Electrical Vegetable Dinosaur King

This is Seth Schultz


He is my favorite person who lives in my town.

He is a vegetarian. He believes that bacon is a vegetable.

He is obsessed with the apocalypse. He's the guy that you want to be hanging out with after the bomb drops. He will survive. You will survive. He has a survival kit. The survival kit contains plastic bags. They are very useful. They are in case you're dying from a slow, agonizing death from radiation poisoning. You are supposed to put it over your head for a little while. Seth will not need one. He will not have radiation poisoning. He will live forever. He does not want to live forever, but he is probably ok with this. He will give you a plastic bag from his survival kit because he is really nice.

I met Seth over ten years ago.

He was in my Greek Mythology class in college. It was a very big lecture hall. He stood out because his hair was dyed to resemble a leopard. He liked to attach Schwa alien stickers to the back of seats. He has never been brought to justice for his crimes.

Once after class, I approached him and introduced myself. I think he was the only person who I approached out of the blue during my time in college. I am shy. Although I am sure that I probably approached a lot of people when I was drunk and shouted random nonsense at them. I enjoyed doing this. So I think Seth is the only person who I approached while I was sober. I think I may have asked him if he was a Subgenius. This was my excuse for approaching him. I don't know why I thought he was a Subgenius. Maybe he wore a Bob Dobbs t-shirt one day or something.

Seth told me that his name was Booga.

I didn't find out his real name until a few years after graduation. It was in an email and I was very confused. His real name used to be a closely guarded secret. I think Booga may have killed everyone who found out or something. He really liked the Tank Girl comic.

After that, I was never really friends with him. He was my acquaintance. I liked saying hi to him.

He started a student club. MAMO or Mutants Against Majority Organization. I think it was originally supposed to be called Mutants Against the Majority, but Booga wanted the group's newsletter to be called The Mammogram.

MAMO became an official student group. They had permission from the chancellor to march in parades. They had permission from the chancellor to organize campus events.

MAMO was mostly about doing goofy stuff. I never joined, but I once went to a weekly meeting. They ran out of things to say after a while. It was a little boring for a few minutes. Somebody said "Let's have a dance party!" They had a dance party. There was no music. I like dance parties without music. I like dance parties without music when they happen during the weekly meeting of a student group.

MAMO was a cult.

Booga was a cult leader.

He does not deny this. I get the impression that its members did everything that he said.

He was a popular guy, a big man on campus, everybody knew who he was.

I had a party on X-Day at my summer sublet. I fell asleep an hour before the world was supposed to end. Maybe it did, but it was still around when I woke up the next day.

Booga went to the big X-Day event. The world did not end, as it was supposed to. I think he still had a good time. The Reverend Ivan Stang said something about there being a miscalculation and that X-Day would now happen the following year. The Church of the Subgenius has an X-Day even every year. Less and less people show up to them. I don't think Seth has taken the Church of the Subgenius as seriously ever since the world didn't end the first time around.

I graduated. I moved away. I lived in a bunch of different places. I moved back. My friend, Dan, quit his machinist job at a salsa and hummus factory. I took over his job. I got free hummus and salsa. I dipped pretzels in my free hummus. I worked with Seth on a machine that was called The Small Machine. This was a pretty lame name. Another machine had a better name: Robocop. Robocop never worked. It just stood around looking sinister. It didn't look like Robocop. It looked like the ED-209 that Robocop fought in the first movie, but the ED-209 is an even lamer name than The Small Machine, so they called it Robocop.

The Small Machine helped Seth and I to seal, date, and lid cups of salsa. Sponge Bob lived on the machine's plunger. Eventually Sponge Bob had to stop living on the machine's plunger because it stopped working properly. The Small Machine liked Seth more than me. This was because MacGyver is his role model. Since MacGyver is his role model, Seth has the ability to fix anything with a roll of duct tape. He can fix a broken relationship with duct tape, or a dead baby or the ozone layer. But he's too busy fixing The Small Machine every day to work on any of those things.

The Small Machine broke down almost every day, often many times a day. No one has any idea how to fix it. Seth relies on the trial and error technique. He sticks duct tape onto random parts of the machine until it works. I never got the hang of this, which is why I no longer work there. I was laid off because MacGyver is not my role model.

