i suck at simple math, need to get faster

that would be awesome, and i want that too, and i think it will eventually happen in like 2020 or something, like 20/20 clear vision finally humanity will see that chinese people rule, if our great ass food wasn't proof already. seems like the muslims and christians will kill each other while chill ass buddhists just concentrate on owning more and more US debt., getting better at math, and making 88% of everything, including sporks, which they will suddenly stop producing, so that hick-type proud amerikans will have no choice but to use chopsticks, but they'll be so slow & bovine-ish in their m a s t i c a t i o n that the food will be gone because chinese people eat rlly fast, so like, darwinistically n' shit, say there are 14 gyozas for you and me, then i'll eat 12 by the time u manage to eat 2, and u'll die and i'll extract your molars from your mouth and wear it on a necklace and get ape agro with your femur bone, srry #2020

pussy is easy when u believe

THAT'S WHAT I WANNA KNOW???

conjoined twins lol

if I wasn't allowed to kill myself id find a kid at kent state on the 4th floor with no friends and a distant family and kill them when they are alone in their dorm room because it would probably take oh around nine days for anyone to notice
jk
that happened already

i would murder someone old who was senile and already near dying because they're already so near dying and prolly expensive to their families

wow I feel terrible

erik solicited my poem 'feminism' and said he'd give me $50 but i haven't heard from him since sending the poem

some people are making a movie whose main character is based on me in second life

i listened to music and read stephen crane poems two weekends ago while on the train to westchester. i was feeling equally excited by the poems and the music. that's a rare over indulgence though. like i was maybe excited to be leaving new york temporarily and wanted to just free my thoughts and mind rapidly. some stuff came in really fast. it was awesome, like drugs. i felt maybe 25% distracted. was also tweeting and drinking beer on that 45 minute long ride.

today i was listening to music at random and 'bob the gambler' chapter 16 came on and i listened to that while cleaning my room. i only felt about 15% distracted.

the best environment to read in is in silence. i mostly read in silence or on trains and am easily distracted by pretty much anything. my own thoughts. when i'm not distracted reading experiences feel incredible.

no man, u'r lost. this is how u do it: you get into an MFA program in columbia or yale or brown or somewhere on the east coast; there you will 1) learn how to write better and 2) meet famous authors or professors and their agents who like know editors of magazines and journals and publishing houses, and if you have a unique style, your name will kinda spread around circles. then over a dinner party you, with somewhat affected abashedness, say you finished your novel. and one author with a beard will ask you to mail it to his editor, and so you do. then if it's good, it might be published; and all these ppl know review editors at newspapers and journals and magazines, and so begins the process of being hyped up as the voice is the new generation. (oh yah, if you are a female, you'll need to be attractive. if you a bro, it's cool, sometimes the uglier the better.) so that's how to do it. city lights sucks, it's full of ppl who also think haight st. is cool -- like experiencing retroactively some ethos that sucked even when it was happening. sf has good weather, but the ppl sort of blow

