thank you india

i woke up smelling like booze altho none touched my lips.
i lost my mary jane (did you take it?).
i needed my perception blurred, not heightened.
i smoked myself straight.
i almost left my own party.
thanks for coming--
you were all there except some of you.
(who the fuck are you?)
sorry i couldn't've been more there
but pieces of me were everywhere.
thanks for calling-- i can't believe you bothered.
thanks for forgetting. you must've been excited.
thanks for going elsewhere and not covering your tracks.
thanks for not trashing my place
even tho violence made it look that way.
thanks, boys, for cleaning while i was @ work:
ashes. stale beer. vomit. guacamole crust. a broken coke glass. nibbled cookies. nothing special.
sorry it took me so long to find a corkscrew and that we played shitty music but i was too lazy to change it.
the party began at 8 o'fucking clock so
thank you for finally leaving.

on the the way to work today the piles of melting ice looked like beached jellyfish glistening in the sun. i touched one with my foot, but it didn't give way.

@ work i wanted to slap everyone who spoke to me. as i kicked a milkcrate across the floor at the prospect of having to assist a customer, i noted that the only thing i wanted to hear from cutsomers was them calling me beautiful. the lovely romanian woman actually called me smart. this was totally sufficient and made me feel like a jerkwad.

my chronic headache vanished in the best manner possible. your horoscope was telling. rice soup in the pot, nine hours old.

die, cookie, DIE DIE DIE.... cookie(s)

i thought i might pluck out my eye,
i thought that i might die.
then i ate six or ten cookies*
and no dying today did i

*boringly enough., these cookies were fruit-sweetened. i am still on the wagon and off the sugar train. they did the trick. tho. and for that i am thankful (thanks, you).

titsamongus

much of the last two days has been climbing over snowbanks, earning salt stains on my black cords and showing my tits to strangers and friends alike. the snow underfoot is like creamed sugar and butter, just after adding a capful of vanilla. lucky for me i'm able-bodied and altho often concerned for the well-being of my sketchy over-extending hips, i found trampling thru grand mounds of snow a challenge, especially when done with both swift mind and body. nobody with much extra weight, much less flexibility and without the normal use of their legs, with a baby carriage or carrying awkward packages or moving a halogen lamp and a nightstand in a grocery cart could nagivate this city's sidewalks. why? not because we didn't shovel a clear meter-wide path, but because some lazy mofos didn't bother to shovel at all, and because everyone at the end of a street decided to be a greedy jerk and not shovel a path to the street, therefore requiring the pedestrian to mount a sidewalk with random footholes and slide down into the street. ne pas safe. know who else should've shovelled? the fucking army. you'd think that shovelling around the perimeter of their monolithic headquarters would be perfect punishment. sargeant says, "officer barrett, you've been a whiny mama's boy today. either go home and suck on your mama's titties or get the FUCK outside and shovel the perimeter of this building before i kick your ass from here to dartmouth. i don't care if it takes you all day. jamieson, conrad-- you go help him. you've been useless pussies too. move! move! move!" or something like that. nope. the building's enormous and not having the sidwalk shovelled is a huge inconvenience for us maynards, north parks and cunards. such resources yet such weak effort.
so yesterday i had an appointment with a plastic surgeon. i walked into the appointment excpecting he suggest i get a little taken off my left breast, but no. my lovely oldschool dermatologist was a little concerned about some of my nevi (derm term for potentially wonky moles) so sent me to the plastic surgeon whose waiting room i sat in for two christly hours while reading about ancient indian medicine while the rest of the wankers in the filled-to-capacity waiting room stared in silence at the walls, asked their wives for parking money or wore hideous pajama pants. the best thing about the two-hour wait to see the doctor was that he wasn't a cock or a hack, but an good fella instead. he was chipper, cheery and primed as a prostitute to see my beauty mark-covered flesh. at the sight of each one, a different excited sound poured from his lips. he was visibly excited. it instilled me with hope that someone as overworked as he was still so passionate about skin abnormalities. "you're a dermatologist's dream," he told me as him and the intern examined my chest, back and arms for potential sites of surgery. as a team, we decided i'd have a mole on my back removed, just in case. depending on the results of the biopsy, we'll decide whether to excise the spot touching the areola of my left breast. c h r i s t p a i n n o o w.
i offered my breasts to the frigid elements today in order to make them look temporarily awesomer during a steamy bath. nothing does my breasts like the atlantic ocean. not even a nova scotia winter.

