confused about the sentence including '=' but 'haha' maybe

my stupid brain takes a piece of one sentence and incorrectly fuses it with another. i'm writing poetry to solve my internal problems. i feel like emotions in the form of steam are bending logical transitions of energy. a state of detachment will help me break the perpetual cycle. i will do that once i squeeze my emotions into a metaphysically indestructible compartment. my ability to run long distances never wavers. the time it takes is painful however. i want to either write well or have a meaningful conversation. that way i will be more productive. sometimes i think i'm reading something, i'm thinking, if i'm thinking i'm working = good. i collaborated on jurassic park stories when i was 8 or 9. . . and 'petri' stories, and 'universal soldier' stories when i was a little older. in middle school i played basketball, took piano lessons, drew action/adventure characters, and got into nine inch nails. the frogs in the hospital waved their whiskey glasses unanimously. after three coors lights i feel like writing prose is the funnest. you learn language control. i mean just random stuff. the skater showed his mistakes in his backyard. i can't discover the emotions, and desires of other people from my bedroom. i can loosen what is too tight for you. we're harnessed in to climb some fake rocks. the mad doctor's ideas were selfish until they worked. the way the world's story goes, i don't mind an eternal gum-ball machine. the world isn't a story though. i'm not accustomed to myself yet. the world's a lot of little stories. they talk about the world rhetorically and chase cats with hunger. you go to jamaica if you can't handle
the cardboard.

Saturday Evening a Year Ago

"Life isn't working. It's just stopping. Everywhere," he says. He says, "Everywhere," again to them. A beat comes in. A house falls on a small hill. The hill is open. The hill wants the house. The house has ten small flowers vibrating from the impact. "I'm trying," he says. He plays the song again. They all look at him. Jack grabs her face. Her eyes look afraid of Jack. Jack sheds twenty dollar bills on the floor. The lights are bouncing in the room. The room has it's Saturday night. The people are trying to enjoy the Saturday night. "Jack, if you can't write your thing tonight, you're not going to write it," she says. A huge green light bounces and two people collapse. "I just want life to work," Jack says. "It's going," she says. "It's going but it's not working," she says again. Another giant green light squeezes through the mail slot. They are having the end of their Saturday night. A thin man named Tim stands up and on his pipe. He waves the pipe in a circle. No one is paying attention anymore. She gets up from the bed and pulls the string on the lamp. It's just stopping. Jack wakes up on Sunday morning. He feels his jacket riding up his back. His ipod phones tighten around his neck. He frees his neck. He looks towards the window. He sees Robert twisted in the quilt. She's rolled up like a rabbit beneath a pink blanket. There are seven people elsewhere, discernible. The morning light falls on the whole building. Jack grabs his things. His book bag weighs less than usual. It's weight is so little it feels insignificant. The hallway pulses with thick heat. The building residents are cooking invisible soups. A dark room of twenty candles burns despite the daylight. "This is about me," Jack sighs and thinks. He thinks and hovers in the elevator. The door makes ten different noises. The people of Saturday night are counting. They are counting and hoping for it to stop. The noises of the door happen too fast. The house falls but Jack cannot see it. Life isn't working.

chat with my friend john

Johnny: Rossinger

me: bee bop bop bado boop

Johnny: What's up brotown?

me: kicking it

Johnny: Noice

Sunday funday

me: yeah kinda

what you doin?

Johnny: I'm riding the rail right now

Train to the brain

me: ah nice

coming to the city

business school

Johnny: Just leaving the city actually

Yeah had orientation today

Good deal

me: sweet. is it cold out? i was thinking of getting some ice cream.

Johnny: Anytime is good time for ice cream.

But it is pretty chilly if you have to walk far to get it

me: 3 blocks

Johnny: Doable

For sure

me: what are you on iphone?

Johnny: What kind of ice cream

Blackberry

me: americone dream!

Johnny: Hahaha

Is that the kind with the little cones that have chocolate inside?

me: vanilla, caramel swirl, chocolate covered cone chips

Johnny: Oh yeah

I need a scoop of something now

Sent at 5:05 PM on Sunday

me: hitting up windham tomorrow

it's gonna be like ten degrees

Johnny: Ugghh lucky B

Yeah that's cold

I was up in montreal last weekend...-20 without the wind

me: did you carve it up?

