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[27 Aug 2006|10:48pm] |
I'm headin' out tomorrow, so....
To anyone I didn't get to call or see:
I'm really, really sorry. These past coupla' weeks have been hellishly busy.
You know I love ya' -- and I won't be gone forever.
Wish me rotsa ruck.
-Zach
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[07 Aug 2006|12:23am] |
Sorry I haven't called that many of you... you may want to scratch out that last entry.
'Cause, uh... yeah. I'm kinda moving back to China. Probably in about a month.
Ooh, Lantery-doo! Do you need a couch, dresser and/or dining table for your new apartment?
Lemme know :)
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[28 Jul 2006|09:50pm] |
Back from China and I gots me a new phone.
Comment with your number (it'll be screened), and I'll give you a call sometime if I don't hate you.
:)
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| Let Me Count the Ways |
[06 Apr 2006|01:40am] |
They say that Latin is romantic,
more poetic,
but I don't know about all that.
What I do know is:
I can't forget the time
when love was a verb,
second person,
singular, perfect past,
indicative, passive once by me.
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[07 Mar 2005|05:30pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 nervous |
] |
The mind is aflutter.
I've taken a recent interest in Alchemy, which is strange, as I'd've expected to fall for it earlier, given my affinity for Shelley's Frankenstein. So anyway, I was reading up on it online, and the material was so dense with allusions that I was drowned in a complex series of links and clicks.
linklinklinklinklink-clickityclick.
After awhile, I was led completely astray and ended up reading about Aristotle, Epicurus, and Heraclitus. I gathered an interest in the philosophy of the latter simply because of the eponymous adjectival form of his philosophy: Heraclitean -- Hehe, Clit. (I'm dumb, I know)... (And I'm also aware that his name alone has "clit" in it, but for some reason it was more obtrusive in "Heraclitean").
Anywho, I read a lot about fluxfluxflux. Now, I've always found some sort of existential repose in chaos; while reading Heraclitus, however, I began to feel affronted by it -- intimidated and shrunk down by it. I was sitting in the warehouse at work, staring at a box and thinking over and over to myself, "Now it's a different box. Now it's a different box. Now it's a d--"... you get the point. And it was overwhelming.
So I think, now, that I'll maintain my fancy of chaos, but try not to actively engage myself in the perception of it. The mind is, after all, limited to certain things -- and is certainly aflutter. For the moment at least.
... Now off to write my English paper: "Her Life Departs from Two Shiplandings: a Pair-a'-Docks". Teehee.
(Again: I'm dumb, I know)
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| Woop-ah! |
[02 Mar 2005|10:56pm] |
It's Zach's 21st birthday, and he's drunk off of sake-bombers and a pleasant time with his friends!
And he's typing surprisingly well in spite of the booze!
And in third person!
Woo!
(And he likes exclamation points!)
(!!!)
:D
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[28 Jan 2005|12:27pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 giggly |
] |
There's this awesome chick Deandra in my Classical Japanese class; she's totally rockin', and I'm certain she'll help me attain my future goal of being a fat black woman (full of sass, yes).
"Hey, Ova'line-san, what the fuck's up with gahz, huh?"
"Lots of things. Why, what's wrong?"
"Nothin'. Jus' this bastard I'm in love with, don't ak-nowledge me worth shit."
"Who is he?"
"This dude that works at Electronics Boutique. I've got the biggest boner over 'um for like, weeks, so I wrote this note, right? And like, it was all Junior High-ish and shit with hearts and evruhthing. Gave 'um mah phone number and all: said, y'know, call me and shit."
"Did he call you?"
"I'm gettin' to that. So anyway, I knew I had to give it to 'um that day 'cause I know with mah luck I ain't eva' gonna see 'um again. I only see 'um when I ain't wearin' make-up, I swear. When I saw him that day I was a beast: no make-up, mah hair all crazy like I'm some psycho video game bitch who neva' takes a showa' (she is, for the record). And I just know that the ratio between me seein' him and wearin' make-up is like, inverse. So the more I wear the less lahk-lay I am to see 'um."
"Why not just wear like, half your normal amount of make-up. Then there's a 50-50 chance you'll see him, right?"
"No, it don't work like that, Ova'line-san. Jus lizzen: I gotta' be one ugly chick to ever see a guy I like."
"You're not ugly."
"Why thank you. Now shutup and listen to mah story."
