Call It What You Will...

Pointless...
Unless I can find a time machine, and the ageless ability to chase down each interesting thread to its conclusion, then I'm not interested. Myself, I'm not even remotely stirred by the notion of otherworldly pleasures, nor the need to rut around like pigs on the poke, so to speak.
Clones, then?
I wish, but it'd be better to just say and do the things as they are meant to mean. Ha, and be meant...
Life sucks, and WTF am I doing here? Please tell me that there is nothing after this worthless shithole life, or that it's all ice cream and orgasms, or whatever the kids these days are calling it. I highly doubt it. We are probably resoulcycled over and over, usually as a bug that gets stepped, on or baby varmint that gets immediately gulped down by a predator, interspersed with painfully long spans of a shitty life led by some dood trying to just fucking live. Wah wahhhhhhh, sad.
I don't know what to do sometimes. Tired of wishing things, now I just want to be able to do them. The means...
I'm ok though, I guess. Early sparks of motivation?
I am a tidal wave that will hopefully roll over the streets and wash away the trash and shitty buildings all ghettoey...
Ew.
Muthafucka gotst ta go!!!

Sippy Time...

Hey there, howdy doody!!!
I'm the Union Man, you can call me Rudy!!!
Need to use the bathroom, hon? I will get the usual banter out of the way. Saw The Wolverine today. I thought it was great, fuck Yahoo's weird bullshit prepremiere verbal flogging. Also, blah blah blah...
It is 6:38 in the a.m. as I type that. Mmmmm, coffee. I was outside smoking, and thinking back on, sayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, since around 2006ish. Damn, my blog has taken a tour through Bleaksville by way of quicksand. All gloppity gloop, and a bunch of sucking noises, as you sink, sink, sink...
The darkness, however, does give way to light. It doesn't matter that this light may blossom only to a cold and dreary grey throb of...
Not today, boys. I actually find mirth in my melancholy meanderings, thus they no longer hold sway. I'm riding the waves like Snake Plissken in that crappy sequel that one guy did. You know the one.
Dimples McGee I think was his handle.
It is now 6:47.
I am watching some Gerard Butler soccer dad movie where he seems to be humping his way through the moms and such. Wha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-t? Uma Thurman is waiting in his bedroom, and she just now found out she's actually in his Middle Eastern landlord's bedroom, possibly to be swept away in the wiskery broomage of the sex trade's brisk arm... movement of some sort. Couldn't think of a good word to sploot all over that sentence.
Anyhoo, not sure as to say how I feel. I don't whine about anymore, or mope so much. My only thang seems to be physical energy, but I'm working on that, too. Too bad cigarettes are so awesome. Why do I love thee, yet you reward us with things like wrinkles, lung cancer, no dreams of running a marathon, etc...?
I would love to not need to work for a living. I'm only 40, I'd love to take up boxing. No aspirations, no worry. I don't want anything other than just to have that spring to my step. I remember shadow boxing as a kid. Nothing fancy, but I got to the point where I could keep up a constant barrage for several minutes without letup or really even tiring. I have no idea why I did this from an early age through my early teenage years. I also always did hundreds of sit ups daily, and pull ups. I grew up amazingly in good shape. Skinny as fuck, but I never got beat down. I got fucked with alot, being smaller, but never had any repeat customers.
Why do I slam face first into the bricks every time I think of daring to break a sweat?
No idea, I need momentum. I need to tear my shirt from my bronzed breastices with Hulkamania in mein eyeholes...
I need a target. I need a muse. I need a hug in heart and mind.
I seek some peace, a smattering of solace on my toast. All melty...
I now turn the page to the next chapter of IT ALL.
And I no longer fear you. I have memorized the last zillion pages, and have committed them to, uhhh...
Memory? Yeah. So back up off my D, and give me back that mojo.
It is now 7:07 a.m. I fade off without even a cricket's chirp...
Nor a mouse fart.

Someone's On CPT...

Wow, my amigo looks like he's been through the emotional wringer. I hope to visit him in the near future.
I also have to be out of here in, say... 20 minutes, so I'm going to just bang out what's in my deranged and delusional head quick and dirteh...
First off, I'm hungry. Fried chicken sounds nice, yet alas. I was getting fat again eating alot of Burger King innards that were being brought home. I was making mein own Whoppers and Chicken Sammiches, times INFINITY. Dangerous, yet delicious, I always say...
Damn it, 20 minutes are up. How time fucking flies, folks. Peace out.

Mental Floss...

I struggle with a bit of a tussle. A quibble with all of the bits, and butts to boot. I feel as if I should warn you of something, yet it escapes me once again.
Or is it due to lazed glaziness of mein eyes...
What about your dog, does he have glaucoma, too?
I lucked out today, and went home from work after only three hours, not even all of that was spent actually on the line. I am grateful for this, but what do I do when it doesn't go as smoothly?
I fret and bemoan all of existence.
I would love to be super loaded. The idiot who said that money can't buy happiness must've had money. Either that, or he was just a douche...
I saw Grown Ups 2 tonight. Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I give it a solid B+, but definitely more early matinee fare. I can't imagine I would've shit myself over Pacific Rim Job, but I'm waiting for some other thangies to come out in the near future...
Anyhoo, boredom looms. Laters.

Dr. Strange...

 Arrrrrrggggggghhhh, look at mein head. I actually look like some inbred guy that I occasionally have to work with. Sad for him. No problem for me because when I'm done with this little gem on my webcam...

I will become a doctor of the strange and bizarre.
Dayumn, what if my head really looked like that?!?
Anyhoo, watching Resident Evil something on blu ray with the commentary on. The director is married to Mila Jovavich, if that's even how you spell her name.
Jehovahvich. I give up. They should, too. Stop making them so they can be started over and done right...
Please?