"...the composer reveals the innermost nature of the world, and expresses the profoundest wisdom in a language that his reasoning faculty does not understand."

Yesterday I got to participate in the humiliating game of Traffic Court. I'm not sure what the cause may be but lately I've been filled with the most ravenous, insatiable lust. Standing in line to check in with the court clerk became a tortuous mind game the minute I spotted a petite Mexicana several people ahead of me. The sight of her thin shapely thighs, compact protruding butt, B-cup perky breasts, and light, creamy brown complexion caused my thick blood to boil unbearably. She had a man with her but I couldn't tell if they were together. The safest thing to do seemed to be to wait until I got home and feverishly masturbate to the thought of her. All throughout the day I couldn't think of anything thing but her, moaning with pleasure as I thrust in and out of her from the rear, her buttocks rhythmically quivering with each of my measured, lengthy strokes. The clerk had to call my name twice.

When I entered the courtroom it wasn't any better. Two rows in front of me a very sweet, tan young Mid-Eastern looking thing sat next to a tough-looking white guy. The tough-looking white guy was thin and at least several inches shorter than me. I was sure my cock was at least several inches larger than his. I wanted to rip his head off and roar away with his sweet young thing on the back of my motorcycle before his body hit the floor. I'd speed over to my apartment, kick the door down, and throw her on my bed. With one motion I would rip her clothes off with one hand and mine with the other, revealing my huge, swollen, completely erect penis. After seeing the look of my own unbearable desire mirrored in her eyes, I imagined myself grabbing her by the ankles, lifting them high in the air, and pounding away until the shockwaves of a violent orgasm rocked her body. The force of her climax would trigger my own, allowing me just enough time to pull out and drench her face in my own ejaculation.

I'm sure this has something to do with my recent break-up. I will continue to stay in-doors for the time being.

I have often read or heard about the damaging effects numerous unloving relationships can have on the female psyche, i.e. how she feels about herself, how she feels about her body, low self-esteem, etc. Nowhere have I heard about the damaging effects of numerous unloving relationships on the emotional well-being /development of men, particularly those in their formative years. Instead we are led to belive that more is always better, that two women in bed will make us happy, that the brain is not a sex organ. Wanting one woman to spend the rest of our lives with is not discussed or encouraged by society at large.

Concurrently, when a young man cannot achieve an erection he is said to be "not performing", despite the possibility that he may simply feel uncomfortable in a situation where he is expected to mimic the behavior and emotional maturity of a draft horse. The female in this situation may feel that since her partner has not responded with robot-like efficiency he doesn't find her physically attractive. She may even be led to exact some sort of public revenge upon her partner, calling into question his sexual ability, orientation, and overall worth as a member of the human race.

In my expericence, nothing inflates a penis faster than love, trust, and true erotic desire.

I went over to my dad's house today because I didn't want to be alone. He started yelling at me about cleaning his garage and within five minutes of walking in the door I had burst into tears and sank to the floor in a defeated mess. I thought about it for a while and figured that breaking up should come easier with experience but each one is still more painful than the last.

And here I lay.

The other night, before Annavelle and I broke up, I had a dream that I was in her ex-boyfriend's house. It was the second dream in which I've had a rational conversation with the man despite his real-life silence the one time we ever met. I have the impression that I wound up in his house after walking a considerable distance and I remember that I had been wearing two shirts. I took both of the shirts off to cool down and began talking to him about Annavelle. We shared a lot of the same observations and surmised that other friends and family of hers would have shared them too had they been present. The discussion continued for a while, almost pleasantly, and eventually I excused myself and turned to leave. He lives with his cousin and in the dream his cousin appeared as a threatening Caucasian male who got in my way as I was trying to leave. I put on one of my shirts and made it to the front door, despite the obnoxious cousin's attempts to forcibly prevent me from leaving. When I got to the door I realized that I had left my other shirt behind. I remember thinking in the dream that I already had a shirt and that there was no logical reason to go back for the other one but I did so anyways. The obnoxious cousin got in my face again and bullied me for an indeterminate length of time. I woke up before I ever managed to escape from the house.

When I was in high school I got a job as a cashier at Rally's Hamburgers. It was my first real job. I was 16.

