Tous les garçons.

This is going to be playing at my funeral.

Cartas de odio.

Dear Boiling Cauldron of Piss: How'd you manage to make your face look like it's covered in thousands of herpes-infected razor cuts like that? Do let me in your beauty secrets. What I'm trying to say is that you're fucking ugly and looking at you makes me want to slice my eyeballs in half and pour tequila in them.

Dear Stupid: When you whistle your lips look like a crusty pig's rectum. Why don't you wrap them around your dad's cheesy dick and sand it down to a toothpick so you can pry out all the pieces of rat shit stuck in your teeth, Saddam? I heard you eat baby peacocks.

Dear Fuckpiece: I'm gonna smuggle a grenade up your asshole while you're sleeping and when you realize it's up there you're gonna fist yourself trying to get it out. Right when you do it's gonna detonate and turn your hand into a big bloody anal tampon. The smell of your blood is gonna attract so many vampire bats.

Hey Crapchute: How's it feel to sleep on a big shit stain every night? You poop your pants like a baby. Everybody knows because you smell like a fucking Bangladeshi garbage dump every day. You might as well just start wearing diapers or kill yourself or become a circus freak. The Stupendous Diarrheal Assclown.

Quote 32 - Pierre-Jean-Baptiste Chaussard

There is a man who must dread to see himself nude; it is the man of our modern ages, it is the being degraded physically as well as morally, deformed by swaddling, by all the bonds by which he is and continues to be strangled, compressed by his clothes, bent under the ridicule of fashions, branded by idleness, by pleasures and vices.

Squat over me.

I used to bite myself hard on my right bicep every year on the night of August 19th. 2003 was the first year I did it. I took a picture of the mark I left so that I could get the placement right for next time - teeth in the same position, mouth at the same diameter, etc. During the 2006 iteration I thought I'd just save myself the trouble and try to bite hard enough to make the mark permanent. Once I had my teeth in place, I began to slowly clamp down my jaw. As I bit down, I became increasingly aware of the texture of my skin and the consistency of the muscle, the way it resiliently pushed back on my teeth, refusing to be torn. But I would not give up. I increased the pressure. For variety, I shifted my sensory focus to my skin, and rather than being resisted against, I suddenly felt as if I was being assaulted. I use the word 'assaulted' not to imply violence, but rather a sort of sensational overload. My teeth felt so sharp, thin, and precise. The pain spread outwards, down my arm towards the tip of each finger and up my shoulder to my neck. Still forward it surged until I could feel it pulsing behind my eyes. Bringing my mind back to my teeth, I could feel my skin giving way, it's soft leatheriness penetrated to allow them entry into the lower layers of the dermis. I waited, and then . . . success. The warm, metallic flavor of blood began at the tip of my tongue, then, mixing with my saliva, flooded the whole of my mouth. Gasping, I drew away from my arm and gazed at what I had done. It was beautiful. My very own ring of broken flesh to keep forever and ever.

It didn't last, however. Soon enough, the spit that gave it it's glossy sheen dried up. The blood, once so luscious and welcoming, coagulated and hardened into an offensive scab. The mark it left did not satisfy me. The convenient placemarker I had hoped for turned out to be a stale reminder of a moment irreclaimable from history. The next year I tried biting my other arm but it was not nearly as pleasing. I have since been unable to find a sufficient replacement to the yearly ritual and as such have had to cope with a feeling of incompleteness that I'm not sure will ever go away.

Poonbounce.

I can't fucking sleep. All I can think about is titties, specifically nipples, and why in Shithead's shitty name there are two comic book movies in which there are slow motion sex scenes which involve the salacious wiggling and bouncing of said female anatomical parts. There's that scene in 300 where Whatshisface-icus is pounding his wife's hoohoo and her nipples take, like, two minutes to wave back and forth across the entire length of the screen. Totally heinous. And then there's the one in Watchmen where Owl Man or whatever bangs the chick who got eaten out by that big blue thing earlier in the movie. That one's not as bad as the one in 300, but it is definitely in slow motion, and there is definitely extended nipple swinging of unacceptable wavelengths. Perhaps I am in the minority when I say that boob motion is way cooler in real time. That's why porn (which everyone in the world jacks off to) isn't in slow motion and comic book movie sex scenes (which only your retarded pet marmoset jacks off to) are. I mean god, if you could see all the juices and oozy shit all coming at you real slow, it might be kind of disturbing, or worse, misconstrued as being conceptual video art by arthacks like, um . . . me. All I'm saying is that maybe we should just let rapid monkeysex be rapid monkeysex, okay? Okay.

