All he ever wanted

All he ever wanted was to dance. Living amidst the pens, papers, and shiny metal cups holding them all, he would dance all night long. Alas, he was made out of wood. He posed his dancing poses with his stiff wooden joints, but it wasn't as much of a dance as he would have liked. I once could speak to wooden things, and he told me. He told me of his burning desire to dance. He was exactly certain as to where, and was fairly certain on the dances he would dance, and was more or less sure that it would never happen. Then again, whose to say wood isn't a living thing?

It may be alive, but not alive enough to DANCE.


Poor, poor, wooden human sculpture thingie.

LISTEN TO WHAT I THINK

Jerry Seinfeld: Fuck you. Really, Fuck you. Capitalized 'fuck' and everything. Stay away from me, lest I break your face. Fuck you and everybody that watches your shitty comedy. Mostly the latter, as you performed across the street from the coffee shop last night, and every moron that watched you was just that.

A two hour line out the door, full of morons. Just in case any of you were in that line, I have created a figure to show you what I am talking about.

Now, imagine that. Except hours long, and full of morons.
Example: "My toddler dropped his madeleine, can we have another one? He dropped it. He dropped it on the ground. Can we have another one please?"

That is what was said. What I actually heard was, "Excuse me, sir, but I gave my two year old child, who still has incredibly undeveloped motor skills, a perishable food item (which in my germophobic parental eyes, can never touch anything other than his disgusting, dirty little hands or mouth,) a madeleine. He dropped it, and I would prefer for you to compensate my inability to hold something for my child, who is clearly incapable of managing a food item on his own. Pay me, for I am a parent."
A random regular who overheard this exchange referred to them as "part of the entitlement generation." Thank you, random regular. I appreciate your witticism.

For the sake of 'Fig A,' I have a 'Fig B,' so 'Fig A' doesn't feel alone.
Here it is.

Although, Fig A being a 2 hour line full of morons most likely is incapable of feeling alone, I did it anyway.

NOTE: Both Figures 'A' and 'B' have a phonetic 'line' in them.

Fuck it. Fig C: My cat.


Either way, people's inability to realize that an action is not necessarily someone else's fault amazes me. I hate the fact that I was asked to compensate $1.09 worth of madeleine for said parent's inability to hold a cookie for their incapable child.

Back to my original point of Fuck Jerry Seinfeld and all associated with him, I have never seen a group of people as rude and impatient as last night. No specific examples except for the former, they were just shitty in general. Quitting smoking was easy, up until last night's shift. I still haven't had a cigarette, for the record.

Fig D: A horse. I just figured this was a good one to throw in.


Again, for the record, I am still slightly drunk.

As enchanting as riding a motorcycle through fog may be, the accompanying hail was bullshit.

I find

that the amount of times I refer to 'the tiger' at work is ever increasing.
I take orders with the tiger. The tiger holds my pen. I tell people that I wish I was the tiger. Not simply 'a' tiger, but 'the' tiger. The little plastic tiger on the counter at work.

There he is. Fear him, and give him your two dollars for a large cup of coffee.
He is a great subject of conversation, as he is always there, but never listening. He is made of plastic, so it is incredibly hard for him to do so.
He never gets offended, but he always takes people's money. He always holds the pen for me.

The tiger is my friend.

Between the Devil and the Sea - EP by Oh No! Oh My!
Just may be one of the greatest things of all time.

Don't get me wrong,

I really enjoy working at coffee society, but for fucks sake:
"I'm getting coffee for my friend, does she take cream and sugar?"
"I don't know, whose your friend?"
"She has a nose ring."

You see, I have two nose rings, and do not take cream or sugar. Maybe her friend doesn't take one, cream or sugar, since she has one nose ring, but which one, I cannot say. The reality is, I cannot say either way, because nose rings have nothing to do with coffee preference.

At least I don't think so.

I'm also amused by "Hi, how are you can I have a non-fat latte?"
Notice the lack of comma in between 'you,' and 'can.' I didn't even have the chance to open my mouth that time to respond.

A bunch of savages in this town.

"this is how super-villains are born"

Day 13 of no smoking leaves me with:
A) A day in which I had to drive into the mountains and hike up a hill to be away from cigarettes.
B) I could have a pot (for large plants) full of disgusting black lung gunk.

Other than that, still, a sense of taste and smell like never before.
Sometimes, I feel like a super hero when I walk up the stairs, because I'm not out of breath.

Maybe quitting smoking turns people into bionic awesome machines, but we may never know. A bionic stair-climbing machine.

Being mostly blind for over a week was an interesting experience, as well. Not being able to make out people's facial expressions makes it extremely hard to interpret certain statements, especially if said statements were stated in monotone. Reading was also impossible. I wonder what would have happened if I had tried to read a sarcastic statement? It may have been too much for the fabric of space-time.

Yeah.
Hi.

Day

Seven without cigarettes, and day six without glasses. This is starting to catch up to me.
I'm so angry that I... I would... write this stupid post and not do a whole lot else.

