November 30, 2009

How Google Works for me:

The last remaining fragment of a quote rebounding in my head, a quote from the novel I had just finished by the name of Middlesex, something having to do with dappled, so I proceed to google 'dappled quote' and out jumps this poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins:

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
  For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
    For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
  Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;        5
    And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
  Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
    With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:        10
                  Praise him.
 Which of course makes me google something else that caught my eye: rose-moles. Which I then google and come up with yet another link in the never ending Google chain: Sprung Rythm. When is Googling enough? Google fuck, Google trick, Google backseat lover, google exhaustion and city madness. I will Google the fuck out of you. I Googled him. Even Google hates him. Googled to death.

This (shit) writes itself

You know that moment in the night when you are too wasted to remember photos being shot of you doing crazy shit you might not want posted on facebook and then it happens with a cheerful forewarning of, "Oh great now I can post all those Hilarious X locale pictures I shot!" on a Facebook wall and so I start backtracking to see if I can remember anything indecent I might have been caught doing (yeah, I'm doing great in the living life department) and I come up with zero not because I wasn't doing anything that I shouldn't have been, but because I don't remember parts of the night. ZING! Jaggermeister 1 PJ 0.

Things NOT to Google while incredibly High Part 1 of God knows how many:

Buto dance.

Seriously freaked me out.

November 3, 2009

romantic vs. cynical chat excerpt

I: Do you recall moments of looking into each others eyes and thinking this is not like sex with a guy I really feel comfortable with like a boyfriend
Me: No waaaaaaay
I: Feeling like their eyes are empty
I: Do you even look?
Me: Hmmmmmm
I: I recall looking last time and not seeing anything, it was odd
Me: It's called sex
It's impersonal
It's not making love
Sex is just getting pounded
and liking it.