How about one for the toad

So, I have not posted in twelve days, but I feel no remorse whatsoever. I am starting to doubt that anybody besides me reads this. Today is christmas eve, but also my one year wedding aniversary. The latter is much more exciting for me.

I find it hard to believe that I have been married for a year, or that it is almost 2006. This year went by so quickly that I initialy thought that next year was going to be 2005. This is some crazy junk.

So, updateds with me: School ended, and next semester I am taking poetry writing instead of women's studies. I have not written anything since that prose poem. I got some new boots from the military sirplus store and a raincoat from a trift store. It's christmas in July in December. I may be getting a tattoo in a few days, but I am not quite sure of what it will be.

My parents asked me not to come over on christmas day. I am going today, but what is up with that? This will be the first in what I imagine will be a series of christmases where I don't see my family on the morning of the 25th.

It is time for a random ramble. Un, Deux, trois, Allons Y!

I had a dream the other night that I learned spanish and when I woke up I knew more spanish than I did when I went to sleep. I have no logical explination for this or the fact that I took a step off the ground the other day, it is possible that neither thing actually happened, but I am pretty sure that they did. Those no bake oatmeal cookies really are not very good at all and I don't know why I eat them every time somebody makes them. Not really every time but every time I see it happen or at least se the results of it happening. I have gained a bit of a holiday doughiness and am looking forward to jogging it off throught the woods but there realle are no woods close to my house in Wilmimgton I can't really call it a home because I am still not used to it at all. I bought a hammock and I am going to find a place in the bit of woods I do know to hang it and relax sometimes. You better watch out! You better watch yourself fool! Mele kalikimaka there are no hidden or silent letters in the hawaiian language but I can not prove that. Propane is flamable, but I can not prove that because there are other things in the propane tank with the propane and they could be the flamable and not necessarily the propane itself. She don't lie she don'the don't lie propane. Propane in the main vein is a pain. Lobster mash soup comes out by the scoop in Chicago's loop. Happy birthday Mr. Resident, your rent is due and so are you and you can't hide but can confide if you pay today. OK! fill up the car and go to the bar to fill up the man and get to the plan. The plan isn't real, I know the deal, after every meal just in front of the wheel, for rizzy! Bad poets don't know it but inevitably show it but the confidence could make you wince 'cause good poets hence never left the fence. Incredibly dense is the fabric of my skull but not the man from the grassy knoll the second spitter the second quitter the second cjhance. The one second chance for something big. The one second chance, you missed it!

Whatever.

Lawncare for the rest of us.

I have devised another idea for a book. I realized at my office christmas party last night that when I tell most people that I am a writer, everything said to me afterwards begins or ends with, "You should put that in a book." So, I am going to start compiling what people tell me to put into a book into a book, but not to make them happy. I intend to criticize the way a lot of people in our society think. I could call the book, " Nobody really cares about what you think." They could use it in writing classes as a resource for what not to put in a book, or how to deal with the fact that your walnut brained neighbor is completely convinced that the fact that his dog is scared of a vacuum cleaner is Nobel worthy literature. It's not, fool!

People seem to greatly enjoy distracting themselves from reality. I know this is a dated and hackneyed concept, but i have been noticing it with increasing regularity lately. Television, computers, music, social drama, empty romance, clothing, narcissism, the list goes on. I feel like people don't even realize anymore that they are able of pulling information or inclination from those deep recesses of the mind that can only be reached by listening to yourself think. I have encountered too many people who when I look at them, I see all that is there. It is like looking at a wall and knowing that there is simply another wall behind it and another behind that. What is the point of even bothering to speak to me if all you can offer is what you can see and all you can see is what is on the surface? If you are not going to think and try to better at least youself but preferably something beyond yourself, why do you exist? Make a point to make your life have a point.

Distractions are everywhere. I know so many people who are obsessed with at least one sport every second of the year, but if you ask them why they believe in God, they get uncomfortable and give a cop out answer. Were not learning anything from football except that Troy Aikman can see better with his contacts in. (Madden(ing)) From television we acquire the ability to bury our own creative abilities beneath what someone else created and we thought was clever. Most modern music seems to be nothing but a songwriter relating to the public what he or she sees and likes or dislikes. Not so much in the Swift satirical way, but in the, "I don't like peas, they're icky," way.

I am moving into the woods, at least in my mind.

If santa and satan really are the same person, does that mean that Hell's in habitants get a reprise on the night of December 24th since he is absent?

Raised in a barn?

It does not even really matter what color the candle is, the flame is all you can see in the dark.

Hey ladies and gerntlemens. I took my first stab at prose poetry a few days ago and I figured this would be a good place to post it. Oh, and I am done with school now. I just finished my last exam and sold my last book. Ohh, Yeah!

