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Accept
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to the server to view the underlying object.
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"content": "7 Yrs Ago Eyes Whisky Stars - bang bang bang:<br /><br />SATURDAY, AUGUST 24, 2013<br />write drunk, edit never<br />It's been awhile since I've had the buzz of whisky swimming its sweet halo around my brain. My father poked his head in what feels like moments, or half-hours, ago to ask if I wanted to attend his 1am-2am worship hour at an all night worship service. Well, yes, and no. Not while buzzing with whisky smile. Make one hell of a worshiper in this humble state.<br /><br />My room's Feng Shui is my latest obsession. Hiding from the next female love affair is my other obsession. Even when I have venus between the legs, I don't know how to carry on after a night of carrying on, so what's left? If I think about it. Well. The knowledge that when you fall off the horse you get back on. The truth is I am tired of getting on horses. I am also tired of pretending I can run away from my base gross desires. I find struggle in struggle. I find struggle like eyes find light. I find whiskey like kids find ice cream trucks. Which is why I only drink from her dizzy waters when my liver wants to be shown who is boss. Stupidity is boss, always.<br /><br />I want to write a screen play. I need some character flaws. I need an anti hero. I need a catalyst. I need a mad scientist. I need an alien. I need a con man. I need a femme fatale who is actually a triplet. I need a suitcase full of evil. I need a couple of cops fresh off of training. I need a lawyer who dies first. I need a black man who is the last man standing. I need a monster in the basement. I need a moral lesson that is fucked up and badly taught by the theme of my cinema debauchery. I need a homeless man who becomes a millionaire due to undeserved fate. I need absurdity pouring out of my sad oyos. I need the worthy girl next door. She dies after the lawyer does. I need a judge who smokes ganja before every trail. I need a walk-in scene that plays like the Blair Witch Project. I need Breathless, 8 1/2, and Woody Allen references. I need The Sting, Run Lola Run, and Revolver vibes. Go ahead, steal my movie, I fucking dare you. Like looking at a pile of lego blocks and saying, \"Plagiarize my spaceship, honky, just tryyyy it...\"<br /><br />Let me just word vomit for a minute or two. Guilty is a word for people who have given up lying. Sometimes I let other people assume I am such by giving up the tendency people have to put up walls to explain what has occurred. Sometimes not offering a defense does not mean there isn't a truth beyond the obvious. I easily shoot down my own hot air balloons, I easily become nothing more than hot air, I like knowing what others think and will stop there if I know regardless if its positive or negative. I am tired of having a purpose beyond having fun and loving life. I want to break down all these towers of babel and return to the source of humility and love. Kid Cudi makes me sad but his beats are sick, it only takes a couple songs before I would rather be looking at the world from Kanye West's lower perspective. Short sighted he may be but at least he's fighting for the level he's stuck on.<br /><br />Seventeen Years is a dope song. I have been craving some Ganja for awhile. I need to cultivate some friendships. I know how to have a good time. I just need to find some people, develop some hobbies and stop putting the hoes before the bros.<br /><br />Or or or I could drop off the face of the earth and become a consciousness loving truth perspective story sharing good merit accumulating yogi wandering around in Depends sharing trivial psychic knowledge like prostitutes share intimacy.<br /><br />So many fucking choices, no pun necessary.<br /><br />I was thinking I should write sloppy young teen novels. That's where the money is at. Haha. Who would my characters be? Something Tragic. I could just drink whisky and smoke the lady ganja while writing young teen novels. Then donate it all to charity, least I become a fuck wad. Or I could put on the Depends right now. I mean why deny the sacred calling? So much vanity and slutty misconceptions of renaissance debauchery and misconstrued enlightenment left to live, right? I won't understand the warning in the I-Ching until its too late. I know that. Huh. Whisky. Can we not befriends? Because you and I are like 4-5-6. I need to get into bee keeping.<br /><br />What's left to talk about? My brain is like jello and my thoughts are like toothpaste. I could squeeze out the whole tube but to what ends? I don't think the world has enough teeth. No bite. All bark. Grow a tree or go the fuck home, you homeless child-man-elder. Grow a beard or wear a kilt. I am no fruit of your loins, I am something else.<br /><br />I am something else. A self-ish notion that knows not itself.<br />Give me some more whisky or go home.<br />Let me guess, you've no notion of the eternal self and you still think you're disco. You're not disco, not even close. You're mayonnaise and I am mental. All mental and no merit. Let's get to some gross work. I am going to go play sleep over with the homeless and then hopefully learn what its like to work at an overworked food bank. Humility be my bedfellow for I am thirsty for the rest of my life.",