chickpeas just as nice as rice, mice say

i've had it up to my tits with the mouse/mice/meece in the new pad. we shared a peaceful co-existence long after brutha spied the mouse peeking out from a rollerblade. the mouse droppings hit the fan when doogie* (the recently-xned mouse) scurried past blake's bare foot. i received a frantic call at work letting me know that the mouse wasn't such desirable pet material any longer, that we had to get rid of him-- screw humane traps. after carefully reading all the mouse traps, i bought a pack of live mouse traps, even tho i had no idea what we'd do with doogie once caught. we've gotten lots of helpful suggestions-- from my farmer uncle-- to catch him in a glass jar, for he couldn't climb it and we'd have 'im good. for release, there're duelling opinons-- some say he wouldn't last more than 20 minutes in the frigid out of doors, while others say he'd find a warm place pretty damn quickly and be okay. just think-- all the mice in the city right now are probably inside. how fucked is that? i picture them scuttling around warehouses, restaurants, garages and homes constructing nests with our lint and hair, scrambling after our crumbs in our cupboards and on our floors and chewing holes in bags of grains. where would we release doogie that would give him a fighting chance? we've considered dropping him followed by a bag of rice down the barrel of the army tank "hellfire" behind the fence at the neighbouring armoury. letting him go in the bengal lancers horse barn. sneaking him into a friend's house who has a cat and calling it "nature." i'm almost fresh out of reasonable ideas. but lately, doogie's been leaving me on edge. i think about the tiny brown motherfucker pretty frequently, and it interrupts my digestion. i realize he's just doing what mice do-- chewing their way through walls, finding soft scraps to make nests out of, eating other people's food with as much wreckless abandon as if it were theirs, fucking and making rodent progeny, and defecating on virtually every surface of everything in your house. but it's beginning to piss me off. signs accumulate. i'm running out of containers to store my food in. i didn't know mice liked chickpeas. last night, as i was chilling and listening to type o negative while letting my gut settle after a delicious feast of lentil, kale and mushroom stew, i rose for a glass of water and heard the familiar sound of tiny rodent teeth and claws. i summoned nathan, and we tried to decide if we'd formulate a plan to catch him, then got too exciited/nervous and hauled open the cupboard door. altho i'm too small to see in the cupboard, nathan reported that the mouse quickly darted to the back of the cupboard. then, in a flurry of self-destructive anti-instinct terror, doogie flew out of the cupboard which caused nathan to jump back just in time for both of us to see doogie land avec a thud on the hood of the fan, bounce off onto the edge of the stove then scramble/fall into the space between the edge of the stove and the wall. at this point, we were keeling over with laughter and surprise. we thought we totally could have had him, had we been prepared, but realized we probably couldn't've prepared ourselves for the 800-speed hilarity. doogie was still on the loose, but probably so fucking spooked (do mice get spooked?) that he wouldn't come out again tonight. spooked and fucking satiated. on closer inspection of the corner of the bean cupbpard, we saw that doogie'd been gnawing on a bag of organic chickpeas and shitting enough to rival the mouse equivalent of the halifax harbour. mother...fucker. i saved the mess to show my brother as a grotesque trophy prize. tonight entail much cleaning, more trap-loading, and steel-wool plugging of as many mouse-possible holes and cracks as we can find. can you believe that mice can fit thru holes the diameter of a dime? that's so absurd. so i ask the downstairs neighbours if they'd ever had mice, and they said that yeah, they have, they do and they're living and breeding in the walls. they seem theym scurrying around the kitchen periodically. one works (the neighbour, not the mouse) at a bakery, and says that on a full moon, the mice will eat garbage bags even tho there's lots of bread around. hooray for batty mice on full moons. hooray for ethics that keep me from using normal victor traps with personally-sharpened edges or leaving them warfarin milkshakes at every corner. hooray for the mutually assured destruction tactics that have just been initiated by the other party. i won't be watching when blake sets a snap trap under the sink.