"Sor--"
"Anyway, I gave 'um that note, and he gave me his number too. So I was like, hey, I call 'um. Dude gives me 'is number, he wants me to call. So I did. And guess what? No answer. And you know, I gots me a Sprint phone too, so I know the dif-rence between not answerin' and havin' the phone off. And that motha'fucka' had his phone on, so he didn't answer on purpiss. So I left a few messages, and he neva' called back."
"What an ass. I'm sorry. What'd you do?"
"I'm gettin' to that, Ova'line-san. Sheesh. (A pause.) So anyway, the other day my Hello Kitty mirror broke -- well, I broke it. So anyway, I decide to go to the mall to get a new one at Sanrio. And that fuckin' store is lahk, right next to Electronics Boutique."
"Uh-oh."
"Tell me 'bout it. Problem is: I don't wanna' seem like I'm stalkin' this dude, y'know? So I take this back route, all sneaky-sneaky to get around 'um, and guess what."
"Wh--"
"Bitch was right across from Sanrio at a popcorn store."
"Deandra. Do you really wanna' date some guy that goes to popcorn stores? I mean, c'mon."
"Man, what if the guy juz lahk popcorn. He was on lunch, figured he'd git some popcorn and soda, or sumthin'. Shutup. That's probly how he keep his thin frame, anyway. But anyway, I totally saw him; and he totally saw me... and neither of us said anything!"
"That's awkward."
"Fuckin' duh it's awkward. I shoulda' said somethin': now it looks like I really was stalkin' 'um. So anyway, there're still no calls, and I was gettin' pissed about it. So I decide to confront him today. So I stomped in there and was like, 'Why'd you give me your number if you never answer, or if you never planned on callin' me back, huh?' And he was all like: Well, like, I'm gettin' back together with my girlfriend and stuff, so--"
"Aw. Fucked up."
"Yeah! What's up with that? I mean, why'd that bitch gimme his number if he's with someone, y'know?"
"Maybe he wasn't. They could've been broken up, and just recently start getting back together."
"Then why didn't he call before, huh?"
"I dunno. I'm sorry." (Insert appropriate frowns and shoulder-pats here)
"I'm neva' gettin' laid, Ova'line-san."
"Sure you are! You're hot, Deandra."
"Yeah, I wish. There was this dude ova' the other night, and you know what my problem is?"
"What?"
"Well, we was gettin' all nekkid and shit, and lahk, whenever I get nekkid, I like to start talkin'. Like, Hey, we're naked! Lezz talk! Like nekkid-time is talkin' time, or somethin'." (I laughed) "So like, we didn't do shit that night cuzza' mah big mouth, but in the mornin', he started gettin' it up an' shit when I was gettin' dressed. And I was like, 'No, I ain't suckin' that, I'm tired!' So he starts jerkin' it right then and there."
"That's hot!"
"I know. I love watchin' guys jerk. So anyway, I was watchin' him do that, right?... and all of a sudden my dog yelps and runs outta' the fuckin' room. Now, the thing about mah dog is, she farts, and it freaks the shit outta' her. She like, What the fuck? Y'know, she's a little ol' dog and she don't know how ta make air shoot out of 'er asshole or nothin' lahk that, so it scares 'er!"
"That's awesome."
"Right. So I think, y'know, I should probably explain why my dog just freaked out an' ran outta' the room so quick. So I tell 'um: Yeah, she juzz farted, man. It scares 'er. And you know what he told me?"
"Wha--"
"He told me: 'That is the most unsexy thing I have ever heard. Ever."
"Ahahaahaha! I love it!"
"Yeah. So you could see it wilt like, right there. Just whooooooooop down." (A pause.) "And that's mah sex-life, Ova'line-san. That's mah sex-life. I need a tattoo right here on mah arm, say, 'Bad In Bed,' or somethin'. Ooh, or 'Gets stuck in her bra and can't get guys off.' That's what I need."
* * *
... coolest person in the world.
She told me to sit in front of her the other day:
"Hey, Ova'line-san. Sit right there in fronta' me so I kin look atcha'. You molestable. That's why. You look up molestable in the diksh'nary, it have a picture of you right there. Molestable."
How could one not swoon over a compliment like that?
Teehee <3
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[03 Jan 2005|03:49pm] |
Multicolored bulbs so fat
(with light like jelly drops
contained)
look better through
a muckyglass lens:
as if prickly nimbi
have s p r e a d their fingers
wide out and spry.
Like the dead tree white and dry
(around whose limbs they dangle and whip
as clothes do on a line)
that’s wetten-darkened in the rain--
a little bit of bad throbs life
through sere and empty veins.
