Four Hundred and Fifty Seven...

Four Hundred and Fifty Six...

God dammit. I wasn't too into this drawing to begin with but when I had finally finished I realized it was basically some freakish version of a character created by the idiotic Tetsuya Nomura for the contrived video game series, "Kingdom Hearts." I am posting it anyway because it is important that I stand by whatever I create even when it's as embarrassing as this.

For comparison: http://campinfinity.cs.luc.edu/Members/session1/group6/kristen/kh2sora_pic

Four Hundred and Fifty Five...

Four Hundred and Fifty Four...

Four Hundred and Fifty Three...

Time to nerd out with one of the three animes ever made that was worth watching.

Cowboy Bebop.



"Hunger is the best spice they say."

"Just like that... sing for me, please."

"I'm not a criminal. Oh that makes me seem even more like a criminal, doesn't it?"

"I've bled all that kind of blood away."

"I felt like I was watching a dream I could never wake up from."

"I'm not going there to die. I'm going to find out if I'm really alive."

"BANG."

-Spike Spiegel





You're Gonna Carry That Weight.

Four Hundred and Fifty Two...

"Still though, I think if you're not self-obsessed, you're probably boring." - Dave Eggers

Fuck you, Dave.

Four Hundred and Fifty One...

She grew up on drive-bys and LA gang signs.

China: Orwell
United States: Huxley

Four Hundred and Fifty...

Of course you haven't: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p1kbzpYRogg

Four Hundred and Forty Nine...

We all can't be beautiful, but we can all be nice.



We must nuke the oil spill shut. It is the only way. This is what it has come to. Damage control. Drastic measures, ASAP.

(Subject change. I am now talking about Charles Bukowski not oil.)

Bukowski is not one of my favorite writers, actually I can't make a solid judgment yet as I have not read any of his books, but all the same it would still be safer to say he is not my favorite simply based on the fact I have not read his works. I say this because people see me posting a video of Bukowski and they likely think, "Oh, he posted a video of Bukowski, he must really like him." Then they end up wasting money on buying me Bukowski books for my birthday when I could just as easily get them from the library. It's always something like that.

I think it would be a good practice that if you got something you didn't want for your birthday and you return it for money, instead of keeping the money, you give the money back to the person who purchased the gift for you. Otherwise, it's like you took money out of their wallet and proceeded to buy whatever you wanted. I feel this act of gift replacement is a rejection of the thought part in the familiar phrase I won't bother reciting here. Maybe we should just stop buying birthday presents, what a stupid concept.

Anyway, I'm just embedding this video, that's all I'm doing.



I think it's awfully considerate of Bukowski to be so honest to those kids.

Four Hundred and Forty Eight...

I have read dependable reports that there WILL be a hurricane in the gulf, and when this happens the oil in the water WILL be hit by lightning and it undoubtedly WILL catch fire, creating a firestorm sweeping across the country burning everything in it's path. I hope this does not happen, but it WILL based on my infallible information sources, and while this WILL be amazing, it WILL also be very scary because no one has ever seen a hurricane that was also on fire.

Four Hundred and Forty Seven...

Four Hundred and Forty Six...

Hunchback don't care what anyone thinks.

What compels you to write?

Uhh.

Why do you write?

Uhh.

What makes you write what you write?

Uhh.

What made you decide you liked to write?

Uhhhhhhh.

What message do you want to send with your writing?

Umm.

What do You Write?

Uh.

I think Janelle Monae is an exciting new musician and I would highly recommend you supported her because I don't think a musician like this comes along very often.

Four Hundred and Forty Five...

Four Hundred and Forty Four...

Good job Lakers, you won a basketball game.

Four Hundred and Forty Three...

Title of my book: THE RISE AND FALL OF MYRNA ROSE

Funny Orwell: He sat down with a friendly smile. The silly blond face beamed into his. Winston had a hallucination of himself smashing a pickax right into the middle of it.

Good ol' Heller: When I read something saying I've not done anything as good as "Catch-22" I'm tempted to reply, "Who has?"

Old line: "What d'ya mean mediocrity?!"

The text and background color of this new template work quite well together, wouldn't you agree? Exceptional readability.

Four Hundred and Forty Two...

DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!!


Pleasant drawing of nice woman:




DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE MOTHER FUCKER!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!!DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!!DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!! D-



Dear Mr. Orwell,

Please help me.

Sincerely,

Tyrone Swanson

Four Hundred and Forty One...

Four Hundred and Forty...

Sad songs for sad drawings.

Four Hundred and Thirty Nine...

Four Hundred and Thirty Eight...

