Is it me or am i balding?

I have been feeling old of late. I know that I am not getting old, though I suppose it goes rather slowly. I suppose that it creeps up on you like the flu. Or some other ailment that would end in death without the aid of modern medical science. So I will say it plain. People are obsessed with the idea of postponing death. Even in the face of the more pertainent need of improving life. Why have we as a society put so much more emphessis on continuing something instead of improving it or appreciating it more? In fact I challenge you all to come up with something that has improved the QUALITY of life since the advent of, and to the extent of toilet paper.

Heathers

When will I get over that blonde bombshell that made me a man. Then proceded to take custody of my man hood, turn me into a simpering idiot and ultimately castrate me. How about never. I can remember how beautiful she was, how intelligent, how like me. I never trusted myself and now I know why. Oh I am not saying I am either beautiful or intelligent just that I might have traded up also. But how do you trade up when you have a mickey mantel rookie card. you dont. so you put it in a plastic case and never have sex with it, or leave it in your sock drawer so that it gets that pubescent male funk that makes homosexuality so not an option.

when will I get over the other one. I remember how sweet she smelled how pure of heart she was, she made me forget my bombshell. she was some new found artillery that revealed the medeocre fire works for what they were. she showed me EXPLOSIONS. Explosive everything. God I loved that, she asked me once what I could ever be truly passionate about. HER, was the answer I was afraid to give. Perhaps she would think I mocked her, perhaps she would have thought that I was just being clever. But the heart is not clever. My heart is not.

When will I get over the Red head, she was the smartist woman I have ever met, what a turn on. though the cereabral don't just get turned on thats physical, and the Saints forbid such things. how is it that I still remember the nights spent in the driveway with our lips barely touching. I am much older now yet those few stolen kisses seam as embroiling as a hand job in a stolen car.

three. someone once retorted after I said that there was just one perfect match that there were three. well now you all know how I feel about my three.

just a tip guys leave it in the sock drawer, you might miss your three, but at least you won't always miss them

Well, here goes. I just wanted to say hi to everyone. things in SM are ok. I made some underworld connections, which is important if you want to be able to go anywhere in a city.

I would realy like to bring the underbelly of society to the surface. After all its a lot of voters, and Gangs are just PACs in waiting.

food for thought: if the Crips and Bloods spent there time lobying instead of killing eachother things would be different.

Down with the MAN

Theft: There is no one like you. I can't wait for the nights with you. I imagine the things we'd do. I just want to be loved by you.

Grand Theft: As people continue the loop of plagerism and refinement that artists call samples, a whole element of "samplers" go without critisism. These are the friends you may have. Those you tell your most intimate stories to. those you bleed with. Those whose tear soaked sleave you believe is there to cover a sensitive shoulder that is envied by Atlas for its burden. Yet the only thing that shoulder supports is a head for profit. The great profit. A mind that turns reality and pain, your pain, into something more or less and shares it with the world.

Write what you know; I know how to listen. Write what you hear; I hear you. your words are my inspiration, how well I know you maters not.

Why should we behave? There is a chauser behind you, watching, threatining, more ominous than God. God cannot be seen, your shadow-scribe cannot be identifide.

Fiction: I am so lit. The world just does not understand how slow it moves and at this point I find the lethargy of it an affrontery. The buss moves as slowly as possible. But there is something that makes this particular part of my trip laughable. The colors. The trees. Not the greens but the blacks inbetween them. Placed as if to say that we still respect the awsome power of nature that once imperilled our existence. An existence, now unparalleled, whose purpose seems to be the adjictation of thought its self. But why is it that thought requires polymers, roads, tools. Because we are tools, tools of those who think faster. It can simply not be possible to think faster than I am thinking right now. I have the assistence of some polymers. The bus stops.