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Monday, July 1, 2013

How Do You Do

         Hey.  Time for another entry.  The bat signal is in the sky, so police chief Gordon clearly needs me to write something.  What's going on, what's going on.  I'm gonna try to get on sleeping pills.  I always have a hard time falling asleep.  That's exciting, because that's a drug.  Need I say more?  I think my goal as a human being is to try every drug in the world at least once.  Or, I could just stick to alcohol.  How are things.  Things are boring.  Yeah.  What's your favorite number?  Yikes.  My favorite number is everything.  Is "everything" an a number?  It's like infinity, but it's limited to what there actually is.  If not, then my favorite number is 72.  End of discussion.  Beginning of next discussion.  I think I've talked about numbers several times before here.  It's a recurring theme.  It's that math is the common, universal language that connects us all.  And assigning random purposes to numbers which are made to represent something concrete is the sort of quirk that reflects my wryness and character.  I've heard that both math and music are the universal languages.  Sorry, everything else!  Maybe I'll write an entire entry in math.  6 vs 4 = 92, or 72.  865.  The 1930's.  
    Okay.  This is going well.  You know what else?  I'm tired of writing entries.  I did like 9 last month.  I'm overextending myself.  Also, regarding numbers, I did like 9 last month.  Now I'm onto 72.  End of discussion.  Why am I doing this.  Also, why are you reading this.  What's your problem.  There's nothing more to be said.  It's 2013, everything that can be said has already been said.  Man, the future is depressing.  The future's so bright, I have to wear shades.  That's why poker players wear sunglasses, in hopes for a profitable run.  Also, that's why blind people wear sunglasses.  "Raise the blind," poker players say.  This paragraph is a real ninety deuce.  Some people think 9 is the highest number there is, but have they heard about 10?  Probably not.  Nothing's going on in their brain.  What a shame.  Is what I'm sayin'.  It's just a claim.  I liked whipped crème.  When it's going down the drain.  I have to quit smoking.  Rhyming is the real universal language.  Because you can't argue with it.  "Yeah, it's stupid, and it's not funny... but it did rhyme."  Quit complain...ing. 
    I don't think I'm even gonna update my facebook to alert this entry.  Unless the last three paragraphs salvage it from the wreckage.  I'm back.  I took a break.  Then I came back.  No big deal.    Remember the O.C.?  Why was their theme, "California (Here We Come)?"  They were already there.  I hate this entry.  I really, actively hate it.  Which I think saves it, a little.  In your mind, you're takeaway from this entry is, "little depressed man fails at being entertaining, yet still shares with others."  And I think that's a good 4.5 out of 9 on the comedy scale.  There should be a comedy scale.  I have nothing to follow that up with.  "little depressed man doesn't realize I'm the only one reading his blog."  That's what you all think, but in reality, there's probably a good two or three of you.  Including me, at least.  I'm not good at numbers.  In 1960's speak, when bands say you were their number, that meant you were a fan.  Or something like that.  Good information being passed on, here.  I think it's interchangable with the term, "face."  More good information.  Now if you time travel to the 1960's, you can talk about what bands you like.  Word of caution: make sure not to mention what would then be future bands.  That would break the space time continuum.  The space time continuum can't break.  It's continuumous.
    Yeah.  Great, this is almost over.  I have my improv class tomorrow.  I hope I improve at it!  Get it?  You don't get it.  I added an "e" to the word to make it another word.  I don't like sketches, though.  They're too sketchy.  Get it?  Cause I think I do.  Man.  This entry is so bad, I need to constantly remind myself, "things are okay, it doesn't the quality of this entry doesn't matter."  But if this entry isn't good, I might not get into the battle of the bands.  AND THEN WHERE WOULD I BE.  I noticed a trend in songs this year where they capitalize all their letters.  I bet historians capitalize on letters written in the past.  My baby head make sad songs.  Try it yourself.  Go ahead, try.  This is inner monologue, by the way.  It comes hand in hand with reading a madman's journal entry.  At least, it should.  I cried 96 tears once.  I wouldn't have been counting, but I know
Question Mark and the Mysterians made it to 96, and I wanted so bad to beat their record.
    I should make merchandise for this.  Too bad I don't have any logos or catchphrases.  Wait, what about a shirt that says, "My Baby Head Make Sad Songs?"  People will remember that, it's nice on a t-shirt.  I think this is a million dollar idea.  And trust me, I know numbers.  Fine, don't trust me.  I guess I don't know my numbers as well as I thought I did.  And even if I wanted to, they probably wouldn't want to know me.  Numbers are very cliquey.  Especially on the keyboard.  They're either all together way up top, or all together on the right.  Well, this entry is over.  Rock on!

-1:13 P.M.                       


