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Cleese

Apartment 5

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So I quit my job of 3 years and 10 months and guess what happens?

Farah Fawcett dies

Michael Jackson dies

Buster dies (buster was my friends dog whose pretty much been alive for his entire life)

The same friend called me the anti-christ. I think I'm ok with the possibility.

what you didnt realize is that ed mcmahon and david carradine died in anticipation of you quiting your job as well.

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Might as well add Billy Mays and Steve McNair to the list.

How does one go about actually figuring out that they are the anti-christ anyway? Does Satan send some guy a memo saying 'hey, you're the anti-christ. Have fun.'? I find it extremely hard to believe that someone just always knows it. I mean, there's a bunch of people who believe they're Jesus. Something's not adding up here.

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A few weeks ago at my old job, when people were discussing what I really should do with my life, the topic of writing came up. I told them that I do have some writings peppered throughout the internets. I told them that I would try to consolidate them into one single place for convenience. As I started to hunt down where I had actually posted these heaping piles of literary shit, I found that every place but here had all been lost to me and everyone else.

Or so I thought so until today. I thought I had forgotten my password and when i ever put my email to get it back, it never got sent to my address. I really don't know what the hell went wrong but it finally worked today. So for your sake and everyone elses, here is my back catalog of shit.

Also, I don't like asking shit like this but if you do like what I do write, tell other people, get them reading, I'm kinda curious how far this will get me.

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------Archive post #1 From September 6th, 2006 I edited nothing, just copy and paste mainly because I'm lazy------

I believe everyone is cursed. Everyone has their own little problem that never seems to go away and, every now and then, will come up behind you tap you on the shoulder and as you turn around, you poke yourself in the face with his finger.

Sure it may not seem like its a really big deal, but its annoying nonetheless.

Maybe for you motherfuckers, but mine pokes me in the eye.

I've told this story before to a few people, and I'm sure they have told it to other people they know but what the hell, I don't have anything better to do.

Like I said, everyone is cursed, but the level of crusednesslesses(?) varies from person to person. I like to think mine is severe. Here is my curse.

I work with a lot of people, always have. Usually in crowded spaces but not so crowded that you cant have any personal space, but just enough space that you can claim your own and everyone knows who is where and whatnot. Its not like a cubical thing but just a wall-less enclosure. Or something. Anyway, I fart. Everyone does, its just what people do, some people enjoy when others grimmace when they travel through a tainted air space and make that all too well known 'ugh wtf' face, at which point the farter begins to guffaw at watching someone suffer through the air. The others are super self-conscious and overparanoid to have anyone find out they fart and will do anything to make it look like they were not the one who flatuated. Weather it be moving to another place and letting it out as you go through, crop-dusting as its called, (this usually entails crop-dusting as far away from your personal area as possible to make it look as if it was anyone but you who did it) or just holding it in until you are out of work so you can blast them out on the way back home, (this can lead to those 'holding-it-in' stomach groans that almost sound like whale calls, which can be almost as bad or even worse than actually farting) or finally, just going to a very remote place and just letting them rip so no one can experience the smell. I fall into the last category.

Now here's my curse: it doesnt matter where I go, how rarely the area is used, or how little people there are working, it doesnt matter, wherever i go to fart, someone always enters the area 30 seconds after the bomb dropped.

It's the worst feeling in the world when there's been enough time for you to smell the horrid, yet personally satisfying, air that came from yourself. And you know they smell it too, but they just act natrual as if nothings going on because they're too nice to say anything about it, which is really worse than the outright accusation from someone. Plus you're too embarrassed to outright say 'yeah sorry' (even though inside you're saying: God dammit why the fuck are you here!?) because you try to play the maybe-they-dont-smell-it-so-i'll-act-cool card, but one second whiff of that air makes it painfually obvious there's now way they can't.

After the incident, the rest of the day is ruined because the person who experienced your ass air won't talk to you or when they talk they never talk about it, and everything that comes out of their mouth is a double-entendre where you make everything seem like they know but they're trying to be clever about it to make you twist in the wind all day. Because they hold all the cards; there's nothing you can do to redeem yourself in their eyes for at least 4 days. The building could burn down and you save everyone inside and everyone loves you, but all it takes is one person saying that you let out the most foul smelling fart and they toss you aside. And you can't call in sick to avoid those days because when people ask why you're sick that person can just start telling everyone about that fart incident and bam, laughing stock of the business. So the only thing you can do it work through those 4 days, making uneasy eye contact with that person, being awkardly silent and clumsy around them, suffering under this burden of self paranoia, holding in every fart until it becomes painful and lets them out in the privacy of your own car as you drive home each night, crying with each anal toot.

I have barely scratched the surface, but I dare not type of this for a while.

