When I Die

Rape. Conversation. Veer Zaara. Politit.

1. Sorry

I think I'm still gonna dump huge bits of text in one single entry for some more time. Sorry, Anood, but I just can't seem to revert to the old style. Pardon me, will ya?

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2. Politit?

If you read this journal, you'll know I haven't talked much about politics. Why? I think politics sucks the big one. Simple as that. More than five thousand years of organized society and--check this--politics is still the same. Agreement, disagreement, argument, war, assassination (Mommy, so many Amewican Pwesidens died! Do they pway gof in hevven?), peace, non-aggression, corruption, the works.

Pakistan's General Pervez Musharraf (Mush from now on--I briefly entertained calling him "Perv", but that might bring out the militant Pakistani terrorists, and I don't need them on my back) has been to India a total of five times in the name of Peace. Each time he came he promised serious patch-ups, no more Kashmir issues, no more cross-border terrorism, true bonds, real tourism between the two nations--travel routes, for crying out loud!

As of now, the only consistent link/bond Pakis and Indians have is cricket.

Each time Mush promised fast actions. What'd we get?

We got Kargil. We got nuclear bomb tests.

I'm not saying India's all hunky dory. That Atal Behari Vajpayee, good man, efficient politician that he was, was still a gullible old fool. Just like India. When the Chinese came chanting slogans of "Hindi-Chini bhai-bhai¹," we accepted it, and we got war.

Full-fledged, bloody, really bad war. Bhai-bhai, huh? Way to go.

Mush came a few weeks back for the final one-day India v/s Pak match. Guess what he and the Prime Minister discussed? Developing relations!

Some news.

Fucking politics. I'd rather they'd just nuke the shit out of each other and stop playing these backstabbing games.

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¹Translation: the Indians and the Chinese are brothers.

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3. Feel

Since I found out that Amy died, I haven't felt anything. All my sorrow, all my joy, all my anger, every single emotion I have expressed, they've all been superficial.

When I laugh, I don't really laugh.

Glimpsing a Harley Davidson on Indian roads would've delighted me earlier; I saw one yesterday. What did I feel? Did I feel anything? Passive interest, perhaps. The kind I'd give to a drying turd or a dead pigeon.

I have been somewhat wary of speaking my mind here, because what happened with haizey¹ can happen to anybody. There's a reason why so few people on this website know my real name.

If I really did feel it, I'd call myself jaded. But even a jaded man wants to feel. Do I? I don't know. And here's the thing: I don't care. I didn't understand some of the lines in some of the songs I heard. I understand them now.

This is not desperation. This is not depression--which is far too commercialized a word, just like love.

This is not a call for help. I'm not about to kill myself.

I just wonder if anything will truly amaze me again. Fill me up with joy or even faint sorrow²; wipe me, blow me away.

During the farewell party, I felt a spark when I was mixing those tracks. But it was only a spark. I've never felt that I can die happy and without regrets at a particular moment the way I felt during that dance.

I've had an amazing life, and now I only have a life. I'm not complaining, and I'm not saying I've seen it all. It's just that--and here I'm repeating myself--I want something to wake me up.

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¹I don't know this woman very well, but I know her well enough to know she is one of the good folks. I've heard murmurs that she's just coughing this shit up, is confused, etc. I think that's a load of horseshit. Look, I think she's good. And Anood thinks she's good. And that's more than good enough for me. Fuck the rest of the world.

²But no more death. I've seen more than enough of other people dying.

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4. Little Shalu

You know her; she's the little kid. The one who asks me for chocolate on my birthday.

Her Mom's gone out of town, so Shalu's staying with us. And it's fucking great having a kid around. Lemme tell you, anyone who doesn't like kids is a moron. Complete, utter moron.

They're just so damn funny in their own sweet way.

And what I'm thinking is this: I'm gonna love being a father. Absolutely.

And then I'm thinking, who the fuck are you kidding, KC? You'll screw it up. You don't know how to cook, man, how can you raise a kid?

