Discussions involving swabbing the anuses of one's in-laws always lead to constructive conclusions. I've pondered many times in this *journal* and in many other *tomes* lying about about how my upbringing shaped me. Marred me, rather. I sometimes think whether I can put a positive spin on my childhood and how it affected my current personality. I'd firstly like to say that it taught me resilliance. I was for years bombarded with scurrility from my so-called *peers*. Even my friends found negative reinforce...
#### Pink Kolmteist > On slowly sloping hills where mägi house themselves, the grass grows in > arbitrary blotches. Shambal clutches the blanket around his shoulders with one hand. The other holds an old, wilted journal open between his legs. The stained blanket falls all about him. It's his only protection from the chill. His *proper* clothing has long since rotted in the closet without a door. The resulting nest is a home for a mouse named *Murida*. She is saved for another story, however. The entry in...
He uncrosses his eyes for a moment, then lets them drift back out of focus. For a few seconds, he clearly saw leaves in varying shades of green moving in slender lines like serpents rolling and squirming. Those reptiles took some hallucinagen or other. He thinks of ferns and then the fibbonacci sequence. Blotches of sloppy green swim in spirals in front of him. He wants to stand. He tries to stand. The trap around his ankle does not allow him to. He settles back, wishing to regain strength. Nataša had tol...
#### Pink Kolmteist > The girl in the turquoise skirt comes again to flitter in the mindless breeze > across my viewscreen as I haughtily ignore her. A part of me considers Shambal a prophet. I despise prophets. A girl in a skirt so bright that I am blinded whilst trying to scope her legs walks by in intervals of approximately 13 minutes. Her earrings are also turquoise. They swing most likely to the beat that pulses through the earbuds above them. She cannot possibly be trotting to the rhythm, though, as...
Shambal reclines wearily in a grimy chair. It's wooden frame creaks as he shifts uncomfortably. The hempish fabric still holds, even after decades of wear. A large *WAD* of lipids bulges from part of his right buttock. Many of its cells are mutated. Shambal has waited too long to have it removed without consequence. He's been told it'll grow at a linear rate. The discomfort he feels now will increase, but he won't feel anything but minor, occasional throbs for years to come. His conclusion is not to deal w...
Choosing a washed out photo seems most appropriate considering my personality is washed out. My colours are faded. I am not distressed. I am just fatigued. Historically, Ruidoso brought relief from the searing cultural dearth of West Texas. How an artistic, progressive community grew up there still amazes me.  I'm happy to be surprised. My opinion of the *good ol' USA* sank so low during all my time in Europe that it may be found *cerca de ...
A few days ago, I began to read the novel *Blink* by **Malcolm Gladwell**. So far, it has been enlightening. As with any psychologically spun book, there are parts I've pondered before and others I've failed to. > Like most of our sweat glands, those in our palms respond to stress as well > as temperature -- which is why we get clammy hands when we are nervous. In the introduction to the book, he described an experiment where four decks of cards, two red and two black, were chosen from. Yeah, a top card f...
As I was spinning about Hobbs with my parents today, waiting at counters for photos in Wal-Mart, and sitting stabbing at apathetic buttons in Zia Park casino, I was simultaneously in a Google *hangout* with Sir Christián Neumann. He needs no introductions. He is truly the excrement from the most foul of **Swine**. Still, one cannot choose one's friends, correct? #### Correct. So, taken that given into consideration, I enjoyed our banter thoroughly. He is, at this moment, visiting his **Bro** in Myrtle Bea...
Our talk of subserviance yesterday (or was it the day before?) reminded me of an ego that permeates Western Culture. I step up and he steps down. I squash his face with my boot. I smile. He wears a frown. Why are those who are subserviant seen as a lower class? Sometimes they are pitied. At other times, they are mocked. What if the slave takes joy in serving the so-called master? What exactly is the problem in that? This feature of our culture reminds me of fundamentalism. I see you as subserviant, so I t...
Now, inline images have always been a problem. What if the link doesn't exist anymore? Well, I must maintain them in a proper place, then! I suspect that will be on the server itself. IE, the link will have to be local. Yessiree. So, let's give it a whirl.  Now! Isn't that lovely? I'll find out the answer to that question in a few moments. The simplest solution has now been implemented. Now I am off to gnash my teeth during my dreams. ...
Christian, in his infinite wisdom and silliness, typed the following to me on some sort of chat mechanism. The mechanism itself involves a type of grease-stained rodent not found in these parts any longer. In fact, **all** of the rodents are gone. One day, no one could find one. I'm surprised the mechanism survives and is still in working condition this evening. I mourn the loss of the rodentia. **BUT** ... Christian, in his infinite wisdom and silliness, typed the following to me: > My trust issues stem ...
