Numbers can be fun

Having a handful of girlfriends may be a good way to pick out the best, but when a new one comes into pay, it's those relationships that may keep me from the one I want most.

That, and the latest seemed to have a few qualities of girls of my past rolled into one big batch of cookie dough. Don't get me wrong: cookie dough is good. Cookies are better. Together with a tall glass of memories is the best snack.

A Katrina victim, neither the accepting victim nor the looter, is a good idea for a Halloween costume. There's too much pain.

A young, erratic mother, perhaps in her teens, always looking for her baby at the party, is funny, but a cross-dressing commitment.

The tweaker, a twenties something meth addict, is a play off of the classic hobo costume.

Maury Povitch, has two shows: DNA testing and lie detecting. I'm still trying to figure out which is more accurate.

After lettered names in the six Hurricane lists comes Greek letters. Beta's a bust.

I'm awkwardly successful.

All we do in bed is lie.

tis the reason

Nice work all you for using my blog comment space to talk shit about each other and me. I remember when I created this mess that that was indeed my intention. Run with it, sheep. Lists of for housewives running off to the store to buy me fixings to feast on. Find it in your heart to fuck yourself.

We all have a little more to learn. That's why I'm going back to school. And, yes, to look at some females. Hey, you would too if you weren't tied up in the bed of some truck. Go clone yourself.

For a good time check out:

...a new blog favorite of mine.

More stories when the shit talking stops.

"Killer wants to go to college"

I think it's a personality thing. Or maybe it's something with authority. I can't follow lists. Numbers next to words kind of confuse me. The last think I need is someone telling me to drink whiskey. Sorry to my loyal reader.

I used to be about the fame. Then it was helping people out. Later, I did it because I was hungry. Now that I'm broke, I'll do it for the money. There's no glory in this. But as The Donald has taught me: money is the only way to judge yourself against others. Right now there is no comparing me.

No military.

No volunteering.

No money for the booze.

I've got to learn to float before I can swim.

Little ambition. Even less confidence. I'm going to go to the only place that people can take refuge from the storm of life. Sure, New Orleans seems like a great idea, maybe do some time with Peace Corps. But no, Killer wants to go to college.

I'm too old.

I'm too tired.

I'm too fucking blind.

Clearly the Hamm's has gotten to me. I'm acting stupid and have to take a cheap-beer crap. Better print out my spam to wipe with.

Check back...

Sorry, sirs

Maybe now I can go on...

The days are numbered. Soon I'll moving past the quarter century mark into my 26th year on this planet that I'm on, and supposedly on to try to make better. Hard to imagine making this a place better at the rate of destruction taking place. For what could I possibly do? When I leave this God-for-saken Earth it is next-to impossible to imagine that it will be better off than it was in 1979. It'll get worse before it gets better. More people will suffer. Polar caps will all be gone. People will die not knowing me. For how could they? I'm but one man, of over six billion. With one voice and a limited vocabulary.

Which brings me to a trivia question: Is it possible that more people are living than have ever died?

I'll read up on that one. I'll try and make my head a better place than when I found it just some time ago. More imaginative. Organized. Clear and focused. And calm.

Am I being selfish or acting lonely? It's no longer a question about what I can do for others. For how could I help out others if I'm in clear need of resolution?

I close my eyes, and my geographic education helps display a mental map. Outlines of states emerge, lines, indicating roads, wind, and shadows show relief, and I'm left wondering if this is where I'm supposed to be. I struggle and pick up a pen. I attempt a skyline. City: where I should be. Fine, I'm in one. There's a new message in my inbox, an e-mail for a job, perhaps. A buzz on my cell phone comes from a girl I hardly know. Is this where I'm supposed to be? To early to tell...

It'll get warmer before it gets colder.

And, three days off

I'm off...

After working 11 of the past 12 days, I'm ready to take a little time off. Three days. Not nearly long enough to go anywhere, but just long enough to get into some trouble. We'll see what happens...

Not enough readers. Getting tired of spamers. Thinking about giving it up. It's something I've done in the past and something I'm not afraid to do again. It's the way out.

They say everyone has a myspace. Not sure what that is all about and not sure if this is considered myspace or just my space to play in. Can't really say that my space is better than this myspace, but think I might be able to get more readers there. Maybe the wrong ones, maybe more, maybe the same amount. I still don't know. I guess I won't sell out to it. Seems like the trendy thing to do. And if it's cool to go there, I won't. Just like if it's cool to not go to Starbucks, then I will go to Starbucks and order my grande half double decafinated half-caf. And if you don't like it, you can add an extra shot of goo in your hair. And believe me, the hair is the last place you want that stuff.

Did I mention I'm a friendster?


Portland: oddly a fun place to be in all it's grayness. Lots of attractive dirty whores walking around, ready to suck the cock of your boss, have a threesome with your co-workers, screw with your mind. In all my time here -- it's been almost a year -- I've never heard of such crazy shit.

Man walks into a job interview. Boss says: Hey, how do you feel about relationships at the work place. Man says to Boss: Eeek, Sir. I don't think it's such a good idea. Boss makes a funny face and man looks underneath the table. There's a woman done there, not unlike the dirty whore as described above. Woman has her mouth full, but looks up at the Man, then looks at the boss. Then goes back to work sucking the cock of the Boss. Boss tells the Man that they'll be making their decision and will keep him informed. Boss doesn't get up when Man leaves the room. Why would he?

I should have known better.

The last thing I need is less sleep.

Lesson: Less is a mess, and fewer is a number.