Some of the older guys that worked there were weird. Johnny was just an asshole. He made fun of me for being a virgin. When he asked me in front of everyone if I'd ever slept with anyone I told him that I didn't think it was any of his business and then everyone knew. I still don't think it was any of his business. "You'll be going down on it," Johnny said one time, "And be licking and slurping and gettin' that juice all over your face. Then you stick your dick in it and that pussy'll start farting: thbb, thbbbb, thbbbbbb..." He took it upon himself to "prepare" me. I had a close friend who worked at a coffee stand near Rally's and occasionally she'd come to see me. When she'd leave Johnny would descend on me like a hawk and ask if I was gonna nail her later that night. I usually just turned red and shrugged him off.

Lucio would pat my ass and ask, "Cuantos? Cuantos, Thomas?" Sometimes he'd sneak up behind me and pick me up in a reverse bear hug. The first few times he did it I tried to laugh it off but eventually I fought him. The minute he touched me I'd kick his shins with the heel of my shoes and punch him until he let me go. Despite that I kind of liked Lucio. He could be cool sometimes.

The store manager was a workaholic named Alfredo Lemus. He taught me what it meant to be punctual, efficient, and totally enslaved. I thank him every time I set foot on San Diego State University.

Angel was a very nice, mild-mannered immigrant who sent money back to his family in Mexico. He had a good, gentle sense of humor and I always liked talking with him. It was usually me, him, and Lucio closing the store, and most nights we got along pretty well.

But looking back on it I still say Fuck Rally's, and everyone who worked there.

So the way I figure it I'm turning out to be some sort of neurotic love relativist. I've determined that no existing model of a man/woman reproductive relationship matches the one that I've built in my head because the one in my head is the only such model in existence. Entertaining the notion that other models presented to me by friends, family, and art may be just as real as my own is often tiresome as well as boring but through this study I eventually find myself approaching what can only be described as a Buddhist sense of detachment. Ultimately I do not want to practice manipulation in any of my human relationships be it through guilt, deception, or outright terror tactics. I want people to be infatuated with me of their own accord, on account of the entertaining, empathic person that I am.

---

2 for Mr. Ass:

1. You might be famous but at least I can figure own how to make my posts bold when I want them to be.
2. We can play whatever you want, as long as I still get to hate Phil.

I think we should play "Death Metal Country." Then even more people could hate us.

---

Correction, ass: I'm famous.

---

It's okay Aaron. Even though all the pain and despair you've wished on me for the past 10 years is finally coming to fruition, I still love you. And after all...

Someone noticed our blog! Check it out everyone...on Monday the 4th something Ray said got quoted on some best of the blogs blog. We're fuckin famous!

I just realized that 2002 has not been kind to any of my friends. Tom has just been laid off from his job Monday and his car died in January and has no money to fix it. Ray has been unemployed for six months, just got kicked out of the house he was living in and had to move in with his mother, and barely had enough money to fix his car. Phil has never really had a job. Band friend Dominic is unemployed and living with his parents in Encinitas. Band Friend Bob lives in a house next to his in-laws in Ramona whose house just burned down on Tuesday morning. I'm sorry guys, there's been a lot of horrible shit going down. Maybe we should be a country western band from now on.

Aaron used to have long hair. Due to the frizzy nature of his hair it was usually as wide as it was long. Last week I ran across an old picture of him playing bass at some long-forgotten show and started fantasizing about what his hair may have looked like if he had never cut it.

I got really bored at work on Friday so I tried coming up with new ideas for the website. Instead I made this:

---

Annavelle and I finished our painting on Friday night after eating some very good apple pie. I will include a picture of it at some point (the painting). It is the fourth painting I have completed in my adult life, the second one that has been a joint effort. The cathartic effects of painting are staggering. A blank white canvas and cheap latex paint fills me with an incredibly welcome sense of responsibility; to myself, to god, Annavelle, my friends, my family, my unborn children, their unborn children, to the canvas itself...

The weekend was pretty relaxing and ended with us reading through the waning hours of Sunday night. She had picked up my copy of Iceberg Slim's "Pimp" and I was researching a midterm for my Women's Studies class. Life can be a pretty sweet fruit.

I was all upset because I haven't posted anything to the 'blog in quite few days. It's not that I don't have anything to say...I just don't wanna say it. I'm kinda lazy, I'll admit that...but I've never been good at keeping a journal. I am a LOUD MOTHERFUCKER. I want people to hear what I'm thinking. That's why I'm a ROCK STAR. Some of the shit I go through is really hard to talk about, painful and shit. I don't even feel the inclination to write that stuff down in a private journal.

What I'm trying to say is, thank god for Ray. He knows.