How the LA Times pulled a drive-by and nearly killed a friend who was standing in my frontyard.

Five, six, nights, weeks, [fuckit] since an honest, toxin-free natural sleep has actually descended onto an ungracefully noisome body. A little while ago, as I finally, but most importantly, consciously, awaken at an hour when most people with real lives and jobs get off work, I thought it'd be mentally refreshing to peruse them periodicals and be enlightened with all the bullshit and misery find its way into the press. I, alone and sympathizing with the unfortunate peoples for some minutes, secretly believing that such worldly moments will satisfy my substandard prerequisites for an adequately well-spent day. Then chucking that shit out the window, the same generous window which provided the light required to read in the first place, because as much as I'd honestly like to tell myself to care to remember, brain realistically declares! that I'm already bored for today, and that pattern recognition will throw me the same bone tomorrow.

Because the current focus as of now rests in MOPA: The Boardgame, set in Monterey Park, California, and surrounding areas. A game that you will never find in stores because of the possible hundreds of propertyrights privatedomain advertisingcopyright fuckyourself infringements that litter the board. A game made by the often-bored and slightly neurotic children of Monterey Park. Not because we'll play it in a few weeks, or even twenty years from now, and remember all those Tapioca Expresses and pleasant landmarks that defined our childhood. But because we'll be fueled with some degree of alcohol-induced cynicism as we play, asking ourselves if we really want to stab and mug a friend so we can steal his Tapioca Express as part of our violent path toward becoming Monterey Park's next fictitious mayor. Which we will because the pride and glory that comes with winning a game has never been so pointless. A game where, for the sake of fair and balance, the recently-graduated creators attempted to apply high-school-textbook knowledge of standard deviations, something we used to ace, but gave up halfway because pizza delivery came and set off a chain of irrelevant events so that they eventually just made up numbers. A game that is not finished.

Chapstick. There's nothing I lose more on a weekly basis that you, Chapstick.

someday. you'll feed on a tree frog.

Still voyaging. At the halfway point in my summer, I could say that I've come to realize the many monotonous joys that come from my deliberate absence of any plans and goals. But "coming to realize" obscures the fact that this was exactly what I've intended all along, minus the psychological results part. Somehow, the summer boredom that used to grind and gnaw away at my sanity now offers a much more enjoyable alternative when compared to my old and new companions who've suddenly, and mostly out of necessity, entered the responsibility-prone post-college world. The world where they dissipate from our radars as their time schedule resembles that of some eighth grader, except that they sometimes come home with a face conducive to creating some sort of domestic abuse. Minus the spouse, but rather on themselves. Kind of like some John Mayer music, where such bright young talent suddenly turned into some elderly Jack Johnson-esque shit.

Though it looks as if I should commit to something, it just got unbearably hot again. Weather is to blame. Blameblameblame.

"Tell me what wisdom or lesson I can possibly begin to share with the world about an afternoon's journey that began with the kindness of an old woman and ended with a front-row seat to a mass murder?"





I don't know, Mr. Futurist[slash]fictional character, conflicted protagonist in a depressingly cynical novel about the world's obsession with the future. Although it piques a fascinating impudence in my habitually-static mind, that perhaps from now on I will refuse to root for the protagonist. No matter how noble the said protagonist's intentions may be, and no matter how despicably immoral of designs that Mr. Antagonist wishes to impose upon a person, family, animal, or world, I believe I'll just fuck it for a day[slash]many days. Side with the bad, that dark side. Maybe because I am that evil. Ambivalent. Or you deem me ignorant. A "pussy" perhaps. Tunnel-visioned, immature, inexperienced. Disrespectfully unheeding of literary prose that such and such author worked so hard on. But in the end, it'll be refreshing to not care about the point. Misread a novel. Refuse to accept an argument that Mr. Author has supported with so many fine detailed examples.

Because after countless novels that officially began to suck starting high school English honors, where five unoriginal, overworked, short-answer questions followed every story, I bore. Such and such authors, editors, compilers with their little nice degrees, forcing me to acknowledge that the Greeks sure diddly-do know well how to write tragedies and comedies so that I can earn my full five points on them questions. As if to nudge you to think carefully about what they carefully think matters. The literary vicissitudes of human emotions.

Maybe I'll elaborate later. But more likely, when I read this again I'll mentally badger myself for what an asshole of an entry this is.