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---------Archive post #2 originally posted August 2nd 2006-----------

I sometimes wonder if my fan has feelings. I mean I leave it on all the time up in my room. it sits there. osciallating. on low. collecting dust in the fan grill thing that I'm too lazy to clean out but I will have to eventually one day. slowly changing color from clean white to that 'I've been neglected" yellowish tan. brand name sticker slowly peeling itsself off as if to say 'fuck this i'm going on the floor'. It takes all this neglective abuse and just keeps puttering along. I feel bad sometimes for doing what I dont do to it, I leave the door open for it so it doesn't get lonely, or something like that. Doesn't make sence really but it works for me; and my sanity is all that really counts. I feel compelled sometimes to show some sort of compassion or sympathy for my fan. Maybe give it a hug or, take it to other rooms of the apartment to spice things up.

So a few days ago I did do something for it, I said to my fan: "ok close your eyes, i got a suprise for you." Seeing as i can't tell if its eyes are closed, I just gave it a few seconds until I unplugged it. I brought it downstairs, said: "ok, you can open them." Plugged it back in, and suprise! Living room. My fan's shaking a bit more than normal, so I'm taking that as happyness, like a dog's tail wagging.

But then it hit me: how is this any different from before? All I have done is changed rooms; actions still the same just a change in secenery. Whose this supposed to benefit? I instantly thought of what my fan must be thinking, how if he had a hand he'd probably punch my in the nuts; but then he'd have to have a brain to figure out how to punch; eyes to see and a general understanding of the human anatomy. I went to unplug the fan, let it sit on a bookcase to take a breather and just relax. Then I thought the fan might think I'm just neglecting it, or worse, I hate it's blowing abilities. I couldn't stand the thought of my fan sitting there, staring at me, with that big dust laden grill calling out to me: 'use me. make me feel needed.' I couldn't stand the constant piercing gaze of my fan so I threw a sheet over it and called it post-modern.

Few hours pass and i totally forget the fan even exists, until my roomate comes home and wonders what the hell my fans doing on the bookshelf with a sheet over it. Unable to fully explain the days events and what lead to the fan being on the bookcase with a sheet over it, I just told him. "This is what happens when you're me."

Then he made me a sandwich.

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----------Archive post #3 originally posted December 19th 2008--------------

So here I am, in limbo.

I'm stuck between not having money and saving money.

In between wanting to do shit and not having the funds to do it.

Wedged betwixt wanting to get the fuck out and not wanting to.

Feelings are nothing more then split personalities, pigeon-holed into different archetypes. Every now and again they all get their time on the stage of yourself, jumping through hoops for their own forms of approval. Milking every possible second they can until the hooks comes out for the next act. Crossing their fingers for that standing ovation so they can make their curtain call.

Everyone wants an encore, another change to say what they meant, but in other words to help those who don't get it. The problem comes with finding the right audience.

Now I told you that story to tell you this story. Its essentially the same thing as I said before, just in other words.

See what I did there?

This potted plants moving, new venue, same pot. when lease is up, I'm gone. Going on tour, letting others get a chance to applaud.

Another chance at that standing ovation.

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------Archive post #4 originally posted August 21st 2007-------

Anyone else think of blogs as the text version of talking into a mirror? Well I hate mirrors ever since that bloody mary incident in grade school. You can imagine how life was growing up when your bathroom had a entire wall dedicated to a mirror. Good god.

You want to know me? Ask other people who know me, you'll find nothing new or of interest. The mystery is far more facinating then the truth. I am the most boring reality tv show. If there was ever a time lapse of me on a weekend, you'd swear it was on pause. I'm not guarding myself, just protecting you from disappointment. So keep imagining I'm saving babies from volcanoes or traveling back in time to make sure Bill McDermott doesn't take over the world.

Am I lieing, or not?

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-------Archive post #4 originally posted April 5th 2007---------

Funny this about this post is that it was my first ever posted on my now defunct first blog: perestroika.

Well, look at me, I have finally decided to blog.

Kill me now.

I have always had a certain distain for those who have blogged and the reasoning for blogging in the first place. To me, those who blog are those who have nothing else in their real social life and decide to hide behind names such as: 2hot4u69 or darkelf or others who have a disproportional reliance in the internet to pacify their need for a social contact. Or, they feel the need to have a diary which is completely hypocritical. To me, a diary was something that a person would keep private from others, almost confiding your personal thoughts and desires from prying lives. The blog, is the exact opposite. Everyone and their brother now know things you would wanted to keep away from anything and anyone.

So why do it? Perhaps the blogger looks at it as a certain level of overt privacy? Your thoughts are your own but the name you use is not? Is it a way to satisfy that primal urge to tell someone that secret that you know you cannot? Is it the perfect crime?

It is, until you tell your friends.

That is one mistake a friend of mine made. He put his blog link is his AIM sig, and I went and looked at it. Nothing was incriminating or necessarily evil but the secret was known and I proceeded to pick on him for a long time. It still is funny to me.

