I have fabulous blue hair.

Okay, I'm dashing out the door to have a late breakfast, but I got pissed off in the shower and had to come post quickly. What the hell is up with the phrase "All things being equal?" I mean really, when was the last time you were aware of ALL things being equal? I don't know why this is pissing me off at the moment, but it is. I'll need to write a short play called all things being equal, and have people trading lamborghinis for snickers bars, and loved ones ones for, i dunno, spam.

And another thing, why the hell do I have you've lost that lovin' feeling stuck in my head? When was the last time I heard that song? A REAL LONG FUCKING TIME AGO. I hate it when that happens. At least it isn't a boy band this time.

Thankyou, that is all.

On my 10 point scale, I've been holding steady at about a six for the past couple days. I'm not entirely sure why that is, but it is. I'm just feeling eh. I've been getting headaches often, and my back and neck are sore. And that just blows. Not so much a good thing.

My brother was hit by a drunk driver a while back--he's fine--but through a snafu with the insurance company, a towtruck dropped off the totalled vehicle at the house today. I'm seriously weighing the consequences of going out there with a baseball bat and working the carcass over. The neighbors would think I'm psycho, but would that really be so bad? I immagine a car would be a most righteous thing to beat the crap out of. The thing that is really stopping me from doing it is I'm not entirely sure who's property the car actually is at this moment, and I'm not sure of the legal and practical consequences of unleashing a little whoop ass. Sometimes it sucks being a libra.

In other news, my little brother got an Xbox--this nasty little creation by the evil, evil Microsoft company that you can play games on--and I'm addicted to Halo. Don't worry too much. There's just one video game every few years that captures my attention. I play it hard for a month or two and then I don't really touch the games of video for another few years.

I really don't want to stay at home tonight. But I really don't want to go out. Where does that leave me?

To write fiction, you must only keep answering the same question, and keep answering it well--what happens next? It doesn't seem like such a hard thing to do, really, but it is. I can't say why exactly. I have some guesses, but I don't reeally know. Perhaps it's because of that little word "well." What makes one answer a good answer, and what makes another one bad? I suppose that a good answer in feasable, logical, and still somehow unexpected. The feasable and logical criterion go quite well together. And the unexpected requirement wouldn't pose so much trouble were it in the absense of the other two. But together, all three leave few options.

So, why am I writing like a textbook? Fuck if I know. Just thinking out loud, I suppose.

This is a post.

This is a little section of my day where I sit down and type some thoughts in to a computer. This is something I have neglected to do for some time, and for an even longer time with any regularity. I'm back. I'm well rested. And I don't have any more worthwhile excuses. So if you see me slacking with my posts, and you see me in the grocery store or wherever, kick my ass. Seriously, kick my ass. There isn't an excuse for such behavoir. Doesn't exist.

I stole bowling shoes, tonight. And the funny part is, I didn't mean to. Entirely accidental. Just waltzed my ass right out the front door of sunset lanes with those goofy half red, half grey, velcro hoofers on my dogs. And ya know, I probably wouldn't have noticed for even longer if the velcro wasn't sticking to randome areas of my car while I was trying to drive.

Summer in Seattle is just euphoric. (And by the way, I've just decided to completely overuse and misuse the word euphoric for the next couple months). People come over and hang out. They go play, even on school nights. They swim. And they walk around in happy moods. And baristas use lots of ice for a few weeks. It's awesome. I think there's a lot of truth to the belief that Seattlites make better use of the good weather here, because there's so little of it the rest of the year.

I just love that there are people out there making a living off poetry. Writing it, reading it, singing it, thinking it. That's just cool. Cuz, I mean, it's poetry. Poetry. It's just euphoric. Poetry is the most useless thing in the world, and also the most precious--go figure that one out.

Did I mention that this entry is just going to be schizophrenic s all hell? It just will. It's after 3 am, and I'm hopped up on the sweetest of drugs, caffeine. And I just had lots of pleasurable contact with good people. And I had a long time today hanging out in the sun and playing badmitten, and soccer, and having lunch with the lovely and euphoric miss sonya walker. And I had a country benedict at Beth's, where I haven't been in way too long.

Beth's is great, although I must remember to not eat the food there. Just to sit and color with crayons and get that fabulous/lousy type service from punked out girls that I want to spank. The french fries are dependable, and you can get em with ranch, and the coffee just keeps coming. It's pretty damn...what's the word? Oh, right--euphoric.

I should talk about my trip. I have thoughts. I got an email today from a really cute underage goth chick that I met in Vilnius. Have I mentioned in the Blog yet my weakness for goths? Well, I have one, and it's dangerous. She had one of those little lower lip piercings--those drive me crazy. This girl made nobakov come alive for me. Ya know, one of those. Como se dice jailbait? In all honesty it was one of those "language barriers and lots of quietness, allow me to project bigger and better thoughts upon you than you are most likely capable of having" things. I do that on occasion. NOt often, but sometimes. So, knowing this, you might ask why am I still having contact with her of any kind? Well, you see, that's because I am a dirty dirty man. Her email said nothing, but basically pinged me for future email contact. I shot her back an email that just notched up the level of conversation, but only barely. At least I feel more comfortable with the fact that I will not do anything illlegal with her on the other side of the globe. I swear these sorts of thoughts don't happen often. I can already tell you don't believe me.

Pester me as the weeks and days go on to tell you more about the trip. I should write about the lithuanian rapper named "pepsi." I should tell you more about the argentinian tango god/coke fiend Eduardo. I should write up the whole potato chip arrect just for good measure. And so much more. Remind me, and I'll get them all in. But not right now.

I bought a subscription to the Empty Space Theater. I feel good about that. I think they'll have some pretty damn cool stuff this coming season. I have a lot of faith in Allison Narver. It should be rockin.

My ancient friend Scott (the friendship is ancient, not so much Scott) is in town and it's been great to see him. He's got some blueprints for a 6 shot potato canon revolver of sorts--I'm thinking I need to get the High Performance King in on that little project.

And besides that stuff is just rediculously good. Rediculously. MMMmmmm. I kiss you all on the neck a lot. A lot.

K, nighty night time.

Home.

I come home tomorrow. But that's tomorrow. tonight I'm in London. I have a pounding headache. I'm angry. And sad. And Tired. And overwhealmed. And just stuff. I need to have my own bed, and sleep for a long time, and then drink a shit-load of coffee. And then invite all the really cool people I know over for one giant cuddle-fest. I need processing time. And decompressing time. And, and, and I really wish I had someone here tonight to shuffle around London with me and half-heartedly kick lamp-posts. I keep clenching my jaw here. There's too many people, and too much noice, and I have these flashes where my blood pressure goes through the roof and I want to scratch out the eyes of everyone I see. And theres loud techno seemingly everywhere. I think I'm just really over tired and a little sick. It should go away soon. I really really want to go home, and I really really don't. Okay, force marching back to the hotel and going to sleep for at least 8 hours. Tomorrow.

Fine, you all want to know?

Potato chips.

I got arrested for potato chips.

And, yes, I'm serious.