January 8th, 2022 01:03pm pst

If you are visiting for the first time, go to the beginning.




The Vulpine Exaptera

 read ( words)

"From yesterday...

'And for the second time in as many months, I'm sitting at the same restaurant/bar killing time and swilling booze after two occurrences of shit I'd rather not see. I knew it first thing this morning, too. After dropping her off, I made my way to the big bookstore to browse and use the restroom. Before even reaching the restroom in the back of the place I was slammed with a tiny form of an employee carrying much more than anyone should be in the morning. Damn. I strolled over to peruse titles about writing and then fantasy books before leaving, eventually prying her paper-thin top and freed breasts from my yearning brain. Jeans right off the end of a master artist's paintbrush. Yep... The whole shootin’ match was just small enough to cram into my mouth. Not a good start, hence the cocktail shortly thereafter. I wanted to perform experiments on that little beauty. What a fucking rig I've become. Wrong-headed due to too many years of the most important aspects of life sorely lacking. Now look at me. Nothing up the road. Nothing will happen. The power and prowess will win. No hope. At least tomorrow will be back to normal so I can sit with coffee and a slew of words no one wants to see.

I believe I have about an hour and a half. Not certain. Last time the exam was finished early. I could be out of here by 1300. Maybe. Home will be nice. So will the drive. The route is very familiar after years of driving to the high country, yet despite such a fact I still think of the open road without scheduling or restriction. Can't help it. Driving all over the country and seeing sights is in my blood. That came from my dad. He loved getting out of the house early and exploring. Finding little spots for meals and cruising through unfamiliar territory. I've had a touch of it but not enough to satisfy a deep need born of his dreams. I planned a long road trip a few years ago but was submarined by cruise ship tickets. Eh... That has been covered here. Anyway, I'll try again next year or the one after, I guess. 1200 straight-up right now. Cocktail number two for dealing with internal imagery better left out of this shit.

The morsel probably doesn't have a clue as to her power. She was young, too, like twenties (don't crucify me, either, because one of the most amazing forms I've ever seen is approaching sixty) but difficult to sense due to her mask and the fact that she was busy and would not quiet her torso for very long.'

That was the place with the other morsel at the podium during my previous visit in November.

0640 on the fifth, home in the usual spot with coffee and friends. This is a bad time, especially when you consider what happened to me throughout a very short period of time yesterday. This condition worses with the passage of days. It was bad in December. Now I don't even know how to describe this shit.

Malfunction.

My visit to the restaurant was cut short yesterday because the exam was finished a bit early. I had to dash right in the middle of my second glass of desperation. I was comfortable there, too. The bartender was just another person, the hostess was mostly out of sight while I sat, and I began to feel a little freedom for a moment by the time the phone rang. Only for a moment, though. A little banter with the bartender, some typing into the phone, both of which I was accustomed to way back in eleven before running off the edge of the world with Andrea. By the time I began to feel like a part of the bar, the time to go was at hand. Eh... Not a big deal. I swung back to the testing center and we grabbed a snack for the ride. Freeway. A bit later I veered off the usual route and did a little memory lane by taking a slightly longer route home. I guess I was just feeling it some. The upside is the bookstore girl left my head not long after we hit the road. A few stops on the return trip held nothing of concern. Just a bunch of everyday people shopping and looking like they were thrilled to be doing it.

Today is going to feel nice due to being gone yesterday for more than eight hours. I am not accustomed to being out so long. Well, the day will be about as nice as anything can be these days. Not much. There is something in my head which will not let go, nor will it allow me to fully concentrate on anything external. It is the exaptera, and it is here to stay. This morning is a prime example of the previous two entries holding complete control over what I think and do. This is a bad time.

