when the cream is curdled, the lambs look on

how far to the gant roller?

quick, somebody fetch me a cranium, i think mine fell of the edge of that bus stop over there.

And

Other

Various

Things

To

Write

Home

About

(in the voice of a fieldhand who has to work for the man) time keeps creepin’, creepin for my soul, my poor soul, why did you go? Old man death waits blindly for me, and he brings the lamb of god with hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiim.

i kinda like this whole just writing for stupidity’s sake. its not like i have any ideas to express anyways. i want to do soemthing called writing a book. and fill it with all sorts of symbolisim that i won’t intend at all, so that people caqn pull extra meaning out of this “book” and then i could sit back and laugh and leave a note that they couldn’t open until 30 years after my loast book was published that would read:

“Dear Jackasses:

all of you who think my books have some hidden meaning should know….THEY HAVE NO MEANING. i just wrote down crap that you didn’t understand so you would mistake it for some kind of genius. let me tell you, i am a genius, but i find it an insult to it that many of you think i do. and don’t be thinking there’s any literary meanign to this letter either. NO HIDDEN MEANING. i am just telling all of you that you are jackasses and you can all go to hell.

Your Daddy,

Ryan “Screwin your momma in the ear” Driscoll”

i wish desperatly i could write a book good enough to get me recognition as a distinguished artist and then aafter a good time after my death, i could let everyone know that they’re fools to look for meaning where there is none. and then they could sit around and justify it to themselves that there is meaning in everything, so why not my book, even though i said it was meaningless? because the fact that its meaningless mean that it has meaning, otherwise it couldn’t exsist. it would be the conundrum of the century, and it would all be started by my belligerence. its really my secret wish that “the tropic of capricorn” was meant to be like that. i read that sometime last year, and i thought it was rad. it would go from coherency to just straight up symbollic craziness, but it was done very very well. but it would just be great if henery miller was just like “you fools, hahahahahaha, my books mean nothing! you are all crazy, not me! bahahaha” it would be rad.

man, i really need to start playing a musical instrument again or something, cause all my creativity now is pouring out into bitter writing. it should be pouring out into bitter music.