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Tuesday, June 30th, 2009
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9:50 pm
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Woke up half naked. In a bathtub. Bathed in penetrating sunlight. On top of a trashheap. In the middle of nowhere. With vultures circling overhead. And a dead silence permeating the air. A few seconds spent getting my head together. The silence is broken by an unexpected foghorn and a quick look about reveals a tugboat cutting through waves of garbage in the distance, seagulls at the helm.
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(comment on this)
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| Sunday, June 21st, 2009
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3:57 am - Watch.
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| Tuesday, June 16th, 2009
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3:48 am - Watch.
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| Sunday, June 7th, 2009
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5:48 am - Hypothetical gambling.
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| Tuesday, May 12th, 2009
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11:10 pm - Guido Klingons.
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9:52 pm - Race Fumes
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[21:45] Sergey: I've got something we can invest in!
[21:45] Sergey: http://www.racefumes.com/
[21:45] Sergey: It's RACE FUMES in a CAN!
[21:46] Sergey: Supposedly it's air captured at drag races and such.
[21:46] Sergey: They could totally branch out with this.
[21:46] Sergey: For example, they could hit every women's restroom there is, bottle the air, and release it as SCENT OF A WOMAN!
[21:46] Sergey: They can even get Pacino to promote!
[21:47] Mitch: Hahah, something about that doesnt seem right
[21:47] Mitch: Why not have other fumes as well
[21:47] Mitch: Mortuary Fumes!
[21:47] Mitch: Gas Chamber Fumes!
[21:48] Sergey: Yeah, man! They could totally personalize it! Now you can smell your favorite grandpa FOREVER!!!
[21:48] Mitch: Dangerous Levels of Carbon Monoxide Fumes!
[21:48] Sergey: They can steal that Spaceballs idea and sell bottled (and canned) air!
[21:48] Mitch: Which would be cheap to produce since it'd just be carbon monoxide in a can
[21:49] Mitch: And carbon monoxide is odorless
[21:49] Mitch: So you could just put normal air in there and nobody would know the difference
[21:49] Mitch: Except when they dont die and stuff
[21:50] Sergey: Yeah or just sell cans of compressed oxygen so that people will either get high or freeze their lungs or both!
[21:50] Sergey: I'd totally buy Teriyaki Beef Jerky Spray though if they made it.
[21:50] Sergey: I'd be huffing that shit day and night!
[21:51] Sergey: IT'S LIKE I'M EATING AIR! AND I CAN'T GET ENOUGH!
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(comment on this)
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| Monday, May 4th, 2009
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2:16 pm - From a movie.
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Dear attractive woman number 2, only once in my life have I responded to a person the way I've responded to you, but I've forgotten when it was or even if it was in fact me that responded. I may not know much, but I know that the wind sings your name endlessly, although with a slight lisp that makes it difficult to understand if I'm standing near an air conditioner. I know that your hair sits atop your head as though it could sit nowhere else. I know that your figure would make a sculptor cast aside his tools, injuring his assistant who was looking out the window instead of paying attention. I know that your lips are as full as that sexy french model's that I desperately want to fuck. I know that if for an instant I could have you lie next to me, or on top of me, or sit on me, or stand over me and shake, then I would be the happiest man in my pants. I know all of this, and yet you do not know me. Change your life; accept my love. Or, at least let me pay you to accept it.
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Tuesday, April 7th, 2009
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9:24 pm
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[21:08] enamon23: I headbang ALL THE TIME! I could be sitting on a toilet, shitting, and suddenly I'll get the urge to whip my head back and forth. Taking a shit is FUCKING METAL! And I think it makes my poop go SMOOTHER through my COLON. Selective capitalization is METAL!!!
[21:09] enamon23: One time I was having a seizure and my head started snapping back and forth repeatedly. And then I realized I looked like a morbid rat in the throes of death. And that was METAL. And I started headbanging. And I was still having the seizure! And headbanging! It was MOTHERFUCKING EXTREME!!!
[21:10] enamon23:
[21:10] Eric: lmao!!
[21:10] enamon23: One time I saw this kid who was three and he was headbanging harder than I was! I said "Damn, little dude! That is fucking METAL!" but he didn't reply. He just kept swinging his head back and forth, hair flying up and down. That was the day I learned about autism...
[21:11] Eric: hahahah!!!
[21:11] Eric: =D
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Friday, April 3rd, 2009
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1:25 am
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| Thursday, April 2nd, 2009
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7:57 pm - New story.
