Haircuts

(07:37:35 PM) SquidgeeMoot: A five-year-old called me yesterday.
(07:37:49 PM) SquidgeeMoot: On her sister’s phone, by accident.
(07:38:51 PM) SquidgeeMoot: But because it was very late—and because… she was five—she couldn’t conceive of calling someone unintentionally.
(07:38:58 PM) tyedyedtruth: Hahahah.
(07:39:16 PM) SquidgeeMoot: Ergo, she must have planned this.
(07:39:30 PM) SquidgeeMoot: And so proceeded to tell me how her day went.
(07:39:55 PM) SquidgeeMoot: It was… very strange.
(07:40:15 PM) tyedyedtruth: That’s hilarious.
(07:40:37 PM) SquidgeeMoot: Really little kids already only have a concept of the present.
(07:40:50 PM) SquidgeeMoot: But this was like: “Cleo, why did you call?”
(07:41:04 PM) SquidgeeMoot: Oh, a phone. Better roll with it.
(07:41:53 PM) tyedyedtruth: It’s like Memento, but with kindergartners.
(07:42:20 PM) SquidgeeMoot: Tattoos all over.
(07:42:28 PM) SquidgeeMoot: “Wear your princess dress.”
(07:42:49 PM) SquidgeeMoot: “Bedtime sucks.”
(07:42:54 PM) SquidgeeMoot: “TRUST NO ONE.”
(07:43:05 PM) tyedyedtruth: XD

By Logan Mills.

The original onslaught of 90’s Wu Tang LP’s x classic Blue Note Records covers.

Serafina watched her go, and then turned to see the last of the gleaming angels disappear far away. She felt nothing but compassion for those great watchers. How much they must miss, never to feel the earth beneath their feet, or the wind in their hair, or the tingle of the starlight on their bare skin! And she snapped a little twig off the pine branch she flew with, and sniffed the sharp resin smell with greedy pleasure, before flying slowly down to join the sleepers on the grass.

(Phillip Pullman, The Subtle Knife)

My current—and beloved—desktop is Air Ganesh by UCArts.

P.S. t shirts.

Sometimes, a city lives with secrets.

She asks:
How come we never hold hands in public?
And she says:
‘Cause they wouldn’t understand who I’m in love with.
Says: Fuck ‘em, let ‘em pass judgement
I know you’re scared,
You think I would’ve asked if I wasn’t?
She replies: I ain’t embarassed, like,
But I see you when my eyes closed
Like you’re the afterimage when I stare at lights.
You stand between who I am, and who I’ve been
But that girl had family and friends
Who’ve gotta examine me again.
Crazy talk? I feel like I been Sadie Hawkins’d by a goddess.
(Or at least a goddess’s high priestess.)
Can’t confide, they couldn’t pay me off to give ‘em my secrets.
Despite society, my true thoughts got me wantin’ to climb trees,
Rooftops with memorized lines
But I’m speechless.
Got it scripted and phrased right:
‘I find her desirable’, yeah, but I’m sick with stage fright
I feel like Turbulence, stomach drop, plane flight
You wanna be out, I wanna hide in plain sight.
I mean when guys watchin’ think I’m only on you
‘Cause guys watchin’
Unaware I don’t experiment—it’s hot, but no,
I’m way beyond weighin’ my options.
Then she responds: maybe yes, maybe I want for too much
Could be exposure is right or wrong for the two of us
Maybe it’s like real exposure to cold, ears and toes lost
But we’ve got something here that I wanna show off.

(This text by Patrick Fisher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.)

A modified dak bulgolgi

Marinade:

Teriyaki Soy Sauce (or Soy Sauce and Sugar)
Seasoned Rice Vinegar
Sesame Seeds (I used black roasted)
Sesame Seed Oil (or, as I used, Olive Oil and more Sesame Seeds)
Diced Onion
Garlic
1 pinch Black Pepper
Chili Powder (or Diced Chilis)
Applesauce
Cinnamon

Steps:

Marinade your chicken for an hour, sealed. Pan over medium-high heat, scooping away excess liquid as it cooks. Fork out and serve with sliced red apple.

Sometimes a city doesn’t buy it.

Note: I’m not even agnostic, but it was fun to write with this perspective in mind. Hopefully I’ll have the next entry up sooner.

Reference: John 9: 1-8.

(Do this aloud.)

With one grain of faith he’d pray to the skies with face raised,
Place savior-saliva clay in his eyes and brainwaves
Party ’til Seis de Mayo or his pesos ended and
Painstakingly try to keep his soul in stasis
Like cryogenics.
But he lacks a basis for belief
In either hell or the highest limits.
In all his years
He’s never felt like defyin’ the biochemists.
Life sentences, he’s learned, get punctuated when breath goes,
Though a bunch of creative nuns claim somethin’ gets on
Beyond the death throes
The main attraction that by some quiet, tiptoe tactic gets
XO’d
Marked outta frying pan for heaven or the next stove.
His friends describe smoke, brimstone, Abbadon fumes
He thinks they’re mad
He’d have his friends thrown in padded rooms,
Priests repent, the scriptures blank or reprinted in his words
‘Three princes delivered frankincense to beg for insurance.
Too afraid of a made-up lake of flame and embers.’
They all say he’s in for the pots bakin’
Oven open
But if God’s throne is vacant
Nothin’ but faith and convenant broken.

(This text by Patrick Fisher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.)

http://poisonousparagraphs.blogspot.com/2009/03/dart-adams-presents-end-is-nigh-2009.html

I don’t know what IMDB Pro means but if there’s gonna be a Suicide Squad movie, it better be really stupid.

The poet said of the universe:
“I am granted no luxury.”
“Excuse me?” said the universe,
“You are a poet.”