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| Words to live by in the coming New Year |
[30 Dec 2004|11:05am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
giggly |
] |
He was gentle-faced with a three-inch golden crucifix around his neck.
"You get in a car accident, my friend?"
"Naw. I don't know what the problem is. I moved last month; maybe that's it. Lifting, and stuff."
"Huh. Well, my friend... just remove your pants, put on this gown. We'll find your problem."
I took of my pants and shirt, but couldn't tie the gown in back. So I figured I'd hold it with one hand, balancing my jeans and shirt in the other. I noticed how twiggy my legs were as I went into the room and sat on crinkly paper.
"Now, lie back. Watch yourself. Put your head on this pillow and keep your legs out straight. Good. This ain't gonna' hurt now, my friend. No needles -- nothin'. Just gonna' take a few pictures."
"Stay still right there. Exhale... now."
I looked up and pushed out my breath, and held (ka-click).
"Good. Now go ahead and turn on your side. No, your left side. There we are. Now this time, don't exhale, just hold your breath, okay my friend? Perfect. Hoooold, and--" (ka-click).
"Now I'm gonna' need one of your tail-bone. Stay where you are, I'm just gonna' adjust this thing... and there. Hold your breath for a second--" his voice got farther away as he ran behind the lead barrier.
(ka-chick)
"Perfect. Now you just sit there and relax for a few minutes, my friend. These things only take a sec."
* * *
"Huh, now what're you? Twenty-four, twenty-five?"
"Twenty."
"Oh, geez. Well, your spine looks nice and straight -- as it should at your age. So I think it's probably a muscle problem; but we'll have the doctor look at it. In the meantime, get yourself a friend with a hot-tub, or a girlfriend -- have her rub your back down and make it feel real nice, eh?"
He paused and looked at me, as if it just clicked. "Only twenty? Jesus, kid -- you need to take care of yourself. When you get to be my age (which is twice your age) you're gonna' be fallin' apart. You hear?"
"You gotta' stay alive, my friend... stay alaaaaahv in two-oh-fahv."
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[28 Dec 2004|03:14pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
down |
] |
| [ |
music |
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Office Noises |
] |
Felt as if I was coming down with something all day. I thought I was getting sick, but realized I might just be bored, or need a cigarette, or perhaps a good wank; or both. But no, it's ennui. Ohnwee. (Why is that word, of all words, fun to say?)
I just can't wait to get home --out of this office-- snuggle up in my cold brick place, and read about the White Witch, and how it was always winter. Always winter and never Christmas; think of that!
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[20 Dec 2004|02:50pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 confused |
] |
It almost happened twice before but didn't, and when it finally did, it wasn't as bad as I'd thought it would be.
Lesson learned: I drink too much and hold too long. And the muscles down there, they aren't like others; making them work and hold and squeeze all day doesn't puff them up stronger. So it was that I was driving home, legs crossed, thinking God, I need to get there soon, when at a stoplight my eyes crossed too, and I thought GOD! I need to get there soon.
I started to count down from one-hundred in English; that was too easy. So I switched to Chinese, and it went:
Ba-shi-liu.
Ba-shi-wu.
Ba-shi-si.
Ba-shi-san.
Ba-shi-Mom, he's been in there for thirty minutes!
You can hold it.
I've been holding it!
Well hold it longer, Zachary. You're big now, you don't wet your pants.
Can't I just use your bathroom?
No. I want you to hold it. You do not wet your pants. You hear me?
But Mommymommy, it hurts!
I'll hurt you worse if you piss on that floor.
But his shower went onandonandon, and the hiss of water against the bathtub pulled and kneaded my bladder. So I paced in a tight little circle, and couldn't see or hear anything for the all-encompassing pulse in my crotch. And then came the needles; then prickly spiders' legs; and at last a giant's tight squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze of the fist.
There, facing the bathroom door, hearing the glok of the shower's knob turned off, a dark and warm spot swelled around my feet. And there looking down at me was an angry face with arms jutting out beneath it, fiercely splayed akimbo.
I'm a disgusting, rotten little boy who, having reached er-shi-er --twenty-two-- on the countdown home, couldn't hold it anymore. I gripped the wheel with my left hand, pinching the head of my penis with the right. But that touch was a degree of stimulation, and really all my bladder needed to just let go. And it did -- as I slammed the car into park (having reached the apartment) and fumbled vainly with my keys while my thighs got warm.
OPEN! A sharp right in was the bathroom, and my pants were down in an instant; piss on the toilet, piss on the floor.