*after a round of 90s trivia this morning, we began calling our mouse doogie, after the breed of super-smart mice genetically bred in the late 90s.

ailing vomit

what the christ? what the christ? what the serious christ is up? men's fitness magazine named houston the fattest city in the US three years running. ok, fine. cool. no real surprise. so houston launches a civic fitness program called get lean houston and mcdonald's is the official restaurant sponsor. they're gonna be offering chicken sandwiches, salads and a veggie burger at each of houston's 253 mcdonald's outlets (which are reported to not be linked to houston's obesity epidemic). good. nice. now houston is thin because WHAT THE FUCK? stop eating at mcdonald's. don't eat the caesar salad (saltiest menu item, even tho it's featured on their healthy chouces menu). don't eat the veggie burgers (second saltiest menu item, also conveniently placed on the healthy choices menu). the fries (cooked SOMETIMES in vegetable fat, sometimes in beef fat, depending on their fancy). the fucking orange drink (shudder). the treat of the week (if they still have those) or the revolting disney toy would be less damaging to your body than the so- called food served there. you'd even be better off choking to death on the bag the toy came in than eating yourself to a slow death from your choice of cancer, or your arteries slowly hardening and closing in on themselves. seriously, consider it. listen, i'm not suggesting you prepare a six-course raw vegan meal when you're sharvin' for it (altho i would indeed be impressed). order a fresh pizza. make a grilled cheese sandwich. eat a bag of samosas. live a little if you're feelin' it. just don't give those corporate cockfuckers one more penny. if you haven't watched supersize me or read fast food nation-- do it. if you have and are still eating at mcdonald's, crack your head on the sidewalk. this revolting drivel they sell is unworthy to be called food because it isn't. it's totally and utterly damaging and if you pause long enough to taste it, it's horrific-- really, it is. admit it. mcdonald's.... fuck. you already know. thank you, maddox, for pointing out that mcdonald's new slogan is an anagram for ailing vomit. i'm lovin' that.

bean dreamin'

i'm officially launching my new blog, bean dreamin', which is an online dream journal, started mostly because i lost my paper dream journal. i'd love to link your dreamblog if you have one, and would also love to read your comments about my dreams (including analysis if you wanna) and even comments about your dreams. if you want to remember your dreams more often, try supplementing with vitamin B6, zinc and melatonin-- then get dreambloggin'. but until then, get yer head outta the clouds and check out bean dreamin'.

oh love-- you ratfaced twerp

the most significant thing i did this morning was scream. in the heat of the moment, i opted for "ahhhhhhhhhhhh!" rather than 'fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" as i grabbed hold of the extra virgin olive oil display as i slipped in someone's puddle of melted snow. the wick thing is i didn't fall-- six extra virgins couldn't say the same as they lay mired in their own fluid, entangled in glass shards. har.
the second best scream today was at 3:00 when boss said we could go home and the power flicked back on. again, i opted for "ahhhhhhhhhhh!" rather than "fuuuuuuuuuuuck!" again. i was this close to spending the afternoon in bed with two cups of hot (or so i thought). i got a headache and left anyway (even tho i had a $50 bet to lick someone's nipples without permission and i could use $50 and he was hot), trudging o'er the fields of snow with a sack of healthfood on my back. stopped in the way to talk about the state of the local music scene.
at home, the smoke, eat, DS9, repeat cycle had been going on all day. i joined in and have now repeated it several times tonight.
the tribeca was ugly and stupid inside and i'm glad all the pretentious twerps weren't around. but b.a. was as killer as always. he was exactly what i needed tonight to smear on top of the shit sandwich that has been a great deal of the last 24 + a few hours. casios through the mist-- you complete me. a fine congregation ce soir. the assumed drama(s) did not occur in my face if at all. that was choice. as we sat, a svedish dude tried to talk to us, and i do mean tried-- but ne pas de success. i continued crushing the tiny golden heart confetti and wondered if i could name boys whose hearts i've broken to represent the 35 or so crushed golden hearts (yeah, probably). michael from sveden-- number 36.

