wr_post19:subj_fict

SORRY

this isn't about you. nonetheless, you can find consolation in it if you wish. suffice it to say, i'm really very sorry for the way i've behaved. i think first and foremost of my needs. i've been told, by those who would deign to psychoanalyze me, that it's my upbringing of catholic repression or something that makes me insecure; that makes me so guarded. be that as it may, i have always taken some solace in the fact that at any moment, i can be on my own team again by hating myself. whenever people get their fingers between the shell and the underbelly and start prying, thinking i'll start pushing from inside (and why not? everyone should be so open and honest about every little thing as those who find no fear in full disclosure), i clamp down all the harder, push away, roll over and dig in. it's one of my many faults. i'll be the first to admit and the last to deny that i have gaping character flaws, ranging from my tendency to smack my lips to the fact that i have rarely, if ever, been able to focus on one person (self not included) long enough to open up in the slightest. instead, i lie. i lash out. fuck it. this isn't good writing. i'm done

wr_post18:subj_fict

SCRAPPY SQUIRREL AND THE FUCKED UP WEASEL KING

so, check it, there was this squirrel right. he was like the runt of his litter or some shit. so like he was small, right, so the story goes that he was also really plucky. yaknow. scrappy. a fighter. its archetypal. so cool, right. so scrappy lived with his brothers and sisters in this tree. and when the winter was coming one year they were all like 'yo. lets get some food together for the long winter so we dont starve.' and then there was like a story about a grasshopper and an ant. yeah, i know, like squirrels know those stories too, right. so they all started harvesting. but scrappy was like 'fuck that shit.' i'm gonna go piss on people walking past the tree. cuz he was a badass, yaknow. so winter came and he mooched. and that was cool sorta. cuz like in a family, you often get that crazy uncle or whatever who just sits around and yells at the tv. and you're like 'why we gotta put up with that shit' and your moms cuffs you in the head and's all like 'language. he's my brother and he's your elder. you show some respect.' and you's like 'damn moms.'
so like he ate all their food. and everyone did alright. but then it was like the coldest day of the whole winter. they didnt know it, right, but like looking back on the event and all, that's like how it was. word is bond. and so like this weasel comes by the tree and knocks on the door. i know right, a door? and comes in cuz the other squirrels are pussies, but scrappy's like 'yo, that dude's trouble. look at his eyes, yo.' but no one listened. and later that night, like the weasel fucking ate the other squirrels. and he came by scrappy's room and was like 'yo, i just ate your family and you're next.' and scrappy's like 'shit dog. why's it gotta be this way. why's there so much hate in the rap game. cant we just sip some thug passion and collaborate on some fat tracks?' and the weasel had like a change of heart, cuz he was like an alcoholic or some shit and liked drinking and dropping rhymes. and they went into the booth, but then when the beat started in and scrappy was like 'yo, what the hook gon' be?' and the weasel was like 'i don't need no motherfucking hook on this beat. all i need is a...' and then scrappy capped him through the glass with his tek. and stood over the weasel and was like 'yo, this one's for my moms' and put two in the weasels head and dropped the gun and walked off and the camera was like close-up on his eyes. and he had this stare like you looked at it and you was all 'shit dog' only slow, like 'shiiiiiit dooooog.' and then it pulled out to an aerial view of scrappy walking slow-mo through a plaza smoking a cig and he puts on his glasses and then it goes to black and there's like fucking guitar riffs or 'kashmir' or something. and its like 'directed by barry sonnenstein, produced by marty lefkowitz....' and then you walk out of the theater and light up a cig and put on some glasses and the camera pulls out as you walk to your car. and then scrappy wakes up in a cold sweat and goes to the door of the tree and the weasel is standing there and he's like 'nooooooooo' and it zooms in down his throat and goes to black and the credits roll again, but this time the names are different. and you sit there and you're like, that was lame. and then the theater explodes and you're flying out of the wreckage onto the hood of a camaro and you look inside and its will smith and martin lawrence. and they're like 'bad boys for life, yo' and you're all 'that movie sucked my left nut.' and then you wake up and your left nut is missing. and you're lance armstrong and you fuck sheryl crow, maybe or something.

