F#$% Twitter

What is in a day. People write, read, play, type, clean, fuck, fund businesses, trip over shit, and some other things that I can’t think of right now. Over time people decide that what they are doing is no longer fun and they move on. Some people keep doing the same shit until they die. Those people should just put down their heads right now. Move to a different country and bury your head in the sand.

Others need to move, change, create and hit a different note on the instrument of life. I can touch the thoughts and feelings of people. I can see them move past me. And I have to tell you, most people live in a daze that has no meaning whatsoever. I guess whatsoever is one word. Well, whatever.

Somedays, I feel terrible and I try to move on and then I see something that is absolutely out of this world. Good or bad, it’s out of this world. I’m starting at something right now that makes me appreciate my life and body and family so much more than only 10 minutes ago.

I keep my eyes open. I’m lazy but I am constantly watching this life move, shift and change. I’m not sure me being lazy has anything to do with it, but I guess now you know.

There are days and days that I don’t want to do anything either, but I do. I get up, I wash my face. And then, I go. I’m not sure where I end up everyday. It’s either at the Starbucks nearby, my office, the bookstore, Paneras or somewhere close by my house where they have internet connection and something to eat or drink.

The reason for this rant? I have no clue. I just wanted to let you guys know that sometimes, life isn’t compacted into 140 words or less. Fuck twitter.

Blank

I can only understand a few words at a time.  The dialect they speak is a tad bit different then the one I studied.  The vowels, they are stretched just long enough to render them useless to my semi-trained ears.
My breath shallow, heart beat stable and my friend digging through my lower back.  Pay back is a bitch.
I never started my career to hurt anyone.  My clients appreciated me for what I did from the get go and I really enjoyed my work.  It was about keeping it clean and quick.  None of this messy stuff that my competition was into.  I wasn't into cleaning up other peoples mess either.  Get in, do the job and get the fuck out.
But for now, I'm here and these guys are talking too much.  I'm not sure if I can stand this anymore.  I take a deep breath, thank the elder at the table for his invitation and wonderful dinner. I shake his hand and bow my head in praise of his majesty.  I say my prayers and with one single bullet right below his fake hairline  I say goodnight.  The rest of the folks at the table didn't feel a thing and neither did I.
I'm really getting bored of this stuff, but I have to admit-it's better than digging ditches.

Klick

There are no words to describe how I felt when she screamed.  Sitting in the corner tearing her hair out.  All I could do is bring water and hope she would calm down.  I can still hear them now, the screams I mean.  Clear as day.  Loud, obnoxious, disgusting and sometimes beautiful.  It's hard to believe that horses could display such emotion. 

The Bunker

Why am I here? I'm here to ensure the preservation of a modern human society. In a world where people eat their young and the young shoot their friends for lunch money, I'm here to neutralize.

To be given four legs and six arms is an anomaly to a world less complicated. I've had many saturated thoughts on why a wonderful loving god would create me the way he did, but now I see it was always part of a grander master plan.

I can't tell you how often I'm looked at with disgusted eyes. But I care not. Today I view my life as I were a normal child, living in the captivity of my parents' bunker. They kept me there for my safety or so they said. But I know that they were embarrassed. Not because I had so many limbs, but because of my vomit inducing smile.

One sunday afternoon, when my mom was cooking dinner for 30 or so people, I managed to sneak out. The bunker door had been left open by my father and I just couldn't help coming out for a breath of fresh air. As I galloped towards the front door of our mid 19th century home, my arms got tangled in a web of rope and in a split second all my ten limbs were tied up like a garlic pretzel.  My father knew how to set traps.

What were they so afraid of? A little embarrasment?  So what if people talked!  It's mid-july and I'm constantly running out of deodorant.  Having so many armpits is a bitch.