This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.5 License.                             the guys: philogynist jaime tony - the gals:raymi raspil

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Michael considered fate at 23:12   |   Permalink   |   Post a Comment

salt...meat...get it? do you know that fable when a daugther declares she loves her father "like meat loves salt" and he sends her away, etc? if not, your blog is simply fraught with accidental subtext. 
Must.. do.. something, anything really, to get that piece of meat off the top of this page. Might not be worth much, so take it with a grain of salt, or don't take it at all. Or just don't expect much.

In the thick of things, married to a widescreen lcd panel, fingers gently caressing it's keyboard trying to keep it in a good mood, trying to keep it happy so it works for me, does what I want - I'm not trying to be computegnistic here, not trying to say it isn't a relationship that goes both ways because it is and, sure, I'm making the motions but some days some days some days it's as if I'm putting absolutely nothing into it.

I don't blame anyone or anything except maybe the big faceless system because it's got us all inside it, stuck in the middle with you, and you, and you, and you - it's an easy target; everywhere you look it's there. But mostly it's just myself, a squeaky cog trying to shut the hell up and keep it to himself because boredom, lack of motivation, the loss of caring or wanting.. it's a humbling device. What's left within is simple self and with nothing else to paint the picture it's ugly. It's not something you want to haul up off the floor of the bathroom, arms wrapped tightly around the sink, fingers grasping at the faucets.. It's not something you want to pull up close to that mirror, with legs hanging down akimbo like some slimy frog in the hands of a child.. It's just not something you want to look at, let alone show to anybody else.

Nervous; twitch.. twitch. Blink. And bang, the hands are there in your face rubbing the white phosphor out of your eyes, you didn't even tell them to they jumped to action all by themselves, scalp scratching through hair, picking invisible flecks of detritus out of your eyelashes until there are fewer and fewer of those lashes left - like little tiny leaves dripping off of an ancient wish tree, dropping to the forest floor, dropping down into the darkness at foot-level to be stepped on.

There are no wild pigs that forage wish tree foliage, there is no secret saucer disc of delirium detection.. your only option to catch a leaf is to stick your head in the sand and hope you can see in the dark.


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Check out heroecs, the robotics team competition website of my old supervisor's daughter. Fun stuff!
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