the problem we spoke of....

The Problem.

REMEMBER?

It's back.

I surrender

white flag it.

I'd rendered

the situation

on probation

until the next time.

Primero vez

mas de diez

y dos

at the most.

Though Im not a prophet

though

I know

this show

goes on

and I can't stop it.

How can so much

come out of someone so small?

Forget it

I won't call

your sorry ass...

but I think you're charming

so charming

it's annoying

and alarming.

porque

tu eres el diablo!

que mal suerto!

but

The point we strayed from was

wanted to tell you because

the problem...

the dilemma...

you remember?

oh come on

you remember..

it must like me

because it's back.

our shows always encourage the arts!!

Did you ever watch T.V as a kid!? Holy shit it's wild!

" its coming out like toothpaste" says the TV for the second time.
Shannon and I have been watching teletubbies for the fist time in ten years. The windmill in the distance is the parental figure, calling them to do something that they dont want to do. They succomb to flashes that come from their stomachs and lay down on the ground as the camera pans in to the stomach TV for video time....children squirting out brightly colored icing, forming little icing houses and little icing people. Of babies sucking on plastic guitars. pointless clips with no words...where are these kids anyway? The Tubby tummy? The tubby large intestine???? They play these five minute clips TWICe. TwiCe during the show. Same fucking thing.

The crazy wierd thing that rolls around with the fucking TUBE.?? That is the maid?? And tubby custard, this machine makes odd looking shit liquid ice cream and the red tubby yells "tubby custard tubby custard" this shit happens over and over, with each tubby waiting for his ice cream shit looking liquid as the machine distributes it. This process takes up like ten minutes of the program and it has happened in every episode that I have ever seen. It is always youngest to oldest. The shortest always comes lastly as the tallest comes first. The youngest is always the most retarted sounding. bood boob boop boop boop fart....the machine goes and it turns out the shit custard. "tubby custard tubby custaard"
The voice of reason always speaks at the end, when the tubbies sink down into their little holes for the night..creepy really.
"So what changes about the show"? Shannon asked?
"Not a damn thing".....almost exactly the same every episode. brilliant.
They are all supposed to be different races. Their wierd little faces are all slightly different shades of tan/yellow/brown.
"What happens when we spill tubby custard?"voice of reason asks.
"The nunu cleans up" they say in unison

(...thats the wierd fucking vaccuum thing)

Oh and lest we forget, the varied shapes of dildo looking things on top of their heads. Weird. BBC is f'ing weird.

Tuesday's Forecast in Hindsight

The weather channel shows the belly of the state in bright red; I for one am wearing bells. I want to have one of those crazy stories where the storm sucks away everything but me and the bathtub.
It was an act of charity on my part that sparked this change in my disposition. Every week I drive for a non-profit organization that provides soggy hospital food for senior citizens and the disabled of the community. My grandmother did it until she died so I took her place.
She would NOT be proud that I took a piss once in someone's yard.
Nobody was home.
It was out in the b.f.e.
Gimme a break.

Today was not my usual route, I was actually called in to drive as a substitute, which means i got completely lost and the people were good and pissed by the time I got there with the cold (soggy) food.
The Tuesday drive exceeded my usual once a week, I considered this to be especially honorable.. I wa feeling pretty darn good about myself, and not so bad about driving like a jackass because I had no clue where I was going.
Perhaps my fantasy would come true...the one about getting pulled over by a policeman for making a U-turn, then making him feel like an asshole because I am a cute girl doing volunteer work.
It started to sprinkle as I left the hospital parking lot, fumbling with the map as I drove with one knee. I argued with myself about whether or not I wanted it to pour.

G is for Golyadkin

Eureka! My mind can do most amazing things! I will never be alone again. Only, I thought, did these things exist in the DSM-IV. I never actually thought that people experienced them. Several nights ago I was taken aback by a foreign but strangely intriguing voice, it sounded not unlike my own. I began to feel short of breath and mildly nauseous as I allowed myself to listen. Slowly it spoke to me, but not as another person would. This voice had a clear message, but spoke in a language that only I could understand. It sounded different because I was hearing it not with my ears, but with my mind. The voice came from inside.
It was too late to call anyone, and I was so afraid that I ran to the other side of my apartment to sleep in my roommate's bed. She had no idea why, I told her I was really drunk and kinda freaked out, urging her to go back to sleep. I wasn't really drunk, nor was I just kinda freaked out. My mind was actually switching consciously from one person to the next. I could physically feel the change inside my head, morphing from one point of view to one completely different. It felt like I was crossing my eyes, though I don't know how to do so. After a few minutes my sanity seemed to be restored and I returned to my wobbly, uninviting bed. It smelled of tanning lotion and old sex, I realized that it had been weeks since the sheets were changed. I peeled them from the bed and lay between two comforters, staring at the royal purple fresca that spanned the entire west wall. Slowly the nausea set in again, souring my gut like bad fish. My head once again felt cumbersome. Though I tried to fight it, I became increasingly suspicious of Dionysus, gazing down at me from the wall. I felt guilty that the fresca didn't adorn a picture of Jesus instead. The voice returned and informed me that the fresca was in fact possessed, that it poisoned my dreams at night and that I must take it down.
I then did what I always do when I catch myself in an alarming thought, I reached for a notebook and ink pen.
The change began to happen in intervals so predictable and so frequent that I could write to myself, in different penmanship for that matter. After writing one sentence, I could wait a few minutes and read it again, and it was as if I was seeing it for the first time. I played with this idea for awhile, asking myself questions.
This reminded me of something I had read years before. Like the Golyadkin in Dostoevsky's novel. Golyadkin Sr. felt sick and lightheaded every time the double came near. He didn't even like the double but lets him take control at times anyway. Golyadkin Jr. was better in social settings, so suave and likable-but physically identical to Golyadkin Sr. in every way.

There must be an upside to having multiple persons inside one's thoughts. The way I see it, everyone has them; however it must be that some people's are simply more audible than others'. How beneficial could it possibly be if these voices were to speak all at once in form of what they call a conscience? For most people, the voices of reason and recklessness confuse physical action. Why not rejoice in the fact that mine are polite enough to take turns?