Its strange that the pony tail movement has ever had any real weight behind it in the hair fashion scene. Because on a pony the place they have the tail is the ass. So its kind of like the myriad girls and some boys who have it are saying, "Well, I thought I could make myself prettier by making the back of my head look like the back of a large, stupid mammal. A mammal with no sphincter, mind you."
Its weird.
A friend proposed the theory that everyone who has a pony tail secretly sees themself as a horse's ass. I think that's nonsense.
It's a pony's ass.

Sorry its been so long. Some poetry:

Snow swirls slow
Under the orange-red glow
of the car lot's black street light.

Flakes shiver and dance
In a frosty cold romance
where the street lamp makes them bright.

I can't linger still
for winter's fucking chill
pushes me out of the night.

I found this thought not far into a journal I (rarely) kept:

Our bodies work but what incites them to? What is the difference between a corpse and a businessman? Is there some mystical power that travels from mothers to babies during pregnancy? If so, how are test tube babies born alive? Why am I moving while my great grandfather is still? He just died in his living room chair, there wasn't anything terribly wrong with him. What is the spark?

Someone once picked up the journal to write down a note and saw the entry and said, "I think that's where a lot of people turn to religion." It all seems silly to me, now. I look back at a lot of things I did and think, "Whew, I was kinda foolish." There are some entries in this blog that make me a little embarassed. Older ones. Newer ones. This journal entry kinda does. If I had an answer for it maybe I'd like it more. But probably not. It would have to be one hell of an awesome answer. Maybe its love, maybe its potatoes. I don't know, that's for damn sure.

Since break got over we've had pretty much one weather condition in Rochester; snow. This morning, however, I needed my sunglasses. That was a beautiful thing. I was excited. I donned them and drove over to the academic side of campus, then I walked up to the building with them on. Then I sat in class for two quick hours with my back to a window. I think my trouble lay there, in turning my back. If I had kept a watchful and reprimanding eye on the storm, perhaps it would have steered clear. But instead, I turned at the end of class and looked out into a white and windy mess.
Luckily, my people are of stouter stuff than some. What's a little storm to my sweater and hat? But it makes me worry about other people who don't pay attention to the weather. They do well, I suppose, well enough at any rate. Or they die. That's how it goes in life. You go along dealing and adapting until you don't. At which point you are dead. You have to deal with a situation in some way. Every day there are thousands of people in positions I wouldn't wish upon the evilest of men, and they cope, they survive. Or they don't. What it comes down to is handling your actions, dealing with the consequences, or death. I plan to continue to adapt to even the nastiest of situations for many, many years. There is always an option to die and let the problem get the best of me, but what good can come of it?
Or maybe it holds the greatest good of all.
But something makes me doubt that acquiescing and being washed over with death will hold anything sweeter than finally wrangling a tough spot and living.
Its snowing again.

I don't normally promote things in here, but I must say that Faith No More's album "King For A Day, Fool For A Lifetime" is fantastic. It burns.

I know its been a while. I was on extremely important and secret, top secret, of course, business for the government in France.
Already I've said too much.
I got some Milanos for Christmas (that wasn't all, because if it was, boy, I'd have to think of some way to finish this sentence) but they came in an unusual packaging scheme. There are five in a package. Its laid out so that two are in a stack, then one is on a raised bit of plastic and then there's another stack of two. One would think it'd be easier to just sell six, but maybe the plastic needs to be bent that way for structural reasons. Or maybe the powers that be had access to these machines at the outset or something. Or maybe its just stupid. And what's more, the serving suggestion says a recommended size is 3 cookies. But only five come in a package. It says there are "about 2" servings per container. This strikes me as just plain weird. Why not change the specifications on a serving? Make the math be done on the production end, not the consumer end. Consumers hate doing math. At least this one does.
But they are tasty cookies. Among the more divine, if you ask me.
Which you didn't. But you're at this site voluntarily.
Although not for long, I bet.
Sigh.

Word of the fortnight. Its a fun one. I get a kick out of it. Looks all big and stuff, and then the definition is just...well, it just is.
Have fun with this one, kids!

Sometimes there is a weird poetry to the confessions. I'd call this one Guilty Pleasure.

I don't know if its a problem with everyone, but I feel like I repress a lot of emotions. Not any in particular, just the whole melange. Emotion should play a more powerful part in my creative endeavors. I'd like what I'm feeling to play in more, for the creation of a movie to have as much meaning as the final piece. I'd like catharsis with it. I'm afraid, though. I'm afraid of what I'll feel. I'm afraid of what others will feel. I'm afraid of everything being different afterwards. Which it would, of course. But change is good, isn't it?
I think that is part of the reason I created Pomo. I think emotions will flow through him more freely. If I do it right. If I don't I'll wind up thinking, "What will people think of this?" It'll collapse. I'd like to have a good cleansing spiritual case of the shits, I guess. Clear off the excess baggage and start anew. Strike a proverbial fault line in the tectonic plates of my concious/unconcious. Wipe the slate clean. Flip the etch-a-sketch of my mind and shake till its clean. Flush away the detritus in the toilet of my subconsious.
etc.
I'll do it. Fuck what people think. Fuck what I think. My experimental movie will tap into some emotional vein.
But what if people don't like it?

I'm an atheist, but I'm not practicing.
From here on in you shouldn't read this, because if you do and it influences you I've become a hypocrite. Don't make me a hypocrite.
I think the biggest problem with religion is that it keeps telling you you're right and everyone else is wrong and you need to change everyone else to be right. Most of the major religions say this. It leads to death. Which, if I'm not mistaken, is not what [your deity here] wants. Unless you're a satanist or whatever, then you can kill to your hearts content. Just don't think you're convincing me to.
There are very few people upon whom you can impress your beliefs. Your kids. Your significant other (but stop if s/he resists a lot!). That's about it, I'd say. Do it too much and you'll piss them off and then a war will start.
The point is this: I hope you believe what you want and are happy and comfortable doing it. I hope that you don't push your beliefs on others.
Anyway, that's my piece. I hope you didn't read it.