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Twenty books under your shirt makes you look pregnant.
This is the lowest of the low. Stealing words. Cradling them like children. Stolen children. Just have to make it through the gates. Massive Jackie O glasses covering most of my face god I hope they think I'm a woman.
A pregnant, flat chested, short haired woman with tremongous sunglasses and a three o'clock shadow making a mad dash towards the exit.
Don't attract attention.
Don't look anybody in the eye.
Pray you've removed the security strips from inside the books.
Pray that none fall out.
Pray that security doesn't have you on camera.
Pray pray pray.
Run.
My babies.
My babies keep hitting me and digging deep into my abdomen.
My babies want to be born.
I'm so close.
So close.
MY WATER BROKE!
Yes, shout it out, high pitched. Make it more believable that you're female. That you're innocent.
Nobody is innocent.
And that wasn't my voice.
Someone rushes ahead of me, heading for the exit.
Who?
Looks like a woman.
I can't see her face.
She's got the same disguise!
It's all slow motion now. A security guard, crouching in the magazine aisle right by the exitway springs into action. Achilles. Quick on his heels he moves forward with the speed, focus, and precision of a gazelle.
Or a linebacker.
Because he sure as hell smashes into her like one.
Into the woman.
Whose glasses come flying off. Her eyes are closed. She crumples and falls wayside. With a thud.
She just gave birth.
To Henry Miller and Dostoevsky and Melville and Nabokov.
And Dr. Seuss.
Quintuplets.
And it's not a woman.
I stop. And look around.
"I suddenly feel the need to take a giant shit" I announce and slowly back away towards the comforting safety of the bookstore restroom. And suddenly I realize my dilemma.
Men or women?
The lady or the tiger?
Fuck.
Eenie meenie miney oh fuck it.
Before I can even touch the door handle the door swings open and a woman comes out eyeing my beard growth suspiciously.
"Lady? Don't judge me."
Can't she see I'm pregnant? It's my hormones acting up. Doesn't she understand?
She should read about it.
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(comment on this)
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| Tuesday, January 20th, 2009
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12:16 pm - Presidential inauguration.
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So my co-workers are all watching the Presidential inauguration and,
as I peer over their shoulders, I can't help but wish that Obama is
some sort of massive Star Wars fan boy. Then the entire theme of the
inauguration would be Star Wars. Bush would be dressed up as Darth
Vader. Cheney would be Emperor Palpatine. Obama would be dressed up as
Han Solo and his wife, Michelle, would be Leia. The head of the Secret
Service would be decked out in full Wookie regalia wearing a
ceremonial banner. The whole thing would be topped off by a band of
little people running around wearing nothing but body hugging fur
coats.
Bill Clinton would be Jar Jar.
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, January 19th, 2009
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3:53 pm - Nicotine Cum.
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Excuse me. What is that?
This? I'm trying to quit smoking.
I've guessed that. But what is it?
It's nicotine cum.
You mean nicotine gum?
No, what I said. Nicotine cum. See? It comes in cans.
So what do you do with it?
Well you drink it, obviously.
But it's cum.
No, it's nicotine cum. See, read the label. Designed to cure the constant craving for nicotine. For full effect drink at least one can of nicotine cum every morning before breakfast.
Really?
Yes.
So how's it taste like?
It tastes like nicotine cum. You want some?
No, thanks. I, uh, don't smoke.
Suit yourself.
Does it work though?
What does?
Nicotine cum.
I think so. But it's only been a week but I hope so.
And you... you don't find anything weird about drinking cum laced with nicotine or whatever it is?
No, not really. Should I?
Well it's cum...
In a can.
In a can. You don't think it's a scam or something?
Well if it's a scam it's as much of a scam as nicotine gum or nicotine patches. Those are all ordinary things just with nicotine added for effect.
So whose cum is it?
I don't think it's anyone's in particular. I mean I've got at least half a dozen cans in my fridge at home. That's a lot of cum. The company that makes this must have an assembly line of chronic masturbators or something of the sort.
And what company makes this?
Why the Nicotine Cum Company, of course. It sure as hell ain't Coca Cola. Hell, if Coca Cola came up with that idea we'd all be drinking carbonated cum. Corn syrup carbonated jizz with a big red label.
You sure it's not a ploy though?
What do you mean?