Johnny: Got me siiick

Yeah half day at tremblant

me: i haven't been sick in years broham

Johnny: Great snow

Impressive

I wish I could say the same

This was first time in a while

Alright bud ... My stop

Catch you later

me: later broigator

Sent at 5:14 PM on Sunday

fully vegetarian, maybe + ethics of opinions, maybe

i feel like my conversion to vegetarian has completed. the last time i ate meat was when someone made me a salad and put turkey slices into it. i had tried to be a vegetarian in the summer of 2007 and it only lasted two months. i got drunk one night and the next day ate a cheeseburger that was delicious, more delicious animal based meals followed in a depression aleviating manner. the following christmas my cousin gave me eeeee eee eeee as a gift. i read an interview with the author, tao lin, and felt immediately inspired. i also had a close friend who was a full vegetarian conversion for over two years at the time. that person lives in a different state so i couldn't share many meals with them. from the beginning of 2008 until the end of that summer i was primarily a vegetarian except for the occasional chicken cutlet, burger, meatball pasta which were always free or prepared by a family member at a meal to which there were no other choices. during early fall i started buying animal oriented meals again. for some reason i was being reckless and out of control. i didn't care any more. there would still be weeks or even a whole month, maybe october was that month when i'd choose against animal based meals. around christmas i bought bacon breakfast sandwiches, mcdonald and burger kind meals, long chicken club heroes, and my mom's seven fishes christmas eve tradition. after a recent trip to the super market i feel confident i won't spend anymore money on animal products. i've read ' the way we eat, why our food choices matter' by peter singer. i find healthy meal patterns that are good tasting and entertaining to follow. i'm accustomed to a wide range of vegetables and i eat fruit at the right times and regularly. i know where to get protein and i do so regularly. my only dilemma is the occasional opportunity to eat animal based meals that are free and available. at my job there are frequent occasions when 3 free meals are catered to the entire office. it is my chance to eat animals that i did not support the death of. it is my chance to take part in not letting pounds of food go to waste like they sometimes do when meals are prepared with hundreds of people in mind. i also rarely spend money on things like paper towels, garbage bags, and toilet paper. my roommate buys them and i use them regularly. where does the separation occur between my using of the thing and my support of the purchase and further existence of that product being profitable to it's manufacturers. i feel like the most effective way to overcome the existence of something negative is to concentrate on the problem that thing presents. i sort of feel like, for an example, me telling my roommate 'lets not buy anymore paper products except maybe toilet paper which we should use very conservatively' would aggravated the problem and one day create an overhaul production of paper products. i think one day i might say something aggressive about thousands of chickens being electrocuted, sliced, and having their blood drained while im on the food line in my work's lunch room when there is breaking news because a plane crashed into a school full of children. when everyone looks at me i'm going to be smiling wildly.

Matthew Rohrer

I'm at work feeling paralyzed.

Eating 12 avocado / cucumber rolls

I watch youtube of Rodney Mullen from the 80s.

I search for Dow Mossman, and Matthew Rohrer.

The tv is on very loud. WHY!?!

I want to read twenty to thirty pages of something without stopping.

A quiet atmosphere would be better.

A soft yellow light on the side of the camera

shows no audio being 'picked up'.

When it is 8pm most of the office will be empty.

I could watch an hour long television show while my eyelids

mechanically drop.

Once I am home I will feel a wave of energy.

I will eat ramen noodles with cayenne pepper, maybe broccoli

asparagus or brussel sprouts.

I feel anxious I don't want to do more with my time.

Good Morning, Midnight by Jean Rhys

Jean Rhys. Good Morning, Midnight.

Jean Rhys describes an English woman's life in Paris. The woman lives in a room, cries in public places. The people that the person interacts with cause negative feelings for that person. The woman, Sasha, hides in her room. She describes houses as monsters, a room as a protection from wolves. Her memories of her jobs are negative.

'What the hell is she doing here, that old woman?' 'What is she doing here that stranger, the alien, the old one?' She drinks with some Russians. She contemplates getting her hair dyed. She cries to her boss. She remembers spending time with a young man who's good at cards. She almost cries when she hears them say that while she's in Theodore's. She gives an old woman money for bread. She's aware of her 'extrovert', calling the couples in Theodore's 'individuals'. She vindicates what the woman said about her in Theodore's by imagining smashing their little heads with a hammer. She's supposed to meet the Russian guys somewhere at four, after she possibly dies her hair.

There's a flashback to when she's pregnant. She looks at her dead baby in the hospital. 'No wrinkle'.

A lot happens. No like major things happen though. She hangs out with Russians. She goes back to before she came to Paris. Some of the sections end like this: I'm in Paris. . . in Paris. . .

There's a part where someone spends time in her room with her. A younger girl. The girl came out of nowhere. I liked when the girl was there. I like what Sasha Jensen thought and said about the girl.

My favorite things about the book are how her emotions fluctuate within the shortly framed sections, how the paragraphs are short and the sentences are short. I could sense the voice of the character steering the emotions. This feels like parody and makes it apparent she worked on the novel for a nourishing amount of time. I think that the sentences make her more depressed; conceving them and rereading them. By expressing the energy in them they self-perpetuate despair. The whole idea of the book feels like a well documented period of inward reflection. Something bad happened and then all she wanted to do was write a book about living in a room in Paris and just the idea of that is depressing so it's like an explosion of depression. I like how it's short. There were no major climaxes. I liked when she went after the gigolo.

Sasha's drinking style, in the book, seems good. The descripitions of drinking aren't accessive. She indicates how her emotions are affected by the drinks. She doesn't 'over-do' blurry vision, vomiting, tastes, and or smells. It seems 'light' on the stomach but 'heavy' in the head. I feel like my own drinking affects my stomach before I can appreciate its effect in my head. I'm worried about my digestive system. I should conserve the use of my digestive system because it could get run-down and become infected or cancerous.

Enno. Rene. I like this book. The style was unique. Lavados. Bidet. Morocco.

Sasha holds her arm over her eyes because she doesn't want to see things that she knows will happen. She purposely stops herself from being affected by things her brain tells her are happening. She goes from happy to sad, sometimes in one short paragraph.

I'm afraid because I can't take insanity or depression seriously. I can't feel anything. Snowboarding is fun. Sometimes it can be lonely and more trouble than it is worth. The chairlift is sometimes boring.

I wonder how much of these things actually happened to Jean Rhys. I always wonder that about fiction writers and their work. Then sometimes I feel like I don't care about the writers lives. I think maybe she put the old bald woman in their because she's afraid of baldness, or maybe she thinks baldness is good and funny and she was parodying the social implications of baldness, or maybe she just saw a bald old woman before she was writing that day.

Someone wrote that they feel like Jean Rhys wrote is in despair and edited it in agony on goodreads. I like that prediction. It doesn't really matter. Maybe she was really happy when she wrote it and was looking back on a period of despair and agony.

The end made me think about what it's like for a woman to have sex, which I'll never fully know, but have thought about before (specifically when someone said they always have wondered what it's like for a woman to have sex while I was waiting with that person outside of a dormitory for a drug dealer five years ago).