Cat Love

The second time I had a sexual encounter with a 2nd party of feline descent was not as fun as the first. His name was Zeus. He had golden fur that was accented by a faint white line down his spine. His eyes, stared deep into mine, as he telepathically told me what to do with my body. I laid down and took off my pants. His front paws were de-clawed so he broke me in with those. I spread my ass cheeks and let him slip his paws into the deep crevices of my ass. It felt warm and furry, I liked it. The second part of our encounter wasn't as fun as the first. He stuck his rear paws into my ass and started scratching around, I felt immense pain but I was aroused.

-Rob

New Wave/Pop Punk

As I navigated best buy's country section I stumbled upon this little gem that seemed to have been misplaced:



It's actually pretty mediocre but I thought I'd share with all of you.

Here's the pitchfork review

Track List:

01 Overboard (7:18)
02 San Francisco Sandwich [Feat. R-O-B] (3:36)
03 Chad Made Me Sad (2:54)
04 Jerry Springer (Skit) (0:34)
05 Until The End Of Time (1:03)
06 If I Would (You Probably Would Too) [Feat. Architect Nic] (5:39)
07 Awkward Elavator (4:19)
08 Misunderstood (9:12)
09 Doing It For My Dude (1:35)
10 Verse Chorus Verse (3:40)
11 Misunderstood [Reprise] (18:23)
12 Awkward Elevator [Remix][Feat. Steven Spielberg] (6:15)

Things I Do Like! (xanax edition)

1. I do like new socks.




2. I do like 1.5 TB hard drives for under 200 dollars.








3. I do like Wild Turkey.





4. I do like Vicodin.





5. I do like Blackberrys.





6. I do like High Definition Audio and Video.





7. I do like Gordo's Burritos (which I really need...badly).





8. I do like ssh.





9. I do like Andres Segovia.





10. I do like skateboards.

Fuck

My mom just came into my room with a uncomfortable look on her face. At first I didn't pay any attention to her because I figured she had nothing important to say to me, but after I felt her looming presence I decided to acknowledge her existence.

"Hey Nick, I have a question."
"Shoot."
"I just got a text message, and I don't understand this abbreviation."

She handed me her iPhone, and it read, "yo milf". I handed the phone back to her without changing the expression on my face.

"Well, what does it stand for?"
"What does what stand for?"
"MILF. What does MILF stand for?"
"Mom I'd Like to Fuck."
"Oh, thanks Nick."
"You're welcome Mom. Good night."
"Good night honey."

I'm in a daze.

TGIF

(22:44:53) Monty: gosh im so down tomorrow is Friday
(22:45:09) Monty: I'm looking forward to sleeping
(22:45:36) Billy: sick
(22:45:52) Billy: yeah call me when you get off ill roll over and we can go to sleep

Death

I'm sorry to be so serious, but I started to think about death. My parents are old, and not to be morbid, but they could die at any time. I called them tonight just to tell them how much I loved them, just to be sure the last words I said were "I Love You." I got my father to say I love you for the first time in three years. It took a lot. We don't have a relationship where we can be lovey dovey to each other, but I can tell him anything. I can tell him who I slept with, and what I did last night, etc. My mother is the same, except I end every conversation with her saying, "I love you." I can cry in front of both of them, even my father, where emotions beyond love takeover. My father has talked me through some of the hardest times in my life, and approached these times by relating them to his own life, which made me feel normal and safe.

I love my parents to death and I don't know what I would do without them, that's why death scares me so much. I hope to God they see my children, just so I can pass on that much love to someone.

I miss this place I call home with two people I can't live without. I saw them for 1.5 days in an eight month period, so fucking hard. I had this image of them in my mind from eight months previous and seeing them after that was very hard, death is imminent and it's fucked up.

-Rob

Friends Vs. Acquaintances

We make friends and we make acquaintances. Friends require much more than a common interest in alcohol and drugs. Things like drawing still life is a common interest that brings friends together. If the only thing you have in common with someone is you like beer pong, you're an acquaintance. I know this is a low level comparison of friends vs. acquaintances, but it takes more than some un-sober point of view to connect to a person.