0944 and I have barely touched anything but the computer keyboard. The manipulative nature of the exaptera has caused me to fall once again. Miserable. I cannot seem to get around the morning issues. Already hitting the booze. I don't know how much free alone time I have today. I'll care for the routine very soon and then there is a ton of laundry and dry cleaning. In and around all that crap I will probably try to organize my shit just in case something bad happens. I don't know what, but some kind of impending fucking shit is looming. I woke up several times throughout the night after having very frightening dreams involving the show with the dragons, of all things. I haven't been watching that one, either. Several days of the gangsters and other science fiction, nothing more. For whatever reason, seeing and feeling some very difficult situations within the fantasy world of that show really slapped me in the face over and over. The experience was one of those in which I dreamed, awakened out of it, and then ended up right back inside not long after. The whole fucking event had me very uncomfortable. I am still feeling some of the effects of being scared to death that I was going to be attacked by something otherworldly. I just don't get it. There is already enough on the fucking buffet plate that I must contend with each day. I don't need anything else right now. I mentioned above that the morning failure dropped me several notches, and to add the discomfort of the dreams is jading my day. My coworker just called to check in, too. We may be handling a job next week across the bay which was supposed to be completed three months ago. Some storm damage delayed the project quite a bit. Now it seems we will be returning to that location to finish. I need the next several days to go as well as possible if I am to function like an actual human being on the jobsite. Ugh.

Georgia all down the page again. Her face... Height... I don't fucking know. She is here, she will leave.

That little work of art in the bookstore is fading, thank Christ. I don't need her amazing chest bouncing its way into my already full brain, nor those thighs that appeared as a meal. My weakness and desperation is to the point of my feeling as if this current period is more dire than any in memory, even that shit time of eleven. Unbelievable. One little strike and I am falling apart. At least she didn't meet eyes with me. That would have been infinitely worse. God damn did I ever want to jump her shit. Weak. Pathetic. Frail.

Her dimensions are written all over the outside of the exaptera. Believe it. I am desperately trying to avoid spouting about the secret name. Damn. Not easy. That one has been locked up inside for so long that I can barely remember the beginning. Maybe early fifteen, but not sure. Just more bad.

'Muthafuckin' God damn orange peel beef.'



01


Whiskey. Yep.

I am going to try mellowing out for the next few days and see if the relaxation is a little easier as a result. Right now my head is still reeling from failing again, but honestly that will never go away, meaning if I already KNOW what is going to happen, I can hopefully steer the ship toward something helpful or pleasant rather than continuing to wallow. Ah, God damn sumbitch... There is Nicole and her big, beautiful, sad eyes up there in phenomenal resolution. Again. I've rolled through the series in less than thirty days again. What a pathetic existence I've created for myself here, huh? What do you think? Keep doing this, or give up entirely? This is not Nicole's fault. Damn, but that woman's face is stirring sometimes. Anyway, I keep doing the same thing over and over here and then reach for either different ways of expressing my thinking or answers to questions better left alone. I should already know there are no fucking answers to any of them. I've supplied the only two possible causes of the current period feeling so destroyed. And when things drop a tad further, I begin to picture that little girl -- Julie, all covered in blood and completely nude and shivering -- holding me as we plummet to the hard surface of Las Vegas Boulevard. A mess, but then back where I began. No matter how bad things get either on this site or in my head, I seem to reset and begin again with the same problems and failures. Or maybe I'm just disappointed in myself for failing again this morning and realizing there may be more going on inside than I am aware. Easing up on myself is not as simple as I'd like to think, though. Mellow may have to be forced.

'We're not gonna do this. We're not gonna go bouncing off the walls for fifteen minutes because we'll just end up right back here with the same problems.' -- Jim Lovell, somewhere between the earth and moon (1969).

He had a hell of a point and I am trying to relate or at least allow myself to think that such wisdom might alter what I do here every fucking day. I wind up on the sofa with coffee and the same problems. Perhaps the idea above with the mellowing is something better than it sounds. Tony has food poisoning.

1208 and the routine is finished along with some laundry and all the dry cleaning. I'll keep plugging away as the day progresses. My hope is to have all the clothes and linens finished by close of business. My friends have been following along. 'How green was my fucking valley.' Other projects are still in a holding pattern due to the cool weather and a distinct lack of ambition. A functioning house takes priority.

Jeannie's hair is shorter at the beginning of the third season. Too bad. But the rest of her? Fantastic.