I worked there for two years, so I am getting ahead of myself.

The Small Machine does not have an instruction book. It has been upgraded so many times that it does not exist. It is very old. There are only two members of the small machine family currently being used in factories in this country. The other Small Machine may be in the company's other factory in Chicago. My employer did not like to spend money, unless it was on non-functioning machines that resembled Robocop's arch-nemesis. I do not blame him.

I would often have to work for ten to twelve hours at a time. My feet hurt a lot at first. I got used to it. I spent a lot of time with Seth. Working on a machine for ten to twelve hours at a time was very boring. He did not like responding to my knock knock jokes. After the first few jokes of the day, he would ignore my pleading for him to answer the door. I think the problem was that I did not come up with the joke until after it left my mouth. It never made any sense, but I liked it better this way.

I gave Seth a new nickname every day. I felt that he deserved this for going by a different name for four years. My favorites nicknames are Nickname and Electrical Vegetable Dinosaur King. He would often not respond to his nicknames. He could often be a party pooper. I believe one of his other nicknames was party pooper.

I got to know Seth very well.

I discovered that Booga was an interdimensional entity that possessed Seth's body during his college years. I have discovered that Booga is dead.

The interdimensional entity's death does not surprise me consider he/she/it had a completely different personality. While Booga was an outgoing social butterfly, Seth is quiet, anti-social, and almost a hermit. It is often extremely difficult to convince him to leave his house except to go to work. He seems to love his job. I do not share his enthusiasm for dull repetition. I became even less enthusiastic once the factory moved thirty minutes away (it used to be walking distance from my house). And much much much worse, the new room that we worked in was refrigerated. I am a wimp when it comes to the cold.

Seth was working on an autobiography a while back. It was called Mutant Memoirs. I read a little. It was pretty good, but I think he gave up on it after discovering that he would be unable to come back as a zombie and finish the book after his death. I don't think he is bothered by this.

After that, he tried a new project. A housing project. Called Project Moonracer, maybe. He wanted to get a bunch of people together to buy a house and live there for the rest of their lives. This did not work out. I don't think he is bothered by this.

Now he is working on a book about managing your money. I forget what it is called, but it has the word mutant(s) in the title. I think he really likes the X-Men. He also has a giant flat screen TV. It is as big as the planet Pluto. It is so big that he needs to keep it in space. An idiot scientist hasn't discovered it yet and named the new flat screen TV planet after himself. I expect this to happen within the upcoming weeks.

I think that Seth should put his giant flat screen TV that he keeps in space on the cover of his book. It will help establish his credentials. He should probably miniaturize the image though. Or maybe each copy of his book could be as his giant flat screen TV that he keeps in space. This will be a good promotional gimmick. He will be in the Guinness Book of World Records for writing the world's largest book about managing your money. This would be the greatest free advertising ever. He will go on Larry King and tell the world that the best way to manage their money is to not buy his book because it is extremely expensive due to the thousands of miles of forests that needed to be cut down to produce each copy. After the extremely limited first print run sells out, it will be reprinted in a miniaturized paperback edition. It will sell quazillions. It will be the next Dianetics. Seth will be possessed by another interdimensional entity. He will start another cult. I don't know what it will be called, but the subtitle that it will use in press releases will be "The Religion of Economic Stability."

Seth tells me that he has completed half of his book. Still, I doubt his ability to finish it, although I think it's more likely to happen than his past endeavors since it is a lot more realistic. But if he doesn't finish it, he will not be bothered by this.

This is why I wish I was Seth.

I once asked him if he had any goals for the future.

He said that he has no goals for the future.

I do not think his goal is to finish a book about managing your money. I just think he's enjoying writing it and he doesn't care if it never gets completed.

I hate having goals. I will destroy them.

Seth is the calmest person who I have ever met. He is content with his life. I have never seen him get angry. He does not seem to have any stress.

I am the most stressed out person in the galaxy. And I have absolutely nothing to be stressed out about. And within the past year, stress has begun to cause me physical pain.

Seth is a Buddhist monk, except he is neither a Buddhist nor a monk. I love to hang out with him. He gives off a feeling of reassurance and comfort. He needs to teach me about chakras.

