Notes From The Ant Empire: Ice On Mars

So NASA has concluded that the white substance they’ve found on Mars must have been ice.

Because it evaporated.

Okay… I’ll buy that.

What this also means is that there may be a frozen Martian in those ice chunks.

Let’s send Pauly Shore up there to dig it up. Then we can film Encino Man Two, Life on Mars. 

We now officially found the presence of water — one planet over, in our own solar system — the ultimate harbinger of life. I think it’s safe to conclude that this means there are thousands and thousands of planets out there with the potential for water.

And you know what that means?

Yep, the possible existence of Annete Funicello movies on other planets.


I could go with a little Beach Blanket Bingo myself today.

There’s something I find terribly tiring and cliche about complaining about the weather, it’s so predictable in its country bumpkin way; but damn, it’s hot as a witch’s yeast infection!

It was 109 in Sherman Oaks yesterday! Almost as scorching today. 

My buddy was arguing that it was only 105 yesterday. Even though it said otherwise on yahoo — as if he could somehow detect the difference of four degrees and was more of an expert than the meteorologists on the news with their Doppler gadgets and combed-over expertise!

It’s funny when stupid people think they’re smart.


There’s a guy who makes art with nothing else than a stick. Draws lines in the sand. At beaches and dry lake beds. Mind-blowing forms and shapes, giant in size.

His name is Jim Denevan.

He does it all by his eyeball. It lasts as long as the Earth lets it.

The resulting sand drawing is made entirely freehand w/ no measuring aids whatsoever. From the ground, these drawn environments are experienced as places. Places to explore and be, and to see relation and distance. For a time these tangible specific places exist in the indeterminate environment of ocean shore. From high above the marks are seen as isolated phenomena, much like clouds, rivers or buildings. Soon after Jim’s motions and marks are completed water moves over and through, leaving nothing.

It’s pretty amazing. I recommend you check out more.

Life is fluid and we better get with it…


I pound on the keyboard and squeeze the mouse like a trout to get my ideas to take shape on the screen, to illuminate the pixels like a hyper-modern love affair. Like a Welsh Pop-punk band.  I want to wear shorts from Target while I denounce Capitalism like a one man dunce cap — broadcasted souls screaming through the air, choked up with myspace pages and cell phone calls — while I sit on my IKEA couch and hold a beer from Belgium, praising Individualism.

I want to breath in white noise and exhale slogans and jingles all mashed together like a trash compactor for old advertising campaigns. Where’s the beef? Man, have it your way! 

It’s all mixed together like a chemical cocktail of commercialism. My shirt is from the Gap.

Beer drinking bears

Tigers hawking cereal.

I want to be a modern disposable poem, made of plastic. I want to contradict myself.

A million dollar Banksy in the flesh. Art of Funny Starving.


I went to the Silver Lake Lounge the other night and had a crappy time.

Somehow it was appropriate — as if it’s not really cool to enjoy yourself anymore. They overcharged at the door and at the bar and the AC was pitiful and the bartenders surly.

It wasn’t the bands’ fault everyone was miserable. They were good. Somber. Long bangs. Bashful guitarists. Female keyboardists.

All of sudden every band has a cute chick on keys.


It was hot, like I said before, blistering hot.

The musicians kept making jokes about the heat. Jokes that weren’t helping.

It wasn’t a night for fun.


Lately, I’ve been obsessed with lately.

Always trying to take a Polaroid of the present. And there is no such thing. There’s always a delay, a ghost. Cultural Feedback. You feel it most when you least suspect.  That feeling. I’ve been here before. Or, someone like me has been here before. Some other me, before me.

You get the feeling of one fluid, human emotion, transcending time, reading Richard Brautigan.

The whiskey had made us mud-puddly at the edges of our bodies and the edges of our minds.

“This is delightful,” Vida said.

Books that are over thirty years old, about the same things you’re feeling right now, remind you that there has always been one big pang and one big heartache in the world. And you realize that 5 dollar gas and George Bush doesn’t make us any more oppressed or put-upon or complicit and broken than Richard Nixon or Truman.

You realize the man on the moon does not grace his romantic charms on you and your lover alone, but upon a thousand, million, lovers, sitting in the night blossom jasmine scented porches of forever.

And you realize the ocean has always called the lost.

And it brings you a certain joy — knowing you’re not alone in your aloneness.


