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LeoZ |
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Hey, I'm Leo Z. I hail from Staten Island, the southernmost borough of the City of New York. I reside with my beautiful girlfriend and together we make magic happen. And by that I mean that our house is haunted. By little tiny fingers. Finger people. Fingers with feet. That shuffle as they run whenever I surprise them by turning on the lights. How do I turn the lights on? I rub the switch!
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| Good and stupid Band names 2010-09-01 18:14:18 ET |
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Make them up and post em here.
Go!
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| First lines are the sign of the times.. 2010-08-30 13:21:28 ET |
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First lines of a book that I might actually finish instead of just existing in my head as a loose chain link of freak ideas tied together by a tunnel perspective.
Uhm, a title? I don't really have one. I'm calling "First Person" for now cause it's easier to just blabber on and call it fiction.
Uhm..yeah. Here goes nothing...:
***
"First Person"
I am awake. I am still in bed. Turn that goddamn alarm off, I hate the buzz it makes.
I think I'll roll over and hide beneath my bed sheets and close my eyes and pretend it's still night.
Good night, everybody.
Good night until the alarm clock rings again.
****
My god, how exciting! I just can't wait to see the rest of it!
/sarcasm
It's just a start.
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| ...CONTINUED 2010-08-28 17:02:02 ET |
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I crave these cookies and I want more. Yes, cookie, A wise man DOES know everything but a shrewd man DOES know everybody! You are so correct, cookie! And so smart! Come 'ere, I just wanna kiss you!....AND EAT YOU! OM NOM NOM! Those delicious crumbs on my fingers; I am a cookie murderer! But it's oh so good. Is this how serial killers feel like? Is this what the cookie monster goes through every freaking day of his existence? And here I am again reaching for another!
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| Saturday, August 28, 2010 2010-08-28 16:08:36 ET |
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I'm sitting here on my bed with my laptop by my side. I shouldn't say “laptop”. I should say “netbook.” Some piece of shit Samsung with a nice keyboard, a horrid OS (Windows 7 Starter), and the ability to increase its screen resolution beyond the LCD's physical capacity. In other words it is my typewriter. I'm almost sick from the fortune cookies on which I have been snacking on for the past 16 hours that is if you count sleep. The crumbs are on the folding table by the bed, on the bed sheets (the girlfriend doesn't like that. Says they itch. I say it's better than bed bugs as I brush the crumbs onto the floor with both hands. Maybe later I'll spill some soda onto the Russian carpet and we'll have fortune cookie trees. Do they exist? Can we make it happen?)
There's a half-sphere Tupperware container with a blue lid on it. It contains within it the remains of the ice from last night. The ice I used as rocks to pour whiskey over into a nice little glass. The whiskey is Dewar's 12 but I like to call it “The Whiskey with the Weird Aftertaste”. I used to call it “The Whiskey that Tastes Like Shit” but now I realize it's just the aftertaste. Until the aftertaste hits the whiskey seems quite alright. Once this bottle's drained (750ml) I've got a Santori Yamazaki 12 (“For relaxing times, make it Santori time.”) I don't know what's the obsession with whiskey makers and 12 year olds but, hey, if I ever start collecting whiskey then I'll call my collection “The Neverland Ranch.” I'm just saying.
This is the end of the summer and like with the end of every summer I have to face the possibility that this could be the last great summer in New York City. Weather patterns change and not just due to global warming. The great Ice Age took only 30 years to happen. 30 small years. No more summer nights, staying awake with a book in my hand because it is too hot to sleep and too good to ignore. The other seasons are all good too but to me it seems that there are only two seasons really: Summer and not-Summer and when it's Summer I beam like sunshine on a beached rock. And I feel free and naked and not like a cosmonaut in winter clothes. That might just be me though. I also don't prefer air conditioning so that might be a contributing factor.
Time to read some more now. Current book is “The Joke's Over” by Ralph Steadman. Time to put this typewriter to sleep, bring out the whiskey glasses and lounge for those small Saturday hours on top of the green bed that holds me while I rest.
This is me signing out.
Ciao!
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| I am so sorry 2010-08-15 22:35:35 ET |
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She had legs that went on for miles, eyes that sparkled like blue sapphires, skin that was as pale as the first winter snow, and a body that would've tempted even Saint Augustus. I walked up to her in a manner that I hoped was most suave and, with my dapper drake getup, reached out for to her and spoke “How are you this fine evening?”
She turned to me with a smile that could've slayed angels, batted her eyes and said the words that I did not expect to hear:
“I want to go poopie!”
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| I hold my girl (so she can't escape) 2010-08-15 13:56:14 ET |
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They sit around the kitchen tables, typing on laptops, speaking on their cell phones which lie next to them, their clamshell bodies spread wide open, digitally modulated voices speak out. Distance delays to the Philippines. A soccer game plays on the tv screen in the background but is duly ignored by the tech heads feeding their electronic addictions with the radiations of their computer screens. Idle minds work hard on lazy Sundays. Tea steams the faces of those who dare grip the hot ceramic mugs. White polka dots on red background. Paper fedora rests on green laminate protecting table top. The sounds of traffic outside like rain drizzling on pavement in the night.
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| Rant. 2010-08-02 12:48:25 ET |
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I don't know. Subkultures feels very alienated. Almost everybody talks about their personal lives. And that's cool except writing it down as a perosnal journal is not very fun for me to read. Yes, I know it's not about me but...why not?
Heh, I mean why treat this like your own personal diary unless you expect yourself to be the only person to read this. Why not make it more interesting?
Why write such stuff like "Took the baby to the doctor today."?
Why even have an SK unless you can spice it up? Hell, maybe even try to imitate the writing style of other authors. Or at least write like the myth of other authors.
Maybe a Burroughs-esque/H.S.Thompson-esque type writing style.
Like:
"Took the baby to the doctor today. It won't stop crying. Keeps trying to crawl up my arm. It's elongated impossibly thin body trying to get under my skin like an anthromorphic syringe. Don't know how long I can handle this anymore. Soon as the doctor saw me he shoved the baby and me out the door and screamed something obscene that I'm not going to bother repeating followed by 'I'm going to pour borscht all over your head until you and that sick fuck of a baby of yours leave the premises IMMEDIATLY!' I was then chased out of the office by the receptionist who was wielding a baseball bat. By the way she swung it I could tell she meant business. Don't really remember where I left the baby or how I got out of there. I don't even know where my car is anymore. How was your day?"
Uhm, yeah.
I don't know if it's worth continuing with this sk as I feel weird commenting on other people's SKs when they write about their personal lives and I don't know enough about them to say anything smart.
"Got back together with Jake! Yaaay!"
What should my comment be?
"Too bad that Jake is a robot with no soul and a cold lifeless heart meant only for crushing"? Is that what I should write?
Or should I play the nice guy and say
"That is so sad. Here's my shoulder to cry on. Don't hold on to it though. I need my shoulder. I tend to wear a lot of backpacks."
And people never seem to comment on my posts. Yes, I know that you folks have nothing to say BUT YOU ARE NOT MIMES!
Well, some of you are and, yes, I understand that, but come on! Mime or not you can at least share your thoughts.
No, not your cold, murderous homicidal thoughts. Keep those to Facebook and yourself. I mean your creative thoughts. We are all creative beings. Why don't you tap that? Eh, tap that creativity I mean. You know what I meant. Don't act like you don't. Sap comes from trees not sad stories. Heh heh tree come.
Uhm.. Maybe my SK entries are too long? What the hell did you expect? Twitter?
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