The other night I woke up several time. I've been having short dreams as of late. Not very good, and less fulfilling. Practically with no meaning. So, I'm dreaming about this girl that I knew 7 years ago in college, Kim Coffman. She was in my English class freshman year and I thought she was cute. She had a boyfriend at the time, and as I've mentioned to loved ones before, it's hard to be friends with a girl when you have a girlfriend. Hard also to be friends with a girl with a boyfriend unless you are friends with the boy. I wasn't. In my dream I'm re-united with Kim. I know it's her. She's more tan now. I don't know why. We kiss and she tells me she loves me. I don't know why. But it makes me happy and we kiss. It's a dream. I'm woken by my barking dog. Heidi won't let me get close to anyone. So I wake up from this Kim Coffman dream to violent barking. I don't know what's out there, but Heidi is right by my window telling me something. I look out, fearing terrorism or worse. And I see it. There something on the fence. A cat? I'm not sure. I tell Heidi to go inside and she listens. Back through the doggie door into the garage. I look back at the fence. Fuck, what in the hell is that? I don't know. Not a cat. A rat? It's big for a rat. The tail, rat like, whips wildly. It's dark out. I mentioned that. I can't make it out. The face kind of turns to me, it's lighter and it fears nothing. It's not a rat. It's got to be a wolverine. I don't know. I've lived my whole life in a city, and it's this not knowing that has made me almost wet my pajamas. This this thing, it's still on the fence and not going anywhere. I'm thinking like a caveman now and am considering taking a baseball bat to this unknown creature. I could at least get it off the fence. I might have to do this, I fear, if I don't it could follow Heidi into the garage, through the doggie door, and confront the barker. If it kills Heidi it would come after me. I check to make sure my door is closed, and it is. I'm still wide awake and want a better look at this thing. I can't see shit but the whipping tail, and green-turning eyes. Wolverine. I think flashlight, but don't know where to look. I turn on my overhead. That doesn't help. I can't see anything outside. That does help. I close the window. Shut my blinds. Fall back into one of my shorts. The next time I awake it's gone. I didn't dream it, there was something there.

Possum, my friend tells me the next morning. I believe him because he makes sense sometimes. I think back to everything possum I know. They have little possums that ride on their back's, right? Just as creepy. Small. Babies. Wolverine like. They are nocturnal, I find. Out at night and a scary sight. Stupid, possums are. Mostly roadkill. Now I know. So, I try not to fear the possum anymore. Evidently, my neighborhood is a Possum Kingdom... Possum...Possum...Possum.

Fewer dreams, less sleep. Damn possum.

you, me, and Big Brother make three

For as long as people are reading, I'll write. Thank you whoever, and thank you Orwell reincarnated one. For I thought that it was only the people I poach internet off of that were able to read what I type. I thought that the government had access to my thoughts. This is new. Comments are welcomed, appreciated. Cheers to me. Cheers for three. Keep 'em coming. I'll try and do better next time.
Latest adventures in Carsonation: A Trip to the Clinic, Imitating Indiana Jones, a run in with a Max Marshall, another female who doesn't want to live with me, and, parting words with my former self.

One month till I'm 26, better get checked out. I went to the doctor. Couldn't have done it without free health care. Might not need it if I didn't earn a wage that kept me up at night, gets me up early, makes me stress. So I go in and have all of my hypochondriac assumptions shot down. Older people in for flu shot. Maybe next time, I think, maybe never. I get shot with a needle and get three vials of blood removed from my right arm. Checking for everything, I assume. Results pending...

Before this, though, there was the last Thursday of the month, something to celebrate here. A new bar, the Mash Tun, has this patio with a garage door separating it from the interior. At exactly 11 p.m. the door starts to shut. I think that means last call or something. From across the patio, I race to the closing door and fling my arm underneath, ala Indy, and reach for something, anything. Amid the slid, I scrap. Now my hand has a mark that looks eerily like the bite Spiderman got before morphing. Change continues...

Not in roommates. Still have the one. Still looking for another. In the meantime I'm paying a ridiculous amount of money for a lonely life. The last potential female to look around the house seemed interested. She e-mails: (I) realized this weekend that I actually have to be on the road most of November (I think I'll be in Portland for only two days). I've decided not to get a new place and just put my stuff in storage. If I were staying, your place would have been my first choice, but I'm going to have to pass on it. I enjoyed meeting you guys and wish you luck finding someone else.

No longer looking for luck, looking for lunch.

And what else? I spoke to someone I used to be. Funny thing about looking at who you were. You see you, and you are thinking different thoughts that you know you couldn't have thought when you were. I sat down with my former self and here's the script.

Current Me: Silly.
Former Me: I am? Why?
CM: So foolish about stuff. Don't you know what matters?
FM: Thought I did. But I guess I don't know as well as you. Why? What's up?
CM: It's too late for you. I'm you later. And I know now what you should by now. Trouble with you is, you're done with. You can't change because I'm now you, and only I can.
FM: So I can't do anything to change the future?
CM: Of course not. Nor the past, so don't try.
FM: Do you hate me for doing the things I did?
CM: I don't. It's okay. I have to admit, though, that things could have worked out better.
FM: Better for who?
CM: Me and you. We're one in the same. There are things I now know that you don't. But, there are still uncertainties that we both might have forever.
FM: Yeah.
CM: Yeah. I'm accepting. I'm willing to work. My bounce is back.
FM: I lost that. I'm sorry. I don't even know how.
CM: That's not what you should worry about. Let's just try to hang onto it.
FM: Deal.

This morning I stepped off the Max (transit system), was met by a marshall and warned to pay next time. A deal's a deal. Done.