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"content": "7 Yrs Ago Eyes Whisky Stars - bang bang bang:\n\nSATURDAY, AUGUST 24, 2013\nwrite drunk, edit never\nIt's been awhile since I've had the buzz of whisky swimming its sweet halo around my brain. My father poked his head in what feels like moments, or half-hours, ago to ask if I wanted to attend his 1am-2am worship hour at an all night worship service. Well, yes, and no. Not while buzzing with whisky smile. Make one hell of a worshiper in this humble state.\n\nMy room's Feng Shui is my latest obsession. Hiding from the next female love affair is my other obsession. Even when I have venus between the legs, I don't know how to carry on after a night of carrying on, so what's left? If I think about it. Well. The knowledge that when you fall off the horse you get back on. The truth is I am tired of getting on horses. I am also tired of pretending I can run away from my base gross desires. I find struggle in struggle. I find struggle like eyes find light. I find whiskey like kids find ice cream trucks. Which is why I only drink from her dizzy waters when my liver wants to be shown who is boss. Stupidity is boss, always.\n\nI want to write a screen play. I need some character flaws. I need an anti hero. I need a catalyst. I need a mad scientist. I need an alien. I need a con man. I need a femme fatale who is actually a triplet. I need a suitcase full of evil. I need a couple of cops fresh off of training. I need a lawyer who dies first. I need a black man who is the last man standing. I need a monster in the basement. I need a moral lesson that is fucked up and badly taught by the theme of my cinema debauchery. I need a homeless man who becomes a millionaire due to undeserved fate. I need absurdity pouring out of my sad oyos. I need the worthy girl next door. She dies after the lawyer does. I need a judge who smokes ganja before every trail. I need a walk-in scene that plays like the Blair Witch Project. I need Breathless, 8 1/2, and Woody Allen references. I need The Sting, Run Lola Run, and Revolver vibes. Go ahead, steal my movie, I fucking dare you. Like looking at a pile of lego blocks and saying, \"Plagiarize my spaceship, honky, just tryyyy it...\"\n\nLet me just word vomit for a minute or two. Guilty is a word for people who have given up lying. Sometimes I let other people assume I am such by giving up the tendency people have to put up walls to explain what has occurred. Sometimes not offering a defense does not mean there isn't a truth beyond the obvious. I easily shoot down my own hot air balloons, I easily become nothing more than hot air, I like knowing what others think and will stop there if I know regardless if its positive or negative. I am tired of having a purpose beyond having fun and loving life. I want to break down all these towers of babel and return to the source of humility and love. Kid Cudi makes me sad but his beats are sick, it only takes a couple songs before I would rather be looking at the world from Kanye West's lower perspective. Short sighted he may be but at least he's fighting for the level he's stuck on.\n\nSeventeen Years is a dope song. I have been craving some Ganja for awhile. I need to cultivate some friendships. I know how to have a good time. I just need to find some people, develop some hobbies and stop putting the hoes before the bros.\n\nOr or or I could drop off the face of the earth and become a consciousness loving truth perspective story sharing good merit accumulating yogi wandering around in Depends sharing trivial psychic knowledge like prostitutes share intimacy.\n\nSo many fucking choices, no pun necessary.\n\nI was thinking I should write sloppy young teen novels. That's where the money is at. Haha. Who would my characters be? Something Tragic. I could just drink whisky and smoke the lady ganja while writing young teen novels. Then donate it all to charity, least I become a fuck wad. Or I could put on the Depends right now. I mean why deny the sacred calling? So much vanity and slutty misconceptions of renaissance debauchery and misconstrued enlightenment left to live, right? I won't understand the warning in the I-Ching until its too late. I know that. Huh. Whisky. Can we not befriends? Because you and I are like 4-5-6. I need to get into bee keeping.\n\nWhat's left to talk about? My brain is like jello and my thoughts are like toothpaste. I could squeeze out the whole tube but to what ends? I don't think the world has enough teeth. No bite. All bark. Grow a tree or go the fuck home, you homeless child-man-elder. Grow a beard or wear a kilt. I am no fruit of your loins, I am something else.\n\nI am something else. A self-ish notion that knows not itself.\nGive me some more whisky or go home.\nLet me guess, you've no notion of the eternal self and you still think you're disco. You're not disco, not even close. You're mayonnaise and I am mental. All mental and no merit. Let's get to some gross work. I am going to go play sleep over with the homeless and then hopefully learn what its like to work at an overworked food bank. Humility be my bedfellow for I am thirsty for the rest of my life.",