Seth doesn't talk a lot. My friend thinks that he's boring, but he just doesn't understand. Occasionally, Seth and I have some great conversations. But we have more comfortable silences.

Since I was laid off by the salsa factory, I've enjoyed spending time with him more. After hours and hours of comfortable silences while working on a machine, I would begin to feel an urge to throw Seth down a well and replace him with someone who was a little chattier. It's nicer now that I only see him a couple of days a week.

I wonder if I should eat Seth's brain. Ancient people believed that when a warrior ate his victim's brain, he would also absorb his essence. I think I mentioned this in my oral presentation about cannibalism in film that I did for my horror movie class in college.

Maybe I will chill the fuck out if I eat Seth's brain.

I don't think I will eat Seth's brain. I am a picky eater and I don't think it would taste good. And it would prevent him from becoming the dictator and supreme overlord of the Earth.

I would not want that.

Bow down Earthlings before your new master.

My Biggest Regret

I am building a bomb.

When my bomb goes off, all every plant, animal, and mineral on Earth will be left unharmed.

When my bomb goes off, every last cup of coffee will be annihilated.

When my bomb goes off, every coffee bean will be decimated.

If I can't drink coffee, no one can drink coffee.

Coffee used to be my favorite thing.

I didn't like it until after I graduated from college. I forced myself to drink it. I am mostly nocturnal. It got me through nine to five office jobs. It felt like a passage into adulthood. A coming of age story starring me and a cup of coffee.

I grew to love the taste. It really helped my fiction. The caffeine did things to my brain. It pulled it and stretched it until it was shaped like the brain of a fiction writer. The coffee gave me the state of mind that was necessary to be creative. The coffee and I were friends. Goods friends. Platonic friends.

But now we are enemies.

If I drink a cup of coffee, I will wake up the next day with an immense amount of head pain.

My favorite coffee is sold by a coffee shop in my town called The Haymarket. It is very strong. My town's official phrase is "Northampton: Where the coffee is strong and the women are stronger."

I don't know how official that is. I've seen it on a sign at the town's parking garage. But it looked pretty official to me.

I just googled the phrase and got one hit. I have been informed that souvenir shops sell mugs that have this phrase written on it.

Mugs are for hot beverages, like coffee. I have altered my bomb. It now also destroys mugs.

There are a lot of lesbians who live in my town. A lot of them look pretty strong.

The last time I drank a Haymarket coffee, I had head pain for two days in a row.

I have since tried their decaffeinated coffee. It was terrible. I suspect that all decaffeinated coffee is terrible.

My bomb will leave all decaffeinated coffee unharmed.

I think decaffeinated coffee tastes like non-alcoholic beer. I'm not sure if I've have had non-alcoholic beer though. It doesn't matter. I'm still pretty sure they taste the same.

Since I don't like head pain, I don't drink coffee anymore. My writing has suffered, my internal body clock has suffered, my life has suffered.

I will make your lives suffer along with mine. I believe there will be a drastic increase in automobile accidents. I will try to forget that this is my fault.

chugga chugga chugga

My friend who I haven't really talked to since I moved away from Salt Lake City is thinking about starting a blog about industrial music. He asked for suggestions. I suggested he travel into the past, to a time when industrial music was good, and report on his adventures. I doubt if he has the technological know-how to build a time machine. So the purpose of this entry is to dissuade him from blogging about the current state of events of industrial music. It would only make me depressed. This blog entry is the only entry that ever needs to be written about industrial music. It is the final nail on the coffin of industrial music blogging.

I like industrial music. Although it sometimes gets really boring because aside from a band called Carphax Files who I know personally, all the other current bands that I have heard are crappy, watered-down copies of their predecessors. Some of them are really good for one song, but then you get all excited and think, I have discovered a new industrial band that doesn't suck, and listen to another song and it sounds exactly like the first song and get very disappointed and listen to an entire album in hopes of being as impressed by the other songs as you were by the first song, in hopes of the other songs not sounding exactly like the first song, but you just end up disappointed again and kill yourself by running naked through a barb wire factory while humming Wumpscut's Soylent Green.

So the reason it sometimes gets boring is because I have to listen to CDs that I bought in high school. I graduated from high school in 1997.

