BE Aggressive, Not So Depressive.

I

Is

A

Monster.

I mean...

I

Am

A

Monsta.

Shit. Hold up...

I

Am

A

Monster.

Fuck yes!

The

Last

Living

Dinosaur

Of The Congo.

kasai rex.

Who You Calling Boy, Boy?

The Presets - My People (dir. Kris Moyes)

It truly is something that this video makes me want to eat massive amounts of both Ecstasy and DXM. Two wildly different animals. 

Blood In, Blood Out. (Reasoning).

MDMA: The Presets' Pussy-Pounding Pulse

DXM (b/k/a cough suppressant): Terror-soaked MoonView visuals 

Wascally Wabbits End Up With Their Chests Blown Out. Period.

Also interesting is that the last time I dropped pills (after a Cage show), I drove from a club to an apartment party at 6am, rolling my face off, listening to, you guessed it, The Presets. "Are You The One" to be exact.

(Pseudo-)Synchronicity. It's What's For Dinner And Shit.

So yeah. In summation: The Presets, dope; Modular, dope; Anything that significantly and permanently alters my brain's chemistry (for better or worse), super dope. 

Reach for the lasers, Safe as fuck.

P.S. For those among you who may be new to the nightmare, further insight into my epicly horrific, rehab-inducing experiences with Dextromorphan can be found HERE.

Garnett Mims Ain't Got Shit On Me.

Dear Diary,

Last night before Morelandshire tucked me in, I found myself strangely stricken by a feral urge to hurl a shrieking newborn baby (a docile infant would do as well I suppose; as with most things I'm not very picky) into the corner of an unfurnished room.

This isn't strictly an anger thing (nb: it would moreso be a light toss than a throw), nor is it as simple as being a matter of wanting to satisfy reprehensible violent urges. I am, after all, the first to admit that my reptilian brain has gotten the upper hand on the mammalian from time to time, often in inappropriately sanitary and highly public contexts. But a bit of the hyperviolence does a body good I always say. And I do know when the RAGE is presenting itself, and this didn't seem to be one of those special moments.

The Freud Noid would posit that this is possibly a sexual thing, a matter of rePRESSion. They love to play that card, yeah? Maybe an urge stemming from formerly latent recollections of seeing interracial gangbang porn at a particularly perverted neighbor's apartment at the wee age of three? It's all connected somehow. Someway. That's what the leapfrogs say.

Whatever the igniter, the fire's been raging for no less than 12 hours now. So, as the great Warren G. Harding once said while fellating the French ambassador behind his solid oak desk: "Ain't nuttin' to it but to do it!"

Way I see it, it's a metaphysical thing more than anything else. Charity even. Let the little bastard child know from the jump that "the world is a cruel place" and that "life's a bitch and then you die." It'll thank me later.

I can see it now... 30 yrs down the road, I'll be laid up with a stoma in my throat, miserable, penniless and alone, about to fucking kick it and suddenly, a visitor. An eight foot tall, shirtless, buttfucking-werewolf-party-monster with stunna shades and 10 strippers in tow. He'll mumble his gratitude in between guzzles off his metal flask of engine degreaser, then he'll spit in my creased, Hep C-ravaged face, finger fuck one of the strippers on top of my respirator and ManDump all over an elderly nurse, just for good measure.

Practice. Theory. Practice. Theory.

Always willing to help, my equally sociopathic sister suggested that I consult a local unfit mother and, by dubious means, to be sure, procure her infant for said tossing, so as to insulate myself from the otherwise inevitable prosecution that fulfilling this deranged whimsy is sure to bring.

A good old-fashioned frame-up, yeah. Shouldn't be tough. Plenty of unfit mothers to go around. Like macadoni and cheez at olliday times.

Nothing like family to spur on a derelict. Nothing. Look for me in the news.

I Heard He Smoked Joints Dipped In Embalming Fluid.

Follow the Bleeder. 

He has a wonderful sense of direction I'm told.

Shit's gotten all post-meridian and all is quiet on the Western Front. Yet, the aforementioned empty pouch of Medellin Magic won't go down without a fight. (See the previous post if you don't know what the fuck I'm on about).

Reaching into my pocket, mulling over plans to hitchhike to L.A., my fingers fondle what I, until recently, believed to be a guitar pick.  

But the heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of. Just be glad that for once in your colorless (RGB) life, a contiguous and captivating narrative is thrown at your feet.

You're Welcome.

Next Episode: How best to dispose of the (appreciably vacant) bag and avoid further exacerbation of drug-related interpersonal and familial crises. 

Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel.

i fucken pwomiss. or they can throw me in gaol.

Finders-Keepers Fear the Reapers.

prologue:

Old Business: What did her pussy ever do to you?

New Business: What didn't her pussy do to you?

Q: When does it end?

(dramatic pause, mild inertia)

A: Sometimes it never ends.

Autobiographical for once.

In a day spent mostly trying to download the Kim Kardashian sex tape, a thing of beauty emerges but a few hours after sundown.

*Expose The Nose*

I sit atop my dais, shivering in solitude, leafing through the "Harvester of Sorrow" issue of Vice Magazine (procured from the Williamsburg American Apparel store during a cracked out excursion with TimeMachine; very cute footsoldiers working there, ps).

Though the cover and pages are unreasonably weathered (stained with the joys, sorrows and general heroics of all that have passed through Shooting Gallery Studios in the past three or four weeks), this is the first time I've made an effort to actually read the thing. Flagged long before this little reenactment of the that now infamous Seinfeldian vignette. Natch.

I arrive at the Guitar Center advert/"Vice Guide to Bands" bit, taking the time to read the bit on Chromeo's gear tips, internally decrying the ubiquity of the Vice/American Apparel hipster-industrial complex, when what should I see but a bit of terror. The beautiful blonde mistake, straight from the belly of the beast, in the home my mother raised me in.

A first. Honest.

There it is, a twenty-bag of Devil's Dandruff, lying dead before me, completely empty, at once a disaster and a blessing. What would possess me to tuck away a decidedly empty bag of flash deep within a magazine? The world may never know. All that matters is that we're here now, so there's no point in leaving just yet, yeah?

Sit your ass down and have a drink. We've got a lot to catch up on, yeah? The Killer in me likes the frosted side, but the Automaton in me likes the Killer in me. Go figure.

Who Gives A Fuck About An Oxford Comma?

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