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        Thursday, May 08, 2008

    Birds Gotta Fly...

    ...fingers gotta write. Dammit. I have done some pretty nice stuff in the last couple of days, and I hate to see it get pushed down.

    I am in just the shittiest mood ever. The wife is gone every day lately, and she centers me, and I guess I need a keeper. Oh, the kids are fine. I was a short order cook a while ago. Grilled cheese sandwiches, fried egg with cheese sandwiches, fruit of your choice, cookies, and milk. I stifle my rage around them. Johnny senses it, and gives me extra hugs.

    I don't know what to write. There's that story about that stupid liberal asshole Stephen King dissing our troops, calling them dumb. A common theme with libtards. Every man in my infantry company had to have two years of college, minimum, to even get in, and get the bonuses. Steve, you're a dipshit.

    The most common request I get from the troops is for books, and they pass them around until they disintegrate, and then they beg for more. Steve, you are a complete dipshit. Way to step on your dick.

    I am in the mood to write something violent, and horrifying. Just vile. Or something about writing. Or tell you about how Nattie has been making the wife Mother's Day presents all day, and in the fallout, I got a little paper super-hero girl doll that has laser eyes. And can apparently fly.

    Dammit, I can't get over this S. King bullshit. I mean, I have always admired the guy...looked up to him. I mean, he attends autopsies so he can get it right. And yet he has his characters 'click the safety on on his revolver'. I have seen exactly one revolver in my life that has a safety. And like most Hollywood dork types, he has guns doing things guns just cannot do. Even in my hands.

    Oh, fuck him. He is dead to me.

    Now, there's a hyper-realistic school of writing out may want to look away here...

    Still with me? Okay, you asked for it...

    They will describe in almost loving detail a killer as he holds a woman against him with one hand, cupped under her chin, her back to him, as he cuts up through her belly with a serrated knife, sawing lovingly back and forth, in and out, up to her sternum...they give you the rubbery ripping sounds, the bowel smells, her heels drumming against his shins, her hands slapping back at him, getting weaker and weaker, until...

    Who needs that shit?

    I consider myself a horror fan, but I am a fantasy horror guy. Survival horror is my forte. An angle that perhaps I hadn't considered yet. We are the sum of our parts, and it does not really matter where you acquired those parts, in the end, unless you are taking an exam, or turning in a thesis paper.

    Okay, I've emitted my wind. I feel better.