blog of testiclese this is where the shit went down, but before you got here

Over the course of the last eight or so years, I’ve been amassing a collection of digital music.  In the days before mp3’s, I would listen to albums (cds) in their entirety.  I find lately that I spend more time skipping through randomly shuffled tracks, either on the iPod, on in winamp.  I think a touch of radness would be an app that brought back the album feeling, where you can visually scan your cd’s, grab an album, and give it a spin.  Otherwise, I worry that this song shuffle could progress, and I’ll be spending more time skipping songs than actually listening.  At the end of a long day of skipping tracks, I feel tired, and worn, not at all entertained.  Each new song that comes up aggravates me more than the last, until my Ritalin rattled brain decides that there is no music worth the bits it’s shifting, and I feel like I hate music, and I notes, and I especially hate singing.

1. New Job
2. New Commute
3. New Cube
4. New Mug
5. New Phone

I’d say I’m happy to be here, but I hate you.  This blog has been recreated, by hand, and keyboard, and a little bit of elbow grease.  Much obliged to Mister Schuler, without whom none of this would be possible.

Holy crap that’s a big hole. The heat is really getting to the parking lot by my work. Apparently, smaller hole was made a few years ago, enough to get some water down there, and over time wore out this hole. The hole itself was probably only a foot and a half feet across, but it was about eight feet deep. It also connected to a tunnel, or a container of some sort that no one knew about. They put about three quarters of a ton of rocks, without making a dent in the hole.

The rest of the pictures are here.

I find out today, that I have no friends. I am completely alone in the world. All around me is darkness.
I wrote some poems about it, but I’m the only one who reads this, and I’ve already read them.
When I wrote them I mean. I didn’t RE-read them, or really even look at them.
So I’m certainly not going to transcribe them here for no one to see.

I had a funny thought, here we go.

“Your fingers would bleed if you tried to write code this bad.”

Things I’ve realized today (as of 8:16am):

The greatness of art isn’t of the art at all, it’s in how the person receives the art. If two sloshing buckets of piss move you, they’re moving you, and that’s art.

why do my hands smell like throw up?
and then i rubbed my nose, and now the throw up smell is on my nose, and it’s not going away.
i clearly didn’t throw up, or even come close, where could the smell come from?
the mysteries persist.