Four Hundred and Thirty Seven...

"We're so fucking BORING." - Charles Bukowski

Fuck yourself Buk.

Three Hundred and Thirty Six...

Move over Guy.

Y/N/DC?

OMG SMART FOOD WHITE CHEDDAR POPCORN YOU ARE SO GOOD.

Four Hundred and Thirty Five...

Excerpt

Coach indignantly ripped the mike out of Powers hand and, turning to his audience, said, "If you want to go to a basketball game then go to a basketball game, if you want to stay home and eat potato chips, then do that. Actually don't do that. I've noticed a lot of students in this school have become quite fat lately and I think it's important we take a moment to appreciate sports not for the chanting and popularity but for the fact it keeps you from turning into a lard ass. You know, I really have to wonder sometimes what your parents feed you. God damn, eat a vegetable. Now-"

Powers was grasping at the mike but Coach planted a hand on his face and pushed him away.

"What are you doing Powers? Stop it I'm giving my speech, you'll have your turn. As I was saying...dammit, lost my train of thought... Fuck it, now, I want to talk about video games. I hear about these video games all the damn time and I'm getting sick of it. Humans were not meant to sit in front of a screen vegetating away controlling fake characters racking up fake points, we're humans, we're animals – if Darwin is to be believed – and I think it's time we start living like animals, not as vegetables. Eat vegetables, don't live-"

"Ah, thanks for that rousing spee-"

Coach snatched the mike back and said, "I'm not done. As I was saying, don't live as a vegetable, you won't be young forever and someday you'll look up from your high score and be old, bloated, and ugly and you'll wonder, you'll wonder to yourself where the time went and you'll wish you knew what living in the real world was like." Coach scratched his head for a moment, thinking of what other things he needed to say. "Now I've also noticed that kids are spending far too much time in the hallway during lunch time, you kids need to get outside and run around and stop blocking my hall way. Go get some exercise it burns fat. I tripped over a girl the other day as many of you know. I kicked her in the head, knocking her out for several minutes. Now I didn't mean to but I did and I think it would help if you kids went outside at lunch instead of taking naps in the middle of the floor. I'm just saying. Well, what else? Our basketball team sucks and we'll probably lose but we play hard and love the game. If you want to watch kids who have fun doing what they love, come and watch my basketball team, if you want to root for a team because they're winning – fair weather fans as their known – then go to the football games, I don't really care either way, I'm drunk."

Coach tossed the mike to Powers and walked off the court, marched up the stands, and squeezed half his butt back onto his small portion of bench.

Four Hundred and Thirty Four...

"We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness."

Four Hundred and Thirty Three...

Meet everybody once.

Four Hundred and Thirty Two...

A monster! Kill it!


Killlll iiiiiit!!!

Four Hundred and Thirty One...

Come to Potato Palace. The place where everyone is happy and no one ever dies.

Three Hundred and Thirty...

A Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich

"The creation of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is quite simple and can sometimes be fun. George would you hand me the bread?"

George reached into the cupboard and pulled out a bag of Wonder Bread. He tossed it to me and I caught it.

"Thank you George. Now, we'll open the bag and pull out two slices of bread and lay them face down on the counter." I placed the pieces of bread gently on the counter.

"Now, George, retrieve for me the peanut butter from the cupboard."

George stared at me for a moment. He looked confused.

"The cupboard, George."

George spun in a circle, stopped, grasped the cupboard, threw it open, and pulled out a jar of Smucker's Raspberry Jelly. He placed it in my hand.

"Is the peanut butter in the fridge again?"

He nodded solemnly.

"Get the peanut butter out of the fridge!"

He swung the fridge open and tossed the peanut butter to me. I caught it and set it next to the jelly. Unsealing the lid of the peanut butter, I took a knife and stuck it into the jar, the peanut butter was hard and resisted my knifing, but I managed to liberate a fair amount. I placed it on the bread and began to spread it. The hardened peanut butter clung to the bread and tore it slightly.

I looked at George, "Do you see this!? Do you see what happens when you put the peanut butter in the fridge?"

George nodded and hung his head.

The peanut butter was applied. I replaced the cap on the peanut butter and moved to open the jelly. The lid would not budge. Damn the safety seal.

"George, open this for me."

George took the jar and forcefully turned the lid. He gritted his teeth and strained, twisting with all his might, blood vessels bulged in his neck, but the jar was stubborn and would not come open. He lifted it above his head and slammed it on the counter.

"Stop! What are you doing!? Stop doing that George!"