And then I'm thinking, I can't be the only one who feels both these things. Or there would be no fathers. We (humanity) would not exist.

One thing I know for sure is this: I will not be excess baggage always sticking to my kid's arse and following him everywhere, but I will not desert my child. Not ever.

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5. Two Bit Prick

The Prof. from last month's entry has taken a certain disliking towards yours truly. So now when I go to him for any assignment submissions, he checks it like his life depended on it, poring over the details, asking questions.

If he means to scare me, or something, it's not working. I'm just not fucking frightened of anything anymore, except losing the few loved ones I still have. That is the whole truth as I know it.

I answer his questions as best as I can. If I don't know something, I tell him I don't know it. What, he's gonna shoot me?

Look, I don't want to be in that guy's black list, but if he wants to put me in there... well, it's his list, isn't it? He can think whatever he wants to think about me. I don't care.

Everyone tells me to be wary of the guy. Why the fuck should I be? Jesus, why should I be afraid of him? Just cause he's a Professor? No sir, not happening. I don't agree that anyone else is above me. I don't agree that anyone else is below me. Just because he has authority doesn't mean he owns me.

He wants to fuck with me then I'm all game.

The other day, he took half an hour to check a two page assignment. Now you should know it's hot as a motherfucker in India right now¹, and his room--what do you know--doesn't have a fan.

So when I came out of that room I was dripping sweat. Nisha took one look at me and asked me if I wasn't well. I told her I was only very thirsty.

When I told the rest of the gang about the Professor (while sitting at our regular place, sipping ice-cold Watermelon juice), they asked me to play it down, not confront him or aggravate him. Well, like I said, I'm not looking for a battle, but if he barges in, I'll be damned if I step down. It took me years after Granny beat the shit out of me to recognize and rediscover my sense of self worth. And I'm not about to lose it for a two-bit frustrated prick. He may be a Professor and all, but if he actually thinks he needs to prove his superiority by doing such shit, he's a loser in my books.

Am I worried about him? Fuck no. I'm worried about Bald Eagles, though. They're going extinct, you know. They are beautiful, graceful, deadly predators who have every right to survive. In a perfect world, we'd have two planets. One for such species, and one for us.

Oh, and while we're at it, let's have another planet full of gorgeous women, please? And can I be the only man there? That'd be fun. (Insert apt smiley in here.²)

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¹I sleep in shorts. No underwear.

²Not the drooling smiley, you goofball. The smiley with the eyes rolling up, wondering what the fuck is going on here.

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6. Body Shots - For teenagers

Worse than having your brains pulled out one inch at a time out of your ear.

I expected as much, after finding out that Tara Reid stars in it. She might be a glam doll and all, but she cannot--read my lips--act.

Amanda Peet pissed the shit out of me ever since I made the mistake of watching Igby Goes Down.

The story? Folks go to a bar to get laid, a guy and a girl fully intending to get laid go away in a taxi. They either get laid or don't, and then the next day the guy says they had consensual sex and the girl says she got raped.

In between the other actors talk directly to us as if that's gonna help.

What happens in the end? No fucking clue. I don't mind unresolved endings, as long as the whole film is good enough. But Body Shots sucks ass. HBO cut out the sex scenes, so I don't know if any important plot details that might help understand the ending were included there, but those details can't be that important, can they? Especially when the rest of the movie is so horribly pretentious?

A review on the net tells me Body Shots is just a take on the confused twenty-something American. Well, okay, but it still sucks. I already know that twenty-somethings the world over have problems with sex, money, drugs, you name it. I don't need to be told that. I need a story in there somewhere.

Body Shots is now, along with Igby Goes Down and the horrible Matrix: Reloaded the worst movie I have wasted time on.

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7. Veer Zaara - The Great Indian Love Story

I abhor lavish Indian movies with silly plots, pretty people, stupid songs.

In all regards I should detest Veer Zaara, a product of Yash Raj Films who ruined Indian films with stupid romance almost single handedly.