Now everything is finished and I have work tomorrow on two different jobs, and then a third on Monday. Not bad for a 'person' with very little ambition. I'll take some of them, but not all. I can't be out of my world for too long or my head will react badly. Two hours from close of business. I still have all that shit inside, too. Yesterday's hits, the slam this morning, and enough analysis to wallpaper the solar system. Working around the house was rather forced a little while ago because sometimes sitting still is very uncomfortable. There are days when I simply have to do any activity which can help me avoid driving that nail further into my head. Today has been no different, especially considering each morning for the last week or more. Not good. Dreams of frightening events piled atop an already horrible mound of shit do not help, either. Everything continues to roll along as if I am not having any trouble at all, and then I feel even smaller. Even the episode this morning carried a shot within one key scene designed to be funny as well as analytical brought me down. That one series of events and dialog has been bothering me for nearly two years. I accept this show for everything it is, despite fear or anger. I can't do anything about the content unless I choose to either skip or not watch at all. My appreciation and deep connection to this epic long-term story are simply too much for me to just let it fade out of my life. I can't have that. Today just happened to be the one occasion when all three problems came along and rode my back concurrently. This is a bad fucking time.

The exaptera is one-sided, cold, unfeeling. Work it out. I will not explain the meaning of a word which cannot be otherwise referenced anywhere. Live with it. This shit is not for you, anyway. Ah... There was another little snippet of dialog which reinforces society's generalized stance with regard to age and the sexes. Nice. Of all the shit I've plowed and heat which burned me alive, some just keeps coming back and back again for the simple task of inflaming the already torched parts of my being.

Half of me is stable, for whatever that may be worth. Day to day living in this house and without the need for me to actively seek steady work is likely the only aspect of the present which serves to help. Everything else, and I mean each waking moment, is a massive mountain of trials. The exaptera hits me in the face often enough to force the realization that the problems do not have solutions. I keep writing here and thinking, yet as of this very second my ideas or thoughts on the issues have accomplished only one thing, and that is I will continue to be a slave to dreaming. I can't even spell shit out here for fear of being embarrassed or ridiculed. One negative on top of another, on top of another, and so on. The stable part is the only thing keeping me going. I must be able to count on this current situation moving along unimpeded and with zero interference. I mentioned some work coming up. Well, the main upside of heading out to unknown locations and performing labor is that arriving home afterward feels rewarding. Yes, even more rewarding than completing work after all this time. Edie's hair looks amazing in this scene, as do her big eyes. I never really felt that much for her other than the performance, unlike the other one. That woman's character is beyond description anymore. I don't really like blue eyes, anyway. Don't know why. Where was I? Ah... If the home situation were to change, I would not likely survive. I need this space and time.

Look at the model. Do you see the features? Every single fucking aspect is aligned with the inside of my brain after years of obsessing over too much. Everything. I've spent an inordinate amount of time seeking any images which may reveal the lines that have ruled me for years. So far, just clues. I'll keep looking whenever the mood strikes. She is tall, too. That adds so much to the lines that any description I might offer will fail miserably. It's as much a feeling as an appearance. Half Greek and half Irish. Very unusual. All this time after being able to somewhat define the search and I still don't know why. One certainty is that the remainder of my life will probably be much like this day. Dreaming, failing, falling, and then more dreaming.

There is John on the screen again. Not even close. So small.

0633 on Thursday. I am going to work in a little while. That's different. I don't believe we are doing much, though. Just two stops for little details. The main reason is to be out of here for a little while and see some things to which I am normally closed off. A little exposure to create a line in my typical daily routine and refresh my appreciation for being here. Yesterday I could not shake the feelings from the trip, and I believe getting out there for a while will help me to shove the ongoing problems aside and clear my head out some. The exaptera grows each day regardless of whether or not I try to improve my situation or not. Ah, there is another little reminder of what I am. Dominic doesn't let anything phase his appearance. Nothing at all, not even terrible news from the doctor. I digress. Being out all day Tuesday was enough to help me relax at home all those hours later, so I'm hoping today will be the same, just less time. I don't mind helping here and there.



02


1258.

Work is done, the routine is complete, laundry going, and lunch is out of the way. We went to two different jobs this morning, both straightforward. Another issue popped up while at the second job so we will be going back sometime next week to correct it, plus I may be able to help on a larger job in the coming weeks. That could mean some decent cash. The exaptera actually left my head for most of the morning. Unbelievable.

