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.