Indeed, the bacon is frying amid cumin. I will always recall that Acy's love of bacon is unequalled. Or at least *WAS* unequalled. I ponder at times whether it was the reason for Ramona's departure. One of several, I suspect. Relationships are the gradual accumulation of disdain. Miniscule granules lump together to eventually be indistinguishable. I am reminded of a conversation that Acy and I had in the back, screened-in *kitchen* of his place in Austin. (Note: A place that is missed - a fantastic place -...
I am sitting on my bed as Marisa softly coughs beside me. She is playing a game on her mobile. Perhaps it is *Pet Rescue Saga* or something similar. It entertains her. It relaxes her. She definitely needs it after the stress her children caused her today. Also, I am downloading an image of *Archbang* linux to test. I am of the opinion that I will like it, being minimal and supposedly very quick, and shall replace Ubuntu on *galictis-vittata*. I'll have that mustelid back in my arms on Monday or Tuesday. We...
What is the best manner in which to motivate myself in the morning? I once had a book that I bearly got into entitled *The Artist's Way*. It suggested the concept of *morning pages*. I suppose that is exactly what this is since it is thirty-one minutes past nine in the morning. The writing should be free flowing, almost stream of consciousness. Or, rather exactly stream of consciousness. I get to an initial point. I feel particularly demotivated. I believe it is lack of stimulation, in general. I do my bes...
A message to Christian earlier today, recorded for my own amusement in the distant future: That being said (and what it was will be lost in time, like peacocks in the rain), I believe that doing laundry during the night is the correct moment to accomplish such an important task. 1. It allows you to prance around with an exposed, lye-caked penis as you do calisthenics in the neighbourhood. 2. It provides a time for *zen-rapture* as you stare at whorling linens whilst baked on quaaludes. 3. It earns you the...
Many broken souls should band together and write a self-help book entitled *How To Raise A Gifted Child In A Hick Environment*. I have no conclusive evidence, though it would be rather simple to just put the question to Christian, but I am convinced that in the cesspool that is *Cold Brook, New York*, he was raised to believe he was a kind of prodigy. I remember snippets of conversations with this cesspool of a man roughly between 2004 and 2006 claiming genius-like abilities and guaranteeing success before...
The sound of tape unsticking itself from its roll, being severed by a razor, and then applied to rough cardboard fills the air amid the music of *Amarok* that spills from my telephone to my right. More and more often, I find myself, during these days bereft of *Galictis-Vittata*, listening to music in the manner of teens on the metro in Prague. They blast from the tinny speakers of their mobiles crass dance music engineered for precisely that environment. #### And I am doing the same now. The pitiful diff...
I don't like to think of them in this manner, but at times, Marisa's explanations to me come across as lectures. She was, after all, a teacher at one point in her life. Not only that, but she was a teacher of children. I am certain this sort of profession can skew one's personal relations for a lifetime. #### I don't like to be lectured. As Shambal Brambel would say: > I force my veined member into her orifice. She can say no more. Except for shuffling and a slow gurgle, all is quiet. The *Fresneda Fami...
Considering that I have no idea what will happen at the aeroport on Sunday, I am not very nervous about my impending voyage (doom) to Praha from Madrid. Originally, I thought I'd leave Fresneda tomorrow via bus from Belorado and arrive in Logroño at an unspecified time in the evening. I would then have an evening in the *casa* in Paseo del Prior alone to collect my rational and recharge my hungry power supply. At the moment, I am sitting on the bed in Marisa's room in Fresneda (as opposed to the bed in *my...
I am not Shambal Brambel, but I know him. He is a greasy *spic* who sleeps on park benches beneath seven month old newspapers. You smell him from several hectometers away. He produces expansive and even at times artistic puddles beneath his place of rest simply by drooling during his slumber. I plan to kill him. Perhaps I already have and do not remember. ----------------------- The purpose of this post is to test whether blog_to_mongo.js still works on my new system. If it does not, I shall kill Shambal...
> The weeds, as they term them, teem with thriving insects in an ecosphere unknown to neighbouring lots This could be an analogy of the multiverse concept, but I'll distill it down to something more simple. Humans, even in the same city, divide themselves into different peergroups. Perhaps *peergroups* is not the best word here. I'll go with *penguins*. So, humans, even in the same city - even in the same *barrio*, divide themselves into different *penguins*. These *penguins* are mostly oblivious of each o...
Tuesdays come at us from all angles. And by that I mean *every* angle possible. This includes those angles not able to be perceived by human grumpiness. Truly, Tuesday is a day of change, and, as the omniscient Michal says, every day is Tuesday. Therefore, every day is a day of change and of opportunity. This Tuesday is bright and full of clouds - a good beginning. If all goes as planned, I leave Fresneda today for *home*. Currently, as any reader might recall, home is Logroňo. Several things await me in L...
