It's like: slow cancerous death rattle, this american life

the finalization of the universe as it nears itself in a moebius strip of irony

By dusty (April 3, 2008)

Last week I was red. Not red from paint, or from being covered in tomato juice, but from the sun’s evil, evil (and also radioactive) rays. I am not sure exactly how it happened. One minute I was sitting on the beach in Malibu with no sunscreen and an albino-toned body and then after multiplying that minute for 3 hours a day over the course of 5 days, I suddenly looked like a Mark Rothko painting. (I think I just figured out how it happened, btw.)

When I came home, my mom got scared, and said you’re moving with your auntie and your uncle in Bel-Air. I whistled for a cab and when it came near, the license plate said fresh and it had dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare but I thought, “Nah, forget it. Yo Homes.. To Bel-Air!” I…pulled…up to the house at about 7 or 8 and I yelled to the cabby “Yo homes, smell ya later!” I looked at my kingdom, I was finally there — to settle my throne as the Prince of Bel-Air.

Then I flew back home to Phoenix. And I was still covered in the sun’s evil, radioactive poison.

After many days (probably about 4), my skin began to fall apart (like a snake). When your skin falls off, you often ask yourself: “gross” And also, “I am dying” or “I have cancer for sure and it is over for me.” But because I am a better person than everyone else, I did not do those things (that is a lie).

My skin is still falling off, and as such, I have not been able to type on a keyboard to update you, dear readers, on my tales of life and life’s asskickings and donkey-punches.

However, my new keyboard arrived today — it is a special skinless ergonomic model that allows for typing with just bones for fingers.

I think I will enjoy my new life as a skeleton, though. I will no longer have to buy a costume for Halloween. And I can change my name to Skelly, just as I have always wanted. And people can put things through me, which I am sure will be a big hit at parties. Also I can pretend to unearth myself from a nearby grave when people are visiting their loved ones.

But with no heart, will I be able to love again? With no skin, can I ever use the term “sure, it’s no skin off my back”? The answer to those questions is probably no, and that is going to be a hard life to live, my friends.

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It's like: music is my girlfriend, this american life

things i got when it’s on and i’m home

By dusty (March 25, 2008)

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It's like: hysterical history, music is my girlfriend

what journey’s “don’t stop believin'” would have been called if written by polish anti-christian death metal band, behemoth

By dusty (March 16, 2008)

• Stop Believin’

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It's like: feelings (ew), the art of seduction, this american life

the impossible mystery of the sun’s coronal problem revealed

By dusty (March 14, 2008)

Today I flew a kite. Well, I tried to fly a kite. Kites are HARD TO FLY in this digital age. I remember a simpler time, when a kite consisted of a few sticks, some string, and a piece of fabric of some sort. Apparently that time exists no longer.

When we got to the park (we equals two friends and me), the seemingly impossible task of assembling the kites began. Unfortunately, I do not know anyone who works at NASA or any other spacecraft-manufacturing company, so we were left to do this using our own street-hardened, 2.7-GPA brains. After several hours of assemblage, one kite was ready to go. One of us was assigned to man its flight, and the other two began to put together the second kite.

However, a problem immediately reared its head. The kite was missing a crucial support beam, rendering it a useless, mildly-retarded down-syndrome beast of a flying machine. With no plutonium or iron ore stores nearby, we were left to use the knowledge we learned in prison: we fashioned a beam with sticks and fused them together by melting a piece of plastic around the joints with a lighter.

But that didn’t work. At all. It soon became obvious that we would have to give up one of the kites and focus on launching the second (imagine being forced to perform a second-trimester abortion to just one of your unborn baby twins…that is how we felt at that point). It took many attempts, but eventually we were able to get the healthy kite into the air (and for a time, it was roughly 50 feet high). Let me tell you, the sense of accomplishment and glamor felt when successfully launching a 74-inch plastic dragon creature into the air is unparalleled. Now I know what God feels like. And it feels good. Like God, but with an extra ‘o’ and a lowercase ‘g’.

When the doomsday bombs are dropped on this country and the apocalyptic Armageddon sirens are blaring, I won’t be boarding up my house and running to my subterranean nuclear safehouse; no, I will be outside, flying a kite — because when a kite is twisting and flapping freely in the wind, who cares about a nuclear holocaust. You know?