Veer Zaara is everything I don't like in cinema: epic love story spanning two nations and many decades, a lover sacrificing decades of his life in jail so that his loved one may live a happy life, cardboard cut out characters, disjointed songs, and an overall sap factor that is Bollywood squared.

But I like this film. Maybe it's because it's been years since I saw an Indian romance. Five, to be exact. Maybe it's because it stars Amitabh Bachchan in the best cameo I've seen him play. Maybe it's because I saw this movie at a time when I just wanted to chill out, when even a Martin Lawrence movie wouldn't seem bad.

Whatever.

This film is a guilty pleasure. Even though Shahrukh Khan (whom I totally abhor) is in it.

The one thing I can honestly mention liking is this: both Rani Mukherjee and Priety Zinta have kohl-lined eyes. That has always looked super sexy on Indian women. Always.

I even like one song in the film.

Maybe I'm getting re-converted. Maybe I'm getting soft in the head. Who cares. I like this film. Perhaps this is the last film of its kind, perhaps Bollywood is finally growing up with intelligent films like Black and Hazaaron Khwahishein Aisi.

In all regards, Veer Zaara is the Great Indian Romance in the grandest tradition. Check it out.

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8. Sometimes I Wonder...

If I should learn how to write a screenplay. There are tons of movies out there that have real potential, but the script just lets them down halfway in. Perhaps if I learned screenwriting I could dig up those old screenplays and clean then up and then remake those movies.

Consider: The Long Kiss Goodnight had Samuel L. Jackson and yet it bombed. The reason? Fucked up execution, corny dialog, unneccessary action. There was only one line in the whole film I actually liked, and I suspect it was an improvisation: When Samuel and Geena meet David Morse the first time, Samuel points his gun at David and says, "She [Geena] is my only daughter. And I don't trust you yet."

The movie follows Jason Bourne's predicament, only Jason is now a woman named Charlie. It could work, hell, it should work, what with all the amazing things a female spy could do.

First of all, I didn't know what the fuck Samuel's role was in the film. Why was he moving around with this woman?

She's a fucking assassin and she cares about a kid. Pooh-pooh.

She gives the kid a pack of matches for reasons unknown and after about an hour that pack resurfaces when the woman needs something to light up a trail of gasolene which she pours out of the girl's doll (which has been planted in the girl's arms by the baddies for reasons unknown; they also filled it up with gasolene--again for reasons unknown).

And towards the end the woman goes ice-skating. And in one scene she and Samuel fall off a window and she empties her gun in the thin ice below which conveniently breaks and they fall in the water below it safe and unharmed.

And... fuck if I'm making any sense.

And the dialog. Jesus motherfucking Christ! As the woman's memory starts coming back, she starts having split personalities. The dialog is of the kind you could choke on. Gag and die.

Jesus, somebody find me a good English film now. This is the second bad movie I've seen.

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9. Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometime - Beck¹

Change of heart
Look around you
Change of heart
It'll astound you

I need your loving
Like the sunshine

And everybody's gotta learn sometime
Evreybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime

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¹In case you're wondering, this song plays during the end credits of Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind.

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10. A Few W.com Improvements I'd Like To See¹

1. A WritingML tag for superscripting and subscripting text.

2. Simple hyperlinking ML. As of now the only way to link websites is using the {link} tag, I think. And with this tag you can only display the whole URL of the site instead of just a text link. For example, if I want to write about a search engine in a paragraph like this, and want the words "search engine" to hyperlink to, say, www.google.com, I can't do it. And also indenting whole blocks of text, as in when paraphrasing a paragraph from a book.

3. In fact, the one thing that I absolutely hate about missing here is HTML implementation of any kind! Even blogging websites allow full HTML manipulation, so why not this site? Okay, you say we've got the HTML item type, but why not allow us to format a static item accordingly? Why can't I, for example, use bookmarks to make a Table Of Contents for long entries like I usually write in this journal so you can just click and jump to what you want to read first? And those superscript/subscript tags! Another HTML trick I often on forum boards is hiding text by changing its color to the color of the background. Why doesn't Writing.com have a font color that's the background color? And images! Why do I have to upload images instead of just showing them from other sites?