He continued slamming the jar until it shattered into a mess of glass and jelly. He looked at me and shrugged. I shook my head, this would have to do. Taking my knife, I reached over and carefully scooped up some jelly off the counter. George pulled the fridge open and began to dig through it, pulling items out and placing them on the counter. Cheese, pickles, salami, whip cream, ham, a bottle of grape juice, syrup, everything it seemed.

"The sandwich is complete George, there are no more ingredients," I reminded him, concentrating on balancing the jelly on my knife. I reached the bread without any spillage and plopped the chunky red substance onto the peanut butter which sat atop the bread.

"There! Now we-

George eased a thin slice of ham atop the sandwich.

"George! Stop it! That's not right!"

George had a pickle in his hand now and he set this on top of the ham. My jaw dropped. Before I could think to push him away, George had spread Nutella over everything. I wanted to stop this but I felt helpless, everything seemed to move in slow motion as I watched my creation be destroyed before my very eyes.

"Stop it! Stop! This is not correct!"

George spread half a bottle of horse radish on the sandwich, then he added three slices of cheese.

"No! What are you doing!? This is not correct! Put away the mustard! Where did you get the roast beef George! I am so upset with you right now George! Grape juice!? A fish! I did not know...now, why would you put that-"

George ignored me.

"Oh for fuck sakes! Everything is wrong!"

He now held the Cool Whip. He turned it over and dumped the entirety of it on top of the sandwich, burying it under a mountain of frothy cream. He grabbed the bottle of ketchup and squirted out a generous dose of the red liquid.

"This is not right, George! Are you listening to me George!? This is wrong! This is wrong! You're doing it wrong, George! Very wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong!"

He poured on some salsa and then scooped out some tuna fish, plopping it atop the heap of ingredients. The sandwich reached critical mass and spilled over the counter and onto the floor, a complete disaster. This was by far the worst peanut butter and jelly and horseradish and tuna fish and whip cream and cheese and pickles and grape juice and syrup and ham and salami and fish and roast beef and Nutella and ketchup sandwich ever created.

Three Hundred and Twenty Nine...

What Good is a Book?

"Why is it that we must be forced against our will to read these mediocre works of literature anyway?!"

It was the 16 year old girl in the third row of the class who would not shut up.

Mr. Leonard sat slouched forward on the edge of his desk, slowly rolling over a copy of Tess of the d'Urbervilles in his hands. He was a man approaching his late seventies and severely worn from years of teaching kids who no longer believed in anything that came before their immediate time of existence. He exhaled a long wheezy sigh, as his aging body seemed to crumple to the floor.

The girl continued, pushing her black rimmed, designer glasses up on her nose. "I mean, essentially all of these writers are so undeniably obtuse, not to mention obsolete, and they're all essentially wholly consisting of nothing but hot air! Hot air I say! I mean, let's consider this book I am holding here, the one you had us read last time? Slaughter House Five? I mean, what the hell was this atrocious, nonsensical book all about anyway? This Kurt guy is a certified loony! And Catcher in the Rye? Don't get me started. It's just the meandering of an individual who wanders around pondering his existence and bemoaning his troubles!"

She reached down and pulled another book from her back pack.

"And this selected novel I have pulled from my back pack and now hold in my left hand, and I will have you notice for a moment that I have immaculate finger nails, a bright mauve colorization, the aesthetic merits of which one could not argue against. But as I was saying, this book I am holding, here, well, I can't even enunciate the title?! Or even the author's for that matter. I believe this would be Russian but is that matter really of importance here? The book itself is absolutely horrid!"

Mr. Leonard, sliding his hands down his withered face, said, "Why do you have all of these books in your backpack?"

"Oh, I was going to burn them after the period of my day which I refer to as school had come to it's inevitable conclusion."

"Oh."

"Anyway, this one, put your eyes here, which would now be my right hand, your left. This work of literature is entitled, Sometimes A Great Notion. God I hate this book, detest it, abhor it! It was so uninteresting and it was essentially, in-disputably lacking substance in any substantial way! All of these antiquated writers, why do we even bother to listen to them anymore? Why even bother? Let's be frank, I mean, they're generic, I mean, geriatric, they didn't even comprehend, essentially, what they were essentially talking about. What I am trying to say is that, writers suck! I'm better off not reading them at all! I mean, I could write a better work of literature than these dolts but I won't because every book ever written is stupid and writers are stupid, they are terrible people, you know? Sometimes I want to go and take a gargantuan shit right on Kurt Vonnegut's gr-"

A large book soared through the air, hitting her in the face.

