A Rambling Tangent to Some Degree

         Great things are never in mind or thought intensely but it flows through as if a pipe burst summer death sentence on a shirtless back stronger than a riot hose. My mind only works looking down into myself. Well, actually, typing is too hard to learn and at this point in time, as well with every point that will be in time, I’ve stopped trying.
         It’s my handwriting. It’s too messy not to type. After some time, let us say five minutes (waiting four minutes seems ridiculous when in possession of an analog clock and digital clocks simplistic reading ability, aesthetically speaking of course, completely takes away all abstraction away from time), reading my hand scribble is a futile course centered on a forgotten spoken language full of the brightest shit stains mummy and daddy can buy.
         (In reality a six-credit seminar over four semesters that none shall pass.)
         Hand made symbols from another dimension spelling secret code to an alien homeland not to attack earth. Why? Some things don’t need help being destroyed, that’s why those movies are unrealistic. It would be a hassle to travel across dimensions for sympathetic euthanasia. There might be a weird by-law only allowing passage from one dimension to another dimension prior to the completion of specific reasoning for dimension jumping and payment fee but of course only after the mandatory two-decade wait. Failure to comply as well as participating in a pogo-stick activity in an unrestricted pogo-stick zone would entitle the belief of an omnipotent ominous being to the complying failure or negligent pogo-sticker’s world for one century. It’s not that bad, the being is a great conversational piece of unmovable blind argument surrounded with death which is a lot better than talking about the weather.
         Find my handwriting outside impassable seminars to avoid at all cost.
         Look for it everywhere and anywhere.
         Signature books, poster collages, and big blown pictures conveniently located in entrance ways (after the front door) to prove you were at said party even though conformation was established in mailed R.S.V.P letters is the best way to see my handwriting the first time. Look for shaky letters-childish around age seven with a hint of senile nerve damage big enough to be ridden home in a flashing special van (time never allowed me to make the short bus). Even hidden among knew writers it looks like big bird found Waldo and started pounding owed coke money out of him. It helped with those look-a-likes pointing in the same direction. It was even better on the next page, each looking away from a battered red circle mixed with a few malted yellow feathers for a colorful find even a goon’s kid could enjoy:

                   “I found him daddy”
                   “That’s gud work…whut uod learn?”
                   “Pay your debts”
                   “and”
                   “Don’t fuck with the Big Bird”
                   “Watch da mouth” meat paws accenting a quick pitch of his head “and”
                   “That hurt”
                   “Watch da mouth…then”
                   “I don’t know…whut else?”
                   “Don’t trust look-a-likes their fucking rats.”
                   “For Christ sake don’t swear in front of the kid.” a loud loving hand smacked a deadened sound flat off a fat blocked head.
                   “Alright…I got it”
                   “Here’s your gun…They said not to be late”
                   “Thanks, honey.”
                   “Bye dad”

It makes no sense having guest sign-in books. Does anyone keep them? Besides freakishly obsessed handwriting experts looking for a mid morning warm-up before explaining Sigmund Freud’s fucked-up sexual loop on the bottom of his lowercase “t” to unworthy youngsters that understand, all to well, his hand writing will never be the default font. Does anyone actually make the effort to check their party’s guest book? I think not, well, I’ve never got caught yet and I tend to forget to sign guest books or let’s say go against conformity (it sounds important and states a purpose) but really in all seriousness I can’t stand waiting in line to enter a room that I chose one out of three meal choices three months in advance.

(Note to self: start signing guest books at party’s to justify failing students in fictional hand writing course and to find support for the uselessness of guest books- remember you can’t prove anything just find support that it is. TAKE THAT SCIENCE VS GOD or GOD VS SCIENCE- no need for intolerance.)

Anything I’ve hand written just wouldn’t make sense.