4. In other words, why doesn't Writing.com provide me with tools almost every other blogging website and even PHPBB/vBulletin forum boards do?

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¹You know, each time I think these things, I almost go ahead and create a blogger.com account so I can freely blog there without worrying about journal deletion, about any damn thing, plus all the features that I miss here. The only reason I hold back are that on blogger I can't set any access restrictions like I have with this journal to limit who sees my blog. I even entertained the idea of creating a blog which is completely non-personal and reviewing movies with hyperlinks et al there, but then what good would that be? I don't write this journal to entertain. I write it to speak my fucking mind.²

²You must be wondering why I need superscripting and blockquotes. Simple: I've written a few articles which utilize footnotes and many quoted sources and would like to display them here. One is a study of David Lynch's Mulholland Drive. I guess you could say, hey, get professional membership and use HTML item type and/or Word/PDF and shut up! But what's wrong with wanting something that almost everyone else provides?

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11. Pirates Of The Carribean: The Curse Of The Black Pearl - What the fuck is wrong with you, KC?

Yeah, exactly. This is a bloodsucking shit eating proxy motherfucker Bruckheimer movie. This is also a Disney movie. The soundtrack is plagiarized from one Gladiator piece: Am I Not Merciful. The pirates being undead, there is no tension in any fights. It stars Orlando Bloom who is by far the most unneccessary British import I've seen. And also, this is a Bruckheimer movie.

And I like it.

Holy fuck, I like it.

I haven't seen the original cartoon, but as far as story goes, Pirates is appropriately wacky. In fact it's this basic presumption (that this is a wacky movie) which saves it.

It also stars Johnny Depp, who you might scoff at ("Did you know that he lost his mind when he got famous and went on doing stupid inconsequential movies unlike the smart ones he did when he wasn't famous?"), but who I still enjoy watching.

Observe him in this film; he slips into the guise of a slightly tipsy, slightly ladyboyish, mostly drunk pirate so easily you might think he was computer generated, or something.

And talking about CGI, it's impressive in this film. Far better from the Mummy series, on par with some of the graphics in Lord Of The Rings.

The humor works. I laughed out on at least three occasions. The first was when Johnny and Orlando stole one ship, and when the soldiers boarded that one, stole the soldiers's ship. The second was when they showed a man sleeping with pigs. The third was watching a wet Kiera Knightley with her nipples poking out through her dress. Yeah, heard me right. This is a Disney film, folks, in case you didn't know. It's got wet nipples. Disney growing up? What the fuck's gonna happen of our kids?

Kiera herself doesn't impress me much. She looks a bit like Winona Ryder did early on. We all know how horribly misaligned Winona's face got as the years progressed, and I expect the same with Kiera. All she's missing is breast implants. They'll happen too, especially when everyone forgets who she is.

I suspect the biggest reason I like this film is its strong resemblance to the Monkey Island games. Monkey, check. Talking parrot, check. Zombie pirates, check. Treasure, check. Lady in distress, check. Pirate talk, check. Plank walk, check. And most importantly, cannonball fire. Check.

The only two major problems with the film are 1) the last ten minutes, 2) the fucked up lunar cycle.

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12. A Conversation - A conversation with Sonya (reprinted with permission, edited and spellings corrected without permission)

S: Morning!

KC: Who the fuck... oh, hi, Sonya. [Smiley.]

S: How's it going?

KC: 99. Ha, remember that?

S: KC, Jesus!

KC: Same here. Ronnie said that before she left. I didn't even remember it, y'know.

S: Did she call you yet? She called me.

KC: Yup. I wasn't home, Mom talked to her. Sent her a mail, though. She hasn't replied yet.

S: Well, she will.

KC: Perhaps she's getting even. Y'know, you don't show up, I don't show up.

KC: Kidding.

S: Like I need to know that. [Rolling eyes smiley.]