Not only am I often bored, but I am also often disappointed. This is because I never really took care of my CDs. Many of them are scratched.


Before I listed to industrial music, I listened to rap. I am not surprised by my migration to the new genre. They are very similar. They have the same primary audience: angry, white teenagers. They are both a form of electronic music.

There is something mysterious about the name, industrial music. I remember the first time I heard it. My friend told me that Nine Inch Nails was industrial music. It made me very confused, but it was a little exciting to learn of its existence. I never knew there was music that sounded like this. It was like those two words tore down a brick wall, unleashing a flood of awesomeness.

And I kept finding new stuff. And I loved it. Bands like Skinny Puppy, Mentallo and the Fixer, Wumpscut, and Leatherstrip were such exciting discoveries. It was exciting to go to concerts in New York City.

I am going to say 'exciting' a lot because it was all very exciting at the time. I was very excited. I haven't felt this excited about music in many, many years. I haven't felt this excited about anything else for a couple of them.

But there is nothing to get excited about anymore. Exciting bands that have persevered through the years are middle-aged and no longer exciting. The last Skinny Puppy album was not exciting. It was awful-awful.

And there is nothing else that ever ever ever needs to be said about industrial music. Unless someone can recommend me a band that actually has more than one song that I'll like. I don't think my friend is up to the task. He's too busy breeding rats or something.

Don't even try it!

Scary Shit

I used to like horror movies. I liked horror movies before I ever saw my first horror movie.

I lied again. I guess Ghostbusters is a horror movie. It was my first horror movie. That ghost librarian's face popping out was pretty scary.

Ghostbusters was probably the only horror movie that I saw for many years. This is because is was rated PG. My parents wouldn't let me see R rated movies. They wouldn't even let me see PG-13. They would tell me that I needed to be thirteen. I think they changed their minds when I was around twelve.

While all of my friends in elementary school were watching R rated movies, I had to settle for family-friendly PG stuff. I remember my friend telling me in fourth grade that his cool dad had let him see David Cronenberg's remake of The Fly. This made me very jealous.

My parents let me read awful novelizations of R rated movies, so this is what I did.

I really wanted to rent Nightmare on Elm Street. I overheard the kids on the bus to summer camp talking about it. They made it sound cool. My parents wouldn't let me watch it.

I have a memory of reading the novelization of it. I'm not sure if there actually was a novelization of it. I think this may have been a false memory that I created myself because I wanted to see the movie so badly.

My first R rated movie was Police Academy, the first one. I was very happy about it. I had tears in my eyes during the opening credits. I think I was in fifth grade. It felt like a triumph. I believe it was a long time until my parents let me see another R rated movie. I think I really liked the Police Academy series and most of them were rated PG. I must have whined a lot until my parents had enough of me and rented the video.

It wasn't very different than the other Police Academy sequels, except the characters were actually training in a police academy instead of being genuine cops and it showed some tits.

I guess the tits were the reason for the R rating.

But I had already seen tits in some PG movies like Airplane.

I believe that the rating board was pretty fucked at the time. They probably took bribes. Directors of feel good comedies with a few bare breasts and fuck you's gave them briefcases of hundred dollar bills. The ratings board became very rich. Their lives became NC-17 before NC-17 was an actual rating. They blew their hundred dollar bills on hookers and cocaine. They used hundred dollar bills to snort the cocaine, then unrolled the hundred dollar bills and bought more hookers and cocaine with it. They probably disliked horror movies as much as I do now.

There is nothing more boring than a slasher film. It is just the same movie over and over again. Violence is not entertaining. It stopped being entertaining around the time that The Motion Picture Association of America permitted me to see a R rated movie in movie theater without being accompanied by an adult. Violence is pretty depressing, actually.

Except when it's imaginative, like in The Nightmare on Elm Street franchise, which I like a lot. It is the only decent horror movie franchise.

If film companies had any sense, horror movies would not exist in our reality.

I believe that teenagers and children are their main audience, the only people who these movies still appeal to. And The Motion Picture Association of America does not allow them to watch these movies, at least without the accompaniment of an adult.

If we were living in an alternative dimension, the existence of horror movies would make sense.

