CasuallyGiraffe

"And I'm in this mall, right? I live there or something and it's a big secret... Have I told you this story before? I always forget what I've told you.

"But so anyways, this place is really big, and I get around by laying flat on top of this skate board and pulling myself along the floor, cause that's the best way to avoid being caught. I think at one point I got chased by police men, and I set t
hem on fire and shouted non-sensical things which I understood to be racial epithets.

"What? Oh no, you weren't in that part. You were in the next one-- see, I round the corner from the charred police force, and I'm stuck in this little like culdesac of stores. Except, all the stores are all closed and sealed up, and in the center of the hallway, there you are, and you've got this cauldron over a fire, and all the women I've ever loved are lined up next to it, and you're doing this thing where you like have these really old scissors and you're cutting off all of the women's hair and putting it in the cauldron.

"That's uh. When you finally got all the other women bald, you crawl into the pot and start bathing in the soupy hair-water until it all starts sticking to you, and you're coated in this big, like human hair-ball.

"What? Oh, yeah. No, this is the part where you chase me and try to cut my fingers off. Huh? No, I scoot away on the skateboard and you can't get me. Yeah, that's then I wake up! See? I totally have told you this before. You knew how it ended."

Lately, I've been losing my linear conception of time, not because I'm beginning to see things in new dimensions, but more like I am letting myself become more and more schizophrenic. It all started when I was born, see: some infinities are bigger than others.

Imagine a circle, and now imagine infinite lines coming out from the center of the circle to touch the infinite points, to caress the infinite, beautiful curves of her shoulder. Now, in your imagination, imagine a second, bigger circle circumscribed over her shoulder, and extend your infinite thumbs outwards: you will find that your first infinity is not enough to touch all her points any longer, you will need a second, larger infinity. For you, this will not be possible.

Imagine the numbers one and two. Imagine the infinite distance between these numbers, if you count the irrational integrals between them. Now, in your imagination, add some some more distance from one to two, let's say, one to three. You will find that the number of irrational integrals has increased, and thus so has the conception of infinity. Imagine adding some more distance, imagine the distance from you to Detroit. The irrationalities between the two make the distance even more infinite.

In mathematics, this is called "continuum theory."

hello

I am going to self-publish a short collection of some of my writing around the middle-end of next month. The collection is going to be titled

PRIA/POSTEA PUELLA or DEAD POETS STAY DEAD, IT'S BETTER THAT WAY


This will be the most ambitious step in my current quest to become at least minorly well-known in my communities.

uhm
I think that's all I have to say, but I suppose that at this point, I could tell you about my life and how it is going. That is the thing which I am supposed to be doing with these journals, right?
well that is the thing which I am not going to do,
so instead
I think
I might tell you about
my ukulele.

I used to play the coronet and trumpet in my school's band, but due to a long and debilitating depression in my adolescence, I stopped that. My musicality returned to me three years ago, by which time taking music classes in school was not quite the accessible option it had been. However, due to a chance chain of events and a girl, I found an opportunity to begin learning and playing the ukulele. It was not long before I found myself in possession of my very own instrument-- a pineapple-body styled soprano ukulele.
I come from a long tradition of naming and personifying objects, to the point where I often don't think about it. Not an hour after I'd come into owning my own ukulele, I decided that he was male, and that he was in fact President William McKinley, re-incarnated to koa wood and nylon for his imperial negligence towards the Hawaiian people. Little did I know that the irony of his existence would achieve a second and even third layer of mockery as I discovered my affinity for playing punk, folk, and grunge songs on his melodious cords. It is beautiful, really.
It's been some time since I've strummed anything from the old President, and I don't know if writing this will actually inspire me to pick him back up again; a terrible ennui grasps me, friends. Though maybe, as I have before time and time again, I can find some solace in the somber musical stylings of Andrew Jackson Jihad, William Pint, or Nirvana, plucked out on the happiest little instrument known to man.

IT'S KIND OF LIKE AN ILLUSORY POCKET DIMENSION

made of charcoal 

or lead, and you can stuff all of your friends in there or just a flower but whose to say which is better? which is easier?

I am eating her inside out because I'm trying to figure out the difference between a bag of doritoes and a doritoes bag, emotionally, graphically;

so I was walking through the ice, and I happened upon a wizard living in the ice. This wizard told me that he needed me to go steal blood from the Mer-folk to open his locked box. I didn't have much better to do, so I accepted the blood-harvesting device from his eager hand and set out, but imagine my surprise when I come back with eight-fold buckets of fish-person blood fresh from the last subjects in all of Tamriel, and I found out that he was really asking for that of elves.

Well, I asked if the fish-man blood would work anyways, because the wizard's wording was ambiguous enough, maybe his box wouldn't notice either (also, Belethor had this really nice sword, so I traded the blood-harvesting device to him for a basket, which I then deftly maneuvered onto his head while he wasn't looking; with his looking-eyes gone to wicker, that sword was mine in no time). Ice-man thought it might work– the fish-folk could well have been descended from the elves. Using the duller edge of the blade Wickereye-Wyrm, I slathered the now-quite-congealed fish blood onto the ancient metal of the lockbox. Nothing really happened, so I let the blood out of the wizard's throat, and drew a big, ambiguous line through that item in my quest journal. On my way to leave the home of the wizard, a wretched-abyss formed, blocking my way. "I am Haeramus Mora..." it tried to tell me, but I had stolen two of ice-man's baskets, one of which fit perfectly onto the wretch's head, confusing it briefly enough to allow me to pass, forever out-running the wizard, his lockbox, and the probably restless souls of those innocent fish-people.