Ahh... There is the first appearance of Annabella. Jesus fucking hell in a pair of fishnets does that woman drip with sex appeal. Holy God, but what a fucking whack job. Her best feature -- something highly sought after and extremely rare in the real world -- is her amazing...

So, I may be heading out in two hours to join my buddy for a few beers at a local spot. It is a place where I do not generally have to worry about what may be moving around the rooms, too. I've been shot in the face there before, but nothing lately. I just have to clean up and ensure I have my head around all the vulpine bullshit before leaving. Usually when I am comfortable and actually not deep in thought regarding obsessions, desire and all that other shit is when I turn my head and fall into a chasm. I'm hoping nothing is there, though. Right now is not the time to see all of the diagrams and drawings in my brain coming alive. The exaptera leaves me sans strength and caught off guard often enough that I should have learned by now. And as much as I might sit here and spout about all the difficulties inherent in being folded into society, the fact is sometimes I have to be out there. The situation is like a test, really. I am not strong by any means, and the idea is to live through some trials and see if I come out the other side any better off. Ah... The conversation just expired. I will be going. Thank goodness this is a Thursday, too. I don't need that young Friday crowd in my eyesight.

Still wondering what the exaptera may be? Use your imagination. No clues, no clear definition, and no fucking way I am going to answer anyone who may ask. Figure it the fuck out. The exaptera definitely calls the shots these days.

0630 on Friday. I am going out again this morning to haul the van over the hill and have an interlock installed for my buddy. I guess we are going to have brunch afterward. And here we go with the holiday decorations all over the restaurant again. I think I've written about this before and now pay even more attention to the background than ever before, especially considering the holiday season just ended a few days ago. Everything is still lit up around the neighborhood and my living room continues to glow red and green, plus the tree. Red and green. True blue? Just blue? Ducky? Blue and green on the scene. Run for your life lest you suffer the strife. Doornails everywhere. See them? Four. Bore. I am losing my fucking mind because the processes will not fucking stop. Doornails. Get it?

Everything bothers me too much. Even yesterday at the restaurant. Just a little banter and I began to turn inward. Thankfully the hour was already late so I had a head start getting out the door before anything really sunk in. Even the scene on the show a moment ago... I know it is fiction, yet the creators never cease to amaze me with regard to insensitivity or uncaring behavior. Every show is like this anyway. I don't even know why I still take issue with other people when the bottom line is I can't do a fucking thing about it. In fact, I have zero recourse with regard to ANYTHING lately. All I can do is sit here and type. No one is like me. Trying is just not working because whatever comes along in casual conversation seems to be glossed over and minimized like never before, and then I see how different those people are as opposed to how I viewed them just a few years ago, and don't even fucking get me started on the nineties and early zeros. I felt even worse about some aspects of society than I do now, although the time is very different to begin with. Speaking, writing, whatever I am doing in order to at least try to understand why I feel this way, as of this new year there has been a gaping hole where answers should be. And then the even larger question... How am I going to continue to live like this heading into the future? This is a bad time.

Nothing of note at the restaurant. That is good. The previous visit was all manner of trouble. Still dreaming, though, and sitting there during the evening helped me to realize that although I do have tons of problems whenever something comes along as aligned with the thinking, I find myself disappointed to have come up with an empty sack. Even though I'll be all fucked up, a part of me wants to gaze at something special. Like in the bookstore the other day, as soon as I knew she was out of the ordinary, there grew a knot in my stomach because I not only felt tormented by the sight and my inability to fully deal with such beauty, but in addition there were related butterflies of excitement over being so close and at least seeing some of her. The restaurant usually holds its share of trouble, but this time there was nothing and I found myself wholly disappointed by the time we left. Good and bad, I suppose. One side of the exaptera that I can consider understood... The deep yearning to see followed by the occasional deep need to touch, and then the entire affair disappearing from sight and leaving me both unhappy and excited at the same time. There is more but I cannot say.