Please forgive strange behavior as of late, as I'm feeling incredibly neurotic from not smoking. I also feel incredibly uncomfortable being relatively blind.
Actually, forgive typos and grammatical errors as well, as I can barely see what I am doing.

Thank you.

Recent Developments

Have led to:
i) Six days of cigarette-freedom
ii) Fuck underwear, not the biggest fan of it anymore. Currently in public, not wearing said article of clothing.
c) New tattoo. Thank you, Kai Smart.


Waking up at 7 in the morning and driving to coffee society to sit and not really do shit is an amazing thing, sometimes.

Lunch-ables.

Thursday night: get drunk and go to hot tub. Bring lunchables. Lose lunchables.
Friday night: get drunk and go to hot tub. Discover lunchables still there. Eat, and be happy.

I also find that the number of times per week that I am not wearing underwear in public is constantly increasing. I also rode the bus today, with no underwear. I haven't done that in an incredibly long time. Riding the bus, I mean.


It was pretty swell. That swell-ness may be attributed to the fact that I had a box of 'peeps' marshmellow candies with me, and those are incredibly tasty. The pink ones.

My latest discovery, however, is a sense of smell. After not smoking cigarettes for a grand total of 4 days now, I find that everything smells. Not necessarily good or bad, but everything has an incredibly distinct odor that I otherwise would not have noticed.

Like beer, and apples. Those smell pretty good.

Garbage smells pretty bad. I know this now.

Broken things and aching lungs

As of today, I haven't had a cigarette in 3 days.
My glasses are broken.
I lost two socks last night, and woke up wearing pants, but not underwear. I'm still not wearing underwear, actually.

Writing this seems to be more important than putting on underwear.

Regardless; (fuck semi-colons.) Regardless: The last few days have been quite an adventure.
Going from being a smoker of ten years to a non-smoker in a matter of hours is quite the transition.

I find that I can smell and taste like never before.
I also find that on leaving a building, I instantly reach for my shirt pocket smokes. I'll have to figure that habit out, sooner or later.
It is incredibly strange to not have an instantaneous relief of what feels like 'mental pressure,' we'll say.
It seems as if for the past ten years, I could sit down, light up a cigarette, and instantly be set into a mode of relaxation. I feel that now I have to find something to fill that void, and I'm not sure what it is just yet. I'll find something, I'm sure.

I also feel as if I'm a pregnant woman. I have been eating. Everything. I ate four separate meals yesterday, and usually I will eat once a day, if that. I hope that is related to smoking, as it would be incredibly unfortunate if I actually was pregnant.

On a completely different note, Rhinos are fucking crazy. Those things are too bad-ass.

Returning to my actual point, if you can call it that, this shit sucks. Quitting smoking sucks. The alternative is even shittier, though. I've been told that I have nicotine lesions in my mouth, which, from my understanding, is one step before cancer. If I continue to smoke, said lesions could become very angry very quickly, and I could find myself in an incredibly shitty situation. So fuck that, quitting smoking it is.

I'm not doing too bad so far, all things considered.



That is a cigarette.

Oh, and I'm still kind of drunk from last night. I don't think that makes any difference, though.

2 Hard boiled eggs

and a cigarette.
Now back to sleep.

On a side note, wearing boots every day proves, yet again, to be a good idea.

Endless Activity Arsenal

So I've added another two additions to the list of things I carry around with me.
In addition to band-aids, a big black notebook, bottle of JB-Kwik weld, I now have a 1938 Underwood type-writer, and a yo-yo.

This yo-yo has already gotten me into trouble.

You'd be surprised at how mad drunks at bars get when I refuse to "walk the fucking dog, brah."
I won't walk the dog. Brah(?).

"What are you, a bitch? Just walk the fucking dog."

I'm not quite sure I understood completely, but I was getting called out for refusing to do a yo-yo trick for a bunch of drunk assholes. This sequence of events is slightly beyond me.

Conversely, some folks are so amazed that I carry around and play with a yo-yo that they buy me drinks. That sequence is right up my alley.

Yo. Yo.

The typewriter, while being an incredibly fun yet impractical machine to use for writing, also seems to provide an exceptional amount of pleasure to passer-by's, especially of the older nature.

I've had elderly women taking pictures of me with their I-phones saying, "I haven't seen one of those since 195X. It makes me so happy to see a young man like you using one of those."
I suppose there aren't enough people that appreciate the impracticality of using a typewriter in public like I do for these old folks to be seeing them around, but it makes them happy. So it's ok.

Some people like it, some people think I'm a giant asshole for having useless crap. Both are alright with me, really.

Go to class,

Go grab a drink which turns into more than a few. 9:15 or so
Go home at 12:30 (ish)
Sleep at 3:30 (ish?)
Wake up at 5:30
Eat two hard boiled eggs and an apple. 6:32
Go back to sleep. Now.

No point, really.

Here is an ashtray.


Still, no point to that, either.