Cause for Concern

I tried to grab a leaf off of a bush and instead my fingers returned with a broken ribbed lizard writing in pain and, surprised by this, I threw it on the ground. I did this and my concern is that I can't find the fountain pen I spent $40 dollars on to write it down. My concern is that my ginger ale is not hot enough. My concern is that in moments I'll be blurred like the faded faces on my neighbors' house blindly staring with blank blinds with no shadows behind them 'cause the blank houses' occupants are all staring at a stark box staring blankly back. Emotionless we stand in unremarkable electrified non-glory. We sit alone with our lonely friends harmonizing with canned laughter and substituting created dialogue for genuine pain and the lizard who had no Idea that I would miss my leaf and, in the dark, crush him with my fingertips lies taking in his last breaths while a thumbnail moon pours out every possible human emotion into lidded cups already full of every impossible human emotion.

Hey, gimme a break, I'm not a poet. Do you think Edgar Allen Poe thought he had to become a poet because his name was only one letter away from it? Poe(t).

Those Bananas Aren't Goin' ANYWHERE!

Getting hit in the eye with a raindrop is absolutely no reason to cry, but you could get away with it.

I have two exams and one paper left, then I will be rid of this semester. It's not like that is too much of a relief. It's like a huge weight off most people's shoulders, but I have been shrugging it off the whole time. What did I accomplishe this semester? I fell down my the stairs in my appartment, learned the French word for hitch-hike, convinced a stranger I am Irish, broke my hand, wrote a good story and had it raped by five people I hardly know, and bought a hat. Yep, this will definately one I tell the kids about. "Did I ever tell you about the time I wasted five months and four thoudans of Uncle Sam's dollars?" Really, I don't feel bad about this semester at all, It's my college and I'm still feelin' it out. Or up or something.

I have a friend whom I have not spoken to for something like four months and I assumed that she was just mad at me or something, but she called me the other day, just to catch up and say hi. I thought this made me feel all moist and gooey inside, but then I realised later that my liver always feel like that.

Ebay killed my god uncle with a mallet. The little one you use to crack crab claws. Little uncle, that is, not mallet. The mallet was huge, like something Daffy Duck would use.

Why is it that we feel the need to give race as a description when mentioning a person to someone else? "Who is Mike?" "Oh, the Latino who works with me." Why not, "My co-worker with the mole," or, "that guy with whom I work with the foot fetish."???? Why?

I bought a bunch of gift for my friends really chep off of Ebay. I can't say what they are, because someone might actually read this. These last three sentances were pointless and seld defeating.

There have been a few conversations I would like to have had in the past few days, but either I was a wuss in the actual situation, didn't want to hurt someone's feelings, or the situation was entirely imagined in the first place. Here goes:

At work, racist co-worker complains to me about other delivery guy, let's call him Joe.
Racist Cowerker: What the hell is wrong with Joe today?
AJ: You mean besides the fact that all you ever have to say to him, besides barking orders without even a thanks, is how clumsy he is.
RC: What?
AJ: Or the fact that you yell everything you say to him as if his skin color and lack of a driver's licence makes him deaf.
RC: I do not.
AJ: Oh ok. Where did he go?
RC: I told him he was invited to the christmas party, but that I forgot to put his name in the secret santa jar and I need ten dollars from him for the boss's gift and he just signed out and went home.
AJ: (as he "drops" a closed box cutter on her toe) oops. I forgot to open that first.

Standing outside a grocery store, a hippie walks up to recycle his grocery bags and notices my suede jacket.
Hippie: Cow killer.
AJ: How do you think they got those birkenstocks? Cut a sandal shape out of a still-living cow, then shipped it off to recovery at cow island?

I'm not sure what cow island has to do with anything, but I would have said it. In reality, the hippie just sneered at my jacket.

Faithful readers will reacall the mention of a girl with a bike shouting obscentities at me from accross the road.
Girl w/ Bike: What the fuck are you looking at you dumb bitch?

Something involving a boomerang ensues.

But alas, I do not posess and can not throw a boomerang. I really wish it would go ahead and get cold already.

The thing with trees is that they live a really long time, but hardly ever do anything. There are trees that have not even been seen by human eyes, I think. They just kinda stand there, all smug in their stoicness, watching the world go by. I would hate to be a tree, because trees are not allowed on airplanes and don't have the mouths to protest this injustice. And they don't even have the capacity to celebrate their birthdays, I mean, who knows how long a tree year is anyway?

Here is a christmas list, then I will be off to bigger and greater things. Like my couch.

Chartreuse Vert
Modest Mouse's first CD (I can't remember what is is called)
A guitar
Lord of the Rings extended version Box set
Norway
Proof that Iowa exists
Bob Newhart's head
Some nice gloves
Dinner at a good restauant with all my amigos
An oberable jet engine
Some gunpowder
good argyle socks
a gift certificate to a tatoo parlor
a big, bushy, red beard
a cold six of Duck Rabbit
a Rabbi's pinky
how about some Sox Yakees tickets?

Really, just drop by sometime and go to taco bell with me and it will be a merry chrismas for all.

The best accessory, if you want to be noticed, is a chainsaw.