My mind is a very crowded place.

Packer Dulce once wrote:

A cult is started when a scientist dies… 

The crowd pushes forward, up to my eyes, for a better view.


Art of Starving: Emotional Graffiti

— The heart weighs three pounds, or is that the brain?




Robots Are People Too

You know those people?

The types of people who are always going at the same speed, charging through life at 100 mph? or other people that are constantly down in the dumps, perpetually morose, with the vitality of a wet sock? You encounter them at work, freaking out day after day about nothing. Or old friends that are constantly moaning about the same things, unable to get their emotional cart out of the wallowing mud.

Makes you wonder whether we’re actually people with free will, or something else.

Why is it that we’re seemingly programmed to behave and act the same way, day after day, like robots that don’t know anything other than their design? Like we’re machines created for specificity?

Demeanor. Energy. Attitude. Aura. Whatever. Call it what you want.

There’s a dial inside of us placed on a fixed setting. It may go up and down but it never really leaves that setting. A depressed, lethargic person may get riled up and explode, but it’s a comatose sort of explosion, an implosion. A person who is always frantically running around may lie down and rest, but their mind is still racing, they wake up at the same ferret speed.

People can change their outfits, their haircuts, even their religion, but they can’t change their battery.

You can see it in photographs. Robots always make the same face.

Question of the day: What kind of robot am I?

A dreamy, wandering bard, nonchalant and somewhat lackadaisical? A drive-by philosopher? A preserved star-gazer, staring at the celestial vastness, wondering if that’s a star or satellite in the sky? At least, that’s what’s been implanted in my hard drive.

There are no sanctioned borders between dreams and deceptions. Isn’t this the great struggle within?

I am programmed to explore life but never to engage it, to ask these simple questions, but never answer them.

Doesn’t it get redundant?

Well, why yes; but it’s the only setting I have. It’s the only programmed response my circuitry knows. It’s how I cope with the twists and turns of life. I bemusedly turn upturns and downturns into riddles — what goes up must come down — that help placate the wounded animal inside. I don’t get upset or angry easily, or sad or depressed. When someone does something that harms or hurts me, I often just repeat, there’s a wounded animal inside them too.

My spiritual animal is a raccoon. Most people choose the wolf, or mountain lion, but most people aren’t that lucky. Like the raccoon, I’m a spiritual scavenger. Most of us are scavengers. Raccoons deserve love, robots are people too. The Earth stays afloat on the buoyancy of your kindness.

That’s me and my robot.

My setting is somewhere in the middle, a flat-line. Some might say emotionless, but I say even-keeled. I scavenge what I need and move on. I don’t dwell. I don’t cry to the heavens about a stain on the carpet. I don’t burn incense smoke for no reason.

There are those with a switch permanently on fight mode. Those that throw stones at the wind, toss tree branches into the ocean; I am not one of those. Nor do I light fireworks every night or dance in the trenches.

As we witness in bi-polar patients, extreme happiness and sadness is just a question of chemicals and the direction they sway.

Emotions directed by tide.

Which brings us to Of Montreal…

What kind of robot are you? What’s your setting?

What makes your heart beep… beep?

Tiny Things

I normally fill this screen with tripe about politics or culture, or some weird hybrid of the two, but tonight I want to talk about my little nephew, Justin. Well, he’s not so little anymore, but he started out real little.

He was born just a pound and a half. About the weight of a bound copy of Crime and Punishment.

That’s what happens when you’re in a hurry to come out of your mommy.

He was premature by four months. A wee little thing, smaller than a shoe.

He could fit in your hand.

Naturally, we worried he wasn’t going to make it, spent many a sleepless night thinking about tiny things: a tiny face mask, tiny fingers, tiny lungs….

A pound a half!

I was going to school in Boston at the time and couldn’t make it to Colorado to visit. My first meeting with my nephew was in an email attachement. I opened it and saw a picture that scared the daylights out of me. He looked so small and fragile. Breakable.

Now he’s eight years-old and playing baseball, soccer, learning karate, practices his chops and kicks on his younger brother, and has a heart the size of the Rocky Mountains. When I visit him on Christmas he rams into me and I almost get knocked over, walloping me with a giant hug. He may just be playing around, but when he punches me, it hurts!

The kid isn’t a peewee anymore.

My sister claims we look alike.

This is a few years ago.

My nephew and I.