KC: Blame it on the fat slug, ma'am.

S: [Big laughter smiley.]

KC: [Wide smile smiley.]

S: Hey, why didn't you get that fucking mike yet?

KC: Green bits of paper.

S: Ah, come on, man. Gimme a break.

KC: No, really. Just spent a load on something. And just so you don't spend the rest of the day wondering what it is, it's two albums.

S: Tell.

KC: Oh, they're quite boring for you, I'm sure.

S: Gimme names, dammit!

KC: Okay: Juno Reactor's "Bible Of Dreams" and Juno Reactor's "Shango".

S: More psytrance, huh?

KC: Told ya you wouldn't like 'em.

S: I'm listening to this album by Poe.

KC: Are you fucking kidding me?

S: What?

KC: Poe as in that female rocker? Please tell me the name of the album isn't Haunted.

S: How'd you know?

KC: Poe is Mark Z. Danielewski's sister. Mark is the guy who wrote House Of Leaves, which I've been searching since times immemorial.

S: Oh, shit.

KC: Yeah, that's about right.

S: You still didn't find that book there?

KC: Sonnie, lass, I think the publishers will never bring the book here. Who'd read it?

S: That's it then; I'll send it to ya.

KC: The book?

S: Yup.

KC: That's mighty kind, but the book is about $20, and double that cost for shipping to India. So no thanks, ma'am.

S: So what, you idiot. I'm sending it. Final.

KC: The defense asks the jury to reconsider.

S: The jury fucking declines. Full stop. Quit y'er nosh.

KC: J'adore you! [Big happy smiley.]

KC: You know that?

S: Huh, yeah.

KC: But don't expect to borrow that book from me. From what I've heard, that book becomes an intensely personal experience, and I've heard that most people write things down in that book. And I wouldn't want to ruin your reading experience with my insane blabber.

S: You could be nice and keep a seperate notebook or something.

S: Kidding. I'll buy two copies, then. How about that?

KC: You're loaded, huh?

S: Swimming in the green, kid. In the fucking green.

KC: Ronnie told you that part too, huh?

S: What?

KC: Kid?

S: Oh yeah. Actually she asked me not to tell you she told me, but well... fuck.

KC: Mon lips est locke.

S: What's with the psuedo French, anyway?

KC: Got me a French date.

KC: Nah, no reason. Another one of those "there you go again, KC" moments.

S: Speaking of dates, how's Ash?

KC: [Wide eyed smiley.]

S: What?

KC: How are Ash and date related?

S: Thou doth protest too much...

KC: No, really. You want me to lie? Okay: "Dear diary, we went on a date today, Ash and I, she talked so much I felt those words were pushing me into the ground, and then I realized that she wasn't the one doing the talking, it was me all along. We climbed two Banyan trees and then a mosquito bit me and then it gave me mosquital herpes because it tried to have sexual intercourse with the crack of my toe and...

KC: Shall I go on?

S: Shut up. Fucking loon.

KC: But seriously, you're not the only one who's talked about Ash that way. I just don't get it, ma'am.

S: Well then perhaps I'm not the only one who's talked that way is because we all see something. Ever thought about that?

KC: But how can I love her? My heart belongs with you.

S: Shut up.

KC: Why? Now who doth protest too much. Why can I fall in love with Ash and why can't I fall in love with you?

S: Cause you couldn't keep a crush in for that long, man. You'd burst open.

KC: The jury would do well to note that KC has known Ash approximately for over a year, and that is a sufficiently long period to also qualify as "that long".

S: Well you still can't win an argument with KC. State rests and changes plea to guilty.

KC: Who said I was arguing? Shit, I'm still half asleep. Catch me in the afternoon and I'll blow ya.

KC: Away. I mean, blow ya away. (Stupid dirty mind.)

S: Again: How's Ash?

KC: She's fine and dandy. (I'll refrain from making up a joke with words that rhyme with dandy; just cause j'adore ye.)

S: And how is India?

