the milk and cheese truth

 

Bulbs bulbs bulbs bulbs bulbs baby yeah

Bulbs rule

Bulbs rule

Bulbs rule cause they’re cool

I wish I was a bulb lighting up the world

I wish I was a bulb cause they make me twirl

Lighting the way for you and me

Bulbs are so cool                     

They’re not petty

Bulbs

Yeah bulbs

They’re incredible

Bulbs

Yeah bulbs

Don’t be a fool

Bulbs

Yeah bulbs

They make me smile

Bulbs

Yeah bulbs

They last a while

Bulbs everyday

Bulbs every night

I love bulbs

They’re out of sight

I love bulbs

So fantastic

I love bulbs

I’m very spastic

Bulbs bulbs bulbs bulbs bulbs bulbs bulbs bulbs

Light baby, yeah that’s what I’m talking about

 

This was song I wrote back during my sophomore year in high school which was probably the peak of my creativity as a songwriter.  I only ever performed it twice but I’ve been thinking heavily lately about bringing it back to the setlist.  It was a soulful, scorching number. 

 

And now the puffer fish sits on my wall, staring at me and revealing strange secrets.  I don’t want to dive into the blue and be poisoned but I may have to.  It’s just a bunch of grown men tossing a ball around a field or a court for 3 or 4 hours (or for truly ungodly lengths of time if it’s a European or Australian sport).  I keep saying this and all I get for my trouble are dirty looks.  I understand.   It’s not my place to comment.  I should just remain silent. 

 

Did someone mold me out of dough?  If so, I hope the dough was made with water from New York pipelines.  People always wonder what makes New York pizza the best and they work backwards from dumb as ass conclusions and conclude it must be the cheese or the sauce or the meat.  They’re all wrong and I have the documents to prove it.  The water.  It is the water in the dough which makes the pizza the best and occasionally drives me loco to the point where I must kill again.  Just ask J.  We’re all living inside a big death bag. 

 

I ordered nine copies of the VHS tape and then repeated the word “sorrow” to myself over and over again – often in whisper – for seven consecutive hours.  Someone who lives in the wall by my bed tried to talk to me last night but I pulled the covers over my head and did not listen.  But I was so terrified.  I cried until he finally stopped talking to me. My head hurts so bad.  Why doesn’t someone kiss it and make the pain go away?  Who are you?  This nice lady who walks in front of me; when she gets closer why does her face turn into a witch?

 

I hope someone reminds me to record Lucha Underground tonight.  Honestly, I’d forget to eat the delicious turkey and Swiss sandwich I’m holding if I hadn’t superglued to my fingers ahead of time.  I will probably have to watch Wrestlemania this year.  Historically, I have never ordered this event.  I’m listening to Wang Chung’s soundtrack for To Live and Die in L.A. whilst I pen this blog post.  It is a gorgeous soundscape of synth and silk-like voices and perfectly complements William Friedkin’s 1985 film.  I strongly relate to William Peterson’s central character of the movie as I frequently long to live and die in L.A.  Anyone who loves that flick should immediately eat several bowls of Frosted Flakes and then sprint – not walk – to their nearest conglomerate to purchase Michael Mann’s excellent (that was Ridley Scott’s word, not mine.  If it was fine I would have said really excellent) 1986 feature film Manhunter.  It is a crime masterpiece far better than the pathetic Red Dragon which was vomited into the cinemas years later.  I hope I never meet anyone who likes the movie Red Dragon because in that instant I would be forced to kill again! 

 

This Friday is going to mark a famous first in my miserable life but I dare not spoil the surprise.  Just be sure to watch for an upcoming post and be ready to have your eyes liquefied with weaponized microwaves and your ear drums popped with red hot needles.

 

I wore a raccoon on my head to a dinner party the other night and everyone laughed.  I couldn’t be sure if they were laughing with me or at me. 

 

I prefer to reject many conventional forms of masculinity.  It rained the other day.  I had to go through several keys before I found the right one and then I successfully stole the motor vehicle.  When I was a child I would sometimes pronounce the word “machine” as “mansion”.  I truly was an idiot and very little has changed. 

 

Most people consider me ugly, as in physically very unattractive.  I have learned to deal with this over the years.  I disguise my insecurities with cheap knock-offs of actual nice clothes.  I also consume copious amounts of alcohol and this helps numb the pain.  I haven’t peeled off my face yet but the thought has certainly crossed my mind. 

 

“Don’t give up on me,” she said while majestically riding a horse through a beautiful meadow filled with old growth trees.  I know she wasn’t talking to me.

 

I feel like I just need to get it all out there, you know?  Can any of you relate to that?  I just need to lay it on the line and spill my guts and say everything I’ve been dying to say.  It may be ugly and it may not make any sense but I need to do it because I am rotting away on the inside.

 

I’m not as out of shape as some people.  Does that make my being out of shape any better?  I don’t think so.  I find rap music to be stupid a large percentage of the time yet I still love it and listen to it roughly 23 hours of every day. 

 

I feel sorry for a lot of folks.  

 

I frequently find myself doing something and wondering why I’m doing it.  Very often, life doesn’t seem real to me.  It feels like I’m watching scenes from a movie which just happen to star myself.  I hear words coming out of my mouth but cannot figure it out why I am saying them and once they’re out I am unable to form any sort of opinion on them.  I think I pretend to be happy and pretend to be sad.  Anger often feels genuine and so does hatred unfortunately.  This is alarming to some degree. 

 

I’m going to go listen to an album which has an orange cover.