He’s as rough and tumble as any eight year-old. My sister and her husband love to watch him run around and fall down and get hit in the face with a pillow. He’s lucky to have been born when he had, otherwise he never would have been born at all. Modern medicine and all. He was on a feeding tube for over three years.

Like I said, he has a big heart. He’s a sweet and loving boy. A warrior.

Justin’s now at a stage where he’s learning about his experience and talking about it. He will tell the story for the rest of his life to the people that come into it. “I was born weighing a pound and a half. My uncle said I looked like an alien.”

It’s a trip to watch a child’s personality form. I can only imagine what his parents must feel like, like some kind of sorcerers. Not only is he developing and maturing, and that right there is a blessing, but he’s becoming involved in charity works, and the idea of giving back.

His latest endeavor is in a charity raising funds for research involving premature children. Doing one of those walk-a-thon things. He’s only eight! Gives me hope that the future’s in good hands. My nephew.

I gave $20 bucks. The crazy uncle who lives out in California. The cheapskate.

As I turn in for the night, once again, I think about tiny things….

Tiny hearts. Beating.

The Moon Disappeared and I Forgot to Care

I’m starting a new trend, I’m going to call all lakes lochs, just for fuck’s sake. “I’m going to Spaceland in Silverloch to check out the band Young Teens Dance In A Grease Fire.” That’s not a real band, but you wouldn’t be too surprised if it was I bet.

  • You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead
  • Dogs Die In Hot Cars
  • This Bike Is A Pipe Bomb

These are, sadly enough, all real names of bands.

Anyway, I like old Scottish terms and want to use them in everyday speech. Mind you, I don’t have any desire to speak with a Scottish accent, I just want to drop certain words into conversation every now and then, like “I’m really craving a wee heavy (strong beer) right now.”

Since about the time I was in high school it was my mission to create the slang term “yaz” for a piss. “I’ve got to yaz, I’ll be right back.” “Oh man, I took a huge yaz just now.” It hasn’t worked. And now there’s a birth control with that name so I’m guessing it will never reach the public lexicon.  E-40 I’m not.

Moving on.

There was a lunar eclipse tonight.

The big, round, disk in the sky briefly disappeared, and then slowly returned about an hour later. Thrilling. Wake me up when it’s a solar eclipse — that’s the type of shit that used to throw ancient peoples into mass panic, or the type of shit that could end wars — when the sun is blocked out and the Earth goes dark at noon, then I’ll be impressed.

A lunar eclipse, the way I see it, happens anytime a large cloud passes in front of it and obscures our faithful, little reflecting orb in the sky.

But then again, I missed most of the eclipse due to the fact that I didn’t realize the time online was Eastern time and not Pacific. There’s a chance I may be a little bitter about that.

It was on my birthday, too, so I’m guessing that means something…

I just have to figure out if it’s a blessing or a curse. Depends on which side of the cosmic fence you’re on, I suppose.

Carry on, laddies.

Earth Pixelated

Tonight I saw that the Earth was nothing but a pixelated dot on an eggplant-colored screen/sky.

But first I took a walk to the store…

and discovered that Autum might really might be around the corner. The winds whipping down from Coldwater and Dixie Canyons into the valley boldly pushed up on me, taunting me for leaving my sweater behind — and there was that moment, when I reached for it, but thought at the last second I didn’t need it — and so I hurried to the store in a t-shirt with a Picasso-esque guitar player all contorted on the front as fast as my twig legs would allow.

The moon came up all pale and slim, curved like some lunar supermodel.

The concrete river smelled like garbage and fish, of which I’m sure there’s plenty of the former and not much of the later. The moon cast a silver hoop on the dark, dark water.

I got to the store and momentarily forgot what it was I wanted to buy. It was something. Something random. Oh yeah!

Martinelli’s apple juice.

I was craving the little 10-ounce bottle. I wouldn’t settle for Tots, didn’t want plastic. It was a stubborn craving.

Back in college I wrote a collection of short stories called Craving the Cringe. One of them was about two teenage lovers getting stuck in an abandon house on New Year’s. It was funny, sweet, and total crap.

I bought a Twix bar while I was there because I figured I needed something to go with the apple juice. That’s how it starts; every need, want, desire creates a new need, want, and desire. Thus the endless chain of acquiring your happiness piecemeal. It’s as if we see our lives as objects we must pick up along the way, and every time we think we’re about to have the complete set, a new version/product/line is announced and the process begins again.