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"content": "More Blasts from the Pasts:<br /><br />SUNDAY, AUGUST 22, 2010<br />I am living in a town called panic. Not the movie. No, I have never seen the movie. I have the movie, yes. The movie is missing the subtitles which means I am missing the movie whether or not I try to watch it now. I am living in a town called panic. I feel the on sets of insomnia, and instead of struggling to rest I figure I might as well be here. Watching the second half of The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada with no subtitles. I am only missing half the movie due to lack of dialogue. I am too fatigued to only pretend I am focusing to hear what little Spanish I might translate on my onesies. I am only living in a town called panic. I was pulled over going 104 miles per hour on my way back from San Francisco. I used to be in denial. I never told anyone the dash light was on, well not the court anyway. I remember resenting the fact that it was on before I got pulled over. I can't resent the fact it was on anymore because it was my responsibility to have it turned off, kept off, and blame in hindsight is the lowest anyone can go to give blame. Hoping to reduce the charges and some how keep the reckless endangerment off what used to be my clean driving record. Now I know that's not going to happen. I am no longer in denial. I no longer know what I am living in, if not that then this. I am living in a town called panic. I have two dark green Americorps Great Basin Institute alumni tee shirts. I have two because I took two. No, that's a lie. I just remembered that that is a lie. My friend Stephen who hates THE MAN didn't really want a shirt, he already had one, asked me if I wanted two. I said yes. I don't know why. I am a compulsive everything. Everything is compulsive. I am compulsive. I am living in a town called panic with two dark green GBI tee shirts. One has some of my blood on it. My blood on the tee shirt. I was bleeding all over Max's speed boat on Lake Tahoe because of the friction burns on my right elbow from tubing. I was bleeding on his speed boat because I had to get out of the water. I had to get out of the water because I couldn't ride the tube anymore. I couldn't ride the tube anymore because my left shoulder was popping out, not dislocating, just relocating to extremely painful places and then moving back again. It was from putting pressure on the arm to stop from flying off the tube. Max was driving crazy as possible. I had asked for it in the form of a statement as he was just starting to tow me behind the speed boat. The statement went like this, \"Hey MAX! YOU'RE MY BITCH!\" I am living in a town called panic. Last night I made a bunch of disposable friends. Yesterday I think I was putting them off. One was named Jack, he was attached to Elena. Strange name. Made me think of a strange girl, I didn't use her name much because it felt like an insult. Not that Elena I knew before I met this Elena was a horrible person, I just didn't get along. They had Christian with them, Christian was a Hag Fag, which is sad. It should always be the other way around. I was all clean for court so I think they assumed I might be gay. I would make the mistake myself about myself if I ever met myself. I don't know how to be a bro college man, or follow any of the bro mentality. I am not into sports. I don't share man jokes. I listen and agreed with everything a guy says, especially if he has a girlfriend because I don't want to rub the situation the wrong way. I am good at that. Rubbing situations the wrong way. Sometimes for no reason. Listening agreeably to guys may come off as man on man interest. Yet I am not gay enough to not be a threat and so the men were on edge as their ladies were just that. Their ladies. There was another guy called Wes. Wes was alpha male but in a strange way I cannot describe. His girlfriend was named Corey. Corey was extremely sociable. Her face was not a normal face. Not an ugly face, an unusually but beautiful face I suppose? She distracted from it with her sociability. I am no one to point fingers, or cast the first stone regarding strange faces. I gave them a look at panic, but none too harshly as I am not in the market for any real flirtation. Especially not while in this town. Oh, didn't I tell you? I am living in a town, it's called panic. I feel like I am at the end of a marathon but I don't want to finish. I know I have to, but there is that part of me that aches to just lie on the ground curl up into the fetal position and die somewhere under the corner of a rug. The speeding ticket is going to cost $820, no contest. The minimum is $75 a month, first day every month. My parents taught me inadvertently or directly, I really don't know how much intent there may have been, to fear debt like the wrath of the creator. I plan to pay it off as soon as possible. As quickly as possible. Before the trial I was on edge because I didn't know what I could do for myself, if there was a fight worth preparing for, and I felt like I'd learned some humility. Now is afterwards and I live in a town called panic. I would rather be an Iago than have to deal with one any day. What does that say about me? I suppose I am selfish in that regard. I am getting off the fire. The herb. The weed. The Ganja. The marijuana. Which is great, it means I am awake for my own life now. Unfortunately I have nothing to do with my life while awake. Unfortunately I am so awake I am living in a town called panic with insomnia next door and tomorrow departing from down the street and planning to move away before I even awake up. Oh sabbath. Oh precious hours I could use to call my family for