"Oh my God! Did you not just pick up Infinite Jest and heave it across the room at me striking me directly in my nose?" Blood leaked from her nose, dribbling down her chin, pooling on her desk, and onto her shirt. "You totally threw a substantially sized novel, which is inarguable since Infinite Jest is just over one thousand pages, locating it in the upper echelon of obscene page counts, and this said book, this tome, hit me in my said face!"

Everyone sat up, wide awake, staring at Mr. Leonard, who stood up, straightened his tie, and walked around behind his desk. Retirement was less than a year away but he was not thinking of this at the moment, he was wondering how easily a metal bat could crush a 16 year old's skull. He dug around in his desk for a moment and procured a large metal bat. He turned and looked at the girl, slapping the sweet spot of the bat in his palm.

Cupping her hand over her nose to catch the spilling blood, the girl asked, "Are you presently holding in your hands a thirty six inch regulation college metal baseball bat?"

Mr. Leonard stepped up to where the girl sat, bat in palm, mind gone. Carefully lifting the bat above his head, preparing to bring the wrath of over 100 years of baseball bat engineering perfection down on her skull, he said, "Kurt Vonnegut was a great man and-!"

"Uh, no he wasn't! And, furthermore, what are you doing with the aforementioned baseball bat suspended above your head in such a menacing position?" She held up her index finger to signal him to wait and said, "Just a second I absolutely must acquire a photo of this partially humorous, yet partially terrifying pose for placement on one of my several Facebook galleries, it's exact location to be determined at a later time." After digging around in her back pack for a moment, she pulled out her iPhone, aimed, and clicked a photo.

He loosened his grip on the bat and looked around the room. All of the students were staring at him wide eyed, tightly gripping their desks in anticipation. He lowered the bat to his side and dropped it on the floor. He hung his head and tears rolled down his rugged cheeks.

She slid the iPhone back in her bag, procured two tissues of Kleenex and stuffed them up her nose. She looked at him bug eyed and continued, "So, anyway, the most atrocious book I've ever, indisputably, read in said class would have to be...1984. That book is super ridiculous, beyond absurd. Let me rephrase-"

A boy seated in the back, stood up and proclaimed, "I have Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis!"

Four Hundred and Twenty Eight...

Complete Shit

And time, and time, and writing and then they stopped and then and then and then... George peeled back the covers and found his wife but she was not his wife, she was not. And soon, the minutes, and time, and a spaceship, and...something else, there was always another thing, it sat on the periphery of whatever it was he was supposed to do. Something forgotten, written down but gone and he began to wonder why he needed to write anything down in the first place. Was he forgetting things? What did he forget, would he remember it if he had forgotten it? The stairs, there were twenty of them, and he took them slowly. So slowly as though he were cherishing each and every one, a two story house, made of wood, and nothing else than wooden trees. A minute passed and he was still the same person.

The door bell, always the door bell, he grabbed a book and threw it at the door. It hit the door but fell to the floor, it did not go through. The door was made of mahogany and four inches thick, he would need a large book. He found another book and threw it at the door. The door bell rang again mocking him. There was a voice, from the door, or his head he could not say. He went to the window and tucked the blinds back, peeking to see who was at the door. There was no one, he looked behind him, the TV, that's all just the TV. Someone had come to visit someone on the TV.

Why did no one ever think to visit him? His TV spent much of it's life in the on position. He sat down to watch it but hated the show, he stood back up. He pulled every drawer open, slowly, one by one, admiring the wood paneling and marble counter top. He set his face on the counter to feel the cold surface. Could he hear the ocean in this counter top? Or was that just sea shells. Sea shells, a minute passed, and he was the same person he was two minutes ago. He thought to go outside, get fresh air, that's what mother told him to do.

He had known what he wanted when he woke up that morning. He had known it. What was it now? Where? He searched the cupboards once more, pulling out everything and piling it on the floor. Piece by piece, taking stock of his things. A large kitchen knife. Pancake mix. Almonds. White bread. Spoons. Forks. A cheese grater. Another spoon. Another cheese grater, why? Why two? A bowl, plates, bowl, apples, breaks, teeth, dentistry, health care, politics, money. He had to write this down in the future. Finally, in the pile he found a small box of sugar.

There were footsteps on the stairs, twenty steps, slowly following the other. He looked up and froze. He grabbed the sugar and poured it down the sink, they ate too much sugar, too much sugar, makes you fat, don't get fat, health care, don't smoke, don't drink, don't do drugs. Don't eat sugar. Too much sugar, makes you fat. The sugar congealed in the drops of water at the base of the sink.

There were footsteps, behind him, light, a woman's. He turned, there she was, a woman, his wife, his lover, his enemy, who? When did she arrive?

"Do you want to watch the TV with me?" she said.