It Owes Me Lots Of Money
2014-10-26 - 3:18 a.m.

strangely non-functional guestbook

This isn't definitive.


Find your inspiration where you can.

Spell check hates me. Fucking undisciplined computers.

I'm typing this on a fucking iPad, give me a motherfucking break.

Oh, now you don't like motherfuckering, motherfucker?

Fucking come ON.



This shit was not meant to be typed on, and the mother trucker keeps changing shit on me.

Ay. Yo. Steve man. Fix your shit.

Oh wait, you can't, and don't give a fuck if you could.

Like a daddy long legs, hairy legs on metal skates.


It won't let me fix motherfuckering.



Well, Im trying my bluetooth portable keyboard now.

Except that I have to have a light on...which really kills my mood.


correct that--motherfuckering

All this goddamn technology is supposed to get out of the way, you know? get out of the way of the flow.

And that is so, so, not how it goes. I'm literally tripping over my dick any time I sit down to write anything. Im the literary equivalent of the keystone kops, a 4 year old with adhd....bad hygiene and worse parents. The type of child that grows up to be...well, nothing. A hobo in rags, warming himself by a dumpster fire.

I guess that's what happened to my literary skills. Fucking fucked if I know, yo.

It would be nice if I could turn this fucking light off. Mother fucker.

Motherfuckering, that is....


And I do not apologize for misspelling anything.

Or making up my own words.

I will not be pawed at, ms. spellcheck, thank you very much.

You do not know everything.

(and really, if you havent exceeded the bounds of your spell check, you arent fucking trying.)


I mean, motherfuckering.

Auto correct that, bitches.


The light still sucks, but maybe I can soldier on. Why not.

Its not as if I'm going to sleep. I'm alone now. The guitar doesn't sound good to me anymore. Nothing sounds good. I'm pretty much anhedonic right now, in this part of my life.

Sorta', anyway. I mean, I took LSD tonight.

I enjoyed it. I guess?

Or did I just get through it? Like I 'get through' everything?

I watched the shit out of the stars by the fire. Sat so long that I saw the constellations move and change. Breathtaking. To think that our generation can glimpse at our cosmic address...galaxies, clusters, boggles the mind.

But did I enjoy it?

Yeah, I think I did. I did stay pretty rooted by the fire for...four and a half hours.

Then I came in and ate my ass off.


i have no ass. No ass!

I'm the ass-less man. It will go well with my ass-less chaps.

(speaking of which, all chaps are by definition, ass-less. otherwise they're pants, motherfucker.

I mean, motherfuckering.)


BRB, stoking the fire.

I have no furnace. The furnace died for some reason. I was going to say, 'no reason known unto man', but, yes, there is a reason. Probably a bad sensor. And the man that knows that shit is a former tweaker who lives around here, cleaned up his act after losing HIS ass in a shitty divorce, and does furnace work.

So, somebody knows, and I'll be calling that someone tomorrow.

Not really excited at the thought.

At this rate, I'll still be awake, anyway.

But, yeah, brb.



ducking autocorrect


Tried to turn out the light and dry-bone it with my keyboard.

No such luck! Spilled my water all over motherfuckering everywhere.


All I know is, at the end of the night...I'm going over to that room there, and I'm going to beat my dick like it owes me money.


Fuck I may have to. Who knows where my mind will be.


I could really go for some water. Somebody hook me up?




So Im drinking powerade. Motherfuckering powerade.

Powerade: For when you can't get motherfucking gatorade.

I literally almost asked for help in the little shit-shack store I went to when I purchased it. I was like, "Don't you motherfuckers have gatorade? what the fuck, bitches?"

I didn't figure that would go over that well.

And while I'm on the topic, that little shit-shack is literally the best meat-market I know, or have ever known.

No shit. That's not an euphemism, btw. I'm not going there to score poon points with the local town pump inbetween her fertile periods.

no, no, I'm talking about MEAT, man! Motherfuckering meat!