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It's like: feelings (ew), this american life, unicorns & rainbows

the tumbleweeds of life’s highway and tom sawyer’s eventual self-realization

By dusty (March 12, 2008)

The weather is amazing today. The weather also was amazing today. Also, the weather inside of me is amazing: a breezy wind of happiness and joy has swept away the cold, tumultuous thunderclouds of fear and angst. The PMS is gone, and with that, I digress:When I was a kid (I still am), I loved days like today. I walked around. And then I drove around. (And then there was car accident which forced me to drive 2mph and it took me roughly 40 minutes to go three exits on the freeway and I humbly and silently cursed the world around me.) But then I was able to go 65 again and I was happy at the world again.

And the world is happy with me, too, I think. A lot has happened in the past year and a half, and the world has been around to lend me some cash and have picnics with me and skip underneath the sun on the beach to the tune of The Beach Boys’ “Wouldn’t It Be Nice”. Except for the weekends it goes away on a coke bender and I get pissed at it and threaten to put it in rehab and kick its ass and ruin all of my friendships, it’s been a pretty damn good friend to me. And that makes me even more happy than I already am (which is very happy).

Item #2: SALE! SALE! SALE!
I put my ex’s engagement ring on Craigslist the other day, and one particularly resourceful young man offered to trade me a 9mm for it (perhaps with the intention I was going to use it to kill my ex). I didn’t do the trade, though. Not only because I don’t care enough about my ex to kill her anymore, but also because I prefer the comfort that a wad of cold, hard cash gives me. It is so much more fulfilling than a loaded gun. And although I respect John Lennon’s opinion (in a world sans-Yoko), I prefer to think happiness is a warm $795 OBO.

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It's like: felinian quandaries, the art of seduction

punctuation marks that work very well when intended to describe PMS

By dusty (March 8, 2008)

• question mark

• period

• dash

• exclamation mark

Comments: (1)

It's like: felinian quandaries, the art of seduction

punctuation marks that do not work well at all when intended to describe PMS

By dusty (March 8, 2008)

• comma

• apostrophe

• hyphen

• semicolon

• colon

Comments: (1)

It's like: hysterical history, the art of seduction, ttylkthxbye

an online chat transcript between amelia earhart and an unknown friend, July 2, 1937

By dusty (March 7, 2008)

AIR<3: LOL, yes i love telegrams too.

~~~*cherrypickins*~~~: haha. you should come over!

AIR<3: brb

….

…….

~~~*cherrypickins*~~~: hello ??

~~~*cherrypickins*~~~: umm wtf

conversation window closed

Comments: (1)

It's like: feelings (ew), this american life, unicorns & rainbows

a vaccination for genetic mutation; the trials and tribulations of one man’s quest for love

By dusty (March 7, 2008)

Today I am happy. Sort of. I think.

I went to the vet to get tested for PMS this morning, which thankfully seems to have gone dormant in my blood stream. (The vet said testing my blood was the only way to check for the virus since I wasn’t crying during the appointment.) It is a confusing disease, but one that I believe I am cured of!

However, and this is hopefully only temporary, I can still feel the aftereffects in my system. These “feelings” are still inside of me — how do I make them stop? I tried doubling my daily iron intake but have not noticed any positive results so far. I cannot imagine living a life full of post-traumatic PMS flashbacks.

And thus, heed this cautionary tale and be SAFE, dear reader — Lord knows, this could happen to you, too.

Item #2: The Hunger
My hunger is rising like the boiling mercury in a Phoenician thermometer. It cannot be quelled: it is just there, pestering me with its waves of nausea and insidious annoyance. This is no metaphor, either. What I am talking about is food. My hunger is for food, not some kind of allegorical life lesson. I want to eat. I want to devour a cow. I would eat a baby. I would eat my own baby. I am hungry. So hungry, that I am going to order some food.

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It's like: the art of seduction, this american life

a hypothetical conversation involving two homosexuals (using today’s newspaper headlines)

By dusty (March 7, 2008)

John: “Morality is ‘Counterfeiters’ currency.”

Darren: “This group of hungry devils can bite back.”

Darren: “Playing a dirty game.”

John: “Match me with my wheels.”

Darren: “‘Bank’ on it.”

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