I mean may be it's a way to indoctrinate people into drinking cum. I mean it's cum laced with nicotine, for god's sake. How do you know that if you quit it you won't suffer from cum cravings? It's like Pavlov's dogs. After a while how do you know you won't be waking up early in the morning looking forward to that first can of cum?
Well even if that happens it's better than smoking.
Is it?
Well... yeah. Smoking gives you cancer. I've never heard of drinking cum giving you cancer!
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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| Thursday, December 11th, 2008
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1:03 pm
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So a week or two ago for some reason I took the ferry home. It was late and the ferry was one of those tiny ones with only two floors. I was sitting on the bottom one trying to read but constantly hearing shouting and singing and laughter from some group up front. I passed by them when the boat docked at Staten Island. As I walked I ended up behind this fat black chick who was one of the singing drunks. She had no ass. It was horrific to look at. Just two triangular slabs that met at her crack. It was awful. Like a fat chick with no tits. Unnatural. The world felt cold and hollow that night.
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Thursday, December 4th, 2008
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8:08 pm
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I remember living in rural Pennsylvania as a young child. Our family was dirt poor but our childish naivete prevented us from seeing things as they truly were. I remember that for one day during each summer our father would load us up in the back of his pickup and drive us over to some rundown town down in Appalachia. He'd drive through it real slow and we'd look at all the inbreds and drunks sprawled around and point at the mutants that roamed those gravel roads and lived in shanty wooden husks that once used to be houses. Our dad called it the "Circus" and our little excursions were dubbed as "going to the circus." For years that's what "going to the circus" meant to us. Almost a decade later, when we moved to the city, he took us to see a real circus that was traversing the nation at the time. Stuffed full of acrobats and elephants and clowns and circus seals. I was never more disappointed in my life. I wanted to see the inbred halfwit with the dead fetus of a twin still attached to his forehead drunk on homemade whiskey and lazing about with a piss stain covering the crotch of his pants.
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Saturday, November 29th, 2008
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3:50 pm
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| Wednesday, November 19th, 2008
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1:18 am - I think I tend to write when I get depressed. Interesting.
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He would stay up at the late hours of night typing away at the keyboard. He had all sorts of journals and social networking profiles that he created under false identities - all of them women. Then he'd go on a spree friending a bunch of females and constantly checking their updates waiting for a moment of weakness. Then, when a girl looked like she might be going through a hard time emotionally he'd buddy up to her and convince her that life would be less complicated if she "...got into exotic dancing. Now I normally keep this advice for myself but I feel like you're one of my closest friends and us girlfriends have to stick together!" He grinned slyly as he tapped away on the grime covered keyboard thinking himself so fiendishly clever. And clever he was. Some still say he was, singlehandedly, responsible for the Great Stripper Boom of 2010.
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(comment on this)
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| Tuesday, November 18th, 2008
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9:00 pm
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how many miles must i walk in my socks
they took my shoes so i wouldn't get out
but i try not to stay attached
i've gone to the bridge i'm going to drown
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(comment on this)
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| Thursday, October 30th, 2008
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9:47 pm
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| Friday, October 24th, 2008
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2:05 am - Goals.
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This is for myself.
1.) Get motorcycle license.
2.) Get ham radio license.
3.) Save up $3,000.
More to come.
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Thursday, October 23rd, 2008
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10:29 pm - No, I don't know. Don't ask.
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We'd sit on the curb and write our names in the pavement with a bottle of lighter fluid and set it alight and watch the earth burn. That would be at twilight. We'd hear all the night noises. Crickets and frogs in the grass across the road. Lit gray moon illuminating our flash of flame. Sometimes we'd lay back and watch the sky and pray for shooting stars to come our way.
One time we saw a big one, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. We grinned at the sight and suddenly jumped as something fell to the ground about a few yards in front of us. Right dead straight in the center of the road. It was a charred corpse. Still smoking. It landed on its side and we could see the flesh and eyelids were burnt off. Lips too and you can see the teeth gritting. Eyes burnt and boiled through. Hair missing in burnt patches. Melted, wasted polyester suit fused with flesh. A smell like no other.
And the night was quiet.
And suddenly the sound of another corpse slamming to the earth.
And another. Straight into and through the branches of a nearby tree.
And another. And another. A rain of burning corpses. Dozens of them.
Then... silence. And a faint sound like far away thunder.
We waited and waited. Then went back to looking at the stars.
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(comment on this)
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enamon's journal
