Well, I'm over my illness (save a cold sore on my lip and a few other little annoyances), and I'm out and about again, saving the world. Today, as I passed by a box of rollerblades my mum was selling on Ebay, a wave of nostalgia overtook me, and I wandered over to the hall closet to see if my own pair of skates still existed. Buried under about 200 totebags, umbrellas, and various pairs of boots, I found my pair of rollerblades, complete with size 8 boot and old worn-out wheels! Despite the small size, I fit into them quite snugly, having small feet for my gender and age, and proceeded to glide around the neighborhood for awhile.
Going back to my elementary school on rollerblades certainly brings back memories. Kevin Young, David Muzal and I used to play basketball on skates at the court behind Ehrhardt. Alas, the evil wrecking company bulldozed over a metric ton of my childhood, leaving a huge pile of concrete slab and dirt where once there was a nice, smooth surface for sportsplaying. Why the hell did they do that?
So, coming home, I played a bit of Counterstrike (the most unproductive thing EVER), replaced the wheels on the rollerblades with a set of 30 dollar 80A, 72mm wheels I found lying around, polished my new Schwinn Continental roadbike my parents found at a garage sale (it needs tires, tubes and a brake cable, but soon I will be like Lance fucking Armstrong), and read a bit of my brand new Satanic Bible.
Ah, Satanism. It seems to have always been my doctrine. One of the things Satan represents is Christianity's "seven deadly sins" (ex. lust, greed, pride). And you know why? Because every one of them leads to some form of pleasure! There's nothing wrong with lust! Lust is a religion in itself! What is greed besides wanting more stuff? The flesh isn't going to burn off your bones for eternity just for wanting some money. Being proud of yourself isn't going to invoke some holy wrath from above. Moral codes are bullshit. Ave Satanas! Join my dark grotto, fledgelings...
After another mile or two of rollerblading, I returned home to call Larkin and get myself out to Starbucks. I, the blue-haired khaki master, and Larkin, the cat-eared cutey sporting a new wig took the place (full of stoners and trendy, preppy people) by storm once again. Jeremy, Rob and Amy met up with us too. Much fun.
I feel good now that I'm not feverish and weak. I feel great. I cannot WAIT to fix up my new roadbike. I have long wanted to have something not nearly as cumbersome as a 21-speed mountain bike, complete with big chromali frame and rack. I shall glide across the pavement with the same type of bike as god himself!
Poetry.com has to have the greatest marketing scheme ever. They've sent me, like, five letters saying they want to publish my poetry in some anthology, record it onto CD, give me a big dumb trophy, etc. etc. Oh! And they want me to go to their conference in Washington, D.C.! Only 500.00$ registration! Damn them for trying to make me feel important! It's like that druggie movie where they say the old woman will be on TV! Is there more bullshit than that in anything in the world besides politics and organized religion?
In conclusion: TURTLE!
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