Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").
got that wrong
fun social media stuff
Like my brownhouse:
cigarette smoke improved this air
Thursday, January 23 1997 I awoke at about 5pm today. That's good. That indicates I received a sufficient amount of sleep.
I have, according to Webmaster Magazine (a magazine in desperate need of having its business warts removed) an Internet Addiction. This was demonstrated for the last two nights by the fact that I feel more like I'm relating honestly to blixa in a computer chat room than in the privacy of blixa's real life room. The fact that blixa is far away and must be related to via computer chat has the effect of bringing us closer together. Either this indicates we are profoundly sick (Internet Addiction being the problem) or the Internet really is a damn powerful human organ. I think it's a combination of both.
My Internet addiction was demonstrated today by the compelling urge I had upon awaking to check my e-mail. This I did. I'm finding that Comet is steadily finding ways to deploy my unique and completely self-taught web skills, by the way. But this may be a trade secret. I'll say no more.
On the way back from Comet I figured I'd grab a 22 of Schlitz Malt Liquor, the very same "Blue Bull" Jessika and I were drinking on the railroad tracks back in Warren Wilson, Invaded. But as I was leaving the Corner Market, I ran across Josh Smith of Big Fun fame. He's one of the actual rent payers in the horrid crash pad in the Wertland Apartments (some day I'll draw a diagram to show where all the Big Fun regulars ended up). He was with Jenfariello's old boyfriend Austin and they were on a mission to get 5 and a half cases of Beast Ice. Why that specific number? Why that sheer enormous amount? I have NO IDEA. But I helped them carry it all back to the horrid crash pad. We managed to do it all in one trip, aquiring the assistance along the way of a number of skinny but only vaguely familiar punk boys who all know my name.
Vanna the Increasingly Gothic Punk Rock Girl was there, as was little Yayson and one or two others. It smells so funky in the horrid crash pad what with the old food and the millions of different spills that I found myself breathing through my mouth for my first half hour there, like you used to do at granny's house. When people started smoking (and boy did they ever) it was actually a welcome relief. There were annoyances in addition to those carried along olfactory neurons. The guys there all talk in the most unabashedly crude way about their interests in women. It isn't that they address the issue directly, though (which would have been better). They use inuendo. And the ideas behind the inuendo are crude and disgusting. Such guy talk has never appealed to me. This gave me a heightened appreciation for my other friends who do not talk this way (the Malvern Girls, my housemates and friends, and Morgan Anarchy and the punk rock girls).
We spent the first hour or more watching Thursday Night NBC programming...stuff like Seinfeld, which I really don't like that much even though it is pretty good.
Then we played cards. Since by now the beer I was drinking wasn't mine, I figured it only sporting to play cards. We played "Asshole" and it really was rather fun. I also acted as DJ and played things like the Breeders' Last Splash, and, just to spite his punker than thou attitude, an early Stone Temple Pilots album when Morgan Anarchy appeared. It was the album with "In the Vaseline" on it. It's a really good album and maybe one of these days I will buy it.
But when I came back from a pee some awful Reggæ was playing. I cannot stand Reggæ at all and I needed to sober up for work anyway, so I departed with all kinds of melodrama past the especially puzzled expression of Cecelia the Brazilian Girl.
Then as I was heading to work down Wertland, I was approached at Dead Man's Curve (the intersection of Wertland and 12 and a half street) by a white male who could have passed for a small copy of Aaron the SHARP. For those of you who do not know, Aaron and I nurse a mutual dislike for one another. Now, this random pseudoSHARP was not the SHARP, but he looked enough like him for me to dislike him on sight. He made the mistake of asking me for a cigarette. "I DON'T smoke!" I grumbled. (No stranger ever believes I don't smoke, by the way). He then made another mistake "Can I have 30 cents then?" "NO!" I growled, hurrying by without slowing. "Hey Nigger!" he blared at me. That was too much. I whipped around and leaped at him, closing the distance between us by ten percent and shouted "SUCK MY DICK RIGHT NOW!" as I gestured towards the general vicinity of my crotch. He said something stupid back at me and I went to grab a convenient bottle from the ground just as the pseudoSHARP pulled a concealed open beer container from his jacket. Michæl, one of the youthful Bakery employees soon to be unemployed, had appeared on the scene and he urged calm. So I continued on to work, all charged with adrenaline. I don't know what had filled me so with hate. I just don't like people that I don't know, and I especially don't like strangers who just want me for what they can get from me.
we all wanna see girls, even the girls do...
today, courteousy of Infoseek, I present another girlfriend.Today's featured girlfriend is...
Suzanne. I have nothing more to say.
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