The fourth Harry Potter book has been my doorstop for weeks now. It prevents the door from closing with large bangs rather than whimpers. When I open the windows on either side of the house, wind flows through two rooms. Better than an air conditioner. I still don't have one. Electric fans are enough.
Sometimes, a stray gust of wind will squeeze in between the door and the wall, and will edge the door inwards just a tiny bit. From then, it's over. Nobody will ever catch the door; we all watch in silent anticipation as the door slowly avalanches, gaining speed at exponential rates until it slams shut like a gunshot. We've broken wooden chopsticks and crushed empty soda cans between the door and the doorframe.
I wish I had fields of cheap delicate vases to break. Me, my baseball bat, and pure catharsis. Somehow, it fits the formula, does it not? Me, myself, and I. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Like a silent cadence, Chasing Amy, Finding Forrester. The Cat in the Hat. 'Where the Wild Things Are' used to be a shock. Everything else was either just a name names or told me to do stuff. Someday I will write the lyrics to a song, with the names of childrens' books. Like a mosiac made of magazines, except without political messages or other messy paraphernelia, like the invisible stink of a three-year old's carousel vomit. I once made a collage with finance-related magazines and newspapers only. It was a giant crude dollar sign crushing various small flags of the world. I was aiming for 'subtle metaphor'. My teacher told me that it was 'amazingly interesting' and it won a prize at a school fair. My friend made a collage of a sunset, green sky and blue sun and all. The teacher hung it up-side down, and said 'nice'. He became an artist. I did not.
Sometimes I daydream of awful things happening to me, out of pure spite. Such as being stabbed (gently) in the back, or being pushed onto stone sidewalks. Slow replay. I fall down and cry out, and then I take out my knife and brutally hack the evil attacker into small pleasant bite-size bits. Delicious. If only things were so simple, and if only all the stabbers and the thieves in the world were of pure evil, like from clay. A hand here, a leg there, brush on the glaze and toss into kiln, and there you go: instant evil. Set on fire like Prometheus and it walks around stealing money. They deserved to be killed. Die die die. Kill kill kill. Eat eat eat. Yum yum yum.Nothing but mindless evil. Sinners. Fuckers. Kill them all. Dripping like liquid napalm. Napalm sticks to kids. So does sarcasm.
Yesterday I dreamt of people that I had never imagined before. There was a dark-skinned girl who painfully kept snakes in her legs and considered it a high honor. Her friend was a girl (not a lesbian) who hung out with boys and only boys. Not-Lesbian's boyfriend never spoke to anyone.
The Snake-girl met a large snake, who wanted to enter Snake-girl's body. The snake-girl reluctantly obliged, and the snake entered the girl through the cuts in her ankles. I felt the snake enter. I wasn't the girl. It was nothing erotic, mind you; it felt like liquid acid (the burning kind) was running through the veins of my legs. Suddenly, the Not-Lesbian meets the snake-girl and sporadically complains about how she is the village whore and how everyone sleeps with her. Then I wake up.
Perhaps I should sleep some more. E2 keeps on asking me for 'proxy requests'. Two weeks ago I watched 'Open Your Eyes', dubbed in Korean. It felt like I was reading something in Hebrew BabelFished into German then into English. The evil mind is ever stay. I wonder why people laughed at Zero Wing. Like engrish.com.
Have you ever had a million thoughts cross your mind at once, like dry disjointed limbs jerking eerily in the wind like a witch's windchime, like layered webs of things and anything? Have you ever looked at something and started a trail of mental dominoes that started at Mt. Everest and continued all the way down to base camp?
Have you ever felt like you were about to burst?
(Sing-song voice) No more descriptions. Formula and meta-w/u. Noun like an adjective adjective noun verbing adverbily preposition article noun like a noun of a noun, adverbily, adverbily. Adverbily, adverbily, life is but a dream.
Sorry for this. Fuck it off, and give me those downvotes, because I need them right now. I feel horribly masochist. In a non-sexual way.