I realized today, in the throes of recovering from last night's hatred and self-loathing fest...that the music I listen to is an excellent definition of who I am at any moment.  Consider my three favorite kinds of music...

1.  Crust--I think this is pretty self explanatory, I am the crustiest, most filth ridden person on the planet.  Even though I shower every day, and make the best attempts to be maintain an aura of cleanliness...I still manage to look like I live in a dumpster.  And the doom-i-ness of crust is ever present in pretty much everything I say always. 

2.  Emo-Violence--HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAH OH ITS PERFECT

3.  Waifish Pretentious Pop Music--Deep down, I really just want to be a gay man about town in 18th century spain.

I'm glad that my buddies look out for me.  I'm glad that they laugh at my dumb jokes involving blood in my stool, I'm glad they try and keep me from being hurt.  WHY DO I NEVER LISTEN TO THEM!?!?  Every time, every single time one of my friends steps in and says to me, 'keith i don't know if that is such a good idea' i  just brush their hand away and continue to put the turtle down my underpants.  Seriously, so many people said not to get mixed up in the relationship that I did...but I had to, I love caitlin so much, and I was hoping I could maybe make her less of a wanderer.  I never wanted to 'own' her, but I wanted to feel like I meant something to her, being that I need to be hugged more times than your neurotic father's blowup sandy doll.  Anyways, as dinner conversation of late has been hilariously ridiculous, including such things as Nate and I deciding that gay is pretty much the way to go besides the whole getting things in your butt aspect.  Really, every single girl i've ever been involved with has been either deceitful or an asshole.  It never fails.  And during (wow this is more emo than i  wanted it to be) this whole process I never notice...my friends do.  Their gentle proddings are never enough.....hah proddings......hah putting things in your butt

yet another hilarious attempt at lunch...

keith goes to the fridge, keith sees leftover spaghetii...mmmm he says, this spaghetti sure looks good...
(scene missing)
piles, and piles of vomit.

This morning I lost part of my soul.  It is now neatly folded and awaiting the final incineration process.  Welcome to the horrific nightmare that is post-breakup Keith.

Enjoy me ranting on very little sleep about how much i hate everything and everyone.......keep in mind this stuff is diluted with the fact that i'm tired, and thus could not unless even partial rage and bitterness...mere slivers.....

vgTaRa: god
vgTaRa: i hate ppl
vgTaRa: lol
Slayngren: welcome to my everyday life
Slayngren: when everyone you know is barely a human being and people just lie their way through everyday in order to get as much pleasure as they can get out of everyone else with none of the responsibility
Slayngren: why don't we all just have sex and exploit eachother but i don't care who you are or what you want to become
Slayngren: in fact i couldn't give two shits about what you think about the world, or how scared you are, or how scared i am, and how absolutely everything is so fucked up that there's no longer any way to fix it
Slayngren: but i'm just content to lie to myself and provide immediate gratification so that for just a little while the fucking relationship heroin i pump into my veins will keep me from clawing my eyes out from the horrors of reality
Slayngren: .....whew
Slayngren: because no one wants love anymore
Slayngren: because real love is work
vgTaRa: amen keith
Slayngren: no everyone wants packaged love
vgTaRa: <3 you
Slayngren: that they can stick up their FUCKING POWDERED ASSES
vgTaRa: hahhaa
Slayngren: I HATE EVERYTHING SO MUCH GOD
Slayngren: and I KNOW that other people can see it to
Slayngren: that EVERYONE has at least an IDEA that this is not the way things are supposed to be
Slayngren: that we really COULD make things better if we'd just be willing to not think with our fucking groins for sixty fucking seconds
Slayngren: and i mean groins in a metaphorical sense, like our pleasure drive or what have you
Slayngren: WHAT"S IN IT FOR ME
Slayngren: HOW MANY PEBBLES CAN I SHOVE UP MY ASS
Slayngren: HOW MANY DOLLARS CAN I EAT BEFORE MY STOMACH EXPLODES
vgTaRa: hahahhah
Slayngren: HOW MANY PEOPLE CAN I SMOTHER WITH MY FECES
vgTaRa: chris's window = dread
vgTaRa: keith's window = bitter comradery
Slayngren: you realize that this is the tip of the fucking iceberg
Slayngren: and that i could rant about pretty much anything for hours
Slayngren: especially when it comes to hating people and the things they do
Slayngren: and how i consider them basically walking piles of vomit
Slayngren: buuuuuuuut enough of my boundless optimism for each new day
vgTaRa: you are <3
Slayngren: i am?
Slayngren: oh a walking pile of vomit?
Slayngren: yes
Slayngren: yes i am