Ok, the thing is, there's a slaughterhouse of local animals nearby, like a mile out of town.

Even better: the surrounding area is so agricultural, that 4H is still a thing.

So, if I really wanted to get my creepy carnivore creep on, I could literally go and bid on the first place winner from, say, the cow division, and have that fucker slaughtered and on my grill.

Kinda fucked up, isn't it? Say, kid, thanks for the cow you raised by hand since it was an infant. He was fucking delicious. Same time next year? Sweet. Will do. Bring your best and we'll see what happens.

oh, whats that? jameson? his name was jameson? The cows name was jameson? Well, tell you what, jameson rocked my world.

In about 12 hours I'm going to shit jameson right into my toilet.

What do you think of that?

Yeah, indoor plumbing.


money is weird, that it would facillitate such a strange transaction or interaction. But that's probably the least weird thing that money has facilitated.


Well, I'm cracking myself up, anyway. Swigging away at shitty powerade. Fucking green powerade. Motherfuckering MELON.

They couldn't even NAME the shit right. Melon? MELON?

What the fuck is that? Oh, oh, you mean, WATERMELON?

Must melon? Yellow melon?

Carnegie mellon? Thornton Mellon?

Fucking powerade. Eat my ass.


Yeah, yeah, I know I got out of my 'ranty writing' stage a fuckwhile ago.

Who gives a fuck. I'm having fun

You know, fun.

Before I go into that other room there and beat my dick like it owes me money.


I actually yawned.


I hope my saving grace here, in reality, is that there is no one around for quite awhile. There are some neighbors a few houses down, but they're drunks.

Or they heard me mumbling and giggling to myself by the fire as I contemplated the cosmos, my life, why I'm unhappy, why I'm anhedonic, why I have no passion left in my soul anymore.

I guess I could give a fuck. I don't particularly right now.

Because fuck them. That's why.

I suppose there had to be a point to this entry. I mean, otherwise, why write it? Why sit here and do this?

And the point is this: find inspiration wherever you can, and grasp it. It may seem self-indulgent. It may get you out of bed when you're comfy and cozy and warm.

But chase that motherfucker down.

There are days when beauty may be hard to find, even though its all around us, pummeling all our senses beyond our wits, the cold cruelty of it all, that wickedness of dying, expiring, that any moment could be our last, that we are the exhalation of death on a crisp autumn morning. We are that steamy breath, that puff of smoke you can never quite catch in your hand.

That's us. Transient, fleeting.

All so mortal and lost, trying to find our way home.

We only get these little glimpses of it all. And we weave a tapestry that we pass down to the generations after us. Little ideas making big ideas and bigger ideas still.

Hoping to make some sense of it all, although i doubt we ever will.

Answering one question will only always lead to more questions.

The trick is to enjoy the path. The trick is to enjoy the path.


Its tough to punish a slave that likes the whip.


I just stoked the fire without telling you.

Forgive me?

Goddam right.


At any rate, I think I've lost the thread of this conversation, the gist or jib of it. Other than to say: seize inspiration when it whispers in your ear, when it flirts with you, when its a leaf falling for the tree of greatness that brushes you on the ear as it trails down to the earth, the ground carpeted with lost ideas and failed dreams.

Grasp that motherfucker and run with it as far and fast as you can.

Not every idea is great. Not every idea pans out.

Taste will moderate choices. Never be delusional about what you do, but don't limit your dreams.

Which is to say...everyone knows someone that is delusional about their talents or skills or creativity.

And they often impugn that on everyone around them.

But really...don't let that discourage you. You are not them.

Not unless, you know, when its all stripped down and you're simply begging.

But then, aren't we all beggars?

Begging for inspiration. I know I am.

Other people beg for other things.

But I guess I'm not talking about that.

I'm saying don't be scared of an idea. Don't be afraid to share. Just know where to draw the line.


Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to go into that room over there and beat my dick like it owes me money.

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