dialogue about how they should pick me up at the ferry in Bainbridge Island at some point after September 24th, when when when? Once I am done living in a town called panic. I have no idea when. When my friend Spencer decides. By the time my friend Spencer and I make it up the coast. And you know what else is fun? I think I am out of checks. That means I might be in a rush to send that first $75 (tentatively $200) check in the mail before October 1. Should I order more checks to my Reno, Nevada address, or my home in Washington? I really don't know how long they will take to get here. Joys of living in a town called panic. I just want to meet up with that girl. Even though I will still be chasing myself and this town may be with me all the way. Which girl? The girl. The girl that is learning how to live without me which shouldn't be hard. Not hard because she's always lived without me. We've never lived together. There has never been a point like that. We have yet to be. We haven't been. We've never been anything but what I hate. What I hate is distance among other things, but I do hate distance. Oh yes, that lurking geographical monster of distrust. But learning to live without me because now she is where living happens whether you're alive to be alive or simply there dragging your feet every god damn inch of the way. I want to be there but I also don't, I don't know what I was thinking signing up to go back. I never know living in a town called panic. I know that once I get there I will be okay with being there. Once I am there. Yes. Once I am there. Going back there is always difficult for me knowing that sense of dread of the known and unknown and the loneliness is waiting. Oh, the bitter loneliness. Christian Disneyland is a loneliness that transcends my small town of panic. I don't know where I am going. I don't know who I am and I feel like the ghost of a total stranger.<br /> <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=oldzBlogz\" title=\"#oldzBlogz\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#oldzBlogz</a>",
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"content": "More Blasts from the Pasts:\n\nSUNDAY, AUGUST 22, 2010\nI am living in a town called panic. Not the movie. No, I have never seen the movie. I have the movie, yes. The movie is missing the subtitles which means I am missing the movie whether or not I try to watch it now. I am living in a town called panic. I feel the on sets of insomnia, and instead of struggling to rest I figure I might as well be here. Watching the second half of The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada with no subtitles. I am only missing half the movie due to lack of dialogue. I am too fatigued to only pretend I am focusing to hear what little Spanish I might translate on my onesies. I am only living in a town called panic. I was pulled over going 104 miles per hour on my way back from San Francisco. I used to be in denial. I never told anyone the dash light was on, well not the court anyway. I remember resenting the fact that it was on before I got pulled over. I can't resent the fact it was on anymore because it was my responsibility to have it turned off, kept off, and blame in hindsight is the lowest anyone can go to give blame. Hoping to reduce the charges and some how keep the reckless endangerment off what used to be my clean driving record. Now I know that's not going to happen. I am no longer in denial. I no longer know what I am living in, if not that then this. I am living in a town called panic. I have two dark green Americorps Great Basin Institute alumni tee shirts. I have two because I took two. No, that's a lie. I just remembered that that is a lie. My friend Stephen who hates THE MAN didn't really want a shirt, he already had one, asked me if I wanted two. I said yes. I don't know why. I am a compulsive everything. Everything is compulsive. I am compulsive. I am living in a town called panic with two dark green GBI tee shirts. One has some of my blood on it. My blood on the tee shirt. I was bleeding all over Max's speed boat on Lake Tahoe because of the friction burns on my right elbow from tubing. I was bleeding on his speed boat because I had to get out of the water. I had to get out of the water because I couldn't ride the tube anymore. I couldn't ride the tube anymore because my left shoulder was popping out, not dislocating, just relocating to extremely painful places and then moving back again. It was from putting pressure on the arm to stop from flying off the tube. Max was driving crazy as possible. I had asked for it in the form of a statement as he was just starting to tow me behind the speed boat. The statement went like this, \"Hey MAX! YOU'RE MY BITCH!