Desire Armed

So I'm into this girl, real nice girl, sweet even, like fruit not soda, and she's got this boyfriend.

Now you say, "whoa (pronounced wo-oh) there, a boyfriend? Are you violating the sanctity of another's vows? Belittling the brash, sometimes bashful, but always beautiful besottings of the other's beloved? Am I? A cursory glance at the above leaves me uncertain.

But what if I told you he is a big flaming pile of shit? hmm? Would that change the inquisitorial nature of your interview of the soul? Sweet things and feces? Monstrous. Imagine the marketing campaign. (actually you dont have to, life brought you a sneak preview for free. There is a liquer called Irish Mist that uses herbs and Honey (very sweet) for flavoring. They tried to sell it in Germany, it tanked. In German, mist means shit) Still unmoved? Would that this heart of stone could stand in a place of power where petty human emotion, where Neistzche's dream of the over man might come to fruition.

Well, I can only reply, then, that no, no cool-aid has been siphoned. Because, ultimately, though he is, beyond any shadow's of doubt cast by the blazing excrement of his childish and cheese-grater-on-raw-flesh existence, I have little interest in being an infidel (one who does not practice fidelity?).

But this girl, you say (on the edge of your seat, the tips of your feet, the outermost branch of your personal reading tree, the precipice of reason, what does she, lovely though she is, sweet and nourishing though she may be, smiling like the morning sun forgetting that its warmth brings droughts and picnics alike, what perilously fraying, stretched and tearing, poorest-quality cloth of a connection is she currently, desperately mainting with every last ounce of non-smiled oriented strength left in her Japanese (and thus we may assume, mayn't we) small body to this website? Does she even speak English?

You could have been more to the point you know, however I do enjoy your clever wordplay. She does not, speak English, but when she makes the attempt it is adorable. Her ever-thinning thread of fate hopelessly intertwined with your own?

The sunlight, the bettered days, the slow but constant revelation, introspection, articulation of ideas that save for their catalyst, their muse, would never know the light of smile?
Well, that, sure and

What I give is taken and made a part of the other and thus even my words, mixed with blood and bile in the intestines, colored with the remaining humors and ephemeralized by the brain, to be delivered by word of mouth and dexterity of hand, lose clear ownership, become an inclination to smile or cry, but not mine, a mutli-memember discussion under one glorious heading, not mine.

I get tired of people telling me their full grown chihuahuas actually fit in the palm of their hands when this is the smallest dog in the world and is still a little too big for that.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/newsbeat/hi/newsbeat/newsid_7961000/7961224.stm

I think they beat Matt and Ted

Brandon, pardon a personal tangent of mine but for a minute

Adam, would that you were ever on skype at a reasonable time or at all. Then the world would smile again.

Stolen things attract thieves, and the inability to be content is a natural state that when acted on, I suppose much like man's natural inclination towards short-sighted self-serving actions ('sin', we might call it for shorthand), seems to have an equally mad-architect affect on life. It could be the taken beauties of Japan for you, for me the various girls I know much at all with a pretty face (maybe even sometimes the almost underage ones that endlessly hound me rarely through any volition of my own) and for brandon (to not leave the gracious host of this place and epic man that he is out of such good thoughts) most women, since they can't handle the magnitude of his being or his carpet.

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/years/2008/1121083gas1.html

Or, to simplify,

She moved so easily all I could think of was sunlight, I said aren't you the woman who was recently given a Fulbright, she said don't I know you from the cinematographer's party, and I said who am I to blow against the wind?