This is my High Desert rage

I can't lie to myself. I only feel the urge to write while I'm in a pissant killing mood.

All this rage can't be attributed to one event. It never can. Grouping things in to one group is... nice? Oh my god I hate the word nice right now. Nice is the embodiment of sugar and spice and everything nice. See, the word nice is stupid as hell. You're stupid as hell. In a previous post that was never published I stated that I liked standing on a mountain overlooking Palmdale. I like writing things that people can't see. I want to write letters to people in invisible ink. I find it to be the biggest f-you of all time.

I think I want to sit myself underwater for a while. If I wasn't 90% sure that the bathtub in the dorm bathroom is constructed completely out of AIDS I would totally fill it up. You know, and bathe in it. At the moment I just sit here bathing in my misery. It's that kind of gentle misery. Sort of like gentle prison sodomy. Sweet sweet prison sodomy.

I'm thinking of more violent metaphors. Sadly none have yet to surface.

I hate how writing is the only way to calm the beast because I was supposed to be asleep an hour ago. Writing is nothing but manic ranting for me I think. Not even completely entertaining ranting. If your grandfather ranting drunk makes you laugh as hard as it does me. Then imagine myself being your drunk great grandfather who doesn't really rant as much as just dies. I AM YOUR DYING GREAT GRANDFATHER

IN short your asses are going to get haunted, assuming that two people are reading this at the same time. There's a better chance of dividing by zero.

Roy Scheider died! Have you ever seen the French Connection!? Most bad ass movie of all time! Sure Jaws was sweet. Except every sequel to Jaws blew bigger and bigger shark dicks. French Connection? The second one was better than the first (except that Roy Scheider wasn't in it). So since the second one was better than the first I had to kill myself because deep down I knew there wouldn't be a third one. Hollywood knew they couldn't possibly make a better one. Gene Hackman had already gone through Heroin withdrawls in the second one. The third one would have been what, Crystal Meth? That just looks tacky. Every second of both the movies is tension. Tension of being caught, tension of catching someone else, tension of sitting in a car trying to get a lead to just keep their jobs, and on top of all that the incredible sexual tension between Gene Hackman and every single female character in the movie. AND THEN THE SHARK BLOWS UP.

The Phoenix suns died! Shaq? In short they traded a vital part to the intricacy of the suns, for a fucking retard who would rather bitch at kids for not working out than step on a treadmill himself. They drafted a cripple. His big toe is in a constant state of steroid withdrawls. Instead of working, it sort of just breaks all the time. Here's to hoping Barbosa just sits on Shaqs shoulder and dunks from half court. It's Space Jam without Michael Jordan. Awesome if I was a kid. Really gay now that I understand the movie is about Basketball.

I wish the whole movie was just Michael Jordan's baseball career. So as long as the movie was a miserable downward spiral they could maybe market it as a documentary on Michael Jordan's actual Baseball career.

Hate.