ooooh, the new planet is so sexy it makes me fidget. titan, please remind me to thank europe for discovering you.  

assfuck the wetlands with your price chopper why dontcha?

wal-mart wants to build a store on wetlands in yarmouth. fucking seriously. on wetlands. wal-mart. unfortunately, not everyone necessarily sees this as a problem, namely the department of the environment, many sharvin'-for-it yarmouthians and a bunch of other dumb assholes. it pains me to think that i might have to explain why this is such a mistake, but as an addendum to the explanation i'm not even gonna give you, these particular wetlands are host to three species of fish and a couple dozen bird species. there's such a grand disparity between the blatant destruction of the environment and its protection. why the christ is this even a question? well, fortunately it is, and you can tell the deptartment of the environment exacly what you're thinking and you have until january 21 but why not do it right now before you forget?

a saline solution

i am the dark wet wild salty sea. you are deafened, comforted by the roar that comes with my full tide.

if i have to shovel your litter one more time i'll hammer your teeth to dust

it snowed last night in halifax-- large, fluffy feel-good snowflakes. the kind of snowfall you wish for on christmas morning. just a couple of centimetres too, and none too windy, therefore not too cold. a beautiful night. enough snow, though, to require shovelling. you see, so far i've been able to get away without shovelling. no, not our driveway-- or sidewalk-- any and every driveway, sidewalk or "walkway" as dad used to call ours. you see, somehow i managed to shirk almost every outside chore ever asked of me. when i was a teenager, i played ditzy, "ah, i can't control this thing!" i'd say, referring to the lawn tractor as i veered all over the lawn making clusterfucked tracks. "ah! my friend's friend got his foot cut off using a push mower!" or just sit and look pissy, sad or sick, normally one of which i actually was. oh-- and "i'm allergic to grass and trees, as if i'm gonna mow the lawn." everyone else in my family was allergic too. i somehow evaded every duty except washing the car, which i enjoyed. but this morning, i shovelled the walkway. yup, i got up and just did it. it was pretty enjoyable, mostly because there wasn't much to shovel, but also because i felt like i was earning my allowance (fuck, i wish i still got allowance- $10 would be killer right now) and that i was a citizen of the city's north end-- one who contributes and stuff. in reality all i was doing was a) covering my ass in case somebody slipped and cracked their noggin open-- dude, i tried-- i shovelled and your clumsy ass fell anyway b) doing what i agreed to on my lease (i totally didn't notice it, i may have argued over that one) c) performing a duty REQUIRED of me by the city, not one that makes me a particularly good guy or anything. nevertheless, i strode to work across the wet, white commons with a puffy robin red breast about it. cheery was my middle effin' name until i was making my way past st. pat's high school and saw a wendy's cup flying high in the air and land with a depressingly hateful hollow waxed paper thud on the ice. motherFUCKER! i quickened my pace to catch a glimpse of the punk who not only littered, but made a christly display out of it. the jerk was mostly likely thinking, "ahdefawkin'cayyyassholeahmuhthuganahwonamounttanuthinsowhashuldahcayy." i saw the lousy hoodcrumb, but was too far away to do anything but scream from afar, which probably wouldn't've carried far enough consiering the midday traffic. if i'd've been closer, i'd've likely bombarded him with some empassioned rant about the environment and his place in it. i'd've tried to refrain from calling him a punk (which he decidely was not) or a sample of ignorance (which he surely was) and screaming at him and actually rather tried to level with him, trying to sound inspiring. this probably wouldn't've been slightly effective either, but what the h do you say? i mean, seriously. i haven't accosted a stranger for such a mishap in a long time. there should be more of it. let us begin. it's possible some people aren't aware of how much of a jerk they are. we should start telling them, but it's important always to have a positive suggestion of something the accused could do differently (read: better) the next time. for example, had i the opportunity to speak with this fellow, i would've suggested that he CARRY THE CUP TO THE GARBAGE INSIDE THE SCHOOL WHERE HE WAS GOING ANYWAY AND WHERE THERE WAS LIKELY A GARBAGE DIRECTLY INSIDE THE DOOR AS IN ALMOST EVERY PUBLIC BUILDING ESPECIALLY SCHOOLS YOU LAZY INCONSIDERATE ASSWAD! i suppose i've always been a stickler for solid waste management. i hate the misuse of it, it irks to nausea when people refuse to compost (ahem!mothernicholson!cough!), recycle (cough!keefeco!ahem!), or reuse (what'supkillinghtherainforest!masterrose!). no excuse is good enough. it's supposed to take an average of one extra minute per day to sort your waste rather than chuck it all in the same ugly black bag, and i say if you don't have that extra minute-- i'm speechless. i know you care, so show it. i dare you. dying mother earth dares you as you rape her in the mouth. i mightn't be so harsh, but us canadians produce more garbage per capita than any other country. yes, even THEM. let's stop this bullfuck and clean up after ourselves in the most effective manner possible. recycling's but a small part of what we can do. oh, so you can stop driving your cars too. walk. take a fucking bus. i don't care if the fare went up a quarter. they take pennies. (and i take donations)