Malfunctioning over and over. Four bore. Four. Bore. Manipulated, manicured, misread, melted. Malfunctioning over and over again. The days are the same. Maybe there have not been enough blahs. They are the only real words here, for sure. Over and over and I am going to be a very angry individual, about as unpleasant as the word gets, and forever pushing others away. I don't want to hear their shit and they definitely do not want to listen to what I have to say. The exaptera made certain of that. No getting around it. Fucking hell, anyway. I don't know what to do. 0738. I'll have to leave in a while to take care of some business. Being away from this machine is good at times.

Keep wondering. I don't care.

I can already see this day going nowhere upon my return home. Nothing is appealing at all, not even being holed up and physically as comfortable as I can be anymore. I just fucking hate everything. I'd kill those assholes if I could. Most of them are dead already anyway. Shit on it. I'll have to push pretty hard later, I suppose. Don't feel like it at all. Don't really feel like anything. Work, this, relaxation, the shows, nothing. I can't remain like this much longer or something will give as forced by the stupid fucking exaptera and the weight of all those upon my head. Every fucking day. They did this. Dropolopovich. Four bore. Forebear? Forebearers? Forebears? Four bears? Bores? Fucks? Shit. Whatever the fuck this was/is... No one knows. All inside. The day will reflect my dissatisfaction. My demeanor will reflect the mood. I'm trying to strike a balance, yet those on the opposite side of my teeter-totter are fucking heavy. Those people. And yes, I mean everyone. They are all over the exaptera and trying to influence what it does to me, but they will fail. The beauty has the power and the power cannot be minimized by any means. Sorry. Put your ideas in the trash and your hands back in their pockets. Your effort is as worthless as this endeavor. Upon rising from this spot today, I'll be considering how to proceed through the day(s) without completely losing my way. Not easy, but one thing is for sure...

Look in the fucking mirror.

Bores. I feel like shit all the time.



03


As usual, three hundred lines down the page and this is fucking stupid. Big fucking surprise. Doesn't matter anyway. Nothing matters.

I don't know what to do about these fucking problems. My head can't steer and focus due to being constantly preoccupied with the physical nature of all the years and the resulting effects which have spread all over the place and completely out of my control. The smallest task now feels insurmountable. Even refilling my coffee is a huge chore. The underlying symptoms and condition may have been here for years, but more recently there have been other things malfunctioning and leaving me a pile of angry worry. Just the past six months or so, I believe, have been the worst in memory. Even that period in which I damned-near screamed at anyone nearby just to get some frustration across now seems lessened by the current shit situation. I seem to have zero options and that is not a good position for someone of my critical, controlling personality and manner. Not good at all.

0631 on Saturday morning. The usual around me. The usual inside me. The exaptera hit me in the face yesterday and forced me to become preoccupied by everything I probably should have not been thinking. And now I can sit here with my nice coffee and rewind the afternoon, extracting what stood out and discarding the rest. This morning is going to be like many others... Not fun. I am really tiring of this fucking situation. Every day I sit here and say the same things, and then the following morning I realize nothing is under my control any longer and I am completely helpless. A slave to the feelings. Manipulated. Shoved. Coldly disregarded. Well, let's just see what finer points we can make in the coming days. Cornered. Spitting, soon.

Today I will have the freedom to do anything I wish or sit with this for the duration. There is an appointment this afternoon in the mall south of here. I'll have to drive her over there and maybe exchange an item while in the area. My being in the mall is probably not a good idea, although the last visit about a month back went fine. Part of the problem is my head is in such bad shape already that anything which comes along is going to force my shoving it to the rear in order to function, and that in turn will crucify me later in the day. Right now I can already feel the exaptera pulling energy out of me through the eyes. I don't need to be flattened by yet another example of everything I will never have or be. Not now. The appointment will come and go, hopefully without incident. Other than that, just the usual routine around here and far too much time feeling the birds circling inside. Each morning is more difficult and further down than the last.