wr_post17:subj_fict

PASS THE SASS!: A BERNICE H. MAYWEATHER JAM

nobody liked bernice. she was a nice person, if you got to know her, but she had a shell of animosity you had to get past. she used to sit in the lunch room facing the wall away from everyone else. everyone thought it was because she was just a jerk, but she really sat over there thinking of all the things she'd say if someone would just come over and talk to her. she knew things. she was really smart. she read books all the time and wrote fantasy. she was in fourth grade. everyone was learning geography and long division, but she was just sitting there. she didn't want to grow up because she didnt think anything was going to change. she had no forseeable reason to look forward to more of the same depression and loneliness, but in her stories she was older. it was an odd internal conflict that although she envisioned being a woman, she couldnt conceive of process of aging. on a day-to-day level, the transformation was too surreal. her body was constantly shedding it's cells and producing new ones. she read a book on anatomy and biology. she read einstein and it blew her mind. she wanted to travel at the speed of light, leave this earth, find new worlds and when she stopped, come to the realization that if she went back, everyone she knew would be dead. but for the time being, until she re-entered that frame of reference, they were alive. what was that called? schroedingers cat, right.
nothing much ever became of bernice. she's one of those old ladies who work at libraries now. she hates it when people brush against her in the elevator. she hates alot of things. she's really old now. how did that happen? she thinks sometimes. against the collective will of her constituent parts, she had aged. it didnt matter though. because everyone died eventually and if her body could keep changing without her insides being affected, then what was the death of the body other than a loss of a hull. an escape of creative energy from this frail, fragile box we walk around in. she knew better, really. knew that there were two realities. the reality her body and the reality of her soul. science vs. romance.

wr_post04:subj_fict

MAYBE SOME DAY I'LL GET IT

Austin Wellingford owns three apartment buildings. I rent a room in one of them. Everytime something breaks, I'm supposed to call Steve Greyson and Steve either comes and fixes it or tells me he will and then doesn’t or just tells me it's my own damn problem. On the days when Steve tells me to fix it myself I begin to question the whole system of my calling him at all. Today, however, is the third day without power, heat or running water and rather than call Steve again, I have decided to pack up all my stuff, find Austin and crash on his couch til he can get his act together. I go through my list a couple times to make sure I'm not forgetting anything and notice that the list doesn’t contain any of the stuff I've assembled in boxes by the door, nor is any of the stuff on the list even in my apartment. I begin to wonder whether I have the right list in front of me, when someone walks in. It's Gladys. She lives next door and keeps cats, though they aren’t allowed. In exchange for not ratting her out, she gave me a key to her apartment and lets me watch cable in her place. "Why the hell do you have all my stuff in boxes?" Gladys asks, as coolly as one can ask such a question. I glance at my feet and realize the boxes are moving. I have, in my haste, boxed Gladys' apartment, including her cats. "Happy Box Day!," I mumble as I worm past her out the door. On second thought, maybe I dont need to bring my stuff to Austin's. He's loaded. I'm sure I can just borrow his clothes. Clutching a page I've torn out of the phone book, I stroll up to the 8 foot high, razor-wire-encrusted fence with the big gold initials, "AW." I call the guard over and ask him whether he's gonna open the fence or am I just gonna have to climb it. He mutters something about having to have an appointment and wanders back to his booth. Feeling defeated I cross the street and go into the Diner. I sit at the counter and order a cup of coffee, but before the waitress can pour it, I see Austin's limo pulling out the gate. I drop a handful of change on the counter and run out into the street. I get out just in time to see Austin's cigar ash out the tinted windows. This just isnt my day. I go back to my apartment where Gladys has unboxed the cats and sit down in the hallway. I pull out the list and going back over it in a darker pen I write this story. I slip it under my door and walk away. Maybe someday I'll get it.

wr_post03:subj_fict

MASON-DIXON DRAWSTRING SLACKS

driving down the road one afternoon, paul saw a pair of slacks laying in the ditch. he slowed down, pulled over and made his way cautiously down the embankment. the shale was loose and it was slow going. as he reached the pants he saw that there was also a note in a little glass mason jar. he opened the jar and gingerly plucked out the note. it was beautiful paper. smooth, but aged almost to the consistency of lace. the ink had faded and the edges were dirty from many fingers running across its surface. he could only make out the second and the last lines:

"gave it to me tuesday with the intention of making a pie....or else never got home on account of the rain."

it wasn't clear just what the note had to do with the pants, if there was any connection at all, but he decided to take both. as he dropped the pants into the lockbox in the bed of the truck, he began to feel an odd sensation. an urge to wear the pants. the waistband had a drawstring. these pants would give a little in the wearing, a luxury he was not often afforded by his wife's stingy hemming. he made sure there were no other cars on the road and quickly slipped off his pants, but as he reached to grab the drawstring slacks he heard a voice.
"boy, just what do you think you're doing?"
albert's [his name changes?] face grew bright red. he was literally caught with his pants down. he turned slowly to address the voice, but there was no one there. a chill came over him. forgetting his own pants he jumped into the truck and drove off, shooting gravel as he pulled up off the shoulder. he didn't let his foot off the gas even in the slightest until he was in sight of his house. he ran up the front step, having forgotten all about his pantslessness and into the arms of his wife. there he wept for several hours, unable to catch his breath to retell the awful tale. she comforted him and offered him some pie.
"it's rhubarb," she said. "don, brought it over. i gave his wife some rhubarbs the other day in exchange for a cup of flour. i do hope he makes it home alright, it looks like rain outside."
"w-w-what kind of pants was he wearing?" stammered paul.
"i dunno," his wife replied as she moved into the kitchen to cut the pie. "i think they were just some drawstring slacks."

