Nov 8, 2006
These are the things that kill me: Juno is getting back together (I can't go 'cause it's only 2 days in Washington or some shit), I'm feeling like shit these days, and the Celtics are terrible (shoulda had Boozer). At least it's national Democrats' Day.
I shall celebrate with the following nonsensical rambling:
The coastline is ceaseless; a rambling sense of wreckage and restlessness embedded-- MTHRFKER I AM SERIOUS-- along the footholds. Manically impressive-- STOP IT-- I've decided to fight with the tides. Pull. Perish. Ping golf balls make the best bedmates. I'm HUNGRY.
So, may of you might ask what the hell I've been talking about the past few posts, or at all. I'll get to that. just give me a moment. I might ask you the same thing while rollicking fabulous; waves cresting to pop my reddened chest. I got some sleep this past week, so there's that.
Alomost there and I guarantee a payoff this time, I really do. MAN THE RAMPAGE! Mr. Dr. Dre, do you remember when IC decided to make you a sandwich so's that you would be our Lord? That offer still stands, but hurry. Come Dec. 12th, that Ghost might get a counteroffer, man. GAWD ALMIGHTY. No, but seriously, man.
And you-- baseball list and Young Dro/ Rick Ross/Young Leek, and all of you wonders of American subcultures-- you should listen for a second, i guess, because I guess I have something to say important I guess.
The answer, in the most simple terms, as aformentioned and discussed in previous posts, but not explicitly answered in so many words, yet definitely broached, definitely an arrival at an idea, an archetype with which to answer the now increasingly pertinent question, forever emphasised, the reason behind the entire fucking project itself, which is inasmuch a vanity project as well as an futile excersise in and of itself, the reason IC even comes forth to answer the infamous "what'cha mean b'that?", is really simple, but not in a "wherever you go there you are," or "do or do not..." way-- more of a less philosophical but still thought provoking "I've got a secret" and that secret builds and sways side to side like palms upturned into windy conditions or the secret wells up like hollow-chested dull roars of pain that wake me at night and the answer (which incidentally is coming) bursts forth like cold water rushing through rusty pipes-- TRYIN' TO ESCAPE-- and I feel it fall over my shaking hands as if to whisper a cure slight yet daunting in my ear; nothing ever matters to anyone ever, friends, and there you have it.
I'm a catcall to a battleaxe-- a marginal margin without the proper margins mating with other blank sheets to make sure I never matter.
Pixture. Mis-spelled on purpose. South's gonna do it again, 'cause all politics is locale.
Submitted Posthumously by Jeff Laughlin at 9:17 PM