AGREEMENT made this ___________ day of ______________ 20 ____ between ____________ thereinafter called the "Publisher" and _____________________________________ jointly and or severally thereinafter called "Writer(s)."

I really do enjoy the nature of contracts, so I think I will get really good at reading and writing them and find someone someday and bind them somehow using words like "herein" and "Witnesseth" and "hereby." I can't remember what exactly my beef is with the business so I can't tell you right now. But I do know that what I hear and what I see are brought to my attention and are the result of some inspiration and not just some machine churning out zeroes and ones and palindromes. Well it is getting late and sadly this is the end of a long-ish weekend. 1st place goes to playing with Al's cat. late late.

When I started writing for Cosmopolitan two years ago, I thought it interesting to run back to my old alma mater and say a prayer to the gods that spoke Latin and Hebrew and Aramaic and that snake language in Harry Potter. It was a nice gesture on my part I think, or at least the (no)person that heard me spoke a little russian which is cool, so I guess it all worked out in the end. One thing that bugs me about this business though, is the constant, constant, constant, ever so constant drive to succeed and be the best photographer or jewel thief or craft production assistant or congratulatory handshake giver/taker (which is an ironic gesture in its own right and obviously takes a little more than a hug to take a handshake and give a shook hand, which can be difficult in its own right because of the fact of giving a shook hand could possibly be a lymph node stuck in the eye, or just a hand tired from shaking, whichever one my doctor tells the therapist who tells the vampire at a bar in hamilton, ny, that little fuck!)

So that's my beef with the business. What's yours? Bill Martin? No, he's a good man, he has his own beef with the business, he'll tell you someday, he told me last night. I want to say syncopatic. There, I said it, hopefully its a word.

An ode to Michigan girls...that's right Califone, you said it best, "dry white scratches on sunburned skin". That was humorously interesting...I was thinking about home when this song came on and what better for me to remember the last time I was in the good ole mitten, the sun was shining brightly, it was June, I left, just like that. I left. Just like that. Just like that, I left.

Funny-- I should be using this time to work on my story, at least throw down some ideas, or read it over, postulate proofs by reading...or something. But know, dear gen. x'ers, I beg of you to listen, to heed my call, to look up towards the crescent moon and not find yourself on the Turkish flag, but in the heart of the sun reflecting 93 million miles away from... [footnote 1] sick dogs and nationalist pride. Oh dear Fesya, you never saw yourself on the paper, my dear boy, my dear master, find your witch, fly away and stay undisturbed for eternity so that Banga can walk into the moon with his master.

Three separate paragraphs starting and finishing three different thoughts--only in America, eh! (Sheepish grin) Fear of a cracked planet, since when do storms on another coast affect me, I'm not supposed to be affected by them except for the random rain and wind that brushes my way. What a self-inflicted whiny crying move on my part. Jesus, nothing goes better than a vain depressed anti-social butterfly. Just look at me hovering around the bush in my backyard watching for the rabbits to devour the flower I planted the night before. Who knew?

Well, just as that thought finished, a new one did not spring in to take its place. Once again I have been defeated by my own sickness. A clogged brain filled with phlegm and the rest of Galen's humors. Ah ah ah (shaking my head in disgust) please do not find a spot to sleep there tonight, sir. I must put my foot down and beg you to leave me alone to sleep peacefully 'fore I get a country stick and slip it past the Gogol short story.









1 - came one to represent the nation Which Wu-Tang member said this in Triumph? Email me the answer and be crowned.