wr_post01:subj_fict

PROPOSED BACK STORIES FOR HYPOTHETICAL EXPRESSIONS

So, in a small town in the Four Corners region of the country, imagine that a somewhat common expression is "They give that one to the volcano." Since the town contains one of the only clinics in the area, it is assumed by passers-by that the expression is used to refer to the passing of someone receiving care at the clinic. The romanticized version is that their spirit passed out of this plane of existence, but its power still exists, emanating from the volcano in relative proximity to the town: the circle of life, blah, blah. In truth, it turns out, the expression comes from the fact that in some cases, distant relatives visiting the clinic are actually in the area to see the volcano and happen to have timed their visit to see the ailing. The purpose of the visit is chalked up to the volcano's drawing power as a roadside attraction. A more cynical view, however, is that the records have somehow been falsified by National Park employees to suggest that people who were in fact visiting the clinic, were in the region to see the volcano. Thus, in deference to the raw power of an act of nature, "they [gave] that one [tally] to the volcano." None of this is in the least bit interesting, but the expression catches on for its poetic qualities, eventually becoming so popular as to have most of its explanation printed along with the quote on gym-shirt-grey ringer tees in 48-point, sarifed, purple iron-on, bubble letters. The end result, being convoluted, obscure and overly verbose, sells well only amongst the asinine more-irrelevant-than-thou hipster contingency and is, in this way, vaguely reminiscent of the futility of traveling through New Mexico. This in turn reminds people of the somewhat cheapening effect that thus-naming such a lackluster state has on the original Mexico.

Curating a blog::dry_run01:subject_rand....GO!

This one for the video. The sound is fitting, but unnecessary and distracting.

This one for the sound. I think I could actually listen to it forever and never tire. The video is a fucking animated .gif. How great can it be?

As for this one. The complete package. Words cannot describe...

Do watch both before further exploring the endless mines that are the random button on the window, won't you?

Jonathan Gregory Brandis (April 13, 1976 – November 12, 2003) was an American film and television actor. OMG!!1RIP4eva!!?LOLLERPEDIA!:



Who wikis the word actor?!

Minute Rice in the Era of Instant Obsolesence

Gary and Tina had three ugly kids, a run-down bungalow on the industrial edge of the suburbs, two rusty sedans and no ambition. They'd been married for nearly three decades and the only thing keeping either of them going was each's desire to see the other die first. Gary Fleenor had been the Runner-Up State Spelling Bee Champ in High School, but he'd assumed the title after a scandal rocked the world of competitive letter recitation, connecting the winner, one Margaret Bloom, to both the Yakuza and Archibald Pez, of novelty-candy-dispenser fame. The title had earned Gary the admiration of then-incarcerated Tina Radmonowitz. She was performing community service, collecting trash on the highway median, when she happened across the article that had broken the "Spelldown Snafu" story. It would be eight months before they met in person, but what began was a fiery correspondence built on lies and exaggeration, would gradually blossom into a bitter, stagnant marraige. Derek Fleenor, the first mistake, was good with his hands, or so went the testimony of the five eyewitnesses to his first aggrivated assault. He'd made it through six states before the stolen Chevy he was driving into oncoming traffic siezed up and went into a skid. When he awoke in the prison hospital, he was no longer a biped. It was the subject of much ridicule in the infrequent letters to "ol' one leg." Betty, the only Fleenor who had ever shown promise outside of the world of organized crime, died of Leukemia during a protracted legal battle for the rights to her first novel, "Please God! Kill Me Now." Eventually, the royalties were awarded to Gary and Tina who spent them on huckster balding cures and crack cocaine, respectively. The baby, Vernon, four-and-a-half, had no real concept of the hell he was being raised in. He also knew very little of his older siblings. To him the world consisted of blaring sirens which, when he was lucky, were from the "Real Police Drama" programs his mother watched and the slow, sour smell of unwashed clothing, which made up the bulk of the house's furniture. Eventually he probably grew up to do something undesirable for shit pay, but nobody cares about stories like that, so let's just say he became an astronaut. Vernon Fleenor, the first man on Mars!