Saturday, July 17, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
"Late Night Nonsense" by Alex King
What to write about, what to write about, what to write about. I could not decide. The 16th hour? What does that even mean? Four hours past 12. Midday. Four o’clock. One hour before happy hour. The happiest hour. What does this nonsense mean? Who knows? I do. Writing about it will not do it justice though. Justice. What is it? More nonsense. Even if I write about, writing about, what I write about, it is pointless. Nonsense. This topic is nonsense. So far, I have written about, writing about, writing about, and that is far too much for me to write about. I cannot help but think someone might understand this, but that thought itself is just me thinking about me, thinking about understanding, which culminates in me writing about, writing about. No good.
Anyway the time is approaching. The 17th hour is almost here. It’s pretty crazy that this song is approximately ten minutes long. The amount of time I am supposed to be writing for. Anyway, it just changed. Times up.
Anyway the time is approaching. The 17th hour is almost here. It’s pretty crazy that this song is approximately ten minutes long. The amount of time I am supposed to be writing for. Anyway, it just changed. Times up.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
"Untitled" by Alex King
Gazing out over the handlebars of his road bike, the rider could see mile after mile of southbound pavement in front of him. He leaned down and pushed on the throttle. The bike sped off in a whirlwind of dust. As he approached the four corners of New Mexico, Utah, Arizona, and Colorado, he had no idea which way to go. All he knew was that Pedro was first on the list. Since this was not a Mormon name and he did not want to go to Utah anyway, he decided to choose between the other three states. He chose New Mexico. It was a good chose too because he immediately saw Pedro’s car, an old Chevy truck. The rider hid his bike in some bushes, got in the passenger seat, and quickly slipped Pedro the letter he was carrying. “Don’t open it yet” said the rider. He got out of the truck and back on his bike. Three letters left on his list.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
"Goddamnit" by Will Lewis
We're gonna celebrAaAte. Oh yeah/All right - don't stop the daancIiIn'!
Goddamnit. Now that I have this song stuck in my head, it's going to be impossible to write about anything unrelated to Daft Punk (besides, of course, some sort of rant relating to writer's block).
But I'm not going to fall prey to that, either! No writer's block freewrite for me today; I've already gotten that written down somewhere as a prompt (don't even try thinking of what to say when it comes out because I'm going to purposefully post it in, like, a YEAR because I just said that). Yet I digress (into a rant about writer's block, no less).
So, I'm sitting here trying to get to work on homework, but I remember that Missile Notes exists, right? I had been thinking about it every once and awhile today but I had COMPLETELY forgotten as to what the prompt was, and I honestly started laughing when I saw it about three minutes ago. Gatdam.
Kay, so none of this pointless freewrite stuff. Let's say something worthwhile... Hmm... Okay, so there's this wallpaper on my laptop's... wallpaper... and it's an illustration from the comic book Johnny The Homocidal Maniac. Have you ever read it? If you ever go to Powell's or Border('?)s or Barnes 'n Noblez or something you'll find it, because for some, really good reason it's just everywhere. It's a comic book (you're most likely to find the graphic novel anthology anywhere you go now) written by Jhonen Vasquez, who you may be more familiar with through a cartoon series called Invader Zim. All of the man's works are exceedingly satirical, and I love it, because I hate me a good human now and again and it's just good to laugh at this crazy situation we're in once and awhile. Y'know, the one where we're writing for some reason inspired by the human spirit or some shit and singing "One More Time" by Daft Punk on repeat (can you sing on repeat?) while, at the same time, not even caring that we're going to post our writing for others to see, whether or not it's any good or whether or not it accurately portrays us as a person (or even as a writer!). That's just the crazy thing - satire commenting on the human race that, by definition, must full circle back to the author, creating an instance of hypocrisy and, therefore, becoming means for more satire commenting on the human race. It's crazy, but it doesn't count to SUCH a great extent in my book, because I'd hope that we'll all agree that there are much greater instances of satirical situations commenting on the human condition and the like. Then again, I'm just some guy that hopes I can get an animation done, a videogame done, a hip hop project off the ground, and a website made to twine all of this together while attempting to create healthy relationships with people and maintain them so that I can have some sort of social security.
Man, what a rant. I'm not even going to read over this at all or ever again. Just going to post it. Then I'm going to celebrate and dance for free. Music's got me feelin' so free *we're gonna celebrate* one more time...
Goddamnit. Now that I have this song stuck in my head, it's going to be impossible to write about anything unrelated to Daft Punk (besides, of course, some sort of rant relating to writer's block).
But I'm not going to fall prey to that, either! No writer's block freewrite for me today; I've already gotten that written down somewhere as a prompt (don't even try thinking of what to say when it comes out because I'm going to purposefully post it in, like, a YEAR because I just said that). Yet I digress (into a rant about writer's block, no less).
