things that make less and less sense when I think about it

Fucking Gateway just erased my blog as it was nearing its end. If it happens again, I'm taking it out back behind the shed.

What exists here now is summary. An artless shell.

Yesterday was the most beautiful day I can remember, full of sex and John Waters and cheeseburgers made of meat. There was no sun, the city was a perfect greyscale. It would have been a picture perfect Labor Day, if only I was working enough to deserve the day off. I refuse to fall asleep, but the day drags me along into tomorrow, a day which I am wholly unsure of. And now, here I am...

Full of pancake, spending entirely too much time debating whether to shower and groom myself now or wait until I've slept and awaken. Every second that I'm awake, I'm burning calories. Every second, a little less pancake.

The summer started with a list, some of which has been checked off, but not enough. All in all, I've done pretty well for myself.

I like lists.
Anything that shows me exerting some level of organization is a good thing.
When it rains it pours, though...

Obsessive Compulsions
here is a list of things that must be removed

labels
labels from bottles of sodapop, labels from beer
labels from society
the bendable parts of pen caps
the dead skin from my fingertips and feet
the American oppressor, in all his forms
Barack Obama, Mayor Daley, Rod Blagojevich, The President
whatever compunction keeps me from taking a job at Jimmy John's
pop can tops
the concept of monagamy, from the concept of love
this mouse and keyboard, from my cold, dead hands
the two-day muzzle, on my face and neck

I sit in my corner typing, stalking people friends, and friends-of-friends, and people I might someday want to have sex with, and people who don't even exist, on the internet. The television sits in its corner, yelling at whoever will listen like some deviant street preacher. I almost doesn't understand.

Transformers is on, some Fifth Generation, computer generated "Go, Go America!" version that seems to be lacking in dinosaur lambourghinis.

One of the robots calls another "a poseur." Did I really hear that, or am I just projecting?

An ad announces Study Buddy Koby, who tells a booger joke. Apparently Study Buddy Koby is an educational toy that converses with latchkey kids, an educational toy that tells booger jokes.

Children's television is too abrasive for me right now, or maybe I'm too sensitive. The announcer adresses me as "sucka." A crooked cafeteria worker has a machine that scrapes crust from students' pinkeye, to add to the top of her casserole. The television goes off.

I need to go to sleep, if only because I'm starting to hallucinate. I lay my jeans on the floor, and they start to slink away. When I look at them, bashful and caught in the act, they stop. In the corner of my eye, my boots do the same thing.

I can't see outside, from my little cave in the basement. I'm hoping for another sunless day. I'm hoping for a day as beautiful as yesterday.