Monday, July 8, 2013

Made You Look

         Hi.  It's Monday.  Can you believe it?  It's the first day of the week in some places.  Places that don't have Sunday.  God took Sunday off, so we should do.  No more Sundays.  I guess we need a Sunday in order to take it off.  But let's not bog ourselves down with logic.  We're getting near the trade deadline.  I'm thinking about trading myself for two Cuban prospects.  Cuban means they were from that movie, "Cube," right?  Either that or they're Cuba Gooding Jr.  That was a weird movie.  And by that, I mean Cuba Gooding Jr.  If Cuba Gooding Jr. was the star of "Good Will Hunting," it would have been called "Gooding Will Jr."  These are facts.  Anyway.  I went into the city to see a show last night.  I realized that, man, I hate being around people.  Even just in crowded spaces, like Penn Station, or on the street, boy could I do without being around other people.  Not even interacting, though that's pretty bad.  Just being near.  I should overlook hotels for the winter.  That way I'll be alone.  And if I go crazy, it'll be on my terms.  I like how in The Shining, Jack Nicholson was overlooking a hotel, and it was called the Overlook Hotel.  Very creative.  And he played a writer who got nothing done.  If I were in his shoes, Instead of writing that "All Work And No Play Makes Jack a Dull Boy," I would have wrote, "Things Are Okay.  I Don't Know.  Sometimes I Feel Kind of Lonely."  It's less aggressive. 
Anyway.  I woke up pretty late today.  Mostly on account of not wanting to get out of bed.  Which is pretty much the case every day.  When I'm asleep, the possibilities of my world seem endless.  Then when I wake up, I'm reminded the crappy situation that is my life.  But it's also good, because who really wants their possibilities to be endless?  That would just be confusing.  Just give me a good 5-20 possibilities, and I'll mull those over, and everyone will be happy.  Yeah.  I like Product 19.  It's like, they got through 18 products, decided they weren't good enough, had this cereal, figured out it was good, and just decided to call it "Product 19."  Or, as my father would quip, "What cereal is 6 and a third times 3?"  And, of course, it would be Cheerios.  If I were an overly sensitive elderly woman, I would write a letter against Honey Nut Cheerios.  It's too suggestive.  If I were an optometrist, I would hand someone a pair of glasses and say, "Made you look."  The title came from before I wrote that space-filling joke.  Not the other way around.  I wish I was an optometrist instead of a pessimist.  That's another stupid joke, that could have been written better.
    Yeesh.  What else is going on.  I figured out I can yell pretty good.  In my improv class last week, we were doing some scene or game where everyone was yelling, and I was yelling too, and I was really impressed with myself.  Because, if I still wanted to be a rock singer, yelling good is kind of a prerequisite.  And before, I didn't think I could, but apparently, in a situation that requires it, where other people are also yelling, so there's less pressure on me, and there's a base which I can sort of 'tune' my yelling to, it turns out I can handle it.  Spoiler alert: I still will not become a rock singer.  But it's nice to know that I have that ability, no matter how unobtainable it is under normal circumstances.  Plus, even better, that story took up half of a paragraph.  I'm done with music.  Now my life is all about writing paragraphs.  It's not glamorous, but it pays the bills.  Imaginary bills.  That demand imaginary money.  Yup.  Anyway.  What am I gonna do with the second half of this entry.  Write it, I guess.  Then publish it to the web.  Then advertise it on facebook.  I was thinking recently how nice it would be to get off the internet and T.V., and just live my life without any external stimuli.  It would be really boring at first, but I think I could really get used to it.  Of course, it would mean no more crazysheet.  Of course, I could still write.  Just not compose and share it in five paragraph blocks that don't really follow any narrative structure, yet still, hopefully, come together to make what I like to call, "entries."  What was I talking about, again?  Um.  Oh yeah, how great T.V. and the internet are.  Man, would I be bored without them.  Three cheers for the communication age!!  Does anyone call it the communication age?  Well, they should!
    So, anyway.  Who wants to live without external stimuli.  Then they'd be limited to internal stimuli.  I don't like the sound of that.  Hey, you know what else?  I like living.  No matter how many people I have to come into contact with.  Things would be a lot worse if I had no life force.  If I had no life force, I might as well be dead.  Okay.  A paragraph and three fourths to go.  This should be fun.  Fun, or needlessly stressful.  Just like life!  Okay, if you insist, I will like life.  And by you, I mean me.  And by like, I mean tolerate.  And by life, I mean life.  Man, this entry has gone off the rails.  Who woulda thunk it.  I woulda thunk it, but I was too busy writing it.  Multi-task, you say?  What am I, a genius?  Who could have two concurrent things going on in their head at once?  I'd like to meet one of these people and talk to them while they're doing something else, and have them respond to me coherently.  Just to test them.  Then, if they pass, I'll be in awe and never doubt them again.  Also, what?
    Anyway.  I like writing these entries.  I hope you like reading them.  Won't you be my neighbor?  No?  Well, why not?  I know the houses next to mine are already occupied.  Maybe just offer to pay them a stipend and bunk with them.  What?  Of course I know what stipend means.  Stop talking back.  You'll never get to be someone's neighbor with that kind of attitude.  Anyway.  Stipend is when I took the test to get into Stuyvesant and didn't find out the results yet.  Holy shit.  I want to learn how to break dance.  That's what I said to a dance teacher.  Then he said, "Why would you want to break dance?"  That sentence was brought to you by idiocy.  Well, it's almost time to wrap it up.  I guess it is time to wrap it up.  When it's done, it will have been wrought up.  Anyway.  The sun is setting.  How romantic.  Just like the Romans, the sun never sets on the British empire, or something.  See ya later.

-7:56 P.M.