words for you too. Enemy.)

F*R*A*G: A BABY? But...Who's the mother?