towel day

“A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value. You can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapors; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a miniraft down the slow heavy River Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (such a mind-bogglingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can’t see it, it can’t see you); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have “lost”. What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with.”

I

don't know the plural form of hiatus is,
but I sure do take a lot of them.

lately I think I've developed anxiety.
It's liek the feeling I used to get in high school
when I was two or three months backed up
on homework assignments, and the quarter
was ending in two days, but now I don't have
that sort of stress, and yet the feelings still here.

Thank god I've got writing as an outlet,
otherwise I might just crumple up in a heap on my bed
and not come out for weeks, or try to recreate a Pollack
painting using just the ceiling, my brain, and a gun -
Hemingway style.

I wish I had three tons of Xanax or something,
because that might make life easier, but with a
therapist, where would I even start?
People on medication usually have some sort
of traumatic event that is the catalyst for their problems.

I feel like my life is one big traumatic event,
just leading up to my death.

Truth is, at this point in my life,
I'd have more fun listening to Vampire Weekend
while playing Bejeweled, and then falling asleep
to old episodes of Six Feet Under and shitty
VH1 reality shows with a box of Cheez-its in my lap,
than going to a party on a Saturday night.
fuck parties.
fuck people.
fuck friends.
and especially fuck this anxiety.

i dont need pills, i need a fucking break.

If

you're the only one that laughs
at your own jokes,
does that make you a visionary?

Grit

vicious vigilantes guard
stray streetlamps
by night.
we wake up with swollen joints
on the losing end of this fight

You could call out to the heavens
begging solitude,
begging peace,
yet turn a blind eye to your children
as they come begging at your feet.

rusty rags and threadbare britches
barely cover the bare bruises
of your soul.
We don't fear darkness, or distractions,
We build our fires against the cold.

And though the sun sets, we can't stop it,
we don't want to, we press on,
teeth clenched, fists lowered,
our sweat is dirty, we face the dawn.

Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit;
Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.

every day, do something you're scared of.

they say we grow weak with every touch
but we know better.
i thought i was familiar with loneliness,
now i cry over every letter

im speaking figuratively of course,
crying's just another something i forgot
how to do
except the times i change the channels
and somehow think of you.

most of the time my days are numbered
a widened path, obscuring view
behind the bushes creep the homeless men
i have no money, i tell the truth.

A list of hobbies to occupy my time
a serious joke - im not enlightened, im just
trying to push you out the only way
i know how.

understand that, and you'll understand me
it's pathetic, but within that is a
bittersweet victory.

one of these days im going to die

and i'm gonna die alone, and with a smile.

FOUND MY FUTURE HUSBAND

William Fitzsimmons, voice of an angel.

Here's the bio from his website:

"William Fitzsimmons is one of the oddest
people you will ever meet.
Born the youngest child of two blind parents,
William was raised in the outskirts of the steel city
of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Due to the family's
inability to communicate through normal visual means,
William's childhood home was filled with a myriad
of sounds to replace what eyes could not see.
The house was suffused with pianos, guitars,
trombones, talking birds, classical records, family sing-a-longs,
bedtime stories, and the bellowing of a pipe organ,
which his father built into the house with his own hands.
When his father's orchestral records were not resonating
through the walls, his mother would educate him on the
folk stylings of James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, and Simon & Garfunkel. "


and this is what he looks like:

if he proposed to me, I think I'd faint.

ERNESTTTT

Hemingway was the fucking man.

"You may be saying to yourself, 'But, Tony, wasn't Hemingway 
a womanizing alcoholic in such a constant need of a fix 
that he would go so far as drinking rubbing alcohol for a fix?
Wasn't he so crazy that he submitted himself to electroshock therapy? 
And didn't he, you know, improvise a Jackson Pollock painting
using only a wall, his brain, and a shotgun?' "