extremely honky...gruff yet lovable

That’s not to say there’s no hope. But a homeless man has better chances of hooking up with a super model than we have of getting out alive.




What’s the point of carrying on when you know the outcome? There is no intense drama, no big surprise. This is it, chief. As good as it gets and that’s not saying a lot. There’s no hidden subtext or symbolism to carry you through the lean months. It’s do or die and the do is getting increasingly difficult. Put on your walking shoes and go where the wind takes you.




I draw imaginary lines along my wrists to pinpoint my exit. Tiny lines that cut across the grain within and go against all that we live for. These lines mark the threshold of freedom like an emotional border between black and white, here and there. For something so seemingly opposite, there is no true difference. One is as good as the other when you’ve already left the building. Call it what you like and make yourself happy. I’m sure that some so-called expert will have an explanation from a nicely bound book with faux leather cover and gold lettering. It’s amazing that so much time, effort, and detail goes into something so incredibly insignificant and yet we can’t cure what ails us. As long as the outer shell looks okay, fuck the rest.




From a bottle of Diet Rite:

WARNING!Contents under pressure. Cap may blow off causing eye or other serious injury. Point away from face and people, especially while opening.

I feel a lot like that bottle today.




It is what it is, but what the fuck is it?




The older she gets the more Christina Ricci looks like a space alien. She went from goth chick vampire girl to ET in a matter of like five years.




Has anyone ever actually shot a telephone due to persistent ringing? Maybe I can be the first. I can only hope that I time it just right so that the bullet hits the phone right as a telemarketer calls.




Fill in the blanks with what you want me to say. Shape my empty expression with the way you want me to look and tell me how I should feel. Happy?




Lower your expectations to the lowest possible level so that any outcome seems like a winning lottery ticket.

With my winning ticket, the world would never hear from me again and this rambling bullshit that you’re reading right now would end in mid-sentence. There would be a better chance of finding Jimmy Hoffa than finding me. My expectations are at rock bottom and things still seem like shit. I guess it’s time to go subterranean.




I want transcriptions of a thousand obscene phone calls written across the sky in a font similar to Times New Roman. I want metal objects thrown through panes of glass and entire cities to scream at top volume and see how far the noise carries. It could very well make the tree that fell in the forest that no one was around to hear feel self-conscious. I’m okay with that. I’m sure that the woodland creatures that lived in or on that tree heard it, but they were too shaken up from the concussion to comment at the time. I bet they’re pretty pissed off about it now. I want to stage a new Hands Across America event with every American, legal or otherwise, flipping obscene hand gestures towards Canada. This would show our gratitude for sending us Mike Myers, Celine Dion, Paul Schaffer, and Canadian musical powerhouse, Loverboy. The Canadians can stage their own event to thank us for the countless rappers and boy bands that we’ve exported and thus infected the world. I don’t know of many Canadian rappers, but then again, I cling to the idea that the shit never existed in the first place. American, Canadian, Australian…shit is shit, no matter the geographic location.




Bad decisions and bad tattoos linger like tear gas.




Martha Stewart nailed for whatever it is that she was nailed for. I envision angry mobs of interior decorators, gays, and fans of that kind of thing taking to the streets to rip down wallpaper and anything mauve. I bet it would be an interesting sight, if not a Kodak moment.




I see your cities of dust
Nothing was lost and there’s nothing to win
Rats ruling the cages of rust
While everything else rots in a pool of sin




I’d sell my own ass if it wasn’t attached
Fairly low mileage but it’s dented and scratched




There’s a fine line between love and hate.
I’m straddling the fence on the issue when it comes to you.




In my dream, I never existed
My existence is in the dream
My existence is the dream itself
This life disappears with the dawn
The moment I open my eyes, I am no longer there




You talk like you have something to say
I listen like I care
If it gets any less interesting, we’ll be in trouble
I’ll simply stare blankly until it happens




If this is as good as it gets, then we’re fucked. This isn’t a beer commercial and we’re not in Kansas anymore. We were never there to begin with, so that should come as no big surprise. If you’re waiting for the beer to arrive, then you’re in the wrong place, champ. This room is strictly non-alcoholic. Although these floor tiles are mildly intoxicating, if not nauseating. The artwork hanging on the wall isn’t much better, but that’s beside the point. I’m sure that it makes sense to someone. Unfortunately, I am not that person. It looks like Walt Disney puked on canvas. If I stared at it long enough, I’m inclined to think that I might do the same thing.