KC: You really wanna know? Same as last week. Motherfucking hot, motherfucking sweaty, motherfucking boring, motherfucking pissant. A policeman raped a minor, 3 AIDS patients commited suicide at JJ Hospital, A car... nah, I'll shut up.

S: Nothing good?

KC: Sure.

S: What?

KC: Trying to remember. There has to be some good news...

KC: Dammit! None. Nope. Nada. Nothing.

S: Screw it, then. Guess what I'm reading?

KC: KC's Kamasutra? Mein Kampf? Ancient Sexual Practises--An illustrated Disney Book? What?

S: [Big laugh smiley.] You goofball! I'm reading The Fourth Protocol.

KC: Forsyth, right? Good book.

S: Yeah.

KC: Looks like I gotta go.

S: Bye, then! Love ya.

KC: Love ya right back atchya, Sonnie. The defense once again asks the jury to reconsider (although without much conviction. You tempt me too far). [Smiley.]

S: Aye-aye, cap'n.

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13. Good Will Hunting

This film surprised me. Even Ben Affleck could not reduce its sheer cinematic freshness.

It scores full marks on dialog. Street rap is exactly what it is. The way Robin Williams drops those fucks, you'd think he gives not a floating fuck about reputation anymore--something that films like One Hour Photo and Insomnia only confirm. And it rocks.

I've always been a fan of slow, moody, well balanced transactions as opposed to trailblazing action; perhaps one of the reasons why I like Charlie Kaufman and David Lynch so much.

The first thing I can't believe about this film is that Ben and Matt co-wrote the script. There's nothing amateur about the scenes and especially the dialog. I just cannot get over how strikingly real the dialog is, man. Almost on par with the lines of Goodfellas.

The story ain't no great shakes: poor genius finds his feet. That's about it. But that's the beauty of it. Even with a necessarily hacked story core, the film does not ever slag. And more importantly, the film does not preach at all.

Someone told me the ending was completely unneccessary. I don't think so. In fact ending this film right at the point where Ben Affleck and his buddies drive off without Matt would actually suck. We need a formal closure, and the actual ending provides it very nicely. Robin Williams reads the note Matt leaves him and says, "Son of a bitch stole my line," walks into his house and closes the door.

The nuances in almost every relationship in the film strike true. Of high note is the way Ben is almost always moderately pissed off at the black haired guy. Ditto the scenes between Robin and the Professor.

You know what? If Ben actually did co-write the script to this film, then I'm saddened that he didn't do better after it.

Every character here is a prototype, from the ever loving psychologist who lost his wife and refuses to love again, to the slightly rookish bartender, to Matt himself, victim of childhood abuse and yada yada. But did I, for one second, feel ridiculed by it all? No. Did the film ever beg for emotion? No.

What the movie does most successfully is narrate a set of events as they happen (and as they would happen if this were real life) and then end. And that's the best thing about any good narrative.

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14. Rape Of A Minor - It's the girl's fucking fault!

That's what Shiv Sena wants us to believe. That it's the girl's fault because she wore skimpy clothing.

The criminal: a cop.

The victim: age 16.

The scene: police booth.

If you want more details you're sick.

A policeman raped a girl and Shiv Sena wants us to believe it's the girl's fault.

According to those pious motherfuckers women in India "tempt" men by wearing skimpy clothing and smoking cigarrettes and staying out late way past 8.

Fucking morons!

Women can wear whatever the fuck they want to wear, you idiots! They can stay out as fucking much as they want to! What's your fucking problem? Quit being a fucking chauvinist, you lousy asswipe!

It's one of your cops who couldn't control his dick, o stupendous Balasaheb Thackeray. Whose fault is it?

He forced the girl into the booth while her boyfriend waited outside. Whose fault is it?

He put his dick in her, not the other way round. Whose fault is it?

Wasn't woman on top. Whose fault?

The boy and his girlfriend, they were sitting in a psuedo-park doing what teenage kids do. Cops caught them for that on grounds of obscene behaviour. Is kissing obscene? I don't know, is eating bread obscene?