Some of these entries are really fucking stupid. 'War', for example, was originally going to be quite harsh and cutting toward the foxes, but then I backed off because I am a 'nice person'. Yep, that shit in the past turned me into a very sensitive, caring individual and took away any possibility of 'John' or strength. I can't go further with this shit or I'll reveal too much. The fact is, some of those entries in the archive began on the right notes but quickly veered away and into the typical fashion of daily crap and the same looming feeling I've tried to describe for years. Now, and with that looming becoming quite dire, I had to lump some things together -- much like the figure of Arina (never worked) -- and give it a name in order to attempt organization in my brain. The anger just will not fully expand into either this space or the real world. I am too fucking soft, and therein lies the second largest rub within the entire exaptera... Inside I am burning, boiling, and hating, while on the outside there are niceties and pleasantries toward people, mostly the fucking vulpines who hold more power than the fucking sun. The nearly two-dimensional line between what they see on the outside and the processes within is fragile. No one realizes it and the hold continues entirely from my side of the world. The vulpine exaptera is controlling the line. Understand? No, you don't. You may believe there is a clear definition here, yet the truth is the ambiguity must deepen in order to protect myself from the outside world. The topic was titles. Yes, all of them had good points. But all of them also softened to the point of displaying just how weakened I am. At this very moment I honestly feel weaker and worse off than ever in my life. Desperate, depressed and destroyed. The end is near and I am not fucking kidding.

And there is not one fucking thing I can do about it. The exaptera rules my thinking and actions.

Back to this day. Pissed off.

The shop yesterday was half strange and half reminiscent of those years spent working with car audio. The whole period began with my buddy seeking some components for his truck and ran for quite a while before I lost the ability to do such work anymore. His truck project was around eighty-eight and the last time I really dug into something like that was ten. I rebuilt the entire audio system in the Slipper and made it work well as opposed to the factory setup. In the nineties, manufacturers did their best to implement decent equipment, but the bottom line is those of us with the hobby generally thought of the car as merely something containing the audio system, not the other way around. They had to sell cars to all types of people, the opposite of us. Curious, beyond the Slipper I barely had a hand in any such work, and that car was eleven years ago. I looked around some while we waited for the van yesterday and was reminded of years ago when that sort of hobby pretty well ruled much of my time. It was amazing for a while. Slowly the technology changed, though, pushing some of us to seek older equipment in order to hold the line for just stereo. A few more years and I had not the vehicle, tools or drive to do any such work for myself or anyone else. By the time we left that shop behind and drove home, my head had descended a bit in the realization that there are very few reasons for me to be doing any fucking thing at all when the truth is the vulpine exaptera and its infinite power are going to disallow turns off the current road. I really fucked things up at times. The foxes helped me along an even worse path, and such action was not even their fault. It was mine. I let it happen. The car audio subject is just another loss.

I can already see a failure incoming, perhaps later today or tomorrow. I can see it as clearly as the noses on your ugly, little primate faces. I see everything, and now that phrase has double the meaning that it did just a year ago when discussing the sheer number of neck-twists involved in me venturing into the world. I literally sought constantly, eventually leaving me a heap of need and deep depression. Well, welcome to the same fucking world. The exaptera pushed and shoved until I gave up. Now I just look at it and salute as if to say, 'Good job, asshole. You win.' Not much else to say about that except the aforementioned failure. Soon, that one. Very soon.

This is the point in the morning when I am supposed to discuss the day being wide open to possibility and appearing bright. Nope. The inside is winning while the outside weakens. That means I am having increasing difficulty in maintaining the front others see due to the line between the real and fake versions of myself continuing to lose constitution. It will break and I don't give a shit, yet it has to happen when I am already separated from society or I'll fucking hear about it. The result of that shit will be the end of a few aspects of my personality, namely my being a 'nice' person. No more a'dat, Butchy. I already have the anger, might as well demonstrate some and make object lessons for a select few on the other side of that door. The day holds plenty of possibility, but not for yours truly. The day will flatten me like Satan's own steamroller. No doubt there. And keep in mind all of Satan's tools to be used against me do not look like tools. They resemble the beauty you see on this entry. Look at her. Look long enough to realize the sheer level of power inherent in such a vast amount of beauty and the desperate nature of me placing her within a mass of ill-advised text. Say it with me... 'Not her fault.'