I guess the Hollywood executives finally got a clue with this whole PG-13 horror movie fad. At first I thought it was idiotic. The idea of a PG-13 horror movie is idiotic. But now I've changed my mind. It makes sense. The concept does not tear down the walls of our reality. The doomsday scenario that has been building up ever since the release of the first Halloween movie has been averted. We can all sigh in relief. We should all sigh in relief. We will all live to see the wrinkles of senior citizenship. Unless we are killed earlier by one of the infinite things that can kill us before we're slain by old age.

Thank you Hollywood producers. Earth #200043435345 owes you a debt of gratitude.

I once took a class in horror movies in college. I liked it a lot. It taught me how to write comic book scripts. I believe it also may have contributed to my dislike of horror movies, which I continue to watch and by disappointed by.

I do not know why I continue to watch them.

I like the metafictional stuff that makes me feel clever. I also can't usually guess the entire plot before the series of dull expository/character-building scenes at the beginning. Movies like the first Scream, Funny Games, and the first half of Beyond the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon (before it becomes like every other slasher movie in existence).

And I don't really like the Japanese/Korean stuff too. The Japanese stuff is too slow and the Korean stuff is too nonsensical, although they are much better than the awful American remakes. Like pretty much everybody who I have ever met, I like Takashi Miike, at least when his movies aren't bad, which is sixty percent of the time.

I liked 1408, with John Cusack, though. The supernatural is always better than the predictable slasher. Maybe horror movies would be better if someone built a machine that inserted John Cusack into the role of the final girl or the slashitty-slasher in every movie that has ever been filmed. Life would be more enjoyable.

I demand that Takashi Miike film the next installment of the Nightmare on Elm Street series. It will star John Cusack as Freddy Krueger. It will star John Cusack as the final girl. It will be rated R. It will destroy all of reality. It will be worth it.

Vengeance and Fashion

I have a hat. I like it a lot. It is warm. It is wool, I think. It kind of looks like a beret. I've had it for about ten years. My mother bought it for me in a department store while we were shopping. She did not like the hat. I insisted.

I made a promise to myself that I would commit suicide if I ever lost the hat. I made this promise when I was very depressed. I have chosen to keep this promise. But I keep changing the definition of "lost." How long does something have to be gone before it is permanently lost?

I used to think it was a week, but now it is fifty years.

It needs to be fifty years. I have more books to write.

If I lose my hat for fifty years, then I will kill myself.

I have lost it many times, but it keeps coming back to me. We have been apart for a very long time on numerous occasions - maybe six months tops.

Once I left my hat at my friend's apartment in Rhode Island. I have never lived in Rhode Island. I'm pretty sure she wore it. I do not know if she told me that she had the hat in a timely fashion. She might have sent it to me through the mail after many months of enjoyable hat wearing. Or maybe she gave it back to me the next time I visited. Maybe I have already killed myself because of this and am currently living in the afterlife.

My theory about the afterlife is that it's stupid to have a theory because no one has a fucking clue, but I'm leaning towards the idea that the afterlife isn't any different than its predecessor.

That is pretty depressing.

Once I lost my hat in a bag of clothes that I didn't want. I didn't find it until many many many months later. I never thought a bag of clothes that I didn't want would try to kill me. We are still not speaking.

I do not have a name for a hat. I think it needs one.

How about Hattie? No, that is too stupid.

Or Frenchie? No, that reminds me of Tracey Ullman starring in a sub-par Woody Allen movie and I do not like Tracey Ullman because she played Divine in the only bad John Waters movie.

I am having trouble coming up with a name for my hat.

I have a name for my coat. It is Mr. Puff. He is really ugly looking, but very warm. My ex-girlfriend named him. I have another, more fashionable, coat. It does not keep out the cold as well. It does not have a name. I think that Mr. Puff could kick my more fashionable coat's ass in a fight.

Nostalgia

I used to like reading tales of the paranormal and true ghost stories when I was in elementary school.

Anyone who submits to my lit journal and describes their story as a tale in their cover letter is getting an automatic rejection. I will also destroy your city. I am a lactose intolerant person. I couldn't think of the word intolerant. I had to google it. I just added the word lactose because I thought it was funny. I am tired. I am often forgetting simple words and calling up my friends in other time zones for their assistance. This affliction is called lethologica. I had to look that up to. It is my favorite word. It will use it for the title of a novel if I ever write one that is dull and pretentious.

