I got caught on tape, thanks Lauren :P
yes I have tha skillz, what
Huge ups to !AMELIA!: BOOM
Sean Lovelace thinks he can write about me ULYSSES COLLABORATIVE, I hereby challenge Sean to a nacho competition of some sort soon to come, Sean was never fat, I can smell it, I could destroy his tenderhearted but ultimately suspect adoration of the nacho lovemound, Sean I challenge you, let's go, Sean you were never fat, bitch you ain't go no nachoskillz, Sean.
Had strange editing ideas today for a complete/uncompleted draft of a novel from last year / got the urge to make strange offers/requests on here while at work / work had restricted blogger / did not make requests / glad I did not make requests / still thinking about strange editing ideas, as I seem to have no idea how to complete the novel. / If you have ideas about me having ideas send the ideas in a black package to the drop point
IE: here is a section I cut out of RICKY'S ANUS and I can't remember why or if I should or if RICKY is two books or not a book at all or what is what with what and I should lock myself in a room with knitting needles and not come back out, here is the the last third of one of the many sections cut from Ricky, in the original draft every section was one enormous paragraph with many runons, now it is different, what will happen to Ricky, what will happen to my life, this was from 'Ricky's Lungs,' I also cut out all the body names the sections were for, the longest graph in the original version of the 'book' was more than 11k words or something, why am I typing this or saying this, I have been listening to public radio this week, I'm sorry for everything I've ever done, I'm sorry:
** DELETION FROM RICKY'S LUNGS FROM RICKY'S ANUS**
Ricky’s mother had dressed herself in her finest lingerie, a pea green number from Frederick’s of Hollywood with cut holes where the nipples went and a drawing of a picture of a mouth licking its lips on the satin bulge of bush her panties made, and Ricky would you please answer the motherbastard goddamn door she squealed through the keyhole, do this in remembrance of me, she said in a head-voice, and Ricky was still there at the window watching and he saw the dead toddlers as they got dragged out of the sweaty bilge, and he saw on this certain one boy’s face, a neighbor boy he’d once paid three dollars to go dig a grave in their shared grass yard for the coming years he planned to kill, he saw on this boy’s face now slathered in house mud and Ricky’s salty armpit output how the boy’s eyes were still wide open, and yet the men were slamming him around as if he’d expired, as if he had nowhere else that he could be, and as Ricky slammed the window glass with his palm butt he watched the men make piercings in the boy’s chubby toddler cheeks, two new holes through which long bike chains were oiled and threaded, chains that ran straight up into the air, ascending so high and fast into the skylight and the mudding brash of gray glare that Ricky could not see what they’d been attached to, and then with a splay of two long fireman fingers the boy began to lift off by his head, and then men did not look or watch or wave to say goodbye as the child ascended, they did not flinch or bite their lips or remove their red sheened fireman hats adorned with logos and a promotional slogan penned dually by Frank Stanford and Chipper Jones, and in the last moments before the boy was consumed among the shine entirely, Ricky could see the boy with his wide eyes give a thumbs up and an A-OK sign though to Ricky nothing felt okay, and the boy winked just right at Ricky anyway, still squirming, and then the boy had been scarfed too far into the air to see, and the boy was up there somewhere, and in the light the trees were trickled with new blood, and as the men arranged together to append the next three other dead boys in this same fashion, Ricky, breathing Ricky, and with his mother’s voice vibrating the liquid all around him, swam to the front door and tried the knob, and yet no amount of wheedling or knob jostle or keyhole begging or finger keys would make the door come open, and on the other side there was the knock, it must have been fifty of them out there by now, all chanting Ricky’s name, Ricky assumed it was his Ricky and not the well-tanned Ricky they were wanting, though now to some extent they were the same, at least Ricky hoped they were the same, could all Ricky be one Ricky?, inside of titular Ricky his nodes were crying, he had mayonnaise all slathered on his big intestine where some of the parasites inside the other Ricky were preparing to gnosh down on him, candles had been lit, there was a white wine on order from Peru, the door was getting knocked on so hard now Ricky thought he could feel it in his bowels but really it was the parasites, and terror of it was so warm it was exquisite, Ricky’s tendons were popping and flags of international distribution had been erected, and Ricky felt something black come over him, he felt his hair comb over, he felt the rattle of a giant window in him shattered, and in the wet Ricky made his body spin and Ricky threw himself corkscrewed against the door, and Ricky barreled through the door and the door came open and Ricky came out the other side and on the other side of the door was Ricky’s mother’s house, dry as a bone, and Ricky’s mother was standing in the entry foyer there before him, stitched in her crotchless bone-white lingerie and her hair had been rolled up in hot wax ripples on her head like pastries, and behind Ricky’s mother, over her shoulder, Ricky could see through another window that before now had not been there, and through the window over Ricky’s mother’s shoulder Ricky saw America, and over America Ricky saw a figure squatting, and Ricky’s mother was screaming at him, Ricky’s mother had Ricky’s name inside her mouth and Ricky’s name was coming out and it was the Ricky name of every Ricky and behind Ricky the front door closed and Ricky turned and turned again. Ricky with his hot flat hands flat on his hot flat face set in his head.