I went through all of the people I know, and I found out I have an incredible amount of acquaintances rather than friends. This says something about how college is. You make a few good friends, but an overwhelming amount of acquaintances.

Now this isn't bad. A person goes into a social event and they can say "hello" to a few amount of people, to make themselves feel less awkward.

Ok, here we go. I must say I hate this approach to social life, and even if you're at UCLA, Boulder, COM, or UCSB you know what I'm talking about. I hope that we can diminish this social point of view and concentrate on people we really care about to build a future.

Please, it's too imense

-ROB

I usually don't remember dreams

I usually don't remember dreams. It's frustrating when you still remember for that one minute after you awaken, and no matter what you do, you can't hold on to it. Even if you have one vivid memory from it, using that as an anchor to try and remember the rest will just make your anchor memory slip as well.

I usually don't remember dreams. But I remember this one vividly. Probably because I got the shit beat out of me by three of my good friends while they were holding me to the pavement and shooting up heroin.

While on the way to a party that inexplicably had all of my friends at it, Evan Coller got in the drivers seat of my car and started driving with me in it. I told him not to drive and I was annoyed with him because he was intoxicated. I told him to stop driving, but instead he started swerving. When the car crashed, I got out of the passenger side and ran up to him angrily because he did that when I told him not to, and he shouldn't get so fucked up.

While scolding him, I felt a warm blow to the back of my skull. I look up confused to see Michael Bignami holding a wooden plank and smiling at me blankly, but confident. When I asked him why the fuck he did that, in a similar tone as I was talking to Evan, Zander Albright stepped in front of him and started yelling in my face, blaming me for letting Evan drive and telling me to go fuck off. Naturally, I returned his statement, and before I knew it I was pinned to the ground getting kicked in the ribs from all three of them.

Evan took my sunglasses off and crushed them under his sneakers, while Zander and Michael continued to shoot heroin behind him. I thought it was all over, and thank God because my cab was there to take me to the airport so I could finally go to Europe. But when the three others noticed this, they gave the cab driver a threatening glare and pinned me down again while they repeatedly punched me in the face, and then in the gut, and then in the face again.

I usually don't remember dreams.

I have to return some video tapes

Elizabeth, naked, running from the bedroom, blood already on her, is moving with difficulty and she screams out something garbled. My organ had been prolonged and its release was intense and my knees are weak. I'm naked too, shouting "You bitch, you piece of bitch trash" at her and since most of the blood is coming from her feet, she slips, manages to get up, and I strike out at her with the already wet butcher knife that I'm gripping in my right hand, clumsily, slashing her neck from behind, severing something, some veins. When I strike out a second time while she's trying to escape, heading for the door, blood shoots even into the living room, across the apartment, splattering against the tempered glass and the laminated oak panels in the kitchen. She tries to run forward but I've cut her jugular and it's spraying everywhere, blinding both of us momentarily, and I'm leaping at her in a final attempt to finish her off. She turns to face me, her features twisted in anguish, and her legs give out after I punch her in the stomach and she hits the floor and I slide in next to her. After I've stabbed her five or six times – the blood's spurting out in jets; I'm leaning over to inhale its perfume – her muscles stiffen, become rigid, and she goes into her death throes; her throat becomes flooded with dark red blood and she thrashes around as if tied up, but she isn't and I have to hold her down. Her mouth fills with blood that cascades over the sides of her cheeks, over her chin. Her body, shaking spasmodically, resembles what I imagine an epileptic goes through in a fit and I hold down her head, rubbing my dick, stiff, covered with blood, across her choking face, until she's motionless.

Back in my bedroom, Christie lies on the futon, tied to the legs of the bed, bound up with rope, her arms above her head, ripped pages from last month's Vanity Fair stuffed into her mouth. Jumper cables hooked up to a battery are clipped to both breasts, turning them brown. I had been dropping lit matches from Le Relais onto her belly and Elizabeth, delirious and probably overdosing on the Ecstasy, had been helping before I turned on her and chewed at one of her nipples until I couldn't control myself and bit it off, swallowing. For the first time I notice just how small and delicately structured Christie is, was. I start kneading her breasts with a pair of pliers, then I'm mashing them up, things are moving fast, I'm making hissing noises, she spits out the pages from the magazine, tries to bite my hand, I laugh when she dies, before she does she starts crying, then her eyes roll back in some kind of horrible dream state.