I was a little fucking baby, and I just couldn't help it. And there, this time, looking straight at me from the mirror, was a sad face, a helpless face with arms jutting out beneath it, weakly splayed akimbo -- and above it all a whispered thought:
Thank God no one knows.
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[04 Nov 2004|11:29pm] |
Gots me an early ballot, but forgot to mail it in on time. I heard we could turn 'em in at our voting locations, though, so I went -- and felt like a friggin' cripple at Disneyland: everyone's eyes in the longlong line were drilling through my back and willing my death as I skipped to the front.
(Though cripples can't skip... depending on the cripple, that is.)
And I forgot my fuckin' sticker.
Oh well, life as we know it's probably gonna' be over soon, anyway.
So who needs stickers?
But then, it's times like this I really wish I had me that sort of comfy thing -- those things that protect the eyes like blankets in a dark room of haints. Like hot-chocolate in the cold, like God, and stickers that make me think I have more efficacy than I actually do.
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| Holyshit |
[26 Aug 2004|11:24pm] |
| [ |
music |
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My Soul, Crying |
] |
So everyone has these new lil' cartoony icons and I was jealous; ever the bandwagon-jumper-on-er, I decided to make one of my own, and uh... as you can see, I am very ugly in cartoon-form.
I look like I just rimmed someone w/ a dirty, dirty ass.
And am smoking in post-coital elation.
::shudder::
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| I'm the best singer in the world. |
[18 Jul 2004|09:44pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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Best Singerly |
] |
| [ |
music |
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Me! |
] |
"I can see cleeeeeeeeeearly now the rain is gone.
I can see alllll popsicles in Bel-Air."
"It's obstacles. Obstacles in ... something-something."
"Bel-Air?"
"No, Dingle."
"It's 'obstacles in my way.' I was just kiddin'."
... then I started singing.
"Now this is the story all about how my life got flipped, turned upside--"
"No! Don't sing!"
"-- down. And I'd like to take a minute --just sit right there-- I'll tell you how I 'came the Prince of a town called Bel-Air!"
I started with my rap hands, and he wasn't havin' it. He tried to tickle me, so I'd stop.
"In West Philadelphia, born and raised, on the playground's where I spent most--"
"WHY WON'T YOU BE TICKLED?!"
He tried harder, but that only fueled my groove.
"-- of my days. Chillin' out, maxin', relaxin' all coo', and shootin' some b-ball outside of the schoo', when a coupla' guys who're up to no good started makin' trou--"
"That's it!"
He licked his finger, trying to jam it in my ear (I hate that, and he knows it). It wasn't working, so he ended up covering my mouth, while still trying to wet my willay.
"--min mah mmbhmmd. Mm mmot min mmn mitmle--"
My mouth was free for a second
"--AND MY MOM GOT SCARED! She said, "You're movin' with your auntie and--"
But it didn't last for long.
"--mmuncmle min Mel-Mrr!"
And it kept going on like that, 'til I gave in: (poutily) "I'm not singing anymore."
...
"Why do you have to type these things?"
Because they're funny, kid. 'Cause they're funny.
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| Books in lines and rows. |
[13 Jul 2004|05:23pm] |
I stared and I stared, only to hear how little I really know.
Finishing a book today, I realized I hadn't paid it condign respect. It was brilliantly written, insightful as to the honest workings of the mind, and artlessly poignant -- but perhaps to me in the wrong kind of way. Like a miscarriage.
I read it, but I didn't breathe it, scanning the pages mindlessly as one might run his fingers down a wall.
It was as if I perceived it with the wrong sense.
Like if you licked a flower.
Or tried to smell music.
There was a whisper of the author's message in my head, but I didn't respect it enough to stop it from diffusing into nothingness.
And that's how I've lived these first 20 years of my life.
Meandering aimlessly in circles, not paying the world around me the attention it deserves. It's been 20 years of wasted perception, 20 years of having learned nothing.
I can't think anymore.
I can't write -- the words aren't there.
And the fear of ignorance, the overwhelming scope of things I don't know and will never know, haunts and ever dances around my head, calling out for me to join the masquerade of the worthless.
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| Much ado about doo. |
[12 Jul 2004|12:34am] |
| [ |
mood |
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 annoyed |
] |
I hate it when like, you poop, and your bunshole is kinda burny afterward, leading you to believe you still have more poops to poop, but in reality, it's burnin' 'cause you done stretched out your chute with the aforementioned poop that, were it not for the elasticity of said chute, would be entirely too big to poop.
I seriously hate it.
