Here come the lonely ones

On Sunday, I headed to church like a good, small town Christian boy. I attended a church I had never been to before -- a nondenom. I thought the Call to Worship thing was weirdly individualistic. Then I felt a demonic presence. That's when I realize: this is no church. This is a Unitarian Universalist centre and they basically desired for me to toss out Jesus and accept a bright ball of light into my soul to gain higher spiritual understanding. I attempted to flee but some angry-looking bandanna man slammed the door. Then some lost soul grabbed my hand, swayed, and sang. And, loneys, the preacher woman: so savage and superb, wild-eyed and magnificent! Her insanity impressed me but her denseness destroyed her credibility to even a credulous individual. But she made these lost folks impressionable -- on a lesser scale akin to Republicans harvesting Evangelicals into little fascists in the States.
I manged to shamble out during some New Age witchery while they had their red eyes closed.
One of them flung itself on its hindlegs and begged me to stay but I am no sucker.
What a let down. Someone needs to crush that pagan palace into the ground.

On the run with a loaded gun, fun fun fun, let me tell ya about it hun

After completing the arduous process of writing ten profound albeit convoluted (writing lucidly is for boring folk) pages on the historical analysis of Acts twenty-seven, I am wholly knackered. My deft ability of punctuating time will be tested with the following annoyances: memorizing some queer's poem and preparing an elaborate and eloquent presentation of the Beat generation; completing an eight page lab on sordid scientific extraneousness; catching up on like six mission journals; trying to organize handwritten notes in class because my friggin' laptop battery is moribund; order a new laptop battery; and prepare for my G test.

The latter is the ne plus ultra of aggravation. I successfully completed my driving test circa five years ago, why must I endure another? Has my driving adroitness lapsed in this five year frame? I despise my government, wasting my time. God willing, I will place an exclamation mark on this nuisance and move on with my life -- otherwise, I best get out my winter boats, as I'll be trotting through the snow wherever I go.

Flying a Kite

So, I am in this incredibly churlish class -- public speaking -- and I needed to pre-record my presentation so that my inferior superior may critique my style and offer suggestions on how to improve my presentation come gig time. Since the class is a gong show, I delayed this until the final minutes of the deadline. I madly wrote an outline, and considering this entire thing was concocted in fifteen minutes, I think it's dece. Aight, here you are, TAH-DUH! (I wrote this to the Scissor Sisters):

My heroic theme is the Beat Generation. This was an anti-culture movement in America circa the forties and fifties where a group of writers essentially wrote about their lives and labeled themselves the Beat generation -- now affectionately named beatniks by adoring fans of said literature. Two salient beats for this generation are Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg. I will read from their respective magnum opuses –- Kerouac’s novel “On The Road” and Ginsberg’s poem “Howl”.

(I now read some Kerouac -- part two: chapter three; beginning with "It was the saddest night" -- and so you may turn to this and read it yourself as I assume On The Road is on your shelf next to your Bible).

(Then I read some Ginsberg -- perhaps with a lisp -- and I need to have this memorized. Daunting)

(Now I have a sort of reflection type deal, which is essentially a stream of consciousness written against time. Forgive the solecisms -- a brother has other things to accomplish too, you know).

These readings certainly offer a very vivid and sordid taste in your mouths. This was a bohemian hedonistic lifestyle that rendered its abusers into whirlwind manic mania and soul dropping anti-climatic lows -- all this created by frustration and boredom and pure resistance towards to what they would consider an inferior and sadder culture, where folks are fixed labels and brands and deathly devoid of soul, profundity, and introspection. They desired challenge and truth to determine “time”; to determine what “it” is; but in the interim, indulge in debauchery and fall deeply into a strange and fantastic cosmos that ultimately destroyed their very souls that they desperately attempted to enliven and enlighten. Their libertine-esque ways drove stakes into the very hearts of the ones they desired to love, as their incessantly restive states could never be satisfied, until everything was known and all joys experienced.
This movement was particularly salient in the 60’s and 70’s as it served as the fundamental ideology of the explosive free bird hippie movement -- but with classic hipster snootiness, they repudiate such claims.
So what does all this mean? Why do I bother speaking about these pagan vagabonds? Well, this is not mere persiflage, there are truths and non-truths to be learned from this sordid bunch: 1. Debauchery and hedonistic propensities may offer some mirage of happiness but you’ll end up street-ridden and poor financially from hookers and poor spiritually -- also from hookers. 2. Everything feigns fecundity when one is hopped up on hallucinatory drugs. Maybe nothing is learned t’all. 3. Aight, here’s a truth: Our culture does blow chunks. It’s materialistic; it pressures justice negligence; it’s sour; it offers happiness through dumbing oneself down and accepting the gloomy quotas as normal; and there is a corona around everything that the media shines it black light upon.
(now note the classy Christian tie-in)
What does one do? I joined an irresistible revolution in Christianity, attempting to live as a rebel for Christ. But it is a struggle with external pressures boxing me in. But I aspire to delve profoundly into Christ, as the Beaters dug into pot and women.

(Class is wholly confused, and I smile and leave them all behind -- they'll never see a bad guy like me again).

Doldrums

Nothingness.

L'envoi:
The sun never reaches here.
The shadows have won.

Frigger

My frigger glasses snapped into two pieces. It wasn't even my fault this time; it was my weak motor skills and lackluster coordination, aight listen: I was holding my glasses in my hands, exiting my room when my hand proceeds to smack itself off the corner of the wall. Frig. I have attended my first class without glasses -- mathematics 101, the most primitive class ever -- and I was wholly confused. The "professor" was blathering on about something and scribbling on the chalk board madly. Due to my inadequate vision, I could not even acknowledge the presence of chalk on the board, save those audio aspects of writing on the blackboard. After two minutes I realized I would never learn anything and thus entered my "high school zone" and began to woolgather and write down odd thoughts and sicko pictures. Before I knew it, the class was over. No wonder I never learned a thing in high school. Ideally, I will order a spanking pair today from Costco but the situation is already dire, and new glasses will take ages to arrive. Friggers.

My lab partner refuses to meet with me and hence our compulsory lab is now four days late. Oh mys, seriously, what the frig? Group projects result in nothing but frustrating failure.

By Jove! a venture to Costco will result in skipping yet another political science class. I despise attendance more than my this course itself. Wait, no I don't. This course is ridiculously vapid and offers no succor to this semester's pseudo-education. Maybe I just don't like learning.

This privileged ingrate from Barcelona offers these semi-related words to my first paragraph:

Don't want to wear glasses
Though I know that I should
So I have to take chances
When I walk through the hood

Forgive the solecisms and I will forgive you.

I'm a love letter away

Stay tuned for Bible lesson.