In the morning, for some reason, Christie's battered hands are swollen to the size of footballs, the fingers are indistinguishable from the rest of her hand and the smell coming from her burnt corpse is jolting and I have to open the venetian blinds, which are spattered with burnt fat from when Christie's breasts burst apart, electrocuting her, and then the windows, to air out the room. Her eyes are wide open and glazed over and her mouth is lipless and black and there's also a black pit where her vagina should be (though I don't remember doing anything to it) and her lungs are visible beneath the charred ribs. What is left of Elizabeth's body lies crumpled in the corner of the living room. She's missing her right arm and chunks of her right leg. Her left hand, chopped off at the wrist, lies clenched on top of the stand in the kitchen, in its own small pool of blood. Her head sits on the kitchen table and its blood soaked face – even with both eyes scooped out and a pair of Alain Mikli sunglasses over the holes – looks like it's frowning. I get very tired looking at it and though I didn't get any sleep last night and I'm utterly spent, I still have a lunch appointment at Odeon with Jem Davies and Alana Burton at one. That's very important to me and I have to debate whether I should cancel it or not.

You know what's cuttier

As far as cutty goes...

This is pretty cutty.

But in all seriousness

I'd rather sit on my couch and masturbate to photographs of Rob and YouTube videos of turtle sex.

The Finest

How do we define who is superior in society? Musical talents? Acting talents? Artistic talents? Whatever it is, there is a percentage of the human population that is considered above the rest, even thought their genetic makeup is the same as everyone else.

Maybe Kanye West can make a hit song that gets everyone's spine tingling, but why? Couldn't Joe Schmo have made it? We put these musical figures on pedestals that allow them to produce cookie cutter "originals," that we eat up like food. We have gotten ourselves stuck in this muck of music that is all the same. Hip Hop has become an electronic genre that I feel has lost its dignity.

Now my qualm with actors and actresses is this whole "From the guys who brought you Knocked Up," when it probably the only people related are the producers of the movie. Hollywood just wants movie-goers to eat up these so called replications of box office hits. We should not base the quality of movies on the work of directors, actors, and producers in the past.

Artists have kept their own. The development of new wave approaches to photography, sculptures, and painting has blown my mind. I saw an exhibit at the San Francisco MOMA, that offered free portraits to the visitors. The idea was to hang over 100 close up, black and white portraits of the visitors on a huge wall, a right step in the direction of art.

-ROB

Airports are fucking Shamele$$

On a journey that at its conclusion will have taken approximately 16 hours, I am hungry.

I hate eating in fucking airports. Especially after I've been in another country or something that has caused me to miss the food I covet at home.

When my first meal is a BBQ chicken pizza from a CPK express I am usually dissapointed. It is not the kind of transition I like to make back to the land where my meal options are so satisfying.

On this particular trip I have been cut no slack by the restaurants at Atlanta's airport. Upon reviewing my options I came to my last resort. Pizza Hut Express.

At first it didn't seem all that bad. It was not until I sat down to eat my long overdue meal that I was hit with the outrageous realization that I had been ripped off beyond my expectations.



I was met with this fucking piece of pizza which if you can't tell measures about 4" in diameter.

To the right of this pizza is my receipt that tells the story (in numbers) of how I got fucked over.

$6.08 was what this pie cost me along with a medium (which is the smallest size they offer) coke.

Fuck airports. They get you when you're hungry and convinced that you need.

-Monty

Further Eructations

It is pretty frequent that someone points out how much it smells in the rooms or areas I occupy. I've had bad gas for a long time now, maybe 8 or 10 months. This is not to say I need surgery or anything.

I don't fart constantly, I simply eat something that might contribute to my stomach not feeling so hot and then I get gas.

I don't make new years resolutions because I usually forget them within a week or two. Not to mention why should I make a resolution about changing something only at one time of the year. If I want to fart even more I can always decide that on February 16th or even 17th.

I have yet to realize that it is 2009.

I'm on vacation and when I get home I'm going to be on vacation until 2010.

- Monty