This word vomit is the most arbitrary amalgamation I’ve ever written. Some bits are transcriptions of a live video game feed, some are phrases and things courtesy of Sosa, but most of it is my vomit in the form of words. Some typos have been left in. Have a nice day. Thank you for reading.
Larry Sultan, “The Valley” Photo Series, 2004
njgnmjhgdgjmdsgku
Yee
That’s how it always begins.
Fuck.
Ah man.
Not fucking Marcel Duchamp.
Someone would say, you wanna go shopping?
And then you’d be like no, I’m so baroque.
Ha, oh man.
Days like today, I wonder what the hell it is I’m doing.
Oh my god, this is so ridiculous.
Ah, it’s the little things about life, wasting time.
Watching video games, not even playing them, just watching someone else play them because you’re too broke.
This guy’s French.
Alright, let’s do this.
Yes, you cxnan actually kidnap people.
You can tie them up and bring them back toi your hut and stuff.
I’m more surprised that there’s so much shit to do in this game.
Thre’s so much crafting in this game, it’s insane.
Like, you just keep upgrading and upgrading.
There were chests n the tree stump.
Oh kman, this is so out of context.
I don’t want to fall off and die.
Should I be the screamer?
Even thet armor could not withstand my ass.
We have a thousand wood.
We have fucking a thousand wood.
I’m going to transfer this to some of you guys alright, you guys pick it up.,
We’re going to bring it back to our house.
That’s a lot of wood, even for wood standards.
We need iron.
Alright , that’s iron, that’s clay, that’s oil, that’s my dick.
Oh shit, oh no, I don’t kjnow where it is.
Let’s go, let’s go peopollle, pronto.
This is not art, is it?
What constitutes art?
I have no fucking clue.
Does cussing constitute art?
Am I the Fantastic Mr. Fox?
Perhaps, perhaps not.
Perhapto.
Perhappening this time last time last night yesterday again.
What the cuss?
Bitches.
Putas.
The sexiest people I know, oh my god, so sexy.
iI keep him as a friend because of the stupid things he says. That’s the only reason I keep himj around.
There are moments when I stop to breathe, and then it occdurs to me that I don’t habe lungs.
The bees in their hives bring waves of esophageal love before the night is over and the sun has said hello.
I think the bees can see me from the corner of hte room where the light is dim and my face is barely illuminated.
I also think that I think nothing, but that is counterintuitive to everything I have already said, isn’t it?
There are times when I sit in a chair much like this one and I swirl around because that is exactly what my head is doing.
TThen I turn the pages of a metaphorical and figurative novel that will always be in the works because I am.
And then the screen transitions from red to some other color that I haven’t seen yet but will see shortly because the transition hasn’t hapened yet.
And then there are words much like these that spew themselves onto the counter like soiled milk that I forgot to check the date of before having frosted mini wheats at four in the morning because I didn’t eat sufficiently that day and got hungry.
And then psycuck appeared and I realized that I love psyduck. I also love ampharos. But who doesn’t love ampharos?
I used to be able to type one hundred words per minute. One hundreed is a lot, don’t you think?
I still wasn’t the best in my class.
I think sometimes that I am a wave, crashing on an indiscernible shore. I press firmly on each key of the board, reminding myself of the pain endured and pain not yet introduced to my feeble face.
Backpacks are an ugly thing.?
I mean, I have a backpopack, and I lve mine. And Sosa has a backpack that’s a Targus I believe, and that’s not bad either.
But there ar esome horrendous backpacks out there, I’ll leave it at that.
Competitive Pokemon Batling For Beginners
What do you think about all this?
I feel right now as if I could keep writing forever and I’d never run out of words to say, which is unusual and not like me but for some reason I feel this way right now and I have no idea what I’m doing but I am transcribing the processes of myh brain and I suppose that’s all that matters because I will read all this gibberish later and not know what the hell I was thinking at the time, but I am focusing on my thoughts and letting htem flow just as I am thinking about thinking about thinking about my thoughts right now.
There we go, that was a long sentence. Perhaps our lives are just one really long sentence, filled with lots of commas, and colons, biut not semi-colons because they are the hermaphrodites of grammar, accorging to Kurt Vonnegut.
i have no diea what the fuck in writing because i am doing a thing i have been doing a thing for many a moon.
And then there are moments like these wheremy keyboard is temporarily hijacked by someone else, and things get spwewed onto my canvas and give me more inventice to keep moving forward, because who walks backwards anyway?
Oh wait, I do.
That’s weird.
My apologies.
Who am I apologigizing to? The interner?
That’s unnecessary, becausee you are inanimate.
Ughsnsjfhjssdvn
benor benor bengay i am not okay this isa field report. back to you.
