I hate the whole shabang. It could be a song. A sad song. But better than what's stenchin' the top 40. I' m bringing sexy back.... Menschen sind böse. Utterly self-centered. Breathe in self-righteousness in one second, and exhale in the next. It's like a 70 year old womans smell. That whore smell, where the perfume makes you sick and the eyeliner creeps you out. They'll bitch about being judged, and excommunicate you in a heart-beat. No thoughts, no compassion, just cold, hard Catholicism. "Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse." They'll relish the devices of the shallow, two and 1/2, a nice house in a good neighborhood, and the "love of their life." But where's the contribution to the poor little tykes out there who don't have anything? Where's the aknowledgment that there are people suffering? And it's easy, to keep it out of sight and mind. It's easy to say you're a Christian, and then be a spend-thrift. To buy thirty dollar shirts, when that thirty dollars wisely spent could feed a family for a week in underdeveloped countries. "We earned are security, we earned the wealth we have." Bullshit. Given the right circumstances, the nonexistence of any upward mobility, most here in this country would be starving--and not by choice. No more trendy Chic-fil-a, they'd be happy with a bowl of unbranded pilaf. And it's stinking to the high heavens. Katrina, Indonesia, Africa, three to four months in our minds and then we'll place them to the side. When did materialism take the place of social wealth. I fear what future generations will say about this generation. We have the power to change the world! We can at least try. We don't have to be so complacent, so stupid, so self-involved, so fucking trained to be consumerists so the rich get richer and the poor...destitute. We might fail, but we'll never know if we don't try. God, if all they will say is that we tried, it'll be something. If all they will say is that we made a difference in our country, if we changed our minds about the world, educated ourselves, and allowed your compassion to seep in, we will be a testament. A generation can be a testament. A testament for the ages. To show the future generations of your love evinced in man's actions, and to bring shame and change of those that are still around and have ignored the questions. God, I see those people who rely so heavily on mommy and daddy, to pay for college, for elaborate weddings, kaufen teuren Auto, and it's all me, me, me. What about them? This is life: to eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. We don't need phat kicks, cosmetics are completely, well, vain,  but we can provide. If everyone had the food, the drink, the cheer, the world would be amazing. A hungry man is harder to preach to than a full. And it doesn't have to be big things, it can be little, in fact it must start out little, to begin with. At the individual level. Save the money mommy and daddy give you, sponsor a child with it, don't eat out so much, and you can have a enormous impact on somebody, you can feed them, cultivate hope in their hearts, show them love, the purest kind, self-sacrificial. We are all on death row, but if everyone could drink, eat, and be merry during their lives it would be a nice last meal before the scales. "Blessed are the meek, for theirs shall be the earth. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." And how can we look down on somebody with the same fate as us--execution--and not feel kinship? I am reminded of Dickens' A Christmas Carol: "the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of the people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journey's" (8). God, I am so ashamed....

In a singular moment, Indescribable Elation plummeted from his high emotional precipice to the Oh Rats! of the city streets. Time of death, approximately 11:15pm.

I had just learned that Eisley was playing the 9:30 on the eighth and twenty (of Marz), but then remembered that my exam is that night, so I can't have fun. Perhaps I can take the exam earlier??? Perhaps not. I don't know. Friskiness, due to God Knows What, has crept from my cold toes to my chilled arms; and my fingers are trying to stave off the bitterness by typing  loonnngggg wwooorrrrddddds. Onamotopeia (?), supercilious, fanfaron, transubstantiation, eucharist, presumptiuous (?), transcontinental, and such. They're warming up. How about some made up words? couchyless, myundundate, klythescapoola, figurooness, lacivonity, euphoobla, capocity (retarded brother of capacity), josgogo, xylebooborooronony, and hubert.

I hate the days in which my brain feels numb and reclusive. They're occuring on an unprecedented level lately. I wake up and pray for a worthwhile thought to formulate in my weiss matter, but I am usually disappointed. I believe it is my addiction to certain forms of mass media that diminishes the chance of quality thought to transact between me neurons. Quality is better than quantity. Although, any degree of quantity right now would be open-armed and affectionately welcomed by my mind. Perhaps it is my diet, my genetics, my sleeping patterns, or lack of excerise both mental and physical. I don't know, but it's getting dryer and dryer north of my neck.

There has to be more. There has to be hope and security, in a house with a picket fence, and Ivy creeping up along its brick sides---where the patriarch can look outside and see the sun and the green leaves, and it would be a mirror for his soul. Where the fear and self-doubting of intelligence, manliness, and a promising future are all white-washed away under many layers of adamantine paint. The mornings of such a state, full of life and bursting with unbridled exuberance, shake the neurons and cause your eyes to dart with overstimulation. This state, however, is unattainable. The white picket fence with it's forgetful dye, cracks and bleeds. The Ivy withers away. And hope and security and self-actualization are only lies whispered by a fleeting innocence, determined not to be pushed to the peripheral---"fight, fight, against the dying of the light." The mornings, a butter knife against the palm, reduce your eyes to the thoughtless stares you become engrossed in. The people leaving you, pursuing their lives, are panicking reminders of the hopelessness. And yet, there is that preposterous innocence---the innocence given by each man to himself, and reviled by God---that keeps whispering "work harder. Happiness, like salvation, is earned." And it gets to you. It seeps into your spirit, like water on a barren log, and weighs you down. You start believing in the lie "there has to be more," when in actuality there isn't.

I am tired of Winter. I need it to end, so I can see all the good things that come only in Spring (Fruhling). I miss the Babies Breath, the pesty dandelions, the bee's, even with their aggressiveness. I miss the lightness in my step, and the warm air, and the girls who wear their pretty dresses.

Zack and I made a rendition of the Passion of Christ, in still frame format, with the best orange soda around, Sunkist, as the Christ. We entitled it The Passion of the Sunkist. I was Peter, and Zack photographed (with his cell-phone) scenes ranging from Peter's thrice denial of Christ, to Jesus' resurrection. We shot on location at Northside Lanes Bowling Alley, in beautiful Winchester, Virginia lol. It all started when I took Zacks 1/3 full can of Sunkist (which I had given him), and threw it on the ground and stepped on it. Then I told him how we should make a documentary entitled the Passion of the Sunkist.And from there with a lil' inspiration from the Holy Spirit and sleepiness and our fav drink, we diagrammed the rest of it.

In related news, we scoped out Da Bus today. It isn't really a bus at all, but a sort of living room on wheels. I am enamored with its monstrosity, and I am not even joking. It's the tightest livingroom/bedroom/kitchen on wheels! Da Bus looks in pretty bad shape, but if Pimp my Ride were to "pimp" it for us, you know FUEL/me would be cruising all throughout Va. in her. I am so glad I spotted her, she is the bestest auto I've seen.