ok bro ass i was born in toronto canada, only child to an alcoholic negligent father and codependent mother; had a rough start health-wise (almost died at 12 days old) and wound up in a foster home when mom couldn't handle it anymore; but they got back 2gether and i live a normal suburban life—if by normal one includes a drunk dad coming home and screaming at his wife until 4:00am in the morning, which ultimately got more violent until the knives, literally, came out. they separated and mom/me move to taipei but that didn't work out so we move back to toronto (Agincourt, racially known as "asian court") to lower-income housing (not subsidized, just "free-market" broke ass) where the walls of my room were covered in the former tenants' shit, a redolence which both went away as i became acclimated to it; mom is working full time and boyfriending so i never see her. i'm around 8yrs old now. i start cutting class and taking buses to endless point, stealing money from mom and going to KFC—i love the soft-shell crab-esque exoskeleton of "crispy" chicken—for lunch until teacher tells mom and she freaks. i'm also making friends with the Canadian Italian-mafia (at least their kids), specifically, one "Dino," an overweight boy who wanting me to steal stuff with him. also hung out with kid who invited lil' bros to his sisters room too smell her snatch soaked sheets; so like mom can't handle me anymore and goes back to my dad, who just moved to California, so fast fwd to me 10yrs old in Concord, CA., in an upper-class area of middle class suburb, full of cul de sacs and white bitches; i used to make 3-inch "potato" characters using my mom's panty hose (a cop, "rambo," a wrestler, a blind pastry chef, etc.); i soon really got into skateboarding and metal and played metal guitar when i was in high school and also painted anal-retentive watercolours of my reebok "pump"/nike "air" shoes; other than that, high school was just me and mom watching Oprah. i never kissed anyone or got laid. I have a 3.85 GPA and get into college, where i wrote R.E.M.-ish songs on acoustic guitar, performing at open mics with long hair, and started oil painting first francis bacon/de kooning type "crazy people," soon veering off into more abstract-expressionist-y territory a la cy twombly and joan mitchell (the painter, not the singer who also paints), finally landing on a post-impressionist style similar to bonnard with a 'bay area school' influence; i also never kissed anyone or got laid, though fell in love like a dozen times to a dozen girls—all "artists" in that socio-economically nurtured way. i graduated college and was a professional painter (had exhibitions, sold pieces) for ~4.5 years until a quarter-life crisis after/during which I ended up in the south (for a girl), reading faulkner, duh, and like being "damn this shitz good" and taking writing more seriously (i had been sorta writing while painting – sorta became obsessed with pynchon and gaddis like most cerebral bros), and also beating the ass out of super mario world; then i move back to san fran and still kind of paint but really don't like it anymore – so i just get a job (which i'm still at) and paint on sundays until that disappears. this whole time i'm writing fiction and submitting it and publishing in journals but i'm slowly thinking fiction is more and more absurd, like since it's derived from life – however aesthetically fucked with – why not just write directly about life like non-fiction shit (as non-fic is a lie as much as fic is the truth, n' vice verca), a tendency heavily influence by the "built-in" readership at the places i blog/write for, and here i am now; as for the personal stuff, i was in a 4-year relationship, married her, then got divorced quickly afterwards for reasons which i've written about but will not do here. since then, i've met various people who i guess i'm glad to have met and know them. among other notable personal things, i had a falling out with my dad, and recently started therapy.

no i did not do drugs in college, nor did i ingest alcohol or engage in sexual intercourse; while we are talking about what i didn't do, i didn't even kiss anyone in college. i spent 4 goddamn years in my dormitory room getting OCD on myself and listening to tori amos. Though one time at a party a friend forced me to drink a shot of vodka in a glass of orange juice (a screwdriver) and i hated it, so i went to the side yard (this was during a 'party') and talked at length with a dark haired porcelain faced anne frank-ish jewish girl who i was in love with; we talked about morbid things under the smell of jasmine and look of moon, when she said "we should go to my place," and we don't need dr. phil to tell us that was an evite to her putang. but alas, i declined, in self-loathing, and walked home alone after she, mildly embarrassed and never smitten again, left. on my walk back, i hit my head under a bridge until i almost drew blood.

a river runs through it

it's based on didion's first novel

jesus christ dude, are you daft? she wants to bang you. "are you in that [insert liberal arts class]" is code for 'let's fuck,' or if she's more demure, 'fuck me.' check it bro: yous gonna probs watch Fellini's "8 1/2," so you just say "hm, that's odd, that's how long my..." which will pique her interest, so then cut a hole at the base of the popcorn bag [whilst nexflix study session/'date,' duh], and insert your erect devotion through the popped buttery kernels of their forgotten Nebraska. chicks dig surprises, and if you can't afford a new Mazda, then a throbbing butter boy will have to do. this is called the "director's cut," which has nothing to do with circumcision, unless you're Steven Speilberg or 1 of 2 Coen Bros. Point is bro, yes, yes, yes.

formspring.me/cripplecreep

i like them a lot, probably not getting more attention because, i don't know, the audience is like 'boutique', i think it's meant for a 'boutique' audience, i don't think he's going for mass amounts of attention or trying to 'breakthrough' or whatever

i think a lot about it

i wanna get like an insulated baseball cap from there but without the stigma