as above, so below

the superior court, the legislature, and the president are analogous to my brain.

my body is analogous to a cell of muscle in my thigh.

the earth is analogous to the third electron of an atom of Neon.

There was a pleasant telephone conversation had by Matthew with Suzanne from the University of California.

- I think, said Matthew, that I would rather be an artist than an attorney. I have been an artist for a short while now, and I see no reason why I should be stopping just yet.

- Well, Suzanne said handily, I am happy that you have come to a decision. Really, they are similar endeavors. Both begin very hard, and both finish very soft.

- Oh yes, said Matthew, that is true. Though, he was in fact thinking in his brain that he had never thought of that before. He was surprised at how congenial Suzanne was. He expected her to be a soul-sucking bureaucrat.

All punks meet in St. Louis on May 25th, 2006

I saw this when I was checking out the rideshare ads on craigslist.

Then I did a quick search on google and found this.

Sounds interesting, no?

Basically, I was born to do all this supid shit I do - Like post messages of text for nobody.

I run around and get stressed out and then I die and a couple of people see what I did and say:

"Hey that was kinda cool."

Fine.

goddamnit

i have half a beer left and i really know i shouldn't finish it.

but i have to.

fuck fuck

I used to have this car. It was old, and I drove it around when I was in high school. I got pulled over a lot. It was a black Chevrolet impala and it was loud and it attracted a lot of attention. I worked at a garage after school mopping floors, and after that I would work on my car or drive around with my best friend Carlos who jumped off a bridge once but survived. My friends had old Chevrolet cars, too, but mine was the best. Mine was big and black and looked scary. But I wasn't scary, so people liked me if they liked my car.

Some time after high school I went to college somewhere far away. I didn't bring my car there. It sat in my fathers driveway underneath a cover, and every once in a while my new best friend Gabe would drive it around to keep it from disintegrating. While I was far away from my car I walked a lot, and I got really scared because there were wars going on and it seemed like it was my fault because of all the gas I put in my car. I came home to my car and I was scared of it. I bought a different car and drove around the country for a while to try and stop being scared, but I just got more scared. My old car just sat there. When I finished driving around the country I came back home. I rented a little box and I stayed in there all day and night yelling and hitting things and marking down all my yelling and hitting with a small computer. I stayed in that box for three quarters of a year, and my car was still there, disintegrating.

It’s been a couple of years since then and I'm not quite so scared now as I was. I sold my old black Chevrolet last Monday for $2,800, to some kid from Arizona who was trying to make it as a dancer in Los Angeles. He gave up on dancing because he couldn't make ends meet and know he's going back to school. I'm not sure he should be buying a 40-year old car if he's having money problems, but that's his choice, not mine. That car was only 30 years old when I bought it. Now all I have is a thick wad of 50-dollar bills and a stupid tattoo.