Every single, solitary detail, feature, curve, radius... All there. She is one of the ideal examples of what goes on in my head on a daily basis and partly the reasoning behind my inability to rise in life. Not her fault. She is a person first, a woman second, and a model third. None of this can be blamed on Georgia. I placed images from the public domain on this entry because everything has boiled down to the relationship between the way she looks and what I became because of the past. One to the other. Simple, right? Please don't give me shit about displaying a very slender model with such prominent and somewhat out of proportion breasts, either. I did not make her. I just happen to find the disparity in dimensions very attractive and stirring.

Everything hurts. At least the sun may shine throughout this day. The sun always helps.



04


0806 and Tony is enjoying an ice cream sundae. Hmm... That's different. Heh.

I need some other direction today. I really do. The direction of my mind needs to be halted sometimes, meaning if I just float along and allow the dreams to run my thinking, I'll fail and flail like so many other times. Any type of change may be beyond my capability, though. I already know what I've done in the past -- mostly becoming pissed off, throwing cans all over the back lawn, beginning a project or two and then leaving them incomplete a short time later -- has not been working by a damned sight. Lola's leopard-print bra is showing through a slit in her top right now. She manages to look fucking sexy yet still classy at the same time. Not bad for an undercover FBI agent. Anyway, the point is if I can't help myself I may as well not even consider such ideas in the first place, right? Do you have the fucking answer? Shut up. A direction is necessary for me to maintain my quality (heh) of life as much as it is for production's own sake, so I have to do something. Maybe I'll fail anyway. Does it matter? At least I am accustomed to failing. 0858.

The sun is definitely here for the day. Maybe it will help keep the house at a decent temperature. Garage, too. I haven't done any work out there since the donated items went out the door last month. That was a big step. All of the construction pretty much halted sometime in November, too. It's just too cold out there for me to do anything except the bare necessities. 0956 now. Half the routine finished.

I have the phone connected to this machine for a software update and to move some music around. There is a tune from many years ago that I used to hear on a regular basis but have neglected to embrace since the outset of the pandemic when I had the driving schedule. The lyrics heavily support my lost-life feeling, yet there is an underlying comfort there, too. I can't explain it and will never reveal the song title, but suffice to say by the time the track concludes I can hear myself both appreciating and berating the power of the exaptera and all the vastness therein. Once everything is complete I may transition to working between the house and garage with headphones in place. I'd like to hear that story one more time before fully relating it here.

'Man is driven in toto by his fears.' -- Herman Rabkin

Ah... All that shit last year has been graded so dramatically and with such power that it does not line the side of the road like the typical process. It is shoved far enough away so as to allow me the space to see the larger devices at work and pointed at me like those silent guns. Divine? Framing? I don't fucking know anymore, but the certainty is I have recently learned that counteracting fear with anger may be a bad thing for some governments or personality types, for yours truly the action is becoming a savior. No, that doesn't mean beer cans all over the lawn. It means with the proper gestures and pushing, I can create even more space for myself in order to help me remain standing. Other people will not get it. Not by a damned sight. Hesh's observation is true, though. The anger stems from fear and is quite common. Don't even begin to get me fucking started on the damaged chemical capabilities and processes going on inside. I was told long ago things would go awry later in life. Well, here we are... Fear to anger and then quiet. Last year's bullshit entries -- aside from machine dreams, that is -- have been collated and appropriately damned by anger. The simple truth is I just don't have the fucking energy to sit here and be scared, afterward trying to feel larger than I am. That is just crap right out of the fucking gate. I need to assert the attitude and stance, and I mean right fucking NOW.

Damn the software is slow to update. Sometimes I want to go back to before all this smart shit when things were simpler, straightforward and reliable. But, and as I often say, progress will roll right over and kill you if you don't attempt to keep up. Believe me, it's killing me. Unfortunately (or maybe a good thing), I have become attached to what the phone can do on a daily basis. It has become an integral part of living. Just deal with it, I suppose. Don't push back. You'll die.

