Though His Novel Is Unsubstantial, His Unsubstantiability Is Quite Novel

I had ketchup today. On french fries.

Ketchup on french fries.

I normally don't have ketchup on french fries. I eat them with salt. I was never a fan of ketchup. One of my favorite things about Chicago hot dogs is they have everything on them except ketchup. But here we are. I had ate the rest of someones fries a few moons ago that had ketchup on them. I can't turn down free leftover food being offered up, no matter what it is. I scavenge. That's why I get drunk so easily, and also why I often drink the beer that has been used as an ashtray (if it's Old Style, I usually can't tell anyway). So I scavenged these fries with ketchup on them, and suddenly I had kind of a taste for them. So I had ketchup today. On french fries. And it was pretty good actually. It's going to be a step up to get comfortable with putting them on hashbrowns, but I hear that's the business as well. Wish me luck.

I used to not like strawberries when I was a kid. Now I do. Come to think of it, I don't know that I ever really disliked them, I think I just told myself I didn't like them. Early on I was convinced I was not a fan of strawberries and thus never ate them. See, I didn't like them, so why should I try them to see if I liked them? That is BACKWARDS logic, it is logic in REVERSE. Silly. I don't know where along the line I decided to like strawberries, but it definitely came upon me eating one. Wow, hey. This thing isn't so much the rotting pile of piss-death my mind somehow conjured up. And suddenly I wished this whole time that I had truned down strawberries because I didn't like them that I had fucked that particular notion and downed one anyway. The revelation would have come far earlier and I could've enjoyed the succulence for a longer amount of time.

I don't really hate any foods, and I haven't really, all my life. Growing up I was not finnicky, especially in comparison to my sister, who to this day refuses to eat spaghetti sauce. I think I almost made it a point to try new things and like all manner of food as a sort of competition. "What, she won't eat that? I'll eat it, MOOOOOOOM, and I'll liiiiiiiiiike it too ha ha ha ha" I'm glad I took this posturing. And this ketchup business is maybe my last stitch to get over. I never really hated ketchup. I just wasn't a fan. I didn't wear a t-shirt I bought from Ketchup's CafePress account for $24 that said "To(mato) Or Not To B(Catsup)e" nor did I splash ketchup on a foam finger and get beat up at a hockey game for yelling my love. So here I gave it a shit-shot and bucked the biddle. Man. French fries are kind of good with ketchup. What the fuck have I been missing.

I don't think this is a metaphor for anything really.

Naming Your Penis After Clint Eastwood Movies

Damn Sean Johns. Fucking bunchy crotch. Making me all self-conscious. Here I am walking the streets with busticated ear-bud headphones used to string up my pantaloons, and the fucking crotch area looks like I have testicles that demand attention. Freak baby born with eight balls and a simply furious chode. Man walks around Chicago with dead animal in his pants, news at 11. Bonch for days. Unfriendly looks from old ladies.

I sometimes think old ladies have no purpose on this Earth than to look at me in shock. Don't tell me you ladies never had the appearance of having some major sack when you were young. Isn't that the beauty and delight of youth? Major sack?

I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore.

I do know headphones sound like peanuts when you step on them.

Hay D00D How Come Is It U Doesn't Do Blahwwwg No More

So I haven't posted in nearly a month. Check the date of this post and also the date of my previous post and you will be able to affirm this testimony. Why, you ask? I mean, you are asking me why, right? You do care that I haven't been around, don't you? It tears you up inside, right, not to able to read my words every day, full of brim and full of smile? Huh? Your breath has been baited, I hope? A worm is dangling from your breath in hopes that a fish will find the worm delicious and sensual and be attracted towards eating it and thus trap itself in its own foolheadedness, giving it ample time to reflect on the ultimate existential perils of its own greed and desire? You're seeing it hopefully as like when ABC plays another god damned clip-show/this-is-what-happened-the-past-season of Lost; ie you're freaking the fuck out, tearing open pillows and rodents in a fervor of anitcipation? Come on! I know you, fellow readers, you've been leaving loads upon loads of comments on my previous post stating how you're sending out search parties to find my body and that dying children with cancer are counting on me to get angry at a computer or line at a convenience store. You've just got to know what's happening in my life lately, right? Huh? Your pants have filled with urine out of an uncontrollable need to live vicariously through my words. Many have never even met me and this is your only connection to my life; for me to take that away from you is like me not to Sunday brunch on Easter. The eggs are rotting and the bunnies have long since melted as your tears plummet and mix smoothly with the Hollandaise of sorrow. Well, for this I apologise. You deserve to hear all about the petty insignificant things that may or may not have occured in or around my life. You deserve it, and dag-gum, you're gonna get it. Prepare thyself.

As usual, nothing really has happened to me. I moved. I now rest my head a couple of blocks away from where my head previously rested. I think the rest of my body came with it too. As I will be moving home after this semester, I sent all my shit back home and now have but a sleeping bag, clothes, and a box of miscellania to my name. I live in a corner. I use my dirty clothes as a couch. How awesome am I. I'm squatting, essentially (except that I'm paying rent), for a month and a half as this is a two bedroom place and I'm boutsta biggity boo anywho. I figure I should probably take on a heroin addiction if I'm going to live up to my status as a smelly corner-dwelling bum taking up space in some dudes place. It'll be grand: needles and tubing lying scattered on the floor, plain white t-shirts with yellow pit-stains and blood spots hanging from cieling lights and ovens, hair to my ankles, attitude to the MAXimum. Scabies in my armpits and fungal infections galore(ious!); man, what a time to be alive.

I guess in reality all I'm really doing is the same I've always done: Sleep, scrounge, laze, waste, excrete. Nothing more, nothing less. So other than my back pains and lack of privacy, nothing is terribly different. Which really just makes me all the more itchy to spring forth the fuck outta here. I cannot cannot cannot wait for summer. (Thank God this ain't no fuckin' MS Word or some balls as there would be two squiggly red lines staring me angrily in the face. Red. The color of fire. The color of passion.) I am enjoying my classes, at least, and the roommate situation is becoming tolerable at least. One is being more old school and friendly, the other is confining himself mainly to his room. I am doing some cool things, and mainly I am doing some lame things, such as staying in the apartment on weekends and... sitting on a pile of clothes. There isn't much to write about; I wish my absence had been due to some Amazonian adventure involving wine, women and some sort of monster with gigantic teeth that when you think about it would make you go "that [noun] ought not to have gigantic teeth like it has there, it ought not,", but no, I just ain't been up to the task of introtroning about my lame life.

Whatever! Laughing out loud.

I ain't even wallowy anymore; wallowing is for when you've got a comfortable bed or a tub full of chocolate syrup. Instead I am resigned, I have accepted, and just basically ready to move on. I am so prepared to leave that if you told me I had to ship out in an hour to an off-shore oil rig for the safety of mankind, I could and would.

Have fun you kids! And WEAR A CONDOM!