i will build a giant waffle iron and climb inside.

janitoriallowance

imamembered. so, people are everywhere. all over the place. and they're great. really great. and they're everywhere. i mean it. those people you've seen everywhere--they're everywhere. and they're great. and, here's the kicker. you can talk with them. and hang out with them. and laugh and dance and sing with them. all that.
and it is.
all that, i mean.
can i say "all that" anymore?
probably not.
anyway, the end is nowhere near 5 year un-near, not even nearly.
but if i see-saw to the people every once in a frequently wildebeast, then maybe successful i'll try not to die from alonely.
study. study. study.
study.

well, i blew the splendid mood of this post in a hurry, so...
here's picture of my cousin and me to restore a sense of blogawesomeness: dissolve. tickly throated i woke and went store-ing to alberston's, yes, where the things are for sale. and i came out with airborne, the much recommended, by teacher invented, round goods for my ail. and guess what? it tasted ok. almost good. AND placebo or nottingham, i indeed felt afterbetterified.

however, did a second grade teacher really come up with these medicinal tablets, like it says on the tube? i'm not sure i buy that even though i bought that. not that a second grade teacher isn't capable of creating a dietary supplement. it just seems like something a chemist or somebody would do. i could probably look it up on wikipedia.

ok. i looked it up on wikipedia.
yep. apparently Victoria Knight-McDowell just started making experimental vitamin brews and came up with airborne. i also learned that i'll probably get a kidney stone now that i've ingested the capsulized fruits of her labors.

anyway, here's something that can't be tarnished. thanksgiving break was marvelacious and created a danger that i would never return to the taylor. here are some passive descriptions from a list too long to list: rockets were launched. races were run. dances were danced. boggle was boggled. songs were sung. crosswords were crossed. canyons were coasted. football was watched. shakespeare was studied. dreams were dreamed. tastes were tasted. gravy was groovy.
thankgoodnessforthanksgivingforwhichigivethankfulthanks.

and finally. my wardrobe is an egg.

dedications: jenn gets ryan adams singing "dear chicago," stungib gets himself singing that one song he likes about the elf named willie (is it willie? i don't remember), and lastly, andrea gets "the voices" by nada surf, for obvious reasons.

endbeginningstretch

so, if you've been battling demons and demands for nights on endless, and you have no blessed sleep in your bodily reserve, and you are paler and sicklier than your usual unusual, and you wake up in the bittersweet haze of having refound the ground beneath your feetly feet, hard and cold but aglow in the beams under white flying flag, and your room is a mess and your papers are scattered and the daylight's a fast folding chair, and the water runs out and your eyefingers burn and it's earlytoolate and you're thinking of her, don't listen to"the best of you" while you eat breakfast.
because you'll cry on your toast.

productionarileeway

chexmix: scott made some. it was delicious.
problem: i think it gave me acid-reflux.
rationale: i ate a lot of it and then my acid seemed to be refluxing.
help-seeking behavior: i consulted an expert (you know who you army), hoping i could drink some sort of glue-like fluid and be done with it.
disappointment: no dice. or dice, but no doubles.
solution: i ceased to eat the chexmix and the acid stayed fluxed.
aftermath: english
other news:
lamealarm: suddenly so saddle shy am i, am i, am i. kickle me with spoken spurs or not.
machinery: the cogs in my nition are turning too slowly.
recurrent: i have never left a single thing behind me for good.
dedications:
mal gets jimi's "little miss lover"
rick gets a heart-wrenching cohortian rendition of "miss you like crazy"
and sarah gets whatever she wants (but just for today)

misteak n' eggs on a toastily toast

(how foolish i branchly appear)

no one i tree is in my think: not for the tree so profound, but my think gnarly so

gnarly so gnarly so gnarly so gnarly so gnarly so gnarly so gnarly so

claritease: i seam to get misinterpreted more often than knot. sorry to all-around-the-mulberry-bushel-ize. you and yours will know. or do.

infectious: the new redwalls album is growing on me like a fuzzed-out fungus of retrorock.

signal: two sharp knocks or two small bricks

slipstreameroperator

...and so, having failed to elicit an electronic response either through self-disclosure of calendrical confusion, or by means of an in-church guiltification trip, and finding himself with a few brief and purple moments amidst his mindboggleshufflestudy, our hero resigned to plant his tonguey tongue firmly in his cheek and post a pathetically posty posting, so that all the kingdom might reflectorate and throttlethink as he melodramatically, verbosely, and yet somewhat sheepishly threw in the proverbial towel, concluding with a sigh that he would, in fact, not succeed in his attempts to show up on our heroine's friendly gmail radar, nor perhaps, ever to get his pulpit-stumbling foot in the door of her attention, no matter how long and bizarre his run-on sentences may have been.

oh, the humanity. oh, the commas. oh, fishy-fishy.

hmm. once again, it appears that i'm incapable of writing anything normal.
please take this weird wordiness with a grain of salt.

today's dedications:
"from a distance" midlers out to jill and steve, who look blue and green.
and may "grandma's feather bed" cushion all three snow sisters, my favorite "gals down the road."
hardy har hardigan cartigan.

