Night Stream Dec 9

I've ordered food again...overate again...and want to lay in bed like a sad banana peel that is yet to find the trash receptacle.  It's the time of night when I can hear chants of children from down the street and a stranger leading them on a microphone.  I believe it is a Jesus camp of the sorts but I cannot help imagining a young Hitler regime.

You know I don't frequent this blog anymore.  After writing such a powerful peace last time I felt no urge to keep up that kind of quality material.  This blog was born from the very mature mind of my 18 year old self...so why make it something it's not?

But then, I got this keyboard.  You see,  a writer is a musician and they need tools to create their art.  One would think pfff a keyboard?  Really?  Are you going to make that as your excuse to why you will not write anymore?

Lemme tell you something about this keyboard.  Have you ever stroked a sensitive part of you body and was like  –this feels pretty good and then kept on going?  Well this keyboard is kind of like that.  Organic and mechanical, it takes each depression with a refined feel.  You are no longer typing on that mushy potato.  Typing up words on this creates the sense that you are putting physical effort to your work rather than transposing what you would write with pen and paper digitally.

And that is my short sales speech on mechanical keyboards.  An old technology that has resurfaced due to nerds like me and that shameless market of selling overpriced "gaming" technology to children.  I can get special branded o-rings for 20 dollars. O RINGS that cost fractions of a cent to manufacture for this keyboard.  Well, I guess there will always be people who think so microscopically instead of stepping out to look at the big picture.

What is the big picture though?  Is it that new flat screen you eagerly planned your whole Black Friday acquiring like it was a rare Pokemon that filled your brain with so much dopamine you might as well have been snorting coke off your Game-boy screen?  Everything of this nature is opinionated and impossible for me define for everyone.  So I'll just define for little ol' me.

 The big picture is so fucking big that if you stare at it too long your eyes will shift east and west respectively then circle around the earth before jumping between a couple of worm holes to send them out of sync for as long as the universe is.

I guess you can call that anxiety or a midlife crisis too.  While it is useful to step back and look at the entire game of RISK instead of your friend's overwhelming decision to mass troops in China, there needs to be some balance.  If you are too anal and try to laser gun the dust particles from your desk every 5 minutes people would look at that as a little obsessive.  However, if you let those dust particles build up because it is such a small aspect of your life you'll soon create the next dust bowl or more important for some -- not get laid.

So I guess today's self reflection is about balance.  You know, that things you tried to achieve when you thought Buddhism was cool and perfectly represented how you feel man.  But Buddhism isn't about taking acid and distancing yourself so far from reality that everything seems to make sense and then you get the grand idea that you will be able to implement it into your daily lifestyle only to realize you cannot be sober to achieve that kind of happiness because of how fucked up the world really is.  I never studied Buddhism in depth enough to preach it.  But balance is something anyone can learn to achieve.

Now you may be thinking.  Are overly balanced people boring?  Are they so content/discontent with everything that they become the grey blob that is injected into my veins when I stare at a vending machine at work so I don't give a shit about what falls through the trap door because all the choices are equally as shitty as the one next to it?  I don't think anyone is boring, though.  When I stand on the crowded subway I doubt everyone's mind is thinking:

"Subway subway subway oh they're cute subway stopped fuck the subway I hate the subway subway what's that smell subway vomit subway subway..."

...or maybe they are.  That may just be a special case.  I think it's safer to say we don't all think about poop while we are pooping on the toilet.  Unless you carry a poop diary which actually would be pretty cool.  I mean, a diary you only write in while you poo.

Anyway my brain is pooped.  Thanks for listening to my thoughts tonight.

Na-cho POOP

I'm currently ridiculing myself on the toilet for eating a giant pile of buffalo chicken nachos.  I enjoy spicy foods in but not out.  Why do i put myself through such a process knowing the outcome:
Two types of habanero hot sauce and enough of each to make my nachos float like boats over the fiery sea.
Ingest the fiery sea.
Your fiery sea wants to rejoin its friends from other hot sauce bingers and all the seas converge in the sewage system where they will plan a retaliation by re-bottling themselves to burn your digestive tract all once more.

But what i don't really get is why do people such as myself do these things realizing that it will burn your asshole and make you hunch over so far you can clearly see the dirt under your toenails.  Is it human nature to repeat things that you know have an unsatisfying end just to fulfill the present pleasure? Now i'm sure we could inch over to religious symbolism here but I'm sticking with hot-sauce and a burnt anus.  Something i hope no one looks for to as a model to pivot there life around on.

Is it come to the day in age where instant gratification always triumphs over the end result?

I suppose this is where STD's come from.  Maybe babies.  Maybe when i consume gratuitous amounts of hot-sauce it burns my asshole because it is like contracting volcanic gonorrhea as a result of not equipping a simple glove for my one fingered friend.

Maybe i'll start a PSA for this.  And offer some free discount coupons to a mexican restaurant with condoms attached.

However, i still have a dilemma.  Condoms will prevent disease and babies.  But what will prevent my ass from ejecting the flames of hell into my toilet bowl?

Things i will ponder every time i put hot sauce on...well... everything.


What a convenient photo i found eh?