I think it's time to invest in a sleeping aid.

. . .

Anyone know a good heroin dealer?

Crapola crayonz.

I really don't like to smoke. Really, it's gross. But sometimes I just have to have a cigarette, like right after I've done something filthy. I've also taken to going on walks lately, and walks make me feel weird. Sometimes it's an opportunity to think about good things, good memories. But I'm also easily caught up in negativity and I get on these little trips where I start to analyze things that I probably should just let rest. That's when I have to run home and rummage through my junk for one of the half-full cigarette boxes lying around the Masturbatorium. Then I go sit on the retaining wall and stare at the little orange dot of light in front of me, dirtying up my insides and debugging my head. It doesn't happen to me in New York too much - there's stuff to look at, places to duck into. Sometimes Salt Lake just feels like one big lawn with a "keep off the grass" sign on it. With nothing else to contemplate, my eyes fix onto the blank pavement in front of me. In a moment or two, I'm suddenly furious at people I don't even talk to anymore.

What should I do? Stop going on walks? Well, I don't want to. I've been waiting all fucking winter for the weather to be this way and I've spent far too much time already sitting in here doing two hour cycles through all the social networking sites. Speaking of that, I'm getting kind of sick of microblogging, because a) sometimes having to condense my thoughts into 140 characters makes me feel cheap and b) I'm sick of worrying about people who might think I'm oversharing, because lord knows people complain about it all the goddamn time. This is where you come in, trusty ID:LoJ. Nobody needs to read you if they don't fucking want to. Et voila; my inner impulse to launch every rambling, insignificant thought in my head into the universe is fulfilled and Mr. and Mrs. I-bought-into-the-zeitgeist-but-I-can't-handle-the-zeitgeist don't have to deal with it showing up in their little miracle devices unless they make the fatal click themselves.

Anyway. Maybe I should just start smoking every time I go on a walk. That's the ticket. I need some appetite suppression, anyway. I almost made a second box of Pasta-Roni today, and I may still yet. But if I do I'll only have one more box to last me until I get paid Thursday. I should've spent that last dollar on an extra box instead of this blue raspberry drink I bought. It does nothing to hydrate me and it turns my shit blue, no joke. I should also stop smoking weed when I'm with my friends. More hunger is the last thing I need right now, and the last two times I did it I went to Dee's and spent my last bit of money on junk food and was hungry again in an hour.

Ugh. I just feel really stupid right now after reading everything I just wrote. Checking out.

Quote 31 - Goethe.

Amid all this pressure and confusion I could not forego seeing Frederica once more. Those were painful days, the memory of which has not remained with me. When I reached her my hand from my horse, the tears stood in her eyes; and I felt very uneasy. I now rode along the foot-path toward Drusenheim, and here one of the most singular forebodings took possession of me. I saw, not with the eyes of the body, but with those of the mind, my own figure coming toward me, on horseback, and on the same road, attired in a dress which I had never worn, — it was pike-gray, with somewhat of gold. As soon as I shook myself out of this dream, the figure had entirely disappeared. It is strange, however, that, eight years afterward, I found myself on the very road, to pay one more visit to Frederica, in the dress of which I had dreamed, and which I wore, not from choice, but by accident. However, it may be with matters of this kind generally, this strange illusion in some measure calmed me at the moment of parting. The pain of quitting for ever noble Alsace, with all I had gained in it, was softened; and, having at last escaped the excitement of a farewell, I, on a peaceful and quiet journey, pretty well regained my self-possession.