Lemme tell you something: if you were to believe and follow sir Thackeray, you'd rape every girl in my college. Yeah. No kidding. Skimpy clothing? Check. Ciggies? Somewhat check. Staying out as fucking long as they want to? Supercheck. Why ain't I a rapist then? I got a dick, don't I?

Instead of pointing fingers at the police guy he points it at women. Ha, does it even sound logical? "Hey, men, come on rape me! That's why I'm wearing this skirt and this tanktop and that's why I dress up and makeup everyday, so you can rape me!" Like women have no other purpose but to be screwed and left. That's not even dumb; it's depressing. And fucking pissy as hell.

Fucking idiot wants to shove Indian women back into the same submissive hole they came out of ten years back. If that happens, it's a goddamn shame and I don't want to live in this country anymore then.

As of now I'm ashamed I'm a dick. And ashamed we still have to take stupid shit from Balasaheb motherfucker.

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15. What Your Lover's Love Untamed Provides

Dreaming of masqeurading forests does lend a certain balance to the stochiastic altitudes of masocritical downslides running down her vacant guise. You don't see her eyes, her face, her mouth. You don't know her solid geothermal harangued loss. She does not care for a word, a whisper, a sound, a picture. What you deny her, she never fends. The house she lives in has thirty egocentric miracles awaiting dominance and submersed, submerged, sudden denial.

She has a father who calls her the mist. The one he made. He calls her the take.

Mist.

Take.

She has a mother who loves and loves and loves, and yet cannot speak of her extinguished harmonic obliteration. Her overly simplified possession. Her ergonomical, asymptotic rhetoric.

Her functionally inferior desecration.

The man with the brown obsolence talks for ages, and ages, of how this woman, the daughter of the mother, never sings.

She never blinks. Never lifts her gaze to meet yours. She negates all periodic, random, hazardous, timid, skinny, shortened, roughened, tightened presence.

There's a code in all this, she wants to tell you.

Look, she wants to say. Search this, gleam in, pore down, wipe through, digest, ingest, reach me. Reach me.

Find me in here, somewhere.

Please, she says. Find me in here, she says.

You, she says. Don't read this. Act. Act, goddamn you, act!

---Ocean's Plea, a collection of as yet unwritten thoughts.¹

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¹If you don't understand any of this, you don't need to. The one who needs to, will.²

²Dedicated to the liar in the hole's solution.

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16. No, Seriously

Section 15 does not mean anything if it doesn't mean anything. Simple as that. No code. Except for the one who will get it. Now quit asking, will ya?¹

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¹Although if you insist that you need to find out, completely need to, you can visit my portfolio and read Make. It might help. It might.

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17. I Need A Digital Camera

And I need it yesterday. So many moments whiz past that are worth capturing and all I can do is sit and wave them goodbye.

With a nice camera I could record them and own them forever. Perhaps start a photoblog. A life in view. A picture's worth a thousand words, and then I'll add some more words to those pictures. Sounds fun and intriguing.

Why the fuck am I not rich?

Why the fuck does Michael Bay have all the fucking money in the world and still can't use it for some fucking constructive work?

Jesus, people use their digital cameras to shoot pictures of their cocks and boobs! I for sure can put it to a more constructive use, goddamit!

Why do morons get so fucking lucky while people who really can do something with money (buy the right things) have to just keep whistling and farting?

Bastard money.

Dumb money bag shitty pants assholes should be lined up and fired. With a fucking MP5SD5. Bet they don't even know what the fuck it is.¹

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¹The Heckler-Koch MP5 is an automatic rifle with a 30 bullet clip capable of firing one, three, or burst fire. SD5 is a silencer modification made to the gun. There, rich motherfuckers, tell me you knew that.

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18. In Conclusion

This entry is such a big departure from the other entries that I'm beginning to wonder what's going on with me--in me. Have I ever been this opinionated? So goddamn extremist?

Something's cooking. I can just feel it. But I'm still bored. Careless.

I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Do you?

End

Who's got marbles tonight?