So I'm sitting and working on my book, which is always a source of constant ridiculous joy and sorrow for me, when I realize that this little website has not been worked on........at all, in the last several weeks.  Ok let's face it months....Ok let's face it, I never really worked on any of it...I got ghostwriter to do it.  Yeah I know he's pretty busy helping children solve mysteries like 'why are all my old underwears in the desk in uncle harry's guest room,' but he often takes time off to give me a little help in the old literary outpourings.  Granted, the rants offered here are rarely educational, but what could you possibly expect from a floating ball of ectoplasm?  I'm fairly sure that in the show they eventually came to terms that the ghostwriter is some kind of spirit coming back from the grave....which bears some questions I think. 

QUESTION THE FIRST!
Why is there a book called 'the secret life of bees?' 
ANSWER THE FIRST!
People got tired of thinking of southern women as trashy overweight sluts who are barely able to put on a mumu let alone offer anything to society, themselves, other people in their immediate viscinity, or even as an example for the middle-school science class to the wonders of buoyancy and gravity.  INSTEAD, now we think of them as woefully pitiful idiots who manage to bumble(hilarious) through their difficult lives with an optimism that can really only be met with phrases like 'go speed racer go' and the equivalent amount of vomiting to cover up any chance of true redemption.  How can I judge such a well-thought-of book without having read it you ask?  The answer lies in the title.  Let's consider that on its own shall we?  What could bees possibly be doing that is secret?  Going to all night raves?  Getting freaky in the honeycombs?  Going to the store to by fuzz-weaves?  I mean really, there's really only one thing I feel I'm truly in the dark about when it comes to bees' lives...where they poop.  And do any of us really want to know that?  I mean it's gotta go somewhere, but c'mon, they can't poop in the honeycombs...After all they're either getting freaky, or there are BABIES IN THERE.  No species poops on its babies, except for the germans.  Following that strategy for logical conclusion, let us look once again to the southern women and how they are very much like bees...... READING THIS BOOK IS LIKE GETTING STUNG ON MY ANUS, I DON"T KNOW WHAT IT"S LIKE BUT I"M REASONABLY SURE IT"S GOING TO HURT AND LEAVE A STAIN ON THE BACK OF MY PANTS.  Oh this is ripe with connotation, have a field day. 
(Please note that I am offering no such nastiness to women as a whole, and this rant is full of south-hate.....I am reminded of stupidity everytime I drive in southern maryland.....thank you confederate flag)

QUESTION THE SECOND!
Why does poetry want to make us all want drive nails into our eyes with dead squirrels?
ANSWER THE SECOND!
Some of you may be saying to yourselves, poetry doesn't make me want to do that at all, it makes me want to love, or experience the world in new ways.  I would 'rebut' by saying, why don't we all go down the pastry shop and buy some cookies.  Then we'll just LEAVE THEM IN THE STREET AND WATCH CHILDREN GET HIT TRYING TO GET TO THE PILE.  YOU FUCKING MONSTERS!  Poetry is the lazy man's answer to prose.  Rather than writing 30 pages, 100 pages, or nay, even 3000 pages, you chose to write five.  Five pages of non-sequential, 'nuanced' (what this really means is uncompromisingly needlessly vague), bullshit!  Whether it's shakespeare or modern poetry, poems are essentially the mind de-fragging itself and getting ready to load on something useful....like warcraftIII.  And I'm flat out sick of everyone writing poetry and thinking that it's all profound or helpful to their expression as a person.  THERE ARE VERY FEW GOOD WRITERS OUT THERE, I CAN GUARANTEE THE MOMENT YOU DECIDE TO WRITE A POEM, YOU ARE NOT ONE OF THEM.  I myself TRY to not completely humiliate myself from a writing standpoint, but we all know that it is nearly as bad as losing your pants at your mother's funeral.  STOP BEING ANOTHER ONE OF THE WORLD"S DISAPPOINTMENTS, GO OUT THERE AND GET A JOB POWERWASHING SEWAGE TREATMENT TRUCKS, DICKBAG!