I guess I know what I’m doing more or less. Isn’t that enough?
Can we ever really know more than that? I don’t think so. I don’t supposre so.
I don’t know whny it is when I tyope that sometimes I barely graze the keyboard or I accidentally hit two keys at once, becase I don’t feel like that should happen.
But then it does, and then I’m reminded that things that you once thought couldn’t happen may actually be able and capabable of happening and then the world changes while you’re just trying to go about your day.
The bees are swimming to the lake within my mind because the temperature has cooled and is ideal for mating.
The naked men in the video game are reprogrammed so that they have clothes because institutions were a part of the last update.
These will be one liners, if I have anything to say about it.
Unless my keyboard suffers from hijacking again.
Suffers isn’t a proper word.
Oablo Picasso is an interesting man. Was, because he is no longer alive.
Why do you watch this shit.
What do you get out of it.
I am confused.
I suppoxse that’s a good thing.
Or may tthat’s just what I tell myself so that I feel better about my inability to understand the simple processes occuring around me on a daily basis.
you’d think that by now, I’d have a grasp, right?
You see, but I have terrible grip.
Mentally too.
But that means that the things I retain are even more special.
Stop creating gusts of wind behind me, we are indoors and the walls provided to me by the university have allowed me to avoid the types of gusts which you are creating. If I wanted to feel them I would be outside, but I am not, am I? Are we outside? No. I am indoors because I am a human who has forgotten her humanness. I have forgotten that people once endured the hot and cold before Lennox came along. That people handmade a fire to boil water before Electrolux did so in ninety seconds.
Life is kind of a shit show, sometimes in a bad way, in which case, it is more than likely becoming a literal shit show, and not a figurative one. Insert Del Taco here. Precisely.
yes
no, no.
double, double
no tomato
in and out and in and out aqnd in and out
most important meal of the day
Trumpet in my ear like the capitalization of p’s and q’s and r’s and s’s and t’s because how many letters are there again?
And then you type away because I am typing away and we always do what we see others doing because that’s what’s easiest to do, isn’t it?
If I were to type like this in front of people, I wonder what they would think if they could read my thoughts as they were being spewed out onto a page, and if they could fuly understna dthe things thart are actually going on in my head. This would make for an interesting performance piece.
I wonder which is better, looking at the screen while typing, or looking at yhour keuyboard. I don’t know which one makes it easier to not misspell things.
I would say that looking at another screen is really what does it well, not like you’re burning your melatonin at any slower of a rate that way, but I’m okay with that. This is gratuitous and I am aware.
I am aware of more than you think.
I think I am aware of more than I even think I am.
Flash cards are flashing like flash lights in the face of a thing that doesn’t make sense because we don’t know who we are in the end and we never cared to know so it doesn’t ever make a difference anyway.
But then things come up and things go down and things change because things are always changing, but this time, we can’t avoid it because we are what is changing, our environment is switching from view and it’s becoming something we didn’t expect.
Then, then, then you find yourself sitting, doing something out of the ordinary, for no particular reason, because nothing needs reason, and reason is derived from the goldfish beneath our feet.
Then I find myself retrieving thoughts from a previous self which floats in the ether beside waves of hair and analog clocks that tick in a tocking manner.
I’m going to get so drunk that I become sober.
Then when I am sober I will be drunk.
Repetitive cycles are not a thing of the past.
Wait, yes they are. But they’re also a thing of the present, and of the assumed future.
But I assume nothing.
And then before long, I’m in a chair much like this, once again, playing For Sure on repeat because I am repetitive in everything for as long as humanly possible, which is significantly long, because I am human, aren’t I?
Then my arm begins to hurt and I think that perhaps the walls are telling me to stop because they’re caving in and I’ll need my arms to hold them up and otherwise they will collapse.
But I am of no help to you, am I?
The keys of my life write words that are not keys to open the door which you have never entered since the last time you
My goal for Friday is to get so drunk that I access the quantum consciousness.
I don’t know if I want to think every thought at the same time.
Just these few thoughts are enough to overwhelm me.
Maybe, if we reach that level though, it becomes weightless.
And then you eat orange chicken because orange is your favorite color, until you realize that orange chicken isn’t even remotely orange, but you keep eating it anyway because you’ve voided the warranty on life.
And then you think you should go home, because who stays up all night?
Oh yeah, that’s right, you do.
You do whatever the hell you want because you can.
You listen to For Sure another ten times on repeat because why not?
The trumpets sing in a way that does not remind you of death, and moves perfectly in sync with the clammer of keyboard in the room because you’re not the only one procrastinating.
Your hand begins to hurt again, until you realize it’s phantom limb and things are just a mere fallacy.
Just like my life.
Just like your life.
That’s exactly what it is.
SABMANSHAR 