The curriculum is age-appropriate

Current mood: yes please

I'm the founder of an artistic movement painting discreet vomiting while carrying on apropos conversation amidst accommodating co-workers through bathroom doors. And yes, while that seems quite downtrodden in an attention seeking way, I declare, "What meaningful movement isn't, and hey, it's something we can all do together". This isn't Andy's 'Factory', it's Matt's 'Sweat Shop'. And while basking in the shadows of meandering vernacular, while pretentious and self aggrandizing, I admit, I lose myself in this manboys Leonidas complex, the arrogant bastard, I think, while killing a bottle of jack on a balcony overlooking the racist implications of White City under a very black sky.

So this artistic movement hinges upon others drug problems while I search for that bottle of southern comfort, because, well, he's getting chatty and I'm getting thirsty. I brought up a dangerous subject among new people to which there is no turning back, but I kept my nose clean, this I promise. He's not pulling in the reigns, he's pulling in more chit chat about his sex life, and matching it with his polo to show the easy girls,surely,that he's hard to get with a hard on, well dressed (poorly). His vernacular, as pretentious as previously stated, and dare I say, in rival to mine, is an illuminating introductory essay to why business minded salesman tend to ruin my nights(life). I hate buisiness, for the record. I hate what it does to peoples character, but i suppose thats an oxymoron. I'll never go full time, i won't marry a company when a one night stand for a paycheck makes more sense. If he went public I wouldn't buy his stock with stolen Cash, which the cliché, the Johnny kind, is on his stereo, but he only plays the popular tunes to which he knows not the name right or the lyrics even, for that matter. For the hundredth time dude, it's not "Lake of Fire".

And I took a brake from writing this to think of the apartment that I have but have yet to sleep in, and my father calls out to which I reply 'yes' to a boat ride. I pick up my dog (myspace.com/blackbobbarker) like luggage and head for liquid hills with a gasoline engine. I am not that, I say while looking upon the building I was at from a boat, on the same lake I threw up into last night from said building. I do not run on the same oil, I have found an alternative that is similar from the outside but oh so different. And the Cousens Administration will send young men overseas to fight for said alternative, I assure you. Your brothers funeral will not be in vein while I continue to age. So, we yell apropos from a boat. And on the meta4ical nightstand we leave a handwritten note, that says thanks for the fuck for a buck, and we lift up the bedsheet and tuck.I will give these gentlemen the benefit of the doubt, as it dawns on me what dusk does, what luck!

I said, on that balcony, not to underestimate me through all your banter that only you laugh at. He was happy to find an adversary, or a formidable opponent who was confident but stylistically modest with an image but no care for said image. Honestly. And I said, I pinpoint, but I do not judge. Bullshit!, he cried. I said, you know, you are right. The sonavabitch was/is right. I judge, the sarcastic/cynical/hopeful/honest/raw/patontheback motherfucker that I am, I judge.

I admit.

I figure most people out on the right quick. People hide, they fear, they have a face and a mask because they've/we've been burned before for being honest. Well, burn me, I say. I will remain this way, I will set fires and put them out. I will throw bricks and uncross arms, and fix the holes. The holes need to be made! We learn everything about ourselves during the patch up, don't you see how beautiful it all is?! He got me! He was right! He was drunk and obnoxious, but he was raw and honest. He put on a face because he's been burned. He loves business because he has nowhere else to turn. He is scared. I was, but I'm not. Put a hole in me, I'll be more whole for it.

Don't you see how beautiful it is?

He got me!

I admit! It's a precursor, a rhythm, to recombine who's hip to it. I want to appreciate others thought processes, I want to grow so that you can cut me down so I can grow back thicker!

How apropos, how you twist and turn common theme, stealing the beginning for the ending like a common thief!

I am completely free from superstition. Nobody truly ranks with Plato's republic for depth and insight, sorry fella. But you have the advantage of writing 2000 some odd years later. Go home and tell your mom you love her for chrissakes. When you get there,picture me putting my hand yay high and telling you that you need to be this tall to ride said ride. Painkillers are a mans best friend, but lord knows i love my dog too. I made him a myspace for pete's sake. I don't even know a pete.

It's just the way my mind works in the shadow of near alcohol poisoning. Bend over, the kid likes it banal.