Slayngren: i mean here comes another giant stereotype ala keith but
Slayngren: every guy is worried about losing his girlfriend all the time
Slayngren: every
Slayngren: single
Slayngren: day
Slayngren: because many of us know you can do better
Slayngren: and it's a constant battle of how long is it going to be before you find out we jus ttricked you
Caryatid6: omg
Slayngren: and yes
Slayngren: that's totally out of wack and ridiculous
Slayngren: but that's how it honest to god works!
Caryatid6: yep
Slayngren: and for some of us
Slayngren: like me
Slayngren: and probably greg
Slayngren: this idea is ALL CONSUMING
Slayngren: and destroys the relationship from within eventually
Slayngren: it takes a lot of reassurance
Slayngren: and a very special kind of girl who is willing to deal with scared little boys rather than men
Caryatid6: wow!
Slayngren: wow what?
Caryatid6: well his girl is like greg in girl form
Caryatid6: except not smart
Caryatid6: so theyre purfect
Slayngren: yeah it'll be tumultuous
Slayngren: now if i can find a similar sucker
Slayngren: and you can find a handsome fuck buddy
Slayngren: we're all in the clear
Caryatid6: ur horrible
Slayngren: i am barely a person
Slayngren: :-\
Slayngren: write a story about me (as horribly egotistical as that is)
Caryatid6: what is icq
Slayngren: i can guarantee it'll be a thought sparker
Caryatid6: shut up
Caryatid6: my whole clas is rpg nerds
Slayngren: i don't rightly know
Slayngren: well i meant about all the crap i just said
Slayngren: about the scared little boys and whatnot
Slayngren: make it abou that kind of guy
Slayngren: in a big city
Slayngren: lost among the throng of people who move faster and more icily than the brown caked ice that is left after they salt the streets every morning, broken and flowing slowly into the damp and empty sewers
Caryatid6: omg
Caryatid6: im gettin gdepressed already
Slayngren: a grown man in his midtwenties who's still afraid that the world doesn't really love him
Slayngren: and how much he'd like to take the woman behind the newspaper stand back to his house
Caryatid6: wow
Caryatid6: keith
Slayngren: and make love to her, but in his own imagination the fantasy just turns into a sordid and awkward circumstance ending with him vomiting in the bathroom and the empty click of his apt door
Caryatid6: please stop

So I went to find jobs the other day....here's a little itinerary of the stuff I had found in Lexington Park (which would allow me to still see caitlin and my friends)

1.  Hallmark--Do we see an immediate problem with this?  Selling I love you cards?  Little flowers?  Does this sound like me?  OF COURSE IT DOES.  If there's anything I like to sell and or fondle its tiny figurines of jesus.  The woman behind the counter gave me a once over though, probably guessing me to be a coal miner wandering off-site from western kentucky.  So in other words--BREAKTIME.....DISASTER

2.  Michaels--The woman here apparently mistook my enthusiasm for a job to mean 'please give me the most demeaning job at the worst hours please, I'm so pathetic that I'll cry at the thought of being able to work for your crafts store, because I can't live without cheap construction paper covered in glitter and tiny buttons that say snookums.'  So I had an interview, in which I had to take this survey which asked 'if you smoke a marijuana cigarrette on the job, does it or does it not affect your job performance' approximately twelve times.  There were ninety questions, and they basically boiled down to......are you a LATE scumbag.....an ADDICT scumbag...a BELLIGERENT scumbag......or an ANTISOCIAL scumbag...  Frankly I'm surprised I passed the test.  The hours for said job are as follows.....for the next two weeks I'd be working from 10pm to 6am....sweet......THEN I GET THE JOYS OF COMING INTO WORK AT FIVE AM......TO PUT BOXES ON OTHER BOXES.  YES I KNOW MY ART THEORY DEGREE IS USELESS BUT COME ON........BOXES?!?!?!?  THAT"S AS GOOD AS I CAN DO!?!?!??!

3.  Some guitar store--This would be ideal......but being that I play bass like an angry croatian with a sledgehammer, I think the whole repairing instruments is going to be out of the picture...

4.  Nicoletti's Pizza Place--This is the most promising being that I have food industry experience....But I have a feeling I didn't really apply there at all, but it was just some urine soaked fever dream while sleeping outside of the movie theater high on expired mayonaise I shot directly into my eye cavity.

On top of this I'm supposed to apply to grad schools figure out the GRE and about a million other things....WHILE working on my book, and art......god knows......sleepless nights here I come.....

Giant upset with Caitlin.
The disk containing all my resume and cover letter stuff is magically deleted
I don't have any money
I'm so hungry

I'm just waiting for the dolphins.

Itinerary for the day:

1.  Breakfast

2.  Sob on the floor of a shower stall naked with a gun in my mouth

3.  Dinner

4.  Tennis

5.  Bedtime