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| Cocktalk. |
[09 Jul 2004|01:27pm] |
|
Woke up this mornin' w/out my usual billy-club.
Instead, my wiena' was only at half-mast --any dong's best state-- appearing to dangle lower and thicker than it truly does.
I looked in the mirror, naked as a jaybird (that's naked) with wang in hand, and knew that I was a fuckin' rockstar.
Oh yeah.
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| At the peak of desperation. |
[08 Jul 2004|01:11am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
Hungry for Beef |
] |
Went on a shitty crap-diet today with Sparky and Bri.
... we're such vaginas.
Sparky, for one, didn't last one day (he's just putting it off 'til tomorrow! Heh), having eaten 20 Chicken McNuggets and later Carl's Junior. While I managed to fend off temptation, I feel like dooky, am shitting water and pissing clear every 5 minutes.
We're on the Sacred Heart, you see, the diet wherein, on Day One, we can only eat fruit. Fruit, and an otherwise unpalatable, but not-half-bad-'cause-it's-the-only-other-thing-you-can-eat vegetable soup -- that tastes like salty balls.
I get so depressed during diets. Being an average hedonist, I take great pleasure in the three or more times a day in which I eat... eat badly, on the whole. When I'm dieting, though, those instances become three or more times during the day when I become genuinely dejected, and contemplate ritual suicide.
It may sound as if I'm overreacting, but try it for yourself. You'll see.
When my tummy goes a-rumbly, my mind blooms rife with plans of glutting myself: beef, cheese, both fried, perhaps a sandwich or eight. Then comes the part that hurts, the realization that --not only am I not allowed such epicurean delights-- I have to eat an icky old fruit, my 5th or 6th of the day.
But tomorrow's Vegetable Day, that'll remedy it all, right Zach?
Wrong, Zach.
For you can only eat vegetables, and there will be no Ranch or Caesar to complement their flavor. Nor any crackers, or even any fruit with which to clean your palate.
...
I get weird cravings while on diets, frighteningly reminiscent of a pregnant woman. And they're all things I'd never bemoan the loss of, if not for the pure knowledge that I can't eat them.
What I wouldn't give for a goddamned grilled cheese sandwich with a pickle.
Off the record, of course.
That, and Brian and I have begun to debase ourselves in the prospects of little "treats" for which this diet periodically allows, getting excited as a dog would over a goddamned biscuit: Day Two: At dinnertime tonight reward yourself with a big baked potato and butter.
"Mmm... I can't wait for my baked potato tomorrow. Ooh, and with butter."
"That does sound good... I'm gonna make mine into butter-mush!! You know, we could technically eat them now, seeing as it's already midnight."
"No we can't! We have to eat them for dinner, the thing says!!!"
"What?! Are you serious?! Oh fuckbuckets. This diet sucks."
"Yeah it does.... God, I want that potato."
And I do!
That, or a fucking Hot Pocket.
With it's pepperoni, goo-riffic goodness.
Mmm, and it's crust-inducing sheath.
Two minutes, then ding!
Hot Pocket. Hotpocket hotpocketuetetkdg.dsg....
I hate this.
I hate you,
and I hate being a fatty.
Gar >:B
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| She fought. |
[03 Jul 2004|12:36am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 tired |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
The Chewing of Gummy Worms |
] |
So work was slow the other day, and I was left to dawdle -- watch agog the goings-on of anyone and everyone that walked by the Cafe.
A gorked woman with three webbed fingers had just asked for a sample of Chocolate Truffle, our latest caffeinated abomination. She was making her shaky way to a table, while a woman --her friend who's mentally faster, but always one step behind-- continued to stand in front of the counter and stare straight at me.
She did it the first day she came in, and she's done each time thereafter: just stare. She often mentions my piercings, and I think that's why she does it; it's their dazzle or somesuch that keeps her looking my way.
While I'd normally make awkward small-talk, there was someone who passed in front of us that immediately caught my attention and kept me quiet.
An old, old woman. Hair dyed red, with skin that hung like clothes stretched too big.
Her glasses ran half the length of her face, and were two-and-a-half fingers thick.
Hands trembling with decadence, she gripped --knuckles white-- an aluminum walker, leaning on which she lobbed, the majority of her declining weight concentrated in a curious hump between her shoulder blades.
It seemed as if it hurt for her to walk.
To grip her spidery walking frame.
It looked as if it hurt to be.
But God, was she strong, click-clacking down the aisle, keeping Death at bay with her fist around his nuts -- as tight as she grasped her extra metal legs.
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trumancoyote's journal