water/the tree/the dickhead bee

never go shopping without a water bottle-- this is what the last two days has reminded me of. it happens nearly every time-- i'm going shopping and i know i'll need extra water but i can't find a bottle or i say i'll just buy one there but i never want to when i'm there because there's no ethical companies' water sold at that location (ahem! zellers in the bayer's road shooping centre sells only nestle, coke and imported!) or i don't want to spend money (and plastic) on bottled water because it's wasteful or i don't decide to until the last second and only get a sip before i reach the bus. so i did it and i was pissed. today i packed a bottle with me, and when the urge to strike arose, the precious liquid snuffed my wrathful intentions. wick-awes. prepared i was.///////////// i dragged a tree into my house today. found it on falkland street on my way home from downtown and so adored it. it's someone's christmas tree with the limbs hacked off. a few rusty, dry needles were still attached to its spindly branches, but i plucked them off once i'd carried the grey and cracked beast onto my balcony. once inside, my tree became the perfect first piece for my dark lair (which will be a long time in the making considering my yellow room with nearly walls). now i just hope it doesn't spontaneously combust. but i so love this tree. maybe i will spritz it daily for fire prevention.////////////// after a supper of rice cakes with nori and avocado and garlic and a soy burger and a shower that needn't've happened because it's not the waning moon, i missed that moon and therefore it's not a good time for the spell i was gonna do, i went to help master rose silkscreen. my job was to yap relentlessly and hold the screen down while he painted. this was a piece of cake until we took a break after the "RS" in "DOERS" for a little haul off the waterpipe. three little hoots and i was totally totally blitzed off my face. i was shaking and hallucinating with every sense. i could taste metal, feel copper hands closing in on my head and the visuals were astounding. my synapses were not firing properly at all. i felt like curling up on the floor, but i wanted to try to act straight around his roomates who were watching knight rider and making soup all around me. i couldn't speak or look up. i just kept telling him how i was so high i was and we made fun of the dickhead bee on the awful silkscreening job he was asked to make. this bee is the epitome of distaste. he looks like the bee from the raid commercial, all cranky-looking and bulbous. this bee has boxing gloves and an appalling sense of style. there's nothing clever or cute or graphically interesting about this graphic. how the fuck do groups or companies allow this shit to represent themselves? this group could've been a hot vegan metal wiccan singles group who were set to have a bowel-friendly vegan cake walk/metal show in a graveyard during the solstice and i probably wouldn't've joined-- at least not until they changed their pathetic logo.

it's cool when you erase your blog entry

i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....i wish i'd blogged when i was so pissed i was spitting this afternoon.....

my blog will be rotten 'til another chair is found/my blog will be rotten 'less i'm crying on the ground. 