...but wait!
mere minutes elapsing, the walters collapsing, our heroine mail to our hero doth send!
so coincidental, like trans-continental, and doubt with the spangle and spark must contend.

an odd little poem, yes.
but my mind was just blown, and i must pause to watch the fireworks in my braindom.

relapseofluxury

the world gets tilted at a 45. is it my inner ear, or my outer innerness? no one knows for shoreline.

scott and i just spent far too long reading our old gmail conversations as if they were dramatic stage plays. we lol-ed. others in the roomly room were not as amused as we.
i wish i could say it's because they are heathen philistines. but alaska. rebellionaire.

happy halloween

even i get kinda creeped out when i watch this. but then i remember that i filmed it in our bathroom , which is (usually) not too scary a place. and then i can't help but laugh.

(and no, scott. i wasn't "going.")

cromagnesiumptuous

remember this thing from when you were a kid? i do. though mine was the old version with the wooden stick and base. this looks like the new-fangled futuristic version. it's probably safer and lighter and all that jazz, but just as freaking awesome to kids and as freaking annoying to their parents.

anyway, i woke up this morning thinking that my head is one of these popper machines. and sometimes i don't know who's pushing me around and making all my thoughts ricochet around in the old dome.

dedications: "impossible germany" by wilco belongs in the ears of josh and george.

"isn't it a pity" by george harrison belongs in your ears and in mine.

protectorattentional

i remember my dreams every morning. in them i crawl. out of them i slide. i hit snooze 1,678 times a minute. time goes forward and will be was back. you were there. and you. and you were there too. not you. but you. and you. i interpret them to myself and shake my head and prescribe more plutonium, dorothy.

at school, my brainbroadcast is a crutch and a cradle and a sword and a shield and a liability. i clap my little monkey cymbals. "okay," i say.

fad blog of phoneliness

after more than two years, here i am again. in the blog.
thanks to the many millions (i.e., scott) who brought me out of hiding (i.e., diligence in my studies) with your tireless (i.e., infrequent and indifferent) requests for more stereolympicalities (i.e., brainscramble). your wishes are granted and your fishes are slanted.

probably overly cryptic thoughts:
in the last little while, i've uprooted, overturned, and otherwise disrupted my own existence. the beforemath found me OCD-d in two, hurting someone i dearly loved, fighting a horrible feeling of being outside myself, clamboring to get back in, overwhelmed and at the end of a reckless road where i rolled through a stop sign and got my second-ever ticket. like an octagonal cherry on topple. things gave because they had to, but it muchsucked. and i'm the "where were you when i was burned and broken." what gilmour can i say? i hate that i own it, but i own it and that helps. anyway, i was offered a sort of floydian olive branch today. feeling crayola blue-green.
calm and sad and hopeful and more settled and hoping for exceptions to seemingly cosmic rules.

tribute: on October 17th, the world lost an all-star: Emerson Parkin. you know how time stops when you get news like this? crazy. here's what i wrote with the clocks stopped:
growing up in the bountiful 3rd ward, i was a scrawny wee lad, nowhere near cool enough to hang with the older Parkin boys. but Emerson either didn't have his Cool-O-Meter turned on, or he was just a good guy, because he always treated me like one of the gang. he imparted words of protective wisdom (e.g., "if a car circles the block more than 3 times, it's a kidnapper. let's go inside..."), showed me how to dress (and climb trees) like tarzan, kept me apprised of noteworthy neighborhood happenings (e.g., "there's a rat in the thomas's driveway!"), and generally helped me create the sort of imaginitive, adventurous, magical, and wonderful childhood every kid should have. i really looked up to him, and he never looked down on me. a lot like an older brother. when I ran into him years later, i was almost star-struck to be conversing with someone who'd achieved such legendary status in my mind. but Emerson put me right at ease, the way he always could.
Love to the Parkins.

dedications: "coming back to life" by the gilmour-led floyd goes out to Gina, so she can hold up a mirror and reflect it back at me like the shining sun.
"comeback" by prince breezes out to Emerson. you will be missed.