2009-02-27 - 11:09 a.m.
you know why honesty is such a lonely word? because as much as girls claim to want it, they loathe it.. it makes them angry. it makes everyone angry. it makes everyone violent. honesty is better than an energy drink. it's the antidote to marijawana. if you ever want to fuck up your life, just buy a 40 oz. of honesty and pound it back.
and, yes, there's a rehab program for honestyoholics. it's called society; you show up. you get a fucking job. you work. you go home. you watch tv. you talk to other dumbfucks. and you heal...
you let go of all the honesty, and you just soak in a hot tub of hallucinogens and numbing agents. it's either bite-size social encouragement blurbs like "be yourself, be confident" or movies with delusional cunts reminding you about the equality of the shaved vagina...
how come when i talk out loud, it sounds like i'm a 2-year-old giving directions to the zoo by including relevant information like noting the awe-inspiring size of macdonald's landmarks and how location of a weird looking scab on my knee. but when i write, everything sort of jumps into place like someone snapped their fingers in the middle of napping soldiers and suddenly they're all running to proper formation.
i guess that answers itself-- practice. but i've had more practice talking than writing..
i'm bored with talking. i'm delighted by writing. talking is like stirring vegetable soup and hoping to arrange the mona lisa. it's difficult to put into order by force. it's better just to eat it.
writing is like taking a picture. it just stays where you put it. less hassle. easier to rearrange. ideas have anchors that don't get easily lost in distractions..
.... i need a fucking pinata of dogs, pillows, pussy and a hand gun. the order of indulgence = snuggling, slumber, cumming and then peace translated through warm fur, soft cotton mounds, the indescribable feeling of certain female skin and the loud, destructive bang of relief.
