: you know. its the people that are in the military that are fighting for you, dieing for your sorry ass while you sit around taking up space. who cares if they're main reason for joining was to go to college. its still admirable. not like a stupid highschool drop out that could be more than he is instead of someone that just makes boxes all day. just because you have issues with your father that you are too immature to deal with doesnt mean you should be so heartless when it comes to other people who are actually doing something for a cause, giving up their lives for a country that has better ideals than any other one, the same country that you yourself live in but do nothing to help it. when i think about the sorry state that we're currently in, i lay most of the blame on ignorant people like yourself

sorry... had nothing else to " start " this post with so I took a snippet from my would-be collection of files I have recently ... stockpiled. I'd already replied to the attack, so there is no need to further the obvious ... "corner" they were written into. To tell you the truth I just realized that I've been sitting here in my chair for two hours and just sitting. .... thinking ... and when I ask myself : thinking about what? - I dont get a reply. I've just been thinking. and sitting. for two hours.

I still havent cried. I never cried. Throughout the duration of the accident. Throughout calling and talking to my father. and my foreman. and the people around the place in which the accident occured. not once. I wanted to. some part in me felt bad. horrible. but I was either working in an efficient manner and knew that crying was inefficient. who knows. I was surprised. I can look back and see three "myselves" during that time. One was dead. One was crying. and one was in shock. It makes no sense to you. It shouldnt. In any event.

I still havent cried. I think I should. I can feel the whole-ness of it bottled up inside of me. waiting to be released. I can touch the cap on the bottle, twist it a bit and I can feel the tears begin to boil within. but then I stop. " not now " I tell myself. It isnt time for this. It isnt time for this. There is a place and a time for emotions to be conveyed and/or released. A time in which it will be a necessity. but now I have work to do. I have work to do. I have work to do.

A part of me knows that " other time " in which it will be " ok " will not exist. It knows that " other time " is a fabrication I place upon myself. A manner in which I can avoid dealing with the internal workings of my emotional structure. Of maintaining control. Of making sure I know where I stand. Having stability on the inside. and I laugh. I laugh at myself because I know that is dangerous. I know the backlashes that occur with suppressing internal functions. I know the problems it can develop into.

Animals, such as dogs, dont feel emotions. I envy them. They dont have this internal dillusion that corrupt the things which must and should be done. They just do. Wherein Humans, People, All of you . . . Me - we do. They are a bane. A problem who's solution must be found and put into practice. Implemented. fixed. I have an obcession with fixing things.

I find myself using this as a green book. Ah ... where are my green books now? I will buy a new one so that my next post does not come out as bad as this one. So that my " reader " will not consist of those who actually read. Who REALLY DO respond. Only so that my reader will not read at all. And in the event they do, it will be too late and I will have everything in place. Every lock set. Every bottle tightened. Everything under control.

And yet the world turns.
And so it goes.

I'm just sayin that I think that's why people post less.
At a message board, people discuss stuff. Back and forth.
When a topic dies, someone needs to bring something up again.
Recently, that seems to be the pattern.
Before, it was more a blog. People would just gather and post various thoughts, ideals, etc. And the replies were more in the 'comment' section, less in the 'posting' section.


Another snippet from my files. I would like you all to know this isnt a post in-as-much as it is a " journal " entry. A long, and bothersome journal entry... merely because I know that I will be sitting here... thinking ... for another two hours. maybe more. I should probably sleep. But that doesnt really make much of a difference to me at the moment. I think Im suffering from ennui but then again I dont actually feel that bored. I dont feel uncomfortable either. But I dont feel. I think this is " content. " ... I just am. But I know I just am, shouldnt be. I should be more. I should be more. I should be more. I should be more. I should be more.

I look around my room and find the boxes atop my bed. I think of what I do for work. Funny. I remember being young and taking moving boxes from the house next-door and putting them in a long row in my backyard before we had fences put in because my brothers were little and wandering around / so like other people who had put fences up for their dogs, my parents put fences up for my little, wandering around siblings. so there were a lot of boxes. I remember the smell of them. and I remember getting crayons and coloring all the boxes to look like a space-ship, and the inside had buttons to push which did all sort of things. like time travel. gravity manipulation. and so on. I remember inviting Jennifer over to play in my ship and she was the second in command. she was in the third compartment and i was in the first. it was great fun. The smell on wetlock sometimes reminds me of that. Crayons and cardboard. The next day I went out to go play in them, but it seems that cardboard doesnt hold up well to rain. they were soggy. we had to throw them away. but it was still great fun. a couple days later we found fibreglass rods in the sewer thing. We got them out and sword fought with them. We got massive splinters, but we didnt care. My mother had to pull out each and every one of them because I guess fiberglass cant stay in your skin because it would get infected and be really bad or something. I remember the pain. I remember deconditioning myself to pain. It only hurts if you let it. I would chant that. I had many chants. It only hurts if you let it. Pain is conveyed though channels of the body that you control. You cannot " shut off " the channels. Pain has to go somewhere. Thats why you divert it. You trick pain into going elsewhere... You develop a holding space for it, and then you build a channel, and everytime you feel pain coming you turn on your deflection channel and it will just pour into your holding space. And there it stays. And will always stay, until one day when you didnt see any pain coming it slips in. And then it all comes loose and hits you full force. Brunt. the holding space regurgitates it's pain and the little thing you failed to catch is magnified by countless amounts of times you werent hurt. One must ask oneself if ONE INSTANCE OF PAIN is better than a LIFETIME of such. A troubling question. A troubling question indeed.

