Duh nah nah NAAAAAH!

You got the thiiiing!

Up to (the) date

I decided to do a video ramble this time around, and throw it up on YouTube for here, RvB, Facebook, and the like. Here it is. Enjoy.



And here is the song YouTube made me split into another video. It is rough. You are warned.



P.S. This is the srs bsns you were asking about.

As promised

So, here we are again, Blogger. Just you, me, and the sunrise.

What shall we discuss? How about musix? Not quite as "hep" as those weird, electronic...tube things Mr. Stevens is always going on about, but it's probably about the best you're going to get out of me.

Anyway, I've got a couple of things to mention: I am completely, madly, drastically, utterly, and other adverbs in love with Max Bemis of Say Anything fame. Listening to his band has basically knocked me out of the boring, funky stagnating stage I'd been in as far as songwriting goes. Thank you, sir.

Of course, I don't think I can probably pull off anything to rival his punkish, post-emocore completelydamnawesomenessitude, but we shall see. It's very apparent lately that acoustic guitars severely hamper your badassedness. Severely. Alas.

Still, I press on. There will probably be lyrics and suchlike posted here coming up soonish, as well as some links to appropriate YouTube videos, if I get bored enough. I'd plug my Myspace URL, but, really, the only person that reads this is Elissa, and I don't want you to have to forfeit your immortal soul.

I'm still struggling to write the verse parts for one of the songs I've been at for the last few days. I'm really happy with the chorus, but that's as far as I've got. I need to figure out what the friggin' song is about first, I think. Writing in new styles is hard.

Also hard: trying to write happy songs.

Who does that?

Also, after those guys, check out Jon Frusciante. He's neato.

END TRANSMIZZLE

Pro(digal)bably

Since this whole shebang (Isn't it odd that that phrase refers to an Irish shack? How does something like that defy common knowledge? Seriously. We're just casually throwing about references to across the pond abodes. Weird.) seems to have gotten a makeover and rebirth and all that jazz in accordance with the new year, and since my New Year's Resolution #11,243 is to do the same to myself, I've decided to keep on keeping on, and, once finished with that, to post here a bunch.

So, what's new?

• I'm learning Portuguese (Both major versions, as I'd like to be conversational when I hit Brazil this summer, but I have the sneaking suspicion European will come in ever so slightly handier when I, you know, move to Europe, and all. Fancy that.)

• I'm hard at work on my album. It turns out that completely and radically changing your style takes a bit of time. Writing music of varying genres is hard. Like...advanced calculus level hard, when you're used to sounding a certain way. Memo to me: buy an electric guitar. It is suddenly entirely necessary. Also, learn to play your damn keyboard.

• Novels are long, but nevertheless exciting. Continuity? Not so much. Sure, making sure all of the fun little later relevant details are nice to stick in there, and it's like reverse engineering a puzzle, but, really, rereading something you wrote four hundred times isn't exactly exciting, when all you're doing is trying to make sure it makes sense with what comes after. Gah.

• I'm thinking about getting a second job to help save up cash to make my moving/vacation plans run smoother. I'm also contemplating working in a factory again, for the same reason. I'm even debating quitting Geek Squad entirely, to head back to FabCon, because, let's face it, kids: $500-$600 a week is hard to argue with.

• I'm busy reading Adam Davies' second novel, Goodbye Lemon. He is the dude I want to be when I grow up. Well, him, and Chuck Palahniuk. And Douglas Adams. Also, Chuck's last name sounds like Paula Nick. Oh, grandparents and their crazy ways with names. Joe-sph. Ha.

No, really, Wanda.

Ha.

• Since marathon training is sort of difficult these days, in the barren, icy Minnesotan tundra, I've reluctantly committed myself to doing ridiculous amounts of sit-ups, American Psycho style. My eventual goal is to look like Christian Bale does in that movie, without all of the murdering and the crazy. In an entirely unrelated note, I should really stop eating so much chocolate...

Anyway, that about wraps up my ranting for the day. I'm glad I'm still allowed to post on here. Thanks for your patronage.

P.S. I totally demand a rematch, next time you're back. Me and the Oxford English Dictionary have been hanging out. You shall rue the day.

Life

It was here, it was wonderful, and it was short, but it was great.

Now it's over, it has gone, and I'm lost, so now I'll wait.

MAGIC:

________________________
244300 244300 244300
__________________________
XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX
________________________
X244XX X022X X000XX
________________________
020100 020100 022100
__________________________
XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX
________________________
X244XX X022X X000XX

Invisible

But still, in the end, so very there. The last bastion of sensibility, still grasping the slipping firmaments of truth, lest they be lost to the void, along with the rest.

Quickly now, running, racing to beat the bounding fires, tearing at the heels of sanity.

All is not lost.

Unicorns are so much cooler

Really.

They are.

And that's all I have to say on the matter.

Neovita

Ipse clueo.

Adfectio.

Novus.

Four. Oh, one? Kay.

The future is a vast, fickle mistress, stowing secrets in dark places, obscured and obfuscated in overly obtuse and ominous locales.

It flees as a gazelle, clumsily bounding away, ever out of reach.

What, then, is left? Is there even a choice?


Run.

(8*3)^Au

They float around my head, now, begging to be rent. Tomorrow can't come soon enough, though today the path was set. Imaginings, impressions, scant notions scarecely thought; they sing to me a lullaby, intentions duly wrought. And by the fire of mine eye, these images all cease, for once alighted on my hands, their fancy be unleashed.

Volatilis somnium.

Real love.

Look at you, sitting there. Eying me coyly from across the room. Perched in place, parched, pleading.

Your bright skin is soft to the touch, but firm, and healthy. Your bottom obscured by that jazzy little white number. I can't get enough of that gold ribbon draped across your midsection. You are a feast for the eyes, and I can't get enough before I pluck you from your place. A wonder to behold. To hold.

It's almost as if you reach for me, arms outstretched, begging for my attention. You need me. Without me, you'll wither and die, a lonely husk of a forgotten self. You thirst for my love, my presence, my existence, and I, in turn, revel in the companionship whenever I can. You're always there. You won't leave me.

There isn't any other. Not for you. Not for me.

I love you, Milton.

You're the best motherfucking plant, ever.

It's all gone to Hell...

Oops. It's spelled O-b-l-i-v-i-o-n.

Do you ever feel like your thoughts are pulling you in a thousand directions at once, and you don't know which way to turn to make sense of it all?

Do you ever feel like your thoughts are just a microcosm for the entirety of existence? Like everything pointless little thing you ponder is valid, if only because it mirrors some larger, obscured machination of the very fabric of the Universe, itself?

Do you ever feel like your thoughts are betraying you, because they don't live up to some insane standard you'd like them to?

No? Yeah. Me, neither. I was, uh.....just.....ummm......

So, back to the game, then.

So...err.....Fa.

Perhaps a davenport, instead?

No. I don't get it, either.

Anyway, tonight there shall be goings on and happenings, the rumblings of which will be felt for miles and years.

Plus, I'm totally going to kick Travis' ass at Halo.

Score.

Well, then.

Today.

Was.

?Gnitseretni

Two.

Testing...

Sibilance.