Anyway, back on topic, with all those reasons why I dislike blogging, why am I blogging? It is not to let everyone know I am secretly in love with Mary Lou or I have a paralyzing fear of gerbils, this is just to act as my soap box.

Since I am too cheap and/or lazy to get my own website, this will have to do. From this site, I plan on just posting my thoughts and ideas on certain topics of interest happening in the world today.

Now, will anyone read this? I got you to.

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-----------Archive post #5 Originally posted February 20th 2007-------------

This is another re-post re-post, but I personally love this one, if you read it you'll see why.

Today was a shit day.

Then I happened across my old blog. And I remembered this genious gem of a nugget I posted. Made my day, so I'll repost, along with some others at another time.

ORIGIONALLY POSTED ON NOVEMBER 28, 2004 NOT EDITED IN ANYWAY.

While back at home for Thanksgiving break, I went looking aroung the house because I was bored and I came across something I had not seen in a long time. I was shocked to find a journal I had to write in second grade. So, for the sake of it, I am going to post the journal posts greatest hits. If you can understand what I tried to spell when I was in second grade, good for you.

-September 4th, 1991

Dear Journal,

I went to Andy's and boxed. I gave Andy 4 clean hits in the face. I play logos a lot.

Your friend,

Graigory Blackmer

I laughed for about 5 minutes after reading that.

-September 5th, 1991

Dear Journal,

I play mico mseins a lot. I set then up I have had rase And I play nintdno a tot.

Your frierd,

Graig Blackmer

Its things like this that make me wonder if I was a snow baby.

-September 6th, 1991

Dear Journal,

I have a lot hear some of um. Batletltoes, tures Two, nina ginden Two and miro 3

Your ftriend,

Graig Blackmer

What? You've never played nina ginden Two?

-September 13th, 1991

Dear Journal,

My friend Matt like to play krite weling sing he hit a windwdeo. I have a lot hers. some of um. Andy and Matt.

Your friend,

Graigory Blackmer

Let that be a warning to all who play krite weling sing, you might hit a windwdeo.

-September 17th, 1991

Dear Journal,

I go to Gramia's pool. We play a lot in her pool. We play chiken. when my sister gets under wather and I get on her.

Your friend,

Graigory Blackmer

that's right, I got on her.

-September 23rd, 1991

Dear Journal,

I went golfing Today and it was fun! I did good my 2 time ullsy used the spoon. Tha's my best club yet. It was fun!

Your friend,

Graigory Blackmer

I've played golf on a regular basis and I still have not seen anyone else use a spoon. Very underrrated utensil.

-September 25th, 1991

Dear Journal,

I went to open house last nigte. I showed my mom around and I ate a apple. we looked for my sister. And then I got lost and I found my mom.

Don't eat a apple or you'll get lost.

-October 8th, 1991

Dear Journal,

I had pizza for dinner last night. And I wased the frish princh of bal air.

Your friend,

Graigory Blackmer

That show rocked.

-October 10th, 1991

Dear Journal,

I had Nornan over last night and he axtlay kicked my shin. It still hirst.

Your friend,

Graigory Blackmer

I remember that, it fucking hurt.

-October 15th, 1991

Dear Journal,

When I went to Ernest Scare Stupid. It was funny! I had stew laet night.

Your friend,

Graigory Blackmer

and now for something completly different.

-October 31st, 1991

Dear Journal,

I went huting with my dad. And I saw a fea inael dear. And then I went home

Your friend,

Graigory Blackmer

props for those who know what a fea inael dear is.

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------------Archive post #6 Originally posted January 20th 2007--------------

If you can say it, it's a word.

Just because you can't find it in the dictionary doesn't mean its not a word. Stop living your life by what the dictonary tells you is right man.

For example: Tooken. It is a word. You can say it, therefore; its a word. Bar englishes yea sure, but its a word.

another example: tlghesoutyg. It is a word, how? You tried to pronounce it in your head while reading it, so you can say it (maybe not very well but you still can).

What makes a word a word? Well I will tell you:

#1. you can say it

#2. it has meaning

1 and 2 go hand and hand, you cannot have one without the other.

Whats that mean? Everything is a word.

I'll go further.

You speak, what you say has a purpose. In other words, there is a reason for you speaking, and using the words you use.

Blurt some jibberish out, right now. do it. I'll wait.

Ok. you said whatever you said. Jibberish or not, thats a word.

How is jibberish a word? Simple, the action its self makes it so. You said whatever you said as an example of what jibberish is to you. And that makes it a word.

I just blew your mind muthafucka.

*drops mike*

what now?

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----------------Archive post #6 originally posted December 9th 2006---------------

If you are able to have lucid dreams, are you really sleeping?