That’s what buying candy is like for me. I don’t go into the store and buy a Twix bar without contemplating the entire advertising/capitalistic mindfuck of it.

Without feeling like a sucker.

It is with these thoughts in my head and the taste of chocolate and caramel in my mouth that I stumbled across this historic event captured by NASA. I drank my juice, humbled in a life-altering way. All our commotion, the daily business of being a human and trying to survive, the epicness of it, suddenly felt petty and small.

The first ever picture of our planet from Mars:

That’s what the rover looks up at and sees.

Not much.

You have to zoom in to see it, a tiny blip, a few pixels; but that’s us. Earth. All that living and dying, building and destroying, lovemaking and cruelty is nothing more than a slow outpouring of light.

Although not as glamorous as a live television feed of an astronaut planting the stars and stripes on the surface of moon, this little unassuming image had a great affect on me and after viewing it, zooming in and out on the dot-known-as-Earth, I felt as if the world was slightly smaller, and bigger, and somehow clearer, and yet, more perplexing.

It’s as if our species were the smallest Russian doll and we’ve just lifted up our lids and discovered the larger Russian doll we’ve been hiding in.

The universe is nothing but layer upon layer of mystery.

And that’s a good thing.

I write this in Los Angeles…

on September 15, 2007.

The signal goes out everywhere.

Bird Bone Whistles

There is a bird that can now mimmick the sound of a chainsaw.

The sound of a camera shutter.

A car alarm.

The lyre bird has mastered all the other sounds of the forest and now it has learned the ones we produce, the noisy clatter of man invading its forest home.

What a beautiful tragedy.

The bird doesn’t distinguish between the melodies of other birds and the destruction of its environment.

Or maybe it does, and it’s telling an intricate story through birdsong.



The other day I saw a dog running along the shoulder of the freeway with a chewed-up ear and that stupid look that dogs get on their faces when they’re running and their tongue is hanging out and they look like they’re smiling but it’s more likely hyperventilation.

The sight of that poor, doomed creature put pins in my heart that stung deep in my crying soul and I felt compelled to do something. I figured rescuing this suffering animal might be the one act of benevolence that tips the Wheels of Karma back in the universe’s favor. Perhaps this one gesture of mercy could reverse the downward spiral of hate and violence that is the world today? So much power rested in my hands, so much megalomania. It was up to me to save the dog, to save the world.

But then I remembered there was a law against picking up hitchhikers in this county and I kept driving.

The dog, slowing down and hobbling now, diminished in the smallness of my rear view mirror until it faded from my mind altogether.


We’re nothing but the Ants in the Ant Empire
The Shadows of the Ants dancin’ round the Fire
The Maggots in the Flesh feeding on the Liars
God’s in the Clouds smoking Funeral Pyres

— Nanoo Nanuck 2009


In Brazilian folklore there is a character named Saci, prounounced with a soft ‘C’. (Sa-si’)

A mischievous scamp, sorta like a leprechaun, Saci has one leg, smokes a pipe, and causes minor snafus wherever he travels. He has holes in the palms of his hands, too, which he uses to juggle charcoal.

Story goes if you snag his magic cap he’ll be under your control, or if you can trap him in a bottle he’ll grant you a wish, but for a one-legged elf he’s pretty nimble so good luck.

An incorrigible prankster, Saci will not cause major harm, but there is no little harm that he won’t do. He will hide children’s toys, set farm animals loose, tease dogs, and curse chicken eggs preventing them from hatching. In a kitchen, the Saci would spill all salt, sour the milk, burn bean stew, and drop flies into the soup. If a popcorn kernel fails to pop, it is because the Saci cursed it. Given half a chance, he will dull the seamstress’s needles, hide her thimbles, and tangle her sewing threads. If he sees a nail lying on the ground, he will turn it with the point up. In short, anything that goes wrong — in the house, or outside it — may be confidently blamed on the Saci.

In other words, the Saci is a little punk.

Moving across the globe now.

There’s a great Norwegian word that’s applicable for all sorts of situations, depending on the inflection, kinda like the difference between “no, shit?” and “no shit!”


That’s one of those quirky things I picked up from my Minnesotan roots.

