How's THAT?

Grandeur

Delusions of grandeur happen in a very dark place. They happen on the goldless side of the bow. At times, I find myself with this mini-messianic sense of greatness but not in the present tense; I see a favorably disproportionate amount of potential in myself. I feel like I'm going to captain my accomplishments with such obscenity that I dread looking ahead. I feel like the void that is The Future is fucking horrifying. It makes me want to hold onto the railing forever. I'll confess my sporadic vanity even more by saying that I sometimes feel like Tut, a boy king. The weight of a kingdom is on it's way.

But, is it healthy to look ahead with a lack of goal-oriented humility? Is this behavior stemmed out of being a little gay boy who stared out his window, dreaming of a place where things would be "better"? Good, Better, Best. Never let it rest, 'till your Good is Better and your Better is Best. If you picture a gold, Disney-esque sunset at the end of your classic VHS cartoon blockbuster, does that make the hardest struggles worth fighting through? It's like the ratio of how hard the past and the present are determine the extremity of the goals. Is that what's going on here?


-- Posted from my iPhone

Thanks

I have a little cousin that looks the way I did at his age. His face was a heart with a giant a giant smile. He uses very adult language (like the ever funny "titties") and makes jokes about mexicans being packed into small spaces. Despite being made of frogs, snails, and puppy dog tails, he's a pretty awesome kid.

I have a cousin and he's incredibly tall; not Herman Munster tall but still... big for 13. He's in the hormonal flux. And he's also going to visit Australia. I'm so fucking jealous. I wanna be in the middle of nowhere (in relation to my very limited, American stance).

I've got siblings whom I truly love.

And my parents... my loves.

A glutton for available thanks <--- me.

-- Posted from my iPhone

Happy Thanksgiving/Florida

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Even the trains look like big germs.

We little organisms can't help ourselves. We just can not not get into things.


-- Posted from my iPhone

Go away.

Am I talking about recognition?

What is "addiction" and what is "just part of the routine"? What is a major religion and what is an ardent cult? At what point does something become not an extreme version of something small but rather, the usual version of something particularly... usual? Of course, everything is case by case; any opportunity to compare bourgeoning habits or customs will be incredibly unique. But I am left to wonder if at any point, will I be something commonplace yet noteworthy to a large chunk of our civilization? Will I ever have significance in the eyes of the world? I'm not saying that I want notoriety, as I have in the past. I'm just contemplating the possibility of ever shifting from minor to major. Unknown to household. Desperate to a successful institution.

Just thinking.


-- Posted from my iPhone

The Phoenix Tree.

Agorafab

The apartment isn't well-insulated and I'm still in the mood for shorts. We need curtains so that we can keep in the warmth and also keep out the grey. I say this because it's been overwhelmingly grey, lately. Wind and cold rain and coats and such. Hearing my neighbor tune his guitar sounds melancholic but there's a much needed joy somewhere in the sound. For some reason, the act of leaving home is hard. Not like the nostalgic kinda "home", I'm just referring to "home base". I feel some sort of tether when I contemplate venturing out when it's not mandatory or necessary. I do. I do get out, but there's something dreadful about it, sometimes.

I have less than a 1/2 hr to get ready for work and I'm sitting here dramatizing my laziness. How's that for entertainment?

Ha-cha.





-- Posted from my iPhone

How are these boys so small?

I'm in a land of fragile men who reign due to their majority, not due their actual sizes. It's like rabbits swarming over a great ox. It's a world of gay pygmies and gaunt coat hangers with heads.

These are The People but they are not my constituency. They are not my cup of tea. They are not my breed.

They make pants in that size? You shop in the boys' dept. and it's cheaper?! This is unfair.

But is it even the era to care? My youngest adult years were spent with mirrors and critics. And miniature gays. Back then, they were a hungry, tacky bunch with there minds on the sun and their dicks in their hands. Like the variation of any species, this northern offshoot is something different than the swamp gays of my youth; this is The Ethereal Council. They float in gossamer robes and they are The Law. But like I said, is this even the era to care? I've taken pride in being a bandit (in the eyes of others); should I wanna follow the rules and wear skullcaps and plaid and skinnies and tortoise-shell frames? Should I calorie count and whore my dick and be something I desperately don't want to be? Am I only questioning myself (whilst basking in mild Esoterica) because I'm on a diet? I say diet but what I mean is "a revolt against sugar sensitivity". I dunno. It would seem that what is important to me should guide my behavior but that is an ever-changing thing. So, I suppose I won't be scouted for runway and that I won't be able to marvel at my own lithe beauty as I selfishly fuck. I will have a thick ass and strong legs and I will not get caught offguard by strong gusts of wind.

