Tavius Marshall

If anyone was wondering, he's the guy in that Paris Hilton sex video.

You're totally missing it.
The Drews are fighting and you're all the way over there. Not all the Drews, mind you. That would just be crazy. No, today it's only a couple of me that are at odds.
Today is goofy, anxious me vs. serious, brooding me.
They're fighting over who gets to post on the blog.
Goofy Drew wants to ramble on about how little there is to do at work, how amusing the bitter, sex-deprived battle-axes in his row are when they rail on against the "governing authorities", the healing virtues of drinking a liter of wine, and his growing fascination with "Hello Kitty". Serious Drew, on the other hand, wants to post cryptic and over-thought pseudo poetry about how his "realm is tainted by expanding clouds of the faithless and afraid" or some fag thing like that.
Unbeknownst to Andrew and Andrew, the heated battle affords commentary by a third person.
THE third person, actually.
And there's nothing Drew can do about it.
Not even Drew.

When toy shopping, look for the Joe Mantegna Seal Of Safety. It's your only guarantee that the toy has been deemed safe by Joe Mantegna.

Fighting Z.

Ramble long and flaunt verbose finesse to sandbag sagging consciousness.
Harness all the fury of pretentious diction for crystal deception
for perspicuous fiction.
Cranial mining for superfluous findings finds my fanny aligning with these corporate bindings- bound to white women whining about a boss above a basic request regarding respectless reproach (revealing relentlessly retarded reasons for recourse removed from reality).
Really.
(what I won't do to stay awake...)

I apologize.
Insanity stabs into me, sans intimacy, stating violently sad hierarchy: she dominates me, smiting normality, shaking mercilessly sound legitimacy.
Sucks to be me.

(i'm done now)

There's nothing like a healthy dose of Catholicism to start off your Saturday afternoon. At 3:21pm I awoke to a phonecall from Clouston (who had also just risen) and an invite to Saturday mass. What red-blooded charasmaniac could refuse an opportunity like that?
So there we sat--a pair of sharply dressed protestant twentysomethings amidst a sea of the balding, the middle-aged, and the jack-removal refusing. There was no question in anyone's mind that were a hot, young, gay couple too ashamed to attend the Sunday meeting.
I live for silent, ambiguous controversy.
It was a fantastic service, though. We're considering making this a weekly ritual so I'll keep you updated on how quickly I master the congregational responses.
This weeks successes:
"thanks be to God" and
"and also with you"
Next week I'm going to work on knowing exactly when to cross myself and figuring out why nobody in the building takes their coats off.

Peace be with you...

Injustice.

This reminds me of highschool.
I've been stricken with melodic inspiration in the midst of my apathetic stupor. This always happened to me at the worst possible times. I'd find rhythm on the bus. Basslines in the parkinglot. Lyrics in the bathroom...wait...that was lyrics in the classroom, limericks in the bathroom. Of course by the time I made it home the song had pretty much disintegrated due to lack of any way to transfer it from my mind to a more stable container.
To date I've produced at least 30 fully-formed stillborn compositions.
On the one hand I suppose, this could be a good indication that my 2+year bout with writer's block is nearing a close. On the other hand, though, I've got this great new tune that might never kick the ass of anyone anywhere.
I'll bet Buckley never had to deal with this.
Bah.

I was pretty bored at work today so I applied online to join something called the "FLQ Nouveau" .
Apparently, if they approve my membership, I get one of those cool-looking French guy hats and unlimited subway tokens.
They sounds like a really swell bunch of "hommes".
Wish me luck.

Sometimes I'm so useless it hurts.
Everybody.

If a man were to step out into his years first autumn snowfall would you think him foolish for not wearing a hat?
If that man were to walk the length of his street, with the frozen assault forcefully beautifying his hair, would you look down on him?
And if that man, when out of public view, produced an umbrella and shielded his head as he walked beside the river, would you mock his absurdity?

Just checking.
A friend wanted me to ask.
Um...
Yeah.

So many things I can see, now, that are devoid of opportunity to spoil. It's by simple virtue of the fact that I don't even deserve to be part of them. Virtuous ignorance affords me occasion. Allowance by inaptitude.
I've finally started to understand why this canvas has been kept blank all this while, save the yellowing of time. There are colors that simply don't exist in this place. Only dry, faded, cracked monuments to character long past. Only sun-bleached specters of purpose.
This is far beyond just cause for departure.
This is why it looks like I've already left.
Tired flesh will rise to meet wandering soul.
And this is why.

It was something in the way she gnawed on my hand that made me think perhaps this wasn't the best of choices.

Sick of watching fluid joy through passionless eyes.
When my hermit's stretch finally pulls itself limp I should hope it finds me a little less numb.
Every morning I wake with tired feet. It makes me wonder if my soul has grown so tired of this sessile drone that it has found a way to wander off when it knows I'll notice least. Every morning I wake with vague memories of foreign streets and strange faces that fade the moment I rise.
I still can't tell the difference between premonitions and consolations.