The Dangerous Twist

Hello brain. What is your name.

So have been feeling like a torn-up spiderweb, all kinds of everywhere, centerless, repulsive, floating. And he what who made me is either dead or spewing more white shit out of his ass to make more such fragile and transient structures.

Strong as spidersilk surely.

Kinda sad cuz I missed my last class, Geography 100. The class was canceled? but then I checked my email today to learn post facto that we were all to attend a sparkling lecture that day about international human rights in Rwanda.

Sad mostly because now I look like a callous fool uninterested not only in keeping up with the professional and educational aspects of her life but also completely uninterested in what she says she is interested in: human rights. That makes me a hypocrite, or does it make me a bumbling eejit incapable of keeping her life half enough together to even be interested in anything at all?
Hence the esoteric references to spiderwebs and all that rot.

But I have made a grand-scale plan to make conversation heart cookies for one and all me friends today. They will say yummy things like 'chinga tu madre' and 'i love you' and stuff. Is that ambitious enough or should I sue for world peace?

Have always told self to not worry about ambition because it is a scary idea, as if life ought to be lived out in to-do lists.

Gazelle do not have to-do lists. Nor zebras or hippos. Or maybe they do.

1. Eat.
2. Swat flies off buttocks.
3. Roll around in dirt.
4. Zig-zag.
5. Babies.
6. Contribute to circle of life.
7. Bedtime!

Been reading loads of the good ol' G.R.R Martin. Is that like a name template for great fantasy writers or is he just bein' smug? Or is his name really something like George Reynaldo Ruben Martin?

Anyway, it's all fantastically fantastic stuff. I miss the days when I would just be curled up in places where blood and gore were the norm and everybody who was anybody was either extravagantly beautiful or extravagantly strong and everybody sexed each other and nobody got pregnant unless it was a plot device that was well-planned and didn't make you feel like your life was over because you were gonna pop out the prophecy fulfilled or some shit.


Man life in fantastical terms is truly preferred.

But imagine being a lady knight without some monistat and you're all yeasty on the battlefield or something. I imagine boiled leather and flowing brocade can get sweaty.

Brain all swabbed out. Off to Comm 130.