Vulpine this, vulpine that, vulpine the other thing. The... Whatever the fuck. All the power has been stripped, refined and herded into one corner. The prowess corner sticking out of one side of the exaptera. Sharp, that corner. Like the progress, it will kill if I'm not careful. Ahh... That word again. No, not the horrible one, the other one society has embraced all too often for categorizing and lumping us. Sometimes light and funny, other occurrences cutting and hurtful, especially for some of us. Damn it. I went off the road again. Anyway, the exaptera is here to stay. Think of it as another Arina without tons of Cindy images. I tried to do something there, too. I really tried. Unfortunately, the entire seven-part pile of shit went nearly nowhere. Sometimes I believe the harder I try to create some sort of analogy, the worse off the writing becomes. This vulpine series may end up the same. You know, the bargain-book aisle with the shit no one wants. That basically sums up the last two hundred or so entries. Bargain basement. Dollar store. The free shit at the end of the driveway. Remember when I yelled about the value of film and the manner in which it was being minimized during production due to disruptive technology? One day there is a film on the shelf at Suncoast for two-hundred dollars and ten minutes later it's at the nearest convenience store sitting on a five-dollar display completely devalued and disregarded. Just a big, fat loss in every sense of the word. Here is the site on that very same path, and that is true only if the value was there in the first place. I don't fucking know.

If this is supposed to be therapeutic, I don't believe reading from years ago until the present is going to instill such a sense at all. More likely? The reverse. A regression, loss of direction and strength. Something, anyway. I am different and the site is different, but neither indicates improvement.

1026 on the eighth day of the new year. Wow, that's fucking exciting. Like watching grass grow. Maybe it's time for a drink.

1109 and I was hit in the face a little while ago by an album to which my friend introduced me in the mid-eighties. I recall thinking some of the vocals were odd, but now? Holy fucking shit, Batman, they are amazing and stirring to the core. One song in particular really hit home back then but everyone who heard it said the singer's voice was grating. I never felt that way, although it did seem strange when compared to the mainstream radio media. After all these years it is different, beautiful beyond words, heartfelt, and moves me to tears every time. Like a story of someone wholly lost in his life yet still reaching, trying. I can't believe this fucking album sat dormant and buried in the back of my mind for so long. And don't even think of asking of the artist or album. No fucking way will I give this up. Just think of a very progressive band who rotates guest artists regularly and has been around for decades. That's all you get. Fuck off. It's mine for the time being. Too important.

'I have to turn my head... And look the other way.'

I could live in his fucking voice. Silk, beautiful, warming. I was disillusioned and searching for my own higher ground back then. Often I felt empowered in my car -- which was built lovingly and painstakingly into nothing more than a massive, rolling audio system -- and as if my view of society actually placed me on higher ground despite being mired within the same. This experience has shifted my day halfway around the fucking circle. The backing vocal alone brings me to tears. Fuck my hearing. I need this as much as I need oxygen. Music has defined my life more than the obsession, fear, power... ANYTHING. Another world, and one in which I have been -- and can be -- any fucking thing I need to survive. Half in the bag right now. I'll have to eat something soon. The appointment is three and a half hours into the future.

Five sections around four images and one hundred lines of code each usually means the entry is done. Well, not this one. And since I am a bit lubricated, I'll point out that Georgia's images stir me enough for reckless words...

My tongue would be so far inside that it would eventually come out her fucking nose. I'd bounce her slender frame off the headboard with a revolver to my head the entire time. There you go. Judge me, assholes. I don't fucking care anymore. I am no one anyway.

After all this time, I simply cannot hold back during certain moments. Everything hits me hard enough to push the envelope and then the words come forth from a dark, desperate place. Today is a good example of the past and present sending me off a cliff never to live again. The day has moved along, yet this morning I felt too much to place here and subsequently dropped through the floor, later being pushed into the typical mindset of a cocktail, some music and a massive, cold lack of understanding. The only path out of here is either sitting with some comfort and ignoring the outside world for a while, or slamming the neighborhood with my mood via the huge audio system in the garage. I was on the edge for a time. But... Cooler heads prevailed and I opted to just be the 'me' that other people already know. In short, I gave in. Now is not the time to flex or slam or otherwise fuck people in the ass. Moreover, the aforementioned line regarding the length of this entry as not being enough is now squashed. I will start over in the morning, like always. Fuck it. I can only do so much. I mean... Who the fuck am I, anyway? No one. Faceless. Opinionless. Like an adherent... Nothing of concern.

Closer. Ever closer to me losing it on whomever is unfortunate enough to be nearby at the time."



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