Bartleby:
Seethestory.
Readthefilm.
I propose a Bartleby revolution! The influenza of indifference will spread.
We must make daily deposits of anarchy into the National Bank of Bartleby.
In the face of opposition, slay your opponent with a halting "I prefer not to."
I'm becoming addicted to cinema.
Not “movies”.
Films.
Cinema.
Brain….belch? Hiccup? Cough? Sneeze? It’s horrible when people say they had a “brain f***.” I can’t even handle it. I might giggle nervously, but inside I’m cringing and my evil gland (not a gland that is evil, but my gland that makes me evil) starts secreting it’s evil secretion and I’m tempted to slap them and say evil things. But it wouldn’t be my fault. I could blame it on my gland. And who wants to pick on a girl with a diabolical gland, anyway? (“Not I,” screams Farmer Patsy)
HALT!
Hiccough. Now that is one of those words that…Well, I have this great analogy containing prostitutes and midgets and bastard sea turtles and stuff, but I can’t share it with you unless you bring me a shrubbery. And after that…a larger shrubbery! Let’s just say that if your brain ever hiccoughs, you’re better off wearing a blue dress and waxing your nipples.
Back to you, Ted!
Coffins are ridiculous! I could explain, but I’m sure you know why they are ridiculous, so I shouldn’t have to tell you. Cremate me, baby. Please don’t bury me in the ground with the clammy worms and the sunken gnomes of ages past.
Update: The Six Glowing Orbs of Possibility:
a. Undoubtedly I was born in the wrong decade. “Jim Morrison” haunts my thoughts, but the music is over.
When the music’s over
Turn out the lights
For the music is your special friend
Dance on fire as it intends
Music is your only friend
Until the endb. They arrived. I shrieked like small child and ripped packages open. How can my sister methodically unwrap, fold, perforate….I must rip. I must claw. I must roll in the sand and I must mash food in your face. I will post evidence of the items to validate my greed and soothe my gluttonous spirit.
c. Acquired larger gauge plugs. Ar ar ar, matey. Somebody stop me.
d. Yes.
e. ::looks around shiftily, hands empty::
f. I found a tentative date. Yeah. Ahee.
Eyeliner will never fail to send me soaring into the stratosphere. I love hiding behing it. I love using as my last line of defense.
Once you've broken every barrier, it's there. And you can never defeat it!!!!!! Unless of course, you have, like, some soap. Whatever.
I fear the apricot drops, scintillating off geometric police officers.
I fear for the boxy ballerina, being pursued by the cackling beast.
I fear for the perspiring ice cube, melting slowing on the gorilla's breast.
Regarding the above: Can you figure out what I'm doing? The pattern? It seems quite obvious to me, but then again, I think Matthew Cuthbert is darn desirable. The first person to figure it out...is the first person to figure it out. I have the urge to say:
Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaang!!!
I could go on like this for hours, but I think I'll regret it. It's all about simplicity. I want to delete this entry, but I feel like that would be a tragic abortion of this virtual fetus. Speaking of fetuses, I think I'll name one of my kids Mowgli.
Here's a great line of musical masterpiece for the road:
I'll be waiting
With a gun and a pack of sandwiches
And nothing, nothing, nothing.
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