It's too early in the morning to really be considering anything profound prolific or whichever one applies.
My stomach is empty, which is bothering me, which it usually does not, especially this early. What does it mean? that I am hugry? I really don't care about NASCAR! NBC, just put Conan back on. It's the sketch with the robot shitting on a toilet, which is much funnier than it should be. Conan has a knack for things like that. Really shouldn't be funny, but it's just so odd, so absurd you just have to laugh. Why?
Because when he finally goes, there is a metal clang as his feces hits the porcelin.
Falling to their final resting place, the robo-turds impact, solidly upon the virginal surface of the toilet. The crowd, silent, but with an audable inhale awaits this moment, and when the clang is heard, a cheer goes up. He is unbounded, he is free! His metallic bowls no longer are holding their bounty, and all the world can enjoty this robot's special gift. I know I do. Conan, the headman, leads us in our cheer. We are happy for the robot. We wanted the robo-turds.
attractive term, eh? Robo-turd.
Robo anything just makes it cooler. Better yet, mecha. Mecha Godzilla versus Robo-Turds. Mecha Godzilla wins, duh. He's got that force shield, and his fingers are rockets. Damn hollywood and their corrupting of godzilla! Damn them all to hell!
Well, i guess Hollywood kinda is hell, or purgatory at least, with those pop-culture angels floating high above it, the ones that toiled to make them into what they are look upon them with awe. They are awed not by the achievement, but at their loss. They can never be those angels, they can never leave the dirt and the grime and the backroom blowjobs, the casting couches, and the lines of coke. They don't want to leave. As long as people have dreams, they will come to the men, to try and live the dreams that people are living, but not sharing. People want to live in these dreams, but they cannot, because they are not real. These people are not real, nothing is real, except what we think is really real. For real. There is way too much money that goes into these unreal ventures, into this art. So much is wrong with the world, but we love fuelling our fantasy so we don't have to think about the real world. It's all escapism. What do I want right now? To talk to someone, who is far away right now, but that's why i'm writing right now, at this moment. I am feeling wordy, and rusty at not having written anything in too long. I want to write another play, be published again. For real this time. On my own and not in a compilation. I can do it. It's not that hard. A few days can yeild a play, a good 30 pages or so, if i really work at it. Then edit it. Get it put on, so i can say that these unknowns originated the role...but that really isn't important.
ok, i have my dreams. I want a writing credit for "Last Thursday", but i have a feeling i might not get it...i have a feeling that people forgot that I wrote it. Did I? I think I did. I read the words and I know that they are mine, but they feel so unfamiliar, so far from my thinking now. I go to a differant place to write. I use other voices. I talk to much now, and I don't listen enough. I'm running out of voices. SOon it will just be me, and my voice, going over all the characters. I will listen more now.
Man, this is really all about me isn't it?
Presumption of interest, that's what it's all about. This here. If you've read this far, something may be wrong with you. You care too much about a nobody that puts characters into words in a semi-pleasing way. Wasted potential is the name of this player's game, and I hope you enjoy it. It's fun to watch.
It's now 8 minutes to 4 in the morning, and I'm going to brush my teeth and sleep.
Good night too all those out there in TV Land
My stomach is empty, which is bothering me, which it usually does not, especially this early. What does it mean? that I am hugry? I really don't care about NASCAR! NBC, just put Conan back on. It's the sketch with the robot shitting on a toilet, which is much funnier than it should be. Conan has a knack for things like that. Really shouldn't be funny, but it's just so odd, so absurd you just have to laugh. Why?
Because when he finally goes, there is a metal clang as his feces hits the porcelin.
Falling to their final resting place, the robo-turds impact, solidly upon the virginal surface of the toilet. The crowd, silent, but with an audable inhale awaits this moment, and when the clang is heard, a cheer goes up. He is unbounded, he is free! His metallic bowls no longer are holding their bounty, and all the world can enjoty this robot's special gift. I know I do. Conan, the headman, leads us in our cheer. We are happy for the robot. We wanted the robo-turds.
attractive term, eh? Robo-turd.
Robo anything just makes it cooler. Better yet, mecha. Mecha Godzilla versus Robo-Turds. Mecha Godzilla wins, duh. He's got that force shield, and his fingers are rockets. Damn hollywood and their corrupting of godzilla! Damn them all to hell!
Well, i guess Hollywood kinda is hell, or purgatory at least, with those pop-culture angels floating high above it, the ones that toiled to make them into what they are look upon them with awe. They are awed not by the achievement, but at their loss. They can never be those angels, they can never leave the dirt and the grime and the backroom blowjobs, the casting couches, and the lines of coke. They don't want to leave. As long as people have dreams, they will come to the men, to try and live the dreams that people are living, but not sharing. People want to live in these dreams, but they cannot, because they are not real. These people are not real, nothing is real, except what we think is really real. For real. There is way too much money that goes into these unreal ventures, into this art. So much is wrong with the world, but we love fuelling our fantasy so we don't have to think about the real world. It's all escapism. What do I want right now? To talk to someone, who is far away right now, but that's why i'm writing right now, at this moment. I am feeling wordy, and rusty at not having written anything in too long. I want to write another play, be published again. For real this time. On my own and not in a compilation. I can do it. It's not that hard. A few days can yeild a play, a good 30 pages or so, if i really work at it. Then edit it. Get it put on, so i can say that these unknowns originated the role...but that really isn't important.
ok, i have my dreams. I want a writing credit for "Last Thursday", but i have a feeling i might not get it...i have a feeling that people forgot that I wrote it. Did I? I think I did. I read the words and I know that they are mine, but they feel so unfamiliar, so far from my thinking now. I go to a differant place to write. I use other voices. I talk to much now, and I don't listen enough. I'm running out of voices. SOon it will just be me, and my voice, going over all the characters. I will listen more now.
Man, this is really all about me isn't it?
Presumption of interest, that's what it's all about. This here. If you've read this far, something may be wrong with you. You care too much about a nobody that puts characters into words in a semi-pleasing way. Wasted potential is the name of this player's game, and I hope you enjoy it. It's fun to watch.
It's now 8 minutes to 4 in the morning, and I'm going to brush my teeth and sleep.
Good night too all those out there in TV Land
posted by CCMAS | 3:53 AM
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