Vignettes.

"He's a good boy, he loves his momma. He loves Jesus, and his country too. He's a good boy, working class white male. He loves violence, and his dumb girlfriend too. That's enough to make me sick."
-Propagandhi, "White, Proud and Stupid," sung to Tom Petty's "free fallin'".

On the drive back from my lovely thanksgiving in Steamboat Springs, Co, my mother and I stopped off for some food in the even more lovely town of Kremmling, Co. Doesn't Kremmling sound like some sort of malignant growth?
"I just got back from the doctor. It's bad news, looks like I've got a "kremmling". They're going to have to remove it surgically.

Yeah.

So, we go into the grocery store, and my mother and I peruse the magazines on a rack as she waits in line for the bathroom. There's this guy standing next to us, lazily flipping through some magazine. After my mom leaves, out of curiosity, I look over at the guy, just to see what he's reading, and as he rests the magazine back in it's little rack, I notice it just so happens to be a copy of Shooting Illustrated. SHOOTING ILLUSTRATED. I was surprised because, you know, I've never heard of that particular periodical, and the reason I've never heard of it is because it isn't sold in towns with populations larger than 17; or is it that it's not sold in towns the people of which have more than 17 teeth? I don't remember.

I don't know much about Kremmling, but one thing is certain, the people there like to kill stuff.

Sometimes I hate my race.

...

My Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Grandfather on my father's mother's father's father's father's father's father's side of the family immigrated from Ireland. He came ashore sometime between 1765 and 1767. He came here before us white folks had (re)named this country. Can you imagine how hard he must have worked just to make it through each day? Each generation has struggled though so much bullshit, day in and day out moving fucking mountains just to make it though to the next generation. All of these people have worked so hard to ensure a future, and all of their hard work has culminated in my body, in my being, my existence.

My potential.

So much sex. Wasted.

...

I made a wallpaper today, I think it's pretty. Feel free to adorn your drab old desktop with my purdy picture.



Kisses.

...

I'm so tired. You couldn't imagine.

Nothing I've said has much to do with anything else I would write otherwise.

The past few nights I've tried to write something here; though, to be honest, I haven't tried very hard. I mean, hypocritically speaking, I'm not really one for unnecessary words; I don't dig the "superfluous verbosity".

Let's try that again.

The past few nights I've tried to write something here. Something awful, something that would really piss someone off.

Man, the beginning of my last blog really wasn't that good; I suppose I shouldn't take a chapter from my own book, which I haven't written. So don't ask about it.

I'm in a really weird mood. I'm kinda drunk, and usually now is about the time that I would drink more; but through the unmistakable power of spite, I'm abstaining.

Maybe tonight I'll actually publish this sonofabitch.

Maybe tonight I'll write something worth publishing

Thanksgiving is one of those silly holidays that, at first, makes you thing that veganism sucks. Then you realize that thanksgiving sucks.

Really, any of these would be perfect opening lines for novels. Feel free to use them, I'm not going to.

Okay, I'm done now.

Au Revoir,
Willie.

"Hello" is all I could say, and all I ever will.

The past few nights I've tried to write something here, something meaningful, something heartfelt, but it just didn't work. The words just wouldn't materialize. I now have realized my inhibiting mistake; I wasn't quite drunk enough. Oh, and what other word in the language we speak could be more egocentric than "inhibiting"? The only vowel is "I". I thought that would be more clever than it turned out to be.

(I didn't really)

So now praise be the fact that I'm drunk now.

Right!

Right?

The reason for doing anything is to win the love and adoration of people.
Such is the reason I haven't written things here lately.
It's not that I don't want love and adoration.
It's just that I don't have that winning spirit.

Sometimes I like to look at myself in the mirror.
It's not that I'm vain or anything;
I just like to remember how I could've been if I hadn't gone the way I've gone. Me staring at who I could've been, or who I can't be, now.

Do you ever wonder what a mirror shows when it's placed parallel to another mirror?
Me too.

If you're reading this right now, then you must really love me.
Really, you must, and if you're reading this, and if you love me, then I have no more words for you, because I couldn't possibly think of any-of-a-number-of-words to express my gratitude to you for loving me.

Good thing no one's reading this.

A grown man sits, drunk, in the same chair he's been drinking in for almost three years, now.

November 10, 2:47am
He still remembers the day he bought it with the money he borrowed from his best friend atthetime. It's one of his most beloved possessions. This chair has been, probably, the most dependable character in his life; and now he depends on it once again. He must sit here in this little chair of his and pound-out something, must communicate something, like lyrics to a song that he'll either (a) never have enough inspiriation to write, or (b) waste screaming at the sky to be forgotten. These lyrics will go something like this.

and-a-one.
and-a-two.
and-a-onetwothreefour

November 11, 5:04am
Until tonight, I hadn't yet known exactly how accurately the expression "OMFG!!!" could be applied. If only I didn't know now what I didn't know then, I would be a much happier person.

What the fuck. What the fuck. Wha-wha-whawawawa, urgmm-urr-urr-urrmmmm, um, wha? Wait, what? Wha? Wait, what the fuck? Wha? What the fuck just happened? What? Um, whoa. Uhh, whoa. Wait, what? Whoa. Whoa. Wait, what just happened?--And thus sums up the gist of my mind's train of thought of the past hour and a half.

But, seriously, fuck that shit.

A newborn baby cries loudly in an empty nursery.

So, I haven't exactly been updating this blog very often, which is fine, because I haven't had many drunken words for anyone lately-which is not to say that I haven't had words to say, nor have I not been drunk-but it's just to say that there is no one lately for whom I would have such words. This is okay, this not having anyone to speak spitefully to. So why am I writing? I feel that I'm trying to prove to myself that I can write, that I'm not a lost cause. Um, so, nevermind about. I think I'm writing now just to say, well, something. I know I must have something to say somehow, to someone. But who? Probably not you, though; you who has so saintly taken a concern for my mental well-being. Sorry, but that's just the way the cookie crumbles.

Whatever. I think the reason why I haven't written anything here lately is the same reason that I can't write anything of any worth/substance/impact/meaning right now; I only wish I knew what that reason was.

Good night y'all:)
Willie.