“Uff da” is often used in the Upper Midwest as a term for sensory overload. It can be used as an expression of surprise, astonishment, exhaustion, and sometimes dismay. The term can also be used when one is relieved, after a difficult or exhausting task. The term has been heard among men when a particularly attractive woman enters a room. Conversely, many Roto-rooter and septic system repair trucks have “Uff da” proudly painted on the back.

It’s an amazingly versatile word.

Stub your toe on the couch. “UFF-da!”
A beautiful sunset on the porch. “Uffda.”
Jessica Alba in a wetsuit. “Oooof-duh.”

While we’re at it, did you also know that “hey” was picked up from the Norwegian word “hei”?

You learn something new everyday.


I’ve noticed, through my quixotic romantic adventures, and now the steady haul of marriage, that women can not wait to eat once they realize they’re hungry. They are quite incapable of concentrating on anything but their stomach once it begins to rumble. It becomes priority number #1. I’ve known some men like this too, but for the most part we’re able to carry on without breaking down over a little hunger pain.

Shit, when I’m home, lost in my writing, I’ll miss breakfast and lunch and not even really notice, sometimes I won’t eat till nine o’clock, ten o’clock, just when Lost is starting.

I’ve never thought too much about it, though I assumed there was a cultural explanation, not a biological one — a ‘men don’t cry’ type of thing. It’s not like the difference between a man being able to hold their piss and a woman needing to stop every hundred miles on a road trip to empty her bladder. There’s an anatomical explanantion for that.

Then I came across an interesting article about the history of supper.

It made me think about mealtimes through the ages.

The men spending the day hunting, farming, or trading.

The women at home preparing the meals.

It dawned on me. Women had constant access to the food supply. If a small hunger announced itself to them they could cheat and have a bite here or there. The men were away from the home and were likely not nibbling throughout the day.

By 1800 the dinner hour had been moved to six or seven. For early risers this meant a very long wait until dinner. Even those who arose at ten a.m. or noon had a wait of anywhere from six to nine hours. Ladies, tired of the wait, had established luncheon as a regular meal, not an occasional one, by about 1810. It was a light meal, of dainty sandwiches and cakes, held at noon or one or even later, but always between breakfast and dinner. And it was definitely a ladies’ meal; when the Prince of Wales established a habit of lunching with ladies, he was ridiculed for his effeminate ways, as well as his large appetite. Real men didn’t do lunch, at least not until the Victorian era.

It’s quite possible, then, that our eating habits evolved differently over time: men able to sustain longer periods without feeding; women in need of smaller, more consistent snacking throughout the day.

Thus lunch.

And thus the Luna Bar.

Just a theory.


Some people look for love by blowing into bird bone whistles; by setting the jungle on fire; by calling on dead saints.

Some people can speak the mysterious language of the soul through paintings and music.

Some people swim with the stars; dance to the earth’s ancient melody; sing along to heaven’s harps.

Others: best they can do is belch on cue.


I wonder if Jesus ever made jokes. And if he cracked a zinger and it truly stunk — I mean, a joke that just sat in the air, (say, a cheesy knock-knock joke) something embarrassingly lame — did the apostles razz him playfully, or did they politely chuckle for his divine benefit?

Perhaps he never told a joke that sucked.

Maybe Jesus was a funny-ass dude?

If he was bombing… it probably was a test.


Do you remember the first time you heard a recording of your voice? Do you remember how shocked you were? How you swore it was someone else?

Maybe it was.


Life ain’t for the innocent
who told you that was telling lies
your lungs
gonna ossify
with your coin in your pocket
you’re gonna die
travel round in a circle
and you don’t know why
— Nanoo Nanuck 2012


The laws of physics that hold the houses and the fences and the street lamps to the ground, and cause plants to grow towards the sun, and a magnet to stick to a refrigerator, and the tortures of slow decay of life as we know it in cellular form, as well as stir the blood that moves us to love, don’t apply here at ARTOFSTARVING.COM

Robotic, Ghost-Like Hyenas

I live in a desert. Los Angeles. Basically it’s a desert. We’ve gotten three inches of rain this year. I wonder if the water were drying up, all the aquaducts running into LA began to slow to a trickle, how long would they wait to tell us?

Would it be too late?

3/4 of the world doesn’t have proper drinking water. I take it as a given that we will always have available water supplies in America, even in the middle of a desert.

Always have.


