On true love

I bought a bag of meat, recently. To be more specific, I purchased enough meat products to fill and engorge a Price Chopper shopping bag. With my personal funds barely in the black, I blissfully blew about $30 on sausage, hamburger, steak, and chicken.

There is a currently a package of "pan frying" steak defrosting in a steel bowl full of water.

I love meat. I love it so much I want to kill you and eat you.

I like the taste. I like the texture. I like the feeling of the protein making me stronger. I like the blood. I am not a person that needs cognitive distance from what he is eating. If you bring me a cow and a railroad spike, I will descend upon it with unrelenting wrath and voracious hunger, reveling in the slaughter because brutality is the finest spice there is.

If I could, I would eat steak every day until my arteries clogged up and I died. At that point, I pray that someone would have the decency to eat me. I will try to die tender.

Tragically, my apartment does not have any means of grilling at this time. That's why I'm buying "pan frying" steak (I don't have any idea what the hell it is or how the hell it'll taste) and pre-packaged burgers (they claim to be microwaveable, so they must be friable). The sausage and chicken are better fried up with pasta anyway. Nothing fuels you up better after a trip to the gym or a good session of karate.

Anyway . . . was I going somewhere with this?

I don't think so. That's all I wanted to say. I fucking love meat.


I would eventually like to eat a vegan.

On writing

I need pressure to write. I think that's what it comes down to. I need pressure, especially if the pressure is to do something else. It's those moments of stress, where the work really builds up and I know that I need to start getting some of it done.

That's when my brain says "shit. I need to write."

And I listen to my brain. It's my closest friend.

I can never write at home. Vacations are huge dry spells, which is tragic because I'm always waiting for a vacation to "finally finish that project," which is proof that I'm an idiot. Vacations are not a time for productivity. They are a time for gin and sleep. Incidentally, that makes most of college a vacation, but everyone knows that already.

Needing to write is a lot like drowning. I suddenly wake up and feel that I can't breathe, so I claw away at my typewriter like it's my means of reaching the surface.

Writing is active. If you want to write, you need to stop thinking and just fucking do it. Edit it later.

Some runoff

I'm not sure if it's the stomach crunches or the gin, but lately I've had the taste of vomit in the back of my throat a little too often. My less-than-stellar eating habits are also a likely factor, but I generally take it that senior year is meant to leave a bad taste in your mouth.

It's already an odd year, considering I'm only a little more than a week into it. A lot has changed, my luck withstanding (already killed my laptop), and it's been a period of contrasts.

Contrasts. Conflicts. Opposing forces. Balance. Mud.

This summer I had the pleasure of working the greatest job I have ever worked. I was able to work with children with "special needs," and it was one of those jobs that actually made me think "wow, I could do this every day and be happy. I can't wait to come to work tomorrow." I don't think I've ever felt that way before about anything.

Of course, I also did part-time work as a dishwasher, scrubbing crusty shit off of plates and peeling shrimp until my hands got chapped. That was a joy, truly. I love a job that lets you smell like a garbage heap at the end of the day because you're covered in deflected liquid leftovers.

"Hey, Tony. You want a drink on the house before you head home?"

"No, thanks. I really don't want to make eye-contact with another person until I've showered at least three times. I think I'd stain the bar stool if I sat down."

If being a gross, smelly, wet bum isn't enough to get a person down, being one in a nice restaurant full of attractive women should do the trick. They're lucky I quit without burning the place down.

And I would have, if the steak wasn't so damn delicious . . .

Now I'm back at school, enjoying a shitty week and some great classes. It's a delicate balance, being miserable and inspired all at once. The new apartment is nice. I'm writing again, which makes me happy. I've killed my laptop and I'm running out of money. I have no idea what the hell I'm going to do when I graduate, but I'm ready to be a success.

Can't I just get paid to be awesome? Where the hell is that at the job fair?

I'm changing again. I'm getting stronger, and a little more focused. My libido seems to be off the wall, which is like a second puberty but a little less awkward. I'm perpetually annoyed at nothing in particular, and remain antisocial.

Oh, my youth. I'm not finishing any of my projects and I have no idea what the hell I'm doing when I do it.

I used to be mercurial. I used to dance in chaos. Now I worry I just don't give a shit anymore.

Maybe I'm just over-thinking it. Maybe I'm just tired . . .

Maybe things are too good, and I'm just convinced that it's all going downhill from here.

Maybe I need a dog. I don't even know what the fuck I'm talking about anymore.








. . . Get outta here. I'm trying to sleep.