-- Posted from my iPhone

Wormhole

I've always patted myself on the back for being so focused on my future and I've always kicked myself for having a sick obsession with my past. To clarify my mental processes, envision a vast pump that is sucking fluid from the years 1986 to about 2001. That pump is traveling through a Star Trek: Deep Space 9-esque wormhole and delivering said fluid into the time between, let's say, 2025 and beyond. My future is directly fueled by my past, and what is "the present" is me, that fucking tube that is constantly chugging, constantly bailing water from my sinking past and tossing it into my open future. But here's what I realized when I was out pretending to jog through my neighborhood this morning: that fluid is fucking toxic and is causing my future to putrify. The source that my future should pull from should be my present. But if I don't open my eyes and absorb what is coming at me IN THE NOW, there will be no fuel. Does that make sense? Am I lost in the metaphor/simile/whatever it is? I'm nothing but a chugging metal tube lost in space, impervious to the effects of the vacuum. I gotta give in! I have to be present or all that I will come to will be a rotten reflection of things I've already hated. Not to keep saying "I" but... When I'm old, I want to be covered in sweat, dirt, and bugs. I want to clear the brush with my machete. And I want there to be a city of gold.

A few present acknowledgments:





















































-- Posted from my iPhone

My beard is back.

I'm living in New York.

That's the only constant that I need to maintain, right now.

I have to remember that momentary contentment isn't so shameful.



-- Posted from my iPhone

Mad libs

Isn't it funny how I'm continuously [verb]-ing this illegal [noun] when I know it's [verb]-ing my [noun]?





-- Posted from my iPhone

My johnboy loves gossip girl

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Golden girls and friends

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Perks of having my johnboy

Look at all that folding!

Pork lonesome

I sat at home with pageantry shows and lo mein, all night. Started out fully dressed and slowly worked my way down to "lounge attire" (i.e. a long sleeved purple shirt and matching purple scrubs; maaad purpz.). I was alone for most of the evening but I knew that could abrubtly change; I opted to skip the comfy pants that perfectly detail my penis. It amazes me that people spend their nights this way, with a fork and a remote.

I spend most of my nights on the go, wasting all my money, and expending all of my energy so that my body yearns for rest. That behavior stems from a boredom allergy I developed as a kid. You see, Lee County, FL is place with idle hands, homes, and backseats. It's the Devil's sweatshop, really. My dad would get so pissed when I'd groan about a lack of amusement. I just obsessed over how bored I was. ADD? Who fucking knows...

Will I spend another night with meat fried every and anything? Yeah, probably. But, my figure...
-- Posted from my iPhone

Pampered myself

-- Posted from my iPhone

My computer crashed. Whatever that means. Feeling out of sorts.

thinspiration

My hair seemed rather thin, today. Much thinner than the norm. What's the most obscuring length? Loosely swooping across the face? Blond(e)? Or closely shorn? Living in a village of mirrors makes it hard to let this go. Every scraper has a reflective base. Every sidewalk's a dismal show. It appears my hair is but a light shading done in graphite, done in nylon, done in snow. It's barely there, not everywhere. I'm sad to see it go.. But just as I detest The Church for dwelling upon Death, I can't stand the thought of wasting life, staring at my head. Men have gone bald since there was Man. Men have died. Trees have grown. To deny age-old cycles has no place in the open mind. So, I should embrace my fuzz but aim for "cute", for, in the balance lies the gold, the riches, the spoils, the worth. But fret not, I shall, because I don't mind some distancing from birth.

Beast Wars

There used to be this show called Beast Wars; it was a spin-off of Transformers. I don't recall being a loyal viewer or anything close to a "fan", but I do remember enjoying it when it happened to be on. What the main antagonism of the story was is unbeknownst to me. What the characters' names and relationships were is a total blur. But what does really stand out about it is the process of identification the characters went through to become the colorful, bestial, cyborg creatures they were. There was an episode where this pod had crashed onto their planet. Inside of it was a Spark; a soul of their kind. These robo-animal creatures could exist without a physical vessel if their Spark was somehow sustained. The Spark hat crash-landed (a la escape from Krypton?) had no physical body until the pod performed a scan looking for the nearest lifeform it could imitate. Let me reiterate, these were animal-inspired robots. They were super robot versions of animals AND they spoke English! SO... the Spark/pod scanned the area and found a falcon. It then transformed into this robo-humanoid-like Bird of Prey.

Because it was in desperate need of an identity, it searched the local environs, chose some random muse, and became the result of itself and the said muse. It self-fertilized in order to become something more whole. I feel as though I have been in a beast war at different points in my life. I've been shot to Earth in an amorphous state. And I have tolerantly scanned and attempted to self fertilize (by way of choosing associations that I've hoped would mold me). That tolerant scanning is problematic, though. When you're incredibly desperate to shape others' perception of yourself by assimilating into a group or by pairing up with someone, like I occasionally seem to do, you tend to weaken your filters and attract less than quality inspirations and life sources. the more desperate you are for anything, the more vulnerable you are to those viruses that you, when in your "right mind", should know better than to let in.

chinese opera

My restaurant had it's anniversary party, the other night. A real shit show, if you ask me; everyone was fucking wasted, including me. I got in a cab and disappeared, right when I needed to. The theme was Chinese Opera, so I HAD to do the makeup. Opportunities like that don't come along too often and they just make my gay blood bubble. And naturally, because I had to help with everyone's makeup, mine came last and all I could pull off was some hella pink eyes and a suggested goatee but whatevs; the shots and the duck steamed buns were free.

Anime face!