So, I'm sitting here trying to get to work on homework, but I remember that Missile Notes exists, right? I had been thinking about it every once and awhile today but I had COMPLETELY forgotten as to what the prompt was, and I honestly started laughing when I saw it about three minutes ago. Gatdam.
Kay, so none of this pointless freewrite stuff. Let's say something worthwhile... Hmm... Okay, so there's this wallpaper on my laptop's... wallpaper... and it's an illustration from the comic book Johnny The Homocidal Maniac. Have you ever read it? If you ever go to Powell's or Border('?)s or Barnes 'n Noblez or something you'll find it, because for some, really good reason it's just everywhere. It's a comic book (you're most likely to find the graphic novel anthology anywhere you go now) written by Jhonen Vasquez, who you may be more familiar with through a cartoon series called Invader Zim. All of the man's works are exceedingly satirical, and I love it, because I hate me a good human now and again and it's just good to laugh at this crazy situation we're in once and awhile. Y'know, the one where we're writing for some reason inspired by the human spirit or some shit and singing "One More Time" by Daft Punk on repeat (can you sing on repeat?) while, at the same time, not even caring that we're going to post our writing for others to see, whether or not it's any good or whether or not it accurately portrays us as a person (or even as a writer!). That's just the crazy thing - satire commenting on the human race that, by definition, must full circle back to the author, creating an instance of hypocrisy and, therefore, becoming means for more satire commenting on the human race. It's crazy, but it doesn't count to SUCH a great extent in my book, because I'd hope that we'll all agree that there are much greater instances of satirical situations commenting on the human condition and the like. Then again, I'm just some guy that hopes I can get an animation done, a videogame done, a hip hop project off the ground, and a website made to twine all of this together while attempting to create healthy relationships with people and maintain them so that I can have some sort of social security.
Man, what a rant. I'm not even going to read over this at all or ever again. Just going to post it. Then I'm going to celebrate and dance for free. Music's got me feelin' so free *we're gonna celebrate* one more time...
Sunday, July 11, 2010
"Dirty Deeds Against Creed" by Will Lewis
So, there has to be a devil hanging about my face.
So I'm at the mall, right? And I'm just walking around, right? To the food court, to be specific - I need to get my eat on after a hard day's shopping with my gee eff at some clothes store (I'm wore out as hell, let ME tell YOU) and I just get this look, right? A look that tells me I've been doing some dirty deeds somewhere between genocide and jerking it in public. Something between worldwide social unacceptance to happy little America social unacceptance. And it's on everyone's face. Not just the six year old girl who is probably just making the face because she shit herself, not the dude sitting at a table playing Magic: The Gathering making the face because his opponent just brought out a 6/6 with flying, and not the old man turning to look and scowl at how low a wigger's pants are.
Like, everyone. And their pupils are following me like I'm magnetic north. Ellen seems oblivious, but I've caught on to this whole conspiracy to make me feel that I've done something wrong. She's looking at another store - something like Wet Rouge or Forever Old Navy or something like that - just kind of window shopping, chilling, and having a good, relaxing day (goddamn I love her to death/an actually REASONABLE girl for once/although it's a given that she falls prey to the whole mall thing/I couldn't ask for anything better than her). She's having a great time, so why should no one else? What's with this stink eye squared that's slapping me all over the place? Am I Osama Bin Laden with amnesia or something?
Goddamn these people. I'm trying to think of ho
So I'm at the mall, right? And I'm just walking around, right? To the food court, to be specific - I need to get my eat on after a hard day's shopping with my gee eff at some clothes store (I'm wore out as hell, let ME tell YOU) and I just get this look, right? A look that tells me I've been doing some dirty deeds somewhere between genocide and jerking it in public. Something between worldwide social unacceptance to happy little America social unacceptance. And it's on everyone's face. Not just the six year old girl who is probably just making the face because she shit herself, not the dude sitting at a table playing Magic: The Gathering making the face because his opponent just brought out a 6/6 with flying, and not the old man turning to look and scowl at how low a wigger's pants are.
Like, everyone. And their pupils are following me like I'm magnetic north. Ellen seems oblivious, but I've caught on to this whole conspiracy to make me feel that I've done something wrong. She's looking at another store - something like Wet Rouge or Forever Old Navy or something like that - just kind of window shopping, chilling, and having a good, relaxing day (goddamn I love her to death/an actually REASONABLE girl for once/although it's a given that she falls prey to the whole mall thing/I couldn't ask for anything better than her). She's having a great time, so why should no one else? What's with this stink eye squared that's slapping me all over the place? Am I Osama Bin Laden with amnesia or something?
Goddamn these people. I'm trying to think of ho
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