A lackluster performance earlier, "You saw that light over there, godammit, now go for something in life." A stellar performance yesterday, "Inflation of the senses can only decipher something that has yet to be said." A charming woman, a bright-lit sky (at least for only a moment) seems to have something to do with a lovely nurturing grandmother figure in a dark house. A moving performance that was yesterday becomes today when it goes longer than the feeling should last. Each moment has a period (in between) that ends and starts anew at each moment again and again and again. In a sense the rabbit and the snake are meeting for the first time in a century and the last time in a while, but just yesterday the rabbit intruded into private property by first eating the flowers next to the butterfly bush and again covering a breath of fresh air using petals and leaflets to disturb the flowering peace of a campus wide gathering to disrupt the serpent's power. A pathetic apathy races towards to the finish line to reach the sun which defeated the wind on a technicality (you see both were working together to essentially keep the hat on!). But, in any case, whether you enjoy coffee or tea, salt and/or vinegar and water, kings or devils, clocks or dials, gymnasiums or secondary education houses, you should talk to me, figure out why tradition and religion are two items on my list to destroy the killer and piece together my husband once again.

A strange sense of urgency and lackadaisical behaviour has overcome me (lackadaisical in the truest sense of the word). An inability to get everything done stamps a five-fingered sloth into my brain. A centuries worth of motorized airplanes and state feuds over who rules the air(borne virus). A virus escalates the catalyst worm digesting on my thought process. My motor functions stabilize and then meander to a huge gaping hole where my nose used to be. Long patches of sandbars and moonlit shadows cover the tracks left over by the herds of cattle drowning in the deepest darkest chasms of Lake St. Clair. Or perhaps it is Lake Huron I am feeling deep within my ganglionic nervous bones. Whichever it is, come home, please. I miss you, dearly.

Zdrasvyhuitye droogii,

When a new land comes and seeks a new king, be sure to walk around the new land first several times before parachuting down and getting caught on the cliff face. "Artists are the antennae of the race" How many times have I used that in a sentence, in a paper, in an argument? I don't think I have ever used it except to make a point once or twice, but oh! look at how many times I have written something with some depth or breathed life into a dead piece of wood pulp, not many times. Something will come of it though, don't you worry. So the marriage is set for the future tense of past participle parties of all tomorrow's saint's day. Let's look at this argument closely.

An argument is not a thing of the past, but a thing of five present day automobile safety belts. The presence of safety in a dangerous object lead to deaths in space stations and on the monkey bars when you were a kid. Remember the dome. Mike Hosch was king of the dome. The only place on the playground where you couldn't get caught fighting because everyone would be attached to the dome somehow. One time I was in it, not by choice, but forced because of my lack of skill as a climber. I almost fell when the fight was happening although it never lasted long and normally stayed in the corner opposite the mother figure which is where I normally clung to the metallic prison of fake gods and false egos. Nevertheless I found myself attached like everyone else and I never wanted to be dis a t t a c h e d from this place. It just felt right. So where did I end up on a night like this but in front of the place where I dreamed I would be somehow expressing an attitude wanting to go/be/see/dream/live/gather/forest/berries/somewhere/else. That sentence didn't take long to write, but the mistake is in the punctuation and not the slashes!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tomorrow ask yourself if THIS is worth it!?!?!?!?!!!!

A date with Ikea. This desk I'm writing from, the drawers where I keep my clothes. It is kind of hot in here but my garage sale thermostat says 73. Maybe it is because two lights are on. There's still some boxes and a suitcase and a sea of cat5 cable that I intend to clean up before classes begin. That's sooo last week.

But this is no joke... last night around 5am I woke up in the midst of a frustrating dream. This summer I worked at a restaurant and I remember when they hired me they were big on saying, "well young man this will really teach you how to multitask." And how. So in this dream it was like multitasking times 10 timex watches 2. Too much was going on... in fact it kind of felt like a page straight out of the 2nd (and best) Where's Waldo book. When I finally roused myself another painful sensation was suddenly drilled into my brain: my mattress had developed an odd squeeking noise in reaction to any movement. And it's brand new! A loud thing that everyone knows. So in hindsight I realize a squeeky new mattress isn't the worst thing in the world but it is the second worst. Ta!

Summer seasons forever...forever




and ever and ever & ev(her) and (h)ev(her)







Cling to the raindrops as you fall up to the sky.







Tiresias(?) questions the mark that questioned him.













ZOOOOOOOOM...brush of air escapes. (Damn, I was trying to keep you in) Apparently a liver bleeding sixes, sevens, eights, and nines. Nein! Nyet! No!