Another Charles dream resulting in another dangerously unproductive though yummy day spent curled up and half-asleep, coaxing the dream to continue. Go on, won't you. Please.

Another reunited night, the old crowd piled into her room which we knew so well. "So where is he?" I ventured, falsely innocent. Everyone smiled knowingly. I was embarassed, intentions easily read. Suppose they all knew.

Then. Tearing open the sliding wooden door, manic expression, storming in and collapsing behind me as I lay on my side eyes shut tight willing him not to be there and sighing exasperatedly. Arm thrown haphazardly around my waist, pressing intimidatingly. Face buried between my shoulder blades. Actions very out of character, mood witnessed before.

Uh.. what the fuck happened?

Everyone slowly began to file out, whether afraid of his mood or to leave us alone I know not. I begged them not to leave with my eyes. This isn't how it was supposed to be, with everyone aware and moving deliberately.

Eased onto my back, stricken with apprehension, too aware of the few lingering back. Don't do it. I can't handle you getting close. It's not right on my part.

I'm happier, or less conflicted, admiring from afar and living vicariously through those who don't feel shame when you're around.

Ultrareunificationosodomatizing.

I made up a word. It neatly described what is at hand, with an extra dab of scandalous tacked on the end.

I feel like describing us isn't accurate until we perverse it bizarrely and inappropriately in every manner of the word.



I made a slightly wide left turn with my car full of... dude man bros and abruptly proclaimed, "Meeeeeeoooooooowwwwwwwww!" in childish delight as we pulled mad Gs swinging around the corner.

They just stared, strangely endeared but mostly confounded. Uh.. what was that? Chuckle.

Just enjoyin' the ride B)

Meeeeeee...yeow!!! @_@




Bunny kennel second story shelf-building dude-skill-utilizing master class fast-finger extravaganza is completed!

It is way less ghetto than I thought it would look.

Turns out I needed the eldest Mendoza not: I am enough of a dude to build shit myself, however clumsily and anti-streamlined. Ah... Gender roles and stereotypes. :D


The bunny approves.

Wow I'm the shit.






I have a drawer full of sentimental crap that I didn't realize was sentimental crap until literally just now. I tend to just throw shit in there that I don't feel like throwing away. Including bandaids. Thought it was random until I was pawing impatiently through the fluff looking for lighters when I realized 'hey wait one goddam godforsaken minute. All this stuff has meaning.'

Bwaaahhh!!

Also it's Sunday. New Metalocalypse and Venture Bro woomofuckinghoo.

I found an ancient pack of filtered Lucky Strikes that you likely don't even remember purchasing for me when I was fifteen and legally unable to. I finished off half the pack dazedly wandering the streets after your departure before I even considered holding on to it.


Of course I have to mention you every so often. Particularly when things start to slow down and frighten me. Mixes things up a bit. Keeps things interesting.

I don't think I've taken Albert's advice often enough. Of course it came something like years too late but I should have found it myself.

I should have looked back on things as a fond memory of a brief but pleasant time. Instead I worked myself up about the reality that it didn't and couldn't continue.

It made me sad (or I made it make me sad) for the longest time because I wanted so badly to go back, oh anything to escape the insanity at the time, and that would have been the best and most cathartic alternative. But it just couldn't happen. Even if I could, my image of you was (is) probably completely mangled by desperation and loneliness anyway. It wouldn't have been the same.

I fared well enough on my own. One could say. I wouldn't have my infamous weathered unhinged look about me if not for faring on my own. Cool beans.

Truly, good freaking times.
The best.

I guess now I'm a bit older I understand. Not that I wanted to ugh. Age: it sucks balls.

Bunny!!!! BD

"Like a spaghetti, or in this case, sausage kiss."

..."Sausage Kiss"?

I always have premonitional dreams. According to my latest, the Simpsons and Marty will get mad at me while we drop furiously from the skies, spiraling down and down, and they will link hands in an attempt to stay together upon the inevitable gloriously gruesome impact but leave me to fall at my own pace off to the side. I scrabble pleadingly at my buddy Homer, on whose good side I have always resided, but he turns up his nose. Oh dear. Marty? Naw, he's with Homey on this one.

No, my betrayal was far too insulting to ever merit a hand, any hand, to grasp desperately as I plunge through the clouds like a sack of insanity-potatoes. They are insaner than regular potatoes.

Perhaps, they rationalized, linking together would increase their surface area and slightly decrease their downward velocity. Or sum shit. Either way they left me out of it. I plummet helplessly beside their selfish little camp circle, backs to me, no hope of diminished velocity, the ground rises maniacally to meet my perfectplastic nose. Crash.

I awoke in a theater, the previews showed a belated Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert trailer. It is my favorite film featuring magnificent actors in drag (Hugo Weaving, Guy Pearce), though I don't know many. Except the one with blacker than the blackest black times infinity-Wesley Snipes and the guy who played Darry Curtis and John Leguizamo. Not as bomb. I prodded Marty to let him know it was one of favorite films but then I remembered he does not prefer humor of the overtly homosexual variety. He and Homer were suddenly not mad at me. 'Kay... Also, popcorn. Khristine was there too she's the shit.






I called Loho and heard one of her roommates tripping the fuck out and having an existential crisis in the background. Loho and I are experts at existential crises. Questionable Methods, Kickass Results. Is our motto. Unofficially. Okay I just made it up.

Uh I had my first existential crisis when I was four. I could not, for the life of me, stop imagining what my relatives' reactions would be if this reality had gone on its CORRECT course and I had actually died when the concrete floor-fountain attacked me instead of mostly surviving, and acquiring a gnarly head-scar to boot. My oldest uncle struck me as being the sort to be quite distressed even though he is a bit awkward-odd and I don't much like him.

That was a bit.. uh, age-inappropriate. Also, I realized at far too early an age the pointlessness of Candyland. I think I enjoy it more now, actually. Dude, the colors...


For a while I was trying to relive my childhood and take the time to savor each dorky little thing prematurely abandoned as I force-aged in an attempt to escape only-child-mind-suffocation. Like Peter Rabbit and Freakazoid and Star Trek and bunnies. Heee...

I think that's called regression. I grew up way too fast, whatever.

And yet I haven't grown up at all! Snortgigglefart.