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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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dark epiphany

Nobody likes your crappy bar anyway.

Thanks to one and all who turned out to keep me company this weekend. We were, beyond a shadow of a doubt, "those people." And if the legends reached my ears aright, then the good people of bus line #28 were forced to endure an attack upon the sensibilities both vile and beautiful. Well terrorized, me hearties. Cheers.

If you are a student of language and an uncouth rapscallion, as I might be labeled, then you may enjoy Steve Anderson's documentary, "Fuck." Once I had quelled the urge to put a folding chair through the forebrain of every bone headed cinema-student-inane-question-asker in the room, I found the film provided material for some lively discussion afterwards.

Also. An interview. For like, a real* job? With a real salary? Cross your fingers for me, won't you? I'm not even sure what outcome I actually want, as the halves of my brain continue to yell epithets at each other across the sagittal cleft. "Sellout." "Loser!" "Materialism sucks!" "Poverty blows!" "Corporate bullshit!" "Creative control!" I don't know. I just know that it's time for something new.

Coming soon: Less flash, more substance.

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Re: Happy Belated Ken!

Done! You may now use your magic noisebox to contact me with speakywords and textbombs.

Moscone Convention Center, you do not yet know your peril.

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