When I was in elementary school, thoughts of the paranormal and true ghosts kept me awake at night. I could not get a tale of a malevolent version of the Addams family's Thing out of my head. I believed that it would scuttle into my room as I slept and choke me to death.

There was one collection of paranormal tales called The Crystal Skull that I would get from the library a lot. It was the worst. The title story was about a cursed crystal that had been carved into it, I think. It was priceless. Its owners kept being victims to cliches. The skull kept changing hands after death. Rich people are stoopid.

When I was in elementary school, I would wake my parents up in the middle of the night and tell them that I couldn't fall asleep. I did not tell them that fear of paranormal tales was the reason why. I did not know that I was pretty much nocturnal at the time. Instead, I told them that stomachaches were keeping me awake. There may have been some truth to this. I cannot recall.

I had a stomachache today. Bought some chewy Tum things. They tasted like candy, like Starbursts maybe. I did not expect Tums to be so delicious.

I lied. They were not Tums. They were Rolaids. I just checked. I have a few more. Maybe I will eat one.

When I was in elementary school, my parents took me to the hospital to get tests because of my alleged stomaches. I did not tell the doctors about the paranormal tales and true ghost stories. They made me drink like ten cups of sugar water. It was torture. It tasted horribly.

This is how I found out that I was lactose intolerant.

Guidance Counselor

Google "How to Write a Short Story" if you want to be disappointed. A few days ago, my advice was the third link down. Now it is listed towards the bottom. I was really thrilled that my bad advice was penetrating so many delicate minds. Now I feel like declaring war on Google.

Google, I am declaring war on you.

I am impressed with myself

My housemate told me I was the shittiest person he has ever met. It was a few morning ago. I had just gotten home from work. My wet laundry was on the floor next to the drier. My housemate dry clothing was tumbling in the dryer. I yelled at the dry clothing while I took it out to leave on a couch. My roommate came out of his room in boxer shorts. I may have woke him up when I yelled at his dry clothing. He owes the landlord two months in rent. He owes me a bunch of money. The money has something to do with his ability to take hot baths.

I am happy that I am the shittiest person that he has ever met. This is quite an achievement considering the amount of time he spends with himself. It didn't take very much effort to be the shittiest person that he has ever met. All I did was tell him that my clothes were still in the dryer and wet and left for work. This was after his clothes were finished in the washing machine. This is not interesting.

I am in the process of building a death/laundry robot. If I wasn't the shittiest person that he had ever met, it would just be a laundry robot. Now instead of doing the laundry, my robot will guard the dryer and kill anyone who throws my wet laundry on the floor. I will name my robot Evil Robotic Minion of the Shittiest Person That My Roommate Has Ever Met.

I wish I were the shittiest person in the world. Being the shittiest person who my roommate has ever met is a little lackluster, but I am still happy about the new title. If I were the shittiest person in the world, I would do the shittiest thing that a person can do to another: kill themselves in their housemate's bedroom while they were out of the house and make it really, really messy. But I am not the shittiest person in the world because I think a messy suicide would be unpleasant for me. I would not be happy as a messy suicide. Instead, I would do a clean one, which would make me a little more happy. Then after I died, I could invent an invention that would cause time to move faster and my body would decay at a rapid pace. He would never be able to get my smell out. I would do creepy haunted laughter and he would be forced to move out because of my creepy haunted laughter and the smelly smell of my decay. This is how I plan to spend my summer vacation.

unpleasantness

I just woke up from a nap. I was having a dream. I was about to get raped in the ass, by a policeman I think. I have never been raped in the ass, but I imagine it's unpleasant. It might be less unpleasant when it's in reality rather than a dream, but I wouldn't want to experience that either.

I was being interviewed in a room. I may have been under suspicion. The policeman-type who was questioning me winked at me or something like that. Then he left the room and a second policeman entered to continue the interview. I believe that the first policeman was in cahoots with the second policeman. I believe he gets some sort of pleasure out of helping him. I believe there was an ass raping conspiracy that went a lot higher than these two. I think they might have been tag team interviewing. They might have tagged each other, but it was off camera, so don't ask me.