Mexicanojugador: your a fucken faggot
Mexicanojugador: you know that
Mexicanojugador: who is this
Mexicanojugador: who the fuck is this
Mexicanojugador: your such a faggot you have to talk shit about people that have passed away
Mexicanojugador: brent would have fucked you up and you know it
Mexicanojugador: you faggot

CLICK HERE to send " Boy oh boy ... are you really stupid! " to the infamous Mexicanjugador.

I dont know. Im listening to good ol Heroine right now. I find myself connecting with a heroine addict and it sickens me. I have a *thing* against self induced drug people. I dont know why. Mike once asked me "so whats with that" - I honesly replied " I dont know " - and in this song he constantly says : " Oh, and I guess that I just dont know ... Oh and I guess that I just dont know " - and it seems so ... direct. I believe partly the reason why I dislike druggies is because I know a part of me is one of them. Highly addicted to things. Very easily. Therefore in the event I were to be addicted to an addictive drug, I'd be twice-addicted to it. I hate being addicted to things. They are weaknesses. You can control people when you know their addictions, and their weaknesses. I have a thing against control. I avoid situations in which I do not know all probable outcomes which can happen. This keeps me safe. It keeps me out of situations in which are dangerous. It is a defense mechanism before defense is needed. I dont exactly need shields against drugs when I'm never " written into " situations where they are prominent and used. It has been suggested to me, twice now, that I should do marjiuana. Get high. Sit back and relax. As much as I say no, with spite and hatred in my mouth and on my tounge, a bird rests itself on my left shoulder and whispers in my ear :

" YES! "

and I hate it.
being twenty is stressfull.
having a " life " which also dabbles in the thing known as " reality " is ... a drag.
stress emenates from every pore in my body.
I can feel it sweep in every direction from my feet the instant one touches the ground.
It pours onto the ground and dances its way into the grass, or gravel, or concrete.
But I will not succumb to drugs yet... not by a long shot. Not by a long shot. So I ask around for other modes of relieving stress. Of getting past the things which drag one down into the ground. That pull your soul into a cess-pool of insanity. Cell block #413-008. And, sadly I hadnt seen the answer before-hand, the answer came back in a resoundingly loud fashion :

Sex.
I fail to see how intercourse would relieve one of stress. But then again. I have multiple reports that it is something that must be felt, not told. " little death " - therefore any computation I have of it wont ... " work. " ... I run the line " James doesnt like feeling good, intercourse is suppose to represent ultimate pleasure, james doesnt enjoy hedonism, therefore in all cases all resulting actions leading to intercourse should be avoided as my response is either entirely bad, or unpredictable since "ultimate pleasure" has never been experienced "

It is fun how things work out when you think about them, and therein lies the problem : I analyze things much too much. But, as aforementioned, that is my defense mechanism. I protect myself quite efficiently. Sometimes too effeciently. In some cases "being hurt" ... in little ways - in manners that dont hurt a lot, but hurt none-the-less, ... in the long run are better than my expulsion of emotion all at once. " BULK EMOTION. " ... heh.

Late one night I found the following :
New Horizons: (206) 745-3156
Original Circles: (206) 227-0567
PALS: (206) 876-2181
Fantasy Northwest: (208) 773-5158
M & M: (503) 285-9523
HUGS: (509) 921-1973

and have kept it along with all the other files I've been posting inbetween my little ... " thought paragraphs " - the six numbers are numbers to " swingers " groups. Groups which profess that sexual deviancy ( poligamy ... or adultry, .... or sexually charged orgies... whatever the fuck they're called... MULTIPLE SEXUAL PARTNERS ) is an " A - O - K " thing and they so embrace such a lifestyle. Maybe one day I'll look into it. Maybe.

For reals? FOR REALS.

For the longest of times I've played with writting a hand-written letter to someone I do not know. I use to have the website of the person / but I didnt write that down. Now all I have is his address in which I can send the mail to. I dont know what I'll say - or if I will ever write the letter. It will be a curious thing, indeed.

A car has been found for me for 500$ - my next paycheck I should be getting it. It, also, is red. It is an automatic ( augh ) and it has 6 cylinders. It is a '89 ... I dont know the make... or model. dont really care either. it'll run. and i'll drive it. and i'll yield on green. thats for sure.