In mankinds constant pursuit of control, be careful what you want to learn, you open enough boxes up, one of them is eventually going to be pandoras' and I'll be that guy with the sandwich board manically laughing as I chant "I told you so" in the tune of something, just dont know what, probably be whatever I'm humming in my head at the time.

Anyway, yeah, the topic, I'm trying to stay on it this time.

Google lucid dreams if you dont know what it means, I dont wanna type it. To me, being a lucid dreamer opens a whole new can-o-gray-area-shit. Technically, youre asleep, but consciously aware of that fact, that just screams oxymoron to me. You cannot be both unconscious and conscious at the same time, it one or the other. If you are conscious, then you're not unconscious, and therefore, not sleeping.

Tough logic I know but stick with me, this is going somewhere.

If you dont get enough REM sleep you die. Why, I dont know, but its what happens. REM is when you dream, its the deepest of the sleep you get, its where your mind pretty much does its own thing in another universe, trying to make sense of a nonsensical series of events that is what we call dreaming, and whatever happens while dreaming we totally accept as fact and in a sense, reality.

Like in reality, we have a certain level of control over our lives and enviroment, but we always want more. I dreaming, we are totally helpless to whatever we create, we have no control over ourselves, in a sense, a prisoner.

Now, unless its your fetish, people dont like have be so helpless in their reality and so we try to do whatever we can to change that, with our only real defense is simply waking up, in a sense, running away.

You can only run away so many times until you become sick of it and want to do something about it, thats where lucid dreaming comes in. There are techniques to become one, but it can be almost impossible to flick that mental swtich to that realization that this is a dream. Perhaps its beacause we find it very hard to accept what we know as reality to be completely untrue. If someone came upto you in the middle of the day and said that all of this is fake and imagined, you'd totally call them a liar and probably smelly. Point aside, say youre actually able to become a lucid dreamer, congradulations (i cant spell) you've messed with reality in essence.

Aware of the fact you are dreamin means that youre consciously aware, and therefore very not dreaming; pretty much just a very very long daydream happening at night.

So what then? Whats the big deal? I'll tell you, I'll tell you good too.

Being able to control what happens in dreams, is basically living in another reality, since you can control that one and not the reality reality, which one are you going to choose?

I'd choose the one where I can turn into a pidgeon that farts lazer beams. Hell I'd do everything in my power to stay there as much as I can. Welcome to your new crack.

Get enough people addicted to crack, the world will pretty much end, everyone will end up killing themsleves with sleep.

Be careful what you wish for, drugs are bad m'kay?

let that stew for a while, I gotta figure out why the hell I have a stucco ceiling.

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------------------Archive post #7 originally posted November 15th 2006----------------

If I was a betting man, I'd be poor.

If you ever find your life boring in any way, makes friends with either a homless or crazy guy. Not because it would make your life better by comparison, that would just be mean. Even though it might, but whatever.

Anyway, the people who live the greatest lives are the ones who live unconventional ones. No one wants to hear stories about people like themselves, what the hell is the interest in that? Nay, the best stories about live and lives are held by the people who probably scare you and make you uncomfortable because they stand too close or smell too bad. Don't believe me? Then what the hell is wrong with you, if you're content with the perpetual rut you're in might as well end it now because it's never going to be any different from here to when you die. So might as well just take out the middle man.

Holy shit that sounded emo-ish, pardon my use of bandwagon terms. Ha, there's another one.

Anyway, my train of thought has taken a detour it seems, but still remains within context. So lets get back to it.

Crazy people are probably the most fascinating people who will live. Why? Read. dammit.

I remeber watching an episode of Futurama in which that robit gets upgraded or something, stuff happens, ads are shown, and we get to the end of the episode, and Bender (that's the little rapscallions name) give us a nugget of philosophical interest that I have probably heard millions of times before but never really clicked until I saw it at that moment. "I guess reality is what you make of it." and he proceeds to sashay down the sidewalk-turned-yellow-brick-road, surrounded by Unicorns, rainbows and cigar lighting faries.

What the hell does this have to do with anything? People who see and experience the same enviroment that I do, but interpret it in completely different ways absolutely astound me. I want to see what they see, experience what they do, get a taste of their life.

Do not mistake this and that example as some sort of romanticisied (ha spelling) outlook on mental instability, just the simple fact that there are people out there who live life in the same enviroment as me experience and interpert (ha spelling, again) in a totally different way amazes me.

There's probably a place I was going to when I first started typing this, and there's probably a lot of stuff I didn't cover that I said I would or something; there's probably a lot of uncomplete thoughts and should be completed in some fashion. But I just saw something shiny.

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Doesn't matter how many coats of paint you put on a rusty bucket. It's still rusty.

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Don't ask for advise from strangers they will only tell you what they wish they could do.

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I'm impressed and depressed at the same time reading this. Impressed by the typing, depressed about my outcome

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