i yam what i yam and i yam on top

it's bizarre to find me floating at the top with the extra virgin oil. here i am. plain as day. today you will find me in my bed. day two of self-imposed bedriddeness in the last few weeks: the last more productive/this more enjoyable/the last more familiar/this more eventful. look at me-- i am free.
i'm pretty much comfortable in my new digs, despite having to listen to mouse chitterings and chatterings and rollerblade sessions and having to locate items like nails and bandaids and lavender soap and having a new responsibility that i can't believe i signed for and my brother doesn't believe i'll ever not shrug off. he may be right.
i'm as comfortable as i can be for someone who's just stripped nearly everything mildly enjoyable from her diet, and instead of feeling better, is feeling akin to puddle of piss and muck. gin and cake makes me feel better than broccoli and tofu. yes, this makes a fuck of a lot of (non)sense. i try to tell myself that i'm detoxing, between the torrents of virulent pain and hopelessness. say my body continues to feel polluted and puffy--i'll revert to my diet of gin, cake, mint chocolate and kamut bread. in many ways, i long for this-- failing my chance to feel somewhat average and perhaps have the opportunity to trip somewhere far away or even far away from a bathroom. my bowels have certainly grown stronger, and mayhaps they'll continue if i offer them the propper fodder for healing. maybe then my body will stop attacking itself. by times it's difficult to look and especially move forward when your body eats itself. but i am fortunate-- i am where i am because of what i am, and i am much more than i was, because of where i was. and i wish i had a yam to yomp.

jack on, you'll get better results!

there's at least one little twat in this city with the audacity to seek out, purchase and even wear the same toque as me. my jack skellington hat. my very special jack hat. my 2004 personality toque. peter told me last winter that some little fucker had the same hat as me, and i looked for him all winter. i was frightened every minute that i'd see him and perhaps rip him to shreds-- either physically or emotionally or both or neither. i've often attempted to plan what i'd do or say. i get tongue-tied and distracted by pride and wrath. i'd so go to hell if there was one (lead the way)! nathan reported a recent jack hat twirp sighting-- mentioning that he was young and short with dark hair, and that his hat looked "newer" than mine, meaning, obviously, that he saw mine and bought it because he wanted to be cool like me. but how could he find it? it's ultra-rare and can only be found on ebay. i had to be reminded that i'm not the only one with access to ebay. so on monday i was pissed off and running around the city trying to scrounge up enough $ for rent because the corporation i worked for decided against paying me for christmas because they're assholes, when my ticker nearly halted at the site of a jack skellington toque on the back of a kid's head. the worst part was i'd been running around with 2003's "the coupon duck" personality toque in lieu of my beloved jack "i can't find a better 2005 toque" hat because i'd dumbly lost it in my own house. i knew i was being superirrational when i almost marched into wendy's and questioned the dude as to where he got his hat, checking it for distinguishing marks in the case that maybe he'd stolen it from the inside of my house. i was dehydrated, and if you know me well enough you know how i act when i become dehydrated. so anyway, according to description, this is a different kid with my jack hat. there are at least three of us. this city is too small. will i be forced to make like the days of coloured nail polish and marilyn manson shirts and stop donning it when the trend catches on? or will i continue sporting my jack hat with as much joy as ever, but with full plans to pounce and accuse? will i get over myself? on any given day, i get at least one compliment from a total stranger on the street about the coolness of my jack hat. it fills me with as much glee as it does with pride, because i know if i saw my hat and didn't own it, along with being filled with raging envy, i would be struck with immense giddiness that i saw my jack on a toque. if we brighten a gloomy day, jack and i have won our war. i've been offered money. i've had it ripped off my head. i've heard a group of young punks plotting to murder me to take my hat-- and they sounded serious. it's just a hat and i don't want to jinx it. it just makes me happy. sometimes when i'm sad, i'll wear it and look at us together in the mirror. this is hallowe'en this is hallowe'en hallowe'en hallowe'en hallowe'en hallowe'en. i've heard reports of sexual attraction to jack skellington. i wouldn't go this far. i wish he were my best friend. skeletons are far beyond awesome- especially ones with warm hearts and clear dogs. the amish banned buttons on their clothing because they didn't want to encourage pride with ornate buttons. i am so fucked to hell-- but probably not as much as you are.