The second policemen forced me to sign something (maybe a confession!). While he did this, he leaned over and shoved his crotch at me. I believe that I was sitting in a chair. It may have been a chair that was specifically designed for ass raping, otherwise I don't understand how a guy can put his crotch next to my ass when I'm sitting down. Perhaps the bottom of the chair was equipped with sun roof technologies. Or maybe the angles of the dream world are all screwy. This is the most logical explanation.

My first thought was that the location of his crotch was an accident. Or it was just the least awkward place for it to be while he was forcing me to sign the something.

It made me think of a nurse at my doctor's office. She is kind of cute and has nice breasts. She sometimes takes my blood pressure. Her nice breasts always press against my shoulder. I do not complain. I thought it was the same way with the cop. That it was just the easiest place to put his body. Wait...is the nurse trying to tell me something?

But then I felt an erection and a partial thrust and I flashed back to the grin on the other cops face and understood what it was about. So I forced myself to wake up.

I am sorry for the dream cop. I am sorry that he didn't get to enjoy butt raping me.

Butt raping is such a fun phrase. All horrible things need fun phrases to make them a little less horrible.

I would have gone back to sleep, but I sometimes have this thing where the dream continues if I go to sleep soon after forcing myself awake. This used to be pretty horrible. It would have nightmares. It would feel as if I had woken myself up hundreds of times each night. The only way to get away from the nightmare was to stay awake. I am currently suing the producers of Nightmare on Elm Street since the last sentence I wrote is sorta like the movies. If I win, I will never have to dream another day in my life.

Yes, I sleep during the day. I am glad too, or else I wouldn't have been able to play around with that work another day...cliche.

Magical Crosswalks

A car almost hit me today. It did not stop. I dodged it by power-walking back to the sidewalk.

I was walking across one of my town's magical crosswalks where the pedestrian always has the right of way and there is no traffic light. The driver yelled at me. I did not hear what she said. Maybe a reminder to look out for speeding cars when I'm using magical crosswalks.

This is ok with me. The magical crosswalk was getting its revenge for all the times I almost hit a pedestrian on a magical crosswalk. I usually brake though.

I wonder how often an evil sorcerer puts a curse on a magical crosswalk, causing discomfort to a pedestrian.

Tacos for Everyone!

I am using the Internet at work. This is the first time I've surfed the super information pornographic highway from any job, I think. It is a turning point in my life. Perhaps the greatest night of my life. No, definitely the greatest night. I now have nothing to look forward to in my future. I will hang myself with my new AC adapter. My old AC adapter was super-fucked. This is the reason why tonight in the greatest night in my life. This is the reason why my laptop and I are staying up all night long. We have a platonic friendship. No, really we do. If I ever hunt and capture the inventor of wireless internet, I will buy him a taco. But nothing over $2.

Gas Station Poet

I started working at a gas station last month. I usually do the overnights. It is nice. I have lots of time for reading and writing. I can't do it for more than five days a week or I'll have to institutionalize myself.

Drunk people of various genders hit on me and give me their phone numbers. This is amusing. I called once and she didn't remember me. She text messaged me a link to her myspace page. I did not like her myspace page.

A few weeks ago, I decided that I wanted to try writing some poetry. I do not usually write poetry. I decided that I only wanted to do it at work. I wanted to get paid minimum wage to write poetry. My state's minimum wage is pretty high. I like some things about my state.

I wrote a bunch of poetry. Some of it was about working at a gas station, most wasn't. I think I've gotten this urge to write poetry out of my system. Back to fiction. I now have an urge to write a novella. I need to start on that. The book will be about television.

Here is a poem that I wrote. It is about working at a gas station. Please hop on one foot as you read it. You must do this. I WILL KNOW.

3:45 AM

i work third shift at a gas station
it is haunted

i once asked my assistant manager friend
if his gas station was haunted

he told me it was haunted by the ghost of savings
i am stealing that
my gas station is haunted by the ghost of savings

it isn't really haunted
but sometimes i think the
you must have been born
on or before
today's date
1990
to purchase
natural american spirit
or any cigarettes
sign
is a mirror

sometimes i see something moving in it
or maybe it's just an ordinary
everyday portal to another dimension

no one ever asks for natural american spirit cigarettes
i'm not sure if we have them