In ironic news from the year of our lord, 2007, George Orwell‘s apartment, or the apartment he lived in when he was still alive and breathing and writing anti-authoritarian literature, in London, is now completely covered by surveillance video.

1984 has finally arrived.

Orwell warned against the encroaching State and here we are; his place filmed from all angles, 24/7. Big Brother is watching.

By preaching the doctrine that nothing is to be admired except steel and concrete, one merely makes it a little surer that human beings will have no outlet for their surplus energy except in hatred and leader worship.

We’re pass the point of hatred and leader worship. The terrorists have given us our Oceania and Bush is running with it. If there is one thing Bush hasn’t lied about, it’s that he knows this is going to be a long war. Decades, he’s told us.

That’s part of the plan.

We’re following Britain’s lead in installing surveilance cameras everywhere, the Patriot Act helped remove some civil liberties too so the government can peer into more of our lives, whenever they want, virtually all the time.

These days it seems to catch the fox in the garden we’re willing to blow up the whole goddamn garden.

I’ll leave you with one more quote from Orwell; this one is probably more metaphysical in nature than political, when you think about it.

Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimetres inside your skull.


I could walk around, and round, and round the block,
and talk so much you hardly have to hush,
but still I don’t think I’ve learned a thing,
in fact I know I don’t know…


I was bored so I went looking for footage of Albert Einstein. I don’t know why, I just felt like it. Came across an interesting doc on string theory, in which one scientist described Einstein’s quest as trying to read the mind of god.

I like that image.

String Theory is also described as vibrating strands of energy, a close description to Bill Hicks’s infamous Prositive Drug Story.

And in more poetic and prophetic ranting from Mr. Bill Hicks, peep this daddy.

Folks: It’s time to evolve ideas. You know, evolution didn’t end with us growing thumbs. You do know that, right? Didn’t end there. We’re at the point, now, where we’re going to have to evolve ideas. The reason the world is so fucked up is we’re undergoing evolution. And the reason our institutions, our traditional religions, are all crumbling, is because … they’re no longer relevant. They’re no longer relevant. So it’s time for us to create a new philosophy and perhaps even a new religion, you see. And that’s okay ’cause that’s our right, ’cause we are free children of God with minds who can imagine anything, and that’s kind of our role.

Einstein and Hicks, those were some interesting saints.


I once got in a small spat with my wife, I don’t even remember what the argument was about – that detail is long forgotten – we were feuding in a French restuarant on Ventura and when we got home and she went to sleep I grabbed a Styrofoam cup and filled it with purple wine and hiked to the top of the hill.

There’s a secret spot I know with a small footpath that climbs into the hills above the houses, a sorta no-man’s land that is opened to the public in the daytime and, if you’re quiet and stealth, free to enjoy at night too. I had brought my Ipod and a backpack with a notebook, (as if I was going to jot down a poem upon moongazing).

I sat down in tall grass, underneath a tree, and drank my purple wine and contemplated the vast lights and meditated a spell. I dealt with my emotions, first with the booze, inflating them untill they existed in mythic proportions, wallowing in them; and then by releasing my anger and my hurt and whatever was going on in my head by sitting cross-legged in the grass and listening to the crickets and the sound of far-off car sputter.

I began to feel good. Somewhat enlightened. Certainly tipsy.

Then I heard a sound that I will never forget.

A robotic, ghost-like hyena howling.

The sound of its wail richocheted through the canyon.

It was not the sound of a dog.

My heart does not fly out of its chest cavity when I hear the sound of a dog barking. This was otherwordly. This was a bad spirit. But the howling had a metallic ting to it too. This demonic creature had been created by man. That’s what was most terrifying.

I grabbed my things and treked it down the hill as fast as I could without falling in the dark, the lights of the Valley coming at me like a rising sea. I hate littering and I had left my cup behind but I was too frightened to return for it. The sound my footfall on gravel disappeared as I hit the cement and the padded sounds of my sneakers on the asphalt comforted me along with the addresses written on the sides of the curb.

I descended down the hill laughing at myself, laughing because I’m afraid of ghosts of robot hyenas or some such thing, and because I realized I really had forgotten what the hell the whole fight was about.


If you had a key to your mind, would you give it out? Would you make a duplicate? Would you put a little rubber band around it so you wouldn’t mistake it for your housekey?


Some people collect animals in cages
I collect mine online @ ARTOFSTARVING