\" I am living in a town called panic. Last night I made a bunch of disposable friends. Yesterday I think I was putting them off. One was named Jack, he was attached to Elena. Strange name. Made me think of a strange girl, I didn't use her name much because it felt like an insult. Not that Elena I knew before I met this Elena was a horrible person, I just didn't get along. They had Christian with them, Christian was a Hag Fag, which is sad. It should always be the other way around. I was all clean for court so I think they assumed I might be gay. I would make the mistake myself about myself if I ever met myself. I don't know how to be a bro college man, or follow any of the bro mentality. I am not into sports. I don't share man jokes. I listen and agreed with everything a guy says, especially if he has a girlfriend because I don't want to rub the situation the wrong way. I am good at that. Rubbing situations the wrong way. Sometimes for no reason. Listening agreeably to guys may come off as man on man interest. Yet I am not gay enough to not be a threat and so the men were on edge as their ladies were just that. Their ladies. There was another guy called Wes. Wes was alpha male but in a strange way I cannot describe. His girlfriend was named Corey. Corey was extremely sociable. Her face was not a normal face. Not an ugly face, an unusually but beautiful face I suppose? She distracted from it with her sociability. I am no one to point fingers, or cast the first stone regarding strange faces. I gave them a look at panic, but none too harshly as I am not in the market for any real flirtation. Especially not while in this town. Oh, didn't I tell you? I am living in a town, it's called panic. I feel like I am at the end of a marathon but I don't want to finish. I know I have to, but there is that part of me that aches to just lie on the ground curl up into the fetal position and die somewhere under the corner of a rug. The speeding ticket is going to cost $820, no contest. The minimum is $75 a month, first day every month. My parents taught me inadvertently or directly, I really don't know how much intent there may have been, to fear debt like the wrath of the creator. I plan to pay it off as soon as possible. As quickly as possible. Before the trial I was on edge because I didn't know what I could do for myself, if there was a fight worth preparing for, and I felt like I'd learned some humility. Now is afterwards and I live in a town called panic. I would rather be an Iago than have to deal with one any day. What does that say about me? I suppose I am selfish in that regard. I am getting off the fire. The herb. The weed. The Ganja. The marijuana. Which is great, it means I am awake for my own life now. Unfortunately I have nothing to do with my life while awake. Unfortunately I am so awake I am living in a town called panic with insomnia next door and tomorrow departing from down the street and planning to move away before I even awake up. Oh sabbath. Oh precious hours I could use to call my family for dialogue about how they should pick me up at the ferry in Bainbridge Island at some point after September 24th, when when when? Once I am done living in a town called panic. I have no idea when. When my friend Spencer decides. By the time my friend Spencer and I make it up the coast. And you know what else is fun? I think I am out of checks. That means I might be in a rush to send that first $75 (tentatively $200) check in the mail before October 1. Should I order more checks to my Reno, Nevada address, or my home in Washington? I really don't know how long they will take to get here. Joys of living in a town called panic. I just want to meet up with that girl. Even though I will still be chasing myself and this town may be with me all the way. Which girl? The girl. The girl that is learning how to live without me which shouldn't be hard. Not hard because she's always lived without me. We've never lived together. There has never been a point like that. We have yet to be. We haven't been. We've never been anything but what I hate. What I hate is distance among other things, but I do hate distance. Oh yes, that lurking geographical monster of distrust. But learning to live without me because now she is where living happens whether you're alive to be alive or simply there dragging your feet every god damn inch of the way. I want to be there but I also don't, I don't know what I was thinking signing up to go back. I never know living in a town called panic. I know that once I get there I will be okay with being there. Once I am there. Yes. Once I am there. Going back there is always difficult for me knowing that sense of dread of the known and unknown and the loneliness is waiting. Oh, the bitter loneliness. Christian Disneyland is a loneliness that transcends my small town of panic. I don't know where I am going. I don't know who I am and I feel like the ghost of a total stranger.\n #oldzBlogz",
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"content": "Blast from the Once Upon A Time:<br />WEDNESDAY, APRIL 28, 2010<br />i need a fake modus operandi to live by<br />wine, women, and music not it<br />blunts, movies and hangovers not it<br /><br />what is the purpose of art?<br />to provide what life does not.<br /><br />i need art and boldness beyond what's rational?<br />i am gone.<br /><br /> Old_Blogz <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=boyeatspigeon\" title=\"#boyeatspigeon\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#boyeatspigeon</a> <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=Old_Blogz\" title=\"#Old_Blogz\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#Old_Blogz</a>",
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"content": "Blast from the Once Upon A Time:\nWEDNESDAY, APRIL 28, 2010\ni need a fake modus operandi to live by\nwine, women, and music not it\nblunts, movies and hangovers not it\n\nwhat is the purpose of art?\nto provide what life does not.\n\ni need art and boldness beyond what's rational?\ni am gone.\n\n Old_Blogz #boyeatspigeon #Old_Blogz",
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