...anger swells ready to burst...at people..at this town.. at myself.

I can't even type complete sentences. I'm so fucking furious.

permenent scowl. Countenance sagging. Can pretend talk nice for mailman. Weather, rainy, tell me about it.
tear this fucking building up by its foundation. Kick computers. Smash windows....

demon has followed me all day. I need something to do. Idle hands are the tools of the devil. They cause anger first. Then depression. When I cannot contain my anger and it continues to mount, I am at risk to sink.

Anger makes writing easy for me. But it doesn't produce quality. Quality is emotionless, it has constraints. Within these constraints, creativity is possible. Although it's is very controlled.

Anger produces only negatives. Violence, bad writing and foolish decisions. This makes me even more upset that I have this problem.

Asshole with a tattoo on his neck. DC shoe co pants. I bet he's never seen a skateboard. He'd probably fall right off. I hate this guy, I never want to see his pathetic ass ever again. I do not even know his name, nor do I want to. Because then it would be hard to hate him. He probably goes to AA and talks about temptation and feelings. And a pretty girlfriend. Oh it's so romantic watching monkeys kiss.

As I have said before, I never had any large respect for good spelling. That is my feeling yet. Before the spelling-book came with its arbitrary forms, men unconsciously revealed shades of their characters, and also added enlightening shades of expression to what they wrote by their spelling, and so it is possible that the spelling-book has been a doubtful benevolence to us.
-Mark Twain, Additional Notes to his _Autobiography_, February 7, 1906

May 20, 1804
William Clark
... I gave the party leave to go and hear a Sermon delivered by ... a roman Carthlick Priest

August 30, 1804
William Clark
... a Council under an Oak Tree near where we had a flag flying on a high flagstaff ... The Souex is a Stout bold looking people, & well made, the greater part of them make use of Bows & arrows, Some fiew fusees I observe among them, notwith standing they live by the Bow and arrow, they do not Shoot So Well as the Nothern Indians the Warriers are Verry much deckerated with Paint Porcupine quils & feathers, large leagins and mockersons, all with buffalow roabs of Different Colours. the Squars wore Peticoats & a White Buffalow roabe with the black hare turned back over their necks and Sholders.

This Nation is Divided into 20 Tribes, ...

September 30, 1804
William Clark
... refresh the men with a glass of whisky after Brackfast.

January 12, 1806
William Clark
(Drewyer) ... I scercely know how we Should Subsist, I beleive but badly if it was not for the exertions of this excellent hunter; maney others also exert themselves, but not being accquainted with the best method of finding and killing the elk and no other wild animals is to be found in this quarter, they are unsucksessfull in their exertions.


William Clark spels butifully rong but mane points rerely missed &C

For every one of us there is the same number of hours in a day. We can only accomplish so much. The reason some people accomplish more is because of speed. An experienced mechanic can fix your brakes in a half hour. It takes me two hours or more.

Oh my, she's beautiful! 5'7, timid look. blonde, light complex....conservatively dressed. that look. little girl scared look. she could not do anything wrong. probably cries when pulled over by cops.

Paul Schrader wrote the first draft to Taxi Driver in 7 days. It jumped out of him. 1

there she goes.

thousands of writers since have written scripts in much more time, with all kinds of money at their disposal and produced garbage. Each raindrop is cherished during a drought, and scorned during a flood. Greatness comes quickly and easily. Melodies occurred in Mozart's mind and he simply wrote them down. Beethoven had to work and wrestle with every sound. Forget hard work, how can I be Mozart.

Poor Mr. Giambrone.

Can't even think properly. He writes for himself essentially to pass the time and use the caffeine to his advantage. But he can't string together enough coherent material ever to go anywhere. Nor will he ever amount to anything, as long as he stays in Amherst.
But he won't leave until he dies or gets his degree. Whichever comes first. Of course he knows consciously that solving a problem is the only way to put it behind you. Yet he is consumed by fear in much the same way that an engine consumes gas. And his metaphors are limited mostly to macho material.

His writing almost always takes the same tone. He asks questions, attempts to answer them, talks about hate, and then denounces his very ideas. As long as he's taking himself seriously the denunciations will not prevent him from writing. When his personal rebuke is particularly strong, we won't hear anything from him for a good long time.

Blah blah blah blah blah.

The real artist just writes a song and then drops it on the floor. They don't think about MTV or selling it. They just drop it and forget it.
-Kevin Smith

all that in less than a half hour.

The best course of action with regard to any problem is to confront it and solve it immediately.

Otherwise the failure will bother you indefinately, making the solution more elusive.

I will finish my incompletes. I will graduate. I will move on, and away from her. I cannot fix her.

Hobbies do not make life meaningful:
I couldn't tell the difference between a small-mouth and a large-mouth bass.
Nor does a whitetail buck within range provide any excitement.
I like nice cars in much the same way as I enjoy fine dining, but I don't want mine to be a garish advertisement for some aftermarket parts producer, or my own vanity.
video games can be fun, just like bubble gum is fun. But after a short time, all the games seem the same and the flavor has run out.
writing isn't even much of a hobby for me. I can't maintain a consistent output, quality level, or topic. When I write like this I do very little to monitor quality control. It's how I make sure that it doesn't get too good. Then I won't be obligated to produce quality. That would be difficult on a daily, or even weekly basis. It would become like work; which by definition cannot be enjoyable.

Women practicing Bisexual relationships are essentially women who are either:
1) Truly homosexual --rare, but possible esp. butch types.
2) Sexually Perverse. These women are truly unstable. They'll fuck men, because it has some pleasure value, and women, because it lasts longer and other women understand the nuances of the vagina. Instead of having the traditional (and short lived)love-for-proprietor (love to see pleasure in him) plus penetration from men. They get assembly line efficient stimulation from a woman expecting the same. These are sorely fucked up humans. Perhaps not as fucked up as pedophile males, but close.
3) Disgruntled with men and perverse sexually. These women love sex, but not the dive right in and pound away that men prefer. That type they cannot tolerate, not even once, and thus turn to women to satisfy their need for attention and pleasure.

You'll find a lot of strippers practice bi. Men do not repulse them irrevocably (as is the case with straight up lesbians), so they have no problem taking their money and playing with their pathetic minds. But essentially they view men as rather mangry mongrels that pay the bills....

I must write this down quickly before the inspiration fades. Nor will I do any editing later. Then I will remove the incendiary remarks which are the essence of my emotion.

I must stop seeing her.
She has destroyed the character I built when I left her.
I told everyone and myself that it was her sickness and imminent death that caused my depression. I know this was a lie. It was merely her influence. Perhaps increased, or exacerbated, by her sickness. Or by my own weakness, which no doubt was caused by a less drastic influence upon me.

The unmitigated decay began when I started going to her house almost daily for free food. I used to have routines. Discipline. I would never stray. Excellent attendance. Clocklike regularity.
Why did I try to convince myself that I was cheap. Knowing I wasn't. Just poor. Maybe I was sick of working so much, or sick of cooking. Or just tired from the daily cigarettes, coffee and ritalin. But I let her into my routine. I now see why her life has been such a horrible waste of a powerful intellect. She hates everything. Everyone. There are people she truly believes are entirely composed of evil.

FUCK FUCK FUCK

Sometimes I wish she were dead. Not because I want to see her suffering end. She has suffered her entire life. Essentially, her capacity for suffering is either nil, so that everything is considered suffering, or infinite, such that she can suffer indefinately. She wants pity. At every avenue, she is asking for your sympathy. I'd like to think I have none, but I do. Seeing her brings me to her level. She destroys hope. She will never change. I have never really known her to have a job. She is too crazy to work. Yet more intelligent and observant that just about anyone. But too crazy and resentful to even leave the house.

This means nothing.

Fact: I cannot have her in my life anymore. She is a negative influence.